‘Who? Claire?’
‘Yes, there was something about her I didn’t like – and I had a bit of time on my hands, so it was no trouble. Anyway, when Roger and I decided to bring the wedding forward, I thought of next door right away. Got a lovely dress and dead cheap.’
Fee was about to speak again but she stopped. Rita was away in another place, her face was wreathed in one of her dazzling smiles, her eyes shining.
‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ she said. Fee turned. She saw a man at least twenty years younger than Rita. He was flashily dressed in black slacks, yellow cardigan and a black and yellow dogtooth-check tie. He wore a Rolex watch and ostentatiously carried a mobile phone.
‘Roger?’ Fee asked.
‘Terry,’ Rita replied. ‘Fee, I want you to meet my baby, Terry.’
‘Terry?’ Fee repeated weakly.
‘Yes,’ Rita smiled even more radiantly. ‘Terry Waters. Terry, my son. You found the place all right, sweetie? And this’, she added, with a little flourish of her hand, ‘is Roger Buxton, my fiancé.’
Roger Buxton looked far more suited to the role of Rita’s baby than Terry. He had a smooth, pink face and a fuzz of downy hair. His smile revealed a number of gaps in two rows of tiny white teeth. If Roger had offered Fee a rattle, instead of his hand in introduction, she wouldn’t have been surprised.
‘Sit down, boys,’ Rita ordered maternally. ‘Fee can’t wait to hear how we all got together. Can you believe it, she thinks you’re all figments of my imagination? Terry, my son, you tell her your bit of the story.’
Terry duly obliged.
Terry Waters, Rita’s son, had been adopted thirty-four years earlier by a couple in Bristol. He had had a happy childhood. His adopted parents had run a small hotel until they retired. They were both still alive. Terry had also moved into catering, and now ran a successful pub and restaurant. He had been married for six years and had two girls, aged four and nine months.
It was when his first child had been born that Terry decided to trace his natural mother. Rita’s continual changes of names and addresses hadn’t helped. Temporarily he had given up the hunt.
Roger Buxton then took up the story.
Eighteen months ago, in Saudi Arabia, he had replied to an ad. for a pen pal. The woman had been Rita. They corresponded for six months, during which time Rita, according to Roger, ‘told a few porkies’ but also recounted a great deal of the truth about her life.
Roger too had been in trouble in the past. He had been brought up in care and had no family that he knew. He understood Rita’s desire to invent what had, as yet, failed to materialize in her life. Roger came home on leave. They met. He retreated, surprised by how much older Rita was. Then he missed her letters. They resumed writing. On the second leave, several months ago, he had proposed. ‘I’ve known her personally, one to one, about ten weeks in all,’ he announced to Fee with some pride. ‘It mostly rests on the written word.’
It was Roger who had decided to find Rita’s son. He inserted an ad. in several newspapers. Terry Waters took his wallet from his breast pocket and pulled out a cutting, handing it to Fee.
The ad. read: ‘Rita Mason, also known as Rose Sutton, also known as Mary Hastings . . . would like knowledge of her son, born Terry Hastings. Last heard of in Bristol.’
‘That’s where the mother and baby home was,’ Rita explained. ‘That was the address on the birth certificate.’
‘I came home three weeks ago because I managed to swap leave with a mate,’ Roger Buxton added, eager to claim ownership of the most dramatic part of the saga. ‘And, by then, I’d already written a few times to our Terry here. As soon as I met him, I knew.’
Mother and son smiled at each other shyly. Roger Buxton reached for his fiancée’s hand. ‘I thought to myself, “Roger lad, best strike while the iron’s hot, in case one of these geezers changes their mind.” So I came to London, told Rita that it was now or never. She had to see her son.
‘We all met in Bristol and stayed down there for a week, so these two could get to know each slow like—’ Roger put an arm around Terry and Rita.
‘Everyone was nervous, but it went well. Now I’m a granddad at thirty-seven, and very pleased about it ’n’ all . . . Course, we may race a few hurdles ahead but, right now, it feels nice, it does really. Happy ever after?’ He winked. ‘I’ll have a bit of that—’
The three sat opposite Fee, an unlikely trio – but one that she found very touching. Roger Buxton, in Rita, had found a wife and mother; Terry Waters had discovered why he’d been given away and Rita finally had both son and lover.
Later, as they left the wine bar, Rita put her hand on Fee’s arm proprietorially.
‘That flat,’ she said. ‘The one opposite you. They’re moving out soon, aren’t they?’
‘The Spanniers?’ Fee answered nervously.
‘That’s it,’ Rita smiled. ‘Well, we thought rather than rush into buying a house, we’ll wait until Roger’s back from Saudi for good—’
‘And in the meantime, you’ll rent the flat opposite me?’ Fee finished for her.
‘That’s it. I’m really looking forward to it, aren’t you?’
Word of mouth took Jean and Veronica by surprise. At the same time as Rita Mason was re-creating her family tree for Fee, Spannier’s three telephone lines, temporarily housed in Shona’s flat, began to ring.
Spannier’s had received twelve calls by the time Fee returned with Claire’s dress in the early afternoon. Some of the women who were calling as potential clients were bold, some were extremely nervous, others were honest about their lack of expertise as first-timers.
In Shona’s sitting room, Veronica handed Fee the growing list of women who had asked to be sent a brochure. Amy, Veronica’s next-door neighbour, had informed several of her friends. A woman called Sheila Scott, going through a divorce, had been told about Spannier’s by Hilly Byrne. And Imogen herself appeared to have told everybody who was female, over thirty-five and with sufficient cash flow.
‘But then she would,’ Veronica said drily. ‘She starts filming tomorrow when we move into the new offices.’
Fee made her way to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and witnessed a sight she never imagined that she would see. Her mother was sitting at Shona’s large kitchen table on the phone. Helen had Spannier’s fat album of ‘associates’ in front of her and was confidently nipping backwards and forwards through its pages.
‘I’ve got a really lovely man here. I’ve met him myself so I know,’ she was telling someone at the other end of the line. ‘He’s forty-nine, a widower and, sadly, he’s bankrupt. His two garages recently went bust and he works as a mechanic now. Hence his shortage of cash, otherwise I’m sure he’d be paying his way. Anyway, he comes thoroughly recommended. I know you won’t be disappointed—’
Later, Fee lay in her bath, and attempted to bring her thoughts into some kind of order. For the past twenty-four hours, her emotions had yo-yoed through excitement, guilt, anticipation, confusion, doubt, pleasure, but what had failed to emerge was any kind of certainty.
If she and Clem decided to – what? Move in together, try a relationship, make a commitment? Would that be a mistake on her part, or a vindication of the past few weeks when she had tried to distinguish between her own desires and what for years others had told her she ought to yearn for?
Falling in love at thirty-eight is different from failing in love at twenty-eight or eighteen, she reminded herself. At thirty-eight, as Imogen had once told her, love can’t afford to be blind. Time’s too short.
‘If it’s Clem’s c.v. you want, you’ve got it,’ Fee reminded herself drily. It had what might charitably be called inconsistencies but then her own record wasn’t perfect by any means. And Clem had planned to behave honourably towards Claire. He had intended to tell her the truth, at the appropriate time, not go behind her back.
‘And what does that tell me?’ Fee asked herself wryly. ‘That if he rats on me, I’ll be
the first to know? How reassuring.’
She pulled the plug out with her toe and watched as the water subsided. The years were beginning to make her body soften and spread. Sometimes she minded; sometimes she didn’t. This evening, she did. Her thoughts were interrupted by someone banging on her door. She grabbed a towel and let Veronica into the flat.
‘I’m off home,’ Veronica explained. ‘Les is cooking supper and he hates it when I’m late. I’ve been meaning to give you this. As a sort of thank you . . . for helping me out.’
Fee stood dripping in the hall. She took a small package from her sister and followed her into the kitchen. As she walked, Fee unwrapped the parcel. It was one of her father’s old westerns, carefully covered.
‘I know you’ve already got a lot of his books,’ Veronica shrugged, slightly embarrassed, ‘but this was the very first our dad bought when he began to collect them after he and Mum married. See—’
She showed Fee the book, Gene Autry and the Thief River Outlaws, published in 1944. Neatly printed on a label, in her father’s hand, were the details of the secondhand bookshop from which he’d bought it and the date: The Avalon Book Shop, Leicester, 1948.
Veronica drew up a chair to the kitchen table and gently, carefully, began to turn the pages. ‘He was a funny old boy, our dad,’ she said softly. ‘Out of his time. I used to think he was living in a dream world . . . Listen to this, it’s about Gene Autry and his horse—’
She began to read, growing more sentimental by the second, ‘ “Each recognized certain friendships and duties from time to time but neither man nor beast felt any need to depend on any other creature. They had learned to trust in no help but their own strength, courage, speed, wits and fighting hearts—” ’
Veronica glanced at her sister and abruptly stopped reading. ‘Fee? Are you listening? Only you seem miles away—’
Fee smiled broadly and flung her arms around her sister, giving her an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek.
‘Veronica,’ she said, ‘you’re a gem.’
Chapter Forty-Two
FEE’S FAREWELL party was in a private room above a wine bar five minutes from F.P. & D. The drinking had begun illicitly in the office in the middle of the afternoon. So by the time Fee arrived, Trish Castle was making herself comfortable on Will Evans’s knee and several of Fee’s former team were telling each other frankly what they thought. About what, was unclear.
It wouldn’t be long, Fee judged, before the tears and vomit would be flowing in equal proportions. Her arrival was greeted with cheers and catcalls and applause. Will, ahead of schedule, presented Fee with a large glass vase and gave an impromptu speech. He proclaimed Fee as the greatest woman ever to turn her hand to business.
To her surprise, Fee saw Gerry Radcliffe and his wife, Marie-Jeanne, holding hands and being very attentive to each other by the bar.
Oriel Ashcroft came over and, following Fee’s gaze, smiled. ‘Gerry couldn’t stand it without Marie-Jeanne,’ she explained. ‘He went back five days after he left to live with Diana. The atmosphere in the office has improved no end.’
‘How is Diana?’ Fee asked casually. Oriel’s smile widened.
‘You haven’t heard?’ she said. Fee shook her head.
‘She’s resigned – and she’s in love. I’ve taken over her old job – but no seat on the board as yet,’ she added wryly.
Fee gave her a congratulatory hug. ‘Well done,’ she said. ‘But make it easier on the others who come up behind you – don’t work all the hours that God sends. It makes you do strange things. Believe me, I know—’
Oriel nodded with her head towards the door. ‘Diana said she’d look in, to wish you well. But I thought she was going to come later to avoid Gerry’s wife—’
Fee turned. Framed in the entrance was Diana Woods, and, by her side, in denim and diamanteé, was Serena Alwyn, Harry Macklin’s managing director.
Oriel whispered in Fee’s ear, ‘They worked together on the account and love blossomed. Now, Diana’s employed full-time with Macklin. Isn’t that sweet?’
The following morning, Fee was awake at five. She left for the station much too early at eight. Half the time she was convinced she wouldn’t know how to react until she set eyes on Clem; the rest of the time, she knew exactly what she was going to say. He had called again three times and each time, she had been out. She fretted that he hadn’t left a number so that she could ring him back.
She was ridiculously excited, not just because she would be seeing him again, but because the unexpected, the unforeseen, a small taste of danger, had returned to her life.
The train was late. It was five minutes, then ten minutes, then twelve and a half minutes late. Finally, just before nine thirty, when the station was jammed with commuters, Fee spotted the top of Clem’s head by the ticket barrier. Instinctively, she began to run towards him, then stopped, apprehensively.
He had no such qualms. Fee watched as he searched the faces, then a smile of recognition appeared. He put his holdall down and both arms out. She went to him, and let him hold her close and kiss her. And kiss her again.
It was only then that Fee Travers became certain what it was that she wanted to do, what it was that she really wanted to do.
The coffee shop on the station was busy with demands for takeaway drinks and food, but Fee and Clem were only two of a handful of customers sitting at tables. They could talk in relative privacy.
Clem had wanted to drive to Fee’s flat; Fee had preferred to have this conversation on neutral ground. It was fairer – to her at least. She didn’t want to be tempted into changing her mind.
‘Are you asking me if I’ll wait for you for six months?’ Clem repeated the question, his face puzzled and bewildered. Fee shook her head.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Are you telling me that you don’t feel as strongly for me as you thought?’ Clem asked.
‘No, of course not,’ she repeated.
‘Are you saying that you’re frightened that I might realize that I’ve made the wrong choice and go back to Claire and her . . . our. . . baby?’
Fee shook her head again. Clem banged his hand down on the wrought-iron table.
‘Well, Fee, what the bloody hell are you trying to say? What makes you so contrary? This isn’t a game, you know. It’s about grown-up people with grown-up feelings.’
Fee realized that Clem had understood her all too well – but he was reluctant to accept the implication of what she had said. She regretted that she was causing him pain, but she was also aware, with increasing clarity, that she had made the right choice.
‘I know I have strong feelings for you, Clem,’ Fee explained gently. ‘But I also know that there’s still a lot I want to do that will only make sense if I’m on my own.
‘I want to break away from the rat race; I want to learn to trust myself more . . . I want to develop a fighting heart, Clem, to replace the weak and malleable one that trips me up too often now.’
‘Isn’t any of that possible with me?’ Clem asked quietly.
‘Of course it is.’ She reached out impulsively for his hand. ‘But however good, it would be a totally different experience. If I don’t take this chance now, on my own, I’ll never be in this frame of mind to try again. And I know I’ll regret it always.’
Clem gently touched her cheek. ‘If you love a person,’ he said, almost as if talking to himself, ‘you want her to be free . . . If I’m still here when you come back from wherever it is you’re going. . . who knows?’
He attempted a smile. Fee almost changed her mind. No man had ever valued her freedom before – except in his own self-interest.
‘You’re very special to me, Clem.’ Fee knew that she was crying, but there was nothing to be done to stop the tears.
‘We’ll see,’ he replied. Then, he kissed her cheek and was gone.
Fee waited for the familiar, cold sense of abandonment. Instead, while there was some sorrow and a scattering of doubts, she experien
ced a sudden surge of optimism. Why not work with Lea in India? Why not take up Walt’s offer to travel to the now not so Wild West? Why not spend time on her newfound friendships with Anna and Alan and Shona and Jean? She had Claire’s baby to welcome, Rita Mason to evade and Percy and the twins to enjoy.
She had finally come to understand that it was time to be her own woman – after that, anything might be possible – even love that didn’t harm.
It might not add up to a conventional happy ever after, Fee told herself, smiling, but it wasn’t bad for a new beginning.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to Jacqueline Korn for her continued support and guidance; to Ania Corless for her hard work; to Ian Chapman and my editors, Suzanne Baboneau and Arabella Stein, whose enthusiasm and professional skills are much appreciated.
Copyright
First published in 1997 by Macmillan
This edition published 2014 by Bello
an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited
Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Basingstoke and Oxford
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello
ISBN 978-1-4472-8485-7 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-8483-3 HB
ISBN 978-1-4472-8484-0 PB
Copyright © Yvonne Roberts, 1997
The right of Yvonne Roberts to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
The Trouble with Single Women Page 42