The Armchair Bride (8 page)

‘
He
said it.’ Sharon points at Andy.

‘It seemed funny at the time. And I’m sorry but there are worse things to be called.’ Andy makes his defence.

I put down my drink and pick up my bag and coat. ‘Lisa I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘Just leave me alone. I’m going home. You go see if you can find someone else to bore the arse off with tales of how you’re this great actor waiting to be discovered. I’m sick of hearing it. And you, Sharon, I thought we were friends. I expected better of you. Maybe I
do
spend too much time on-line with old friends, but at least none of them have stabbed me in the back.’

They both go to say something, but I’m away, propelled by self-righteous indignation. As I storm past the bar, someone grabs my arm - Brian, blissfully unaware of the situation he ignited.

‘Off already?’ he says. ‘Was it something I said?’

‘Actually, Brian, it was.’

He looks shocked. He’s probably never seen me like this. Boss or no boss, I’m furious and don’t give a stuff. I shake my arm free, stomp out of the bar and wave down a cab, half hoping Andy or Sharon or even Brian might run after me to tell me to stop being so silly.

Now I’ve had my moment, my anger subsides.

‘Where to love?’ the driver says.

I look behind me one more time and get in.

In our flat, I check the machine certain by now someone will have called to say sorry. There’s a message waiting. I hit play.

‘Hello. This is a message for Lisa Doyle. This is Helen I’m sorry to ring up out of the blue like this. I hope you’re OK, I feel so guilty about not calling sooner and sending you an email with my big news. Anyway, the reason I’m calling is because I want to ask you a big favour. You are still the one person I can truly call a friend, so would you be my matron of honour? Say you will. I don’t know who else to ask. Certainly none of the bitches from school, and although I get on great with the girls at work, I’m not that close to anyone. I’d still rather ask you. After all, you’ve been through the whole wedding thing recently, so you’re not only the obvious choice, but you’re an expert, the other thing is, as matron of honour, you need to….’

The machine cuts her off. I already know what she was about to say.

‘Organise the hen night.’ I say out loud.

A day that started badly grew gradually worse and ended with a silly argument. Now fate has conspired to potentially make me look even more of a fool. What the hell do I know about hen parties?

What does she mean about me recently going through the whole wedding thing? The last person I know who got married is Sharon. She didn’t even have a hen night and the wedding itself was a low-key registry office affair. All I was called upon to do was act as witness. Then it dawns on me. Helen’s obviously checked on PlaceTheirFace and seen my recent shift from single to newly-wed. After all in two years a lot can happen. Helen got engaged and it isn’t beyond believable I could have married. But wouldn’t she be angry at me for not telling her first? I consider calling her back to encourage her to take exception to my getting hitched in secret. It might encourage her to withdraw my invite. Then I remember. I’m not actually married to anyone. I’m just the Armchair Bride. How do you tell someone who is supposed to be a mate you’ve made up a husband so she ends up looking like the loser?

My God, but I’m pathetic sometimes.

I go into the kitchen, pull open the fridge and grab the bottle of posh champagne that Andy and I liberated from an after-show party. It’s good stuff that we’ve been saving for a special occasion.

Tonight feels special enough.

Ten

I pay for my binge with the type of headache that makes me consider spending the morning getting my affairs in order, in case I don’t see out the day. On the bus ride into work I shade my eyes from low winter sun.

‘Christ you look rough,’ says Stage Door Paul.

Angela is next in line to extend my torment. ‘Bloody hell,’ she says. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Fuck me, you must have had a good night,’ says Bryn, the new boy on the counter, who’s proved to be a tad too cocky for my liking. Only two weeks earlier, he sat before me tongue-tied and simpering as I interviewed him for the job.

I take off my coat, grab my bag and head to the loo.

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

My colleagues spoke nothing but the truth. I left home hoping for the best and now it’s clear I only made up half of my face and forgot to do anything with my hair.

The door to the ladies opens and Sharon takes one look before laughing. ‘Crikey, Lisa, you don’t do things by half, do you?’

I want to hold a grudge, but in the painful light of day and with barely enough functioning brain cells to regulate breathing, I let resentment go and laugh too.

‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ I say when I get my breath back. ‘I was being a twat. I’d had a hellish day and I suppose I needed someone to blame.’

‘We all have those sorts of days.’

‘So we’re still friends?’

‘Of course.’

She studies my face. ‘Do you want to borrow some slap?’

‘I’ll take anything you’ve got,’ I say and set about making myself look at least part way human.

‘Andy was mortified, you know.’

‘Why?’ I say.

‘Well, he
was
the one who started it all.’

‘It’ll do him good to stew. I wish he’d think before shooting his mouth off.’ I struggle to rescue a stray eyelash. ‘I might forgive, but I don’t forget.’

‘He’s scared you won’t help him with the audition.’

‘I
ought
to refuse.’

‘But you won’t?’

‘Of course not. I’ve already checked the rota to make sure I can take a couple of days off to go with him. Are you OK to cover for me on Thursday and Friday? I’ll do the weekly report on Saturday.’

‘Of course. You don’t need to ask.’

‘I don’t know what I’d do without you. Love the new haircut by the way.’

‘Thanks, I thought it was about time I grew up, I am a mother now after all.’

I allow myself a second glance in the mirror. It isn’t quite the car crash of earlier. Sharon obviously spends a good deal more money on make-up than me.

‘You must tell me where you get this,’ I say.

‘How about we go late night shopping together next Thursday?’

‘Deal.’ I say. ‘Now, let’s go face our public. Is Brian in yet?’

‘I think he’s been called away to a meeting at head office. Probably for the best if Audrey is coming in today.’

‘I’d forgotten about that.’

I might look less like the wreck of the Hesperus, but I’m in no mood to face Audrey over coffee and a sticky bun. My mobile rings.

It’s Bryn. ‘There’s someone at the counter to see you. She says you’re expecting her.’

‘It’s her,’ I tell Sharon. ‘Wish me luck.’

‘You’ll be fine, what’s the worst she can do?’

‘Don’t start me off,’ I say and walk like a woman condemned to death.

Audrey spends almost two hours telling me what a thoroughly crap husband Brian has turned out to be. I want to ask her about some of the things he told me, but how exactly do you casually ask about a miscarriage over a double cappuccino and a blueberry muffin? She mood swings from bitter Audrey to sad, lonely co-dependent Audrey and then to ever-so-slightly-scary, likely-to-flip-at-any-moment Audrey. By the time I finally make my excuses and leave, I’m convinced no matter how much in love they once were, their split was the lucky break Brian needed.

I take a late lunch after tracking down Andy. Being a master of dealing with the fallout from his own hissy fits, he makes no mention of the previous evening. Over more coffee and a chicken salad, I tell him about the phone call from Sister Avis.

‘How on earth did she track you down?’

‘Probably through that classmates site.’

‘Hasn’t that place brought you enough grief? What does she want?’

‘No idea. The thing is, I sort of feel like I ought to meet up with Bernie. I do kind of owe it to her to at least hear what she’s got to say.’

‘Why do you owe her anything? You’ve not clapped eyes on the girl in nearly thirty years.’

‘You wouldn’t understand. When a nun tells you to do something, you do it.’

‘I wish a nun would tell Danny from behind the stage door bar to kiss me,’ he says. I ignore him.

‘I thought, seeing as she’s in London ... and
we’ll
be in London.’

‘You’re coming with me?’ His face lights up.

‘Of course I am. I said, didn’t I?’

‘Well after last night.’

‘Forget about it. I have.’

‘You haven’t.’

‘Well, no. I haven’t. What I’ll probably do is go all silent every time it’s mentioned and allow the resentment to eat a hole in my stomach lining until I eventually go postal with a flick knife on the set of one of your movies.’

Andy looks concerned. ‘You are joking about the knife thing, right?’

‘Rule nothing out.’

‘Well right now, the future looks great for me.’ Andy brightens up. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten about our little pledge.’

‘What
little pledge
?’

‘New Year’s Eve? I’m well on my way. Any sign of a man in your life yet?’

‘When have I had time to think about men?’

‘We’ll have to see what we can do in London.’

‘Won’t that be another endless parade of gay men?’

‘I’ll find you a hunky straight technician or something.’

‘Do technicians go to auditions?’

‘Do you have to turn everything into a challenge? Leave it with me.’

I catch sight of the time - almost three o’clock.

‘I really have to go. I’ve hardly done a stroke of work today and I’m already late back.’

I manage to slip back behind my desk without anyone noticing that I’ve been gone for the best part of two hours. My inbox overflows with unread e-mails. Most are easy enough to deal with - one-line answers or requests for copies of old reports. After weeding out the offers of a larger penis and wealth beyond the dreams of avarice, I’m left with three that need more than a quick reply.

A long chatty update from Helen, that tells me how her mother is over the moon and bragging to everyone about the wedding. She sounds so happy and content that it takes three chocolate digestives to cancel out the pangs of jealousy. Helen expands on my duties as matron of honour. Apart from having to wear what I only hope won’t be a ridiculous frock, for which she now requires my measurements, she confirms I’m expected to organise a celebration of her last days as a single woman.

My knowledge of what happens on a hen night is limited. I’ve been invited to my fair share, but have always managed to come up with plausible excuses. I’ve seen television shows that follow happy couples around as they prepare for their big day. Inevitably, evenings that mark the last few nights of single life descend into drunken quarrels where someone gets punched and somebody else - usually the matron of honour - gets a tattoo or an intimate piecing and spends the night in a police cell.

Next is a message from Amy. Once more she goes through a list of her woes, many of which seem to centre on the fact that Glen looks better in an Empire Line dress than she does. On the bright side, he can’t fit into her shoes - of which she has many pairs. She suggests we meet up and spend some time together.

I’ve been warned to expect this mail. Amy needs to get away for a few days. That much is clear. I write back, as instructed by Mam and Sue to invite her up to Manchester for a long weekend, but avoid anything date specific. I do, however, mention Andy’s audition and point out that if all goes to plan, there will be a spare room going.

The third email is shorter, but no less difficult to deal with. A few lines from Brian to apologise for his drunken state and to once more insist that he owes me dinner. I don’t know how to answer and feel wary of somehow ending up part of a messy divorce. Mud sticks and if I turn into his shoulder to cry on, how will it look?

I’ve never really been anything other than a colleague to Brian. He’s my manager and I’ve always tried to treat him with the appropriate combination of fake respect and sugarcoated loathing that befits my role as an under-achieving employee. The jokey emails, the shared sense of dread for staff parties. That’s just the sort of thing friends do. Everyday friends. Not even close friends. Unbid, an image slips into my head of that photo of him with Audrey, back in the 80s. He looked a bit like my old boyfriend, Chris. Last thing I heard Chris worked for a bank and had a kid who played rugby for the local team.

Dopey Penny interrupts my chain of thought.

She brandishes a clipboard and pen, it can only mean another sponsored effort to raise money for charity.

‘Hello Lisa,’ she trills and thrusts it in my face. ‘How much can I put you down for? I’m doing a sponsored silence to raise money for the starving kiddies in Africa.’

It would be cruel and uncalled for to offer extra payment if she agrees to make the silence a more long-term arrangement - and anyway, I doubt I’d be the first to make such a remark - so I scribble my name and pledge a fiver.

‘I bet you’re all thrilled I’m going to be quiet for a few hours,’ she says.

‘How about you make it a few weeks and I’ll chuck in fifty quid?’ calls Bryn from his seat at the counter.

Everyone laughs and Penny joins in.

‘You’re a good sport, Pen,’ I say and she looks at me with a look that I swear is meant to be sympathetic. Head cocked to one side, lips down-turned, eyes all buggy.

‘You seem a bit fed up,’ she says. ‘Is something wrong?’

Colour rushes to my cheeks and it’s only the phone ringing that gives me an excuse to escape.

Such minor distractions do little to help take my mind off Brian’s e-mail and by six-thirty, with a crowd forming in the box office, I decide to reply.

From: Lisa Doyle

To: Brian Hawkins

Subject: Dinner?

Dear Brian

Thanks for your mail. Don’t worry about last night.

We’d all had a few. I’m hardly one to talk after the New Year’s party!

I’m off to London with Andy for a few days, so I’m afraid I’ll have to take a rain check on dinner.

Lisa

It sounds business-like and friendly, so I hit send. Almost instantly, I wish I’d left out the bit about New Year. I really could do with that whole night staying buried in the past and not tossed in as an icebreaker. Still the bit about the ‘rain check’ should do it.