Imogen was pleased with her five minutes of effort: from a king to a jack. Or even a knave.
On the train, Fee tried to read but failed. She drank tea, stared out of the window, went to the loo several times and imagined she saw Rita Mason standing on the platform at two stations at which the train stopped.
Every once in a while, Fee would allow her imagination to fly. Then, she would smell Clem Thomas’s skin, recall the way his eyes smiled . . .
Imogen waited at the entrance to platform 9 at Euston Station looking anything but ordinary.
She was wearing a shocking-pink suit, a mauve and pink patterned blouse, pale-pink strappy sandals and a matching handbag. A slight drizzle had transformed her naturally curly hair into something resembling a soldier’s busby, but, apart from that small defect, Imogen was happy to confess that all was going extremely well in her world.
She had her man; she had her staff literally now working around the clock, and, soon, she might well have another commission which would guarantee her position in television as the populist chronicler of the modern woman.
Imogen Banks was no fool. She realized that a less confident female than her would assume that it was all going just a bit too well. Something had to give. The villainness always pays a price. But such was Imogen Banks’s self-confidence, she didn’t even attempt to touch wood.
‘Have you read this?’ Fee asked. She was being driven back to her flat by Imogen and she had the file on Clem Thomas in her hand.
‘I couldn’t; it was sealed,’ Imogen lied. ‘Anything unexpected?’ she asked innocently.
‘Yes,’ Fee replied. ‘Clem has a daughter.’
This was one truthful detail that Imogen had assumed Fee wouldn’t find surprising. The man was in his late thirties for goodness’ sake. Of course, he was likely to have some offspring.
Fee continued. ‘He had a daughter by his first marriage. His wife left and took the daughter with her . . . it says here that they went to Australia. He hasn’t seen either of them since. I wonder why he didn’t tell Claire?’
‘Perhaps he has,’ Imogen suggested lightly. ‘How many times has he been married?’
Fee was silent as she continued to read. Much of the report tallied with what Claire had told Fee about the man. But there were worrying differences too. She looked out of the passenger window, assessing the information, before replying.
‘If Claire goes ahead – you know they’ve postponed the actual day, don’t you? – well, if she goes ahead, she will be the third Mrs Thomas. She thinks she’s the second,’ she told Imogen.
‘Ahaa!’ Imogen said gleefully. ‘And what about his work and life and times? What did our Mr Thomas do before he was a teacher?’
‘He was a banker,’ Fee answered instantly. ‘Made a bit of money.’
Imogen glanced at her briefly. ‘In the circumstances, hadn’t you better give that a quick check too? This bloke’s clearly not what he seems . . . You can pat yourself on the back, Fee. You always had your suspicions, didn’t you?’
Fee gazed at Imogen, lost in her own concerns. She felt sick. Did this new information mean that, after all, Clem Thomas was the classic bastard who’d left a trail of emotional messes in his life? Or was he a decent man who’d made a few mistakes?
Imogen drew up outside Fee’s flat. She refused an invitation to come in since she was off to a working lunch. She also showed that she was miffed.
‘I must say, Fee, you don’t look very cheerful. I would have thought this stuff on Clem Thomas would have made your week,’ she complained. ‘It would certainly make me think twice if I was Ms Claire Hastings. Looks like you’ll soon have your playmate back in the sandpit – so why the long face?’
‘When you get the full report, could you let me have it as quickly as possible?’ was all Fee said.
Opening her front door, on Monday afternoon, Fee could see that still more mail had been delivered and had been piled neatly on her coffee table by Shona or Veronica. What also caught her eye were what appeared to be five large white cardboard suitcases.
Fee opened the lid of one case. Yards of cream and apricot tulle sprung out like a jack in the box dressed for a pas de deux. Claire’s bridesmaids’ dresses had been delivered – but why to her and why now?
The telephone interrupted Fee’s thoughts.
The voice at the end of the line gave her a jolt.
‘Hello, Fee, it’s Claire . . . Clem said he thought you were home today or tomorrow and that you’d phoned a couple of times for a progress report.’ Claire sounded relaxed but there was something extra in her voice.
‘Clem’s had to go to his parents. His father took a fall down the stairs. He might be there for a couple of days. I know you and he arranged to meet but he says he’ll call you as soon as he can.’
‘I see.’ But Fee didn’t see at all. If Claire was this well informed, why was she also being so civil?
‘Fee,’ Claire spoke again. ‘Would you be able to call round later? I really need to talk to you – it can’t be said on the phone.’
Fee’s mouth went dry; she took several deep breaths.
‘Are you there?’ Claire asked.
‘Yes, yes, sorry, I’m a bit tired, I was up most of Saturday night and I haven’t quite caught up yet,’ Fee answered. ‘I’ll come about three, is that OK?’
Claire sounded enormously relieved. ‘That’s terrific,’ she said.
Replacing the receiver, Fee consoled herself that ‘terrific’ was hardly the response you’d expect from a woman who knew she’d been betrayed.
Claire was dressed and remaking a window-box in her front garden when Fee arrived. She had lost weight but otherwise, Fee decided, she looked surprisingly well. She didn’t have to wait to discover why.
‘I’m pregnant,’ Claire burst out, smiling broadly. ‘Twelve weeks pregnant. I knew in Dublin but I didn’t mention it because the doctors were worried that I might miscarry. You should see your face. You look pole-axed.’
Fee swallowed hard. ‘It’s . . . I’m . . . Oh, gosh, I don’t know what to say,’ she responded truthfully. Then she flung her arms around Claire and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Now,’ Claire looked at her best friend straight in the eye. ‘About you and Clem—’
Fee reacted like a child caught in the act. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she spluttered, the colour rising in her cheeks.
‘Well, let me explain,’ Claire replied amiably, directing Fee to a deckchair. ‘Let’s start from the beginning. Clem and I are a mistake. If I marry him, I’ll end up destroying his confidence and my peace of mind. I thought I could settle for an accommodation, an understanding – but I realize that, for me, that’s too much of a cheat on what life might have to offer—’
She raised her hand to silence any interruptions. ‘No, let me say my piece. I’ve thought about this a great deal—’
‘It’s ironic really, I believed Clem was in love with me. Now I realize he was seeking the same from me as I was hoping for from him – a relationship without the risks. We’ve both been damaged by emotions disguised as love, and we both believed we could settle for something safer.
‘The only trouble is,’ she gave a wan smile, ‘if you remove the risk, you also remove a lot of the reason for sticking through the bad times as well as the good. I realize now that I can put up with the domesticity but I’ve got to have the desire as well.’
She took Fee’s hand. ‘When I saw you and Clem together in Dublin in a situation where, for once, you weren’t showing your teeth at him, I realized that you had far more going for each other than I could match . . . I tried to convince myself otherwise. I tried to convince you too . . . but it just became more and more obvious. And when you came back to London, poor Clem was like a lost soul . . . I don’t want to watch that for the rest of my married life—’
Fee gazed at Claire, stunned by what she was hearing. Eventually, she found words. ‘Have you talked to Clem about this? Have you told him about th
e baby? Have you decided what to do about it?’
Claire nodded. ‘You know how I’ve always said babies need two parents? Well, you can’t always have the ideal situation. I’m going to do the very best I can on my own – but hopefully with some help from Clem.’
‘You’re going to keep the baby?’ Fee repeated. ‘You do know what’s involved? You do know you’ll be exhausted and probably broke?’
‘Look, if you’re worried I’m going to ask you to babysit, just say,’ Claire gently teased.
Embarrassed, Fee recognized that the force of her response had less to do with Claire and perhaps more to do with her own decision not to have children.
‘I’m sorry,’ she apologized.
Claire patted her hand. ‘I didn’t tell you but Clem already has a daughter . . . She lives in Australia with her mother who’s not keen for Clem to visit. It must seem to him that he’s about to lose a second child, but I’ve promised it doesn’t have to be like that—’
‘Poor Clem,’ Fee said spontaneously. ‘How has he reacted?’
Claire gave a weary smile. ‘He says that the trouble with single women today is that we hold too many of the cards . . . But, given the circumstances, he would say that, wouldn’t he?’
Fee’s thoughts chased each other crazily. Clem and she could do as they pleased. Claire was not so much giving her blessing as positively pushing her and Clem together . . . so why was Fee even more muddled and uncertain than before?
‘I want to ask a favour,’ Claire asked, then dissolved into laughter at the look on Fee’s face.
‘It’s purely practical,’ she reassured her. ‘Nuptia Europa is closing down. They said they’d sent you the bridesmaid’s dresses but I’d agreed to pick up my dress . . . Would you mind doing it for me? There is a perk in the job,’ Claire added. ‘You can have the pleasure of telling Michele Canning that not only is the wedding off, but the bride has been dumped and is up the spout, and her fiancé has run off with the maid of honour. I can’t do better than that, can I?’
Edward Spannier sat at the desk in his hotel suite and thought of a good, round, solid figure – one that could easily be divided four ways – and wrote out a cheque. Then, he sighed heavily.
He saw himself as a rational, disciplined, organized kind of man. A man of ability. A man who was accustomed to achieving what he wanted. He had therefore surprised himself in the last few weeks.
At first, he had assumed that his defences had been temporarily weakened by that sexual evil known as lust. Lust, he could handle. Rather well, in fact.
Then he’d decided that the cause was much more prosaic. He was under the weather. Finally, he’d been forced to recognize that, for the first time in his life, the plain truth was that he couldn’t live without a woman. A particular woman.
After fourteen days, what Edward Spannier had begun to find almost as appalling as his personal weakness was the woman to whom he’d fallen victim. She was just so damn unsuitable. For a start, he practically had to make an appointment to see her.
She had too many opinions, very strong opinions. And again, she had this highly disconcerting habit of walking away. Just disappearing, leaving him high and dry.
So far, Edward had lost his temper on three occasions. Justifiably, he would say. Each time, it had plainly been Imogen’s fault. Each time, he had attempted to make her accept responsibility. And she had walked away. Laughing. Laughing?
Of course Edward was not denying that Imogen Banks was a woman of passion, fire, intelligence, zest, ability, talent. What’s more she knew how to court success and make money. He had certainly found a woman who was his equal. For years with Shona, Edward had told himself it would all have been so much better if his wife had been able to match him in brain power and repartee, so why was he finding Imogen such heavy weather?
Why was he catching himself in unguarded moments recalling Shona?
Imogen Banks, dressed in a cream lace and satin négligé of a kind most frequently seen in Hollywood movies of the 1940s, walked out of the bedroom and across to where Edward was sitting.
She was barefoot, so he failed to hear her until it was too late. She kissed him on the top of his head and picked up the cheque in one easy movement.
‘What a lot of money,’ she commented lightly. ‘And made out to whom? To Spannier’s? Darling, you’re not buying me a season ticket to your wife’s little endeavour, are you?’
Edward Spannier wished he’d had his dinner. At least then he would have had more strength to survive the row that he now knew was pending.
‘I’ve decided to make them an offer, buy them out, close the business down before it gets under way. End of story.’
Imogen’s face froze. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she asked in a tone Edward hadn’t heard before. ‘What on earth do you mean, you’re making them an offer? They haven’t even got anything to sell, yet.’
Edward nervously twisted the ring on his little finger. ‘I want Shona and her associates to sell me the business,’ he repeated.
He had expected that Imogen might rail at the amount of money he was prepared to offer his wife; he was not at all prepared for the way in which she actually reacted.
Imogen’s apoplectic anger gave her the appearance of inflating her hugely in size. Her bulging eyes and vast breasts reminded a startled Edward of the imposing ships’ heads in Portsmouth harbour, which loomed above him when he visited as a boy.
‘You stupid, stupid man,’ Imogen bellowed. ‘How dare you do this to me? How dare you sabotage a perfectly good undertaking—
‘Don’t you realize,’ she shouted, putting her nose inches from his. ‘Don’t you realize that I am on the point of persuading these women and their clients and the men on Spannier’s books that they should appear in a film? It would be a coup. A major coup. The best kind of entertainment – human weakness in all its shapes and sizes. And what do you do?’
Imogen raised her hand and bunched it into a fist. For one terrible moment, Edward actually believed she was going to punch him hard. Instinctively, he flinched.
‘Don’t you dare blink at me like that,’ she shouted at the top of her voice. ‘Let me make this clear. End of Spannier’s. End of my bloody film. End of our sodding relationship. Got it?’
She pushed up the sleeves of her négligé as if preparing for action.
‘Now, are you coming to bed or not?’
An hour later, Imogen was up and dressed. It was late, but not too late. She left a brief note for Edward, then got into her car and began to drive.
On the way, she telephoned Fee.
‘How did it go with the information I gave you?’ Imogen asked.
‘Fine,’ Fee answered. She sounded tired.
‘Did Claire realize what a bastard her future husband had been?’ Imogen chuckled, then, before Fee could answer, she added, ‘I’ve got a favour to ask, Fee. I want you to persuade Veronica and Jean that they should let me film the launch of Spannier’s. They want your opinion. You don’t owe me any favours, I know, but have I or have I not been useful of late?’
‘I’ll do a deal,’ Fee offered.
‘Well, there’s a surprise,’ Imogen replied drily. ‘If you’re going to suggest that I send Edward back to his wife, that’s no problem. He’s already longing for what he left. I can read the signs. And, frankly, once that initial bonking mania wears off, it seems to me that it tends to decline dramatically into the ordinary, wouldn’t you say?
‘Look, Fee,’ Imogen smiled at herself in her driving mirror, ‘I just happen to be driving right past your road. OK if I pop in for a few minutes?’
She left Fee no time to reply.
Fee had waited fruitlessly for a phone call from Clem. Perhaps the situation with his father was worse than expected, she reasoned. He was sure to call later. Imogen’s arrival was almost a welcome diversion.
‘You’re a troublemaker, Imogen,’ Fee remarked amiably. ‘A troublemaker who has no personal morality at all.’
&nbs
p; Imogen affected puzzlement. ‘Morality, you say? Well, darling, speaking as one woman to another, which you know I’m usually loath to do, I can tell you that I’m up to here with morality.’ She indicated the top of her head.
‘Why should I deny myself the pleasure of another woman’s husband?’ Imogen asked, warming to her subject. ‘Why should I speak the truth if it fails to achieve what I want?’
Fee shrugged. ‘Perhaps because in the long run you damage yourself as well as others round you . . .?’
Imogen smiled broadly and put a hand on each hip. ‘Come on, sweetie, you’re the professional who sells hot air. You’re going to have to do better than that.’
Fee smiled non-committally. ‘Imogen, you said you wanted me to persuade Veronica and the others to agree to you making a film about Spannier’s. Right?’
Imogen nodded.
‘Well, I’ll do that if you’ll give me a hand. I’ve met a terrific woman called Lea Fitzgerald. She needs money for a children’s hospital in India . . . You could raise the money in five minutes, blindfolded . . . Is it a deal?’
Imogen put her lace in her hands and pretended to sob copiously. ‘Do I have to? Have you really brought me to this, Fee? Is there no other way?’
Finally, she gave a sigh of resignation, enjoying herself hugely.
‘One condition,’ she announced. ‘Nobody but nobody is told that I’ve helped. Spinster I can live with. A spinster of the parish who does good? I’ll cut my throat first.’
Imogen left at nine. There was still no call from Clem. Fee fretted, then cursed. Weeks ago she had promised herself there would be no more waiting for a man to phone, so what was she doing now?
Fifteen minutes later, Veronica knocked on her sister’s door. She and Jean and Shona wanted Fee to take a professional look at the prototypes of the publicity material and catalogues for Spannier’s laid out on Shona’s kitchen table.
The Trouble with Single Women Page 40