by Mo Fanning
‘What’s the matter with me? I know I don’t do it for you anymore. So what was she, a younger model?’
‘Please Audrey. You’re making a huge mistake.’
‘What would Gordon say if he knew you’d been shagging some filthy little slag behind my back?’
Andy throws me a what the fuck? look.
‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Brian says.
‘I don’t think so. Know what I found when I took your jacket to the dry cleaners? Hairs.’ She turns to me, as if to rest the case for the prosecution. ‘Three - red - hairs.’
Andy gasps and the room is wrapped in a blanket of tense and uncomfortable silence.
‘Those don’t belong to Lisa,’ Brian says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They don’t belong to Lisa.’
‘Then who do they belong to?’
‘Not here!’ Brian pleads.
The stand-off has reached its peak. Someone has to give ground.
‘No,’ Brian says and sits down. ‘They belong to Nina.’
Andy lets out another gasp and Audrey’s eyes grow wide.
‘Nina? Your assistant? Nina who helped me pick out a tie for your Christmas present? Nina who orders flowers for our wedding anniversary each time you forget? She’s 52.’
‘That Nina, yes.’
Audrey sits down heavily on the edge of the sofa next to Brian. For the briefest of moments, her face softens and I catch a glimpse of the woman in the old photograph. A kinder woman, a woman less convinced the world is out to get her. This feels like an intensely private moment.
‘I think it’s probably best if we get going now,’ I say. ‘Thanks for a lovely evening.’
Brian looks up.
‘Yes of course. Thanks for coming. I’ll get your coats.’
He leaves Audrey on the sofa, holding a shard of the broken Toby jug and ushers us towards the door.
‘Why can’t we stay? They’re only getting warmed up,’ Andy whispers.
‘Thanks for dinner Audrey,’ I say, but she doesn’t look up.
At the front door, Brian hands over our still damp jackets.
‘See you on Monday then,’ I say and try to make my farewell sound like we’d had a perfectly lovely, not-at-all-freaky evening.
Brian looks devastated. Upstairs, a toilet flushes.
‘That’s my future,’ he says and tries for a smile, but it comes out sour.
When their front door closes, Andy skips down the path.
‘What a night. And I thought it was going to be dull. Did you hear all that stuff about Nina?’
I nod grimly. All I want is to get into my car and drive away.
‘Who’d have thought it? Nina! The dirty old slapper. Wait till I see her,’ he says. ‘And who’s this Gordon they kept going on about?’
‘How would I know?’
I open the car door and get in.
‘Well that confirms the wedding then,’ Andy says. ‘I’d been having second thoughts.’
‘What? You can’t bail on me now. Everyone will know I’m a failure who can’t get a man.’
‘Don’t be so silly, Lisa. We’ll keep that between us. What I mean is, if this is what happens when we go for a quiet civilised dinner with your boss and his wife, just think what it’ll be like when I get to meet your whole family and everyone you went to school with.’
I deliberately catch his plaster cast with the car door. He winces, but refuses to cry out. Our eyes meet.
He’s probably right.
Six
I wake shell-shocked on Sunday morning after a fitful night where I dreamed of being chased through a forest by miniature versions of Audrey.
It’s only six-thirty. No normal person would dream of abandoning a comfortable bed so early at the weekend, but I can find little reason to stay put.
Tea gets made, toast buttered and I switch on my laptop. The news is typically miserable and somehow I end up revising my profile at PlaceTheirFace. With Helen’s wedding coming up and Andy booked to play my husband, it probably wouldn’t do to continue telling the world I’m single.
The happiest day of my life takes place in the click of a mouse. If only real life were so easy. I study what I’ve written about my job. It’s a bit pedestrian too. It wouldn’t hurt to tweak things slightly.
It’s not like I’m going to claim to be an astronaut or anything. For one thing, knowing my luck I’ll run into someone who knows every detail of such a job. In front of former friends, they’ll ask awkward questions about decompression tanks. As a kid I always wanted to be a vet, but the prospect of watching a box set of Vets in Action or Animal Police makes my head ache. And someone will present me with a flatulent labrador and expect miracle cures.
How about a writer or a poet? The trouble is, the people I’m likely to run into will feel compelled to be polite and ask where they can pick up a copy of my latest opus. One of them is bound to work in a library or bookshop. Cover blown.
I decide to play it safe and stick with my real job. Box Office Manager isn’t anything to be ashamed of and it won’t take much to embroider the truth and make the theatre sound infinitely more glamourous than it is. People already imagine I spend my days hobnobbing with famous actors.
With that decided, I set about inventing my husband. He’ll be called James. For no other reason than the fact that James was the name of a boy I worshipped at school. He was tall and skinny with dirty blonde hair and icy blue eyes. He wore a battered leather jacket and rode a red moped. Once, I fake-tripped in front of him, sending books flying and he helped pick them up. I swear that as he handed me my bag, a spark shot up my arm. Our eyes met and he treated me to a smile. Though according to PlaceTheirFace, he now lives in Amsterdam with an air steward called George.
For a job, I decide on barrister. Andy once played Atticus Finch in a low-budget version of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, so I’m sure he can pull off the jargon.
Should he have a moustache? Absolutely not.
A love of Sunday league football? It suggests teamwork, so yes.
I also want him not to be afraid of his feminine side, so boast about joint trips to antique shops and how we bicker over Ryvita in Tesco. Andy will love all the detail.
And now for me.
I work at the Empire Theatre in Manchester where I manage the busy box office. My husband James is a barrister specialising in international white collar crime - I can’t name names, but he’s had a hand in some very high profile cases.’
Too much? Maybe I should soften it and make myself seem more human. I add a line.
I like to bake and my Victoria sponge has won awards.
A little voice inside warns against boasting. I tell it to hold its tongue, that this is important and I know best.
Next comes “Future Plans” and I toy further with the idea of saying I want to write a novel, but seeing as how almost everyone seems to be doing that these days, I pick a different path.
At school I was good at art and Mam still has some of my first attempts at pottery gathering dust in glass-fronted cabinets. The teachers hung my picture of a fruit bowl in the main hall, in a glass frame. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for my schoolmates to learn this creative streak carried on.
My husband and I plan to open a small gallery showcasing my line drawings.
I’m fairly sure nobody will get me to do an improvised sketch there-and- then, and if they do, I’ll claim the muse is absent and look troubled. If push comes to shove, I’ll claim repetitive strain injury.
I read through all I’ve written.
It lacks something. Although it’s no less dishonest than my first profile, there should be a final touch.
I think back to the hostile phone conversations, the p
ieces torn from local newspapers, second-hand news passed on by Mam. What do all those bitches have in common. Nearly every last one likes to brag about one thing.
We’re also trying for a baby.
I hit submit.
A message arrives in my inbox confirming the profile is now on-line for anyone to see.
Seven
Everyone at work knows where I was on Saturday. They’ll all want the kind of details I’m too shaken to share. What can I say? They have lovely wallpaper but Audrey is psychotic?
I get into work early and hide in a box room with the ticket printers, insisting I’m too busy to be disturbed. By ten-thirty, I crave human company and stick my head round the door.
Sharon waves and rolls her eyes as an elderly woman counts pound coins onto the counter. Bryn shoves tickets into envelopes and everyone else is busy on the phone.
‘Bloody hell,’ someone says and we all look round. ‘Read your email, quick.’
A gentle wave of surprise washes through the box office and I want to run to my own computer, instead I lean over Bryn’s shoulder.
‘What’s going on?’
‘See for yourself.’
The email is from Nina. Probably one of the usual reminders about getting time sheets in on time and not hanging wet coats in the upstairs cloakroom.
‘What does she want now?’ I say. ‘Has someone left the milk out of the fridge in the staffroom.’
‘Read it,’ he insists.
From: Nina Turner
To: All Staff
Subject: Farewell
Dear all
As some of you may have heard, I am leaving the Pal- ace Theatre today after six years during which time I have made some great friends. It has been a pleasure working with most of you.
I’ll be having a little get together on Friday at six in the Stage Door bar for those of you who can make it. I’ll be staying in Manchester and hope to stay in touch with some of you.
Nina Turner
Management Assistant
‘Did you know anything about this?’ Sharon says.
‘Why would I?’
‘You’re management. Did he mention it on Saturday?’
It’s like everyone remembers at once.
‘What was the house like?’ Bryn says. ‘Do they sleep together or is it separate beds?’
‘It was lovely actually,’ I say. ‘Really nice.’
I feel my face glow. I’m such a rubbish liar.
‘Really?’ Sharon says. ‘Are you sure about that?’
Brian puts his head round the door and everyone pretends to be busy.
‘Did anyone get back to you from marketing?’ he says and I shake my head. ‘Fine, leave it with me.’
When he’s gone the questions start again.
‘I heard he caught Nina going through his desk, has he sacked her?’
‘How the hell would I know?’
I’m saved by the sandwich man. Insider information will always take second place to crisps and chocolate.
‘Get me a chicken and stuffing,’ I say to Sharon. ‘I’ll pay you back.’
It gives me the perfect excuse to escape back into the ticket room and close the door. I read Nina’s email and as I close it, another message pops up.
From: Brian Hawkins
To: Lisa Doyle
Subject: Lunch Lisa
About the other night, I don’t even know where to start with the apologies. Please let me buy you lunch so we can talk.
Brian
I ought to answer it, but doing so would drag me into something I’d do well to avoid. Sharon taps on the door.
‘He was out of chicken. How about we go out for lunch, it’s been ages since we did anything together. You can tell me all about Audrey’s cooking.’
‘You know I’d love to,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got to pick up a pair of boots I’ve had repaired.’
‘I’ll walk up with you. Get a wiggle on. I’m starving.’
I glance back at the screen. I don’t owe Brian any favours, but something tells me I should give him the chance to tell his side of the story.
‘I’m not sure the shoes will be ready yet,’ I lie.
Sharon gives me a strange look. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re meant to be one of my best friends, but every time I suggest we do anything together, you come up with an excuse. You ditched me on Saturday. Now you don’t even want lunch?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I really do have to get this finished. I honestly don’t mean to keep letting you down. How about we do something one night this week?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tries to look annoyed, but we’ve known each other too long for either of us to get away with play acting.
‘I’ll pay for pizza,’ I say and she smiles.
‘OK, it’s a deal. I’ll see you later.’
When she’s gone, I hide myself away in a stock room and pull out my mobile to call Brian’s number.
‘I got your email,’ I say.
‘I don’t suppose you could meet me in the Laurel Tree in thirty minutes?’ he says.
‘It’s the other side of town, how am I supposed to get there?’
‘Get a taxi, claim it back. I’ll sign it off.’
The Laurel Tree has a reputation for being hideously expensive and the chance of a free lunch is too much to pass up. After Saturday, he does kind of owe me.
‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you there.’
I give Sharon ten minutes head start and call a cab. Secretly, I’m excited by the thought of a clandestine meeting for a slap up lunch with a married man engaged in an affair with his secretary. A good-looking married man at that. Then I cop on to myself and remember my part in all of this is that of innocent bystander wrongly accused of sleeping with the aforementioned good-looking married man.
At the Laurel Tree a waif-like girl greets me with little more than a sneer. Her mid-Atlantic drawl sounds somewhat odd amongst the flat Manchester vowels that drift from tables of businessmen enjoying expense account blow-outs.
I spot Brian and wave and she looks me up and down, her eyes spending a little too long on my shoes - clearly she’s unconvinced a frump like me can be invited to lunch in a place like the Laurel Tree. A wave of her skinny hand ends our interaction as she turns her attention to the next person in line.
Despite telling myself it’s no big deal, it feels like I’ve been let into an exclusive club. A bit like the time Andy and I bluffed our way into the Take That after show party and spent the evening being uncool, nudging each other every time we spotted someone famous.
Brian stands to shake my hand. It feels a bit formal. I consider curtsying.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he says.
‘Thanks for inviting me. I’ve always wanted to come here.’
‘Well I thought, after the other night…’
‘Oh forget about it.’
‘I feel so mortified about what Audrey said. To go accusing you like that ...’
‘Your private life is your private life. I’m not going to go running around telling everybody what happened.’ He looks relieved. ‘And your secret’s safe with Andy too. I’ve got enough dirt him to make sure he keeps quiet too.’
‘That sounds ominous.’
‘I’m not a woman to be messed with,’ I say.
Brian looks terrified.
‘Joke,’ I say, and to my surprise he looks quickly away. Almost on cue, a waiter offers menus, takes drinks orders and generally helps disperse what stood every chance of developing into a thoroughly awkward situation.
‘Shall we start over?’ I say and my eyes stay fixed on the list
of starters. Awkward situation or not, I’m determined to make the most of this. Free lunches rarely come my way and I already suspect this one has strings.
‘We are having starters, aren’t we?’ I say.
Brian puts down his menu and picks at a speck of imaginary dust on his shirtsleeve.
‘I’m not having an affair with Nina,’ he says.
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘What I said on Saturday to Audrey was true.’
I nod and return to the menu. Five minutes ago I was planning on rack of Cornish lamb with crushed potatoes. Right now I’ll settle for a Pot Noodle to go.
‘But if you knew what I’ve been going through, you might understand if I was,’ Brian says.
‘What?’
‘Having an affair.’
The arrival of our drinks offers thinking space. Is it too early to vanish to the ladies’ room to powder my nose? And then detour to the bar for a nerve-settling double vodka.
‘Sure, Nina flirts a bit, but that’s all there is to it.’ There’s an edge to his voice. ‘And now Audrey’s made it impossible for her to stay.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know what to do, Lisa.’
‘Maybe it will all blow over?’
‘You don’t know Audrey at all do you?’
I feel uncomfortable. Brian and I have never been what you might call close. We exchange jokey emails, photos of dogs in baby clothing and he’s long been my chat buddy at staff parties, but that’s where it ends. I can’t call him a close friend. His position of authority tends to intimidate, if truth be told.
‘It wasn’t always like the way it is now,’ he says and I brace myself for what feels like too much information. ‘We used to laugh all the time. She was the life and soul of any party. Everybody loved Audrey…’ He stares into space. ‘Then she lost the baby and had to go into hospital. When she came out, she was a different woman. No chance of having kids any more and she sort of shut down on me. That was nearly sixteen years ago. I stayed with her because I thought one day I might get the old Audrey back, but she turned in on herself, became this character. What is it you all call her? The Rottweiler?’