The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  She turned to Fee, panic-stricken. ‘I didn’t know we were coming to one of these things,’ she whimpered.

  She made the evening sound like Sodom and Gomorrah’s annual garden fete. ‘If Teddy finds out he’ll be furious . . . He keeps telling me that he’s got a reputation to protect,’ she stuttered.

  Fee restrained the desire to say, ‘What? As a wife-beater and a bastard?’ Instead, she took Shona by the arm and pushed her gently down the stairs towards the door, in the hope that the other two women would follow.

  ‘Look, girls,’ she cajoled, ‘treat this as entirely a professional exercise. If it makes you feel better, tell yourselves that you’re here on a different footing from everybody else—’

  ‘You’re here to do me a favour,’ she continued. ‘You’re here to help me in my work. Oh that basis, where’s the harm?’

  Gill’s substantial frame quivered, partly in disgust and partly because she was being jostled by each unattached Tom, Dick and Harry pushing past her in their haste to begin the hunt.

  ‘God, Fee,’ she said, pressing herself against the wall to avoid further buffeting, ‘do you have any idea how humiliating this is for a grown woman like me? I have never felt so ashamed. So exposed in all my life. It’s all far too degrading.

  ‘Anyway I’ve no right to be here. I’ve got a man, thank you very much—’

  ‘You have?’ Veronica asked sceptically.

  ‘All right,’ Gill conceded. ‘I’ve got a man who’s been temporarily suspended from my life. But even if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t dream of visiting this unappetizing meat market—’

  A woman, eyes and hair shining, wearing a simple floral dress and a big badge bearing the words, ‘My name is Ellen’, overheard Gill’s last remark.

  She turned and with missionary zeal put her hand on Gill’s arm and smiled at her understandingly.

  ‘I remember my first time too,’ she said. ‘It’s nasty, isn’t it? But I promise you, you’ll walk into that room and suddenly the world is full of friends. Full of fun. Full of reasons to live. Trust in the power of the heart. We weren’t meant to be solitary human beings.’

  She gave another smile and waved goodbye. She was replaced on the stairs by a man in his late twenties. He wore a thick gold chain around his neck, a cheap blue suit and had the swagger of a man who survives on cheek. As he attempted to squeeze past the small group of women on the stairs, he took his time grazing Gill’s body.

  ‘The name’s Steve. Going in are you, babe?’ he asked her casually, ignoring the others. Gill blushed.

  The door to the room down below swung open again and released a fresh swell of noise.

  ‘Gill, I think—’ Fee interrupted, assuming she would regard this as the final insult. Instead, Fee watched with surprise as Gill followed the unknown Steve down the stairs into the room as if he was the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Veronica and Shona fell in behind.

  A little bit of flannel had worked as effectively as Velcro. Gill was stuck on Steve.

  Three dances later, a flushed but exuberant Gill found Fee, Shona and Veronica sharing a table at the rear of the room. Veronica had cheered up considerably since – in spite of being technically too old for inclusion in GG!’s sophisticated singles age group – she had twice been asked to dance.

  Shona was still fidgeting nervously. Fee was hating every minute. A singles night out, she had decided, was a wake for the death of subtlety. Those sitting alone looked deeply uncomfortable; others in groups could have been in any pub, anywhere. But still, what they all wanted and didn’t have was another human being. It was all far too obvious for Fee’s taste.

  ‘We’ve exchanged numbers,’ Gill grinned, more cheerful than she’d felt in weeks. ‘Steve says he prefers to circulate at these dos, but he’s promised to give me a call. Between you and me, I’ve got him begging for more.’ She smiled coyly. The expression didn’t look at all right on Gill. It reminded Fee of Rita.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to say this, Gill,’ Shona’s tone was reproachful, ‘but wouldn’t your husband be upset if he knew?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so,’ Gill replied curtly. ‘And what’s more—’

  ‘Excuse me,’ a female voice interrupted Gill, ‘would you mind if we joined you? Every other table is full—’

  The woman had grey hair cut in a short bob. She wore no make-up but her features drew the eye; high cheekbones, full lips, bright-blue eyes. She wore a loose lavender trouser suit and a silver necklace. Gill, who always measured herself against all newcomers, mentally calculated her dress size as 14.

  ‘This isn’t really my sort of thing.’ The woman smiled again. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for my daughter, Chrissy.’ She nodded at the much younger woman by her side.

  ‘Chrissy told me it would do me good to go out for the night. But she didn’t say she was bringing me here—’

  ‘Glad we’re not the only ones who’ve been duped,’ Veronica smiled as she made room so that the two women could pull up chairs.

  Chrissy was in her early twenties and attractive. She had blonde hair, the same high cheekbones as her mother and she wore a short terracotta-coloured linen shift with no jewellery.

  Chrissy spoke up in her mother’s defence. ‘I think it’s disgusting that all these events stop dead once you’re forty-five. Mum’s fifty-one, you don’t mind me saying so, do you? And it’s as if she’s not expected to have a life . . . I phoned around a few weeks ago and not one of the introduction agencies and dating places would take her on, not unless she lied about her age. I mean, fifty-one is hardly the end of the line, is it?’

  The older woman, who had introduced herself as Jean Stoker, smiled and shrugged, half-embarrassed by her daughter’s passion. Veronica extended her hand as an introduction.

  ‘Hello, I’m Veronica Haslem. We’re the same age,’ she smiled. ‘Tell me, Jean, how has fifty-one been for you?’

  An hour later, the women were still talking, oblivious to the pounding pursuit for the mythical perfect partner that continued around them. Jean Stoker explained with their prompting, that she’d been a widow for thirteen months. She had married Trevor when she was twenty-five. He was seven years older and already had two small children, Tim, aged five, and Kate, two. His first wife had died of breast cancer. Chrissy, now twenty-three and a medical student in London, had been born three years after Jean’s and Trevor’s wedding.

  ‘I miss Trevor terribly. We were a good team.’ Jean Stoker gave a fragile smile. She explained that she had been a nurse when they met but she had given up work to look after Trevor’s children, now themselves married.

  ‘Did you like them?’ Gill asked. She was curious to know what it must be like to have to care for the offspring of others, since she felt so ambivalent about her own.

  ‘Tim and Kate?’ Jean smiled. ‘Oh yes. They were so young when I came on the scene, they’ve always called me Mum! I really did see them as an extra blessing. And Trevor idolized them . . . he idolized all three of you. Didn’t he, Chrissy? That’s what he was planning to do—’ Her words faded away. Chrissy gave her mother’s hand an encouraging squeeze.

  Jean Stoker, composed again, continued, ‘Trevor was going to retire at sixty. He always said that he would make up for all the time he’d been away from home.

  ‘It’s not fair, is it?’ Her voice fractured a little. Then she forced a smile. ‘But what about this lot?’ She changed the subject purposefully, indicating the rest of the room.

  ‘I told Chrissy that as I’ve already had one husband, it seems only fair to stay at home and let someone else have a turn. But she wouldn’t be swayed—’

  ‘I just think it’s time you had a bit of fun again,’ her daughter coaxed.

  ‘Have you ever considered an escort agency?’ The suggestion, to Fee’s surprise, came from Veronica.

  ‘God, how can you be so tacky?’ Gill remonstrated.

  ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Fee asked.

  ‘I was just trying to be constructiv
e,’ Veronica answered matter-of-factly. ‘If Jean wants a male companion but nothing serious, if the introduction agencies and what-have-you have decided she’s past it, then the obvious step is do-it-yourself. Hire a suitable man for the evening. She pays for the privilege of choice. Men have done it for decades so what’s wrong in that?’

  ‘It’s prostitution,’ Gill protested. ‘Nothing but prostitution.’

  Veronica was unperturbed. ‘Of course it isn’t. I’m talking about company not copulation. Why not give it a go, Jean? If you need someone to hold your hand, I’ll volunteer.’

  Chrissy looked at her mother with alarm. Jean returned Veronica’s smile warmly, flattered that she might be considered that adventurous. ‘Thanks for the offer. But I don’t think it’s quite my cup of tea.’

  ‘Pity,’ remarked Veronica. She had begun to look forward to a little vicarious pleasure.

  ‘It’s yellow!!!! And it’s number sixty-eight!!!!’

  It was midnight. Fee had been cornered earlier on her way to the loo and bought five raffle tickets. Now they were being drawn out of a hat.

  ‘We have a romantic weekend in a two bedroom thatched cottage—’ the master of ceremonies, a fellow lonely-heart, roared into the microphone.

  ‘I said ROMANTIC, did I not? In Devon. Who is going to be the lucky man or woman? What we need is a little snapette taken by our official photographer here for GG!’s very own magazine . . . plus a few words from the lucky, lucky person—’

  ‘Now, who has that yellow SIXTY-EIGHT . . .?’ People peered at each other in the gloom. Shona glanced down at the tickets which Fee had neatly placed in a line on the table, between the wine glasses.

  ‘Fee,’ she shrieked. ‘It’s you . . . You’re sixty-eight . . . go on, go on, quick, quick—’

  Two minutes later Fee was accepting a large gold-embossed envelope. A microphone was thrust into her face.

  ‘Who’s the lucky man to be then?’ the organizer slurped. ‘Where is that lucky chappie?’

  Fee paused for only a fraction of a second, then she gave a wide smile. ‘They are the lucky chappies,’ she waved in the direction of her table. Veronica, Gill, Shona, Amy and Jean all waved back.

  ‘Women? A bunch of women, oh no, no, no,’ the organizer began to tut. His lips were so close to the microphone, the sound resonated like machine-gun fire. Tut . . . tut . . . tut . . . tut . . .

  ‘That’s not allowed—’ he went on peevishly.

  ‘Oh yes it is,’ Fee declared, her six-guns twirling.

  Later, as the group of women made moves to leave, Shona was the first to broach the subject of the weekend.

  She began hesitantly. ‘Were you being serious about going away, Fee? Only Teddy’s funny about that sort of thing. I’m afraid I’d have to say no—’

  ‘And Les would go absolutely potty,’ Veronica announced cheerfully.

  Jean Stoker spoke up. ‘Well, I’d love to come. If, that is, I’m invited, Fee? I’d be happy to take care of the food—’

  ‘And she’s very good at it too,’ her daughter chipped in. It was more than Gill Booth could bear. Years of forfeiting a career to stay at home had done nothing if it hadn’t transformed her into an excellent caterer. How dare anyone usurp that position? Besides, it would teach Simon a lesson. He wasn’t the only one who could indulge himself.

  ‘No, no, I’ll do the food,’ Gill interrupted, intoxicated both by her encounter with Steve and several large glasses of wine. ‘And I’ll organize the booze. I’ll put it all on Simon’s account. That should wake him up to the true bloody cost of philandering.’

  Veronica gave a broad smile. She liked the company of these women. ‘Well, in that case, I’ll tell Les that one weekend away is neither here nor there. So that makes five—’

  Everyone turned to look at Shona. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I just can’t—’ she stammered. ‘Teddy prefers that I’m around—’

  ‘Is he that much of an ogre that he’d begrudge you a little time off?’ Jean Stoker asked innocently. Shona avoided Fee’s eye.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated, looking miserable. ‘I really wish I could. But I can’t.’

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  ‘NEVER HEARD of her,’ said the woman in the radiography department of Tendon Hospital the following morning. ‘Never had a Rita in the department. I told a woman the same thing the other day on the phone. That wasn’t you, was it?’ she asked Fee crossly.

  ‘How about someone called Rose Sutton?’ Fee pressed the woman further.

  ‘Have you tried Personnel?’ she suggested. ‘They’re sure to know who she is and where she works. Personnel is in West Wing, second floor.’

  Walking to the lift, Fee remembered the woman on the till in the hospital cafeteria. Veronica had said that she had appeared to know Rita well. She probably wouldn’t be on duty now, but it was worth a try. Particularly if it meant shortcutting the bureaucracy that otherwise lay ahead.

  ‘Black hair, you say?’ the woman repeated parrot fashion, in a pause between customers. The breakfast rush had passed.

  ‘Youngish clothes? About forty-plus? Oh, I know who you mean. Forty-plus quite a lot.’ The woman laughed.

  ‘You’re after Rosie, aren’t you?’

  Fee nodded, relieved.

  The cashier became friendlier. ‘I’ll tell you who’ll know where she is – the long-stay care unit, LSCU. Ask them in there about Rose.’

  ‘What’s a radiographer doing in LSCU?’ Fee asked puzzled.

  ‘Radiographer?’ The woman chortled as she collected money from a customer for coffee and a doughnut which was staining a paper plate with transfusion-red jam.

  ‘Radiographer? Our Rose? Not likely. She’s been a cleaner here for . . . must be six or seven years. Friend of yours, is she?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No,’ Fee answered so quickly that she immediately felt ashamed. ‘Not, not at all . . . We’ve just crossed paths now and then.’

  ‘Rose Sutton?’ the sister in charge of the Long Stay Care Unit was busy but, as soon as Fee mentioned the name, she stopped checking through medical notes to give Fee her full attention.

  ‘I like Rose,’ she declared as if she expected someone to challenge her view. ‘She’s a good soul. The last time she was in here was about a week ago. We tried to get her on the telephone beforehand but none of us had her number. And, to be honest, officially she had no connection with him at all—’

  ‘Him?’ Fee asked.

  ‘Peter . . . Peter Rutter,’ the sister replied. ‘He’d been in here in a coma for eleven months. Only twenty-seven. We couldn’t trace any family. Rose came in to clean and sort of adopted him . . . she visited every single day . . . None of us knew anything about him, so she created a world for him. Brought in photos, pictures, flowers. Chatted endlessly. Sort of took him over, I suppose.

  ‘He died at three thirty on Monday morning. It wasn’t expected. Rose came in as usual a few hours later and Peter was gone . . . She didn’t say a word, just turned around and left. We haven’t seen her since. I called her supervisor and she said Rose hadn’t turned up for her shift . . . You say she’s not been home either?’ The concern was genuine. ‘Well, from what I can gather, she’s got a lot on her plate—’

  ‘A lot on her plate?’ Fee prompted.

  ‘She told me that she was looking after her sister’s three children while their mum was recovering from breast cancer. If you’re a friend, you’ll probably know who I mean . . . funny names . . .?’

  Fee didn’t even have to think. ‘Persephone, Euan and Ivo?’ she suggested.

  ‘That’s them,’ the sister smiled. ‘From what I can gather, without our Rose, they’d be in a real mess.’

  As Fee made to leave, the sister opened a drawer and handed her a large brown envelope.

  ‘If you see Rose, can you give her these? She brought them in to brighten up Peter’s room—’

  In the lift going down to the ground floor, Fee opened the envelope. Snapshots of her own life slipped
through her fingers.

  On her way out of the hospital, Fee stopped at a phone box and called Alan Munsen.

  His voice was warm and friendly and uncomplicated, no hidden messages, no sense of obligation, no hint of desperation. It was a relief to hear from another human being who was single but apparently uninfected by loneliness.

  ‘I wondered if you might like to come to a family supper this evening?’ Fee asked.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t have a family?’ Alan Munsen replied. ‘Or am I confusing you with Annie from Saffron Walden who I met on Monday? As I recall, she has four children, two ex-husbands, and wants sexual excitement on a Wednesday night when the children are scattered with their fathers—’

  Fee laughed. ‘It’s not my family,’ she explained. ‘It’s one I seem to have acquired. How are you at handling several women and three children?’

  ‘At my best,’ Alan Munsen promised. ‘What time and where?’

  Fee replaced the receiver. Driving back to the office, she was surprised to hear herself humming.

  The mood did not last. Diana Woods appeared in Fee’s office as she was putting down the phone to Percy.

  ‘Hope I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ she asked and smiled warmly.

  ‘Your private life seems so . . . well, so chaotic these days, Fee, I don’t know how you manage.’ It didn’t sound like a compliment.

  ‘I popped by because I wanted you to be the first to know,’ she added, her voice high on triumph. ‘I’ve been made a director. I’ve got a seat on the board. I know you’ll be pleased for me,’ she added.

  ‘The first thing I said to Gerry was, “Of course, I won’t allow this to change a thing between Fee and I. I want her to know that she continues to have a free hand on HAH!” ’

  She turned and left before Fee could offer her congratulations. For this small mercy, Fee was grateful.

  An hour later, Paul Denning called. He wasn’t using his business voice. ‘I’m in London, can we meet?’