The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  What Imogen had to ensure was that Fee did not fall prey to a nasty little attack of love at first sight – or, for that matter, revive any past romances. Unless, of course, such an encounter helped to strengthen her resolve . . .

  In the short term, Imogen had a still knottier problem to untangle. Fee had yet to consent to appear. Imogen’s dilemma was therefore twofold. She had to change Fee’s no to yes. And she had to engineer an incident that would persuade Fee that spinsterhood was fun, wise, and definitely the best possible choice for her.

  Imogen soaked and soaked and soaked. And then the idea came to her.

  She rapidly dried and chose a dark-green towelling dressing-gown from a choice of six hanging in a wardrobe in the bathroom. Then, she dialled two numbers.

  First, she spoke to Helen Travers. She persuaded her that the plan she had concocted was actually Helen’s own idea.

  ‘It’ll do her a power of good, Mrs Travers, trust me,’ she said, nursing the receiver in the crook of her still damp neck.

  The second call was to Hilly Byrne at home. If Imogen was working, she assumed everyone else should be too. Imogen asked Hilly to investigate the possibility of a live studio discussion after The Perfumed Pound was broadcast.

  ‘But this Travers woman hasn’t even said yes yet, has she?’ Hilly queried sleepily. She was in the middle of sharing her free time generously with Will Evans. Imogen didn’t hear the question since she had already replaced the receiver.

  Now, Imogen excitedly stuffed several pieces of sweaty pork crackling in her mouth and rubbed her hands together. If she was truly honest (which Imogen Banks rarely was, of course) she would say that when it came to making love or making mischief, there was no contest. She preferred the latter any day.

  She dialled a third number. Now, it was time for some real fun.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, pitching her voice slightly higher – a tactic she knew made her sound more vulnerable. ‘Is that Bill Summers? You don’t know me but Helen Travers gave me your number. You remember Helen? Fee’s mother?

  ‘Well, we both use the same vet. I bumped into her recently and happened to tell her that I’m looking for a very good photographer to provide some stills for a film I’m making. Helen mentioned you. Do you think you might be able to come and see me . . .? Oh, is it that late, gosh I am sorry,’ Imogen gushed, so utterly enchanted with her own little brainwave that she had forgotten to check the time.

  ‘Champagne?’ Clem asked.

  Fee smiled stiffly. This was, after all, her kitchen, in her flat. Granted, her best friend’s fiancé was offering his own champagne. But did he have to look quite so at home?

  ‘How much longer?’ Claire’s contented voice floated in from the sitting room. ‘It smells wonderful.’

  It did too. That was an added irritation to Fee. This was her kitchen, and she expected to be responsible for any smells or odours that emanated from it.

  Clem opened the oven door, checked the casserole, closed it again and expertly began to mix a salad dressing. With my olive oil, wine vinegar and condiments, Fee reminded herself crossly. All the time, she kept a small smile on her face.

  Everything in Fee’s kitchen had its place. She wasn’t obsessional or anything, but as there was no one else to disrupt Fee’s order, she’d grown accustomed to the olive oil staying in the site reserved for the olive oil.

  Nothing wrong in that. Absolutely nothing wrong at all, Fee reassured herself fiercely. But she knew her skin was turning pink. Perhaps, without even realizing it, she had become one of those selfish old bints who puts herself first. And second and third.

  ‘You wouldn’t have any fresh basil, would you?’ Clem asked. ‘I thought I’d chop a bit up for the dressing. Or don’t you like it? It’s perfectly OK without it.’

  Fee didn’t have any fresh basil. Is it a crime not to have fresh basil, Fee asked herself. Of course it isn’t. So why did she feel as if she was lacking in every social grace, just because she couldn’t whip a bit out of the fridge?

  Come to that, there wasn’t a lot of anything to whip out of the fridge. ‘But why be apologetic,’ Fee checked herself silently. ‘This is my kitchen, I’ll run it how I please.’

  ‘I find basil quite useful to have hanging around,’ Clem said conversationally, as he began to crush garlic into a mound of whipped yellow butter. ‘Especially if your cupboard is pretty bare. Mine always is too—’ he added hastily.

  Patronizing bastard, Fee thought – and carried on smiling, saying nothing.

  ‘Claire’s told me a lot about you,’ Clem remarked, smothering slices of French bread with the garlic butter. Fee noted that his fingers were long and sensual and delicate.

  ‘There’s not a lot to know,’ she replied, sounding more defensive than she intended.

  ‘Isn’t there?’ Clem looked at her and smiled. Fee was cross. Why did she feel so unnerved?

  The evening had collapsed even before it had begun. First, Fee was even later than she intended. After the supermarket stop, something untoward had happened to the exhaust pipe. She had continued to drive, slowly, dragging it along the road.

  The noise was like a troupe of giants performing a tap dance on a steel table. Rushing into the flat, she discovered she had been usurped. She had been demoted from hostess, best friend, judge of the future spouse – to gooseberry at an intimate supper for two. At least, that’s how she saw it.

  The cooking was all underway, the table set, the champagne chilled.

  Claire explained that she and Clem had realized there was a hitch when they found the cupboards bare. So Clem had shopped around the corner.

  ‘He loves throwing something together. He’s very good like that,’ she had added with a smug smile on her face.

  Fee had walked into her kitchen, radiating hostility. It was all very silly and territorial, she knew, but sod it, it was her flat, and she wanted to regain control of the evening.

  That’s when Clem had offered her a glass of champagne, pulled out a chair, and produced a bowl of perfect olives. (Fee always had a problem with olives. No matter where she bought them or what she paid, they still tasted as if they’d been pickled in a can of gasolene.)

  ‘If you’re happy with the idea, why don’t you put your feet up, while I cook?’ he’d smiled. Claire had fussed around both of them for several minutes, until she had been dispatched to the sitting room.

  One of her mother’s sayings floated into Fee’s mind: ‘A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small parcel.’ Was Clem Thomas wrapped up in himself? It would make Fee’s night if that turned out to be true.

  ‘Claire says you’re funny,’ Fee suddenly blurted out. She knew she sounded aggressive.

  ‘Does she?’ Clem replied. He was carrying out some fiddly operation with the filling in the baked potatoes.

  ‘I like my food plain and simple, don’t you?’ Fee remarked pointedly. She was surprised at how childishly she was behaving.

  Clem appeared unperturbed. Without comment, he left one potato plain. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt, only half tucked in to his belt. A battered brown leather jacket hung on the back of a chair.

  In the past, Claire had always been a suit man. She placed great faith in the cut of a man’s cloth. What Fee couldn’t understand now was how Claire had suspended all her usual criteria and chosen a man so totally different from her customary tastes. How had they even made the first connection?

  ‘All I did’, Claire answered later with an enigmatic smile on her face, ‘is stop being so instantly judgemental. You should try it some time, Fee. You really should.’

  Fee examined Clem as he gradually covered every work surface in the kitchen with dishes, pots and pans.

  ‘Why doesn’t he wash up as he goes along?’ Fee asked herself crossly but said nothing. Clem was tall and fit with regular features and brown hair which took off in different directions.

  ‘Tousled,’ Claire had called it – but then she would, now she had taken up permanent residence in th
e land of Mills & Boon.

  You wouldn’t call him handsome, Fee told herself with relief. Her best friend’s future husband was no hunk. To be honest, Fee classed him as a five-out-of-ten man, but what she did have to concede was that – apart from his smile – he also had a pair of very impressive aquamarine eyes. Still, even those assets didn’t push him up the ladder. Definitely cinq points.

  ‘So what do you think of him?’ Claire had whispered in the first half-hour, when Clem had gone to the loo.

  ‘Clem?’ Fee had replied, as if there were other contenders.

  ‘Clem,’ Claire said firmly. ‘Hasn’t he got a lovely personality? And he doesn’t feel the need to impress. Give him time . . . you’ll see—’

  Fee gave him time. Roughly, a further sixty minutes. Then she made her decision. She didn’t like the man. She would tolerate him for Claire’s sake. But she didn’t like him. She couldn’t explain exactly why – there was just something . . . something . . . about him.

  He was attentive enough to Claire. His manners were immaculate. He was amusing without appearing to show off. He could tell funny stories and he didn’t expect to hog the conversation.

  He was also relaxed and self-assured, without appearing big-headed. Surprisingly, Fee found herself talking far more than usual. In truth, she had hoped there would be more to dislike – a strong dose of boorishness say – or a total absence of humour. Still, her judgement remained inviolate. She didn’t like Clem Thomas and she didn’t trust his motives when it came to Claire.

  His real problem, Fee decided, was that he was too good to be true.

  Claire, of course, was behaving in a thoroughly ridiculous fashion in a way Fee hadn’t observed before: acting as if she was fifteen. Fee gave her a couple of dirty looks but Claire was not to be swayed. She knew Claire well enough to know that these weren’t the symptoms of love or even infatuation, but she was performing in a highly bizarre manner. As if she was telling Fee, ‘Look what I’ve got that you haven’t—’

  ‘I haven’t ever seen you like this before,’ Fee accused Claire when Clem briefly left them to bring more milk in from the kitchen for the coffee.

  ‘Well, perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do,’ Claire replied. She had meant the comment lightly but the remark had cut Fee deeply.

  It wasn’t how best friends behaved towards each other, was it?

  Much later, after the two had left, Fee picked up the coffee cups in the sitting room and stopped abruptly at the kitchen door. She’d expected a tip but instead the room had been restored to operating-theatre standards of cleanliness. Unexpectedly, her anger grew, swelling and snarling.

  She opened cupboards, examined shelves. Everything in its place, a place for everything, as her mother would say. Fee could find no fault. This level of thoughtfulness had to be treated with the utmost suspicion.

  Fee had the hunch that Clem Thomas was about to bring out the worst in her. And, frankly, she couldn’t wait.

  At 2 a.m., Fee’s telephone rang. The answering machine picked up the message. It rang again three times before dawn. In the morning, Fee discovered every message was from Rita Mason – and each was uncannily identical.

  ‘I need to have a quick chat,’ the voice said politely. ‘But it’s difficult to contact me, so I’ll try again later. By-eee. Love, Rita.’

  ‘I need to have a quick chat—’ ‘I need to have a quick chat—’ ‘I need to have a quick chat—’ Didn’t the woman sleep, for God’s sake?

  The morning’s post brought a small parcel. Inside was an exquisite voile blouse. It was white with delicate embroidery on the Peter Pan collar and small pearl buttons. It looked as if it had been made in the 1940s and cared for; Fee liked it very much.

  She opened the note that accompanied it. It read, ‘Thought you might like to wear this on Thursday.’

  An hour later, Fee walked into Will’s office at F.P. & D. She had decided that something had to be done about Rita Mason.

  ‘This is an unexpected pleasure.’ Will smiled, offering Fee a chair. He let her settle before he said, ‘I see that Diana Woods is hard at work on the singles account . . . Been here most of the night—’

  ‘Has she?’ Fee replied casually. The information, although not unexpected, hurt more than she had anticipated. Grow up, she told herself. You’ve made a decision, you’ve said no, now move on.

  Will began to play with a pot of pencils on his desk, ‘She’s telling everyone that Gerry didn’t think you were up to it, so she’s been put on the job. Younger, fresher ideas, you know the kind of modest assessment Diana makes of herself in public from time to time—’ Will watched Fee carefully.

  Fee shrugged nonchalantly. ‘If it makes her happy, let her say what she pleases,’ she answered.

  ‘But it’s not very sisterly of her, is it?’ Will dug deeper. ‘I thought you gave Diana her first big account here?’

  ‘I did,’ Fee smiled tightly. ‘Look, she can behave as shiftily as she likes but I’m not going to let that panic me into working twice as hard as I’m already doing. Or use it as an excuse to behave as badly as her—’ Fee paused, embarrassed that she had said so much.

  Will nodded as if in agreement, then added casually, ‘She acts as if she’s got all the inside gen—’

  ‘Inside gen about what?’ Fee asked icily.

  ‘Oh, forget it, it’s just gossip.’ Will was genuinely sorry he had raised the subject. He hadn’t known whether to shield Fee from the rumours, or be open so she could deal with them herself. He was now uncomfortably aware that whatever route he chose, he would appear in the wrong.

  ‘Well, what gossip . . .?’ Fee pressed him, her cheeks already colouring.

  ‘Look, it’s nothing. Diana hinted that you and Gerry had been having an affair . . . hence all the best projects going your way . . . I said I thought it was crap. But you know how these things snowball. According to Diana, it all came to a head when you and Gerry went to Macklin’s place. She said it took you twice as long to get back as it did to go—’

  ‘Of course it damn well did,’ Fee exploded. ‘We stopped for a drink. Gerry wouldn’t lay a finger on me or anybody else for that matter. He just likes to think he might. Will, why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  Will ran his fingers through his hair nervously. ‘I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. But now it’s sort of blown up out of all proportion. And it’s not fair to you,’ he added stoutly.

  He paused, expecting Fee to speak. Instead, she remained silent, gazing out of the window.

  ‘So what are you going to do about it?’ Will asked again.

  ‘Nothing,’ Fee answered crisply. ‘Let Diana Woods do as she pleases. I haven’t told Gerry yet but I’ve decided to take Veronica away on holiday. When I get back, who knows what I might do? Resign, quite possibly. For the last eighteen years, I’ve done nothing but work flat out. It’s time for a change.’

  ‘Fee.’ Will looked at her quizzically. ‘I wouldn’t decide on anything in a rush. Particularly now. You haven’t seemed yourself recently. Just because Claire’s changing gear, doesn’t mean you have to too, you know—’

  Fee gave him a withering look and got up to go. Then she remembered the original reason for her visit, and stopped.

  ‘I came in to ask a favour,’ she said. ‘It’s Rita Mason. Promise me that, in future, on no account will you let her into my flat, no matter what she says?’

  ‘No matter what?’ Will repeated.

  ‘No matter what,’ Fee insisted.

  Closing Will’s door, Fee turned to find herself facing Diana Woods.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked disingenuously.

  ‘Couldn’t be better.’ Fee smiled broadly, annoyed that this woman always had the effect of making her feel like the bottom of her own handbag: all odds and sods.

  ‘Are you free on Monday?’ Diana Woods asked. ‘Gerry says he wants you there when I make my first presentation. If you can’t make it, I’m sure he’ll understa
nd. I mean you’ve got an awful lot on, haven’t you?’ The smile came and went.

  ‘Of course I’ll be there. I’m sure we’ll both learn a great deal,’ Fee replied cheerily. ‘You know what they say about me in the office,’ she added mischievously. ‘The woman who never says no.’

  Back at her desk, Fee sat, depressed and lonely. Normally, she would have called on Claire for advice, or turned to Gill for distraction, or spent time with Will as a diversion. But Claire was house-hunting, Gill was hostile and Will was preoccupied with a woman he had yet to introduce to Fee.

  In the early afternoon, a call came through.

  ‘It’s Imogen. Imogen Banks,’ said a voice she didn’t at first recognize. ‘I’ve had a splendid idea. I’ve got to go to Marlow tomorrow. Then, I thought, wouldn’t it be fun if you could come too? We could have a spot of lunch, a glass or two of champagne, enjoy the river. I don’t normally take time off from work in the week but what the hell – and I thought we got on so well the other day . . .?’

  Fee didn’t even pause to think.

  ‘You can’t take tomorrow off. Macklin’s coming in to take a look at the whole team,’ Gerry Radcliffe protested furiously a little later, ‘And whether or not you’re working on his account, you remain a senior member of this company. I want you here.’

  ‘OK I’m telling you in advance, I’m going to be ill,’ Fee retaliated. ‘I’m owed three weeks’ holiday which I’m supposed to take before next month, and you’re saying I can’t take a day off?’

  ‘I’m warning you, Fee,’ Gerry threatened. ‘No good will come of this—’

  She smiled back. Defiance had lifted her spirits.

  ‘Surely it’s much too early to tell, Gerry?’ she replied flippantly.

  Chapter Thirteen

  SIMON BOOTH was baffled. He sat in the café in the park at 11 a.m. on Thursday morning and stared at the piece of paper he held in his hands. It informed him that his services were no longer required. Fourteen years in the company but the business had now been bought out, taken over. His salary, position and length of service merited a relatively handsome pay-off but still he was baffled as to why there was no word of apology, no attempt at explanation. He was simply surplus to requirements.