The Armchair Bride (14 page)

‘What did you say?’

‘I told him the necklace he was wearing was tacky,’ Amy says and laughs. ‘Trust me, if you’d been having every kind of awful thought go through your head, finding out Glen liked to wear a dress now and then was no big thing. I thought he was having an affair or dying. Turns out he likes twin sets and ra-ra skirts.’

Words seem hard to find.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

‘Oh don’t worry. I still love the gom, but I reckon a break will do us both the power of good.’

‘I still don’t get why Mam was in such a crappy mood with him?’

Amy looks uncomfortable.

‘She saw him,’ she says. ‘Only she doesn’t know it was him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘One time she came round to post a copy of Good Housekeeping through my door and happened to loom through the window. Glen was having one of his freedom from uniform days and she saw him.’

‘So she
does
know?’

‘She thinks he had another woman round there.’

‘Didn’t you put her right?’ I say.

‘I wanted to, but Glen wouldn’t let me. So we decided to tell her he’d been having a bit of an affair. But that he was very sorry and I’ve forgiven him.’

‘Shit,’ I say. ‘I’m surprised she didn’t cut his winkie off.’

‘I think that was on the cards.’

I glance at my watch.

‘We have to get going. Our train goes in ten minutes.’

‘You don’t mind me landing on you like this, do you?’ she says, but only after the train has pulled out of Birmingham.

‘Of course not.’

I’m being completely honest. It will be nice to have someone around for a few days. Amy can help me plan the hen party. I still silently dread the arrival of Helen’s closest friends. Will an evening with Dick Rock fit the bill? I wonder if it’s too late to cancel and book tea, scones and a little light chamber music.

After wading through crowds at Piccadilly, I wave down a cab and a few short minutes later, we’re home.

‘This looks posh,’ Amy says.

‘It really isn’t.’

I’ve always been slightly uncomfortable living in the sort of place I used to call a
yuppy box
in my more politically-active days. It’s a converted cotton mill and we’ve a concierge called Trevor. I tried befriending him, but he made it very clear he felt it
inappropriate to socialise with tenants
. He managed to inject the words with the same sort of contempt usually reserved for suicide bombers or traffic wardens.

Never one to give up, I tried to make amends with a box of mince pies at Christmas. They turned up unopened outside our front door. Since then, I’ve done everything to avoid eye contact.

We sweep past his desk and Trevor briefly glances up from his newspaper as I call the lift.

‘How fancy is this?’ Amy whispers. ‘A doorman and everything.’

‘He’s just here to look after the place,’ I say. ‘We get a lot of crime round here. It’s really rough.’

Outside, an elderly lady wheels past a shopping basket. Something falls from it and a guy in a hoodie bends down to help.

‘Yeah,’ Amy says. ‘It’s like the Bronx round here, innit?’

She slips off her coat and drapes it over one arm. I can’t help but stare at her boobs. All the way up to Manchester, I thought they seemed larger. I put it down to the way she was sitting or her chunky sweater, but now I’m not so sure. Even the best push-up bra on the market can’t take credit. I wonder if she’s had some work done. Six months ago, she went for two weeks with Glen to Switzerland, did she have a boob job?

I don’t have chance to ask, her enthusiasm goes into overdrive when I open the front door. She skips from room to room, oohing and ahhing, goshing and gasping. I leave her to it and fill the kettle for a cup of tea.

‘You are so lucky,’ she says, her tour over. ‘This is the sort of thing I always wanted when I was single.’

For some reason, the word hurts.

‘It isn’t a party being alone,’ I say, more as a reflex and Amy looks surprised, unsure how to reply. She quickly pulls it back by admiring the kitchen.

‘I love those mugs, are they from IKEA?’

She goes through to the living room and I follow with two cups of tea.

‘Better be careful,’ she says. ‘All these cream rugs and white sofas.’

‘Everything’s machine washable.’

‘Really?’ Amy sounds fascinated. ‘Just a normal wash or do you have to put them on thirty degrees?’

‘Normal, I think.’

I’m tired and still have a faint hangover. Amy is annoying me by telling me how perfect everything in my life appears.

‘Amy, what’s the real reason you’ve come up here?’ I say and my voice sounds tense. Snappy even.

She sits down, looking hurt.

‘I thought it would be cool to hang out for a change.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to be a bitch, only I’m a bit cranky, that’s all. Last night wasn’t the highlight of my life.’

‘It’s OK,’ she says and her smile makes me feel even more guilty. Amy looks around.

‘Is that Dad’s old chair?’

‘Mam was throwing it out and I got Uncle Brendan to drive it up.’

‘I bet he made you pay for petrol?’

‘Twenty quid and he made me buy a fish supper.’

‘You know he makes Auntie Rose buy economy packs of everything? She isn’t even allowed to buy real digestive biscuits. She has to buy the ones that taste like floor sweepings.’

Amy sips her tea.

‘Can we forget about the other night?’ I say.

‘Already forgotten. After the last few weeks I was just happy to see someone else making a fuck up of their life.’

I toss a cushion at her head.

‘Watch it,’ she cries. ‘I nearly spilled my tea.’

Amy unpacks. I let her take my room and I set up camp in Andy’s. It feels sort of empty. Like someone moved on and I’m overjoyed to find he’s left a dressing gown in the cupboard. It smells of him.

After taking a shower, I decide to call for pizza.

‘What toppings do you fancy,’ I say to my closed bedroom door, but here’s no answer. I tap gently and after a few seconds, she opens it a crack.

‘I was going to call for a pizza, are you hungry?’

‘Yeah, fine, give me a few minutes,’ she says and pushes the door shut. ‘

Are you OK?’

‘Fine,’ a muffled voice says. ‘Just struggling with my contact lenses. I’ll be out in a minute.’

I didn’t even know Amy wore contact lenses. She’s never even worn glasses. Have I totally lost touch with my family?

‘So shall I order for you?’ I say.

‘Yeah, go ahead.’

I hunt for a take-away menu and order two New York Specials, a side order of garlic bread and a bottle of white wine. The doorbell rings while I’m checking email and I hear Amy in the hall.

‘Shall I get this?’ she says.

‘There’s some money on the side in the kitchen.’

‘I’ll pay, it’s the least I can do.’

A few moments later, she appears with dinner, having changed into sweat pants and a T-shirt. My eyes are once more drawn to her chest. Again I say nothing.

‘I’m famished,’ she says and piles the boxes on our tiny dining table.

After dinner, I feel squiffy from the wine. I seem to be hogging the bottle and each time I go to refill Amy’s half-full glass, she covers it with her hand.

‘This is delicious,’ she says. ‘It’s funny, I never really cared for pizza much before…’

She stops speaking and a guilty look takes over.

It’s so obvious now.

‘You’re pregnant!’ I say and her face lights up. ‘How long?’

‘Two months.’

‘Does Mam know?’

‘She knew before me.’

‘I thought you’d had a boob job or put on weight.’

‘Oh this isn’t the baby.’ She grabs a roll of skin above her thigh. ‘
This
is fat. I know I’m supposed to feel sick and be off my food and stuff, but I’m not. Quite the opposite in fact. I can’t get enough of it. Mam says she was the same when she was carrying me.’

‘She never said anything.’

‘I asked her not to. I’m a bit superstitious about saying anything until I pass the three-month bit. The biggest risk of anything going wrong is over then. Mam agreed to keep it quiet.’

‘How does Glen feel? Is he happy?’

‘Are you kidding? He’s over the bloody moon.’

‘Even with the ...’

She cocks her head to one side.

‘We’re fine, Lisa. So what if my husband looks better in half my wardrobe than I do? I’m learning to deal with it.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything. I’m just so happy for you.’

‘I’m not going to lie to you,’ Amy picks at my leftover crusts. ‘It hasn’t been easy. For the longest time I blamed myself, but I’ve met a few other wives and partners and it sort of makes more sense now. I know that he’s still Glen, the man I fell in love with. The only thing is ever since I found out I’m expecting, I’ve been getting these awful mood swings and I can eat for England. But don’t go worrying about us we’re finding our way through it all.’

‘God, but you’re brave. I don’t know if I’d be able to cope with everything that’s going on in your life and being pregnant.’

‘You just do.’ Amy sits back. ‘I’m absolutely stuffed.’

‘Me too. And I suppose the rest of this wine is mine.’

‘Afraid so. I allow myself a half glass now and then. Don’t tell my health visitor. She gets the vapours if she thinks I’m drinking anything other than decaf.’

‘Shall I put the leftover pizza in the fridge?’

‘Ooh yes. I’ll be hungry again in an hour.’

I tidy away the boxes and wrap Amy’s midnight feast.

We chat late into the night, listening to music and catching up on stories. I tell her about my New Year’s Resolution.

‘About bloody time,’ she says. ‘You’ve been on your own too long.’

‘Don’t you start.’

‘So was what you said at Mam’s not true then? Is there no bloke on the horizon.’

‘No. Well, maybe. I don’t know.’

‘So there is no Brian?’

‘There is, but he’s my boss.’

‘An office romance, that sounds like fun? Are you at it in the stationery cupboard?’

‘It’s not like that. We haven’t really done anything more than go to lunch together.’

‘This is the twenty-first century, Lisa, you are allowed to kiss out of wedlock.’

‘All we seem to do is talk about his loveless marriage.’

Amy raises an eyebrow. ‘Fuck me, that’s the oldest trick in the book. Don’t tell me he’s talked you into being the other woman? What did he say? His wife doesn’t understand him? I’d given you more credit than that.’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Nina was the other woman. Only she wasn’t really, it was all a big misunderstanding.’

Amy looks confused, so I find myself explaining the whole story.

‘And you think there might be something in all of this?’ she says when I’m done.

‘I’d not really given it any thought at all until Sharon and Andy pointed out how he is around me.’

‘And how is that?’

‘Well you know, flirty, shy, awkward.’ I hesitate. ‘Sexy.’

It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to say out loud what’s been rattling around my head.

‘
Lisa’s in love, Lisa’s in love,
’ she sings and I blush.

‘It’s too complicated.’

‘So you’re going to sit back and let some other woman swoop in?’

‘There is no other woman.’

‘Not yet. But if he’s such a big dirty ride, it won’t take long. Single men give off a certain scent. Desperate, single women of a certain age can spot it a mile off.’

‘I’m not a desperate single woman of a certain age.’

‘Whatever. Now where is that leftover pizza?’

Amy goes in search of food, leaving me deep in thought.

Nineteen

‘Dick Rock?’ Amy looks at the picture. ‘Could he be any more obvious?’

‘I’m assured he’s gay,’ I say.

‘You know I don’t find that so hard to believe.’ Amy puts down the photograph. ‘So next Friday is the big night?’

I shudder. We’ve spent the past few days being ladies who lunch, shopping away our days and scoffing huge meals that leave me barely able to move, but see Amy study the desert menu, pondering aloud if she can have whipped cream
and
custard with a double portion of treacle sponge cake. She’s become a human dustbin.

‘And that Ginny is definitely coming?’ she says.

‘I’ve double checked with the hotel and she’s reserved a suite.’

‘Pretentious cow. Her sister was in my year, used to think she was better than us because the family sold rancid bangers. I thought she was broke these days.’

‘I don’t know. In fact I’m trying not to care.’

‘Her sort almost always falls on their feet. I dare say she’ll sit in the corner with a face like a smacked arse all night.’

‘I hope so. I don’t think I can cope with any more snide remarks about my supposed husband.’

Amy promises we’ll have fun, but I’m unconvinced.

‘What time is this Brian picking you up for dinner?’ she says

‘Seven-thirty.’

‘And what are we wearing?’

‘
I’m
wearing something comfortable. I didn’t know
you
were coming too.’

‘You know what I mean. You’re not wearing jeans are you?’

‘What’s wrong with jeans?’

‘They’re fine if you’re going to the pub. This is dinner out in a fancy place with a bloke you fancy. I’ll lend you something.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure we’re the same size.’

When growing up, being two years apart and built the same, Sue and I traded clothes, with Mam patching up on demand. Amy was never part of our club; she had what Dad called
the figure of a real woman
. I’m blessed with a straight up and down figure, the dear Lord having clearly checked his notes and confirmed I’m to remain single long after any chance of bringing a new life into the world has passed

‘I want to shop for when I get my figure back after the baby’s born,’ she says. ‘I want a glamorous new wardrobe waiting. I read something in Grazia about how you should only buy classics. And I’m already planning on going to the gym. If Posh Spice can get her figure back in two months, then so can I.’

‘I read that Hollywood movie stars have their babies whipped out a month early to help cut down on the stretch marks.’

‘Really?’ she says in the sort of way that makes me want to hide every way of her getting in touch with anyone prepared to carry out such a procedure.

Amy pays for lunch and flags down a taxi.

‘This is going to be such fun,’ she says. ‘Like in Pretty Woman.’

In a quest to revamp her wardrobe and make sure that I don’t let the Doyle team down, Amy drags me around some of the swishiest shops in Manchester. The sort of places where you ring a bell for admission.

I’m measured and prodded by smug skinny shop girls and made to walk up and down polished wooden floors parading Amy’s choice of outfit.

‘Perfect,’ she says in a vast loft-style space hidden away on the second floor of a building encased in glass and chrome. It’s an establishment even stuffier than the shops with doorbells. More like an office and Amy had to call ahead to make an appointment.

‘I think the cut shows off madam’s legs,’ quacks the regulation beanpole assistant and her head bobs enthusiastically while I loiter in a knee-length skirt made by some cutting-edge designer I’ve never heard of. The mere mention of his name sends Amy into paroxysms of delight. It doesn’t look so very different to one I got from Debenhams last month.

‘We’ll take it,’  she confirms in between mouthfuls of apple Danish, supplied along with a choice of six different leaf teas and I’m ushered into the changing room while Amy prepares her credit card for daylight robbery.

‘You’ll knock him dead,’ she whispers while each item is wrapped in tissue and placed into expensive-looking bags.

‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t feel like me.’

Amy dismisses my concerns with a wave and we leave laden with carriers.

‘I wonder if it isn’t too late to do something about this,’ Amy lifts a few strands of my hair in the cab home.

‘I only had it done two weeks ago.’

‘So this is
on purpose
?’

It’s like being out with Andy, except a gay man is allowed to be a bitch. My sister, not so much.

‘Amy, unless you stop trying to stage manage this date, I’m going to ring Brian and tell him I’m ill.’

Amy looks crestfallen.

‘Why does tonight matter so much to you?’

‘It doesn’t,’ she says and I can tell she’s lying - her right eyelid twitches, it’s something she’s been cursed with since childhood. She pulls sunglasses from her bag and pops them on

‘I want you to be happy. You’re my sister and I don’t want to think of people showering you with pity. That cow Ginny shouldn’t be able to lord it over you.’

‘I thought I told you, I don’t care what she thinks.’

‘So what was that big scene at Mam’s?’

I refuse to answer and so Amy prods again, determined to raise a reaction.

‘You looked like you cared then.’

‘I was being stupid. Mam made me see sense.’

‘Oh please! One long chat with our blessed mother and you’re over forty years of self doubt and denial.’

‘I’m not like you,’ I say. ‘I can’t just bounce back no matter what.’

‘Is that what you think I do?’

‘No. .. I don’t know. Maybe. You and Sue always seem so much more sorted.’

‘What exactly did Mam say?’

‘That I care too much about what other people think.’

‘Fuck me, Confucius has spoken.’

‘Mam said I need to stop worrying about making the right impression. And you know what? She might actually be right for once.’

‘So you’re not going to wear any of this?’ Amy indicates the bags that cover the floor of the black cab.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘That’s my girl,’ she says and leans back in her seat. ‘We’ll get you laid yet.’

While Amy fusses around unwrapping her purchases and putting them on hangers, I check email and track down the number for Andy’s hotel.

When the line answers, someone tells me in broken shouty English that everyone from the movie crew is out on location and hangs up.

I’d hoped to have Andy tell me I’m doing the right thing by going out on a date with Brian. It’s all very well Amy dressing me up and telling me I look the part. She doesn’t know what’s going on inside my head. He does. With nerves twanging, I call Sharon.

‘I’m shocked it’s taken you this long,’ she says when I tell her about dinner.

‘Amy’s gone a bit strange, she’s turned into some sort of style Nazi and bullied me into wearing clothes from posh shops.’

‘Do you get to keep them?’

‘She says they’re for after she’s had the baby.’

‘Then make the most of  it. I’d give anything to go for a nice dinner in beautiful clothes.’

‘What if
we
go out for dinner next week?’

‘It’ll have to be somewhere cheap. The Christmas credit card bills are in and we’re on an economy drive.’

‘How about Chinese. My treat.’

‘Suits me fine.’

It’s such a banal conversation, I need to ask her what’s really on my mind.

‘I don’t know why I’m going through with this.’ I say. ‘Somehow or other, I’ve built this up into some kind of date. I know it’s just dinner with a mate.’

‘A good-looking bloke has asked you out,’ Sharon says. ‘Plain and simple. It doesn’t have to be anything more than dinner, but if it feels right, and if you want to take it further …’

‘But what if it all goes tits up and I make a fool of myself ?’

‘How likely is that?’

‘What if
he
already thinks there’s more to this than dinner?’ I say.

‘And there isn’t?’

‘Of course not.’

I’m only half lying. Although I’ve cast Brian in the role of male consort, I’ve yet to get past him being my boss. And married to a truly unhinged woman who, no matter how much anyone claims she used to be lovely, still fills me with the fear of God.

‘Don’t go worrying about what might and might not happen,’ Sharon says. ‘Enjoy the meal, wear the nice clothes, have a good time. It doesn’t have to be so complicated, you know.’

‘And at the end of the evening?’

‘Kiss him on the cheek, thank him for a lovely time and get into a taxi.’

An unexpected flood of nerves rises from deep in my stomach. I see something in the future. Dark. Unpleasant. Wrong. Me making a total fool of myself.

‘I’m going to call him and say I don’t feel very well,’ I say.

‘You’ll only be sorry and I don’t want to have to spend Thursday evening analysing what he said and second-guessing what he really meant over sweet and sour pork balls.’

‘So you think I ought to go?’

‘Of course I do, woman. Now pull yourself together. Play your cards right and you might not need Andy to escort you to that bloody school reunion slash wedding.’

‘Oh God! I’d forgotten about that. I’ve got so much to tell you about what happened when I went home this weekend. That bitch Ginny more or less ruined everything.’

‘What?’ Sharon sounds distracted. ‘Sorry Lisa, Bethany’s started crying. I’m going to have to go ...’

She rings off as Amy appears and takes one look at me in the blue armchair, wrapped in Andy’s old dressing gown, wearing a pair of thick gray football socks and shakes her head.

‘Is it any bloody wonder you’re still single? Get in that bathroom and use the tub of scrub. I’ll help you do your hair and make-up.’

I sulk into the bathroom, and stop dead when I clap eyes on the line-up of products laid out. It’s like being given free run of the beauty counter in a posh department store. Revitalising body scrub, refreshing facial toner, eye boost, and lip plumping gel, everything I’ve ever dreamed of owning and all in my own bathroom. I want to hug Amy, but know she’ll make some comment about how time is ticking away and point out that if I don’t make full use of what’s on offer, no man will look twice, let alone stump up for a three-course meal.

‘Right, when I say go, open your eyes,’ Amy says after spending what feels like an eternity messing with curling tongs, a hairdryer and something called anti-frizz- super-body serum. She’s refused all requests for a mirror and forced me to sit very still in her tight posh frock while making up my face.

‘Go,’ she says and I open one eye.

I look like a polished, grown-up, improved version of me.

‘I look so…’ I struggle to find the right words.

‘Fuckable?’ she leers.

‘Amy!’

‘Isn’t that the whole idea?’

‘I’m only going for dinner.’

I stand to check how the dress looks from behind.

Perfect, obviously.

‘And I bet you wouldn’t mind being desert.’

‘That’s the sort of thing I’d expect from Andy.’

‘He rang while you were in the shower.’

I feel let down, why didn’t Amy call me? Tonight of all nights, I really do need to speak to my best mate.

‘I was going to shout you, but when he heard all about your date, he said you needed every minute you can get to stand any chance of looking half way decent. Bit cheeky I thought.’

I smile in spite of his words.

‘That does sound like Andy.’

‘His final advice to me was ‘
make sure she looks fuckable
’. So is this mission accomplished?’

I look in the mirror again.

‘Mission accomplished.’

‘And just because a car looks like it’ll go fast, doesn’t mean you have to drive it that way.’

‘What?’

‘Mam said that to me the first time I went out with Glen.’

Amy brushes a speck of lint from my dress as the doorbell rings.

‘Oh my good God, he’s here,’ I say. I can’t breathe. All of a sudden, the dress feels
too
tight. I’m hot and want to throw open a window. All my make-up will run down my face and I’ll look like an Edvard Munch painting. Amy shoves me towards the intercom.

I must have said I’m on the way down, because she slips an expensive coat around my shoulders, opens the front door, hands me my keys and bag and waves goodbye.

‘Have a lovely evening,’ she says. ‘Don’t rush back, I need to spend some quality time with my best friends Ben and Jerry.’

I want to run back inside, heat up oven chips and suggest a Netflix blow out, but Amy blocks my way.

‘You look stunning,’ Brian says from where he stands below, half way up the stairs.

Amy closes the door.

Brian’s wearing a black tuxedo and he’s had his hair cut. The trademark five o’clock stubble is gone. Uh-oh, I think. Someone is making an effort.

He holds out a hand to help me down the stairs. Not a bad idea given that the last time I’d walked in heels this high I tripped and spent the evening waiting for an x-ray on what turned out to be a fractured ankle.

‘Your carriage awaits,’ he whispers and I catch a whiff of his aftershave.

Sweet, sharp.

Sexy.

Outside, I climb into a taxi and he closes the door, walking around to the other side.

Uh oh, again.

He’s not driving, that means we’ll both end up drinking too much. Here comes trouble.