The Armchair Bride (10 page)

Mam was always one for telling stories and Bernie delivers her tale in much the same way. First you have the preamble. A teasing line or two to whet the appetite. She explains how Ian was always a bit of a character at school. And then tells everyone about how I’d ‘dated’ him at what she called a tender and impressionable age. Soon enough, she has the whole room hanging off her every word.

‘The poor fella was working two jobs. Every night he fried chicken for drunks coming out of the pubs. One night they made him stay late to clean up, something about the health inspectors coming down. What could he do? If they shut the place down, he’s be out of a job.’

I allow myself a big sip of whiskey,  and cough as it hits the back of my throat. As the heat subsides, the music changes to a string-driven lament with some wheezy bint wailing. If only the wind could get up outside and the electricity fail, we’d have the perfect setting for Bernie’s story.

‘Poor Jenny was on her own all the time, but she didn’t mind. She saw he was doing what he could to keep the kids in clean shoes. And if he wasn’t cleaning up the chicken shop, he was serving drinks at the golf club. They also used to make him stay late.’

‘Poor sod,’ someone chipped in. ‘It’s a crime.’

Bernie nods. ‘And you’ve not heard the worst of it yet.’

She holds out her glass for a refill.

‘One night,’ she says. ‘He got the last bus home in pouring rain. The lights were all off. So he says to himself,
Jenny must have gone to her bed, I dare say my dinner is in the oven
. He put his key in the lock and let himself in. After taking off his shoes, he crept up the stairs and into the bathroom where he took a bath.’

I begin to suspect poetic license, but know better than to interrupt. A good story should never be hampered by sworn fact.

‘He wrapped himself in a towel and made his way across the landing into their bedroom. The curtains were open and the streetlight shone into the room, revealing an empty bed.’

Gasps fill the listening room.

I drain the dregs of my drink and reach for a refill, but the bottle is empty. Patrick leans over the bar for a full one.

‘So what did he do next?’ he says.

‘He tore across the landing to where his two boys slept, opening their bedroom door and switching on the light. But it was too late, they were gone too. His head spun and he didn’t know what to do, so he ran back to the room he shared with his beloved Jenny and threw open the cupboards, the draws, the linen basket. They were all as good as empty. Just his own clothes remained, cut to ribbons. He fell onto the bed sobbing.’

There’s a general chorus of ‘
May God turn her heart
,’ and ‘
Shame on her wicked ways
.’

Bernie’s eyes are closed and her face an image of serene bliss.

When everyone in the room has had their say and condemned Ian’s wife to a public stoning, she calls order .

A glass in her hand, Bernie stares into the middle distance.

‘The next day Jenny refused to answer his phone calls, so he decides to go see her at the bank where she worked. Ian planned to ask her to come back, beg her to understand. If only he had stuck to this plan and not decided at the last moment to take along one of his son’s toys, one he’d found lying on the bedroom floor. One left in the haste to leave.’

She paused for effect.

‘A toy gun.’

‘The eejit,’ says a man in a cap and Bernie rounds on him.

‘Don’t you go judging people. He hadn’t
wanted
them to have imitation firearms. That gun was a gift from Ian’s own father, the little boy’s grandpa. They come from a different era.’

The man who interrupted hangs his head in shame and the room falls silent to hear how the tale ends and Bernie plays them like a pro. She sits, head in her hands, at first silent and then looking around like she’s forgotten anyone is even listening.

‘Ian worried that his son might miss his toy,’ she says. ‘He wanted to give it back. It might not have been the brightest thing to do and maybe looking back, it’s something he’d undo. But that man had the greatest of intentions and was acting only out of love.’

People murmur agreement.

‘It was a Tuesday morning. The bank was busy and he spied Jenny behind the counter, acting like she didn’t have a care in the world, telling people about index linked pensions and credit card reward points. He thought of leaving, but the love in his heart was too strong. He stood in line until it was his turn and didn’t she tell him to sling his hook? That was when he reached into his pocket to find that toy. All he wanted to do was show her he was a decent father.’

‘Jesus Bernie, it’s enough to break your heart,’ Patrick says.

She nods.

‘People don’t always see the full picture though, do they? They didn’t see a father giving back a toy, they saw a man who hadn’t slept, who looked like death holding a gun. All hell broke loose.’ She crossed herself theatrically. ‘Everyone fell to the floor, young Jenny included and he was left there like a fool, not knowing what to do. He tried reasoning with people, tried to explain, but he didn’t stand a chance. The police came running and knocked him to the ground. That was the last breath of free air that poor man ever took.’

Her story over, Bernie empties her glass and there’s a round of applause. My head buzzes with drink, but I can’t deny she tells a good tale.

While people gather round to ask questions about Ian, I refuse offers of more to drink.

‘Oh go on, it’s the first drop that destroys you. There’s no harm at all in the last,’ says Patrick and I’m relieved when Bernie joins our table.

‘So you’ve heard the story,’ she says. ‘How do you feel about helping out?’

‘What exactly would I have to do?’

‘Be a friend. I’m not suggesting you have to hang out with him every minute of the day. All he’s looking for is the odd email now and then. Nothing more. He’s lonely, Lisa. Having a few friends to count on will make all the difference. He isn’t a bad man. He had a bad break.’

‘But why
me
? I hardly knew him.’

‘The last time I was with him he started talking a lot about how things were at school and how he was never very good friends with many people, especially with the girls. I told him to join the club. They never took much to me.’

I smile.

‘Me neither.’

‘So you know how it feels,’ Bernie says. ‘Ian remembers you though. He says you seemed to see something in him that nobody else cared to look for.’

I don’t know what else to say. I still don’t know what good my writing an email now and then is going to do. At the same time, I can’t find any reason to refuse.

‘OK,’ I say. ‘I’ll do it.’

Bernie’s face lights up.

‘Thank you so much.’ She gathers my hands in hers. ‘It truly will make a world of difference.’

‘Tell me the truth though,’ I say. ‘When we were talking earlier, you mentioned something about him seeing some other woman, was there any truth in that?’

‘He swears there wasn’t, and who am I to judge or doubt him? If he’s lying, he’ll have to answer to the Lord.’

I study Bernie’s face. It’s honest and open. What reason does she have to lie to me?

‘You’ll have to tell me what to write.’ I say.

‘That’ll be up to you. I’ll have him drop you a line first. You can take it from there.’

‘He already wrote to me last week.’

Bernie looks surprised. ‘How did he find you?’

‘Same place as you, I suppose, the Internet.’

She shakes her head. ‘I do wish he hadn’t gone ahead and contacted you before first letting me make contact. We’d agreed that I’d speak to you first. He can be a bit impetuous.’

She sees my face change.

‘Don’t go letting that put you off. They get access to the Internet in the library. I dare say he didn’t think he was doing anything out of line. Probably trying to save me a job. That’s how he is. Awfully kind. Don’t let that stop you writing to him.’

‘I said I would, didn’t I? I just don’t know what to say.’

‘Well I suppose the best thing to do is to keep it light and informal. He’s not looking for a new wife or anything. Just a friend.’

Patrick lumbers over, bottle in hand.

‘So what did you think of our Bernie’s story then?’

‘Lovely,’ I say, unsure what else to add.

‘Sure, but you’re a lovely lass. You ought to come by more often.’

‘I live in Manchester,’ I say. ‘Bit far to come.’

‘Then you ought to marry me and come and live here.’

‘Shut your yap, you dirty goat’ Bernie says. ‘Men are like bagpipes. No sound comes from them until they’re full.’

Her smile convinces  me I’ve done the right thing and I find myself wondering why we were never close at school. She wasn’t one of the mean girls - she’d always been Bernie with the thick glasses.

‘Do you ever hear from anyone else?’ I say.

‘What do you mean?’

‘From school.’

‘I had an email off Helen McVeigh, she’s getting married.’

‘She’s asked me to be matron of honour.’

‘That’s grand,’ Bernie laughs. ‘We’ll get to meet again, then? You can tell me how you’re getting on with Ian.’

Patrick is back, keen to make sure my glass doesn’t stay empty. Folk music blares from speakers on the bar and feet tap. An impromptu party takes shape. Every few minutes, new faces appear. Soon, there’s barely a free seat.

‘I have to get going,’ I say. ‘I need to meet a friend.’

‘Have him come here,’ Patrick says. ‘It’s a shame to break up the party.’

‘I’m not sure it’s his scene.’

‘Why ever not?’ He looks hurt.

‘We agreed to meet in Soho. His phone is on the blink.’

‘Is he a homo-sexual?’ Patrick whispers the word and I nod.

‘You’re probably right,’ he says. ‘He’d be bored silly. But it’s a shame, we could do with a few more pretty faces around here. This ugly old bunch could turn fresh milk sour. Will you not have one for the road?’

‘I’d better not.’

‘Then don’t be a stranger. You’ll be welcome any time,’ he puts an arm around my shoulder and escorts me to the hall.

‘This is your last chance to change your mind,’ he says.

‘I’d love to stay, but I really have made plans.’

‘I meant about marrying me.’

‘Let me sleep on it,’ I say and kiss his cheek.

‘Ah you’re breaking my heart.’

It’s already dark outside  and the streets are busy with people making their way from office to home. I glance at my watch. Five o’clock. I’ve less than an hour to get across town, so there’s no time to nip back to our hotel room and change. I’m buying a tube ticket when my mobile rings.

‘Call me Kevin,’ Andy says.

‘
You got it
?’

‘Of course I did, how could they refuse? Hurry up. I’m itching for you to buy the champagne.’

I hang up and join the people heading down into the bowels of London. People jostle, push and cut lines, but it doesn’t matter, I’m happy. It might be meting an old school friend and seeing how life has changed her, turned into someone stronger and more confident. It could be Andy’s fabulous news.

It could be any one of a million reasons that make me want to give thanks.

It’s most likely the whiskey.

Twelve

Andy props up the bar and chats to a guy in a white vest with cropped dark hair and teeth so perfect, they’ve clearly had no dealing with the British dental system.

‘Lisa!’ he cries and runs across the bar to twirl me around. After spending the best part of the afternoon drinking whiskey, his enthusiastic greeting has the unfortunate effect of making me feel like being sick

‘Can we sit down?’ I say meekly.

‘You smell like a brewery.’

‘I met Sister Bernie. Like any self-respecting Irish woman, she can put it away.’

‘She’s a woman after your own heart then. Vodka and tonic?’

My stomach flips and begs for mercy.

‘Can I start with a diet coke?’

‘With vodka?’

‘With ice and lemon, no vodka.’

Andy gives me a look that suggests he fears I’m sickening for something and goes to the bar. I throw myself down in a comfy-looking armchair. I’ve hit a brick wall.

‘Here you go.’ He puts down a bottle of fizzy water. ‘I thought of splashing out on a bottle of champagne.’

‘What?’

‘Champagne. We could get a bottle, but not until the place gets busier, I want everyone to see, so they can speculate about whether I’m famous.’

I arrange my face in what I hope passes for a smile. This is Andy’s big moment. I’m happy for him, it’s not his fault I feel like I’ve been thrown in a black bag and shaken.

‘They loved me,’ he says. ‘Said I was perfect for the part.’

‘That’s great.’

‘And thank God I did a few sits ups this morning. They made me take my shirt off.’

I nod. Much as I try to fight it, a dark mood takes over. When I allow myself to feel like this, nothing anyone says will lift the funk.

‘What’s the matter babe?’ Andy looks concerned.

‘Ignore me,’ I say. ‘I’m a bit run down.’

‘It’s nothing I’ve done or said is it?’

God love him. He’s such a great bloke. How can he possibly think my crappy mood is his fault? If I’m honest I just want to feel a little bit sorry for myself.  And yes, I know that makes me sound selfish. Andy is staring and I look away until he reaches for my hand.

‘What’s up?’ he says.

‘Nothing,’ I say, but an unexpected gulp surfaces and my eyes grow sore. Andy’s concerned smile is all it takes to unbolt the floodgates. I’ve hung onto everything for too long. The relief is amazing.

Andy listens while I babble on about how I felt when I heard Helen was getting married and how that mail from Ginny mixed up my head. I somehow manage to swing things around to talking about Brian, Nina and Audrey. For good measure I tell him how I’m scared of what might happen if he does become famous.

‘What if I lose
you
?’ I say.

‘I’m only going to be gone for a few months.’

‘You say that now, but what if it all goes well? What if they love you? What if this is just the start and you make another film, then another? And then they’ll say that if you want your career to go anywhere you’ll have to move to Hollywood. And then you’ll meet new friends. Where would that leave me?’

He looks stunned.

‘This is my good news day,’ he says quietly. ‘Can’t you feel a bit happy for me?’

Andy’s right. I feel like such a selfish cow allowing my miserable mood to rain on his parade. A good friend would celebrate a would insist this is the big break he deserves. I’m a nasty mean drunk.

‘I’m so happy for you, Andy,’ I say. ‘But I can’t help it if it also makes me scared.’

He puts an arm around me.

‘We’ll have great adventures together.’

‘You say that now.’

‘Is this all to do with New Year’s Eve?’

‘What? No, well, maybe. I don’t know.’

‘Well I’m glad you’ve cleared that up.’

‘I’m being silly, aren’t I?’ I say. All at once I know how dumb all of this must sound. And how selfish.

‘You’re just being you,’ Andy says.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not leaving you forever Lisa. This is some crappy low budget flick. It’s work and I need to do it. My savings are pretty much exhausted and I can’t live off credit cards.’

‘But this is all my fault.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘I sacked you.’

‘That was the kindest thing you ever did. If I’d have stayed there much longer I’d have killed someone. Or myself.’

‘It isn’t
that
bad a place to work.’

‘No it isn’t and you’re a great boss, but day after day I sat there and listened to vile people moaning when they couldn’t get front row seats, and letting my brain rot away. It wasn’t doing me any good. You gave me the push I needed. You’re a true friend.’

I reach for my bag.

‘Did you say something about champagne? We never really celebrated at New Year.’

‘Celebrated what?’

‘Being friends.’

Andy mimes being sick.

I order champagne and duck into the toilet to repair the damage done by excessive whisky and too many tears.

When I return Andy is once again chatting to the dark-haired tanned guy in the vest.

‘This is Alex,’ he says as the champagne arrives and together we toast Andy’s success.

By eight o’clock and feeling I might become bad company, excuses are made and I leave them to enjoy the rest of their evening.

Out on the street, I glance back through the bar windows. Andy laughs and Alex looks smitten, hanging on his every word.

Why can’t
I
let go for once and allow someone in? I went right ahead and posted all of that nonsense about having a husband on the Internet so people thought I had someone.

Why? Why does it matter?

Who are these people anyway. Just faces I no longer see.

People who’ve probably forgotten me.

If it hadn’t been for that site, I’d have never ended up agreeing to be Helen’s matron of honour.

The thing is, I like the idea of Lisa Doyle, aspiring artist, married to a barrister, trying for a child. I like it far more than Lisa Doyle, aging spinster, married to her job and trying to hang on to the few friends she hasn’t already neglected. And having silly fantasies about her boss.

The resolution I made with Andy is more important than I’ve let on, even to myself. When he suggested it was time I found someone, it struck a chord. I’ve put up too many barriers and worried for too long about what people think.

On my way to the tube, I use my phone to check email. I know I ought to keep away. I’m in London. On a break. Normal life ought to be the last thing on my mind. Considering I haven’t checked my mail for two days, I’m disappointed at how neglected my inbox looks. Even spammers seem to have decided I’m not worth bothering. Brian’s mail still waits for an answer. Buoyed by drink, I type a reply.

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 screen.

‘Lisa,’ she says. ‘Are you sure about Haiti?’

‘Why?’

She reads out loud.