The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  ‘Rita,’ she began, ‘I’m going away for a couple of weeks. A business trip. And then when I get back, I’ve got this contract which is really pressing. So I won’t be around for a while. Perhaps later – after the summer, say – we could get back in touch?’

  ‘No problem,’ Rita Mason replied brightly. ‘I quite understand.’ Fee relaxed, surprised that her excuse had been accepted so easily. ‘Of course, I understand. We’ve all got things to do, places to be, people to see—’

  The two women chatted for another half an hour or so, then Fee drove Rita to a tube station on the Northern line.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home, if you like. It’s no bother,’ Fee offered, impending freedom making her generous.

  Rita cheerfully refused, got out, closed the car door, then stuck her head back in the passenger window.

  ‘I’ve just had a great idea,’ she said. ‘You know my fiancé, Roger? Well, he’s coming home on leave in a couple of weeks, just for a short break. Perhaps we could all get together? I’ll drop by and let you know when he’s arriving. OK?’

  Fee’s smile froze.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A ‘FOR SALE’ sign decorated the front of Nuptia Europa.

  ‘It’s an omen. A bad omen,’ Claire wailed.

  Worse news awaited them inside.

  Michele Canning, the assistant who had done so much to cheer them on their first visit, announced that she was in love. Madly in love. And she found it deeply depressing.

  ‘I can’t enjoy the good bit,’ she moaned, laying groundsheets on the carpeted floor in preparation for Claire’s first parade in the dress she had selected. ‘I can’t enjoy the good bits because I know what’s to follow. Pain. Grief. Heartache.’

  ‘Oh come on, it’s not that bad,’ Fee offered.

  ‘I thought you said it was,’ Claire chipped in.

  Mrs Canning was pulling a dress deftly out of its plastic shroud. ‘Do you know what I think?’ She didn’t pause for an answer. ‘I think falling in love with the right person is rare. It’s a talent, like playing the cello or singing top-class opera. We’ve all been sold this myth that it can happen to anyone – but it can’t . . . Now, where were we?’ she added absent-mindedly, ushering Claire into a cubicle to be dressed.

  Fee declined an invitation to join them and sat outside. Her turn to try on her maid of honour’s dress would come later.

  She idly picked up a magazine, only to find herself distracted by Claire’s voice. She was whispering but she was still clearly audible. And what she was saying was all news to Fee.

  Claire wanted a large house; Clem Thomas preferred somewhere much smaller and perhaps a place outside London too. Claire, brought up in the country, had no intention of returning to it, certainly not for pleasure.

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Mrs Canning said.

  And then there was money. Claire explained that she had more to spend than Clem.

  ‘He’s a great cook, Michele, that’s why he doesn’t see the point of restaurants—’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Mrs Canning said.

  ‘But I try and explain that I’ve worked hard for twenty years and I like to enjoy my money. I don’t want to eat in all the time and drink paint-stripper for wine, just to suit him—’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ Mrs Canning said.

  Suddenly, the curtains to the cubicle swept back and Fee jumped, guiltily.

  Claire’s face betrayed no sign of Angst. ‘How do I look?’ she asked Fee.

  ‘You look absolutely beautiful,’ Fee replied truthfully.

  Later, over a glass of wine, Fee asked Claire casually, ‘So how’s it all going? I mean, you and Clem?’

  ‘Really well,’ Claire answered too quickly. ‘No problems at all. Couldn’t be happier.’

  On Monday afternoon, a group of half-a-dozen or so of F.P. & D.’s staff, including Diana Woods, Will Evans and Fee were gathered in the company’s viewing room, watching a large screen.

  A series of brief scenes portrayed the frenetic work lives of two ridiculously young people. The scene cut to the woman, dressed in a long, floating, chiffon dress, running along a beach. She was being chased by the man, now in jeans. He caught her and pulled her to the ground. They kissed as the music swelled.

  Over the images, a creamy voice said, ‘Want to make a dream come true – but too harried, busy, overstretched? A desire for love but no time to let it happen? HAH! makes the running easy. It’s what success is all about.’

  In the dark, a ripple of applause is heard. ‘Lights,’ Gerry Radcliffe ordered.

  ‘OK, let’s hear it,’ he instructed. ‘This is Diana’s first crack at the HAH! account. A good, strong commercial with a powerful message for the thirty-plus single. I’ll save my comments for last – Fee?’

  Behind Gerry’s back, Will semaphored to Fee by putting a finger to his lips and shaking his head firmly. No need to be frank and certainly not fearless. Gerry had sent out enough clues: he was pleased with the product – why upset the boss?

  Fee was about to heed Will’s advice when the images of Ivy and Beryl and Doris and Joan and the other women at Gwynfor Pryce’s meeting shimmered into view. Weren’t they the stuff of future springsters too? Weren’t they twenty- and thirty- and forty-plus and unattached? How could they identify with a commercial like this? Why should they be rendered invisible?

  Briefly, Fee considered the fact that Diana Woods already had enough enemies in the company. Was it fair to add her own name to the list? Then she remembered the secret report and the spitefulness of its tone.

  ‘I think the ad. is daft. Or, to be more precise, I believe it’s inappropriate,’ Fee spoke succinctly.

  Carina Holt, Will’s number two, drew her breath in sharply. Gerry picked up a pencil and studied its lead intently, always a bad sign. Will’s signals became more frantic.

  Fee continued. ‘I think it’s trite, condescending and a cliché. The market this commercial is trying to reach is twice as old as this couple. The new customers we want probably haven’t the energy or the inclination to run for a bus never mind along a beach for a couple of miles.

  ‘On top of that, why focus on a pair who appear passionately in love and only inches away from the altar? They don’t look as if they need any help at all from an organization like HAH!’

  Diana Woods broke in. ‘We don’t deal in reality here, in case you hadn’t noticed,’ she said frostily. ‘We deal in aspirations, escapism . . . I’m sure—’

  Gerry Radcliffe had stopped studying the pencil and was now inspecting Diana Woods.

  She continued, ‘My research indicates that women past forty don’t have an image of themselves as independent singles, separate autonomies. They see themselves as grannies, widows, ex-partners, old maids . . . and, frankly, if we tap into that, it’s not exactly a sexy selling pitch, is it? Women watching this, no matter what their age, will put themselves in the young woman’s shoes—’

  ‘Bullshit,’ was Fee’s response. ‘They want to see themselves as the rounded people a lot of them are . . . They may not have a man but they’ve got plenty of other things in their lives . . . friendship, travel, food, cinema, music . . . Why not pitch at the woman and man – in their thirties or forties – who have full lives besides work, but who also would like some romance?’

  Diana Woods snapped back, ‘The market research shows that—’

  ‘Then the market research is asking the wrong questions,’ Fee interrupted.

  At F.P. & D. such a comment was akin to suggesting at the Vatican that the only element requiring correction in the Old Testament was the plot.

  Gerry Radcliffe resumed the inspection of his pencil except that, now, one eyebrow was raised.

  ‘So, Fee,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re arguing against Diana’s meticulous use of our resource centre, computer searches, focus groups and her ten years of experience in the business?’

  Diana Woods smiled smugly. Fee answered, ‘She’s forgotten two thin
gs.’

  ‘And what’s that?’ Gerry asked.

  ‘Common sense and intuition. If she’d used both, she would have come up with something better than a revamped ad. for Cinzano.’

  ‘Prove it,’ he demanded.

  ‘Right,’ said Fee defiantly. ‘I will.’

  Even as she spoke, she saw the satisfaction on Gerry’s face.

  He had set his trap well.

  ‘Fabulously Fleshy!’ Imogen Banks shouted triumphantly at her naked image in her full-length mirror. Her body was dimpled and copious, like a large bowl of whipped cream.

  She wrapped herself in a towel. She was pleased with her lot. Simon was proving to be unexpectedly good company; funny, perceptive and, now the novelty had worn off, no longer overwhelmingly attentive. He was spending much of his time endeavouring to discover ‘a project’, any project that might carry him from his forties to retirement without losing face.

  A project sounded so much more glamorous than a job and, potentially, somehow more cash-generating than a career.

  Imogen had also secured a couple of new commissions. She had come up with a game show for the afternoon slot. Mates & Mistresses which pitted ex-wives against ex-(or present) mistresses on their knowledge of the male they had shared.

  The second commission depended upon Fee Travers’s performance in The Perfumed Pound. If all went well, then Imogen intended to make a documentary that would involve Fee travelling through the US talking to her American equivalents.

  Imogen called in to her office to say that she was on her way. Kelly Owen, her secretary, said, ‘A man called Bill Summers is here. Says he’s talked to you a lot on the phone. Says you asked him to drop by . . . He’s got his portfolio of photographs with him and seems desperately keen. I hope you want him for his body,’ Kelly Owen added drily, ‘because his pictures aren’t up to much.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  AT SEVEN THIRTY in the evening, Shona Spannier, thirty-six, opened a bottle of red wine, poured a glass for herself and hid the bottle in the bread bin. She looked at her watch. Then Shona checked on the lamb in the oven. Naturally, she’d calculated that her husband would be a couple of hours late when she’d first put the meat in for roasting; so the lamb was still bright pink.

  Shona drank from the glass, topped it up again and walked into her bedroom. On the large dressing-table were two silver framed photographs of her sons, Theo, eight, and Oliver, almost ten. They had their mother’s dark hair, angular jaw, tiny chin and almond-shaped eyes. Others said that they were good-looking boys.

  Shona’s eyes misted as she thought of Theo crying himself to sleep in the first few weeks as a boarder. The boys didn’t object to school now but no one in her family or Teddy’s had been sent away before and she hated the pointlessness of it all. Still, Teddy had insisted.

  Suddenly Shona tensed. Was that a key in the door? She searched for somewhere to hide her glass. It wasn’t that she drank too much but that her life was constrained by rituals. Teddy believed that the wine should be opened only after his arrival. It was one of the small courtesies. And, besides, his mother had always obliged his father in that way.

  After a few minutes, Shona relaxed and wandered back into the kitchen. The Spanniers had been married for twelve years. When they first met, Shona had been a personal assistant; Teddy had his own small software business.

  Teddy had since prospered. They were now about to move into a seven-bedroom house, although Shona would have been happy to stay in this smaller and cosier flat on which they had a temporary let.

  Her husband had also become a business guru; he’d written a couple of books; occasionally he delivered a Thought for the Day on Radio 4. Shona was immensely proud of Teddy, which made it even more of a tragedy that he found her such an irritant.

  Shona had tried to curb those aspects of herself which she knew Teddy found particularly distasteful. For example, she had toned down what others had described as her strong sense of humour (‘Trying to hog the limelight’ was Teddy’s charge). And she had disguised much of her passion for her sons (‘Over-possessive’ Teddy had pronounced).

  Shona regarded these ‘compromises’ as worthwhile since she found life so empty when Teddy was absent. His energy seemed to give her energy. Teddy said there wasn’t much point in her finding a job because he needed her to be available. And, anyway, with her lack of skills, he’d pointed out on several occasions, she’d only earn peanuts.

  She wasn’t a joiner of clubs or a woman who liked to do lunch so, since the boys had gone away to school, she spent much of her time being bored. And having a drink. Sometimes she’d visit the house they were having overhauled. But if she made any suggestions to the builders or decorators, Teddy would simply overrule her.

  Shona was about to pour herself a second glass when the doorbell rang. Automatically, she hid the wine glass in the canister that held the tea bags.

  An hour before, Fee had left work early loaded down with homework on HAH! This included files, videos and market-research reports which she had had great difficulty in persuading Diana Woods and her team to relinquish. Gerry had given Fee a fortnight to come up with a fresh strategy.

  Fee glimpsed the slip of white paper on her doormat as she opened the door. Rita bloody Mason. She trod on the note purposefully and walked into the sitting room, dumping everything on the sofa. As she moved towards the kitchen, a strange smell filled her nostrils.

  Fee cautiously moved towards the bathroom. She opened the door as if she half expected Rita Mason to leap out at her, bread knife in hand. Instead, a stream of sewage seeped out lazily over the hall carpet.

  ‘Oooh, nasty,’ said the voice on the end of the phone. ‘What time is it? Blimey! Gone eight.’ A detailed explanation followed of how Jimmy was in East Four and Clive was in North London and Winston was flat out on a boiler . . . and—’

  ‘Look,’ Fee interrupted, ‘all I want to know is can one of your plumbers fix this leak in my loo tonight or not?’

  The man on the end of the phone decided not – not unless she was prepared to pay triple time.

  ‘OK, OK, OK.’ Fee conceded defeat. ‘How early can you get here in the morning?’

  The appointment confirmed for 8.30 a.m., the man’s voice asked for Fee’s address and her name. Is that Miss, Ms or Mrs Travers?’ he queried.

  ‘Mrs,’ Fee answered immediately. ‘Mrs Travers.’

  Fee’s annoyance at herself for lying was replaced with a more practical concern. She was desperate to go to the loo.

  Fee knew that the public lavatories in the park across the way would now be locked. Will was out and the spare set of keys she held to his flat was no longer in the jam jar in the kitchen. He frequently helped himself if he’d left his own keys at work.

  It looked as if she had no alternative. Mr Edward Spannier, her new neighbour across the corridor, was about to have a surprise visit.

  ‘At least it’s more original than asking for a cup of sugar,’ Fee told herself. In her hall mirror, she hastily reapplied her lipstick and checked her appearance.

  Old habits die hard.

  ‘Oh,’ Fee said when Shona Spannier opened her door. ‘Oh, I—’

  ‘Can I help?’ Shona Spannier asked. Fee tried to keep the surprise out of her voice. ‘You are . . . you must be . . .?’

  Fee rapidly took in Shona Spannier’s appearance. She was fine-boned, slim, understated. Shona Spannier opened the door wide as the realization dawned on her that, since this woman had neither coat nor bag, she must be a neighbour; a near neighbour.

  ‘Come in,’ Shona said. ‘I’m Shona Spannier. Edward . . . Teddy . . . isn’t home from work yet . . . Come in—’

  She was already halfway up the corridor before she realized that Fee was still standing – or rather hopping – at the door.

  ‘I’m Fee Travers. I live here,’ Fee waved behind her head, ‘and my loo has sprung a leak . . . and I’m absolutely desperate—’

  Shona began to laugh. ‘You poor th
ing. Help yourself.’ She opened the door to her left.

  Fee dived for the bathroom. It was ironic, Fee thought, that just when she needed it least, she found herself living opposite individuals who appeared to be candidates for the world’s most perfect couple.

  A few minutes later, Fee stuck her head into the kitchen. Shona Spannier was sitting at an immaculate breakfast bar. Fee now had time to note she was wearing expensively cut slacks and a cashmere polo neck. Her hair shone like the copper pots arranged decoratively on the walls. The glass front of the oven revealed that supper was under way.

  ‘Won’t you have a drink . . . stay for a bit . . .?’ Shona Spannier asked.

  ‘I don’t want to intrude; it looks as if you’re about to eat.’

  Shona was already on her feet, gesturing to the other stool. ‘You’re not intruding, honestly. Teddy won’t be home for ages . . . he’s awfully busy . . . Please—’

  Fee tried not to register surprise when Shona retrieved her glass from the tea canister. Shona smiled with embarrassment.

  ‘Oh I don’t usually keep it there . . . It’s just, well—’ She paused as if considering before she spoke, then ploughed on. ‘Teddy doesn’t like me to open a bottle before he gets home. It’s just one of his rules. Well, rules makes it sound too strict. And he’s not at all strict, he’s very easy, most of the time—’

  Shona shrugged and gave up on the explanation. She poured Fee a glass.

  ‘Or would you prefer white? I’ve white in the fridge. I’m sorry,’ she added as Fee took a sip and shook her head. ‘It’s probably not great—’

  ‘It tastes wonderful,’ Fee interrupted her firmly. ‘It’s exactly what I need. I’ve had one of those days—’

  Fee inspected the kitchen. ‘You’ve done a terrific job in here. It was so dark and dingy before. When did you move in?’

  ‘Do you like it?’ Shona asked eagerly. ‘I’m afraid Teddy thinks it’s too twee. The decorators came in last month just to freshen it up a bit and we moved in on Tuesday. No one else in the building seemed to be about except the very tall man upstairs. He always seems to be . . . entertaining—’