The Armchair Bride

by Mo Fanning

  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 ar
range 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?

  Nine

  Sharon is waiting at the bar and it crosses my mind that I never even mentioned the fact she returned after Christmas with a choppy short haircut. What sort of friend am I to not have the decency to say how much her new look works? Memo to self. Stop being so self obsessed. Care a bit more about others.

  She’s on her mobile and a invitingly huge vodka and tonic waits for me.

  After Andy, she’s my closest friend. I’m God Mother to her daughter Bethany and seem to spend half my wages over compensating for being a rubbish friend by buying her expensive - though impractical - gifts. Sharon accepts them with good grace. ‘She’ll grow into it’ has become something of a mantra.

  ‘What a day!’ I grab the next bar stool.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ she says. ‘That Charlie and the Chocolate Factory thing is madness. Finally, the marketing department are earning their keep.’

  ‘Actually,’ I say with a casual shrug. ‘I thought of it.’

  ‘Bloody hell Lisa! You ought to be upstairs demanding a rise.’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Well I do.’

  She glances up as Brian walks in.

  ‘Here’s your chance,’ she says and my heart leaps into my throat.

  ‘It was only an idea,’ I say. ‘It could have gone either way.’

  ‘Rubbish. You deserve some reward. The least he could do is buy you a drink.’

  ‘Do we have to call him over? He’ll start talking shop.’

  Sharon looks at me and then at Brian who seems to be making a big deal of hanging up his jacket.

  ‘I suppose so,’ she says glumly. ‘I thought we could tap him for a few rounds.’

  ‘Maybe later if he’s still here. So now, what about you? What’s going on in your life?’

  ‘Motherhood,’ she says in a voice I find hard to read.

  ‘You make it sound like a chore.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. It really is all I’ve ever wanted and I love Bethany to bits, but even just coming here for an hour after work has been like arranging a military manoeuvre. I had to sweet talk Bob into feeding her and making sure she has a bath. He wanted to play squash tonight, so now he’ll have one on him when I get in. The thing is we hardly ever see each other these days.’

  ‘Things have changed. You’re a mother now.’

  ‘I’m sick of people reminding me,’ she says and then looks fed up. ‘That makes me sound like such a bitch.’

  ‘You’re probably tired. I would be. I’m a complete cow if I don’t get eight hours a night.’

  ‘Eight hours ...’ She sounds wistful. ‘Eight minutes would be a treat.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I say to change the subject. ‘We ought to do more together. I’m the one who ought to be making more effort. I didn’t think how strange it can be when you’ve just had a child.’

  ‘Well now you come to mention it, you have been acting a bit strange.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘You’ve turned into a recluse. Every time I ask you say you’re too busy.’

  ‘That’s not fair. I thought we were going for a pizza later this week.’

  ‘When exactly? You keep saying we should go out together, but that’s as far as it goes. It never actually happens.’

  I can’t think of anything to say. Sharon takes a deep breath.

  ‘You said yourself you don’t know why you keep paying for gym membership. You haven’t been in months. Apart from Andy, nobody ever sees you outside of work. What are you doing with your time?’

  ‘You know how it is. It’s winter. Nobody feels like going out in the winter.’

  Sharon’s face lights up. ‘You little devil!’ she cries. ‘You’re seeing someone aren’t you?’

  ‘No.’ I gasp and notice Brian heading our way.

  ‘You’ve gone bright red. You can’t fool me. You’re not spending every night on your own in front of that computer screen. Armchair Bride indeed.’

  ‘What?’

  I’ve never told Sharon about Andy’s nickname for me. I’ve never told anyone.

  ‘The Armchair Bride,’ she says. ‘That’s what everyone calls you isn’t it?’

  ‘Not to the best of my knowledge. Who’s everyone anyway?’

  ‘Everyone at work, the people in the hairdressers, at least two of the girls at Latte-tude and my mum.’

  ‘Your mother calls me The Armchair Bride?’

  Sharon sees the look of horror on my face and has the good grace to blush.

  ‘It’s just a nickname, Lisa. We all have them. Don’t think I don’t know you all called me the slug when I was eight months pregnant.’ She takes a sip of her drink. ‘I think that trying to find out what happened to the people you went to school with is perfectly normal, but you really ought to make sure you don’t lose touch with the real world.’

  Sharon smiles, but her words sting. I want to stand and leave, but how will that look? She’s right. I have shut myself away. After my last boyfriend ditched me long distance, I feel like something inside died.

  Gavin and I were, I thought, the perfect couple. We were together, but never on top of each other. I fought against my natural urges to monitor his every move. He was a DJ and one with an ever-growing reputation. Whenever I saw him chat to a girl after a gig, I managed to stop myself from rushing up and asking who she was. His work meant he had to mix with the beautiful people and I accepted that, from time to time , he might run into impossibly blonde girls in short skirts and too much make-up. It didn’t make any odds. He always made sure his perfectly proportioned gym-toned body was next to mine each night.

  Gavin and Lisa became a brand. We were in huge demand, juggling party invites
with dinners at swish eateries, and as his fame notched up, we got to share tables with soap stars and c-list musicians. I offered to mastermind his career, and used my theatre contacts to persuade skeptical promoters to take a punt on his talents. I talked ticket agencies into carrying flyers or posters for his gigs. When he went to DJ at the opening night for a new club in Ibiza, I thought nothing of it.

  Until he phoned to say it had been fun, but he wasn’t coming back.

  For a while afterwards I still went to the same places with the same people and told myself and anyone who asked that Gavin was busy in Ibiza until the truth began to spread. I pretended it didn’t bother me. It did. It bothered me deeply.

  That’s when it all started. I’d been sitting at home, feeling sorry for myself and looking at photos on the computer when I decided to look up an old friend. I’d long since lost her phone number and all I had was her parent’s address. I typed her details into a search engine and found myself on PlaceTheirFace. And this time I stayed. It wasn’t just a site where you could giggle at how fat people had got or how sad their jobs sounded. Not that I was a super model with a high-flying career. It sparked off the need to know what everyone I once knew had made of their lives.

  As I trudge towards forty, I need to know I’m not the only one making a terrible mess of things. It hurts to learn that by society’s standards, I more or less am.

  Except for Helen, she’s always been my one salvation. Although she was dating Jamie, she insisted it was a bit of fun and that they were more like best friends. Her recent email telling me otherwise was a bolt from the blue.

  It’s only now, in the bar with Sharon that I understand what has become of me. I’ve stopped going out. I’ve hidden myself away. I deserve the nickname.

  I am The Armchair Bride.

  ‘Can I get you two ladies a drink?’ Brian says.

  Does he call me The Armchair Bride too? I can cope with a couple of people from the nearby greasy spoon having a chuckle at my expense, but not my boss. Was that disastrous dinner invite brought about by sympathy? Was it something they’d all cooked up together, something to get me out of the house on a Saturday night?