The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  Work.

  The word brought Fee to a halt. Today’s outing meant that she was now late in writing two reports. Fee calculated that if she put in two more hours tonight and came in early tomorrow, she could at least finish one. First, she needed a drink.

  Gerry Radcliffe was the only member of F.P. & D. with a fridge in his office. He often boasted to his friends that his door was always open and the fridge well stocked and free to all employees. Everyone in the company knew, however, that no one helped themselves unless invited.

  Fee walked into her boss’s office and examined the contents of the fridge. Inside was an open bottle of Chablis. She took it over to Gerry’s desk, collecting a paper cup from the top of the fridge on the way. The desk was bare except for a couple of books on management, a notepad and two framed photographs of the family.

  Fee put the bottle down. She scribbled, ‘IOU half a bottle of wine,’ on the first sheet of the notepad and signed it. As she did so, her elbow dislodged the books. They shifted slightly to reveal an internal F.P. & D. memo.

  She was about to put the books back into place when her eye was caught by the word ‘Confidential’, today’s date and the initials in the bottom corner of the top sheet, D. W.

  Fee turned the first page – and kept on reading.

  Diana Woods had analysed the last three projects undertaken by Fee – the relaunching of a line of soup to appeal to the young; the repositioning of a holiday company from downmarket to upmarket and the marketing and design of a new cable network intended for the affluent over fifties.

  Each undertaking, at the time, had been judged a success within F.P. & D. The clients had also expressed their satisfaction. The repositioning of the holiday company had worked so well that Fee had been promoted.

  So what the bloody hell was going on now? She sat down in Gerry’s chair and took a swig from the bottle. Fee had been brought up to believe that if you worked hard, treated others as you would wish to be treated and avoided making trouble, you received your just rewards. And kept your friends.

  The memo she now held in her hands indicated that somewhere along the line that plot had been well and truly abandoned, at least in this particular company.

  It was unclear from the memo whether the analysis had been requested by someone else or initiated by Diana Woods. Either way, the overall message was one that reminded Fee unpleasantly of school: Fiona Travers could do better.

  Who the hell did Diana Woods think she was?

  Fee took another swig and settled down to read more carefully. The report was propaganda. Facts misused; remarks taken out of context; predictions and estimations grossly exaggerated; the performance of rivals excessively polished. No outright lies, just extravagant adaptations of the truth.

  ‘Fee Travers’s strategy is always adequate, occasionally rising to good,’ ‘D. W.’ had pronounced on the final page, ‘but lack of proper supervision, the absence of a competitive element and a tendency to complacency has prevented her from rising to the excellent. F.P. & D. has therefore paid the price.’

  A lifetime’s conditioning cranked into operation – Fee’s first reaction was that if she was being criticized then, of course, she must deserve it.

  Then, a stronger instinct rapidly took over: the knowledge of her own experience in the field and the awareness that no one imposed a tougher standard on Fee than she did on herself.

  ‘This is rubbish,’ Fee said out loud. But dangerous rubbish.

  Half an hour later, back at her own desk, the memo restored to its hiding place (under normal circumstances an ideal spot since almost no one in F.P. & D. had ever been known to pick up a book on management), Fee attempted to unscramble her reactions.

  She knew she was good at her job; she also knew she was hopeless at defending herself from someone who wanted her out as badly as Diana Woods appeared to do. So what move should she make next?

  ‘Go on holiday?’ Claire squeaked down on the phone. ‘Have you gone totally bananas?’

  Fee had called Claire at home, not expecting her to be there. On the third ring, she had answered. Fee outlined the situation and when asked by Claire what she intended to do, Fee explained that originally she planned to take Veronica away on holiday.

  Even as she said the words, she realized how asinine she sounded.

  ‘Do you really want to keep this job?’ Claire demanded.

  ‘I suppose so . . . well, I’m not sure,’ Fee replied truthfully.

  Claire exploded. ‘Christ, Fee, you can be annoying sometimes. Gill’s right, you do lack a sense of direction. It sounds to me as if someone is piling up the evidence for a case of dismissal, and—’

  Fee tried again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Gerry hired me. I’m his choice. Why should he ditch me now? Look, I don’t know if I want to keep the job but I do know that, when I go, I want it to be on my terms – not because I’ve been drummed out by Diana Woods and labelled as some sort of failure.

  ‘Do you know it was through me she got her first big project?’ she continued. ‘Gerry wanted me to oversee her but I persuaded him that she needed to be given a chance on her own—’ She fumed.

  ‘So you think she owes you some kind of favour, do you?’ Claire’s voice was aggressive, irritated as she always was by Fee’s naïveté when it came to business.

  Claire continued, ‘Did Diana Woods ask for your patronage? No. Did she expect any dispensations from you? No . . . She may even loathe the fact that you gave her a helping hand—’

  ‘But she’s a woman,’ Fee found herself shouting down the phone. ‘She and I are the only two women in this company at senior level. We’re supposed to stick together, give each other help.’

  Claire made a noise as if she was about to vomit. ‘Oh Fee, do grow up,’ she snapped. ‘All this sisterhood stuff makes me ill. We’re not in 1970 now – some of us are big girls. You can’t assume Diana Woods’s allegiance just because she’s got a set of ovaries—’

  ‘No,’ Fee countered fiercely. ‘But I still think it matters that we look out for each other. That’s what really gets me. It’s all so underhand. It’s all so macho . . . It’s only a job, for God’s sake, why does she have to sacrifice every kind of value for a job?

  ‘Look, Fee,’ Claire spoke more calmly, ‘not everyone wants to be rescued by you—’

  ‘And what precisely do you mean by that?’ Fee asked idly. The earlier pleasure of the day had now almost completely washed away.

  ‘Well, Veronica for a start . . . she might want to be left to sort herself out . . . and Will—’

  ‘What about Will?’

  ‘Will doesn’t need your lectures about how he should or shouldn’t behave with his girlfriends. Frankly, it’s, none of your business, is it?’

  ‘I’ve only done that a couple of times—’ Fee began defensively and then stopped. Claire was right. It was none of her business.

  ‘Not so much The Lone Ranger, more The Lone Bloody Nuisance,’ Fee told herself wryly.

  ‘Fee, are you still there?’ Claire’s voice sounded friendlier. ‘Look, I’m sorry to sound so crabby . . . it’s just been one of those days. Clem and I have had a bit of a barney, nothing serious . . . and work’s a bugger . . . and, well, don’t take any notice of me—’

  Fee registered the words: Clem and I have had a bit of a barney—

  ‘Fee?’ Claire asked again.

  ‘Don’t worry, Claire. You’re right to say what you have . . . but what should I do about this memo? Do I have it out in the open? Shall I ask Diana Woods what she’s playing at?’

  ‘If it was me,’ Claire replied, ‘I wouldn’t say anything until I’d proven my worth again to the company. Besides, aren’t they going to wonder why you were snooping around Gerry Radcliffe’s office, in the first place?’

  ‘I wasn’t snooping,’ Fee answered. ‘I nicked some of his wine and wrote an IOU note.’

  ‘Well, destroy the note and replace the wine.’

  ‘I can’t, not at this time of night,
’ Fee protested.

  ‘Well, just forget about the wine. Get rid of the note. Act as if you know nothing about the report. Isn’t there a project you can turn into something really good – and quickly?’

  ‘No, well, yes – and no,’ Fee replied. ‘Gerry’s after a new account – Have a Heart!, lonely-hearts, computer dating, introduction agency, all that stuff. Diana Woods is working on winning the HAH! account – because I turned it down.’

  ‘You did what? Fee, you have got to change your mind,’ Claire instructed.

  ‘But that’s exactly what Gerry wants. I bet you, he set this whole bloody thing up—’

  ‘Well, give him what he wants – make it a straight, clean fight with Diana Woods. Show how much better you do the job. And when you’re on top, that’s the time to bring up the memo and ask exactly what’s been going on—’

  ‘But I’m sick of broken hearts—’ Fee began.

  ‘Do it,’ Claire demanded.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Fee answered.

  ‘Well, when it starts getting rough, don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice,’ Claire warned.

  An hour later, Fee Travers stood in her front garden, hunting in her handbag for her set of keys. She’d decided to work at home, as the office, to her, now seemed contaminated. At least, the flat was entirely her own domain, run according to her own rules – rules she understood and which offered no surprises.

  She noticed that the lights were on in her sitting room. She’d left in such a rush she’d probably forgotten to switch them off this morning.

  But where were her keys? One for the front door downstairs, one for her own door to the flat. Fee pushed the front door experimentally. Occasionally, someone left it on the latch. The door opened.

  As she climbed the stairs, she detected a distant hum. The same hum as she’d heard earlier that evening at F.P. & D. The hum of a vacuum cleaner.

  Outside Fee’s front door, the hum was much louder. Somebody was in her flat – and she didn’t have to think very hard to guess who.

  ‘Here, don’t put the cup down there, sweetie, I’ve just polished it.’ Rita Mason pushed a magazine under Fee’s coffee cup on the small table by the sofa.

  She had spring-cleaned and ‘slightly rearranged’ the furniture. She had also washed up, cleaned out the fridge and made Fee’s bed. Fee was speechless. She was so angry, she had made them both coffee in silence, while she endeavoured to compose the words in her head that would firmly and finally tell Rita Mason that she could not assume squatting rights in her life.

  Fee glanced at Rita. She wore leopardskin capri pants and a bright yellow sweater, cut off at the waist. Her hair was tied back in a striped chiffon scarf. Her lips, painted pink, were in a pout; a child in a sulk.

  ‘All I tried to do was help,’ Rita squeaked in a little-girl voice.

  She was acting as if she couldn’t even begin to understand the reason for Fee’s hostility. What’s more, she was doing so with such conviction that anyone other than Fee might have offered Rita understanding and comfort. Fee was unmoved.

  ‘Sit down.’ She patted the sofa next to her. ‘You don’t look at all comfortable, standing like that—’

  ‘Rita, look, I’d rather—’ Fee began.

  ‘See,’ Rita indicated with a nod of her head, ‘your keys are on the mantelpiece. When I saw them lying on the floor in the hall, I thought, “Oops, Rita. Fiona’s going to be in a bit of a jam.” So I thought I’d better wait in here until you got back and let you in.’

  Rita Mason cheered up, clearly bored with being contrite. She took her time to fix a cigarette into a long, ebony, cigarette lighter and lit up. She inhaled, exhaled and continued to talk as smoke snaked around her words.

  ‘Well, once I was sat here waiting, I thought, “Don’t waste time, girl. Lend a hand.” Of course, if I’d realized it would upset you—’ Rita Mason’s tone had become distinctly huffy. ‘Besides, I was only doing your sister a favour being here in the first place.’

  ‘Why, what do you mean?’ Fee returned her cup to its saucer.

  ‘See,’ Rita smiled smugly, ‘I knew that would make you sit up. Your sister gave me her address book for safe keeping when we went to the hospital. She was worried – very worried – and made me promise that I’d give it to you personally. On the night, it was all so crazy, I completely forgot. And I couldn’t post it to you, could I? Not once I’d made a promise. I’ve left lots of messages on your machine,’ she added reproachfully. Fee refused to feel guilty.

  ‘As it turns out, lucky I did come by, wasn’t it? If I hadn’t, who knows who might have come in and ransacked your private things . . . The man opposite, he said you were lucky too.’

  ‘Do you mean Will?’

  ‘No, he’s upstairs, isn’t he?’ Rita reproved her. ‘I mean the man in the flat opposite.’

  ‘There is no man opposite,’ Fee replied flatly, annoyed that she had engaged in conversation. ‘The flat’s been empty for weeks.’

  ‘Not any more it isn’t,’ Rita Mason responded robustly. ‘He’s quite a looker, if you ask me. Thirtyish plus, definitely in the market for talent, if the way he sized me up is any guide,’ she giggled.

  ‘I explained to him that you were a friend of mine—’

  Rita removed her half-smoked cigarette from the holder and stubbed it out in the ashtray.

  ‘Don’t mind, do you?’ she asked Fee. ‘Saw you didn’t have any ashtrays around so I dug this out from the back of that cupboard in the kitchen.’

  ‘Yes, I do bloody mind,’ Fee heard herself shout. ‘I do mind very much. And I mind that you go round telling everyone we’re friends. We are not friends. I hardly know you. I don’t like you being in my flat. I don’t like you doing my cleaning. I don’t want to be grateful to you for anything. Do you understand?’

  Rita Mason’s eyes filled with tears. She reached into a shiny pink bag decorated with seashells, fixed in place with lime-green raffia, and produced a ridiculously lacy handkerchief. It was identical to those Fee had bought again and again for her mother, in Woolworth’s, when she was a child.

  ‘I thought you liked me,’ Rita sniffed.

  Fee sighed deeply. This woman was human quicksand; the more effort you made, the more impossible it became to extricate yourself.

  ‘Look, Rita, I don’t know whether I like you or not. I haven’t actually thought about you much. I’ve got a hundred and one other things on my plate . . . I . . . oh—’ Fee exploded in frustration.

  ‘I thought you looked like the kind of person who could do with a bit of company. I was obviously wrong. Or, at least,’ Rita added pointedly, ‘You prefer to think I’m wrong. Anyway, here’s your sister’s address book.’

  She took it out of her bag and placed it on the coffee table. Then she jerkily smoothed her hair back with both hands.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be absolutely fine. You won’t hear from me again. I’m sorry if I did the wrong thing by coming into your flat. I meant well, I really did.’ She gave Fee a watery smile. Then she added forlornly, ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘About tomorrow night—’ Fee heard herself say.

  ‘About tomorrow night,’ Fee began again. ‘Well . . . perhaps I could come out – but only for an hour or so—’

  Fee stopped because Rita Mason had gleefully leapt to her feet, gathering her bag and coat.

  ‘You won’t regret it, honestly, Fee,’ she said. ‘You’ll enjoy yourself, I promise. Once you’ve joined our little Thursday night gang, there’ll be no turning back. You’ll be one of the girls. Be round about seven-ish. Bye for now—’

  ‘No, look I—’ Fee found herself speaking the words to a closed door.

  Rita Mason had gone.

  Three hours later, Fee relaxed on the sofa, a cup of hot chocolate in her hands. The report was finished and the results, Fee told herself defiantly, were good – even by Diana Woods’s distorted standards. Good, but not sufficient in itself to fend off a serious attack.

  Fe
e stretched and yawned. Optimism was beginning to creep up on her again. The highs since she’d permanently signed up to spinsterhood had been fewer – well, almost nonexistent – but so too had been the lows.

  ‘What I need . . . just to test my mettle, of course . . . is a little bit of temptation,’ Fee told herself.

  ‘Perhaps I should do Imogen’s film,’ she mused. ‘Perhaps Will’s right. I need a point from which there’s no going back.’

  She mimicked Imogen Banks’s voices, ‘Now tell me, Ms Travers, what makes the modern spinster fundamentally different from her traditional sister?’

  ‘Well, Ms Banks,’ Fee gave a mock-reply, ‘the modern spinster is a woman who said no, when she could just as easily have said yes—’

  I should be so lucky, she told herself drily in her natural voice.

  It was only later when Fee was searching for a T-shirt in a drawer in her bedroom that she realized her photograph album was missing. She looked again. She scouted the sitting room too. It was gone.

  Rita Mason.

  But why? What could she want with a pile of old photographs of people she’s never known? And surely she must have realized that they would soon be missed?

  ‘Enough is enough,’ Fee decided, ‘When I next see her, I’ll tell her that’s it. Plain, straightforward, brutal and to the point. Bye, bye, Rita.’

  It was then Fee remembered. The last time she had looked at the album she had shoved it behind some cushions on the sofa.

  It was still there. Reassured, it never occurred to her to check on the album’s contents.

  ‘She’s just a harmless slightly dotty woman who wants to be your pal.’ Will Evans sat bleary-eyed at his kitchen table.

  Fee had tried and failed to sleep. At six thirty, she had gone upstairs to wake Will. He’d informed her crossly that he’d only just retired to bed.

  ‘Why not stay out the whole night?’ Fee asked, as she invited herself in to his flat.