The Armchair Bride (11 page)

‘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.

Fourteen

Pages churn from the machine opposite Brian’s open office door. Thankfully, there’s nobody around, so I grab them and go to escape when someone speaks.

‘I think that might be my fax.’

It’s Brian. His face set in a lopsided grin.

‘No,’ I say. ‘I think they’re all mine.’

I glance at the wad of paper in my hand. The first page is a brewery invoice. The machine has already whirred back into life and is churning out another pile of paper. Everything moves in slow motion as Brian reaches for the first page.

Papers fly as I hit him square on in the chest with such force that he falls against the wall. I stumble and land at his feet. Sensing I’ll not escape with a shred of dignity, I grab at the papers and then struggle to lay claim to those still printing.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘It’s confidential and I needed to get it before anyone else. HR stuff, you know? Data protection.’

He pauses before asking if everything is OK.

‘It’s just ... well you seem a bit stressed.’

‘Stressed? Me? No? Of course not.’ I laugh manically. ‘Everything is fine. Isn’t the weather dreadful lately? I mean, all this rain. I’m sure it’s true that Manchester gets more than its fair share.’

I shuffle the two fax messages to make sure I separate exposed male members from VAT invoices and try for a smile.

‘See you on Friday then,’ he says.

My stomach flips.

‘Friday?’

‘Dinner at Rimmingtons?’

I try not to display horror, but clearly fail as the atmosphere grows awkward.

‘Unless of course, you’ve remembered you can’t make it,’ Brian says.

That’s so brilliant of him to offer me a get out.

‘I’ve done something stupid,’ I say.

‘Join the club.’

‘No, really stupid. I forgot all about Friday and now I’ve gone and invited everyone to a leaving do for Andy.’

I’m genuinely ashamed.

For a second, Brian looks disappointed, before his smile returns.

‘As long as I’m invited too?’

He cocks his head to one side and I find myself nodding.

‘It’s a date then’ I say and feel my face boil. ‘Not a date, date. Just a few beers, you know. And sandwiches.’

‘I know,’ he says and vanishes into his office.

Well done Lisa, I think. You handled that one like a pro. That wasn’t awkward at all.

I rush back into the box office, red-faced and stuff pictures of naked men into my desk drawer.

‘Fancy going out for lunch?’ Sharon says.

‘OK, how about Loaf ?’

She looks around as if checking nobody else heard my suggestion and nods.

‘Get your coat then,’ she whispers.

We’re no sooner out in the street than the questions start.

‘Is Brian having an affair with Nina?’

Rumours tend to travel fast in the theatre and unless I nip this one in the bud, chances are by mid afternoon,
I’ll
be involved in some bizarre ménage a trios.

‘Why ask me?’

Sharon stops and looks me in the eye. She studied body language a few years back and reckons it gives her a window into someone’s soul. I’ve only to scratch my ear and she assumes I’m up to no good.

‘He’s
your
friend,’ she says.

‘Hardly.’ I walk on. ‘Now what are you getting for lunch?’

She catches me up. ‘So if it isn’t Nina, who could it be? Oh my God,. She stops again. ‘He’s not gay is he?’

‘Brian? No of course not. He’s married to Audrey.’

‘Yes but it happens all the time. Married men with secret double lives. They try to deny the truth, and then one day out it comes and before you know it they’re wearing leather trousers and singing show tunes.’

‘Who said he’s having an affair anyway?’ I say

‘Andy rang while you were upstairs.’

I don’t know who to be more annoyed with. Andy for blabbing or  Sharon for listening.

‘Let’s just get lunch,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell you all I know.’

I pick at rare beef and mustard on oregano bread and tell Sharon first about the dinner party from hell and then lunch at The Greenhouse. Along the way I mention Audrey’s miscarriage. Throughout, she stays quiet.  I end with Brian’s invite to dinner.

She sits back

‘How do you feel about him?’

‘Me?’

‘It’s an easy enough question.’

For an easy question, it throws up too many answers.

‘I don’t
feel
anything, he’s my boss.’

‘You had to think about it,’ she says. ‘You must feel something.’

‘I honestly don’t.’

I know my face is red.

‘It is OK to like someone.’

Sharon shakes her head and I want to press her for an answer, but Angela from accounts takes the next table.

‘Hello you two,’ she says. ‘I’m having cottage cheese and spring onions. Low fat.’

We both nod and her eyes settle on my neglected sandwich.

‘Are you eating that?’

‘My eyes are too big for my belly.’ I say and go to push it away, but she leans across to scoop the leftovers into a napkin. She shoves the package into her already bulging handbag, prompting a rustle of what sounds like sweet wrappers.

‘I’ll take it for Penny,’ she says. ‘Jean’s having her tubes tied so we’re short staffed and she’s stuck manning the switchboard.’

‘She’s going to be the size of a house,’ Sharon says when we’re outside. ‘I wouldn’t care but she spends every waking hour tutting if anyone around her so much as sucks an extra strong mint.’

‘At least she hasn’t gone on a sponsored slim again this year.’

We link arms and make our way back to the theatre. Just before we get there, Sharon reaches for her bag.

‘I need to get a paper.’

She turns to go, but stops to look back at me.

‘Give him a chance,’ she says.

‘Who?’

‘Brian. Give him a chance.’

‘If you’re trying to play matchmaker, you’re wasting your time.’

‘Whatever,’ Sharon laughs. ‘You know I’m right.’

The afternoon passes in a haze and Sharon’s words replay in my head. Telling her about the past few weeks put things into focus. Why not accept Brian at face value - as a friend in need? I vow to be nicer. Everyone needs friends.

Buoyed up by my new world order, I decide to pick a male stripper Their dead-eyed faces grin from the pages. All glistening chests and angry shaved crotches. Making sure nobody can see, I fan the pictures out, close my eyes and point at random.

Our
entertainment for the night
will come from Dick Rock.

I praise myself on a job well done and decide to end a productive afternoon by tracking down Andy to suggest we meet for a swift pint.

We arrange to meet in one of the latest style bars to spring up in the gay village. Every one of them is the same. Bare brick walls, pretentious slogans and self-absorbed bar staff.

I wave a ten pound note to catch the attention of a spiky haired guy who seems more interested in his own reflection. I cough, stamp my foot, move closer and even, to my great shame, rap a coin on the counter.

Someone touches my arm, it’s Andy.

‘I can’t get served,’ I say.

‘Leave it to me,’ he says and turns to point through the big windows. ‘Ooh look Lisa, isn’t that Crystal off Big Brother?’

The bar boy’s empty eyes scour the street for any suggestion of celebrity. Andy pounces.

‘Two vodka tonics, please,’ he says. ‘We’ll be over by the window.’

We’ve no sooner settled than Andy pulls out a pack of cigarettes and announces that he needs to nip outside.

‘You don’t smoke.’

‘I’ve started.’

‘You always said smokers smell like filthy ashtrays.’

He purses his lips.

‘Kevin smokes.’

‘Kevin?’

‘My character in the film. I’m going method, darling. If it’s good enough for Johnny Depp ...’

He flounces out and I watch as he lights a cigarette and sucks hard, before choking half to death. After dropping the cigarette on the ground and grinding it out, he comes back in. His eyes stream and he looks ready to throw up.

‘I think I’m getting there,’ he says. ‘Did I look sexy?’

‘That’s not the word I’d have used.’

‘You used to smoke. Teach me.’

I ignore a vague sense of shame. I only ever started smoking to impress a boy. Kevin Perry used to smoke. He was mean and moody and came to college on a moped. He looked like John Travolta in
Grease
. I dreamed of being his girlfriend. Mam was furious when she found a pack of Silk Cut in my coat and gave me a ten minute lecture on the evils of smoking. For a quiet life, I quit.

‘Please teach me, Lisa.’ Andy’s eyes plead. ‘I can’t afford to lose this part.’

‘They won’t drop you for not smoking.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like. You have to have as many strings to your bow as possible in this game.’

The music gets louder, drowning out a pleasant hum of conversation. I snatch up Andy’s cigarettes.

‘Outside. Now.’

I take a cigarette, light up and inhale deeply. The heat melts into my chest and my head spins, until my chest catches and choking blue fumes cause my eyes to water.

Andy looks triumphant.

‘It’s not so easy, is it?’

Determined not to admit defeat, I take a second hit and this time, don’t cough. The head buzz settles to a familiar gentle hum and I smoke it down to the filter.

‘Right, I think I’ve got it,’ Andy says and lights one of his own, only to set off another coughing fit.

Passers-by stare.

‘Could your character be trying to give up?’ I say. ‘Could Kevin have some sort of thing going on with nicotine patches and be a bit crabby?’

‘I could ask.’

Back inside, we order a second round of drinks - this time from a far more pleasant girl and I tell Andy about lunch with Sharon.

‘Hallelujah, finally, someone else who can see what you’re too blind to notice,’ he says.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The man is smitten. He was from the first day he clapped eyes on you.’

‘What?’

‘Come on Lisa,
surely
you’ve noticed how he looks at you? He’s been admiring you from afar for years.’

‘What about Audrey?’

‘Their marriage is nothing but a tired old sham. What were her words?’

‘She doesn’t love him now and she never really did even on the day they married. If she had her time again, she’d have run away to Paris with her sixth- form art teacher.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said he cares about her, but that their marriage was over years ago.’

‘And he’s a good-looking bloke. You said so yourself.’

‘I said he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke, that’s not the same thing.’

Andy waves away my objections.

‘Well, it’s not going to happen,’ I say. ‘He’s my boss. That’s all he is and that’s all he’s going to be.’

‘Yeah right.’

‘Yes,
right
,’ I say, determined to win the argument.

There’s an uncomfortable pause where we both sip angrily at our drinks. Andy and I have this strange competitive edge to our friendship. Neither of us likes to lose.

‘I’m off to see Mam on Sunday,’ I say to break the silence.

‘Oh?’

‘I’ve got to go for a dress fitting. Helen rang just as I was coming to meet you.’

‘So you won’t be around to see me off at the airport?’

‘Afraid not, but you’re a big boy now, you can do it on your own.’

‘I know I
can
.’

He sounds put out and I feel bad, but now I’ve said it I have to follow through on my threats. Otherwise he’s won.

‘We’ll still say our goodbyes on Friday. I’ve got a humdinger of a party lined up.’

Andy mumbles something.

‘What did you say?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘Well why say it then?’

‘Forget it.’

‘Tell me what you said.’

I’m aware both our voices have grown louder.

‘I said you’ll end up on your own if you keep worrying about what people think.’

Andy’s voice carries and people shuffle in their seats. My face burns with fury.  Without a word, I grab my coat and bag.

There’s a taxi outside.

‘Are you free?’ I say and he nods.

Andy is still at the table by the window as we pull away.