The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  A new thought added itself to Les’s woes. ‘Can you imagine what the News of the World is going to make of all this?’ he wailed.

  ‘Mr Sandwich discovers his wife prefers a different kind of filling—’

  Alan Munsen tried and failed to stop himself chuckling. Les turned on Fee accusingly.

  ‘You’ve helped to turn me into a laughing-stock, that’s what you’ve done.’ He was now more resigned than riled. ‘And all I tried to do was make things better.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  JEAN STOKER had a secret. It was one that she never could have anticipated. And she was determined that, unless the situation became utterly impossible, she would not divulge it to Chrissy, Kate or Tim. It was a matter of pride.

  The children had grown up in comfort. The five bedroom house in a village near Rye had an acre of garden, a river and a small orchard. Trevor Stoker – as husband and father – had looked after them well. He was a generous man and Jean had never had to bother herself about money or bills. They were his concern, Trevor used to say. It wasn’t that Jean couldn’t have taken charge of the money – she had earned her own living since the age of eighteen – it was that both she and Trevor could see no need.

  Then, he had died.

  Trevor Stoker had built up his industrial cleaning company slowly over the years. He employed a reliable accountant, told his wife frequently that the company’s order books were full and, just before his death from a heart attack, announced that he intended to retire within three years. So Jean had assumed that business was good. Not long after Trevor’s cremation, she had learned the truth.

  It was a spring morning. The windows were wide open. Hetty and Victor, the two labradors, were asleep in the garden. Jean was alone. She had persuaded Kitty, Tim and Chrissy to resume their normal lives. Jean sat with her coffee on the table by the kitchen door, where Trevor had always liked to sit, and opened the several letters that had been delivered that morning. Three were bank statements. All were overdrawn – the most damaging by £17,000, on which the bank was charging 22.5 per cent interest.

  ‘I think there’s been some mistake,’ she said politely to the person who answered her call. She had asked to be put through to the bank manager. That in itself showed how long it had been since she’d bothered with the financial side of life.

  ‘Bank manager? Sorry, madam, I can give you your personal customer services guide but we don’t really have managers any more—’

  Ten minutes later an anonymous female voice which sounded as if it belonged to a twelve-year-old, made the situation plain.

  ‘What I’d advise,’ the young woman directed bossily, ‘what I’d advise is to have a word with Mr Stoker’s company accountant. Perhaps he can sort it out? Thank you for calling. Have a nice day.’

  It didn’t take long for Jean to discover what had happened. If only she’d asked earlier, when Trevor was alive. Four of her husband’s main customers had recently reneged on their payments. At the same time, the company had landed a major contract, cleaning a series of European agricultural shows. Trevor had taken out a large business loan to update equipment. Just before his death, the new contract had been cancelled without warning.

  As soon as the rubble that was her husband’s financial ‘security’ became apparent, Jean’s need to grieve was forced to take second place to survival. Not her personal financial survival – but the survival of the memory of Trevor as a man who had worked hard to do well by his family.

  Six weeks after he was cremated, Trevor Stoker’s company was sold for what the accountant said was a good price, ‘considering’. The major debts were cleared; decent amounts were given to each child, as Trevor had specified in his will, but unbeknown to his wife at the time, he had remortgaged the house. The accountant explained that if Jean sold it and moved into a smaller place, say a two-bedroom flat, she might salvage a small annual income of around £8,000.

  If she remained in the house, which was far too large for Jean – but which worked beautifully when all the family were gathered together – the gap between outgoings and income would remain a growing black hole. ‘You could end up with nothing,’ the accountant had pointed out bluntly.

  The children believed that their father had left Jean a comfortable income and a secure home. Her ambition was to keep the house for a few years at least. Trevor had loved it and, for now, she wanted to be close to the source of so many memories.

  She tried to find a reasonably paid job. Her efforts proved fruitless and demoralizing. She was highly skilled in all manner of areas; she had the benefit of a happy marriage; she had successfully managed one of the more challenging tasks, step-parenting; she had run numerous voluntary organizations; she also had several years of nursing experience, albeit a few decades ago, but none of this appeared to add up to much in today’s modern, flexible job market.

  Jean Stoker had also committed that most unforgivable of sins. She had grown older. Age might have implied maturity, understanding, a proven track record in certain aspects of life – instead, potential employers equated it only with a spent force.

  She realized that not only were the chances of a new and challenging career slight, but she also found herself socially ostracized. Friends still invited her for morning cups of coffee but invitations to supper became rarer and rarer.

  She knew her self-confidence was seeping away. Her financial and emotional insecurity was gradually becoming indivisible: she had little and was worth little.

  Then Jean had met Veronica.

  ‘This may change our lives, you do know that, don’t you?’ she had said on the third occasion they met.

  ‘I hope so,’ Veronica had replied simply, squeezing her hand.

  Veronica had not intended to leave home without telling Les where she would be. It had just happened that Gill had announced she was moving back in with Simon and Alan Munsen was on hand at Fee’s to help. So Veronica took the opportunity to drive down to Jean’s to give her some moral support, on this the most crucial of evenings.

  Then she’d been so busy planning with Jean, Veronica admitted later, that ‘Les just slipped my mind’. ‘Slipped my mind’ was a phrase that Veronica said over and over again to herself, just for the sheer pleasure of the words. For the first rime in a very long period, Veronica’s head was filled with what might be – instead of what couldn’t. And she was loving it.

  In the early evening, she took Hetty and Victor for a walk while Jean prepared herself. She showered and washed her hair. Then, for the first time, she used the body cream that Chrissy had given her for Christmas months before. After several changes of outfit, she finally settled on a pale-blue dress which had been one of Trevor’s favourites.

  Jean added perfume, lipstick, small pearl earrings and, lastly, placed £200 in her handbag and checked that she also had her credit card, now little used.

  ‘Good luck,’ Veronica said, returning to the house in time to say goodbye. ‘I’ll wait here. And don’t forget to phone so I know you’re OK.’

  Jean smiled shakily. ‘Of course I’ll be all right,’ she replied. ‘People do this all the time—’

  Veronica crossed her fingers. ‘Let’s hope so. For both our sakes.’

  It was only later that she remembered to call Les. He was upset. She knew she had been thoroughly inconsiderate but, try as Veronica might, she didn’t feel a shred of guilt. Not any more.

  ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, please.’ Jean Stoker smiled at the waiter in the bar of the London restaurant which had been suggested. ‘A large one.’

  She tried not to watch the door. As instructed, she placed a copy of the ABC railway timetable in front of her. For the fifth time, she considered pulling out. It didn’t have to be like this.

  For the past couple of months, Jean had been working part-time in a wool shop. It was pleasant, undemanding – and poorly paid. Why not stick to that, sell the house, and tell the children the truth?

  ‘May I take this seat, please?’ the voice
was close to her left ear, unusually close.

  Jean jumped, then fumbled for the railway guide. She picked it up and held it against her chest as if it might protect her from the stab of Cupid’s bow.

  ‘Mrs Street?’ the man asked again. He had an actor’s voice.

  Jean glanced up and sighed with relief. He was at least ten years older than Tim, her stepson. She had specifically asked for someone older which had initially caused consternation at the agency. The man was of average height, trim, dark-haired and with pale-blue eyes. He was dressed in an expensive, dark-grey, well-cut suit and a subdued tie. There was nothing about him that might embarrass her, nor offer any clues to an observer. He wasn’t outstandingly good-looking, but he had a nice smile and he was confident.

  ‘May I?’ He indicated the chair to her left.

  She nodded. The arrival of the waiter with her drink restored her equilibrium. She was, after all, the one who was paying.

  ‘What would you like?’ she asked. ‘Whatever you’re having will do fine.’ He smiled.

  At midnight, after dinner and a dreary musical which Jean had suggested they abandon in the interval, and more drinks, she had learned a certain amount about her companion’s life while opting to skate over much of her own.

  She had introduced herself as Jessica Street. He had said he was Mark Telling. He was forty, a senior psychiatric nurse with an ex-wife and three children to support and an interest in a sailing boat. Hence the decision to take this second job. It might all have been pure fantasy since the man wasn’t being paid to tell the truth, but Mark Telling was also intelligent and funny and thoughtful and attentive, so it hardly mattered.

  Jean Stoker soon stopped telling herself that everyone must be able to guess the nature of their relationship. Instead, she decided that they made a handsome couple. Who knows? Perhaps in different circumstances, Mark Telling might even have found her attractive?

  The effect on her morale was more than worth the money. She could fool herself that she had a value.

  Would Trevor – wherever he might be – raise objections? On the contrary, Jean decided. Her husband would have been delighted to see his widow smiling again.

  At one a.m., in the taxi, she handed Mark Telling a white envelope in which she had placed a £40 tip. The fee had already been paid by credit card. He appeared surprised.

  ‘If you would prefer,’ he said carefully, ‘I’ve booked a room.’

  Jean Stoker looked at him, nonplussed. ‘What for?’ she asked.

  ‘Well,’ Mark Telling replied, holding the taxi door open for her, ‘that’s for you to decide.’

  It was six thirty on Saturday evening and Fee knew Claire was lying. She knew because, first, it was totally unlike Claire to be so apologetic. And, second, her excuse was becoming more complicated by the minute. Normally, Claire was nothing if not to the point.

  On the phone, she had babbled on for what seemed like hours. ‘I’m really sorry, I know that we’d agreed that you would come round tonight but someone at work has fallen sick . . . and he was due to entertain a very important customer who’s only in town for this one evening . . . and nobody else is available. So, of course, I’ve been lumbered. And it wouldn’t look good if I turned it down. I knew you’d understand, so while this is short notice—’

  On and on and on. After several minutes, Fee called a halt.

  ‘Are you telling me you and Clem have made up?’ she said flatly.

  ‘God, no,’ Claire answered instantly. ‘Well, yes, actually—’

  Pride prevented Fee from calling other friends to see if someone else might be free to come out and play so late in the day. What was so terrifying about staying in alone on a Saturday night anyway?

  This was the first time Fee had had her flat to herself for days, so why not savour it? She knew the answer. It was because, far from being calm and comforting, the place appeared cold and distant and devastatingly empty without the sound of children and the overflow from other people’s lives.

  ‘Work,’ she told herself firmly. ‘You’ve got plenty of work to do . . . So, do it.’

  She had already settled herself at her desk before something pulled her up sharp. Was she utterly incapable of having a good time alone?

  An hour later, Fee returned to the flat. In her arms, she had flowers, a bottle of champagne, a face pack, a thriller, two tuna-salad sandwiches and a variety of choc-ices.

  She opened the champagne and poured a glass. She had a bath, used the face pack, ate a sandwich and was watching Casablanca, enjoying her second glass, when the phone rang again.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Helen Travers asked suspiciously when her daughter answered the phone.

  ‘It’s me, Fee. Who did you think it would be?’

  ‘You’re in then,’ Helen said. ‘Are you sick?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t be healthier,’ Fee answered. ‘I’m enjoying myself.’

  ‘So you’re entertaining then?’ Helen sounded relieved.

  ‘No, I’m on my own.’

  ‘It’s not possible.’

  ‘What’s not possible?’ Fee asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘It’s not possible to be having a good time on your own on a Saturday night. Not at your age, not in your circumstances,’ Helen insisted. ‘I thought you said you were going to do something about all this?’

  ‘I am. I’m doing it,’ Fee replied.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ‘NO, NO, NO . . . I never want to see you again. I hate you . . . Do you hear me? I hate you. I hate you, I hate, I hate you—’

  At just after seven on Sunday morning, Fee Travers woke to hear a milk bottle smashing and a voice screaming so loudly it had woven its way into her dream.

  The voice belonged to Shona Spannier. Fee pulled on a shirt and jeans and rushed to open the door of her flat. Shona was standing in her dressing-gown in the corridor. To Fee’s relief there were no obvious signs of injury.

  The main door to the house banged shut.

  ‘Is it Edward?’ Fee asked unnecessarily. ‘Breakfast not done to his liking?’

  Fee didn’t expect Shona to smile but she almost managed it.

  Half an hour later, in Shona’s kitchen, Fee made coffee and listened to the explanation. Edward had come home at three in the morning, drunk. He had told Shona she was hopeless in bed. So much so, he had been driven to make alternative arrangements – namely with Hannah Jaspan, Will’s girlfriend.

  ‘What an awful thing to do,’ Fee burst out, concerned as much for Will as for Shona. ‘God, he’s a rat.’

  ‘He speaks highly of you too,’ Shona remarked drily. ‘Teddy says that you propositioned him in the kitchen the night you came to supper. And what you’re desperate for and can’t get is a ‘good seeing to’, as he puts it. He told me he was too honourable to oblige – and, besides, you’re too aggressive to be remotely fanciable.’

  Fee opened her mouth to protest but Shona raised her hand and gave a bleak smile.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard it all before. I’ve got a pretty good idea what actually happened but, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not go into it—’

  Fee handed her a mug of coffee and watched while Shona drank. Now her anger had died, she appeared small and defeated.

  She spoke without looking at Fee. ‘I thought he was going to start punching me again. He raised his hand . . . and something snapped. I’m taking the boys out for the day from school today . . . It seems silly, but I just wasn’t going to turn up saying I’d bumped into a cupboard or fallen over the cat as I have a dozen times before . . . They deserve a mother with more courage than that—’

  ‘So what did you do?’ Fee asked.

  Shona looked at her. ‘Before, I’ve begged him to stop, I’ve grovelled, I’ve apologized all the time he’s been hitting me and I’ve just tried to protect myself as much as I could . . . It’s so . . . humiliating—’

  ‘This time, I just told him that I wouldn’t take any more. He was so shocked, he
stopped.’ She smiled wryly. ‘And that’s all it took. This time. Then he smashed everything in the kitchen instead.

  ‘Oh Fee . . . my life’s such a mess . . . And the one thing I want I can’t make happen—’

  ‘What’s that?’ Fee asked, giving her a hug.

  ‘I want Edward to love me as he did when we first met. I want him to be interested in me again, genuinely interested . . . Pitiful, aren’t I?’ she added defensively.

  It took over an hour to restore Shona’s flat to order. She said that Edward was unlikely to return for a couple of days, if his behaviour on previous occasions was any guide. So, when it was done, Fee persuaded her to go out and have something to eat in the small café where she and Claire often had Sunday breakfasts – before Clem.

  ‘Do you remember the cottage weekend I won in the raffle?’ Fee asked over the second cappuccino. ‘You said you couldn’t come when we all first talked about it – why don’t you change your mind? What about next weekend? I’ll see if the others are free. You’d enjoy the change, you really would—’

  ‘Perhaps that’s what frightens me most.’ Shona gave a shadow of a smile. ‘Change in my present state seems even more terrifying than Edward in one of his tempers . . . isn’t that a terrible thing for someone of my age to admit?’

  It was Monday morning, always the busiest time of the week. Les Haslem sat in his office and looked incredulously at the two women sitting side by side in front of him. His own wife and a quite pretty, faintly intimidating woman to whom he had just been introduced, Mrs Jean Stoker.

  ‘If she did something with her hair, coloured it a bit, she wouldn’t be bad for her age,’ Les Haslem thought to himself, discreetly examining Jean Stoker’s features. He then immediately felt disloyal to Veronica.

  Just because his wife was behaving badly, very badly, was no reason for him to do likewise.

  ‘You are asking me to give you my blessing?’ he repeated again, disbelief lending a twang to every word.

  ‘Well, that would be nice,’ Veronica smiled brightly. ‘But it’s money we’re really after—’