‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that when Clem and I first got together, I genuinely believed that my determination to make it work would be enough. As I told you, I hoped that love might come later—’
‘Yes?’ Fee encouraged her.
‘Well, I’m just not sure any more . . . I just feel so uncertain—’
Fee put her arms around Claire and gave her a hug.
‘Look, every woman who’s about to get married suffers from uncertainties,’ she said supportively. ‘On top of that you’ve been dreadfully ill and your resources are at rock bottom. Once you’ve had a good rest, I’m sure you’ll feel really positive about it all again . . . It might help if you talked this through with Clem?’ Fee suggested.
Claire shook her head.
‘No. Once Clem’s decided on what he wants, nothing on earth can make him change his mind. And I know he wants me.’
‘Of course,’ Fee smiled weakly.
Of course. Of course. Of course.
Clem Thomas knocked on the door of Fee’s hotel bedroom at 1.45 a.m. on the day she was due to return to London. When she opened the door, he was standing there fully dressed and he had his coat in his hand.
‘Fee,’ he began, his face drawn.
Fee took a deep breath.
‘It’s Claire, Fee, she’s had a relapse. She’s in intensive care.’
It was several hours before Claire stabilized. During that time Clem and Fee had sat either by Claire’s bed or in a waiting room, shared with the relatives and friends of other patients.
Fee was ashamed of her sense of contentment in Clem’s company. She was ashamed that, at times, she found herself fantasizing about the predicament they would have been in, if Clem had been sharing her hotel bed when the call from the hospital had come through. Above all, Fee was ashamed that she was trying and failing to concentrate on the well-being of Claire.
At breakfast time, Clem suggested that they go to the cafeteria for a cup of drinkable coffee. Fee, her conversation hobbled by exhaustion, spouted nonsense about the sinful pleasures of Irish hotel breakfasts.
‘I envy you, Fee,’ Clem suddenly said. ‘I envy the fact that you’ve decided exactly what you want in life—
‘You’ve got no messy relationships, no pulls in different directions. No distractions. I wish I could be so clear-headed. And Claire says that once you’ve set your mind on something, nothing on earth will change it.’
‘She did, did she?’ Fee replied and gave a ghost of a smile. Clever Claire; never too sick to defend her own interests.
Fee postponed her flight for twenty-four hours. By the following evening, Claire was again out of danger. Fee said her goodbyes and promised to visit as soon as Claire returned to London. Claire told her that Clem was at the hotel, having a bath and a change of clothes.
‘He said to send his love.’ She smiled. And as Fee reached the door, she gave a small wave.
‘I couldn’t have a better friend than you, Fee. I really couldn’t.’
Ten minutes after the taxi had been booked to pick up Fee from the hotel and drive her to the airport, she was still sitting in reception. She looked up, to find Clem striding towards her.
‘I’ve been phoning your room, I thought I’d missed you,’ he said warmly. ‘I just wanted to say thank you for all your help and support. And I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,’ he added, a smile on his face, ‘but you’re not nearly as frosty as I first thought—’
Fee raised an eyebrow. ‘I hope you won’t mind if I tell you the feeling is mutual,’ she replied lightly.
Further conversation was curtailed by the belated arrival of the taxi-driver. Clem saw Fee to the cab and leant in at the window as she settled herself in the back seat.
‘By the way,’ he added casually, ‘I thought you ought to know. We’ve decided to postpone the wedding. It’s Claire’s idea. She wants to wait until she’s on her feet and ready to go again. Understandably this whole business has shaken her.’
Clem stood back from the cab and waved. ‘Have a safe journey, Fee,’ he said. ‘And look after yourself.’
On the brief flight, the same six words kept running through Fee’s head. I thought you ought to know . . . I thought you ought to know . . . I thought you ought to know . . .
By the time the plane landed at Heathrow, Fee had settled on a straightforward explanation. ‘I thought you ought to know . . . because Claire has asked me to tell you.’
Shona Spannier had dark shadows under her eyes; her normally immaculately groomed hair was greasy and scraped back in a pony tail. She was without make-up and, while she was still undeniably attractive, the baggy cricket jumper and blue jeans hardly enhanced her appearance.
It had been ten days since Fee had left London. She had had one brief conversation with Shona, who’d promised that she was coping. Shona had offered to meet Fee from the plane so Fee had assumed that she had survived reasonably well.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Fee said, without thinking. ‘You look as if you’ve had a terrible time.’
‘Oh, it’s been more than worth it,’ Shona replied airily as she directed Fee to the short-stay car park. ‘We’ve managed to get so much done—’
‘You and Edward . . . you’ve decided on a divorce? You’ve been OK on your own?’ Fee asked sympathetically.
Shona burst out laughing. ‘On my own?’ she said. ‘You have got to be kidding. The flat is filled to overflowing—’
‘Gill hasn’t left Simon again, has she? You haven’t got her and Percy and the boys?’ Fee asked.
Shona smiled and shook her head. ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘what you are looking at is a hard-headed businesswoman. Wait till we get home.’
In Shona’s car, a note in capital letters was stuck to the dashboard. On it, in Shona’s hand, were written the words, ‘IT’S NOT ALWAYS MY FAULT. THINK BEFORE YOU APOLOGIZE.’
She shrugged, embarrassed. ‘The day after you left, I sat down with Jean and Veronica and we drew up two plans. One for our business, and one for my private life. Both are going well. Although,’ she added, the tears not far away, ‘it still hurts more than a bit.’
On the journey home, Shona detailed to Fee the deal that Edward had offered. Separate lives, no divorce, Shona’s bills paid and an allowance – but he would continue to live with Imogen.
‘In a couple of years, once he’s in the House of Commons, he said that we could think again about the arrangement, but he didn’t want any domestic upheaval now,’ she explained.
‘What did you say?’ Fee asked, non-committally.
Shona smiled. ‘I told him I was in no rush to give him an answer. I’m much too busy with my own stuff to think about him at the moment.’
‘Good girl!’
When Fee walked into her sitting room, she stopped dead at the door. The room was overflowing with flowers. Piles and piles of mail were perched precariously on the coffee table and overflowed onto the floor.
‘Fans,’ Shona explained. ‘Oh, and offers of jobs . . . We’ve had people knocking on the door too, wanting to sign up to the movement.’
‘What movement?’ Fee asked, stunned by the extent of the response.
Shona shrugged. ‘I don’t know, the single women’s movement, I suppose. The Nobody Breaks My Heart commando unit . . . Anyway, you’re the head chief and honcho; it’s been decided by popular vote.’
‘Bloody Imogen,’ Fee said.
It was close to nine by the time Fee knocked on Shona’s door. She
had promised that once she unpacked, she would join her for something light to eat. She would have come sooner but she had wasted fifteen minutes debating whether to call Clem Thomas.
Could she pretend she was enquiring about Claire? But why not call Claire direct? Could she pretend she’d left something at the hotel? But why not call reception? Fee knew these symptoms and she knew what she should do – avoid all contact.
She knew, but she rang the hotel anyway. ‘Sorry,’ came the voice of the s
witchboard operator, ‘Mr Thomas doesn’t appear to be in his room. May I take a message?’
‘No, no, thank you,’ Fee mumbled, confused and suddenly feeling ridiculously let down.
Now, Shona’s door was opened by Veronica and Jean, both beaming. Jean offered Fee a glass of champagne.
‘To the woman who launched a thousand chits!’ she announced dramatically.
‘Chits?’ Fee asked, kissing each, before accepting the champagne. She followed them into Shona’s sitting room.
‘Well, not chits exactly, but very tastefully worded leaflets which will be placed in magazines and outlets which reach the clientele we’re after.’
The room was a tip of used coffee cups, telephone directories and discarded paper. Two computers had been set up in one corner. On an armchair, a stack of portfolios of male models had been stashed.
‘We’ve abandoned all that,’ Shona indicated the glossy photographs. ‘We’re going to recruit ordinary men who’ve never done this sort of thing before . . . but who’ve been checked and cleared and achieved the standing of impeccable gentlemen.’
‘I don’t know,’ Jean interrupted wistfully. ‘There’s something about a scoundrel—’
Over supper, the three women described how, during the previous week, they had worked round the clock – hence Shona’s exhaustion. They had set up an accounting system, redesigned the logo, hired a talent scout, found new offices, set up advertising, arranged publicity and fought over the name of the new company.
‘So what is it going to be called?’ Fee asked.
‘It wasn’t easy,’ Veronica replied evasively. ‘Anything French sounded too saucy; we want this to be an incontrovertibly clean show . . . Anything obscure was, well, too obscure . . . We wanted something classy . . . but memorable—’
‘So what’s it to be?’ Fee asked again impatiently.
‘It’s going to be called . . . Spannier’s—’ Jean announced with a flourish.
‘Spannier’s?’ Fee repeated blankly. ‘Spannier’s? It sounds like a dry-cleaner’s or a gambling joint. You can’t have Spannier’s. Besides, Edward, the would be MP, will have a fit—’
‘Precisely,’ Shona said.
Veronica interrupted hastily, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Fee, that this is about revenge. But it isn’t, is it, Shona? It’s because we want the name to be anonymous but imply quality. Haslem sounds like a pork butcher’s. And Stoker is a bit . . . industrial . . . We did consider Travers but that’s a bit . . . dull—’
‘We could have chosen a name at random, of course,’ Jean added. ‘But the more we thought about it, the more Spannier’s sounded right—’
‘And what’s the selling line?’ Fee asked, her professional training coming to the fore.
The three women looked at each other, then at Fee.
‘You’re her sister,’ Shona nudged Veronica. ‘You ask her.’
‘Well, it’s like this,’ Veronica began hesitantly. ‘It’s not exactly a selling line, but we have thought of a way of attracting some pretty strong publicity. It would give us a wonderful kick start. And, of course, ensure that your money is soon returned to you with a healthy premium—’
Fee waited. In the distance, she could hear the thunder of hoofs. Something told her that, contrary to normal practice, the riders were travelling fast in the opposite direction – away from the mess in which she was about to find herself.
Shona could wait no longer. ‘You know you’ve had this massive amount of attention in the press and stuff? We thought we could capitalize on that and intrigue people at the same time by not giving away too much information—’
‘No,’ Fee replied, but nobody was listening.
‘So, we came up with – you! We’d use your photograph – because lots of people know what you stand for now – then we’d have the line, “Spannier’s . . . there isn’t a woman we can’t tempt—” ’
Fee took in the faces of the three women, each watching her anxiously. They had got to be joking, hadn’t they?
‘ “Spannier’s . . . there isn’t a woman we can’t tempt” . . . Don’t you think that’s clever, Fee?’ Shona asked.
Chapter Thirty-Six
ALAN MUNSEN sat on Fee’s floor, his back against the sofa, a beer in his hand. Fee sat cross-legged next to him.
Earlier in the day, he had offered to help with opening envelopes and sorting mail. He had arrived just before lunch and insisted that he treat Fee to a meal out. Only now had he broken the news that he had a new job.
‘I’ll be working with a charity, advising on emergency water projects,’ he explained, his face revealing his excitement. ‘I’ll be based in Amsterdam, and it will mean a lot of travel.’
‘But I thought you’d decided you needed roots?’ Fee teased him.
‘I do,’ he’d laughed. ‘But I’ve come to realize I need to roam even more. Who knows? Perhaps one day I’ll find someone who’ll roam with me—’
‘When do you leave?’ Fee asked. She didn’t want him to go. He pushed the hair out of her eyes.
‘I’ll miss you, Fee,’ he said, as if that was an answer.
Suddenly, Fee found herself sobbing uncontrollably. Alan put his arms around her and stroked her hair, soothingly. When the tears stopped, she stayed in his arms. A safe place, a place where she no longer felt quite so alone.
Later, Fee attempted to explain. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know why . . . it just sort of happened—’ she was half ashamed, half embarrassed. ‘It’s not you, well, what I mean is, I’ll miss you, a lot. Of course, I will . . . it’s not just you, it’s everything.’ Fee glanced at Alan who was sitting opposite her, a box of tissues in his hands. She cursed herself for being so tactless.
She tried again. ‘I don’t seem to have any anchors in my life any more . . . and I suppose it’s a bit alarming. I suppose what’s even more alarming is the fact that I don’t have any anchors because I’ve chosen to pull up so many myself,’ she laughed weakly.
‘I mean, what with leaving my job . . . and sticking my head so far above the parapet on television, it was bound to be cut off in the press . . . and then—’ Fee was about to tell Alan about Clem Thomas, but something warned her against it.
‘And then, the news that you’re about to leave . . . and Claire sick . . . it’s all too much—’
Alan Munsen smiled. ‘Change is bound to be frightening, isn’t it? I find the idea of working in Holland pretty bloody terrifying, but what’s the alternative? To stagnate slowly?’
As Alan talked, Fee recognized what was at the core of her distress. For all the weeks she had considered the option of life on her own, she had been cocooned from the real impact of that decision. She had been cocooned by the number of people who had been dependent upon her.
Jane and Veronica and then Shona and even Imogen eager for Fee to deliver exceedingly high ratings. And, of course, Rita Mason.
Each had gradually become less dependent. Once Alan had gone, there would be nobody. But why did she need to have someone reliant on her, in order to feel worthwhile?
‘I’ve got a good idea,’ Alan said. ‘You’re free, I’m free, why don’t we go away for a few days? Get out of London? As mates,’ he added hurriedly, as if to reassure Fee.
She smiled. ‘How do you fancy the Brecon Beacons?’ she asked. ‘I’ve got a friend there I haven’t seen for years. She’s already invited me to stay and she said I could bring a friend—’
‘Let’s go,’ Alan beamed.
‘Open up, open up,’ bellowed Will Evans amiably at Fee’s door a couple of hours later. She was soaking in the bath, trying unsuccessfully not to think. She was exhausted by conjuring dreams of what life might be like, should she and Clem one day . . . Fee told herself she ought to know better.
At least her previous love affairs, however destructive, had had the advantage of two participants. Fee was sure Clem Thomas had no idea how she felt, and she was just as certain that he was immune from such feelings himself.
&n
bsp; ‘Fee-o-na, Fee-o-na, if you don’t let me in, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down,’ Will shouted.
‘Drunk,’ Fee told the bathroom walls.
Will was drunk and celebrating. F.P. & D. had officially been awarded the HAH! contract. As a result of his contribution, he had been promoted. His job remained the same, but his title had changed from Designer to Designer-in-Chief, and he had been awarded a hike in salary.
Will explained to Fee that four days after Macklin’s surprise visit to F.P. & D., he had returned. He had watched a presentation by Diana Woods, who had sold the bulk of Fee’s research brilliantly.
‘You’d’ve loved it, if you’d been there,’ Will said insensitively, his feet on Fee’s coffee table. She sat in her dressing-gown, curled in the armchair opposite, trying hard to stay awake.
‘So let’s crack open a bottle.’ He pulled out a bottle of champagne from his coat pocket.
‘I thought to myself when I heard the news of my long-deserved promotion, who do I really want to be with to celebrate this event?’ He grinned blearily at Fee. ‘Who really deserves to share the pleasure?’
‘Your mother?’ Fee suggested.
Will was undeterred. ‘I thought if that old bat, Fiona Travers, is back in her nest, that’s where I want to be. If you can’t share a glass with an old mate at a time of your greatest triumph, when can you?
‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘I’ve always known that I could be London’s greatest art director. And you, Fee, have always shown a similar faith in me.’
‘I have?’ she asked, genuinely surprised. She watched while Will returned from the kitchen with two mugs and unsteadily poured champagne.
‘Why not glasses?’
Will wagged his finger at her playfully. ‘Now that is a very intelligent question. But I have an even better one to ask. Are you madly jealous because Diana Woods has stolen all your best lines, including the zigzag? Did you know that is the new HAH! logo?
‘By the way, Gerry said to tell you that he’ll have you back tomorrow . . . But what I want to know is this. Did you miss me? Did you miss your good friend, Will, when you were in Dublin?’
The Trouble with Single Women Page 36