The Trouble with Single Women Read online

  She had run off to Hove with a painter of thirty-five called Bobby. Bobby used to call in the shop every Friday for a small piece of skate. Later, everyone agreed that the size of Bobby’s skate should have been a clue.

  Vera also announced that she had no intention of coming home – it was time for her to enjoy herself. The children were welcome to visit at any time. Visit, Vera had stressed, not stay.

  Freda, the youngest child, duly called on her mother against her father’s wishes. She reported back on the horror of it all.

  Bobby, a striking young man with a wardrobe full of handsome suits was, in truth, a she not a he. The couple looked and behaved like a married couple but they were actually two of the same.

  There was no better half.

  Vera had lost her head was the general consensus. Deserting her family would have been bad enough; living in sin too awful to contemplate; absconding with someone so much younger, a disgrace. But to set up home with a woman . . . excluding men . . . not even needing a man . . . how unnatural can you get?

  How downright thoughtless?

  What’s more, Vera had the brass nerve to live blissfully with Bobby for another twenty-two years until her death, ‘waited on hand and foot’.

  Of course, nobody in the family went to her funeral. They considered Vera long gone.

  From that point on, while Jewish boys were Barmitzvahed as an entry into adulthood, at what was considered an appropriate age, Travers girls were Vera-ed. They were instructed on the fall and decline of their fomerly respectable relative but, naturally, never told about the happy-ever-after.

  Decades on, Vera’s ripples were still visible in the family. That was why Helen had been so relieved when Fee had moved in with Bill Summers – and perturbed again when he’d moved out.

  As for Fee, she had been aware from an early age that she was a source of disappointment to her mother. But what had only recently begun to dawn on her was how much Helen needed it that way.

  Chapter Three

  THREE DAYS later, at seven thirty on the evening of her thirty-eighth birthday, Fee ordered a third glass of wine. The woman who sat at the till of the otherwise deserted wine bar was performing the equivalent of an archaeological dig on her cold sore. She moved reluctantly into action.

  ‘You should have had a bottle,’ she said accusingly, holding the fresh glass by the stem and placing it in front of Fee.

  ‘I didn’t realize he was going to be late,’ Fee felt bound to explain. The woman shrugged as if to say she couldn’t care less what excuses her customers provided for their personal excesses.

  Fee checked her watch for the umpteenth time. As she did so, the cuff of her jacket caught the glass and, in an effort to hold it steady, she emptied her handbag on to the floor. She was on her hands and knees when she spotted Paul Denning’s legs.

  ‘Playing hide and seek?’ he smiled. She attempted to conceal a sudden surge of pleasure.

  Her birthday present to herself had belatedly arrived.

  Of course Paul was late. He was always late. Anyone who knew Paul was aware that he always arrived on the second train, never on the train he’d promised.

  That was Paul.

  Paul, of course, did not know that it was Fee’s birthday. Dear God, no. If he had any idea that Fee had chosen to spend a significant date on her calendar in his company, he would have fled.

  What Paul demanded of Fee was exactly what Will asked of his women: no strings. From the outset, Paul had indicated that the only role he wanted in Fee’s life was a small role, a bit part.

  The bit that’s fun and comes with no obligations, promises or long-term plans.

  Fee, of course, not only accepted his terms, but acted as if they were entirely compatible with her own. The whole point of Paul’s attraction for Fee was not that he was hard to get – he had proved remarkably easy – but that he was tricky to hold on to.

  For as long as she could remember Fee’s predilection had always been for Mr Wrong rather than Mr Right.

  She’d moved in with Bill because she realized, with hindsight, that she’d sought respite from the volatility that had so far passed for her love life.

  If anything, Bill had only stoked up Fee’s addiction for unreconstructed bastards, like Paul.

  ‘It’s been too long,’ Paul said, ordering champagne.

  ‘Has it?’ Fee countered.

  In Paul’s company, she was always slightly on edge. He loathed what he called ‘neediness’. So she was constantly worried that her real feelings might suddenly escape and destroy what he clearly regarded as pleasant little encounters.

  Or were they so pleasant?

  The question caught Fee by surprise.

  Paul playfully kissed Fee’s ear lobe.

  ‘I missed you. Tell me you missed me,’ he instructed.

  ‘Of course, I didn’t miss you,’ she replied lightly. ‘Much too busy—’

  Paul Denning was forty-five. He had told Fee that he had been very briefly married in his twenties and speedily divorced. He had no children. Now he was a successful and highly ambitious barrister who split his time between London and Newcastle.

  They had met six months ago, when Fee’s firm had sent her and Will Evans to Newcastle on business. On the journey back to London, after those first series of meetings, Fee had casually remarked to Will that she thought Paul Denning had a smooth taste in clothes. Will’s view had been that not even money could stop Paul Denning looking like a wide boy.

  Fee had mentioned, just in passing, that she thought Paul was good looking in a leonine way – strong features, a mass of black hair with flecks of white. Hair long enough to signal he was more at the radical than the conservative end of the bar.

  Will said he thought Paul Denning was far too impressed with himself; not just concerned with his high profile but his side profile and full profile as well.

  Fee said that Will had to concede that when Paul Denning was around, life moved up a gear; he was impatient, energetic, almost rude at times, but he got things done – and he was fun. The project had meant long hours, relieved only by numerous bottles of champagne which Paul Denning had insisted was the only accompaniment to bad, fast food.

  ‘What do you really think of him?’ Fee had asked Will.

  ‘What do I really think?’ Will had given a quizzical look.

  ‘In the company of Mr Denning, only one word comes to mind. And that word is—’ Will had paused as if giving the question serious thought. ‘Yes,’ he finally said. ‘That word has got to be tosser.’

  ‘That’s only because you don’t know what he’s really like,’ Fee had responded. She had sounded so defensive it had taken them both by surprise.

  ‘Oh and you think you do?’ Will had sighed and shook his head in mock-despair.

  ‘And I thought you were old enough to know better,’ he’d added.

  Leaving the bar, an hour later, Paul took Fee’s hands and kissed them both. His finger traced her jawline. As gestures go, it was a cliché, but Fee felt shy, exposed.

  It had been twelve days since their last meeting and Fee had heard from Paul only on the previous morning. Then, in his customary fashion, he had sent a fax to tell her of his time of arrival.

  To tell her, Fee reminded herself. Not to ask if she was free. And what about an apology for his tardiness?

  ‘So, what have you been doing?’ Paul asked in the taxi, cupping his hand over her knee.

  Adam did not know about Fee’s relationship with Paul. If asked, Fee would have been honest. She had never pretended to Adam that he was the only man she was seeing.

  ‘I haven’t done much,’ Fee said in answer to Paul’s question. ‘I’ve had my car vandalized by a jealous woman, I was asked out – sort of – by a small, dark divorcé called Philip, who certainly knows his onions. . . . and I received a proposal of marriage—’

  ‘An average week, all-in-all?’ Paul remarked drily. Fee noted that he didn’t even bother to ask how she had responded to the propo
sal. That was another man’s business.

  ‘Dead average,’ Fee smiled back.

  How she hated all his game-playing – except, of course, when she was ahead on points.

  A little later, the taxi pulled up outside a small, expensive hotel in Kensington.

  Paul Denning usually spent the night at Fee’s flat. After the initial pleasure, she gradually began to object to his automatic assumption that all that was hers in the flat was also his: the telephone, the fax, the bathroom, the contents of the kitchen.

  ‘No beers?’ he’d said on one visit, petulantly, opening the fridge door. ‘I thought you knew I was coming—’

  He’d then thrown what could only be described as a tantrum. At first, Fee had thought he was joking. Then, she had done her best to mollify him, finally borrowing a six-pack of lager from Will upstairs.

  In anyone else, such behaviour would have appalled Fee. For Paul, she provided excuses. Over-stressed; too much work; she had been thoughtless . . .

  The visits only ever lasted a night, but once Paul had also spent the following day with her. It happened to be a Sunday and he’d enjoyed himself so much, Fee hadn’t seen or heard from him for three weeks. She had known better than to pursue him.

  Paul was nothing if not suspicious of his own feelings.

  ‘So how do I rate?’ Paul’s tone was light-hearted. He and Fee were in the large circular bath in the hotel a couple of hours later. Playfully, he had been batting soap froths with his hands, aiming at Fee’s breasts. Bastards always field trick questions, Fee reminded herself as she lay soaking; say nothing.

  ‘You’re mad about me, I can tell. Go on admit it,’ Paul teased, but Fee knew his intention was more serious. ‘Go on, be honest.’

  Be honest? Be honest. Several intimate encounters with men like Paul had meant that Fee knew she was equipped with few survival skills that worked – except one. Never speak the truth about the depth of your feelings.

  Too much demonstration of female affection and the man fled; too little and his ego wilted, so there was a real danger he would take it elsewhere for emergency treatment. The challenge lay in establishing precisely the right balance. It also meant the death of all spontaneity and hardly any relaxation.

  ‘Go on, how much do you really like me . . .?’ Paul was getting more persistent.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ Fee teased. She knew exactly what Paul wanted her to say. ‘I love you.’ The mystery was – why now?

  ‘I miss you when you’re not around.’ Paul scrutinized Fee’s face for a reaction. ‘That surprises me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Fee replied.

  ‘It’s thrown me offguard. I mean, I didn’t really have to come down today. I came mainly because I wanted to see you.’ Paul avoided Fee’s eyes by busily turning on the hot water.

  ‘You know me,’ he continued. ‘Work comes first. Don’t feel safe unless I’ve got more on my plate than I can handle . . . Here,’ he added. ‘Turn round and I’ll wash your back.’

  ‘The trouble with me is that when I get in too deep, I get frightened and back out . . . I hate myself for it, but there it is. That’s me—’

  Fee almost didn’t need to hear the rest of Paul’s pitch. He couldn’t deal with personal emotions disrupting his otherwise orderly agenda. If his feelings for her were becoming untidy, he would put a stop to it by turning his problem into Fee’s.

  Next, he would say that she deserved something more than he could give and so . . . It was a circuitous route but one that Fee had travelled before. It always led to the same abrupt ending.

  Paul squeezed warm water from the sponge onto Fee’s back and rubbed hard. ‘I tell myself that you can do better than me. I know that, you know that.’ He sounded totally unconvinced.

  ‘I tell myself that you need, no, you deserve, a relationship that’s going somewhere. You need a steady nine-to-five man.’ Paul made security sound as attractive as halitosis.

  He spent what appeared to be a very long time sponging her shoulders, then spoke again. ‘Look, Fee, there’s no way of putting this gently. I’ve thought about this long and hard. It’s going to break my heart, but for your sake, perhaps it’s best we call it a day . . . I can tell you’re not over-involved yet, so let’s go out on top. Say our goodbyes before there are tears.

  ‘I mean, we’ve had a bit of fun, no harm done – yet. But there will be if we go on. So let’s stay friends. What do you say? You’re not going to cry, are you?’ His tone was more curious than caring.

  No, Fee was not going to cry. She could manage that. She could always manage that. For a short time, at least. But, naturally, her heart had stopped; her stomach had dropped into the hotel’s basement; her bottom lip was twitching like a gundog chasing rabbits in its dreams. She let her hair fall forward to hide the signs.

  Then she found her voice, playing the game hard to the end. ‘You offered to soap my back,’ she said lightly. ‘Not grate it.’

  A few minutes later, the deed was done. Fee was surprised at how easy it had been. She’d heard the thunder of hoofs, smelt the damp leather – and out the words had come.

  ‘You’re absolutely right.’ She was smiling steadily, fighting hard against all her instincts. Instincts that told her to persuade him to change his mind, ask him to give them a second try, not say goodbye.

  Instead, she said, ‘You’re right, this isn’t going anywhere and it never will. I’ve been telling myself that for a while now, but I suppose I’ve been too lazy to do anything about it. I’ve got a tendency to drift . . . At least, that’s what my friends say.’

  Paul watched her, perplexed. He hadn’t expected this. Every other time he’d tried his little strategy, the woman had cried, pleaded, negotiated, and finally the relationship had moved into extra time.

  The manoeuvre had clear advantages for Paul Denning. It kept the woman on her toes, it confirmed his supremacy and it allowed him to dictate future terms.

  Fee was not reacting according to plan.

  He grew angry, extremely angry. What the hell did she think she was doing, mucking him about like this?

  ‘You want to end it,’ he said petulantly, forgetting that it was he who had initiated the proposal. ‘Fine. It’s ended.’

  Fee stood in the bedroom and hid her tears in a hotel towel the size of a shroud. This was a first for her. She had seized the initiative. Usually at this point she’d be begging and bawling, promising to change. Change precisely what, she didn’t always know, but the vague suggestion of improvement was usually enough. Some men seemed to like that. And Fee almost always assumed it was her who should be doing the improving.

  At this stage, she would experience such a deep sense of loss it would overwhelm the little rational thought that remained. She would pledge anything and everything. Only later, if the man agreed to resume the relationship and the initial panic at abandonment had subsided, would Fee ask herself, is this what I really want?

  Now, for the first time she had changed the rules of the game. But so what? She was still in a situation in which she didn’t want to be.

  Next door, Paul continued to soak in the tub, his eyes closed, humming tunelessly.

  Fee was dressed and just about to let herself out when he emerged from the bathroom. His mood had changed dramatically.

  ‘You’re not really leaving, are you?’ he asked, affecting surprise.

  ‘I thought you were staying the night?’ he added casually, as if the official severing of their relationship was no cause to leave early. ‘Come on, don’t go.’

  ‘Of course I’m going,’ Fee replied carefully. She had intended to keep conversation to a minimum, aware of Paul’s ability to ensnare her again. Instead, suddenly, the words poured out. Words triggered not by several hours with Paul, but years of making mistakes with men who each believed themselves unique – but who, to Fee, were all too depressingly similar.

  ‘You said, “Be honest.” But that’s not something I am in your company. I’m never open, honest, sponta
neous . . . I’m confused.’ Fee paused.

  ‘Confused is the word. I’ve reached a point when I don’t know if I’m expecting too much from the relationship or not nearly enough. Don’t worry’, she suddenly added. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing to do with you. It’s probably my own fault.’

  Privately she cursed herself. Of course some of it was Paul’s bloody fault. Why do women always take it upon themselves to accept emotional responsibility?

  ‘It’s my birthday,’ she announced suddenly as if she expected that, like a magic wand, it would transform the situation. Paul made no response. Instead he pulled her down to sit on the bed next to him.

  He carefully massaged the base of her neck. He had a towel around his waist and smelt wonderfully clean.

  He lowered his voice. He found resistance arousing.

  ‘Look, Fee, it’s OK. We’ll stop seeing each other regularly, if that’s what you really want. But it doesn’t mean we can’t see one another now and then, does it? For old times’ sake? Just an occasional bit of fun?’

  He was right, Fee thought. A lot of it would be fun. Aimless fun. But at thirty-eight, was that the way she wished to spend her time? The fact that she had even begun to think in such a vein she found unnerving. Live for today was Claire’s motto, and let fate take care of the rest.

  Paul was trying to ease Fee out of her jacket.

  ‘So why not stay tonight, Fee? No strings? We’re adults, aren’t we?’ In one smooth manoeuvre, he kissed the end of her nose, grazed her nipple with his fingertips and glanced down at his watch.

  Fee saw him check the time. He had probably calculated that it was too late to book in anyone else, so he might as well persuade her to stay.

  This man has the depth and maturity of a cartoon character, she chastised herself. So why on earth did she fancy him – as she most certainly still did?

  She wavered. Perhaps this was her fate. Perhaps, after all, she did deserve the bastards she attracted?

  ‘Well?’ said Paul, kissing her ear lobe. ‘What’s it to be?’