The Younger Man. Sarah Tucker

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      Mr Francis Benson is screaming at me. Occasionally it pitches to a screech. Monday morning. Eight o’clock in the office. Mr Benson, my next client, is on the phone. As he pauses to draw breath, I interrupt.

      ‘No, Mr Benson, you will not be able to get away with keeping all your money. You were married to your wife for seven years. This is not a long marriage, but it is also not a short one. It is somewhere in between and following the case of Jones vs Jones earlier this year, it is highly likely that you will have to hand over forty-five percent of your assets and a sizeable proportion of your income each month. Do you understand?’

      Mr Benson, thirty-eight, equity trader, third marriage, two houses, one mistress, eight rented properties in London (none of which his wife knew about but will soon), one ulcer, does not understand. I sense he is about to spontaneously combust. He sounds as though he has been pacing, or is pacing. I expect he looks like Sarah when she first emerged from my body. All red and squished and incredulous and cross-looking.

      Benson spits bile.

      ‘I hate the fucking bitch. The fucking witch. She did fuck all in the marriage. She had affairs, you know. One while we were engaged and another while we were married. I found out by reading her e-mails and text messages. The slut.’

      I don’t interrupt. As a woman and as a divorce lawyer I know there are always two stories to be told. People have affairs because they are unhappy. Because they are restless and bored and selfish. She may have been any one or all of these things. It’s that simple. But I say nothing. It is not my place or my remit to speak. Mrs Benson’s counsel will do that for her in court if it gets that far. I let Mr Benson vent his fury. Better out than in. Better here than in court.

      ‘I sent her on loads of cookery courses and she couldn’t cook a fucking thing. She brought fuck all to the marriage. Fucking bitch. Ugly fucking bitch. I fucking hate her. I don’t want to give her a single fucking penny.’

      I smile because all my male clients mention their wives’ lack of culinary skills when they start to rant, as though they expect me to mention it in court.

      ‘And please can I raise, m’lord, to your attention, the fact that Mrs Benson failed to cook spotted dick for my client on the days he required. Failed consistently to prepare pasta in the correct way, with the right sauce. And made, in the words of my client “a lousy cup of tea.”

      As though it’s a big deal. It obviously is to them. The way to a man’s heart may not be through his stomach, but it certainly miffs him if his wife doesn’t cook. My male clients consistently talk as if it’s right up there with drug problems and emotional cruelty. Suppose it is to them.

      ‘Yes, I realise that, Mr Benson. Unfortunately, or fortunately I should say, you have two children from your marriage, and you have to support these children and your wife, whether your wife was a good cook or not. She did, in the eyes of the law, support you, and you did, according to my notes, make most of your income and acquire most of your assets—in fact you acquired all of your assets—during the seven-year marriage. So she has supported you during this time as far as the law is concerned, and brought up your children and helped you to become as successful as you are.’

      ‘Fuck that fuck that fuck that. She has a fucking nanny to take care of the kids. She fucking lunches and does her fucking nails and gets her fucking bikini 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. СКАЧАТЬ