‘Can I be of assistance, ladies?’ A thin but athletic-looking man, perhaps in his sixties, was walking up the path to where Fee and Claire stood, trying to decipher the names alongside the bells. They had already established that none read ‘Rita Mason’.
The man wore a panama hat, a check shirt, a striped tie, a yellow cardigan and beige trousers. In his hand, he carried a string shopping bag. He was neat and dapper and only slightly faded. It was his feet that caught Fee’s eye. He was wearing cowboy boots. Real cowboy boots. They were tan with small cuban heels, a gently pointed toe and an intricate pattern tooled on each side.
‘Ladies? Can I be of service?’ His tone was tentative, as if, in the past, such courtesy might have been used to mock him.
‘How do you do?’ Fee replied. ‘We’re looking for a . . . friend . . . Rita Mason? she has a flat here—’
‘We’ve got no flats here,’ the man replied, shaking his head. ‘Only bedsits. I’ve been here almost two years and it’s never been any different. Big bedsits mind, but bedsits nevertheless.’
He produced a packet of mints and unhurriedly offered the packet to each of the women. They waited for him to speak again. He was enjoying his unexpected audience.
‘A bedsit does me fine,’ he said eventually, as he began to search through his pockets. ‘I go down to my daughter’s in Broadstairs a lot, you see. She wants me to move down there. See more of my three grandchildren, all boys. Good boys, too. But I’m city born and bred. Drive me mad, just the sea and all those old people withering up.
‘I’ve got my friends here. I try to explain to Sissy, that’s my daughter, that I’ve got friends here, plenty to do. But she won’t have it. She watches too much television so she imagines that anyone who’s drawing a pension is bound to be mugged or lonely. But not me,’ the man chuckled.
Fee believed him too. He spoke again. ‘Three times a year, I go on safari. Well, I call it safari, but it can be anywhere. Travel where I please, sometimes on my own, sometimes with my friend, Jimmy . . . Jimmy Roth. He’s on his own too.
‘Sold the house when Alice died and told the kids – I’ve got two sons as well – that there wouldn’t be any left for them, I was going to spend it all. Why not? they’ll only take it off me to pay the nursing-home bills.
‘Now, where’s that blasted key? I keep putting it in a safe place and then forgetting—’
Claire took the man’s string bag so that he could hunt more efficiently.
‘Now, tell me ladies,’ he asked jocularly as he searched, ‘Are you private detectives, Social Security people, probation officers, debt collectors, Inland Revenue bods or a relation of the landlords? If you’re any of that lot, you won’t get a cup of tea out of me, never mind any information—’
‘We’re friends,’ Claire replied firmly. ‘We’re friends of this person and we haven’t seen her for a while. That’s why we’re concerned.’
The man gave her a quizzical look then appeared to make up his mind. When he finally found his key and let himself in, he beckoned for Claire and Fee to follow.
‘By the way,’ he added, raising his hat, ‘the name is Walter Wilfred Whiting. W. W. Whiting professionally – Walt, to my friends . . . Follow me. And don’t let the lino trip you up—’
Walt’s room at the rear of the house was light and airy with a vast window overlooking a long stretch of lawn and a small garden pond. The room held a sofa, a rocking chair and a footstool. The bed was hidden by a large Indian rattan screen. On the floor were two Afghan rugs.
The kitchenette had a range of earthenware dishes, perhaps Mexican or Portuguese. Carved wooden statues were scattered at random. Piles of books overflowed from one wall of shelves. A second smaller bookcase carried nothing but Westerns with names that Fee had learned at the same time as her nursery rhymes – O. Henry, Bret Hart, Max Brand, Zane Grey.
Claire followed her gaze, ‘Don’t start on that,’ she ordered in a whisper, as Walt filled a kettle with water. ‘You Wild West lot are like the bloody Freemasons. And I’ve got to be back in the office in an hour—’
One wall was covered in photographs. Some appeared to be of family gatherings; others were of a much younger W. W. Whiting with faces that were faintly familiar.
‘Are you surveying my acting career?’ Walt asked. He was carrying a tin tray decorated with brightly coloured Chinese dragons. On it were mugs of tea and a plate of Jaffa cakes.
‘Did you see Brighton Rock with Dickie Attenborough?’ he asked, smiling. ‘Well, that was another film I wasn’t in.’ He chuckled.
‘Now,’ he said, handing out the mugs of tea, ‘let’s solve your little mystery.’
Claire and Fee began to describe Rita Mason.
‘She’s dark, probably forty or so,’ Fee said.
‘More like early fifties,’ Claire interrupted.
‘And she’s thin, very thin,’ Fee continued.
‘Anorexic to be precise,’ Claire interjected and, in case Walt Whiting wasn’t up to scratch on contemporary labels, she added, ‘Like a skeleton, looks as if she doesn’t eat enough—’
Fee frowned at Claire, then said, ‘Rita dresses in a very . . . well, very . . . interesting, some might say distinctive style—’
‘What she’s trying to say is that she’s mutton dressed as lamb,’ Claire offered bluntly.
‘And why do you want to find her?’ Walt asked.
‘I’m not sure really—’ Fee began hesitantly. ‘What I mean is, Rita, this woman, sort of involved herself in my life . . . and, well, it’s a bit complicated really. Basically, she said she had a fiancé and friends and so on, but the impression she gave was that she was quite lonely. Almost as if she wanted to live my life for me—’
‘The truth is’, Claire bent forward towards Walt conspiratorially, ‘the woman is slightly dotty and Fee – quite unnecessarily – feels responsible. They arranged to meet for a drink and Rita failed to turn up. Her prerogative if you ask me.’ She helped herself to a Jaffa cake and took a bite before continuing.
‘Rita was very kind to Fee’s sister, so Fee has assumed that she is indebted for life. As a result, this woman has weaved herself into Fee’s life. Now, wouldn’t you think that she might be grateful that Rita’s disappeared? Not a bit of it, Mr Whiting.’ Claire was enjoying herself at Fee’s expense.
‘On the contrary. We’ve now spent hours trying to track this woman down. Does that make any sense to you, Mr Whiting? It certainly doesn’t to me.’
‘Call me Walt,’ W. W. Whiting instructed and then rose with a dramatic flourish.
‘Follow me,’ he commanded.
The trio walked up two flights of stairs and stopped outside a door numbered 7. In the hall, damp had enforced its own pattern, conquering what was once the Regency stripe on the wallpaper. Walt Whiting knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked on the door opposite and it opened almost immediately.
‘Hello there, Jimmy, lad,’ Walt Whiting said. ‘Meet some new friends, Claire and Fiona. Claire and Fiona, this is my oppo, Jimmy Roth. Go to lots of places together, don’t we, Jimmy?’
Jimmy emerged from his room. He was six foot four and lanky. He had a sparse supply of grey hair, cut very short, parted on the side and greased back. He wore a white shirt and braces hung loose from his waist. On his feet were carpet slippers. When Jimmy smiled, a full set of white teeth clicked their heels to attention.
‘Nice to meet you, ladies,’ he said, giving a firm handshake. ‘Is this man causing you any trouble?’ he added, nodding his head towards Walt Whiting.
Walt smiled. ‘We’re after Rose—’ he explained. ‘Have you seen her recently? These two young ladies think she may have gone missing. They’re a bit anxious—’
Rita Mason’s bedsit was a fantasy in pink, best seen with the help of discreetly dimmed lighting at night. In the daylight, it looked shabby and second rate. The bed, against one wall, was covered by an ageing pink quilt eiderdown, barely visible under a mountain of fluffy toys. The non
descript hessian carpert had been covered by two shaggy pale-pink rugs. A pink and silver leather pouf had been placed on either side of the gas fire. Above the mantelpiece was a mirror surrounded by a do-it-yourself frame made of seashells painted over with pink nail varnish.
A small table had been covered in a pink and white gingham cloth which had also been used to disguise an armchair. A wardrobe had been stripped and repainted shocking pink, the chest of drawers was cream and had roses stencilled on it with varying degrees of success. Along one wall was a dress rail stuffed with clothes. An army of battered shoes was visible under the bed. At the window, concocted as curtains, was a confection of pink net like a ballroom dancer’s skirt. Fee’s jumper – the one she had searched for the night Shona appeared at her door – hung over the back of a chair.
Fee briefly took in the décor but her eyes were drawn to a framed photograph on the mantelpiece.
‘Who’s that?’ she asked Jimmy Roth who had, after some persuasion, used the spare key that Rose/Rita had left in his care to let the four of them into the room.
‘Rose said it was her fiancé, Roger,’ Jimmy Roth replied. ‘But you can never be quite sure with our Rosie. She’s a lovely lady, mind,’ he added quickly. ‘But she does . . . well, elaborate a bit. Embroider now and then . . . What you might call a bit of a fantasist . . . Wouldn’t hurt a fly, mind.’
Fee picked up the photograph of Rose/Rita’s fiancé. She knew the face well. It belonged to Bill Summers – and last time Fee saw it, it had been in her album at home.
‘Nice enough looking lad, isn’t he?’ Jimmy Roth commented. ‘Though what he sees in Rose, God alone knows. She must be twice his age. No offence meant,’ he added hastily.
‘I wouldn’t worry too much about our Rose. Last time I saw her she didn’t mention she was going away but there’s no law against it, is there?’ He smiled.
‘Tell you what,’ Jimmy Roth suggested. ‘I’ve got her mother’s address somewhere . . . Cardiff way she is. In her eighties, but still going strong . . . Rose once asked me to forward her letters there when she was away for a couple of days. ’Cept, of course, she didn’t get any letters . . . I’ll dig out that address for you, if it helps—’
Fee nodded. ‘Thank you. But I thought her mother was dead. She told my sister that her mother had died of cancer.’
Jimmy Roth gave a resigned look. ‘Aah yes, that’ll be our Rose, all right, won’t it, Walt? Chances are, she’ll turn up when you least expect it.’
Fee didn’t say so – but that was exactly what concerned her most.
Driving back to work, Fee initially said nothing. She was too busy trying to make sense of Rita Mason’s jackdaw acquisition of fragments of her life – her photographs, her clothes. Was it eccentricity or something more sinister?
Claire broke into her thoughts. ‘If I were you, I’d report her to the police. People can’t go round stealing other people’s identity like that . . . there’s bound to be a law against it. Does Bill know he’s in the hands of a maniac?’
Fee was forced to smile at Claire’s hyperbole. ‘She hasn’t stolen my identity,’ she protested. ‘You don’t know Rita. She’s quite childlike in a funny way. Perhaps it’s just that she sees something she likes and decides to help herself. No harm done, as she would put it—’ Fee added wryly.
‘Oh, come off it,’ Claire responded brusquely. ‘She’s either mad or bad or probably both. Didn’t you say she had your keys? I take it you’ve had your locks changed?’
‘She did have my keys and, no, I haven’t changed the locks. I meant to, and then I just forgot. So much has been going on.’
‘God,’ Claire braked at the traffic lights fiercely, relishing the high drama. ‘For all you know, she could be foraging around your flat every day when you’re out at work. She could be wearing your clothes, fiddling with your things . . . doing who knows what—’
‘Hardly,’ Fee remarked mildly. ‘My flat’s so jammed with bodies, she’d have trouble raising her arms above her head without the cooperation of the guests, never mind fiddling—’
It was odd, Fee thought. She ought to feel deep unease, certainly anger. But now, instead, she was beginning to feel something . . . something almost protective towards this infuriating woman.
She wasn’t mad or bad, just terribly lonely. And, of course, the worst kind of liar. One who believes her own untruths.
‘I don’t need to meet this woman to know that she is one very tricky lady,’ Claire pronounced. ‘Very tricky indeed. The only question you need to worry yourself about, Fee, is what exactly is she after?’
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE THREE women sat on the sofa, marooned by depression: Shona, Veronica and Gill. Shona had avoided Fee for several days. It was Veronica who had met her on the stairs and invited her in for coffee. Since then, she had come to the flat regularly – usually when Fee was at work.
At the opposite end of the sofa, Veronica perched precariously. She had supervised the occupation of Fee’s flat expertly and become more resilient by the hour. But now, Veronica appeared drained.
Gill filled the middle of the sofa generously. She had rapidly put on weight. Simon certainly wasn’t showing any signs of repentance. On the contrary, he appeared to be relishing his new life as a man with the run of a large family house. Gill had assumed that he would crawl back. She was now facing the unthinkable: Simon might no longer need her.
Gill, Veronica, Shona . . . Fee surveyed the three women from her sitting-room door. It was seven thirty and she had just spent a twelve-hour day at the office. The concern about Rita had refused to go away. While Diana Woods had conducted herself in such an amiable fashion that Fee knew it probably meant bad news for her.
Now, all she wanted was peace and solitude, her home to herself. Her home to herself in sparkling good order. Everything in its place; no dirt marks on the walls, no footprints on the duvets, no toy display in the bath, no television around the clock, no obligation to listen to the woes of others, no children’s feuds to resolve, no food to cook.
‘What I want to do is to mainline on selfishness,’ she decided, ‘And no apologies to anyone.’
Instead, she was greeted by Veronica, Gill and Shona. ‘Greeted’ was hardly the appropriate word. The women barely acknowledged her presence, although Shona attempted a small smile.
Fee opened the kitchen door and, childishly, let it bang shut loudly behind her.
‘Take a pew,’ Percy directed precociously, pointing to a kitchen chair. ‘I’ll get you a glass of wine.’
On the table, Percy had placed three pizza bases and was busy concocting various toppings.
‘Nobody out there wants to put these two to bed—’ she said, indicating her two brothers sitting on the floor playing racing cars with saucepans.
‘Is Veronica OK?’ Fee asked cautiously.
‘Les came here and they had a big row on the balcony,’ Percy explained. ‘It was the usual stuff! After that, Mum had a big row with Daddy on the phone. Then the lady from across the hall came in and they’ve been sitting on the sofa like that ever since. Mummy always used to tell me that sitting around doing nothing was no good for anybody,’ she confided. ‘Something must have made her change her mind.’
An hour later, all three children were in bed. Fee had asked the women if they would like something to eat but the response had been minimal. Now she sat in an armchair and poured coffee.
Idly, she picked up one of the Get Going! magazines from a pile she had brought home. And an idea began to form.
‘It will be a pleasure,’ Will Evans said a few minutes later on the phone when Fee asked if he would babysit at short notice. ‘So long as I can bring my friend.’
He arrived shortly, hand in hand with Hannah Jaspan, his new live-in lover.
Introductions were made and Fee, alone for a moment with the woman in her hall, soon discovered that while she might look frail, she talked tough and was not overly friendly.
‘You’ve known
Will a long time, haven’t you?’ Hannah Jaspan remarked frostily. Fee nodded. ‘Well,’ she continued, ‘my view is that men like Will require definite boundaries. If he breaks the rules, I’m off.’
Fee wondered who Hannah Jaspan was trying to convince.
Once Will and Hannah were occupied in the kitchen making themselves a drink, Fee told the three women that their time on the sofa was up.
‘We’re going out,’ she announced. ‘And we’re going to have a very good time.’
Shona spoke first. ‘I couldn’t possibly do that. It will only upset Edward.’
‘Edward doesn’t have to know.’ Fee turned to Veronica. ‘What’s your excuse?’
‘Les wants me home,’ Veronica offered.
‘One night won’t make a difference. Now what about you, Gill?’
‘I’ve planned to stay in and be miserable,’ Gill answered determinedly. ‘I don’t see any reason for amending that plan.’
‘You planned to be miserable last night and the night before that,’ Fee pointed out. ‘Look, I want to go out. I want you three to come out with me. I want you to do me a favour and enjoy yourselves. Please,’ she added as an afterthought.
Fifty minutes later, the four were finally ready to leave.
‘Where are we going?’ Gill asked, her depression receding as her desire to seize control of the evening’s activities became stronger.
‘I don’t like pubs. And I don’t want to see a film. It’s too late for the theatre and I’m far too old for ten-pin bowling—’
‘This will change your lives,’ Fee told the three women, smiling.
At the time, she had meant it as a joke.
The pub was cavernous and mock-Victorian. The basement where the Get Going! open evening was being held was already packed. As the four women descended the stairs, Gill caught a glimpse through the glass doors of a heaving mass of people – and refused to go any further.
Veronica, until that point unaware of what lay ahead, stopped to read the poster on the wall which welcomed guests to ‘The best night out for sophisticated singles in London (25-45 age group)’. She too promptly stopped dead. Shona dithered, taking a step down and then retreating, causing mayhem with the steady flow of traffic.
The Trouble with Single Women Page 25