‘She’s told her she’s staying away from men, never getting married. Who’s kidding who? That’s what I want to know. Who is damn well kidding who?’ Gill glared beadily at her husband.
‘Fee Travers is having an affair and I don’t think we have to search very hard to draw up a short list of possible lovers, do we?’
Simon had grown immune to his wife’s probes. ‘Don’t we?’ he replied mildly. His attention had turned to a far more alarming thought: how was he to excuse himself from the picnic and the house for the whole of Saturday afternoon?
He couldn’t use work as an excuse because Gill would ring. In fact, Gill would ring almost anywhere he happened to be. Would the mobile phone work on the river? What possible reason could he give for suddenly discovering boating in middle age and with twenty-four hours’ notice?
‘As for that woman she brought with her the other night . . . What a tart! Did you see the length of her nails? And the perfume! A job lot from a St Petersburg blubber factory if you ask me—’ Gill chattered on and then stopped.
Simon had stood up. He was white and shaking. He grasped the knife out of Gill’s hand, held it high – and plunged it deep into the butter dish.
Why did she always set out to break the only toys he had? Why did she always have to savage his dreams?
‘Call this living?’ he shouted. Then he banged out of the kitchen.
On reflection, Simon would have wished to have said something more directly to the point, or more poetic, but as war cries went, he told himself, it wasn’t all that bad. Call this living?
In the hall, he hesitated further. Storming out of the house would be more spectacular – but he was a pragmatist. It would be uncomfortable sleeping on a friend’s sofa. Better to evacuate the twins from their room, deposit them with Gill in the double bed and he could then sleep on the bottom bunk bed.
Better still, why didn’t he leave the bottom bunk to Gill? Simon smiled. See what a positive influence Imogen was already beginning to have?
‘And we’ve only just begun—’ Simon told himself light-heartedly, vaguely aware that he’d heard the phrase somewhere before.
In the kitchen, Gill removed the knife from the butter dish and finished the bottle of wine. Simon had told her repeatedly that he had no romantic or sexual interest in Fee. So why the combustion?
‘She thinks she’s made a clever little move. Thrown everyone off her scent. But she’s met her match in me,’ Gill muttered to herself. ‘Spinster? My arse.’
Her uncustomary crudity gave her a strange sort of comfort.
‘Hello, this is Rita, Rita Mason speaking. We met the other day. I see you’re out. I’m sorry to bother you but I was just wondering how Veronica was. Give her my best regards. Well, bye then—’
Fee opened her front door just in time to hear Rita Mason’s voice leaving a message on the answering machine.
She sounded warm, concerned, normal. Fee was slightly ashamed of her earlier mistrust.
Admittedly, it was odd to leave a present for a stranger but Rita Mason hadn’t made any demands, issued any threats, stalked the street outside. She was only enquiring after Veronica.
Just because Rita Mason looked distinctive didn’t mean she was daft as well. All right, she had flirted, seriously flirted with every junior doctor in casualty, and had been oblivious to the fact that they’d assumed she was having a joke. But when was fancying yourself at fifty plus regarded as a crime?
In reparation, Fee picked up the phone and was about to return Rita Mason’s call when she realized that she didn’t have her number. She knew nothing about the woman except where she worked and that she had told Veronica that she was a radiographer.
Fee promised herself that on Monday she would drop into Rita’s hospital on the way to F.P. & D. and leave the cardigan and some flowers as a thank you. Then that would be the end of that.
She moved towards the kitchen, flicking lights on as she went. Fee ignored the unwrapped kettle on the table and began to fill a saucepan with water. She was suddenly aware that she was not alone. Spinning round, she saw Will was standing in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame. He was holding a bottle of wine and a parcel. He looked as if he was enjoying a private joke.
‘God, you gave me such a fright.’ Fee slammed the pan down on the draining board crossly. Will handed her the bottle, put the parcel on the kitchen table and pulled her keys out of his pocket.
‘You left these in your front door – again. Dangerous habit, you know. What if someone—’
Fee interrupted his lecture. ‘Why’ve you got that peculiar smile on your face? What’s so funny?’
Will shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. One minute you’re turning your back on all males. The next you’re being wooed by a woman with a dodgy sense of taste and a highly utilitarian muscle where her romantic pulse should be.
‘I have my faults,’ he added. ‘But never have I given a paramour a kettle. Never.’
Fee opened a packet of chocolate biscuits and Will helped himself. ‘She is not a paramour.’ She glared at him, annoyed with herself that she was taking his bait.
‘She’s . . . well . . . she’s nothing . . . I hardly know her.’ She shrugged. ‘Was it you who let her in? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘I didn’t let her in,’ Will corrected. ‘She called by when you were out yesterday and I offered to put the kettle in your flat. I thought the bedroom was a nice offbeat touch. She said Veronica had told her you didn’t have one the other night when they came and failed to raise you.’
Will took the bottle opener out of the drawer and two glasses from the cupboard. He followed her into the sitting room, carrying the glasses of wine and his parcel.
‘I’m not going to keep it, you know,’ Fee said. ‘I’ll have to return it. I hardly know the woman.’
‘Don’t be daft, of course you won’t,’ Will chastised. ‘It’s only a kettle, what harm can it do? She probably flogs kitchenware in her spare time. Here,’ he thrust the haphazardly wrapped parcel into Fee’s hands. ‘Here’s a proper present. Have a look at it later, see what you think.’
‘Why not now?’ Fee asked, beginning to peel away the paper.
‘Later,’ Will instructed firmly and then grinned. ‘I don’t want to witness your embarrassment at my impressive generosity.’
At midnight, Fee sat on her sofa, alone, with Will’s present, now unwrapped, in her hands. It was an ornate frame surrounding a tapestry on which several words had been embroidered.
Fee read aloud. ‘Being an old maid is like death by drowning. It’s a delightful sensation once you cease to struggle.’ Edna Ferber.
She was touched. She read the words again: ‘. . . a delightful sensation once you cease to struggle . . .’ And how long would that take, she asked wryly? Six months, a year, five years?
A lifetime?
‘Oh, you’d be doing me a favour by taking it, you really would. So don’t feel at all obligated—’
At 10 a.m. on Saturday morning, Fee had answered the door, expecting Claire. She had felt unaccountably annoyed to discover Rita Mason on her doorstep.
‘I was just passing and thought I’d ask after your sister,’ she’d explained, smiling pleasantly. She had her hair in an incongruous pony tail, fastened high on the head like an American teenager in the 1950s. She wore shocking pink lipstick, drawn over the lips to give a fuller look, a white fluffy jumper and lilac jeans. The net result was a bizarre conjunction: very late summer disguised as early spring.
‘I’m a bit busy,’ Fee had answered and then was ashamed at her lack of hospitality. Rita Mason had put herself out for Veronica quite considerably; the least that Fee could do was to offer her a cup of coffee.
So, Rita Mason had been invited in and, ninety-five minutes later, showed no inclination to leave. Fee poured fresh coffee, too polite to hurry her along. She’d rehearsed a couple of excuses in her head but they’d been crushed by conditioning: nice girls didn’t tell guests it’s time t
o go.
Rita began to giggle coquettishly. Briefly, Fee misunderstood. Please God that the woman didn’t fancy her. Then she realized that Rita was holding out her left hand for inspection. On her fourth finger was a very large piece of . . . glass . . . Fee decided uncharitably.
‘That’s how I got the kettle. Well, four of them actually,’ Rita Mason confided. ‘At our engagement party. Got a bottom drawer that’s overflowing, so it really would help me out if you kept it. After all, what are friends for if they can’t do each other little favours?’ She smiled.
‘But we’re not friends,’ Fee blurted out. ‘I mean, I hardly—’
The smile broadened as the woman ignored Fee’s words and picked up the cardigan which Fee had returned.
‘My sister’s asked for your address, so she can write and thank you . . . would you mind?’ Fee asked, already ashamed of her outburst of rudeness.
Rita Mason produced a sheet of paper from her white patent handbag. ‘Do you want my flat in London – or I can give you the address of my place in the country. It’s a workman’s cottage, nothing much but it’s got a lovely large garden. That’s in Sussex . . .?’
‘I’m sure your London address will be fine.’ Fee wondered why Rita Mason needed to tell her that she was a two-dwelling woman.
‘Have you been engaged long?’ she asked, genuinely curious. Rita stopped writing. ‘A year. My fiancé, Roger, is in Saudi Arabia. He’s a commercial diver. A little bit younger than me, but not so it shows. At least, that’s what I like to tell myself.’
She ran her tongue over her front teeth, removing a pink smear of lipstick as she did so.
‘We’re getting married next year when he comes back for good. But there’s enough planning to keep me busy. You know, big white wedding, lots of family, reception . . . the usual carry-on.’ Fee wondered why she didn’t believe a word.
‘A friend of mine’s getting married soon, too,’ Fee offered, then stopped. Rita almost physically pounced on this snippet of personal information.
‘Not to worry,’ she smiled at Fee. ‘I know exactly how you must be feeling. Pretty lonely, I’m sure. I know because I’ve been there. But don’t let it get you down. Somebody special is out there for each of us. Look at me—’
Fee had spent much of the past hour trying not to. Rita reached out warmly. It was a gesture of sympathy but, for Fee, it assumed too much.
‘I’m fine,’ she defended herself, flustered. ‘I’m perfectly happy the way that I am. Really, I am.’
‘Brave girl. I know just how it is.’ Rita rose to her feet. ‘I’ve just had a terrific idea. You be ready Thursday evening and we’ll see what we can do. No, no, no its or buts. I insist,’ she added, stemming Fee’s objections.
Fee sighed. Better to concede now and cancel arrangements later. Besides, she didn’t want to interrupt Rita Mason’s momentum towards the front door.
‘I’ve got exactly the right group of women for you to meet,’ her uninvited guest beamed, picking up her bag and coat. ‘Real characters, mostly single. We sometimes go out for a meal afterwards. Of course, I’m not allowed any hanky-panky any more. Not since I’ve met Roger . . . but the others, well, that’s a different story.’ She raised her eyebrows.
‘See you Thursday then, Fee,’ Rita said at Fee’s front door. ‘I knew as soon as we met that we’d have an awful lot in common—’
Chapter Ten
SIMON WAS in a sweat. So much so, his body odour was even beginning to overwhelm Imogen. It was 3 p.m. on Saturday afternoon and the two were sharing a lift in a hotel in Bayswater that Imogen had had occasion to use in the past. They were keeping a respectable distance, just in case someone either of them knew decided to use the same lift.
As far as Imogen was concerned all that stood between her and her destiny as the second Mrs Booth was a report on Simon’s sperm count (why back a dud?) and an investigation into his present and future financial prospects. Imogen did not believe that love is blind. Or, for that matter, that love is broke.
She wore a black dress and a black and red check swing coat. The shoes were patent high heels. ‘You sort of buzz—’ Simon had said; he was not a natural romantic. And he knew that, by some fluke of luck, he had landed a mistress totally out of his league.
This unexpected delight had given him inspiration. For instance, Simon had solved the logistical problem of removing himself from the house at a peak time for family activity quite brilliantly, even if he said so himself.
He had waited until Gill was in their bedroom searching for the twins’ Wellington boots, then he had shouted up the stairs.
‘Emergency – at work! I’m not sure where at work . . . Well, it’s not actually in work but outside it . . . but to do with work . . . Must go! So, it’s best if I phone later—’ Then he’d rushed out of the door. And returned immediately.
‘Did you hear all that, Gill?’ He yelled up the stairs again.
‘I thought you’d gone.’ Her voice sounded neutral. Simon skipped out of the door. What a clever, clever man he was.
He had already put his best suit in the car and had attempted to change in the gents’ loo in Hyde Park. It had not been a pleasant experience. But Simon blamed himself for being so naïve.
In the lift, he was now also blaming himself for being a virgin philanderer. If he had done this more often, he wouldn’t be quite so jumpy. He clutched his briefcase more firmly. It contained toothbrush, toothpaste, condoms, clean underpants, mouth freshener, aftershave, deodorant and body lotion.
Whatever happened, he intended to smell sweet. (Simon was quite proud that he’d remembered the briefcase. This was, after all, supposed to be work. And his wife had a fine eye for detail.)
Suddenly, as the lift slid past the third floor, Simon’s mobile phone began to ring. He panicked.
‘Oh God, she’s found us. She’s tracked us down. Gill knows where we are. I knew this would happen,’ he babbled, and began to push Imogen out on the fourth floor.
‘Get out, get out. Get out now, for God’s sake.’
‘Simon, dear, you have a mobile phone,’ Imogen stepped back in, pressed the button for the fifth floor. She mopped his brow with her silk scarf.
‘Of course Gill doesn’t know where you are. Answer it.’
Simon obeyed. It was a call from work. Could he come in, there was a bit of a crisis?
‘Yes, I mean, no . . . Look, just don’t phone home. OK? Whatever you do, do not phone home. I’ll try and come in later—’ Simon could feel the sweat beginning to drip again.
For years, nothing had shaken Imogen Banks’s belief in the concept that each of us has one true love. Now, she inspected the puddle of passion before her and, for the very first time, began to reconsider.
On Sunday mornings, Helen Travers always followed the same routine. She would rise at seven, take Minnie the dachshund for a forty-five-minute walk in the park, call in on her next-door neighbour, Penny McTaggert, for a cup of tea and, at ten, she’d begin her preparations.
She would place two slices of brown bread in the toaster and lay the kitchen table with black cherry jam, butter, one ripe banana and a pot of weak tea.
She would drink her first cup while glancing through the News of the World (not for reasons of salaciousness, of course, but in order to confirm her thoroughgoing disappointment in the declining standards of the young, the old, the Establishment and the rest of the world).
At ten ten she switched on the toaster. By ten fifteen, when the first chords of the Archers signature tune staggered out from the radio, Minnie would have eaten one slice of toast, and Helen would be chomping away on the other, smothered in banana and jam.
Heaven.
Helen had grown confident enough in old age to admit to herself that the combination of black cherry, ripe banana, melted butter and a fat wedge of warm toast was unmatched by absolutely any other satisfaction she had encountered in life. And never a disappointment.
This was, of course, a piece of information
that she kept totally confidential. On the rare occasions when Helen had visitors, she ate more orthodoxly. But marmalade was always such a let-down.
Imogen Banks was dressed in a subdued dark-green trouser suit built for a woman with a lither figure since the jacket ended in a frill just above the hips. She put her finger to the doorbell of the semidetached redbrick house, just at the moment that Helen Travers had switched on her toaster.
Imogen noted that the garden had yellow roses which almost exactly matched the bunch she was carrying. The lawn was also the home of a grey gnome fishing in an even greyer well.
Helen heard the ring. She hid the banana and cherry jam concoction behind the bread bin (she didn’t want anyone to jump to the conclusion that she was vulgar), shooed Minnie off the kitchen chair, and went to answer the door. Helen was not happy at the intrusion.
‘Mrs Travers?’ the woman enquired, holding out the bouquet of flowers. Helen looked at her blankly.
‘You’re not the Lib. Dem. candidate, are you?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘Oh goodness me, no,’ Imogen smiled, noting that Helen had the same clear skin and strong bones as her youngest daughter, but the mouth was disapproving. It sat like a thin hyphen between the plump cheeks.
‘I’m an old schoolfriend of Fee’s and I’m on a bit of a treasure hunt—’
‘Donations? Is that what it’s about?’ Helen responded, her hostility increasing by the second.
‘Shall I come in and explain?’ Imogen suggested. Helen said nothing but stepped to one side. The hall and sitting room were decorated in cornflower blue and cream.
‘Tea?’ Helen asked. She had become resigned to company and was now considering the next step. Should she allow herself to enjoy the experience?
‘That would be lovely,’ Imogen answered, her face registering as much enthusiasm as if she’d been invited on a free weekend to Barcelona.
Ten minutes later, Helen was back, Minnie following on her heels. Imogen dutifully made a fuss of the dog, admired the china, said she hadn’t had such a good cup of tea in ages, praised the décor and, when her professional eye told her that Helen had sufficiently softened, proceeded with her investigations.
The Trouble with Single Women Page 13