The Armchair Bride

by Mo Fanning

  ‘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.

  Although, doesn’t a rain check imply I’m happy to go for dinner some other time? I wish I’d not put that bit in either. Then again, seeing as how I haven’t made any specific suggestions about when we might eat together, he’ll surely get the message. I’m about to switch off my machine and go help with the stragglers picking up tickets when a new message appears.

  From: Brian Hawkins

  To: Lisa Doyle

  Subject: Re: Dinner?

  Dear Lisa

  Got your message. Shame about the dinner. Let’s make it next week. How are you fixed on Friday?

  How on earth could I ever forget New Year’s Eve?

  Brian

  Great! Mission so not accomplished. I’m going to have to come up with some other excuse before next Friday.

  By eight, when I drop the takings into the safe, I feel drained. I didn’t slept so well after drinking myself into a stupor, so rather than get the bus I treat myself to a taxi home, planning a long hot soak and early night.

  ‘Thank God you’re back.’ Andy is on his feet as I dump my jacket in the living room.

  ‘Lovely to see you too,’ I say.

  There’s a bottle of red wine and two glasses on the coffee table and the smell of something lovely wafts from the kitchen.

  ‘Expecting company?’ I say. ‘What’s cooking?’

  ‘Shepherd’s pie. Your favourite. And I got a tub of Hagen Daz.’

  ‘What have you broken?’

  ‘Nothing. Can’t a friend do something for a friend?’

  ‘Yes, but you never do. When did you last make me a shepherd’s pie?’

  ‘I
t’s from M&S,’ he says and I sense a blush.

  ‘Fine, but even so.’

  He looks worried.

  ‘What’s up?’ I put down my bag and hang up my coat. Dinner smells good, a bath can wait.

  ‘I’m up against six others for this part and they’ve sent the script over. I have to read this before Thursday.’

  ‘There really is no such thing as a free dinner is there?’ I say.

  ‘Not in this business.’

  ‘OK, you go plate up, I’ll take a quick shower and we’ll start work.’

  Andy looks relieved.

  ‘But you have to come and see the nun with me,’ I say.

  ‘Anything. Whatever you wish is my command.’

  ‘And you have to come up with a good excuse for next Friday.’

  ‘Why? What’s happening next Friday?’

  ‘Brian wants to take me for dinner.’

  ‘Brian Hawkins?’

  ‘How many Brian’s do we know who might invite me to dinner?’

  ‘I see,’ Andy says thoughtfully before going into the kitchen.

  I follow him.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’.

  ‘Well come on, you can’t be that blind, surely.’

  ‘Well, clearly I am. What am I missing that is so obvious to everyone else?’

  ‘The other night at dinner. The way he kept looking at you. Then he takes you for lunch.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my manager buying me lunch?’

  ‘Nothing at all if you’re talking a quick burger and fries. You got three courses at the Laurel Tree. Then last night, he almost fell over himself to get you a drink.’

  ‘He almost fell over the table, Andy. He was off his face.’

  ‘Surely you can see.’

  ‘See what?’

  ‘He’s besotted.’

  I’ve never even considered what Andy seems to be suggesting.

  ‘He’s my boss,’ I say again, aware it sounds like a defensive mantra.

  ‘So what? Audrey already thought you were having an affair. She must have picked up on the way he looks at you.’

  ‘Those knickers were Nina’s. He explained all that.’

  ‘Sounds to me like the lady doth protest too much. He’s not a bad looking bloke, Lisa. If he was gay, I’d certainly do him.’

  ‘Andy!’

  ‘Must be hot in here,’ he says.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve gone bright red.’

  ‘Well, it is hot, after being outside. It is the middle of winter.’

  Andy stares at me for a moment, before checking on dinner in the oven.

  ‘Go and get ready, I hope you’re hungry.’

  I stand under the shower and let water cascade down my aching back. I can’t stop thinking about what Andy said. Brian and I have always been friends. But that’s all. I’ve never given him any reason to think we might be anything else. But then again, would it be so bad if something did happen? As Andy says, he’s not a bad looking bloke.

  This is crazy talk. I’ve been alone too long and need to drag Sharon into the testosterone-fogged bars of Deansgate at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘Dinner’s served,’ Andy says.

  I wrap myself in a white towelling robe.

  Brian’s my manager, he’s always been my manager and I can’t think of him in any other way. I vow when I get back into work tomorrow to send him a quick mail saying that I’m not free for dinner and he’ll get the message.

  After we’ve eaten, Andy reaches into a bag next to the sofa and pulls out a pile of papers. He tosses them in my direction.

  ‘Biker Boys of Bratislava,’ he says. ‘A story of werewolves, motorbikes and the search for eternal life, filmed in Eastern Europe, because it’s cheaper that way.’

  ‘It all sounds a bit…’

  ‘Art house?’

  ‘I was going to say it sounds a bit like a porn film.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The title. It doesn’t sound like the sort of thing aimed at the mass market.’

  ‘Oh Christ.’ Andy grabs the script. ‘I see what you mean. I haven’t bothered reading it yet, but now you’ve said that, it does sound a bit iffy.’

  He leafs through the pages while I take our plates through to the kitchen. Brian is still on my mind. I load up the dishwasher and slip away into my room to switch on my laptop.

  My previous mail was perhaps a tad too jokey. The last thing I need in my life is more complication. Having dinner with the boss is a mistake waiting to happen. He’d probably spend the whole evening banging on about how his marriage was a sham and how Audrey never understood him. Doubtless he’ll order another bottle of wine and insist on driving me home. I’ll probably say that he’s drunk too much and he shouldn’t risk driving. There’ll be some casual remark about how sleeping on the sofa isn’t good for his back and before I know it we’ll be in my bed, me on top, panting and screaming his name at the top of my voice.

  What am I thinking? This can’t happen.

  From: Lisa Doyle

  To: Brian Hawkins

  Subject: Re: Dinner?

  Dear Brian

  Thanks again for your kind offer of dinner, however I think it is best if we keep our relationship strictly on a business level.

  As you know, Audrey is also in contact with me and rather than be seen to take sides, I’d rather keep

  out of this completely. I hope you understand.

  Lisa

  I’m reading back over what I’ve written when Andy knocks on my bedroom door.

  ‘I’ve got to do a nude scene,’ he says. ‘Look here on page seventeen. I’ve only said two lines and already I’m naked in the shower talking about how I’ve heard the place we’re staying in is haunted.’

  ‘So, you’ll have to go back to the gym.’

  ‘Then there’s this line on the next page where I start going on about how champagne makes me lose all my inhibitions. And then I suggest a game of spin the bottle.’

  ‘What happens next?’

  ‘I don’t know, that’s all they’ve sent.’

  ‘Porn,’ I say. ‘You’re making a porn film.’

  He leans over my shoulder to read the e-mail.

  ‘This is private,’ I say.

  ‘I think it is best if we keep our relationship strictly on a business level,’ he reads out loud. ‘I hope you understand.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘He’s offering you dinner, not a trip down the aisle, Lisa. You’re the one always moaning you don’t get any attention from blokes. Now as soon as one shows the slightest interest, you turn your back.’

  ‘He’s my boss.’

  ‘So you keep saying. I still don’t see what difference that makes. Are you scared that if you shag him, he’ll sack you? You can’t be that bad in bed, surely to God.’

  ‘You know exactly what I mean. You’re always saying not to mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘When have I ever said that?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but everyone says that.’

  ‘Lisa. Don’t send that mail.’

  ‘Go break out the ice cream. I’ll be through in a moment.’

  ‘OK, but think about what I’ve said.’

  When I’m sure Andy is back in the kitchen, clattering around dishes, I return to the screen. He’s right. The mail does sound prim, proper and unfriendly. I try to make it less confrontational before hitting delete.

  While still on-line, I decide I might as well see if I’ve had any interesting new mails. I wade through the usual junk before my eyes stop on a message from someone I’d hoped to never hear from again.

&n
bsp; From: Ginny Baker

  To: Lisa Doyle

  Subject: Hen Party

  Hello Lisa

  I’m not sure you remember me. You probably knew me better as Ginny Walters. I’m now married to James Baker. I understand from Helen that she is approach- ing you to organise something in the way of a hen party.

  I wonder if you would be so kind as to decline this suggestion. I have already come up with an idea for the occasion. I plan to suggest everyone fly out to Palma for the weekend. Do some shopping, grab some tapas and then perhaps celebrate Helen’s last few days as a single woman in style.

  You probably move in different circles to the rest of us and I expect that means you enjoy somewhat different cultural values, but I can’t help thinking that it might be nice to do something more dignified than drinking ourselves silly and pawing a male stripper in Manchester.

  Hope you understand and I’ll leave it up to you to see if you can find the dignity to convey this to Helen.

  Kind Regards

  Ginny Baker

  PS: I am helping Helen’s mother make the dresses and received your mail about your measurements.

  Unless you had a few ribs removed since last time we met, who are you kidding?’

  Her words knock me sick. Even after all this time, I remember how it felt to be the little girl she loved to pick on. Her name still causes the skin to tickle on the back of my neck and I’ve yet to forget the unexpected pinches, punches and kicks, the thumps in the back, the Chinese burns I laughed about, pretending they didn’t hurt. I allowed her to behave like that then and now, here I am letting her do it again. Me. A grown woman. I can’t speak. I feel Andy put his arms around me.