by Mo Fanning
From: Lisa Doyle
To: Brian Hawkins
Subject: Re: Dinner?
Dear Brian
I’d love to come to dinner on Friday. Let me know if it’s going to be anywhere formal, so I know how to dress. I’d hate to make a show of myself – or you.
Lisa
It sounds friendly enough, so I hit send and immediately, regret it. Sharon often says the Internet ought to come with a breathalyzer lock. The sort of thing they try to force on car owners. People shouldn’t be allowed to type a single word as soon as the system detects more than one glass of wine.
I nervously check my sent items, hoping by some miracle, I’ve typed in the wrong address or a system glitch has stopped my message mid-send. No such luck. My silly words are already winging their electronic way to Manchester.
I’m about to log off and go back to the hotel when a new message arrives. From Brian.
The thought hits me: we’re on-line together and I imagine him in a cheerless hotel room, bored with the in-house movies and wondering what use anyone could have for three sheets of headed notepaper and two branded envelopes. He’ll be sharing his bed with a miserable room service tray and the remains of a regulation club sandwich served on a branded plate with an overpriced bottle of beer.
Internet costs a bomb in those places, so he must be bored out of his tiny mind to need to write to me. I click to read.
From: Brian Hawkins
To: Lisa Doyle
Subject: Re: Dinner?
Lisa
It would be a pleasure to take you to Rimmingtons on Friday. From looking at their website, I have discovered the dress code to be smart casual but chic, so I’ll leave you to interpret that.
I promise not to spend the whole time talking about Audrey.
Brian
Thirteen
Rain runs down the windows of the box office and every customer arrives shaking umbrellas or stamping their feet. Sharon breezes past with on a Starbucks run and I hand over money. People talk about lunch and what was on the telly last night. I lurk behind my computer screen, unable to join in with the real world.
Helen emailed first thing to talk hen night plans. She suggested I give her a ring for a girly catch up. The thing is, I can’t help but think we’ve grown too far apart. She’s become a Christmas card and a birthday text message. Someone I poke on Facebook now and then. Someone I always mean to spend more time with, but somehow never do. Out of sight is out of mind, no matter how I try to fight it.
I have to find the right words to tell her. Last night I lay awake and dreamed up excuses, in the middle of the night, they were genius. In the cold light of day, they’re absurd.
I’m afraid I’ve lost all feeling down one side of my body, Helen and must therefore back out of organising your hen party or even coming to the wedding. My rich and hugely successful husband has found a doctor in Sydney who can help. We must leave for the airport tonight.
I’ll make up for non-attendance by spending far more than I can afford on a present and arrange to take them both out for an expensive meal as soon as their honeymoon ends. It could be a double celebration when I get the feeling back down my right side.
Of course, my fabulous husband won’t be able to attend. He’ll have been mauled by a dingo or bitten by a funnel-webbed spider.
Those years spent watching wildlife documentaries must count for something.
The only fly in this particular pot of ointment is my upbringing.
Catholic with pure guilt running through my veins.
Worried my story lacks legs, I call Mam and quiz her about illnesses that run in the family. She thinks for a while before coming up with the tragic tale of a distant cousin laid low by a stroke at the age of 41.
Having always been one to run a mile from tempting fate, I’m now on the lookout for something less likely to bite me on the arse in twelve month’s time.
Online I search for communicable disease. Ideally something that could be contracted in Manchester but that might result in my being locked away from the rest of the human race. For at least two months.
Ebola is the first result, but it feels too extreme. I search again.
‘Yellow fever?’ Sharon peers over my shoulder. ‘Who do you know with yellow fever?’
‘I’m checking up on vaccinations in case I need them for my holidays.’
‘Oooh, where are you going?’
She drags over a chair and puts down her mug of coffee.
Why did I mention holidays? If there’s one thing more or less guaranteed to spur lengthy office conversations, it has to be holiday plans.
Bryn pipes up. ‘Where are you off to Lisa?’
‘Mongolia,’ I lie. It’s the first thing to come into my head.
Sharon screws up her face.
‘My brother and his girlfriend went trekking there last year. They said it was very basic and incredibly hot. Remember what you were like when we went to Corfu, you spent all your time in the room with the air conditioning on, refusing to eat anything that you hadn’t personally seen washed in bottled water. I wouldn’t have thought Mongolia was your scene.’
What are the odds ?
I glance at the screen for clues about areas that need yellow fever vaccinations.
‘I meant Haiti.’
I cross my fingers. Surely nobody has been there recently.
‘When are you going?’ Sharon says.
‘Soon. It depends on flight prices.’
I make a vague hand gesture to close down the discussion, but Sharon isn’t done.
‘As long as it isn’t April. That’s the rainy season. I studied it for Geography.’
I don’t know what to say and thank the Lord when my phone rings. It’s Andy wanting to know what’s planned for his going away party.
‘You want me to organise it?’ I say.
‘Well I can hardly do it myself, can I? It would look terribly egotistical. I want drinks in the Stage Door at six. See if you can get them to sort out some snacks. Nothing too fancy, just finger food. I’m thinking spring rolls and chilli dip, mini quiches, don’t forget some veggie versions and a few small sandwiches. What do poor people eat these days?’
He pauses.
‘Are you writing this down?’
‘Word for word.’
‘Good, now let’s talk drinks. I thought a few jugs of cocktails. Mojitos, Margaritas that sort of thing. Afterwards we should go to Funky Town. Give them a call and tell them to expect a party of about twenty. See if you can blag free entrance. If they get funny, try and arrange use of the VIP entrance at the very least. Tell them I’ll mention them in any interviews I do when the film comes out.’
‘That ought to swing it.’
‘I’d like all my guests to be greeted with a glass of champagne on arrival.’
‘Is that it?’
‘For now. Probably best if I email the instructions over. I might have missed something.’
‘Should we get you a card or would you rather I got the Red Arrows to do a fly-by salute?’
‘Oooh, good point, I hadn’t thought about that. See, that’s why I need a frumpy single friend. Make sure everyone signs it. As for a gift, I thought something practical like an Aussie Bum gift voucher. If everyone puts a fiver, that should cover it.’
‘Are you done?’
‘I think so.’
‘Well you remember to call if you think of anything else, won’t you?’
My voice drips sarcasm, but if Andy notices, he doesn’t bite.
‘Will do. Oh and we’re out of milk. Can you get some on the way home tonight?’
‘Fine.’ I say and put down the phone.
Sharon’s back at her desk, carefully studying her sc
reen.
‘Lisa,’ she says. ‘Are you sure about Haiti?’
‘Why?’
She reads out loud.
‘Haiti is a poverty-stricken land of urban overpopulation, denuded hillsides and a people suffering the wounds of civil strife and oppression.’
‘The place I’m going is a new resort, miles away from any denuded hillsides and civil strife,’ I say. ‘It was in the Sunday Times Magazine the other week, one of the upcoming places to be this year.’
‘Ooh, you lucky cow. Wish I was going away somewhere nice. All Rob and I have to look forward to is twelve years of Center Parcs.’
‘They can be fun.’
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ Sharon’s voice trails off as she studies grainy images of UN stabilisation forces.
By the time Bryn offers to brave the rain and collect lunch all talk of my holiday in the axis of evil is forgotten.
Dopey Penny puts in an appearance to remind us about her sponsored silence. Once more, people ask how much to make it permanent. She giggles and says we’re awful. It must be lovely to go through life being so completely unaware of what is going on around you.
I’m tucking into a chicken cesar salad and mooching through a showbiz gossip website when a mail arrives from Ian Tyler.
From: Ian Tyler
To: Lisa Doyle
Subject: No subject
Dear Lisa
Thank you so much for allowing me to write to you. Having someone out there who cares means so much. I am so pleased that everything is going so well for you. I know Bernie has told you everything about what happened to me and I can only ask you not to judge me.
What happened was a massive misunderstanding. I never would have hurt Jenny in any way. You have to understand that.
I’m doing well in here and if I keep my nose clean I could very well find myself out in a few months time. I’m doing my best to avoid any trouble, though it isn’t always so easy.
So what about Helen McVeigh getting married? Wish I could be there, if only to show those people who’ve been talking behind my back that I’m not the monster they want me to be. I’m no fool; my mum told me what’s been said. Some people are just sick.
Ian
There’s an uncomfortable undertone to his message, something I don’t care to think about too deeply. Aside from that, Ian’s mention of Helen’s wedding reignites earlier guilt.
I can’t let a silly message from Ginny stop me helping out an old mate. Who else will do it? Helen deserves the best hen night going and I’ll be the one to give it to her. I fire up my web browser and trawl though ideas for hen nights in Manchester. My plan is to avoid anything potentially involving arrest or the loss of an eye.
This rules out bungee jumping, speedway racing and white water rafting.
It has to be something a bit different. No ropey male stripper or rancid cocktails. Andy once talked me into being his plus one on a gay stag night. After a few too many drinks, I ended up on the stage belting out show tunes, while a half naked muscleman covered himself with baby oil and wrapped a lethargic python around his torso.
I eliminate everything except two days basket weaving in what looks like the most beautiful old farmhouse.
‘God that looks dull,’ Sharon says when I show her. ‘People want policemen who drop their trousers and drag queens.’
With a heavy heart, I pick up the phone and call a company called Cluck me Silly.
‘We can pretty much do whatever you want,’ says the youngish sounding guy who takes my call. ‘Most hens opt for a male stripper, bit of a pub-crawl, VIP admission to one of the clubs and cocktails. If you want we can chuck in a stretch limo and drag queen tour guide.’
‘Do you do anything a bit classier?’ I say.
‘This is a hen party?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you want to do it in Manchester?’
‘Well, that was the idea.’
‘And you’re looking at a budget of thirty to fifty quid a head?’
‘In an ideal world.’
‘Male stripper, pub crawl, club and cocktails.’
I promise to think about it.
To drive away the feeling of despair, I send out mails inviting everyone in the theatre to Andy’s leaving do and manage to talk the bar manager Mary into laying on a buffet for Friday evening.
Feeling like I might be on something of a roll, I try the next potential hen party hosts. Their website makes them sound a bit classier. Run by women, for women.
Karen, who sounds to be around my age, answers the phone and asks me a whole load of questions about the bride, her guests and what kind of atmosphere I’m aiming for. Confident of having stumbled across someone on my wavelength, I put my feet up on my desk, lean back in my chair and chat away.
‘What’s your budget for the evening?’ she says.
‘Well I was trying to keep costs down, but I’ll let you guide me.’
‘A hundred? Two hundred?’
‘Crikey, that’s cheap. The other bunch of swizzers I called was after charging me fifty quid a head,’ I laugh.
Karen goes quiet.
‘I was talking about costs per head,’ she says and I sense a wall go up. She was happily tapping away at her keyboard, listening to my requests, letting me talk things up until her healthy commission payout vanished into thin air.
‘I see,’ I say and things feel awkward.
‘So would fifty pounds be your top line?’ she says in a way that makes it sound like pennies.
‘I might be able to stretch to sixty, but I’d need to ask around first.’
I could boost the budget from my own pocket, but I’ve no idea how popular Helen is these days. What if she rocks up with a coach load of revellers, ready to drink Manchester dry, and leaving me lumbered with a maxed out credit card.
‘Well, then I think you might be looking at one of our starter packages,’ Karen says.
‘Starter packages?’ I say, troubled by the idea of a hen party company having such a thing.
‘It’s just a polite way of saying cheap,’ Karen says and I detect a new tart edge to her voice.
‘What exactly would I get for fifty pounds?’
‘Few drinks, male stripper.’
‘Is there nothing less clichéd?’
‘Well we do have the Dance Yourself Fizzy package.’
‘That sounds fun.’
‘Each two-hour pole dancing lesson starts with a warm up followed by time with the pole, learning how to build your on-stage confidence, posture and body language.’
I know she’s reading from a script.
‘There is also an optional lap dancing master class, where you can learn how to tantalise and turn on the tiger in your man. At the end of the lesson, each participant will take to the stage alone to perform a routine for everyone else, showing off the sassy tricks and moves learned. Everyone gets a certificate of achievement at the end and a free bottle of bubbly to take away - not for consumption on the premises.’
She stops and waits for my reaction. I promise to think about it.
‘You go ahead and do that, ring me back if you have any other questions or if extra budget opens up.’
I put down the phone and feel cheap. The idea of enticing Helen’s guests to Manchester with the promise of an afternoon wrapping their thighs round overgrown broom handles won’t fly.
Much as I want this to be different, if only to show Ginny that life up north isn’t all flat vowels and whippets, I’m going to have to go cloth cap in hand to Cluck Me Silly.
We agree a date and they offer to fax over a contract.
Who uses faxes these days?
‘Do you have a number for me?’ the guy on the phone says.
The ancient machine in the box office has been out of order since Sharon spilled coffee into it, so I give him the number of the upstairs machine.
‘There are a few things you need to fill out on the form,’ he says. ‘Only basic stuff, such as who’ll be in charge and a credit card number as a deposit against any damage.’
‘I think we’re a quiet group.’
‘You’d be surprised what can happen when you get a few drinks inside you. I’ve just sorted out getting a sixty-year-old flown home from Tunisia.’
‘Maybe you could limit the cocktails?’
‘Your call, darling, but in my experience, if you don’t keep everyone well lubricated, they tend to make their own entertainment. Talking of which, what are you opting for?’
I brighten up. Maybe I missed something earlier. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll need to choose your entertainment.’
‘Oh right, I didn’t realise that was included.’
‘I’ll fax over some pictures and you pick whose tackle you want waved in the bride-to-be’s face.’
A chill rises up my spine.
‘These pictures,’ I say. ‘Would they be of their faces?’
‘What would be the point in that?’
‘I see. Is there any chance you could send them by post?’
‘Well I can do that too, but they’re already on their way.’
The fax machine is next to Brian’s office. I have to get off the phone and run upstairs.
‘Do you have any other questions?’ he says.
I slam down the receiver and walk across the box office as nonchalantly as possible.
As soon as the door closes behind me I break into a run.