The Armchair Bride (9 page)

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?’

‘It’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.

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.

I point at the screen where Ginny’s hateful words still stand defiant.

‘Uh-Oh!’ he whistles. ‘The bitch is back.’

Eleven

The day we’re due to go to London, I wake with a dreadful cold. Any sane sole would stay in their bed, but the idea of breaking Andy’s heart puts a duvet day out of reach. We get a taxi to the station and he insists on a fry-up breakfast.

‘It’ll put hairs on your chest,’ he says and I smile weakly.

‘Can I just have tea?’

Someone behind the counter drops what sounds like a stack of plates. My head hammers.

‘At least have a muffin,’ Andy says. ‘I’ll feel guilty stuffing my face if you’ve come over all Karen Carpenter.’

‘Fine,’ I say and slink away to find a table. Near a window. Far from noise. And people.

A woman hovers with her tray, clocks me and quickly changes her mind. What the hell do I look like?

Any puts down our breakfasts. Somehow my muffin has translated into beans on toast.

‘Test me on my lines,’ he says and hands me the script to
Biker Boys of Bratislava
.

‘Can’t I drink my tea first?’

‘We don’t have time for that. I need to get started now.’

‘Get started?’

‘Well they expect me to be more or less word perfect on this by four.’

‘You’ve had all week. Didn’t it occur to you to start a bit sooner?’

‘I never look at
anything
until the day of the audition. It’s bad luck. My acting teacher Julia used to tell us to avoid reading scripts before the dress rehearsal.’

‘This would be that old lush who hasn’t worked for almost thirty years.’

‘She suffers from agoraphobia.’

I push my plate away. Andy scoops the beans onto his.

‘They’ll expect you to know your lines,’ I say and he waves me away.

‘You wouldn’t understand. You’re not an actor.’

I let it go. In two years, this is his first real audition. Most other jobs have involved dressing up as woodland animals or bouncing around junior school halls in dungarees and brightly coloured t-shirts performing inner-city community drama.

‘Are you going to eat your toast?’ Andy says.

‘Have you got hollow legs?’ I say and pile it onto his breakfast. Andy has the type of body that most men train long and hard to achieve, yet the only thing he ever does at the gym is laze around the steam room or drink herbal tea while passing judgment on fat women in leggings.

By the time we find our seats on the train, I’m feeling particularly wretched. Until then, I’ve resisted painkillers. A persistent throbbing behind my eyes weakens this resolve.

During my last visit home, Mam gave me a handful of tablets from the doctor, prescribed for lower back pain. Our family believes in sharing medication. I take two.

‘Those better be legal,’ Andy says. ‘The last thing I need is the drug squad on our backs.’

‘They’re painkillers,’ I mutter. ‘I’m hoping they’ll help me sleep.’

‘Charming.’

He pulls out his phone and slips on headphones. So much for learning his lines.

I wake as the train bounces over points on the last stage of the journey into Euston.

‘Welcome back!’ Andy says.

‘Have I slept the whole journey?’ I rub my eyes and stretch. The tablets have done their work, I no longer feel so bad.

‘You snored your head off.’

‘I
don’t
snore.’

‘You so do. Then there was the undignified dribble.’

‘You are so full of shit.’

Andy reaches up for his bag and packs away the script that still looks suspiciously untouched.

‘You’re really cutting it fine with that,’ I say, but he doesn’t look concerned.

‘I’ll wing it. They never ask you to do the actual script. They expect you to give them the
essence
of the character.’

‘So why send you the script in the first place?’

‘I’m up for the part of Tony Connors, a British backpacker making his way around Europe with friends, I end up stopping at this dodgy hotel in Slovakia where I eat my best mate’s head. Seriously, that’s it. What else do I need to know?’

‘And
how
are you going to convey a sub-human zombie.’

‘Darling, I’ve studied you for the past three hours. It’ll be a walk in the park.’

Although we’re in London for one night, I’ve packed for a month and struggle to lug my bag up a stationary escalator, across the station concourse and out into the open air. We make our way across the fume-filled bus yard, through the litter-strewn gardens, and take our lives into our hands to cross a busy road.

The hotel room is tiny and looks out onto a back yard where office staff gather to smoke behind overflowing bins. It’s blisteringly hot and lacking in air, so I throw open the window.

‘It’s hardly the Ritz,’ Andy says. ‘Even the shower gel is attached to the wall.’

My tablets have worn off and with relapse in the air, I throw myself on the bed. Andy repairs to the bathroom and I must have fallen asleep again, for when I wake he’s left for his audition. I feel guilty at not having wished him luck.

Propped up in bed, I flick through the hotel television channels, but nothing grabs me. I miss the Internet badly. Sharon and Andy might be right when they accuse me of addiction.

My mobile rings and although the number is withheld, I answer.

‘Is this Lisa Doyle?’

‘Who’s speaking?’

‘This is Bernie Lynch. Remember me?’

The name sounds sort of familiar.

‘From school,’ she continues. ‘The chubby one from school. We used to try and dodge out of cross country together.’

I stay silent.

‘Surely you remember.’

She speaks with a strong Irish accent. Although I came from Irish stock, my own accent is very much unlike that of my mother. Strangers know at once I hail from deepest and darkest Birmingham. How did this stranger get my number? I ought to come right out and ask, but that might sound rude.

‘Sister Avis said she’d spoken to you,’ the woman on the other end of the line sounds less sure of herself. ‘I thought you’d be expecting my call.’

‘Sister Avis,’ I say. ‘Of course. So erm ... how are things with you these days?’

Might as well pretend I remember. Clearly I played a significant role in her school days. It’ll come back to me eventually. Those tablets must have caused temporary amnesia.

‘I’m grand,’ she says. ‘What about you?’

‘Can’t complain … so … what exactly can I do for you?’

‘I know the plan was that I should write to you, but time waits for nobody and so I thought I’d be the early bird and get in first.’

‘
Right
...’

‘Ian Tyler,’ she says. ‘You were friends at school. Didn’t you go out with him?’

‘Not exactly …’

‘You were certainly close from what he says.’

‘We were ten, Bernie. I was just as close to my imaginary friend Gisela.’

Does Bernie even know Ian sent me email?

‘Did you have one those too? Mine was called Danny and used to drink all the milk out the fridge. My Mammy was forever cursing. Anyway back to Ian. You’ll have heard he’s in a bit of trouble?’

Bernie takes my silence as confirmation.

‘The long and short of it is he’s spending six months at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Bit of a misunderstanding as it turns out. They reckoned he had a gun, but it was just a toy that belonged to his kids. She must have forgotten to pack it in the rush.’

When Sister Avis called the week before, there was no mention of anyone being in prison. Let alone guns.

‘Do you want to start at the beginning?’ I say and Bernie looks faintly embarrassed.

‘I suppose I thought you already knew all of this,’ she says. ‘It was in all the papers.’

‘It never made it up to Manchester.’

‘No,’ she says with a shake of the head. ‘I suppose you’ve enough street crime of your own, what with all the drive-by shootings. This would have been small fry.’

Bernie launches into a lengthy story about how Ian married a girl called Jenny who worked in a bank. They had two kids and he held down two jobs. There had been unkind whispers that
he
wasn’t entirely faithful and that this Jenny resented being left alone for hours on end.

‘Although, he was only doing what he thought was the right thing,’ Bernie says. It’s clear she’s a member of Ian Tyler’s fan club.

‘This is going to sound awful rude,’ I say. ‘But I don’t honestly get what all of this has to do with me,’ I say.

‘He needs friends, Lisa.’ Bernie leaves a space for the words to sink in. ‘Ian needs a friend to write to. He needs a friend to listen to him. God knows he’s had enough bad friends already in his life.’

‘But why me?’

‘You were one of the few people he remembers from school. One of the
very few
people as it happens.’

‘What exactly do you think I can do to help out?’

‘They sent him to Pentonville. He started off up in Manchester, but they had to move him after he got in with the wrong sort.’

‘Pentonville near London?’

‘The very same. That’s where I live now. Like you, I’ve escaped the old stomping ground.’

‘I’m actually in London right now,’ I say before my brain kicks in.

‘That’s grand. How about we meet up for a coffee?’

I try to think of a plausible excuse, but spoofing a nun is never easy, even one you went to school with.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Euston Hilton.’

‘You’re only two stops away from me on the Northern Line. What d’you say to having a chin wag today?’

‘I’m supposed to be meeting a friend later.’

‘Later sounds to be hours away. I’ll only take an hour of your time. Just enough for a coffee and a muffin.’ She laughs. ‘I’ve a terrible addiction to muffins, but I suppose there are worse things to have as a sin.’

‘Fine,’ I say in a voice that lacks colour. ‘I’ll be ready in half an hour.’

I shower and do what I can to make myself look less like an Ebola sufferer. Bernie might be a nun, but she’s still someone from my past and I don’t want her to think I’ve let myself go. You never know who she might tell.

A phone call from reception tells me she’s downstairs. I’ve decided on a conservative sweater and jeans, dressed up with a fancy scarf. The sort of thing a respectable married woman might wear, but one with flair.

A noisy coach party of Japanese tourists packs the hotel lobby. You’d imagine a nun would stick out, but she’s nowhere to be seen. Thinking she might have decided to wait in the street, I shuffle through the crowd to the doors and down the shallow steps. I fish out my phone and page through the list of recent callers when someone taps me on the shoulder.

‘Lisa Doyle?’

I’d half expected a refugee from the
Sound of Music
, but Bernie turns out to be an elegant woman, dressed in black, with an asymmetrical bob.

She laughs and gathers me in a hug.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she says. ‘Where’s the penguin suit?’

She’s right, that’s exactly what I’m thinking.

‘The Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood is a progressive movement. We believe in spreading His word by blending in with the community rather than standing apart from it.’

‘Is that Armani.’ I try not to sound shocked.

‘It is. I got it in the sale though. Had to fight off some screaming harpie. She soon backed down when I showed her my cross. The Good Lord has his uses.’

Bernie oozes natural charisma. Is this really the unremarkable little girl who blended into backgrounds at school?

‘Lets get that coffee?’ I say.

‘Sod that!’ She rolls up her sleeve to look at her watch. ‘Coffee is a morning beverage. I’m in the mood for a drop of the hard stuff. I know a great little place not a stone’s throw from here. Great craic. Are you up for it?’

I’m too surprised to do anything but agree.

Bernie leads the way along Euston Road and down a small side street. When we reach what looks like someone’s front door, she rings the bell and a small grill is pulled aside.

‘Bernie, where have you been?’ A man exclaims, before throwing open the door and gathering her up in an embrace. They dance around on the street, laughing and jabbering away ten to the dozen, like old friends reunited.

‘Lisa, this is my brother Patrick,’ Bernie says. ‘Don’t suppose you remember him? He was three years ahead of us at school.’

Patrick holds out a hand in greeting.

‘Sure, but this can’t be one of your classmates,’ he says. ‘She’s not nearly old enough.’

‘Don’t be taken in by this little display,’ Bernie huffs. ‘He’s a mournful sod as a rule.’

‘Come on in, the pair of you,’ Patrick says. ‘Leave the cold out there.’

We go through to a back room, where a dozen old men sit at small round wooden tables, chatting, playing cards, drinking and listening to what my mother calls ‘fiddle-de-dee’ music. The curtains are drawn and candles dribble wax. It reminds me of childhood trips to Dublin. Dad would drag us all into Whelans where my sisters and I would each get a bottle of red lemonade and be told to go play in the family room with a box of Legos.

‘Sit yourself down,’ Patrick says and puts down three glasses and a whole bottle of whiskey.

Bernie pours generous measures.

It might help shift my cold, I decide. Kill or cure.

‘So what brings you down this way, sis?’ Patrick asks after lighting a cigarette.

‘Are you allowed to smoke in here?’ I say and they both laugh, giving me the sort of look usually reserved for simpletons.

He offers the box around and I shake my head, but Bernie takes one and lights up, inhaling deeply.

‘My sweet Lord, but that is good.’

She glances at me.

‘I gave up for New Year. Worst two hours of my fecking life.’

She turns back to her brother.

‘You wanted to know what I’m doing down here,’ she says.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve left the order?’

‘Of course not,’ she mocks outrage. ‘I’m here doing good work.’

They both dissolve into laughter, causing me to question how dedicated Sister Bernie is to the way of the Lord and just how progressive a movement the Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood is. So far, there’s been barely a sign to suggest she’s anything other than the average Irish expat living it up in London town.

‘I’m working for someone who strayed off the path a good time back and now wants to get back on it,’ Bernie says and Patrick leans in to whisper.

Bernie throws back her head and roars with laughter.

‘You cheeky sod,’ she says. ‘Lisa, will you ever listen to this one. He wanted to know if you’re the poor soul I’m out to help.’

I smile, though it feels wrong. Everything is telling me that agreeing to meet a nun for coffee was a bad move. I could be in my hotel bed, dosed up on cold cure remedies and dreaming of Daniel Craig licking my legs. Instead I’m in some dingy drinking den being force-fed whiskey.

Bernie picks up the bottle and pours another slug into her glass before topping up mine, even though I’ve barely touched a drop.

‘So who is this lost sheep you’re after helping?’ Patrick persists and she wags a finger.

‘You know I’m not allowed to talk about my work.’

‘I’m your brother. Not just anyone.’

She rolls her eyes and takes a deep breath. Like she’s playing hard to get, but then a smile lights up her face.

‘Well alright then, but you’re not after repeating this to anyone?’ Patrick nods and I feel obliged to do the same.

Discretion isn’t needed. Two large whiskeys have gifted Bernie with the voice of a foghorn. People in nearby streets could most likely hear the woeful tale of Ian Tyler.