by Mo Fanning
‘Fact of life.’
‘Why do you even care?’ she said and I looked at her cradling her new baby daughter and knew she’d never get it. Her life was one long whirl of clothes that don’t show sick, mother and baby groups and people that tell her how wonderful she is to balance a return to work with her family life.
‘I’ve got issues,’ I said. ‘It’s this or a room with bouncy walls.’
‘You need to get out more. Somewhere normal people go.’
‘Are you suggesting I’m not normal?’
She didn’t answer and her look said it all.
At school, Helen and I were the quiet ones, in awe of the pretty girls, or The Swans, as we called them. These were the girls who wore make-up, smoked cigarettes and French-kissed boys tin the bushes at the back of the playing fields. The Swans took their orders from Ginny Walters. Her father was a butcher and once, she poured pigs’ blood into my schoolbag. It was my birthday and Mam had bought me a new t-shirt with a tiger on it - like the ones worn by the girls in Abba.
Helen and I stayed friends long after school and she’d visit me in Manchester for weekends. But then time got in the way. Some weekends I’d have to work extra shifts. Or she’d agree to do some sponsored walk and I’d be stuck with a housewarming party or she’d have a baby shower. With one thing or another, we’ve not been in touch for a bit and I’ve a horrible feeling I forgot her last birthday.
My mobile sings into life - it’s Andy.
‘Hey big spender, fancy joining us for a hair of the dog?’
I ignore the obvious attempt at sustained psychological damage. ‘Who’s us exactly?’
‘Well just me, actually. Nelek promised he’d meet me here, but he’s rung to say he’s been called in to do an extra shift.’
‘So I’m the booby prize?’
‘Do you fancy coming or not?’
‘I feel like death.’
‘Me too, let’s die together.’
Rather than face a night on my own, I agree to meet up and busy myself with getting ready. I shower, tie my hair back into an acceptable knot and throw concealer at my face. There’s little point in doing any major renovation work, I’m unlikely to meet the man of my dreams in the sort of bar Andy frequents. Not for the first time does it cross my mind that a single woman of my age really ought to visit fewer gay bars. Much as I love my extended family, I need more contact with eligible and available straight men.
I ring Sharon - I hardly saw her at the staff party thanks to spending half of it under a table and the other half the worse for drink.
‘Fancy meeting up for a quick drink? Andy’s been stood up and needs my support. I wondered if you fancied tagging along.’
‘Oh Lisa, I’d love to, but we’ve got to baby-sit Rob’s sister’s kids tonight. They had Bethany last night.’
‘That’s OK, some other time though? Andy’s sort of backed me into admitting I ought to get out and about more in places where single, straight men gather.’
‘He’s right,’ she says. ‘How about we meet up on Saturday?’
‘Oddly enough, I am free,’ I sigh and draw a circle around the date on our new calendar - Oil Rig Workers of the North Sea - twelve men covered in soot and oil with their shirts off.
I’m about to switch off my computer and call a cab when something pings.
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.
&
nbsp; ‘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!’