line waxed. She does fuck all.’
I cross my legs at the mention of bikini wax, feeling for some reason, guilty. As though a finger is pointing at me. Perhaps it’s just my arrow.
‘Yes, Mr Benson, in the settlement her lawyers will take that into account and probably expect you to continue to pay for the waxing and lunches as well. The way the law stands you will have to maintain her standard of living or one similar to it. From what I see, her demands are reasonable.’
I can sense Benson is starting to pace again. I can hear him counting in two three out two three, in two three out two three, under his breath. He’s trying to calm himself down, which is good and I wait until the rage has passed.
‘Are you okay now, Mr Benson?’
‘Yes, please continue.’
So I do. ‘Think of the long-term goals, Mr Benson. Think of the good of your children. It is better you have as little acrimony in the divorce as possible because you will have to maintain contact with your ex-wife because of your children. I suggest you offer the matrimonial home, as your wife will more than likely have custody of the children. But you will probably be able to keep the house in Italy. This all depends on the scale of your financial assets, which I believe are considerable. Your wife is not asking for the Italian home and is in fact asking for much less than she is entitled to, Mr Benson. You do realise that, don’t you?’
Benson is silent, although I can hear him muttering about ‘bitch a penny,’ and then speaks in a much calmer but no less emotional voice.
‘Can I see the children when I want to?’
‘The norm is every other weekend, perhaps one evening a week and two to three weeks’ holiday during the year.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid it is. If you are able to agree to terms out of court as far as access is concerned it will be best for everyone emotionally and financially. And it is good if the children can see as much of their father as possible.’
Benson is silent. I think he’s quietly sobbing.
I don’t like dealing with the child side of divorce. The financial I can do easy. Men tend to get emotional about the money mainly because they think it’s all theirs and view it being taken away from them at a time when they want to burn their old relationship for the new. But it doesn’t happen that way, as they find out, usually to the detriment of their psyches, not to mention their wallets. Divorces may be quicker these days, but they are no less painful. And the pace at which divorce takes place tends to only intensify the heat often exchanged between both parties rather than calm it. I’ve come to the conclusion over the years of practicing family law that given more time, I think both parties would think more clearly, with more compassion.
After a few moments I speak again.
‘We could ask for joint custody, Mr Benson. Would you like that?’
‘I can’t ask for that. I can’t look after them properly. I would need a live-in nanny, and no matter how much I hate the bitch, it’s best that the children are with their mother. I know she loves them and no one will look after them like she will. So I will make sure they are okay.’
‘Well, I think I have all your financial details and if you want to tell me anything else or feel you would like to ask for joint custody, just let me know. What are you doing for the rest of the day, Mr Benson?’
‘Working, as I always do. Mind you, if I retire in a few years’ time, then I might be able to get custody. All I need to do is prove she’s an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step she takes.’
I feel a cold chill down the spine. Sometimes, only sometimes, I get a twinge of memory. Like a period pain, that pulls at my stomach suddenly and silently and disappears just as quickly. A smell, something someone says, a television programme will jog me back to a time I would prefer to forget. Like my own divorce. And I remember David using those same words. ‘All I need to do is prove you’re an unfit mother. I’ll watch every fucking step you take.’ At the time, it struck fear into me. The fear of not seeing Sarah grow up. Of being a terrible mother. And I watched my back. Quietly and consciously I watched my back. Now I hear that phrase so often from my male clients, with the same bile in their voices, that the only emotion it strikes in me is sadness because now I know when either party says this, they’ve lost the plot. And I’ve got to help Benson find it again, for his sake as much as his children’s.
‘If you need a counsellor to talk to, I know a very good one. I realise it’s a very emotional time for you, Mr Benson, but if you can control your anger, you will benefit. As I’ve said, I know a very good one, and they can help in such matters.’
Silence, then, ‘Thank you, Ms Chamberlayne.’
‘Please call me Hazel.’
‘Thank you, Hazel.’
‘I will be working on your case with our new partner, Joe Ryan. He’s very efficient, highly regarded, and I will be briefing him fully on your case this afternoon. He will be assisting me.’
‘Does that mean my bills will double?’
‘No. When he’s working on the case, I won’t be, and he’s cheaper by the hour than I am.’
Mr Benson laughs. Which is good, although I think he’s probably thinking along the lines of another woman who’s costing him a lot of money.
‘Good to know.’
‘If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to call me.’
‘At £300 an hour, Hazel, I may think twice about it.’
‘I know, but it may save you more than that if you have some doubts.’
I put the phone down, my left ear still slightly stinging from Benson’s screeching and stare out the window of Chamberlayne, Stapleton and Ryan. One of the top companies specialising in matrimonial law. I sit blue-suited, hair up in a loose ponytail in my small, white, slightly untidy office with shelves up to the ceiling on one wall, and a very large print by Nelson Mandela I bought at the Ideal Home Show a few years ago. The one with a lighthouse which I find very calming to look at and even chills clients like Mr Benson. My office looks out over Chancery Lane, down to the street that is quietly buzzing with more blue-suited people, hurrying to their offices with trays of Caffé Nero coffees and bags of bagels for partners and barristers too lazy or superior to get their own. It’s a sunny day, and it makes me smile…full frontal tears, hate and anger first thing on a Monday morning and I can still smile at the sunshine. Perhaps Fran is right. Perhaps I am a romantic after all.
Chapter Four
Meeting Joe Ryan
I’m blushing. I don’t blush. Well, I do, but I haven’t blushed since I was a teenager and I had my first kiss with sexy class lothario John Bullman in Mr Boniface’s fourth year science class. He asked me if he could look at how I was cutting up my very stiff dead rat. I leaned back on my stool and he stole a kiss. I was so surprised I blushed then fell backwards, dead rat flying into the lap of Maxine Levine, who screamed the room down, in much the same tone as Benson did this morning.
I’m blushing because I’ve met Joe Ryan. I have that frisson of electricity running through my body. That double take. That slightly sick feeling. Joe Ryan has something about him. A presence. I don’t know if I think he’s gorgeous. Perhaps not obviously gorgeous in a George Clooney or Jude Law or Brad Pitt sort of way. More in a, well, a thinking woman’s bit of crumpet. Like, well, like, I can’t think of anyone at the moment. So perhaps I’m not that woman. I’m not a thinking woman because I can’t think at the moment. But I think, I know, this man sitting in front of me, has ‘it’. And I like it. Probably an arrogant bastard. No, don’t judge