The Armchair Bride (6 page)

In the ladies I run into Angela touching up her lipstick.

‘I don’t know why I bother,’ she says when she sees me. ‘Bill never notices. I’ve lost nearly half a stone, had a new haircut and still he hasn’t said a thing.’

She snaps shut her lipstick and drops it into her bag and after one last glance in the mirror, rinses her hands.

When she’s gone, I look at myself in the mirror.

A few too many parties, skipped meals and impromptu drinks after work are taking their toll. I’m not 25 any more. I push back the skin around my eyes. Recently, I read about groups of women of my age travelling to Poland to get plastic surgery done on the cheap. Maybe I ought to consider the tiniest of lifts. Better yet, I could make a resolution to do something about my state of health, join the gym and eat something that hasn’t spent several hours under hot lights in a fast food bar. It makes more sense than all of this ‘find a man by the time I’m forty’ nonsense. I wash my hands and go back to our table.

‘Let’s go home,’ I say.

‘Are you sickening for something?’

‘No, I don’t feel up to partying again tonight.’

‘I’ve been too busy to watch the news today. Was it this morning that hell froze over?’

‘I’m going home. It’s up to you if you want to come too.’

I grab my coat and bag and make for the door, half expecting him to run after me, and feel distinctly miffed when he doesn’t. I can’t resist looking around to see where he is. He raises his glass in salute. I can’t go back now.

Back home I find two slices of almost stale bread and make toast, we’re out of margarine, so I’m forced to run a knife around the bottom of a suspect jar of mayonnaise. The sink is piled high with plates and mugs. Not a single saucepan has been pressed into service to produce our meals of the last week. I run hot water over the crocks and rummage in the cupboard for washing up liquid and find an empty bottle. Andy and I live like students. We’re nearly forty, it’s time for one of us to say or do something.

I sink into my armchair.

‘If you’re watching over me, Dad, would you mind awfully looking the other way?’ I say. Once again I turn to the Internet for company and chew miserably on what passes for my evening meal.

‘I know, Dad,’ I say. ‘Not quite the future I had planned either. I never thought I’d be a princess in a castle or married to a footballer. I thought I’d be busy ironing shirts and getting the kids’ sports kit ready by now. I’m sorry.’

PlaceTheirFace is my first port of call. I read back over my profile. Why don’t I simply post the truth?

I’m fed up. I’m lonely. I’ve shut out everyone that cared for me.

I have one new message. Is this yet another unwanted
old friend
getting back in touch? Why can’t these people accept the past is over?

Done with.

Dead.

One day near the end of term, our head teacher did this bit in assembly where he told us that we’d look back on school as being the best days of our lives.

What a crock.

I hated every minute and couldn’t wait to be free. I vowed that when I was sixteen, I’d wear the clothes I wanted, kiss boys and drink wine. I’ve done all three, way too many times. Being grown up is massively over-rated.

My mood grows darker. Now is the time to write to Helen and tell her I don’t want to come to her wedding and ask her not to stay in touch. It’s been two years since we last met. Can’t she take a hint?

I click to open my inbox. A single new message is highlighted. From Ian Tyler.

Where do I know that name from? I click to read more.

From: Ian Tyler

To: Lisa Doyle

Subject: Ian Tyler

Hello

I don’t know if you remember me. I am Ian Tyler. We were friends at school.

I found your details on-line and wondered if you’d like to keep in touch. Let me know and I’ll bring you up to date on my news.

Ian

Why has someone from so long ago decided to get in touch? I guess it’s something to do with the New Year and the fact we’re both fast approaching the big four-o. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have problems dealing with landmark birthdays. They indulge in grand gestures and tell the world that age is something to celebrate, while secretly fretting their youth is over. Us women are usually too busy trying to drown out the sound of our biological clocks ticking away to worry about buying a Porsche or taking everyone we know clubbing in Ibiza. I listened to the people around me and turned forty into
just a number
.

I somehow saw it as being a little less galling than thirty-nine. The horror lay in the waiting, the anticipation of being forty. Everyone I knew who’d crossed the line from late thirties to early forties assured me, it was nowhere near as bad as it looked from the other side.

Ian and I were firm friends at an age when boys could be friends with girls - before hormones flared up and changed everything. I was nine, he was ten. I used to play round his house - he had a slide in his back garden and his Mam made us fish finger sandwiches. I suppose he was my first boyfriend, but only in the sense he was a boy and a friend. When we moved on to the big school, our friendship suffered. His new friends would have ripped it out of him if they’d found out his best mate was a girl. Ian joined the other twelve-year-old boys shouting insults at the girls and running a mile if any of us so much as looked at them.

I can think of nothing to say to Ian. Unlike Helen, we’ve not kept in touch. I hit delete and switch off my computer.

I need a friendly voice and my sister Sue with her two perfect kids and well- adjusted husband almost always fills that role.

We talk for almost an hour while she fills me in on what’s happening with Amy and cross-dressing Glen. He’s refused to give up the twin sets and pearls and so they’ve agreed to give couples therapy a try. Their counselor suggested my sister tell Mam about what was going on. Amy apparently needed to be restrained and lead quietly from the office. I am, Sue assures me, well out of it.

Sue was always the practical one. When we were growing up, she was the one who made sure we divided up our sweets and waded in to resolve any disputes about use of the communal Spacehopper. These days, she’s a mother of twins and tends to tut when Amy and I argue the merits of whatever designer dress we’ve seen paraded down a red carpet. In many ways, she reminds me of a taller, less flame-haired version of Mam. She allows me to ramble on about my fears of hitting forty. She’s been through it herself two years before.

After a shower, I turn in for the night. Andy is still out, probably painting the town a tasteful shade of scarlet. Sleep hits unusually quickly, though within an hour I’m wide awake and staring into the darkness, watching the minutes flip by on my alarm clock.

Brian is a good-looking man. I can easily believe him when he says he’s had offers from other women.

Like Nina, I’ve flirted with him on occasion. Nothing heavy of course - nothing more than an off-colour joke when we’ve both had a skinful. If he wasn’t married to Audrey, I might have been tempted to up the stakes. He’s got lovely hands. Nice nails.

I think about Ian Tyler and recall an envelope of newspaper cuttings collected by Mam and lovingly sent my way. He’d been in trouble with the police. I never bothered reading them. Mam’s accompanying letter suggested a lucky escape. She went to great lengths to point out I was clearly no judge of character. Like all decent Irish mammies, if guilt was floating around in need of a home, she was happy to pass it on - usually to immediate family members.

Andy’s key turns in the lock. He’s not alone. There’s laughter and the sound of two people kissing. I turn over and wrap myself in my duvet.

Outside the wind gets up and rain lashes against the window. On any other night, filthy weather could lull me into deep slumber. Tonight it makes me worry about the world.

Eight

After a night of flitting between vivid dreams and long dark funks where anxiety took a hold, I wake and lie perfectly still. It’s so dark outside. January is such a miserable month.

The heating hasn’t kicked in, so I take my cup of tea back to bed. Despite every good intention to stay awake, no sooner does my head make contact with the pillow, than my eyes close.

It’s light when I hear the phone ringing. Our machine picks up and a disembodied voice squawks a message. I hear Andy in the kitchen. There’s muffled conversation, and the front door closes. Thank God for that. It doesn’t feel like the sort of morning where I can make conversation with whoever he dragged home last night.

When I’m sure the coast is clear I go in search of breakfast. On my way to the kitchen I spy Andy crouched over the answering machine.

‘Cup of tea?’ I say and when he doesn’t reply, resort to sarcasm.

‘
Yes please Lisa. Why, that would be lovely, I don’t deserve such a caring flat mate, I really must do something to repay your kindness sometime. Perhaps I could cook dinner tonight or…
’

‘Listen to this.’

He presses play and there’s a short pause before a familiar voice follows. It’s Beryl, his agent.

‘Hello Andy love. Sorry to call so early, but I couldn’t sleep. The doctor changed my tablets and I’m whizzing off my tits. Still, it’s better than falling asleep mid sentence. Anyway, the reason for my call is it looks like you’re in with a chance of a film. Nothing too fancy, no Hollywood blockbuster, but it is work and what else are you doing? They need you to go to an audition in London on Thursday. They’ll pick up the tab for the hotel, but you need to make your own way there. I already said yes for you and I’m having Nicola bike over the script, such as it is. Something about werewolves and motorcycles, it’s being filmed over the next few months in Bratislava. Not exactly sure what your role is, but I’m sure someone will explain. Good luck and don’t let me down on this. We both need the money. Ciao.’

She hangs up noisily and Andy beams at me.

‘An audition for a film,’ he says. ‘She’s got me a fucking audition for a fucking film. They want me to go to London.’

‘That’s wonderful. Will you do it?’

‘
Of course
. I don’t care what it’s about. I’m not bothered what the part is, I need the work and this might be the break I’m waiting for.’

He paces up and down.

‘What shall I wear? What sort of image should I convey? What if they think I’m too gay for the part? I’ll butch up. You’ll help me learn my lines, won’t you?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Maybe you can come with me to, where was it again? Bratislava? Where is that anyway? Is it sunny? You haven’t had a holiday for ages. Oh go on, say you’ll come, it will be fun.’

His enthusiasm overwhelms. But I can’t deny it’s great news and seeing him so happy is wonderful. I almost hate myself for the answer I have to give.

‘We’ve got a bunch of big shows coming up. You know how Brian gets when someone asks for time off.’

Andy replays the message. This time we both listen carefully to every word. ‘It’s being filmed over the next few months in Bratislava.’

‘They can’t deny you a holiday,’ he says.

‘I don’t want to let anyone down.’

‘It’s a job, Lisa. You’re not indispensable. You are allowed to have a life.’

‘Fine,’ I say and bite my lip. He’s right, even if those aren’t words I wanted to hear. ‘What about Helen’s wedding?’

‘You’ll think of some excuse.’

Andy stops speaking, as it he realises what he’s said and I have no words to argue. I can’t beg him to give up this audition in case he can’t play my husband and help me save face.

‘I’ll make more tea,’ I say.

He doesn’t follow me into the kitchen. He sits on the floor looking subdued and I feel bad about suggesting he punch a hole through his big moment.

Andy appears as the kettle boils.

‘I’ll tell them I
have
to be back for that weekend,’ he says and puts an arm around me.

‘Wait and see if you get the part first. If you start laying down conditions, chances are they’ll tell you to sod off.’

‘A man of my vast talent? I doubt it very much, they’ll be lucky to have me.’

‘And modest too, don’t forget the modesty.’

He kisses the top of my head and I hug him before wriggling free.

‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘Well done.’

In the bathroom I run the taps and stare into the mirror, waiting until the room fills with steam and my reflection fades. With a towel held over my face to muffle the sobs, I sit on the floor. I should be happy for Andy, but his news comes at the end of a rubbish day. It’s rare that I let myself be weepy and weak. It feels surprisingly good.

After my self-pity moment passes, I get dressed to face up to the real world. I know I was being silly and more than a little selfish. If Andy can’t make the wedding, so what? I could say he’s been called away to deal with some high profile case. Since when have I shied away from backing up one untruth with another?

An extra large cappuccino perks up a morning spent worrying about Helen’s wedding. I’m about to go for an early lunch when switchboard puts through a phone call. Someone who wants to speak directly to me.

‘Is this Miss Lisa Doyle?’

It’s an accent not unlike Mam’s and for one dreadful moment, I wonder if it might be an elderly distant relative calling from Ireland to deliver terrible news.

‘This is Sister Avis Julian of the Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood in Kensington, London,’ she says. ‘
Am
I speaking to Miss Doyle?’

Why is a nun calling to speak to me? I toy with telling her she has a wrong number, but lying to a nun is a bit like lying to Mam - sometimes necessary, usually wrong and almost always likely to end with being found out. Curiosity drives me on.

‘This is Lisa speaking.’

‘That’s good news. You wouldn’t believe how hard you are to track down.’

‘Is there something wrong?’

‘Wrong?’ She laughs. ‘Far from it. Do you recall going to school with a Bernadette Lynch?’

I think for a moment before remembering a short plump girl with a pudding basin haircut, ruddy cheeks and hand-me-down clothes. Her mammy and mine never saw eye to eye. There was once a tense stand off  over the last pair of oven gloves in a fancy kitchen shop. Rifts like that ran deep and rarely healed.

‘I think so, why? Is she in trouble or something?’

‘Oh good heavens no, child. Why ever would you imagine that?’

‘I don’t know. It’s just that…’

‘Well, let me cut this long story short. Why waste words when we could use them better for prayer and ask Him for guidance?’

‘Erm, quite.’

‘Sister Bernie has been doing some work with one of the local prisons and she’s in contact with someone she assures me is an old friend of yours.’

Who do I know in prison?

Part of me hopes it might be school bitch Ginny Walters and immediately feel bad for thinking ill of someone while there’s a nun on the other end of the phone. Lapsed catholic or not, the guilt gets you every time.

‘It’s a young man who has fallen by the wayside and needs our help to find the path back home.’

Back home?

‘Is he looking for somewhere to stay? Only I don’t live in Birmingham any more. I’m in Manchester and I only have a small flat.’

‘I’m talking about the path back to His kingdom.’

I feel my face glow red and thank God this exchange is taking place by phone. My shame is, for once, not shared.

‘You might well be asking what your part in this is,’ she says.

‘I did wonder.’

‘Well Sister Bernie would like to write to you and explain more. This poor fellow needs friends to prove the world isn’t all bad and if you agree to do this, you might help save a life. A precious life.’

Sister Avis knows how to play me. We’ve never met and yet here I am about to befriend someone who could well be rotting on death row in some Texan jail, or someone with detailed plans to hack me into little pieces to feed wild dogs. I know I should politely but firmly refuse. But this is a nun and a
very
Irish sounding one - they tend to be the most holy and the most able to twist the screws when it comes to getting what they want.

‘OK,’ I say lamely.

‘Splendid. I’ll have Sister Bernie email you.’

‘Email?’

‘Don’t sound so surprised. We might be nuns, but that doesn’t mean we can’t switch on a computer. How else do you think I tracked you down? Sister Bernie found your details on the Internet. I gather you’re married to a famous lawyer.’

I really should think twice about how much I give away in my on-line profile. I’ve read enough scare stories about identity theft. Any nutter can track me down. In fact, it sounds horribly like one has.

She embarrasses me into parting not only with my email address but also my mobile phone number and promises to put Bernie in touch.

They do say everything goes in threes and being a great believer in looking on the dark side whenever possible, I spend much of the day waiting for a third thunderbolt. By five-thirty, with a half hour left of my shift, I allow my guard to slip. Despite everything, it seems nothing else awful is going to happen that day.

Bad move!

‘Lisa,’ Sharon says ‘There’s someone on the phone for you.’

She does some sort of mime. Her hands go around her neck and I suspect I won’t want to hear from whoever it is, but what choice do I have? She’s just bawled my name across the office without covering the mouthpiece. I nod at her to put the call through.

‘Hello, am I speaking to Lisa Doyle?’

I recognise the voice at once.

‘This is Audrey Hawkins. I’m calling about the other night.’

I try to hide any fear in my voice. ‘Oh forget it. It really is none of my business.’

‘That is as may be, dear, but you left your umbrella at my house in your haste to leave. I ran out after you, but you’d taken off.’

Relief. She’s ringing to return my umbrella!

‘It was only a cheap one,’ I say. ‘I’m always losing them.’

‘I see, but if we all took that attitude, where would we be? I’ll be coming into town next Tuesday to deal with some business. I can drop it in.’

I can easily arrange to hide in the back office and have someone else deal with her.

‘We can go for a quick coffee,’ she says. ‘There’s something important I need to discuss with you. Shall we say eleven fifteen?’

Shit, this isn’t good.

‘On Tuesday?’

I desperately want to tell her I’m going to be busy, particularly between the hours of eleven and twelve. I’d sooner have a sinus wash than meet her for a coffee, quick or otherwise.

The words won’t come out.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘That’ll be lovely.’

The line goes dead and I’ve no way of getting back in touch. Should I call Brian and ask him to put her off ? Would that make things worse?

Sharon hands me her daily till receipts.

‘She sounded like she was in no mood for an argument.’

‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I say.

‘Fancy a quick drink next door?’

‘I probably ought to get home.’

‘Why?’ she says. ‘What have you got to rush off for? Come on Lisa, we used to go out all the time before Bethany was born. Bob’s in charge tonight. I’ll call and tell him I’ll be late. The world won’t end if Lisa Doyle doesn’t get home and log on by seven-thirty.’

Sharon’s right. Ever since I started tracing my old classmates, I’ve cut back on time spent with real life friends. Apart from the odd drunken trawl around gay bars with Andy, I hardly ever deviate from my routine.

Work. Home. On-line. Bed.

I miss a good girly chat.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘Just the one mind. Andy had some good news today and we never really got time to talk. I think I probably came over as a bit selfish and I owe him an apology.’

‘Right, well you finish the cash up and I’ll go grab a table. You can tell me all about it over a drink. Vodka and tonic?’

‘Double.’

I watch her join the others, putting on their coats, picking up their bags, waving goodnight.

When
did
I stop being part of the crowd?