The Trouble with Single Women Read online

  Les Haslem’s anxious voice wafted in from the other side of the closed bedroom door.

  ‘Ask Veronica if she’d like a bowl of sugar, Fee. A bit of sugar in her blood might make all the difference.’

  ‘She’s in such a state, she doesn’t know what she’s about,’ Les said an hour later, as he searched the sitting room. He was looking for a parcel he’d promised his wife that he would give to Fee.

  ‘Perhaps, she’s in a state because she does know what she wants, but doesn’t like to upset anyone by saying so?’ Fee suggested quietly.

  She had great sympathy for her brother-in-law. Veronica had been dependent on Les all their married lives. He had done his very best by her, according to the rules that he’d been taught. Now, suddenly, Les had begun to realize it was an entirely new game. Was he going to lose Veronica to midlife ambition? Or to madness? Either way, it wasn’t much of a choice for a man moving close to sixty and proud to say he was still in love with his wife.

  ‘I always thought we had a good marriage,’ he said mournfully, searching for the parcel.

  ‘But you’re talking as if it’s all coming to an end. It doesn’t have to be like that,’ Fee pointed out. ‘It could just mean that something different is beginning, something just as good—?’

  Les’s look said he was far from reassured.

  A few minutes later, he grunted as he retrieved a carrier bag from behind the sofa.

  ‘The funny old biddy who took Veronica to hospital? She lent her a cardigan. I haven’t got an address but I thought you might know where she lived? She made out you two were quite chummy—’ he explained.

  ‘Me and her?’ Fee replied, alarmed. ‘I’d never met her before in my life.’

  Les raised an eyebrow in surprise. ‘Anyway, I just assumed that you two might have had a lot in common, both being on your own and all.’

  Later that night, Fee went to her bedroom window. The sky was clear except for the frail line of a new moon. She left the curtains open and undressed in the dark.

  As she lay in her bed, her eyes focused on something on the chest of drawers. A ball of Cellophane that glinted in the street lights.

  Fee got out of bed and picked the parcel up. It was a new electric kettle. Attached was a gift tag which smelt of violets.

  Written in an open, looping hand, like a fishing net thrown haphazardly, were the words, ‘Thought this might come in useful. All the best, Rita.’

  How had the woman got into her flat? What had possessed her to want to give a gift to someone she’d only met for a matter of minutes? To reassure herself, Fee settled on an explanation. Rita and Veronica hadn’t come into her flat but Veronica must have mentioned that Fee never had tea or coffee or even a kettle in the place. The doubts didn’t fade but Fee returned to bed.

  Fifteen minutes later, she got up and, for the first time in years, locked her bedroom door. Against what, she wasn’t sure.

  Chapter Nine

  IT WAS a strange land. One that reduced Claire Harper and Fee Travers almost instantly to tears.

  ‘I feel so silly.’ Claire sniffed.

  ‘It’s so irrational—’ Fee said as she wiped her eyes.

  ‘It happens to everyone,’ explained the assistant, who had already introduced herself as Michele Canning, a handsome woman in her fifties. ‘Either they cry because they thought it would never happen to them – or they cry because it has.’

  Nuptia Europa, ‘We speak five languages plus the language of love’, was a bridal ‘boutique’ decorated in pink and maroon with spindly gilt chairs and a wall of mirrors. Along a second wall were racks of wedding dresses, labelled with exotic names: Bianca, Estrel-lita, Champagne, Zsa-Zsa. The third wall was lined with changing cubicles, each with its own heavy velvet curtain.

  Muzak consisted almost entirely of the strings of Mantovani and the sound of the Carpenters – ‘We’ve only just begun—’ At steady intervals, the muzak was punctuated by a sharp hiss. Michele Canning explained that it was the apple-blossom air freshener which was automatically activated.

  Claire and Fee waited while a large pink sheet was spread in front of them on the lush carpet.

  ‘You know what they call me here?’ Mrs Canning chatted as she gestured for Claire to stand on the sheet while she worked away with a tape measure.

  ‘They say more Michele Can’t than Michele Canning. I’ve been married twice and let down a multitude of times,’ she chuckled, not entirely pleasantly.

  ‘Shoes off, please,’ she directed Claire.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? Marriage, living together,’ she attempted to philosophize, instructing Claire to raise her arms above her head.

  ‘It’s what everybody wants – and nobody can get right. Or, at least, if they are getting it right, you don’t hear much about it, do you?’

  Mrs Canning was to the bride-to-be what the hunt saboteur is to the Master of the Hounds: a goader.

  ‘I expect you’re wondering how many men change their minds before the day?’ she prodded. Claire registered alarm. As the dumper, never the dumpee, the idea had never occurred to her.

  ‘Well, more than you’d imagine,’ Mrs Canning answered her own question briskly.

  ‘God, how awful,’ Claire responded weakly. ‘What happens then?’

  Mrs Canning stopped measuring and folded her arms before speaking, ‘Well, what you can’t expect is a full refund. But, occasionally, we’ll agree to a deal and buy the dress back from you—’

  ‘I didn’t mean that.’ Claire looked pained. ‘However do you pick yourself up again?’

  ‘Horse’s mouth, lovey? I can tell you. With great difficulty,’ Mrs Canning’s vowels had bounced from posh to a terrace in the East End.

  ‘My little bastard took off – excuse my language – never to be seen again. He hadn’t even paid for the honeymoon, as he’d promised—’ She sniffed.

  ‘Still, let’s not look on the dark side. This is a time of joy, isn’t it, ladies? Follow me, please,’ she beckoned Claire into a cubicle.

  ‘You’d be surprised about the significance of the cubicle,’ Fee could hear Mrs Canning whisper. ‘It becomes a real little confessional. Brides-to-be tell us all sorts of secrets. Out it all pours. But don’t you worry yourself. I am the soul of discretion. Nothing passes my lips—’

  Fee sat and waited while Claire tried the first of many dresses. ‘Just to give you an idea, madam.’ She could hear her chattering away betraying, in Fee’s view, further signs of bridal brain damage.

  ‘Should it be a buffet or a sit-down lunch?’ Claire asked Mrs Canning. ‘Or perhaps a formal dinner would be better? Then again, brunch has its attractions . . .’

  On and on . . .

  Perhaps, Fee thought to herself, this sentimental, girly woman is the real Claire? Perhaps the hard-headed person who persuaded me to take out a pension five years ago was just a mirage?

  Mrs Canning’s voice waited out, ‘Now, do you want ready made, or would you like us to design something especially for you? I know you’ll forgive me for saying this, but my advice for the more . . . mature . . . bride is keep it simple. Simple, straight without ruffles. And why not go for eau-de-nil? Much more flattering than white to those of vintage years—’

  Claire let out a strange nervous giggle.

  Much to Fee’s surprise, Claire – bossy, assertive, I-know-what-I-want-and-nothing-gets-in-my-way Claire – agreed to each of Michele Canning’s suggestions.

  Eventually, she emerged from the cubicle. She was dressed in a drop-waisted cream lace dress. Fee felt a tear trickle down her cheeks again. Why so sentimental?

  It surprised her that shopping for a wedding dress should leave her as emotionally wrecked as watching ET.

  ‘That’s just for starters,’ Mrs Canning announced dramatically. ‘Come, come,’ she beckoned Claire back into the cubicle.

  A woman in her late forties took up a seat next to Fee. She too was blotting her tears.

  ‘You’ve no idea how I’ve tried
,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve begged and begged her, but she will have her way.’

  Fee, nonplussed, nodded sympathetically.

  ‘I’ve said, “Why marry?” Since her father died – God rest his soul – I’ve had the time of my life. Not that I don’t miss him, mind. But if I should be lucky enough to fall a second time, I’d never marry. Think of the expense. Think of the mess when it all goes wrong. I’ve said to my Louise, “Why not just live together?” ’

  The woman leaned towards Fee conspiratorially, ‘Better still, in my book, why don’t they stay apart? He’s not got that much between his ears. Not like my Louise. Doing well in the city, she is.

  ‘If I had my time again,’ the woman continued, neatly folding her handkerchief and tucking it into her bag, ‘I’d stay single. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I am single,’ Fee replied, smiling.

  Spontaneously, the woman placed her hand on Fee’s sleeve.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Two hours later Claire and Fee finally emerged from the bridal boutique, Claire triumphant, Fee depressed.

  They took a table in the brasserie next door. They ordered a meal and a bottle of wine and Claire toasted herself for expanding the number of bridesmaids from three to five. She had also just spent £32 on a piece of blue elastic. Fee said she could have run up a garter on a sewing machine in seconds.

  ‘That is not the point,’ Claire admonished. ‘If I’m going to do this bridal thing, I’m going to do it big. Besides, I’m part of a trend. Loads of forty-ish women are choosing to become late brides. And when we go, we go—’

  More to distract Claire from any further interminable discussion about ‘The Arrangements’, Fee asked, ‘So when am I going to get my first sight of Clem Thomas? Or do I have to wait until I glimpse the back of his head during the wedding ceremony?’

  ‘How about tomorrow?’ Claire suggested. ‘You can cook us supper if you like. Why not ask Adam?’

  ‘No,’ Fee replied firmly. ‘Absolutely not. And, come to that, never again either.’

  It seemed an appropriate moment for her to break her own piece of news. ‘I’ve signed off,’ she added.

  ‘What do you mean “signed off”?’

  ‘I’ve stopped looking. I’ve decided to stay single – at least until I’ve grown up. So, basically, that probably means I’m an Old Maid for life. To be honest, now the decision’s been taken, I couldn’t be happier.’

  This wasn’t, of course, strictly true. Paul was still a bruise on her heart. Adam, she hoped, continued to be on standby should her nerve fail completely. And, of course, Fee had yet to be tempted by anyone new. But if attitude of mind counted for anything, she was working hard on it.

  Fee glanced at Claire. ‘Aren’t you pleased for me?’ she prompted.

  Claire wasn’t. A barrage of hostile questioning ensued.

  ‘What about children?’ Claire hissed.

  ‘I’ll borrow other people’s. I already do.’ Fee answered. ‘Next?’

  ‘What about loneliness?’ Claire challenged.

  ‘I’ve got friends. Lots of them,’ Fee countered.

  ‘What about companionship when you’re old and they’re all dead?’ Claire persisted.

  ‘Euthanasia,’ Fee said flippantly.

  ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘Well, that is more of a problem—’ Fee conceded. ‘But you know her, there’s nothing Helen likes better than being bitterly disappointed. And spinsterhood is probably the very best I can do in that respect—’

  ‘Are you doing it to spite your mother?’ Claire looked relieved, as if she’d discovered an acceptable reason.

  Fee laughed. ‘Of course not. I’m doing it for survival. Relationships and me are like fags to a heavy smoker. Delightful at times but deadly in the long run. You’ve seen me in enough messes to know that . . .’

  Claire refused to give up. ‘What about sex? And falling in love? And not being able to help yourself, as you usually can’t, the minute you see an unsuitable man? What about turning into a selfish, obsessive, batty recluse?’

  ‘You’re too flattering,’ Fee replied mildly although her irritation was mounting.

  She moved onto the offensive. ‘Anyway, why are you so bothered?’

  ‘Of course I’m not bothered,’ Claire protested. ‘I’m just concerned about you—’

  But Claire was bothered. Really bothered. She couldn’t quite figure out why. Unless, of course, it was the horrible fear that Fee might have more fun alone than she could ever experience as a wife.

  Think single, think positive, Fee told herself as she stood on the platform waiting for a train home a little later. But wherever she looked, the message that came back was less than encouraging: Think single, think odd, think sad, think unfortunate.

  At 11.05 on the Victoria line, on a weekday night, she could have sworn everybody had somebody – except her.

  The woman to Fee’s left, waiting on the platform, was in her early twenties. She had long brown hair tied at the nape of her neck, and wore little make-up. She was dressed in a trench coat and black boots, and she was standing on tiptoe.

  The man she was trying to reach with her lips was a little older. He had a woolly hat on his head, an Aran jumper and black jeans. As he spoke softly to her, her eyes constantly travelled around his face taking in every detail – a lover’s trawl.

  The woman looked Fee’s way and Fee, embarrassed, half smiled, half frowned.

  Ahead of her was a giant poster advertising Caribbean holidays. ‘For Couples Only’ read the shocking-pink sticker across one corner.

  A few minutes later a semi-drunk couple, perhaps refugees from a business conference, kissed passionately. The lip-lock lasted from the departure of one train to the arrival of the next.

  ‘I’m drowning in it,’ Fee told herself.

  ‘It’s true what people say – to be single is freaky, deviant, selfish, warped. Every couple in the whole world is having fun, feeling wanted. And I’m not.’

  She boarded her train. As it moved out of the station, it flashed past a hoarding for a romantic comedy.

  ‘Who do older spinsters have for role models?’ Fee asked herself crossly. ‘Nuns, psychopaths . . . and Diane Keaton.’

  Three stops on, she watched as a couple boarded who were engaged in a furious argument. She couldn’t hear the content, but she could read the hand signals and facial expressions.

  You take me for granted. What do you really want from me? OK, that’s it. I’ve had enough. No, don’t go—

  The woman stormed off the train sobbing; the man remained behind attempting to look nonchalant, but his foot jiggled up and down furiously.

  ‘Get a grip, girl,’ Fee told herself. ‘An awful lot of relationships are made in hell. And who wants to live in hell?’

  ‘Me,’ a small voice replied.

  Fee hoped it didn’t belong to her.

  Simon Booth was in love. He sat in the kitchen of his home, watching his wife make sandwiches. It was past eleven, the children were asleep, supper had been peaceful and now Simon exuded contentment. He was in love.

  He poured Gill another glass of wine. She was wearing a turquoise jumper and leggings. Probably new, Simon thought, and attractive. A small curl had woven its way round the lobe of one ear.

  Gill had watched the ten o’clock news and weather and had decided that as the next day was a Saturday and the weatherman had said that it would be fine, the family should go on a picnic. Now she was preparing the food in advance.

  Gill, as always, hadn’t actually consulted with Simon, she had just assumed that he would fall in with her plans. Simon, on this particular occasion, had other intentions for tomorrow afternoon. He closed his eyes, cupped his hands around his glass and stroked its curves, in anticipation of moments to come.

  ‘Mustard or pickle?’ Gill asked.

  ‘Mmmm?’ Simon replied. He tilted back in the chair, eyes still shut, hands behind his head, a playful little smil
e on his face.

  ‘Mustard or PICKLE!’ Gill yelled, unaccountably annoyed by the expression on her husband’s face.

  Without waiting for a reply she slapped pickle on a thick slice of ham. It was edged with glutinous off-white-fat that reminded Gill of her own flesh.

  Simon was speaking. ‘If we ever had another child, do you think we’d call her something Frenchified . . . I mean with the Common Market and all that?’

  Simon, eyes now open, stuck his finger in the butter and licked it in a way that made Gill feel nauseous. She hated it when her husband attempted to look cute.

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she snapped.

  ‘Well, would we call her something French like Simone or Nathalie . . . or Imogen—’

  A look of triumph spread across Simon’s face. There, he’d said it. He’d said the word. He had brought his one true love alive in his very own kitchen.

  Gill snorted with derision. ‘Don’t be so absolutely bloody ridiculous. I wouldn’t dream of becoming pregnant again. How many sandwiches can you eat?’

  Imogen . . . Imogen . . . Imogen . . .

  Simon let the word run through his head. It was years since he’d felt so . . . unpredictable, so alive, so valued, so male. Imogen was exciting, vibrant, a career woman. And still she made Simon feel he was anything but an irritant. Imogen promised a new, different world – a world without planning, domesticity, sandwiches on a Saturday, routine.

  Imogen had invited Simon to lunch to discuss ‘a proposal’. She had then suggested that they make an assignation for the forthcoming weekend. Like an infertile woman who suddenly conceives, Simon was both stunned and pleased – and slightly disbelieving. They had met twice more since and the so far platonic entanglement had already been transformed in his head to love. It kept the guilt at bay.

  He had an irresistible urge to divulge his spectacular good luck to his wife – he’d always discussed everything with Gill – but he restrained himself. He focused instead on what she was saying.

  ‘Do you know what Fee has told Claire?’ Gill slapped peanut butter onto white baps with all the enthusiasm of a dominatrix abusing a pair of buttocks. A bread roll crumbled under her assault.