The Break-Up Clause by Niamh Hargan
Chapter Fifteen
The air between them seems to expand, intensify, and Fia suddenly cannot bear the sight of Benjamin’s face – cannot bear the sense that within just a few more seconds, a smug smile might be twitching at his lips. She turns away from him, heat rising inside her.
Meanwhile, Susan’s expression stays deadpan, unblinking.
‘It’s probably not accurate, or it’s not accurate?’ she asks dryly.
Fia takes a deep breath in and out, lets herself silently come to terms with what must be said next. It is possible that some of the very, very strong dislike she feels for Susan Followill in this moment may be transference.
‘We never had sex after we were married,’ she replies, doing her best to keep her voice neutral, calm, as though she’s back at ZOLA, and this is a discussion of somebody else’s life. ‘Isn’t that the relevant thing, here?’
‘Non-consummation after marriage is one of the grounds on which an annulment can be sought, yes,’ Susan agrees, ‘but I don’t know if that’s the path I’d recommend.’
‘Why not?’ Fia asks. Having never actually had cause to handle an annulment herself, she doesn’t know much about the ins and outs of them. She’s glad, suddenly, that she hadn’t bothered mentioning her own occupation, or Benjamin’s, to Susan. Better, really, for her to treat them like any other clients, for her to assume no specialist knowledge on their parts.
Susan gives a little shrug. ‘It’s like … I don’t know.’ She casts around the room, her eyes landing on an object at the corner of her desk. ‘This banana – let’s imagine you bought this for lunch, okay? And now you say you don’t want it anymore. Fine. What judge in the land is going to insist that you do want it? That’s divorce.’
She pauses for breath, before beginning again. ‘Whereas, if your whole thing is, like, “actually, I don’t even accept that this is a banana, and maybe it never was …”.’ She lets her voice trail off, winces. ‘That’s tricky. It all gets very philosophical, y’know? Very subjective. And, I mean, at the very least, we’re going to have to peel the friggin’ thing, right?’
‘So, our marriage is the banana here, is it?’ Benjamin says, sounding amused.
‘“Our marriage”!’ Fia can’t help but exclaim, though of course it’s wholly beside the point and also a waste of valuable time. ‘My God, Ben, we don’t have a marriage!’
‘Well, we are married, Irish.’
When she looks at him this time, there’s mischief in his eyes – and provocation, and some other thing. The combination is suddenly, viscerally, familiar – exactly as it had been that first week in the office when he’d resurrected that moniker. It feels like her whole body remembers it.
‘I know we are,’ she replies, through practically gritted teeth. ‘But that’s not the same as having a marriage.’
‘What would you call it, then?’ he replies loftily. ‘Give me a noun.’
For a second, Fia finds herself stumped, the language centre of her brain not working fast enough – how often does that happen? Almost never.
‘You don’t know,’ he continues, all triumph, and then he turns to Susan, his voice dropping conspiratorially. ‘She doesn’t know.’
‘A … a state of matrimony,’ Fia manages at last.
Benjamin just rolls his eyes. ‘So, the annulment,’ he says pointedly, very much to Susan. ‘How soon can we make that happen?’
‘Well, that’s precisely my point,’ Susan replies. ‘An annulment is going to take longer. And you know what that means …’
‘It’s going to cost more,’ he says right away.
‘Got it in one. Unless you have some deep-seated desire to avoid thinking of yourself as divorced, I would just … get divorced. Either of you guys Catholic?’
Fia suspects the question might be aimed more squarely at her – it’s the accent.
‘Culturally, I guess you could say. I’m fine with being divorced, though,’ she replies.
‘I would literally love to be divorced at this point,’ Benjamin adds vehemently, glancing over at her, and Fia rolls her eyes.
‘Wonderful!’ Susan jumps in. ‘I think let’s park the annulment in that case and move forward on the basis of a negotiated divorce settlement, by way of attorney mediator.’
‘Great,’ Benjamin says. ‘And how long do you think that whole thing will take?’
‘If you both approach the matter productively?’ Susan replies. ‘And there’s no property, no kids, no communal assets?’ She waits for their nods of confirmation before continuing. ‘Typically, eight to twelve weeks.’
Just like that, all Fia’s faith in Susan Followill is entirely restored. She doesn’t even mind about the Trust me I’m a lawyer mug anymore. She feels relief flood through her. With a bit of luck, Benjamin will be exiting both her office on the fifty-eighth floor and her life generally right around the same time. August, from where she’s sitting, suddenly looks set to be a banner month.
‘That’s amazing!’ she exclaims. ‘Seriously. That’s just … so good. And if you need us to come and do one of your sessions, then fine. There’s a process, and I suppose we’ll just have to go through it. For now, though’ – Fia looks at her watch – ‘sorry to do this, but we actually have to go. We’re on a bit of a tight schedule.’
Benjamin takes the cue. ‘Our boss is kind of expecting us,’ he adds, by way of explanation, as both he and Fia get to their feet hurriedly, gathering their belongings.
‘Wait,’ Susan says, and she’s standing now, too. ‘Hold up. You guys have the same boss? You … work together?’ She looks, at this point, as though the pair of them are some sort of slow train crash, the sort that seems like it should hardly even be able to happen in the modern age.
‘Temporarily,’ Fia clarifies, already halfway out the door. ‘It’s sort of like … actually, you know what? Let’s maybe save that one for the resolution-and-whatever discussion, shall we? Give ourselves something to talk about. Okay, bye!’ she yelps – and then they’re gone, poor Susan practically left open-mouthed in their wake.
‘I’ll email you guys with some dates!’ she calls after them, the hint of forlornness almost comic. Behind her, Fia’s pretty sure that Benjamin is, in fact, trying to mask a snort of laughter.
Once they’re back out on the street, standing side by side now, they seem instinctively to pause, looking over at one another. Traffic whizzes past them in the usual cacophony of horns blaring, drivers yelling, but for a moment, Fia and Benjamin just stand there. Fia wonders what’s going to come out of his mouth next. Based on everything that’s just gone down, it could absolutely be an open expression of loathing. Or it could be … something else. Memory lane certainly took a few hard left turns in there.
‘Should we try to get a cab?’ he asks then.
Just like that, Fia’s jolted back to the practicalities. It’s the classic dilemma with which she finds herself faced time and time again in this city: via cab, a person can arrive somewhere less sweaty and dishevelled, but often no faster – and often, a lot more tightly wound, having sat powerlessly in gridlock for large portions of the journey.
As a matter of principle, Fia prefers to be moving, prefers the sense of progress being made, the sense of control of her own destiny. And by now, they have twenty minutes – maximum – in which to beat Celia to Bluestone Lane.
‘What do you think? Probably quicker to walk?’
‘Probably,’ he agrees. It appears that about this one small thing, at least, they’re on the same page.
‘Come on, then,’ she chivvies him along. ‘Go, go, go!’