by Mo Fanning
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.
In the ladies I run into Angela touching up her lipstick.
‘I don’t know why I bother,’ she says when she sees me. ‘Bill never notices. I’ve lost nearly half a stone, had a new haircut and still he hasn’t said a thing.’
She snaps shut her lipstick and drops it into her bag and after one last glance in the mirror, rinses her hands.
When she’s gone, I look at myself in the mirror.
A few too many parties, skipped meals and impromptu drinks after work are taking their toll. I’m not 25 any more. I push back the skin around my eyes. Recently, I read about groups of women of my age travelling to Poland to get plastic surgery done on the cheap. Maybe I ought to consider the tiniest of lifts. Better yet, I could make a resolution to do something about my state of health, join the gym and eat something that hasn’t spent several hours under hot lights in a fast food bar. It makes more sense than all of this ‘find a man by the time I’m forty’ nonsense. I wash my hands and go back to our table.
‘Let’s go home,’ I say.
‘Are you sickening for something?’
‘No, I don’t feel up to partying again tonight.’
‘I’ve been too busy to watch the news today. Was it this morning that hell froze over?’
‘I’m going home. It’s up to you if you want to come too.’
I grab my coat and bag and make for the door, half expecting him to run after me, and feel distinctly miffed when he doesn’t. I can’t resist looking around to see where he is. He raises his glass in salute. I can’t go back no
w.
Back home I find two slices of almost stale bread and make toast, we’re out of margarine, so I’m forced to run a knife around the bottom of a suspect jar of mayonnaise. The sink is piled high with plates and mugs. Not a single saucepan has been pressed into service to produce our meals of the last week. I run hot water over the crocks and rummage in the cupboard for washing up liquid and find an empty bottle. Andy and I live like students. We’re nearly forty, it’s time for one of us to say or do something.
I sink into my armchair.
‘If you’re watching over me, Dad, would you mind awfully looking the other way?’ I say. Once again I turn to the Internet for company and chew miserably on what passes for my evening meal.
‘I know, Dad,’ I say. ‘Not quite the future I had planned either. I never thought I’d be a princess in a castle or married to a footballer. I thought I’d be busy ironing shirts and getting the kids’ sports kit ready by now. I’m sorry.’
PlaceTheirFace is my first port of call. I read back over my profile. Why don’t I simply post the truth?
I’m fed up. I’m lonely. I’ve shut out everyone that cared for me.
I have one new message. Is this yet another unwanted old friend getting back in touch? Why can’t these people accept the past is over?
Done with.
Dead.
One day near the end of term, our head teacher did this bit in assembly where he told us that we’d look back on school as being the best days of our lives.
What a crock.
I hated every minute and couldn’t wait to be free. I vowed that when I was sixteen, I’d wear the clothes I wanted, kiss boys and drink wine. I’ve done all three, way too many times. Being grown up is massively over-rated.
My mood grows darker. Now is the time to write to Helen and tell her I don’t want to come to her wedding and ask her not to stay in touch. It’s been two years since we last met. Can’t she take a hint?
I click to open my inbox. A single new message is highlighted. From Ian Tyler.
Where do I know that name from? I click to read more.
From: Ian Tyler
To: Lisa Doyle
Subject: Ian Tyler
Hello
I don’t know if you remember me. I am Ian Tyler. We were friends at school.
I found your details on-line and wondered if you’d like to keep in touch. Let me know and I’ll bring you up to date on my news.
Ian
Why has someone from so long ago decided to get in touch? I guess it’s something to do with the New Year and the fact we’re both fast approaching the big four-o. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have problems dealing with landmark birthdays. They indulge in grand gestures and tell the world that age is something to celebrate, while secretly fretting their youth is over. Us women are usually too busy trying to drown out the sound of our biological clocks ticking away to worry about buying a Porsche or taking everyone we know clubbing in Ibiza. I listened to the people around me and turned forty into just a number.
I somehow saw it as being a little less galling than thirty-nine. The horror lay in the waiting, the anticipation of being forty. Everyone I knew who’d crossed the line from late thirties to early forties assured me, it was nowhere near as bad as it looked from the other side.
Ian and I were firm friends at an age when boys could be friends with girls - before hormones flared up and changed everything. I was nine, he was ten. I used to play round his house - he had a slide in his back garden and his Mam made us fish finger sandwiches. I suppose he was my first boyfriend, but only in the sense he was a boy and a friend. When we moved on to the big school, our friendship suffered. His new friends would have ripped it out of him if they’d found out his best mate was a girl. Ian joined the other twelve-year-old boys shouting insults at the girls and running a mile if any of us so much as looked at them.
I can think of nothing to say to Ian. Unlike Helen, we’ve not kept in touch. I hit delete and switch off my computer.
I need a friendly voice and my sister Sue with her two perfect kids and well- adjusted husband almost always fills that role.
We talk for almost an hour while she fills me in on what’s happening with Amy and cross-dressing Glen. He’s refused to give up the twin sets and pearls and so they’ve agreed to give couples therapy a try. Their counselor suggested my sister tell Mam about what was going on. Amy apparently needed to be restrained and lead quietly from the office. I am, Sue assures me, well out of it.
Sue was always the practical one. When we were growing up, she was the one who made sure we divided up our sweets and waded in to resolve any disputes about use of the communal Spacehopper. These days, she’s a mother of twins and tends to tut when Amy and I argue the merits of whatever designer dress we’ve seen paraded down a red carpet. In many ways, she reminds me of a taller, less flame-haired version of Mam. She allows me to ramble on about my fears of hitting forty. She’s been through it herself two years before.
After a shower, I turn in for the night. Andy is still out, probably painting the town a tasteful shade of scarlet. Sleep hits unusually quickly, though within an hour I’m wide awake and staring into the darkness, watching the minutes flip by on my alarm clock.
Brian is a good-looking man. I can easily believe him when he says he’s had offers from other women.
Like Nina, I’ve flirted with him on occasion. Nothing heavy of course - nothing more than an off-colour joke when we’ve both had a skinful. If he wasn’t married to Audrey, I might have been tempted to up the stakes. He’s got lovely hands. Nice nails.
I think about Ian Tyler and recall an envelope of newspaper cuttings collected by Mam and lovingly sent my way. He’d been in trouble with the police. I never bothered reading them. Mam’s accompanying letter suggested a lucky escape. She went to great lengths to point out I was clearly no judge of character. Like all decent Irish mammies, if guilt was floating around in need of a home, she was happy to pass it on - usually to immediate family members.
Andy’s key turns in the lock. He’s not alone. There’s laughter and the sound of two people kissing. I turn over and wrap myself in my duvet.
Outside the wind gets up and rain lashes against the window. On any other night, filthy weather could lull me into deep slumber. Tonight it makes me worry about the world.
Eight
After a night of flitting between vivid dreams and long dark funks where anxiety took a hold, I wake and lie perfectly still. It’s so dark outside. January is such a miserable month.
The heating hasn’t kicked in, so I take my cup of tea back to bed. Despite every good intention to stay awake, no sooner does my head make contact with the pillow, than my eyes close.
It’s light when I hear the phone ringing. Our machine picks up and a disembodied voice squawks a message. I hear Andy in the kitchen. There’s muffled conversation, and the front door closes. Thank God for that. It doesn’t feel like the sort of morning where I can make conversation with whoever he dragged home last night.
When I’m sure the coast is clear I go in search of breakfast. On my way to the kitchen I spy Andy crouched over the answering machine.
‘Cup of tea?’ I say and when he doesn’t reply, resort to sarcasm.
‘Yes please Lisa. Why, that would be lovely, I don’t deserve such a caring flat mate, I really must do something to repay your kindness sometime. Perhaps I could cook dinner tonight or…’
‘Listen to this.’
He presses play and there’s a short pause before a familiar voice follows. It’s Beryl, his agent.
‘Hello Andy love. Sorry to call so early, but I couldn’t sleep. The doctor changed my tablets and I’m whizzing off my tits. Still, it’s better than falling asleep mid sentence. Anyway, the reason for my call is it looks like you’re in with a chance o
f a film. Nothing too fancy, no Hollywood blockbuster, but it is work and what else are you doing? They need you to go to an audition in London on Thursday. They’ll pick up the tab for the hotel, but you need to make your own way there. I already said yes for you and I’m having Nicola bike over the script, such as it is. Something about werewolves and motorcycles, it’s being filmed over the next few months in Bratislava. Not exactly sure what your role is, but I’m sure someone will explain. Good luck and don’t let me down on this. We both need the money. Ciao.’
She hangs up noisily and Andy beams at me.
‘An audition for a film,’ he says. ‘She’s got me a fucking audition for a fucking film. They want me to go to London.’
‘That’s wonderful. Will you do it?’
‘Of course. I don’t care what it’s about. I’m not bothered what the part is, I need the work and this might be the break I’m waiting for.’
He paces up and down.
‘What shall I wear? What sort of image should I convey? What if they think I’m too gay for the part? I’ll butch up. You’ll help me learn my lines, won’t you?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Maybe you can come with me to, where was it again? Bratislava? Where is that anyway? Is it sunny? You haven’t had a holiday for ages. Oh go on, say you’ll come, it will be fun.’
