The Trouble with Single Women

by Yvonne Roberts

  Veronica looked different, Les decided. She looked, well, alive. He couldn’t escape the use of the word. His wife of thirty years was more alive than he’d seen her look in ages.

  ‘Let me run through it again,’ Veronica suggested to her husband briskly, aware that Les was still adjusting to her new-found assertiveness. She gave a sideways glance at Jean. It helped hugely having an ally.

  ‘It’s an escort agency. The owner is asking for £22,000 for the goodwill, present clients, advertising agreements which still have time to run and a guarantee that 25 per cent of the gentlemen will continue to work,’ Veronica explained crisply. ‘I’ve told him we don’t want any of the female escorts. We’re going for niche marketing.

  ‘Our male employees must already have full-time professional jobs. And we insist on three references. We’ll also investigate their character thoroughly with the help of a detective agency.’

  Les was unimpressed. ‘Are you seriously telling me, you want me to invest in a brothel?’ he asked disbelievingly.

  For some reason, both his wife and her friend found this very amusing.

  ‘No, no, no, Mr Haslem,’ Jean smiled. ‘This is for older women who are fed up to the back teeth with sitting at home alone, or feeling ridiculous in pubs and clubs and dinner parties. We put the woman in control, she is buying herself a pleasant evening out, on a regular basis if she so chooses. It’s all very discreet, very safe and I don’t think it’s been tried before, not on the scale we intend.’

  ‘Jean here’, Veronica indicated with her head, ‘is going to be front of house. She’ll deal with the clients and she’ll be responsible for selecting the gentlemen in the first place. She’s got more experience than I have—’

  ‘Experience?’ Les repeated, dazed.

  Jean patted Les on the hand comfortingly. She’d liked him as soon as she’d set eyes on him. He was not unlike her Trevor.

  ‘The deal is this,’ she explained. ‘We’d like you to invest. Veronica is putting up £8,000.’

  ‘She is?’ Les responded. He was unaware that Veronica had her own savings.

  ‘And she’s in charge of the money as she’s the qualified accountant—’

  ‘She’s what?’ Les answered. It was dawning on him that his assumption that he and his wife had shared the same world for all these years was misguided to say the least.

  Jean Stoker pressed on. ‘I’ve got five thousand from a policy I’m going to cash in. We’d like a lot more of course . . . for recruiting new men, finding and decorating offices, designing publicity material and so forth. But £27,000 would do for now. So, how about it, Mr Haslem? Won’t you help a little?’

  Veronica knew Les had never in his life bought sight unseen.

  ‘Put your coat on, Les. We want to show you something,’ she ordered. Then she practically skipped out of the front door.

  The taxi stopped in Shepherd’s Market, in Mayfair. Jean Stoker and Veronica Haslem appeared to head for a busy Italian sandwich bar emblazoned with a neon-lit sign which read, ‘De Marco’s Deelicious’.

  Sandwiches, Les Haslem knew about. His produce could beat De Marco’s hands down, he pointed out to his wife, but she was already ringing the bell of a door to the left of these premises. It was painted black and had a large brass letterbox and plaque on which was written the word, ‘Ludus’.

  Jean and Les followed Veronica in and up the stairs to a large room which overlooked the street. It was expensively carpeted in moss green. The room also held two large desks, six telephones and four chairs, one black leather sofa and a rubber plant. And nothing else.

  A woman in a neat black suit and without make-up sat behind one desk, smiling and doing nothing while every phone rang.

  ‘Is this it?’ Les Haslem asked. He’d half expected semi-naked men draped in togas, posing around a sunken pool.

  ‘No,’ his wife replied, pushing him gently down on the sofa and placing a large, leather-bound photograph album on his lap. ‘This is what it’s about.’

  Les Haslem flicked through the album, glancing at a variety of fully clothed men caught in the same ridiculous pose, gazing impassively across open countryside, as if in search of the Americas.

  He closed the book with a bang and turned to his wife. He wasn’t angry, he was uncertain, a much more vulnerable emotion.

  ‘Do you honestly think that this is what women of your age want, Veronica?’ he asked rhetorically.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ON MONDAY, at F.P. & D., Fee struggled to complete as much work as possible before lunchtime. It was then that Imogen Banks and Hilly Byrne were arriving with a film crew.

  In a lull, Fee gave Veronica a quick call. Les had informed Fee of his wife’s reappearance but had not been very forthcoming. Jean Stoker answered. ‘Veronica’s just popped out to get a few things,’ she explained.

  ‘Is she all right?’ Fee enquired.

  Jean laughed. ‘Why on earth shouldn’t she be?’ Then added, ‘Hang on, I can hear her at the door.’

  When Veronica came to the phone, Fee explained that she was checking to see if the two women would be free to share her prize this coming weekend.

  ‘It’s a bit difficult,’ Veronica replied. ‘We’ve got a lot on at the moment. Something really exciting has happened to us. To Jean and me.’ Her voice was elated.

  Before Fee could respond, she heard Veronica break away to have a hurried conversation with Jean.

  ‘Fee, are you still there?’ Veronica asked. ‘We’ve had an idea. We think you can help us. Les is proving a bit difficult, well, very difficult. So we wondered if you might step into the breach? Please?’

  ‘Is this anything to do with love, romance, relationships, that sort of thing?’ Fee asked dubiously. She could hear the two women chuckling.

  ‘Good God, no,’ Veronica laughed down the phone. ‘It’s to do with money. Quite a lot of it.’

  Diana Woods had proved extremely uncooperative when it came to filming Fee Travers at F.P. & D. until Gerry Radcliffe had stepped in. He pointed out that her envy was obstructing an opportunity for free publicity on a grand scale for the company.

  Diana retaliated spitefully. ‘And do you think Harry Macklin is going to be thrilled with the idea that the person in charge of his account is the one person who allegedly intends to remain a spinster for the rest of her life?’ she asked.

  Gerry admitted that he hadn’t considered that aspect of the proceedings.

  ‘Well, think about it now,’ she snapped. At times, in Diana Woods’s company these days, Gerry had to remind himself who was the boss.

  ‘Fee will know how to handle it,’ he insisted with manufactured confidence. He did not wish to be seen deferring to Diana Woods but privately he cursed himself. He was old enough to know that there was no such thing as a free commercial.

  ‘All right, what are your indulgences? Go on, shock us—’ Imogen Banks, for once soberly attired in a plain grey suit, sat with her back to the camera and questioned Fee who was dressed in her new, burnt-orange dress. She had liked it in the shop, now it made her feel like a traffic cone.

  She had already been filmed having lunch in a restaurant she had never visited before. Then she had spent two hours in her flat, recording an interview that would, according to Imogen, provide the backbone of The Perfumed Pound.

  Fee had been impressed by Imogen’s research. Her aim had plainly been to uncover some trigger in childhood that might explain why Fee would choose to be what Imogen irritatingly kept referring to as ‘that-female-modern-maverick-ms-otherwise-known-as-a-spinster’.

  ‘Why am I single? It’s just a choice, like any other,’ Fee had repeated again and again. ‘Women seem programmed to seek approval. Finding the right man is part of that search for approval. A few days before my thirty-eighth birthday, I received a proposal from a man of whom my mother would certainly have approved—’

  ‘And?’ Imogen asked excitedly.

  ‘I decided that living my life the way I wanted to was
more important than living my life in the hope of winning other people’s blessing. I wanted to ride the range as a free woman—’

  Imogen appeared crestfallen. ‘Juicy, I want juicy. Give me something sexier,’ she had demanded. ‘Give me a good reason. Can’t you throw in a bit of abuse or something? What about a family friend? Perhaps he put you off men? Cut, cut, cut,’ Imogen bellowed at the cameraman in the same breath. ‘Let’s give her time to think. She’s bound to have something nasty in the woodshed, if she tries hard enough.’

  Fee laughed. ‘I don’t need time to think. I told you, it’s a choice. It’s deciding what will make me happier. It’s saying that, on balance, I do better alone than I do with someone else. I’m not saying that that’s right for everyone; I’m saying it suits me. Isn’t that what healthy societies are about? A variety of ways of living a life?’

  ‘Use the term, “lifestyles”,’ Imogen instructed. ‘It sounds so much more contemporary. Not, of course, that I’m trying to put words into your mouth, you do understand that, don’t you, darling?’

  Imogen signalled for the cameraman to begin filming again. Then she trotted through the list of accusations that Fee had heard many times before, not least from Claire and Helen.

  ‘Was it all down to selfishness? Was she incapable of commitment? What about facing childlessness?’

  Fee answered as patiently as she could. It was then Imogen brought up the question of indulgences.

  Fee was beginning to find herself at ease with the camera. Or, rather, the interview had continued for so long, she had almost ceased to be aware of its existence. At the same time, she realized that Imogen had accumulated so much material she could edit it as she pleased. Fee was at her mercy and it was too late now to try and regain control. So she might as well as relax; the damage was done.

  ‘Indulgences?’ Fee had repeated, then added, amused, ‘You mean how do I compensate myself for not having what so-called normal people have?

  ‘I’ll tell you what I have by way of indulgences.’ Fee leaned forward conspiratorially. Imogen had flushed pink with pleaure at the prospect of Fee finally, belatedly, divulging intimacies on film.

  ‘I buy tuna-salad sandwiches and choc-ices and face-packs and stay in on a Saturday night—’

  ‘And you like that?’ Imogen Banks asked, in genuine incredulity.

  Late afternoon, Fee returned to her office. Imogen, without seeking permission and undetected, had inserted a camera behind a screen in the company’s main boardroom. She knew when the meeting was scheduled to begin – 5.15 p.m. – because Will Evans had told Hilly Byrne who had relayed the message to Imogen. Spot on time, Imogen began filming. She needed a little vérité.

  The meeting was to consider options for updating the image of a well-established but staid washing powder. Several F.P. & D. employees were present including Will, Diana Woods and Fee. Oriel Ashcroft, a junior colleague, was to give a presentation on what research had thrown up so far.

  She spoke now to Fee. ‘I tried to get you earlier but your mobile was switched off,’ she said apologetically. ‘Could I ask a huge favour? Dominic is ill and I’m desperate to get home at a reasonable time. Would you be able to do the presentation? It’s all stuff you know. I’m sorry, I wouldn’t ask normally, but he was so ill last night and he cried when I left for work this morning—’ Her face was desperate.

  Dominic Ashcroft had just had his third birthday and his mother was now four months pregnant. ‘Of course that’s fine,’ Fee responded immediately. ‘Here, why don’t you go now, I’ll—’

  Diana Woods interrupted. ‘Just because Fee has no family,’ she said crisply, ‘doesn’t mean that every woman with commitments should dump on her at the slightest opportunity. Frankly, some of us who’ve been sensible enough to decide on our priorities and not have children are thoroughly fed up being asked to cover for sickness and school holidays and maternity leave and childcare problems—’

  It was a speech to touch Imogen Banks’s heart, secreted as she was behind the bamboo screen. She had to restrain herself from shouting, ‘Hear, hear—’

  Oriel Ashcroft burst into tears. Fee got up from her chair and walked round the table to comfort her. Then she turned on Diana Woods.

  ‘Diana,’ Fee spoke slowly to calm her anger, ‘a seat on the board does not turn you into a ventriloquist nor make me your dummy. I’ll make my own decisions about who I do and do not cover for . . . And the day that work automatically takes priority over family then God help us all. With or without children.

  ‘You and I may not have babies, Diana,’ she continued, ‘but who’s going to cover for you when it’s your turn to care for an old and ageing relative?’

  ‘That’s very MDF,’ Trish Castle piped up chirpily. ‘The Mutual Dependency Factor . . . everybody needs somebody . . . It shows up strongly in the HAH! material . . . Still, I’m sure a lot of people feel the same way as you do, Diana.’ She smiled obsequiously.

  Diana Woods ignored her and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

  ‘Go home, Oriel,’ Fee advised. It was then Imogen Banks came crashing out from behind the screen, applauding enthusiastically.

  ‘Wonderful, wonderful. Couldn’t have gone better if I’d scripted it myself,’ she enthused.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Jean and Veronica had invited Fee to a pub lunch to put a proposition to her.

  ‘Veronica gave me the idea when we met at the singles night,’ Jean explained. ‘Do you remember, she suggested that I use an escort agency? Well, Veronica and I talked about it later. I explained that I needed to earn money quickly, Veronica said she needed to develop some sort of interest of her own. We thought we could work together.’ Jean was brimming with enthusiasm.

  ‘Later, for research purposes of course, I contacted an agency and arranged an evening out. It was far less painful than I had imagined . . . but what I did find cheap and nasty was going into the office and looking at an album of photos beforehand. It was all so cold-hearted and impersonal . . . So that’s when we came up with the idea of—’

  ‘But what happened on the night?’ Fee interrupted, her curiosity aroused.

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Veronica chastised her sister mildly.

  Jean Stoker smiled shyly, ‘Well, he eventually asked me to stay the night. He did it quite tastefully actually—’

  ‘And?’ Fee asked.

  ‘Really, Fee,’ Veronica remonstrated.

  Jean blushed and shook her head. ‘No, of course I didn’t. To be honest, I didn’t have the nerve.’

  Over the next half-hour, Veronica and Jean explained their idea. ‘A woman pays us a fee for six months. In return, she is sent a folder which contains a selection of our men . . . In addition to an up-to-date photograph, there will be personal details such as his day job and his interests.

  ‘If she wishes to book an individual for a day or an evening, she comes through us,’ Veronica elaborated. ‘We split the fee with the gentleman 30 per cent to us, 70 per cent to him—’

  ‘Two questions,’ Fee said. ‘Once a client and one of your employees. . . have met, what’s to stop them striking up a private deal?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ Jean Stoker conceded. ‘But we’ll have drawn up contracts for the men, good terms and conditions and if they decide to prejudice steady work, holiday money and all the rest of it for the sake of one client, well then . . . It must be love.’

  ‘What’s the second question, Fee?’ Jean asked.

  ‘What do you want from me?’ Fee replied.

  ‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds, or more if you’ve got it. You’re single. You must have something put away in savings. We approached Les but he turned us down flat. I could take the money from our joint account but, as a result of Les’s attitude, I want this to be entirely my own thing. I want to show him that I can do it without him—’ Veronica looked hard at Fee. ‘This means more to me than a business, you do know that, Fee, don’t you?’

  ‘So it’s not a hob
by? A bit of a thing on the side?’ Fee asked, straightfaced. Veronica threw a paper napkin at her.

  ‘I’ve forgotten one thing,’ Fee said. ‘What about sex?’

  Veronica sighed. ‘Why is everyone obsessed about the same thing? This enterprise is about the provision of good-quality, entertaining company for older women.

  ‘If sex follows at some later stage between two consenting adults—’

  ‘One paying,’ Fee interrupted.

  ‘Well now, that’s nothing new, is it?’ Jean queried. ‘Anyway,’ she continued evenly, ‘I suspect that a lot of women will simply want companionship.’

  Veronica was less certain. ‘Times seem to be changing awfully fast. When I look at my daughter and how I was at her age . . . Are you sure we’re not going to end up in court, Jean?’ She shuddered. ‘The Menopause Madams, how dreadfully embarrassing—’

  ‘I’m absolutely sure we’re not,’ Jean repeated firmly, then turned again to Fee. ‘So how about it? Will you invest?’

  It was only since leaving teaching several years before that Fee had begun to earn decent money – and most of that had been absorbed into buying a house with Bill at the wrong time in the market and selling at a loss. She had £4000 in savings but she knew how she could obtain more.

  She could resign from F.P. & D. She had signed an agreement with Gerry Radcliffe that should she leave the company, she would receive £25,000 on condition that she took no similar employment with rival businesses for a period of nine months.

  ‘I wish I could help,’ Fee replied, ‘but I don’t see how I can. I’ve got around £4000 in savings and not much else . . . I’m so sorry,’ she added as the smiles disappeared from the faces of the two women.

  At home, that evening, there were three messages for Fee on her answering machine. The requests to ring Paul Denning and Bill Summers she ignored. It was the third call that intrigued her.

  She recognized the voice instantly, deep and melodious and unquestionably Welsh. ‘Hello,’ the voice said. ‘This is Gwynfor Pryce. Rita brought you to my meeting. Could you phone me, please? I’m feeling very troubled about her.’ He left a number.