The Armchair Bride (5 page)

She takes hold of her arm for support.

‘I’ll be fine. That stuffing didn’t agree with me. I’ve never been able to keep sausage meat down since they took away half of my colon. I’m going to have to get it all up again.’

She makes her slow, steady way to the door. Was this what Brian had coming to him, was Audrey gradually turning into her mother? They must have been in love once upon a time. Once again, I look at the photo of their smiles captured in time.

Brian shakes his head slowly.

‘Is it any wonder I work such long hours?’

The door closes and the three of us dissolve into helpless laughter.

I relax. Andy is on his third large gin and tonic and Brian has found me some orange juice. He pours himself a huge glass of red wine. The room feels warm for the first time since we arrived. Maybe now the real dinner party can begin.

Audrey’s return soon tones down what threatened to develop into a pleasant, almost giddy atmosphere and the room once more feels chilly and distinctly uncomfortable.

‘Time for desert,’ she says. ‘Brian, maybe you and Andy can go see to it. Leave us girls alone to talk.’

The men stand and I consider grabbing the corner of Andy’s shirt, begging him to stay or at least take me with him.

‘Let’s take our drinks over to the sofas, sit by the fire. Desert is fruit and cheese. We can eat it there.’

Audrey stops to light a cigarette and inhales deeply before she blows the smoke in my face. My eyes water and I force myself not to cough. It feels like facing up to playground bullies. She sits and pats the sofa next to her.

‘I think it’s time for a little chat, don’t you?’

I do as I’m told, determined not to look her in the eyes. ‘How long have you been working for us now?’

She takes a long drag on her cigarette, holding in the smoke, not breathing, waiting for my response. Perhaps if I don’t answer, perhaps if I wait long enough she’ll suffocate and die. Well not die, perhaps pass out. That’s kinder. She’s still staring and my resolve buckles.

‘I’ve been at the theatre for six years now.’

‘Six years eh? Seems like only yesterday when you came for an interview. I said at the time, she’s a smart one that Lisa Doyle, Brian. You make sure you give her the job.’

I stay silent.

‘Don’t think I don’t know what they all say about me. I know everyone calls me The Rottweiler. I’ve even heard rumours that nobody gets a job in that place without my say-so. Isn’t it a silly thing to say?’

She smiles.

‘I suppose so.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I said I suppose it is a bit silly.’

Audrey looks me up and down, momentarily distracted. I attempt what I hope passes for a winning smile.

‘It’s true, you know,’ she whispers.

‘Sorry? What?’

‘It
is
true.’

Her voice grows louder and she shifts closer with every breath. I half expect her to throw her head back in a pantomime cackle and see bugs crawl from her mouth.

‘I do have final say. Brian doesn’t do a thing without first checking with me.’

‘I see,’ is the best I can manage.

I want to go and find Andy. He’ll protect me.

‘But there is one little thing he hasn’t run past me, isn’t there, Lisa Doyle?’ It may be a cliché, but when someone uses my full name, I know it means trouble.

‘One little thing seems to have slipped his mind?’

‘If it’s about the party, I can explain. I’d had a little bit too much to drink ...’

Audrey looks bemused.

‘The party?’

‘New Years Eve.’

‘Oh that! Come on, did you honestly think that you’d throw anyone off your trail with such a silly little display? I was a bit disappointed by your bare-faced arrogance.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You’re shagging my husband,’ Audrey says, her face now almost touching mine.

I get to my feet and back away from the sofa. A few drinks, a quick verse of a Shirley Bassey classic and now I’m accused of sleeping with my boss. I’ve always thought he was handsome, but I’d never dream of mixing work with pleasure. Not after what happened that summer when I worked as a chalet maid at a holiday camp and slept with the DJ. After we split up, he used to play ‘
Hey Fatty Bum Bum
’ every time I walked into the bar.

‘Don’t bother trying to deny it. I found these in the glove compartment.’

She holds up a pair of what look like tiny lace pink knickers. The sort that more-or-less come with a written guarantee of cystitis.

‘Darling?’

Brian is at the door, holding a tray of assorted cheese, biscuits and two different sorts of grape. I probably look like I’ve glimpsed Dante’s inferno.

‘Don’t darling me,’ Audrey turns on her husband. ‘I was giving your little slut her underwear back.’

‘Can we talk in the kitchen?’ he says.

‘So you can tell me more of your lies?’

Andy bounces into the room, takes in the scene and swiftly sits down in a chair near the action, not wanting to miss a thing.

Audrey rounds on Brian.

‘How long has this been going on? How long have you been having it off with this tart?’

‘Darling, I really think we should take this elsewhere?’ Brian tries to take hold of her arm to lead her out of the room, but she jerks free, causing Brian to stumble. His hand comes to rest on the mantelpiece.

There’s a crash.

‘Norman!’ Audrey kneels to pick up shards of broken china, then stops, stands and rounds on Brian one more time.

‘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 pieces 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?’

I look away a little too late.

‘She’s trying to outdo her mother I suppose. You met her the other night. The Hawe women do a nice line in battleaxes.’

Brian’s personal revelations feel awkward.

‘I suppose when Nina came along…’ I say to move things along.

He slams down his glass looks furious and I fear he might sack me on the spot.

‘I told you, there’s nothing going on with Nina.’

‘Well even if there was, what you get up to in your own life is really…’

‘Lisa, Audrey got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’

Brian has hold of my hand. I swallow hard and he lets go. Never before have I been so relieved to hear someone ask if we’re ready to order.

After noting our requests, the waiter discretely moves away. Alone again, Brian continues, this time he sits well back from the table.

‘Nina flirts. It’s what she does. If I’m honest, maybe I encouraged her. She’s not a bad-looking woman and I was lonely ...’

I want to tear off my skin and scrub at my bones with wire wool.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘That all came out wrong. I’m not some sex pest and Nina’s happily married.’

He hesitates, as if searching for the right words.

‘I do
care
about Audrey. She’s been through a horrible few years. She lived for her father and when he died, she lost the last thing that kept her from dropping over the edge. She fell apart. That’s when she started coming to the theatre all the time, policing my every move. I know she goes through my pockets, listens in on my phone calls, reads my email. I let her do it. I honestly thought if I could prove to her there was nothing going on, we might stand a chance of … but now…’

‘Now?’

‘She’s thrown me out. Said she doesn’t want to see me again. Said she stopped loving me the day she…’

Brian leans in as to share a secret.

‘She stopped loving me the day we lost Gordon,’ he says.

There’s that name again. I have to ask.

‘Who’s Gordon?’

‘Our son. He died. I never even knew she gave him a name until a few years back. It all came out one night when we’d both been drinking, we had a flaming row and she told me about him. She’s been talking to him, letting him grow up in her mind. Now she says she doesn’t need me. That Gordon will look after her. I don’t know what to say. How do you compete with a ghost?’

Brian’s eyes well up. I wonder, if I hold my breath for long enough I might be able to faint and be whisked away, released from a situation that would surely win me admiring glances in future ‘most embarrassing moment at work’ tournaments. I’ve never been good with emotional scenes in public, toss in someone who I don’t know terribly well, who happens to be my boss and I think going to pieces is a perfectly sane course of action.

‘I’ve never laid a finger on another woman, Lisa. I’ve had offers, of course I’ve had offers but I really do care about Audrey, and I can’t reach her. What the fuck can I do?’

People stare. I touch Brian’s hand gently. It seems the right thing to do. He looks up, his eyes red rimmed.

‘I’ve been staying at the Travel Lodge since Saturday. She threw me out as soon as you left. Told me she wanted a divorce. She’s barricaded herself in our house and I’m not allowed to go near. She won’t even answer the phone. We’ve really messed up our marriage, haven’t we?’

To agree would sound cruel, I know, but what else is there to say? One lunch has managed to rearrange everything in my head. Just as I thought I understood that my boss is a two-timing bastard, it turns out he’s devoted to a woman who gave up on love.

We struggle on through lunch and I steer conversation onto anything but Audrey. By the time coffee arrives, I’m exhausted.

We leave together. Brian hails a cab and holds open the door for me to climb inside.

‘I’ll get the bus if it’s all the same to you,’ I say and he looks hurt.

‘You don’t want to give the wagging tongues any more ammunition do you?’

‘It was just lunch.’

‘I know that, Brian, but how would it look? You taking me out to a fancy restaurant the day after Nina resigns, while the whole theatre buzzes with rumours of you having an affair.’

‘Are people
really
talking about me?’

His eyes grow wide with worry. I shake my head.

‘Not really.’

‘But you said ...’

I’ve never been happier to see my bus coming down the road.

‘Look, I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘Thanks for lunch. Next time I’ll pay.’

He nods and gets into his taxi.

Back in Manchester, I stop at a sandwich shop to avoid any questions about what I did for lunch.

‘Where are your shoes?’ Sharon says as I sit back at my desk.

I shrug. ‘They had to order in special glue.’

That afternoon, I sign off holiday requests without so much as a glance at the calendar, approve expense claims which may or may not have been inflated. My head is a mess. An email from Andy inviting me to relax and unwind over a drink in the stage door bar is just what the doctor ordered.

‘You’re starting to feel sorry for him,’ Andy says as he sips his drink.

‘I think there may be another side to the story.’

‘Lisa, you know what you get like when you start feeling sorry for men. You’re the reigning queen of the sympathy shag.’

He’s dangerously close to the truth. I’ve tried to ignore a feeling of compassion that ignited deep inside over lunch and grew as the afternoon passed

‘He’s not a bad looking bloke,’ Andy says. ‘Bit on the mature and lanky side for me, but I can see why you might be considering it.’

‘I’m
not
considering anything.’

‘Well if what he says about Audrey withholding favours is true, he’ll be gagging for it. You’ll be lucky if you can sit down for a fortnight.’

I can’t look Andy in the eye and put down my glass. ‘I need to powder my nose.’

‘See if you can do something about that ‘caught out’ glow while you’re at it,’ he calls after me.