The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  Shona caught Fee’s eye and they both smiled.

  ‘That’s Will,’ Fee offered. The Spanniers must have moved in on the day she and Imogen played truant from work and visited Marlow. That was why she hadn’t registered their arrival.

  ‘Does Teddy work long hours?’ Fee asked, more to make conversation than out of genuine interest.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Shona Spannier’s face brightened up at the mention of her husband. ‘Especially now, he’s hoping to become an MP – a Labour MP. He’s at ward meetings every night. He doesn’t tell me all that much. I mean, I don’t blame him. I’m afraid I’m not all that interested. The House of Commons seems so . . . well, so self-serving.’

  Shona stopped, alarmed that she had voiced a possibly contentious opinion.

  ‘I’m so sorry, you’re probably passionate about politics,’ she apologized. ‘I don’t mean everyone is self-serving, just—’

  Fee held up her hands. ‘Don’t worry. I agree with you entirely. I can’t imagine a more miserable life than sitting in the House of Commons—’

  Shona walked over to the oven. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘Why don’t you stay and have something to eat? I mean, if you’re on your own tonight, it will save you bothering later? Or perhaps you’ve already eaten? It’s no trouble. I’ve made pea and asparagus soup and there’s some lamb . . . It’ll probably go to waste anyway . . . so you’d be doing me a favour.’

  Fee lied and explained that she’d had a large lunch but then something about the woman made her change her mind. She said a bowl of soup would be ideal.

  ‘This’, Fee pronounced, ‘is delicious.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, it’s nothing really,’ Shona answered dismissively. ‘Nothing at all.’

  An hour sped by, punctuated only by Shona’s frequent glances at her watch. ‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘It’s Teddy. I always get a bit anxious if he’s this late—’

  Shona told Fee about her sons and how she missed them. She discussed her previous job and how she still kept in touch with her former boss, who even now tried to tempt her back.

  Fee said little about herself but did mention that her best friend was marrying in a few months. And that she was ashamed to admit that she hadn’t had the kindest of thoughts about the husband-to-be.

  ‘Oh, I understand that completely,’ Shona responded warmly and then added, ‘Don’t you find marriage really hard work some times? It was the one thing I wanted to do well in life and I know I’ve failed miserably in lots of ways. Teddy is much better at it than me. He says I’m too demanding . . . How long have you been married?’ she suddenly asked.

  ‘I’m not,’ Fee answered cheerfully. She was totally unprepared for the panic that crossed the woman’s face. To make amends, Fee quickly added, ‘I’m single, but I’m not looking. For a partner, I mean. No men, no misery.’ Shona Spannier did not appear consoled.

  Conversation after that withered away. Just as Fee was saying her goodbyes, there was the sound of a key in the door. Shona shot from the breakfast bar. She reapplied her lipstick, grabbing a tube from the small shelf by the window. Then she roughly shoved the two wine glasses into the dishwasher and deposited the bottle, not yet empty, in the bin, concealing it with a layer of kitchen roll.

  ‘I may be wrong,’ Fee said, ‘but I take it that’s Teddy at the door?’

  Ten minutes or so later, Fee sat in her sitting room, feet on the coffee table, a mug of tea in hand, exuding gratitude for the most simple of pleasures. She was thankful that she owned her own place and could do with it as she pleased.

  She was thankful that she did not have to live with a man like Teddy Spannier who appeared to delight in boxing in his wife at every opportunity.

  She was thankful that she could spend an evening uncaged by a lover’s mood.

  She was thankful, above all, to be alone.

  In Fee’s hand was the note she had assumed Rita Mason had written. It had been posted under her door by her new neighbour, Edward Spannier.

  ‘I’m having a few friends for an impromptu housewarming supper tomorrow night,’ it read. ‘Sorry it’s such short notice. Please come if you can, Ted.’

  No mention of Shona. No mention of we’ or ‘us’ or ‘My wife and I’. Teddy had repeated the invitation as Fee was leaving their flat. The panic had returned to Shona’s face. Fee had accepted – if only to prove to Shona that she had nothing to fear. And, perhaps, to prove it to herself. Teddy was out of bounds unless, of course, he was adept as a plumber. Then, Fee told herself, trying to ignore the smell of sewage now overpowering the flat, she would personally carry him over her threshold without a qualm.

  Fee was outside, putting her rubbish in her dustbin, before going to bed at midnight, when she saw a familiar figure pressing her doorbell.

  It was Bill Summers. At midnight? At her door?

  ‘I’ve come,’ he said enigmatically. ‘How are you doing?’ he asked, as he kissed Fee on the cheek.

  ‘In desperate need of help,’ Fee smiled.

  ‘That’s what I’ve been told,’ Bill Summers replied, placing his arm protectively around Fee. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Fee was so grateful that she didn’t seriously consider the meaning of Bill Summers’s words, until it was much too late.

  It only took minutes for Fee to persuade Bill to put his hand down her lavatory pan. He had always been useful like that.

  Fee supervised from the bathroom door. Bill had lost weight; he was less shambolic, more compact. He was dressed entirely in black. In their time together, Bill hadn’t expressed much interest in clothes; somebody else must be doing his shopping.

  He had also grown a beard and his hair was actually cut into some sort of style.

  ‘Erica’s doing a good job,’ Fee remarked conversationally.

  ‘Who?’ Bill replied distractedly.

  ‘Erica . . . your wife . . . mother of your child . . .?’ she jogged his memory gently.

  ‘Oh yes, of course. Yes, I’m very lucky. But she’s away at the moment.’

  Bill flushed the loo. It worked perfectly.

  ‘All done,’ he said, pleased with himself. ‘All you’ve got to do is clear up the mess and cancel the plumber.’

  ‘Lucky you dropped by,’ Fee said, leading the way back into the sitting room where she had opened a bottle of wine and set out two glasses.

  ‘Lucky?’ Bill Summers repeated the word. ‘Well, not lucky exactly—’

  ‘Telepathy then?’ Fee suggested flippantly.

  ‘So where’s Erica? Has she gone on holiday?’ she then asked politely. ‘I mean, it’s late for you to be out, isn’t it?’

  ‘Holiday?’ Bill answered vaguely. ‘Oh, she’s not on holiday. She’s in Sweden for four months. Did you know she was Swedish? She’s taken the children too and I find that hard. Much harder than I realized.’ Bill blinked several times.

  Fee realized that there were tears in his eyes. In all the years they had known each other, Bill hadn’t cried once. But, then again, he hadn’t been a father or a stepfather at the time. She found herself moved.

  ‘At first, when they went, I thought I’d like the extra time . . . for my photography. I’ve gone semi-professional, did you know?’ Bill brushed away a tear.

  ‘But it’s not the same without the kids around. I hate it. I’ve been to visit them twice. Then Erica told me that she wasn’t on holiday, she was separated from me but she hadn’t said. Now she wants a divorce.

  ‘I said yes because I don’t know what else to do . . . I can’t bear to think of only seeing the kids once or twice a year . . . But I can’t force Erica to stay with me if she doesn’t want to, can I?

  ‘I told her I didn’t think she’d given us even a chance . . . That’s what marriage is about, isn’t it? Getting through the rocky patches—’

  ‘I suppose it must be,’ Fee answered supportively.

  Bill gave a heavy sigh. ‘But I didn’t come here to talk about me.’

  Imogen Banks had alre
ady given Bill Summers a very graphic description of Fee’s fragile mental state, her plummeting self-esteem. She had graphically described how Fee talked frequently about him and clearly had regrets that he’d left. And how she was never home before midnight, preferring to work long hours to keep her mind off what she referred to as, ‘the five happiest years of my life’.

  In the circumstances, Bill was bound to offer what help he could. Apart from anything else, it would take his mind off his own misery. And after the last few months, he had told himself, it might be nice to feel wanted again.

  He smiled at Fee wearily. ‘I came here to talk about you. Now, why don’t you tell me what’s been going wrong?’

  Spontaneously, Fee reached out for his hand. For the first time in all the years she had known him, she was experiencing a new and overpowering emotion.

  It was sympathy. She felt enormously sympathetic towards her former partner.

  Sympathy proved to be an effective aphrodisiac. A couple of hours later, Fee and Bill were in bed. Fee had no concerns that this brief interlude might spell the end of her own commitment to the single life. This wasn’t copulation, it was social work. She was simply doing an old friend a favour, giving succour.

  The two didn’t waste much time on words. Bill required physical reassurance; Fee’s libido was only too happy to oblige. Fee soon realized she had much to thank Erica for – not only had she relieved Fee of Bill, she had also improved his lovemaking skills immeasurably.

  At eight thirty the next morning, Fee was woken by the doorbell. She opened her eyes, saw the back of Bill’s head on the pillow next to hers, and briefly found herself catapulted back in time. It wasn’t a pleasant sensation.

  The bell rang again.

  ‘Plumber!’ a voice bellowed. ‘Mrs Travers! Mrs Travers!’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Fee moaned. She’d forgotten to cancel. She took the coward’s way out and slipped further under the covers. After several minutes more, the man departed, cursing and swearing.

  Bill opened one eye and smiled.

  ‘I hope that’s helped,’ Bill said. ‘You’re a terrific woman, Fee, really you are. You shouldn’t think for a minute that you’re not worth having—’

  Fee sat up. ‘What on earth do you mean? What do you mean, you hope that helped? I thought I was the one doing you a favour? And, come to that, why did you turn up out of the blue?’

  Bill rubbed his eyes. It was too early for thought. ‘Why did I turn up?’ he repeated as if his motives for visiting were as mysterious to him as they might be to her. ‘Why did I turn up . . .?’

  ‘Yes, why did you come last night? Why so late?’ Fee’s eyes narrowed. The finger of Helen lay upon Bill.

  ‘Have you been talking to my mother?’ Fee demanded. ‘Did she put you up to this? What’s she been telling you now? Doesn’t she realize you’re a respectable married man?’

  ‘Separated and about to be divorced,’ Bill corrected. ‘It wasn’t Helen, but yes, your mother has stayed in touch . . . Matter of fact, I’ve always found her very understanding, particularly about you and me . . . She knows you inside out,’ he added darkly.

  Bill Summers belatedly began to gather his wits. ‘Actually, all that is irrelevant anyway. The fact is, I’ve been thinking about you a great deal recently. I was happy with you a lot more of the time than I realized,’ he hesitated. ‘Perhaps we could give it another go, Fee? How do you feel about having children these days? Only I’m quite keen myself—’

  Fee stared at Bill, disbelieving.

  ‘I don’t like being on my own,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve never actually been on my own, not once, not since school . . . I’ve always had someone . . . So,’ he gave Fee an affectionate pat on the knee, ‘shall we give it another go? Frankly, I don’t think either of us is going to do much better, do you?’

  Helen Travers had had a disappointing morning. First, she had unearthed next to nothing at the car-boot sale. Now, her youngest daughter was sitting at her kitchen table, having arrived just after noon, without phoning to forewarn her first.

  ‘If you’d told me you were coming, I would’ve cooked a nice casserole,’ Helen chastised.

  Fee countered, ‘I didn’t know myself until this morning. A couple I have to interview live close by so I thought I’d pop in—’

  ‘And . . .?’ Helen said.

  ‘It’s about Bill,’ Fee answered bluntly. ‘Did you ask him to come and see me? Did you tell him that I was interested in us getting back together?’

  Helen had been looking forward to this moment. Something dark within her found profound satisfaction in proving her youngest daughter wrong.

  ‘Of course I didn’t,’ she answered truthfully. ‘You know I’ve always said that what you do is your own affair. But I can’t pretend that people aren’t beginning to talk . . . This isn’t central London, you know. We have different views out here.

  ‘And you don’t have to live with the gossip day after day,’ she ploughed on. ‘They’re saying you’re . . . you know . . . like Vera . . . Or at least if they knew about Vera, they’d be saying you’re like her—’

  Fee burst out laughing at her mother’s convolutions. It lifted the gloom that had descended when Bill had told her that, at her age, half a commitment is better than none.

  Will had been right when he’d suggested that she needed to make a public gesture, something the neighbours would understand. A clear and unequivocal statement that not only had she, Fee Travers, chosen to be on her own – but that she intended to stay that way.

  An announcement in The Times. The neighbours would never see that. An appearance on prime-time television would carry much more clout.

  Fee walked over to her mother, who was standing with her back to the kitchen sink. She took the small, stiff, tense figure in her arms and gave her the warmest of hugs.

  ‘You’re right, Mum,’ Fee said. ‘Something has to be done. You’ve put up with far too much. I’m going to try and make amends. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Helen smiled warily. ‘I only want what’s best for you—’

  At lunchtime, Imogen Banks received a call. It was one she had been expecting, but not quite so soon.

  ‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise, Fee,’ she cooed into the receiver. ‘Of course, I’m delighted you’ve decided to appear in the film. But tell me, what on earth made you change your mind? Do tell.’

  As she listened, the receiver in the crook of her neck, Imogen tore up Bill Summers’s business card and deposited the tiny pieces in her waste-paper basket.

  Now The Lone Ranger had been lassoed, Mr Summers’s services were surplus to requirements.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AT SEVEN TWENTY that evening, Fee arrived home with ten minutes to shower and change before Teddy’s and Shona’s supper party. She was greeted by a postcard from Les. It showed a picture not of one of the sights of Jersey but an overflowing sandwich and a list of Les’s establishments.

  ‘Dear Fee,’ the card read, ‘Veronica is much better. Her handicap – on and off the course, if you take my meaning – is improving by the day. Home next week, Yours, Les.’

  Fee rang the hotel and asked to be put through to Mrs Haslem. Back came the reply that Mrs Haslem was resting and not to be disturbed. Fee left a message, sending her love.

  Today had been easier at work. Not least because Diana Woods had departed on a business trip with Gerry Radcliffe to Amsterdam. As a result, the atmosphere in the office had defrosted.

  Harry Macklin had phoned Fee and demanded rather than suggested that she personally make use of the various facilities that made up the HAH! empire.

  ‘Act as if you’re a client on the receiving end,’ he had ordered. ‘If the staff know you’ve been hired by me, you’ll never have a clue what’s going wrong. Be a punter,’ he had instructed. ‘Pretend you’re putting your heart on the line.’

  That, Fee had remarked to Will later, was rather like inviting a recent recruit to AA on a wine-tasting tour of the Loire
valley.

  Imogen had called to suggest that they meet before filming began in the following week.

  ‘I thought we might take a look at your image. Modify it a touch here and there, visit a few clothes places I know. See a hairdresser. You know, the usual kind of thing—’ she had announced breezily. Banks the Buddy had been replaced by Banks the Boss.

  Fee was too busy to argue. Imogen also announced that she would visit F.P. & D. to consider the possibilities for filming.

  ‘Will anybody object to us having access?’ Imogen had asked.

  ‘Probably,’ Fee had answered.

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ Imogen had replied crisply.

  Fee had driven home exhausted.

  Now, she allowed herself three minutes under the shower, then pinned her hair up to disguise the fact that it needed a wash. She chose a simple black shift dress and gold and jet drop ear-rings.

  Fee might have pretended she was dressing to please herself. The truth was that she was dressing to see if she could still please anyone else.

  ‘It’s a delightful sort of crabby flavour . . . very smooth. One of your own recipes, Shona?’

  The woman to Fee’s left was eating fish mousse. Shona smiled nervously.

  ‘Oh it’s nothing really,’ she apologized. ‘Very quick to make . . . it’s crab and fresh tomato . . . is it all right?’ Shona turned to Fee.

  Fee nodded and smiled. She was the most underdressed woman present. Supper, to Fee, implied casual. The women around the table looked as if they were attending a cocktail party in first class on a round-the-world cruise.

  Shona was in a spectacularly well-cut, full-length, black linen kaftan, heavily embroidered with beads around the neck. One guest wore a silk lime-green suit with buttons like large gold knots of rope. Another was dressed in a bright blue dress with a sequined bolero jacket. The third wore brown palazzo pants and a brocade Chinese jacket. All three guests had the kind of shoes Fee always associated with 1960s beauty queens – stiletto heels, scrappy and gold.

  She had arrived late and alone. Edward Spannier was embarrassingly open in his attention. Shona pretended not to notice her husband’s interest. Fee quickly deducted that this was not, as she had assumed, a cosy impromptu housewarming supper for a few friends. This was more a wine-and-dine-and-win-influence affair to which she had been grafted on at the last minute.