The Armchair Bride (16 page)

After a quick mooch around the shops, I go home to get ready for the main event.

I open my front door and walk into a room filled with balloons, decorations and smiling faces.

‘Surprise!’ laughs Amy. ‘A few of the girls were in town so I thought I’d invite them over and get the party started.’

Everyone is in high spirits and I spot familiar faces, people I haven’t seen for years. There’s no sign of Ginny, so I allow myself to relax and smile, saying hello, shaking hands and scoring a large vodka and tonic from the kitchen. It’s going to be a long night.

An afternoon of large measures and very little food means by the time Amy and I climb into a taxi, I’m squiffy.

She grabs me when I almost fall out of the cab into oncoming traffic outside the pub. A corner of the bar is draped with ribbons, silver horseshoes, L-plates and hen party paraphernalia. When I walk in, there’s a loud cheer. People stand and chant my name.

Amy arranges drinks and insists the others raise glasses in a toast to the organiser. The women I assured George were reserved seem anything but. When Helen puts in an appearance, the bar erupts and Amy bundles her into the toilets to change.

Everyone is in a fabulous mood, and better yet, there’s no sign of Ginny. Maybe she’s ditched us after all. I feel a slight sense of disappointment. For all the dread, I was looking forward to seeing her humiliated.

Then I remember George’s promise.

If she doesn’t turn up, I’ll have to pick on you.

‘Room for a little one?’ A familiar voice giggles. It’s Dopey Penny.

I try to sound pleased to see her. How can you dislike anyone who seems to like you?

‘Who’s getting married?’ she says.

‘My old school friend, Helen.’

‘Which one is she?’

‘She’s getting changed in the toilet.’

‘I didn’t know
you’d
been married,’ she says. ‘You kept that a secret.’

‘What?’

‘James, your ex. A lawyer so I’m told.’

Penny sips her drink and my blood runs cold.

‘Who told you?’

She points to the far side of the bar where Brian and Angela sit. Brian laughs and as he leans back, I see Ginny, smiling coldly.

She raises her glass and mouths the word ‘
cheers
’.

Twenty two

The party fades into the background along with the buzz of good-natured conversation. A familiar knot takes hold at the pit of my stomach and I’m back in the school playground, surrounded by spiteful faces.

‘Lisa Doyle, smells of oil, has no tits just two big boils.’

‘Oily boils.’

‘Nick nack paddy whack, give the dog a bone.’

‘Ginger minger.’

I never forget the names or the chants. Now and then, when I allow myself to remember, all the old feelings flood back. Here, in the place where I’m supposed to feel at home, I feel exposed. And all Ginny can do is smile.

‘Lisa.’ Someone has hold of my arm. I don’t answer. ‘Lisa.’ It’s Amy, this time more insistent. ‘We have to go. The car is here.’

I fight back from my darkest corner and see the others putting on coats, picking up bags and heading for the door. Amy has my jacket and I make sure not to look over to where Brian sits.

Ginny slides past on a cloud of expensive perfume and I stare after her, unable to move.

Someone puts their arm around me. It’s Sister Bernie. Cheerful as ever. I remember that groggy afternoon inside a whiskey bottle and wish I was back there now, feeling little or no pain.

‘How are you?’ she says.

‘Fine,’ I manage to smile.

‘It’s going to be a great night.’

She runs ahead, determined to get the best seat in the long white car being eyed by a traffic warden.

‘Come on,’ Amy calls.

The car windows steam up as the roof slides open. Helen is lifted up into the cold night air and there’s a loud cheer from within. I force one foot in front of the other and stumble the few steps across the damp pavement to take a seat next to a girl I don’t recognise. Two rows in front, sits Ginny, her mouth twisted into a nasty smile. There’s no sign of George.

We pull out into the traffic and the driver turns on the music, encouraging us to sing along to Kylie Minogue’s ‘
I should be so lucky
’. As hardly anyone knows the words, it soon descends into laughter with women who should know better winding down windows to bawl suggestive remarks at lads young enough to be their sons and daughters. The youth of today respond in kind with pumped fists and v-signs. One guy throws a bag of chips at the car, prompting hoots of laughter.

At the Astoria, Helen and her revellers pile onto a soggy red carpet and make their way inside. And I hear Ginny’s voice.

‘It’s not the sort of place I usually frequent,’ she says. Any trace of a Midlands accent is gone as she quacks away in a put-on middle class voice. Like the one Mam uses when people phone up to sell stuff.

‘I’m only here for dear sweet Helen,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t usually be caught dead in Manchester.’

I want to turn and run, but Bernie has hold of my arm,

‘Don’t go spending out on drinks,’ she says. ‘I’ve a bottle in my bag, just get yourself a coke or something.’

Apart from sour-faced Ginny, the others all look to be in party mode, laughing and linking arms.

‘It’s going to be OK, isn’t it?’ I say and Bernie throws back her head to let out a filthy, raucous guffaw.

‘What time’s the stripper getting here?’

‘Woman after my own heart,’ a theatrical voice booms. It belongs to someone with a flowing mane of blonde ringlets, dotted with plastic roses, carefully painted face, a silver dress, fishnets and the biggest pair of strappy silver sandals.

‘George,’ I cry, relieved to see an almost familiar face.

‘Fonda when I’m on duty dear.’

‘Fonda?’

‘Fonda Cox, love, that’s my stage name, make sure you use it. I’m always available for weddings and Bah Mitzvahs. Entertaining groups of middle-aged slappers is my specialty.’

‘Less of the middle-aged, y’aul whore,’ Bernie says and Fonda totters through the lobby to call everyone to order.

‘Ladies and …’ His gaze settles on Ginny. ‘Sluts.’

She refuses to let the smile slip. Instead, she makes a great show of kissing Fonda. Those who don’t actually know her to be a two-faced conniving cow cheer and Bernie wolf-whistles.

‘Welcome to the mad house,’ Fonda bellows and leads the way to a roped-off area.

‘Is this the VIP suite?’ Helen says and Fonda looks her up and down.

‘It’s more like the fucking dog’s home.’

I  feel awful. This isn’t what Helen deserves. I rehearse apologies for organising something wholly inappropriate, but to my surprise, she laughs and grabs hold of his bum. Fonda throws me a dirty look.

‘Right girls, off to the bar and order what you like, fill your boots,’ he says.

Nobody needs to be told twice.

While the others clamour for the attention of two nervous-looking eighteen- year-old shirtless bar boys, Fonda pulls me to one side.

‘I thought you said she was a shrinking violet?’

‘She was at school.’

‘The little minx nearly had hold of my lunch box. I’m going to have to go and adjust myself.’

He flounces off.

‘I got you a coke,’ Bernie says with a wink and when I take a slug, it’s almost neat whiskey.

‘Thanks,’ I say as the warm fuzz melts my brain.

‘I remember how you can put them away.’

‘You’re a fine one to talk.’

The evening shows all the signs of turning into one massive car-crash, but it’s out of my hands. I can only stand back and watch it happen. Chances are, after tonight, I’ll never see any of these people again - well, apart from at the wedding itself and the reception, but then absolutely never ever again.

‘Have you got a minute or two to talk?’ Bernie says.

‘Sure, what about?’

‘Can we get away from this lot? I’d rather there was no risk of being overheard.’

‘How about we nip to the ladies?’

The toilets are empty, but Bernie peers under stall doors to check we’re alone.

‘It’s about Ian Tyler,’ she says.

‘I kind of thought it might be.’

‘He’s up for early release in the next few weeks. I thought you ought to know.’

‘That’s good news, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she says carefully.

‘Is there something I should know?’

‘It’s probably nothing, but I suppose I ought to tell you. He’s been talking about coming to see you when he gets out. He said he wants to thank you for your support.’

I’ve only sent a couple of emails. To my shame, I’ve still not answered his last message. It’s hardly an overwhelming display of selfless toil.

‘He doesn’t need to,’ I say.

‘I did try telling him that good deeds have their own reward in heaven.’

She turns to look in the mirror and pick at a stray eyelash.

‘I’m no fool Lisa. I don’t only see the good in everyone. Ian’s done a few bad things in his life and I know he’s no angel. The last thing you’d want is him turning up on your doorstep.’

I can’t bring myself to say what I feel - that I’d move house to make sure he didn’t find me. The one thing I’ve learned recently is that the past and the present don’t mix. They have to be kept as far apart as possible.

‘There really is no need to explain,’ Bernie says. ‘What you feel is perfectly normal. There is no reason to think he’d cause any trouble, but you can have the authorities make sure he keeps away.’

‘Involve the police?’

‘One of the conditions of his release is he’s not to go within a mile of the place where his ex-wife lives or works. If you’re worried, you can ask for something similar.’

‘All he’s ever done is send a few emails.’

‘I know and I blame myself for this but…’

She’s avoiding eye contact.

‘He’s talking about coming up to Manchester to visit,’ she says. ‘He reckons you’ve got stuff in common.’

‘Such as?’

‘He kept going on about how you’d split up from someone. What with everything that happened with Jenny, he thought it might help if you could find someone to talk to.’

‘Split up from someone?’

‘I tried to explain to him as far as I know you’ve never married.’

I don’t know what to say and even unshakeable Bernie looks concerned. Ginny can’t have got to him, surely?

‘Are you alright, Lisa?’

My mouth is dry and my hands shake.

‘It’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘What’s the worst that can happen?’

Bernie nods.

‘You have a think about what you want and let me know. I’ll talk to the right people.’

I don’t speak and she takes a hold of my hand.

‘I suppose we better get back out there. Will you be OK?’

I nod, follow her out and make a beeline for the bar.

A large double vodka settles my nerves enough to stray towards the dance floor. Fonda is up on stage belting out
It’s Raining Men
and I spot Helen, glass in one hand, inflated condom in the other. She waves and Bernie hands me a second large scotch.

By the time everyone is ushered across the sticky carpet, out the doors and on to The Snake Pit, for a performance by the legendary Dick Rock, I feel no pain and even allow myself to join the back of a chaotic conga that weaves through the otherwise hip and cool crowd.

The limo journey is loud and messy and I sit next to a girl called Fran who works with Helen. We bitch about how non-smudge lipsticks, like men and twenty- four hour deodorants, always let us down.

The Snake Pit makes the Astoria look classy. It appears to have been decorated on a shoestring budget. The wooden floors are studded with fag burns and the walls grimy yellow. There’s a small, grubby dance floor surrounded by irregularly spaced red and green light bricks. A moth-eaten gold curtain shimmers on a tiny stage and a grubby pink, padded bar in the corner is manned by someone who looks to have come straight from a day job digging holes.

‘All drinks are a fiver,’ he says when I’m first to order. ‘Five quid for a pint or soft drink, five quid for a spirit, five quid for wine.’

‘Do you do cocktails?’

‘We do pints, spirits and mixers or wine.’

‘White wine spritzer?’ I say and he hands me a pint glass, a small warm bottle of Liebfraumilch and a bottle of tonic water.

‘Ten quid,’ he says.

‘I thought everything was a fiver.’

‘Fiver for the wine, fiver for the mixer.’

I sigh and hand over the money and, drinks in hand, step away from the bar to find Helen. She’s with a gaggle of friends near a row of neglected pot plants. They’re not people I recognise, so I decide to leave her to it and drift back into the crowd near the bar.

Fonda taps me on the shoulder.

‘Right, young lady. I think it’s about time I had a bit of fun with your friend,’ he says and before I can say anything, he climbs onto the stage and the sound system crackles into life.

‘Come on Andy, sort this shit out,’ he shouts over feedback whistles.

The speakers hiss and a fanfare sounds.

‘Ladies, welcome to The Snake Pit,’ booms a disembodied voice. ‘Please put your hands together, give her the clap. It’s the hostess with the mostess, Miss Fonda Cox.’

We all applaud, some girls cheer and Fonda takes an elaborate bow.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ he says. ‘He’s had the clap more times than I’ve had hot men. They’re talking about putting up a blue plaque in the special clinic with his name on it.’

‘Where’s the stripper,’ someone heckles - it sounds like Helen.

Fonda looks pained.

‘Welcome to the show. Lovely to see you all here. Was the graveyard shut?’

Polite laughter.

‘Right then,’ he says. ‘I think it’s time we had a bit of fun. Let’s have a proper look at who we’ve got in.’

The house lights go up and the DJ turns a small spotlight directly onto Ginny.

‘Fuck me,’ Fonda says. ‘Look at Lady Muck over there. Nice frock, was it too cold on your regular corner tonight?’

Ginny’s smile is anything but genuine.

‘You know, it never ceases to amaze me how you get these snooty slappers who spend a fucking fortune on having their hair died blonde and they still manage to forget to dye the roots. Do the carpets match the curtains, love – or have you left them grey?’

She looks mortified and a wave of disappointment washes over me. This is my doing. I’m the one who singled her out as a suitable target. What’s going on is no better than what she did to me years earlier. Except she was a child and I’m a grown up. Someone who ought to know better.

‘Look at her face,’ Fonda jeers. ‘Mrs. Bucket I presume. I bet she’s got a twat like a bucket too.’

By now, everyone is laughing, relieved not to be the subject of Fonda’s theatre of cruelty. I want him to stop, but don’t relish coming over as a party pooper. And anyway, if Ginny isn’t the target, chances are he’ll turn on me. The digs continue, with Ginny’s attempts to take it all in good grace becoming sourer.

Eventually, Fonda announces it’s time for Dick Rock to strut his stuff and the lights go down. To the strains of
The Final Countdown
, Dick bounds onto the stage in a sailor suit.

I decide to chance the bar.

‘A whiskey and dry, please,’ I say as a perfectly-manicured hand waves a ten pound note over my shoulder.

‘Let me get these.’

Slowly, I turn and come face to face with a row of perfect white teeth.

‘Oh hi, Ginny,’ I say and hope to sound unruffled.

‘That was quite a performance back then.’

‘I hope you weren’t offended.’

She clasps a hand to her chest in mock horror.

‘Moi? Offended, pas de tout!’

She leans in closer.

‘That’s French by the way, it means not at all.’

‘You were always good at languages,’ I say and there’s an uncomfortable silence. I’ve never before had to make conversation with Ginny, so fall back on the banal.

‘Did you have a good trip up?’

‘Not too bad.’

‘It’s nice weather for the time of year.’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

Maybe we’re fine after all. She’s done her worst. We can get over all the crappy stuff. I’ll apologise, she’ll apologise. We’ll become friends.

‘What time did your train get in?’ I say.

‘I drove up in the Subaru yesterday evening.’

‘Right. I see. And that’s some sort of car is it?’

The thing is I
know
it’s a car. I’m not stupid. I suppose I think that by acting daft, she’ll like me more. The look on her face though leaves me feeling like the biggest loser on God’s earth. On stage, Dick Rock has dragged up Helen. She’s rubbing baby oil into his shaven chest.

‘Right, well nice to see you,’ I say and go to walk away when Ginny grabs my elbow.

‘Not so fast?’ she hisses, all bleached teeth and angry eyes. ‘Did you get your jollies watching that freak show take the piss?’

When I say nothing, it seems to make matters worse.

‘At least have the fucking nerve to admit you set me up,’ she says. ‘I might even think better of you. You were the same at school. Sad little sack of shit. Do you remember what we used to call you?’

I shake my head.

‘Duracell,’ she says with relish. ‘Copper top.’

‘You can’t talk to me like that.’

‘What are you going to do about it? Tell teacher?’

She flashes a familiar but long-forgotten smirk and pats me on the head.

‘Lisa Doyle, the one who got away. The one who’s better than all of us? She’s got her own perfect little life up here in Manchester.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t think I’m any better than anyone else.’

‘Stick with the losers, like Ian Tyler.’

For a second, I think she’s going to say something more, but she stops. The anger and power fade as soon as they started and she walks away. But something rises up inside me. Unexpected and sudden. A burning fury that bites the back of my throat.