The Armchair Bride (3 page)

I have mail.

Probably from someone in Nigeria to ask for bank details and my mother’s maiden name to deposit seventeen million dollars in my account.

Any sane being would ignore it for now. It’s New Year’s Day, what does it matter. The world has a hangover. It can wait.

My resolve holds for all of ten seconds.

From: Helen McVeigh

To: Lisa Doyle

Subject: Wedding Bells

Hi Lisa

Long time no see – and YES it probably is all my fault! Thought I’d get in touch to invite you to my wedding to Jamie in March.

I know Christmas is a busy time for you theatre people, so I guessed email might be the best way to let you know. Hope you get this and please say you can come, it’s on March 18th. Write me back when you get this and I’ll send you the proper invite. Need to ask you a favour too!

Happy New Year! Helen

xox

How nice, I think. Someone else getting married. Which husband will this be? Number two? Number three? Then the words sink in. Helen McVeigh. My fellow misfit.

Oh. My. God!

I read the mail twice more, maybe I’ve misunderstood. I haven’t. She’s deserting the cause. One more tick on the spreadsheet.

Of course she mentioned him in her Christmas card. Love from Helen and Jamie, she wrote and I thought nothing of it. How was I to know how significant he’d become?

This is a disaster.

No matter how you carve it up, I’m forced to accept I now stand alone. The last remaining spinster of this parish.

When I reach the pub, I spot Andy on his own reading a newspaper. Next to his pint is what looks like a vodka and tonic. I throw down my coat, pick up the glass and choke it back.

‘What if that was for someone else?’ he says.

‘I’ll get them one back.’ I look around. ‘Was it?’

He shakes his head.

‘Fancy another?’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Helen’s getting married.’

Andy understands at once.

I watch him at the bar. Nobody else in the whole world knows as much about me, cares as much about me and really would do anything for me. A plan forms.

Three

‘There’s absolutely no way on God’s earth I’m doing it Lisa, and that’s final.’ Andy makes clear his disapproval of my suggestion that he pretend to be my husband at Helen’s wedding.

‘Just this once.’

‘No.’

I try a different line of attack, one I’m sure will work.

‘You’re scared you can’t pull it off.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You reckon nobody will believe you’re my husband.’

‘Are you saying I’m too gay?’

‘Well if the pretty pink cap fits...’

‘How dare you? I’ll have you know I’ve played more straight men than you’ve had yeast infections.’

There’s only one way to win this argument.

‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘You’re right. I shouldn’t have asked. Forget about it.’

‘I didn’t say you shouldn’t have asked. You know I hate weddings and the idea of going to one filled with your ghastly classmates is about as appealing as a re-enactment weekend.’

I hold up surrender hands.

‘I should’ve known better than to ask.’ I pause for dramatic effect before delivering the killer blow - the one to secure me a stand-in spouse. ‘I’ll ask Martin.’

Martin, like Andy, is an aspiring actor. He also works part-time in the box office and was a graduate of the same drama school. The crucial difference here is that Martin is six years Andy’s junior - and that
really
matters.

Andy sips his drink.

‘When is the wedding?’ he says.

‘March.’

‘I suppose I might be able to take on this particular engagement.’

‘What if you can’t get the time off ?’

‘You fired me, remember?’

Shit! He’s right. I didn’t mean to fire him. It was a silly idea.

‘The thing is …’ I start to explain, but he cuts me short.

‘Seeing as how I now officially have no income, you can get the next round.’

‘Fine,’ I say and gather our empties. ‘But when your Giro comes, you’re paying.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I say as I sit back down. ‘It was mean of me to mention Martin. Forget I ever asked.’

‘You’re not backing out now.’ Andy leans forward. ‘This Helen. She’s definitely the last one?’

‘What do you mean?’

I refuse to meet his eye.

‘The last sad singleton. All the others are jail birds, God botherers or happy eating muff.’

‘I haven’t traced everyone,’ I say. ‘There might be others.’

‘Oh please! If
you
can’t find them, what hope has anyone else got? The anti-terrorist police are sloppy by comparison. It’s no wonder you can’t find a bloke, you spend every waking hour chained to a computer, tapping away in the hope of finding a fellow spinster to rely on for support in your dotage.’

Tears well. Why the hell do I care if Helen is getting married? I begin to play with the ice in my drink and when Andy puts his arm around my shoulder, I collapse into him.

‘That
really
is so unfair,’ I say, my voice a wobble.

It costs me three expensive drinks and dinner at the Peking Gardens before Andy gives in and offers to play my husband.

‘Let’s celebrate by going dancing,’ he says and even though I’m tempted, the growl of protest from my belly makes me think again.

‘Andy, if I drink any more, I’m in danger of liver failure. I think I’ll be better having an early night.’

‘And this early night is nothing to do with the doggy bag you’re carrying.’

A guilty smile spreads. Andy picked at his meal and insisted he wanted to watch his weight. I’d managed to persuade the waiters to let me have his leftovers by inventing a pet dog named Fido.

‘At least remember to inhale between mouthfuls,’ he says and pecks me on the cheek.

Back home, while salt and pepper chicken reheats, I run a bath and relax into the hot, soapy waters, slipping beneath the surface. For the briefest of moments, I toy with staying there, half in and half out of the world, listening to the clunks that travel along the pipes.

Afterwards, I feel better. Not better enough to stand on the bathroom scales, but not the sort of miserable that gripped me before.

Our answering machine demands attention. The first message is from Sharon, recruiting for the promised girly night out.

‘I’m talking at least ten bottles of continental lager and a 2am visit to a kebab shop,’ she promises.

The second comes from my mother to wish me a happy new year. Ever since Dad died, she makes sure that come the festive season, she’s nowhere to be sought out and pitied by well-meaning friends and jets off to Tenerife. Time, she assures me, is a great healer, but people have a nasty habit of picking away at scabs until old wounds weep.

‘Give me a call when you get the chance,’ she says. ‘Us single girls have to stick together.’

I pick up the phone and dial her mobile, she answers after one ring. A burst of static obscures her voice and in the background I hear music.

‘Happy New Year!’ I say and try to sound upbeat.

‘Happy New Year, love,’ she says. ‘It is nice to hear from you.’

It’s even better to hear her voice. She was born outside Cork and spent most of her young life there. Although she’s lived near Birmingham for almost fifty years, she’s not lost her accent.

‘How are things?’

‘The place is full of fecking Germans,’ she says. ‘I’ve had to be up at six to get a lounger by the pool. And your Aunt Rose is no help. She’s up till all hours drinking Sangria with a common family from Bolton.’

Her tone grows softer.

‘But at least I haven’t had to put up with too many people telling me how it isn’t right I’m on my own at this time of year. I spent last night in our room and watched
Roman Holiday
. Did you do anything special?’

‘Works party. It was  ... OK ... I guess.’

‘I used to hate that sort of thing. You should be with your friends on New Year’s Eve, not a bunch of people you’re paid to put up with.’

There’s a pause before she speaks again.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Helen McVeigh is getting married. It was in the paper last week. I was going to cut it out and send it to you, but ...’

The awkward silence that crackles down the line reminds me that I’m not the only one who spends every waking moment lamenting the lack of steady boyfriend or wedding album gathering dust under my bed.

‘She sent me an invite,’ I say.

‘So you’ll come down?’

‘I’m not sure yet.’

‘You used to be such great friends, why wouldn’t you?’

‘I’m not sure I can get the time off.’

‘It’s not for months, surely you can arrange something. It would be grand to see you.’

We talk for a while longer before I ring off claiming there’s something on TV and guilt takes over when the line goes dead.

Mam is the head of our clan and I miss her so much and worry for her living on her own. My sisters insist I’m misguided and point out even when Dad was alive she was very much head of the household. She’s five foot two, slightly-built and softly- spoken. As a result, people sometimes try to take advantage. It rarely happens twice.

When my younger sister’s marriage hit a rough patch, she was welcomed back into the family home without question. Amy walked out Glen after coming home early from work and finding him dressed in a cocktail dress and serving Earl Gray tea to three other men in frocks. Much as she tried to be all modern and supportive, Amy eventually admitted she couldn’t cope.

‘How can I ever trust him again?’ she cried down the phone to me. ‘Each time I go shopping, he tags along and tries to get me to buy things I just wouldn’t wear. He’s got his eye on a tarty red evening gown in Primark.’

‘So tell him red isn’t your colour.’

‘It’s for him. He thinks I’ll let him go down the Bricklayer’s Arms dressed as Glenda.’

‘Glenda?’

‘That’s his female name. They’ve all got one. They seem to think by shoving an ‘a’ on the end of their names it makes them more feminine. You should see his best mate Briana. He’s got a jaw line like Desperate Dan and insists on wearing hot pants. I wouldn’t mind, but he’s awful hairy.’

Back then, I didn’t know what to say. Part of me wanted to laugh and ask indiscrete questions, but Amy made me swear on a stack of bibles not to tell Mam. Instead we cooked up some story about how he might be having an affair and stayed silent when Mam cursed his name. Eventually, Amy and Glen sorted things out and she returned home, but Mam still hasn’t quite forgiven Glen for what she believes he did.

There’s a thud at the door and I flick off  the TV. After about a minute of muffled laughter, the bell rings. I pull on my dressing gown and open the door.

It’s Andy, but he’s not alone.

‘This is Fahad,’ he says and I shake hands with a short Asian guy dressed from head to toe in black leather.

‘The kettle just boiled if you want tea,’ I say.

‘I think we’ll turn in, if it’s all the same to you,’ Andy slurs. ‘OK, sleep well.’

‘That’s the last thing we plan on doing,’ he stage whispers.

Tea still sounds like a good idea and maybe a pick at Cantonese spare ribs. The sound of the microwave drowns out the sex noises from Andy’s room.

I take my plate to the living room and soon I’m back on-line, picking apart the profiles posted by old school friends.

Does ‘entrepreneur’ mean unemployed? Does ‘fulfilling and rewarding job’ mean low-paid skivvy? I scribble notes and plan to pimp up my own profile, when there’s an almighty crash.

There’s an awful silence in the hallway. I tap on Andy’s door.

‘Are you OK?’

‘I think so,’ a muffled voice replies.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Erm, Lisa, could you come in please?’

‘Are you decent?’

‘Not really. Don’t put the light on.’

‘OK, here I come.’

I push open the door and see Andy’s wardrobe lying across the bed. Feet and handcuffed wrists poke out.

‘Andy?’

‘We’re under here.’

One of the hands waves.

I try without success to move the wardrobe. It isn’t one of those nice modern flat-pack jobs, it’s a heavy oak thing we lugged back from a second hand shop in Rusholme. At the time, he laughed about hanging from it while someone has his wicked way. It doesn’t take much to work out this is what happened.

‘I can’t shift it,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to go and get help.’

Andy groans his agreement and I run across the hall to summon help from a neighbour.

When the pair are finally freed, it becomes clear from the unusual angle of the bone in Andy’s wrist a trip to casualty is in order. I dress and put a by now almost hysterical Fahad into a taxi with a handful of Panadol Extra.

‘If you let me down over the wedding, Andy. I’ll never forgive you.’ I say as I lock the front door.

‘I’m sorry. I really didn’t do this on purpose.’

He holds up a deformed wrist to elicit sympathy and a single handcuff bangs against it, causing him to wince in pain.

‘Bloody serves you right,
what
were you thinking?’

‘I don’t know. I’d been drinking Bacardi Breezers, you know they send me loopy. Ouch!’

Andy has apparently also twisted his ankle. I allow him to lean on me and we shuffle into a waiting cab.

Four

The first working day of any New Year drips misery. It marks the end of the season to be jolly. Everyone loses the urge to party, kiss perfect strangers and force money into charity tins. January almost always starts the same. It’s dark and cold and people look fed up. There’s an unwritten rule that my bus must run late.

When the number twenty-six groans around the corner at a glacial pace, I heave a sigh of relief.

When I hold up my pass, the driver yawns and shakes his head.

‘That expired at the end of December, love, you’ll have to pay.’

I stare at the date and will it to change.

‘One pound eighty,’ he says.

A miserable looking balding man in a cheap suit pushes on behind. He’s out of breath from running and treats me to full-on early morning halitosis.

‘Are you going to be much longer?’ he whines. My purse, of course, lies at the bottom of my bag under my sandwiches, house keys, make-up and unopened Christmas cards. I clatter a handful of change into a machine and grab my ticket.

The bus smells of damp, tired people and there’s not a single free seat, so the journey passes with someone’s briefcase rammed up against my thigh and my face pushed into the armpit of a woman who seems very much of the opinion that deodorant, is for sissies.

I get off one stop early and take my place in the crowds rushing with heads down to reach warm desks and exchange stories about Christmas.

A sizeable crowd gathers at the crossing to wait for the lights to change. I spot Angela from accounts in a tracksuit and headband, she’s jogging red-faced on the spot. It can only mean one thing. New year, new diet.

The thing is, there’s barely anything to her. She eats like a bird and a strong breeze would carry her away. But she’s the sort who likes to share. It’ll be tiresome tales of  a new way to cook cauliflower or round robin emails that detail special offers at local gyms.  I arrive at the crossing as the lights change and am about to step off the kerb and into the road when someone puts their hands over my eyes. I stumble and my bag hits the floor scattering its contents.

‘Guess who?’ a familiar voice giggles.

I don’t need to guess. I’d know Dopey Penny anywhere.

‘Oh goodness me, clumsy clot,’ she says and bends down to help and I cringe as she hands me an unopened card bearing her handwriting.

‘How are you?’ she says. ‘Have you got over the other night?’

I shudder. I know today is the day I get to deal with the fallout of my impromptu performance at the staff party. I know people are counting on me to draw attention away from their own drunken antics, but I hoped I might have time to get a cup of coffee before being forced to read emails crammed with links to shameful on-line galleries.

‘I’m fine thanks,’ I say. ‘Did you enjoy the party?’

‘Not quite as much as you.’

Penny giggles again and I truly don’t know what stops me from slapping her. Maybe I am a good person. So why am I still single when even Helen McVeigh is poised to gallop down the aisle and off into the sunset?

Penny waves a hand in front of my face. ‘Are you OK?’

‘What? Sorry I was miles away.’

‘You look a bit peaky. Mind you, I bet you felt rough yesterday.’

‘Just a little,’ I say and do the
all girls together
shrug thing that most women understand. Not Penny.

‘You must have had a few. What was it you were singing again?
Hey Big Spender
?’

I shrug.

‘No idea, Penny, like you say, I must have had a few.’ Much as I want to tell her to just shut the fuck up, I can’t.

‘I’ve got some pictures on my phone.’

‘Somehow I knew you would.’

‘There’s a great one of you and Brian.’

‘Lovely, can’t wait.’

How much fun will today be? Everyone gets to snigger behind screens and look at pictures of me drunkenly pawing my manager. Up ahead, Angela is waiting to cross the street, power-walking on the spot, and when she sees us she waves.

‘I think I might nip and get myself some breakfast,’ I say, desperate to get away.

‘Oh good idea, I’ll come with you.’

‘I’m going to the sandwich bar in the station.’

‘The one where Sharon got food poisoning? You can’t be serious?’

‘You don’t know that’s where she got it from.’

‘I remember that day like yesterday. One minute she was sat there at her desk chatting away, the next she was throwing up like nine pins.’

My own stomach lurches. I’ve never been good with bodily emissions and recalling the day my second in command fell ill doesn’t sit well. She threw up in the bin between our desks, but turned out not to be the most accurate of shots - even now, six months later, whenever the radiators malfunction and turn our office into a sauna, there’s a tang of stale coronation chicken.

‘It was coming down her nose. She got it in her hair and all down her front. She was in a right state.’

Penny seems, as always, blissfully unaware her chosen topic of conversation is inappropriate. You don’t talk about projectile vomiting to someone who has announced they fancy breakfast.

‘I might skip it,’ I say.

‘Don’t blame you. I’ve gone off food myself now. All that over indulgence at Christmas. We could both do with losing a few pounds anyway eh?’

She pats her non-existent stomach and I count to ten.

Very. Slowly. Indeed.

After we say our farewells at the stage door, Penny bounds up a narrow wooden staircase and leaves me to take a shortcut through the empty auditorium.

A theatre without an audience is a strange place to be. People talk about ghosts and it’s easy to see why. There’s a strange musty smell, the dead air feels cold and clammy even on a summer’s day. The stalls of the Empire Theatre exude an air of faded elegance, like a badly made-up old lady clad in charity shop clothes.

I hurry through double doors that lead into fluorescent light and over-heated air and run into Paul, the stage door manager.

‘Morning chucky egg,’ he laughs. ‘Where are you going in such a rush?’

Paul is a real darling and reminds me of Dad with his twinkly eyes and wicked sense of humour.

‘How was your Christmas?’ he says.

‘Quiet. What about you?’

‘Maureen talked me into a week in Tenerife. It was bloody awful. You don’t want to be eating turkey in flip flops .’ He puts down the box he’s been carrying. ‘So what’s all this about the party. Everyone’s talking about it.’

‘By
it
do you mean me?’

Paul nods and I feel my face glow.

‘You let them have their fun,’ he says. ‘They’ll soon forget about it. I’m sure Mr. Hawkins enjoyed it. Not sure about Mrs. Hawkins, though.’

He’s the second person to mention Audrey Hawkins. What does he know that I don’t?

When I manage to log onto my computer, crank up email and click on the first inevitable link to party photos, I see what both Paul and Penny mean. There I am, sat on Brian’s knee, skirt hitched up to my thighs, laughing like a fishwife and holding what looks like a pint of vodka. Someone - I assume it was me - has covered Brian in lipstick and I’m wearing his tie. My other hand has found its way into his shirt. Behind him, giving me the look of death stands Audrey.

I am so fired.

Audrey doesn’t work at the Empire, but it is widely accepted Brian never promotes hires or fires anyone without her say so. He’s a lovely guy. In his mid forties and still good looking - tall, lean, built like a footballer who shunned the party life to spend match-day evenings doing press-ups. He’s still got a full head of hair, greying slightly at the temples, which makes him look distinguished rather than old.

Unfortunately, Brian is very much under the thumb. At any after show party, it’s Audrey who polices the door and the open bar. When there are interviews, it’s an open secret that Audrey first scans and rejects CVs. Women under 25 with long legs and blonde hair tend not to get past the first stages.

My phone rings - Brian’s secretary Nina.

‘Brian wonders if you could pop by and discuss the sales figures for the panto. He’s a bit concerned about the mid week matinées from week three onwards. Are you free now?’

‘I suppose so,’ I say and glance at the time, barely ten o’clock. He isn’t hanging around. I print off advance sales figures; if nothing else it’ll make me look prepared. My colleagues avoid eye contact as I make my way across the office.

Nina is away from her desk, so I announce myself at Brian’s open door. He’s on the phone, but puts his hand over the receiver and beckons me in.

‘Sit yourself down.’ He doesn’t smile. ‘Shut the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed.’

This is it. I’m for the chop. Why did I let Andy ply me with drink? Where the hell did my will power go? I come from a long line of people famous for their inability to handle drink. When Mam retired, after spending twenty-six years cleaning the vicarage, there was a little reception. Nothing too fancy; a few sandwiches and slices of angel cake, fruit punch. It was all terribly civilised.

And yet my older sister ended up in hospital having her stomach pumped. My other sister, Mam and Auntie Rose narrowly escaped arrest for public order offences in the waiting room. A shamed confession revealed the punch had been spiked with cheap Estonian vodka. Mam goes to another church these days.

Brian puts down the phone.

‘Sorry to drag you away like this,’ he says. ‘But I’ve had head office on the phone.’

‘I printed these off,’ I say and hand him the figures.

His eyes travel up and down the columns. Deep dark brown eyes. Laughing eyes. The sort of eyes that would know what happened the other night was a bit of a giggle. Surely.

‘Crikey, they’re right,’ he says ‘Wednesday afternoons from the middle of January. We’re under 50% full. Mostly concessions. Don’t suppose you know any miracle workers?’

Can it be Brian has called me here to actually talk sales figures?

‘We could always try a two for one,’ I say.

He shakes his head. ‘Everyone’s doing them. It might bring a few extra punters in, but we need something bigger.’

‘Freebies for kids?’

‘Nice idea, but the audience we get mid January is one parent families. Head office is looking for something to boost bar takings.’

A thought hits.

‘How about we tie something in with the Easter show?’ I say. ‘Half price tickets for all panto matinées provided you book at least one ticket for ‘
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
’?’

There’s a moment of silence and Brian stares, appearing to consider my suggestion. He looks impressed. I’m impressed. I have no idea where the idea came from.

‘That’s brilliant,’ he says. ‘Get onto groups, and have graphics draw something up. Make sure I get final approval on the copy and artwork. I want this settled by the end of the day.’

Our meeting feels to be over.

‘Was that all?’ I say.

‘All? Well yes, unless there’s anything else you wanted to talk about? Any more brilliant marketing plans up your sleeve?’

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say and decide for some unknown reason to bag out the sleeve of my cardigan and invite him to stare up it.

‘See nothing there,’ I say and instantly want the ground to swallow me whole. It’s possibly the worst, lamest joke ever made. I really am going all out for making a holy show of myself in front of the theatre manager, as if my performance the other night wasn’t enough.

‘Well let’s get to it then, you’ve enough to keep you busy.’

I get up and reach for the handle to let me out from the little inner office when Nina appears.

‘Oh! Hi Lisa, how are you?’ she says in a voice that suggests heavy smoker. ‘Have you finished with the boss?’

‘I guess...’

Brian nods. ‘We’re all done making millions.’

‘Hope you didn’t tire him out.’

Nina slinks past me and stops next to his desk, one hand resting on his shoulder.

‘You’ll have to share those millions with me,’ she says with a filthy laugh - more Sid James than middle-aged vamp. Brian looks terrified, but can’t take his eyes off her. Despite having recently celebrated her 50th, Nina’s still pretty in a plastic Jessica Rabbit sort of way. Like me, she has red hair, but that’s where the similarity ends. She’s all legs and lashes, lipstick and fake tan. Rumour has it her rich husband pays for the maintenance work that such a face demands.

‘Right then, ‘ I say. ‘That’s me.’

‘Oh there was one more thing, Lisa,’ Brian says. ‘I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t screwed on. What are you doing on Saturday?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, without thinking. Then remember Sharon’s big night out. ‘Well nothing that can’t be put off.’

‘Audrey and I would love to invite you round to supper.’

‘Supper?’

‘Well I call it dinner, but you know Audrey.’ He does this sort of goofy grin.

I do indeed know Audrey. She looks like she could chew off my leg if the mood so took her. What reason can she have for a dinner invitation?

‘Why me?’ I say and Brian looks surprised.

‘She thinks it’s about time I spent more time with my key staff. Get to know what makes them tick. And after hearing your ideas, I think she’s right. So eight for eight-thirty is what I think they say in polite company, isn’t it?’

I nod, having used up all of my quick thinking for one day.

‘Bring a friend by all means, but don’t bring wine. We’ve got a cellar full. Well, it’s more of a shed, but you know what I mean.’

For some reason, Brian sounds nervous.

‘Audrey will be happy with flowers. She likes white lilies.’

‘You have them at funerals,’ I say in a colourless voice as the walls close in.

The phone on his desk rings, removing any lingering chance of my making an excuse.

I let the door close and walk down the stairs, along the corridors and back to my desk without speaking to anyone.