The Armchair Bride

by Mo Fanning

  ‘Pretentious cow. Her sister was in my year, used to think she was better than us because the family sold rancid bangers. I thought she was broke these days.’

  ‘I don’t know. In fact I’m trying not to care.’

  ‘Her sort almost always falls on their feet. I dare say she’ll sit in the corner with a face like a smacked arse all night.’

  ‘I hope so. I don’t think I can cope with any more snide remarks about my supposed husband.’

  Amy promises we’ll have fun, but I’m unconvinced.

  ‘What time is this Brian picking you up for dinner?’ she says

  ‘Seven-thirty.’

  ‘And what are we wearing?’

  ‘I’m wearing something comfortable. I didn’t know you were coming too.’

  ‘You know what I mean. You’re not wearing jeans are you?’

  ‘What’s wrong with jeans?’

  ‘They’re fine if you’re going to the pub. This is dinner out in a fancy place with a bloke you fancy. I’ll lend you something.’

  ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure we’re the same size.’

  When growing up, being two years apart and built the same, Sue and I traded clothes, with Mam patching up on demand. Amy was never part of our club; she had what Dad called the figure of a real woman. I’m blessed with a straight up and down figure, the dear Lord having clearly checked his notes and confirmed I’m to remain single long after any chance of bringing a new life into the world has passed

  ‘I want to shop for when I get my figure back after the baby’s born,’ she says. ‘I want a glamorous new wardrobe waiting. I read something in Grazia about how you should only buy classics. And I’m already planning on going to the gym. If Posh Spice can get her figure back in two months, then so can I.’

  ‘I read that Hollywood movie stars have their babies whipped out a month early to help cut down on the stretch marks.’

  ‘Really?’ she says in the sort of way that makes me want to hide every way of her getting in touch with anyone prepared to carry out such a procedure.

  Amy pays for lunch and flags down a taxi.

  ‘This is going to be such fun,’ she says. ‘Like in Pretty Woman.’

  In a quest to revamp her wardrobe and make sure that I don’t let the Doyle team down, Amy drags me around some of the swishiest shops in Manchester. The sort of places where you ring a bell for admission.

  I’m measured and prodded by smug skinny shop girls and made to walk up and down polished wooden floors parading Amy’s choice of outfit.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says in a vast loft-style space hidden away on the second floor of a building encased in glass and chrome. It’s an establishment even stuffier than the shops with doorbells. More like an office and Amy had to call ahead to make an appointment.

  ‘I think the cut shows off madam’s legs,’ quacks the regulation beanpole assistant and her head bobs enthusiastically while I loiter in a knee-length skirt made by some cutting-edge designer I’ve never heard of. The mere mention of his name sends Amy into paroxysms of delight. It doesn’t look so very different to one I got from Debenhams last month.

  ‘We’ll take it,’ she confirms in between mouthfuls of apple Danish, supplied along with a choice of six different leaf teas and I’m ushered into the changing room while Amy prepares her credit card for daylight robbery.

  ‘You’ll knock him dead,’ she whispers while each item is wrapped in tissue and placed into expensive-looking bags.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t feel like me.’

  Amy dismisses my concerns with a wave and we leave laden with carriers.

  ‘I wonder if it isn’t too late to do something about this,’ Amy lifts a few strands of my hair in the cab home.

  ‘I only had it done two weeks ago.’

  ‘So this is on purpose?’

  It’s like being out with Andy, except a gay man is allowed to be a bitch. My sister, not so much.

  ‘Amy, unless you stop trying to stage manage this date, I’m going to ring Brian and tell him I’m ill.’

  Amy looks crestfallen.

  ‘Why does tonight matter so much to you?’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ she says and I can tell she’s lying - her right eyelid twitches, it’s something she’s been cursed with since childhood. She pulls sunglasses from her bag and pops them on

  ‘I want you to be happy. You’re my sister and I don’t want to think of people showering you with pity. That cow Ginny shouldn’t be able to lord it over you.’

  ‘I thought I told you, I don’t care what she thinks.’

  ‘So what was that big scene at Mam’s?’

  I refuse to answer and so Amy prods again, determined to raise a reaction.

  ‘You looked like you cared then.’

  ‘I was being stupid. Mam made me see sense.’

  ‘Oh please! One long chat with our blessed mother and you’re over forty years of self doubt and denial.’

  ‘I’m not like you,’ I say. ‘I can’t just bounce back no matter what.’

  ‘Is that what you think I do?’

  ‘No. .. I don’t know. Maybe. You and Sue always seem so much more sorted.’

  ‘What exactly did Mam say?’

  ‘That I care too much about what other people think.’

  ‘Fuck me, Confucius has spoken.’

  ‘Mam said I need to stop worrying about making the right impression. And you know what? She might actually be right for once.’

  ‘So you’re not going to wear any of this?’ Amy indicates the bags that cover the floor of the black cab.

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ she says and leans back in her seat. ‘We’ll get you laid yet.’

  While Amy fusses around unwrapping her purchases and putting them on hangers, I check email and track down the number for Andy’s hotel.

  When the line answers, someone tells me in broken shouty English that everyone from the movie crew is out on location and hangs up.

  I’d hoped to have Andy tell me I’m doing the right thing by going out on a date with Brian. It’s all very well Amy dressing me up and telling me I look the part. She doesn’t know what’s going on inside my head. He does. With nerves twanging, I call Sharon.

  ‘I’m shocked it’s taken you this long,’ she says when I tell her about dinner.

  ‘Amy’s gone a bit strange, she’s turned into some sort of style Nazi and bullied me into wearing clothes from posh shops.’

  ‘Do you get to keep them?’

  ‘She says they’re for after she’s had the baby.’

  ‘Then make the most of it. I’d give anything to go for a nice dinner in beautiful clothes.’

  ‘What if we go out for dinner next week?’

  ‘It’ll have to be somewhere cheap. The Christmas credit card bills are in and we’re on an economy drive.’

  ‘How about Chinese. My treat.’

  ‘Suits me fine.’

  It’s such a banal conversation, I need to ask her what’s really on my mind.

  ‘I don’t know why I’m going through with this.’ I say. ‘Somehow or other, I’ve built this up into some kind of date. I know it’s just dinner with a mate.’

  ‘A good-looking bloke has asked you out,’ Sharon says. ‘Plain and simple. It doesn’t have to be anything more than dinner, but if it feels right, and if you want to take it further …’

  ‘But what if it all goes tits up and I make a fool of myself ?’

  ‘How likely is that?’

  ‘What if he already thinks there’s more to this than dinner?’ I say.

  ‘And there isn’t?’

  ‘Of course not.’

 
; I’m only half lying. Although I’ve cast Brian in the role of male consort, I’ve yet to get past him being my boss. And married to a truly unhinged woman who, no matter how much anyone claims she used to be lovely, still fills me with the fear of God.

  ‘Don’t go worrying about what might and might not happen,’ Sharon says. ‘Enjoy the meal, wear the nice clothes, have a good time. It doesn’t have to be so complicated, you know.’

  ‘And at the end of the evening?’

  ‘Kiss him on the cheek, thank him for a lovely time and get into a taxi.’

  An unexpected flood of nerves rises from deep in my stomach. I see something in the future. Dark. Unpleasant. Wrong. Me making a total fool of myself.

  ‘I’m going to call him and say I don’t feel very well,’ I say.

  ‘You’ll only be sorry and I don’t want to have to spend Thursday evening analysing what he said and second-guessing what he really meant over sweet and sour pork balls.’

  ‘So you think I ought to go?’

  ‘Of course I do, woman. Now pull yourself together. Play your cards right and you might not need Andy to escort you to that bloody school reunion slash wedding.’

  ‘Oh God! I’d forgotten about that. I’ve got so much to tell you about what happened when I went home this weekend. That bitch Ginny more or less ruined everything.’

  ‘What?’ Sharon sounds distracted. ‘Sorry Lisa, Bethany’s started crying. I’m going to have to go ...’

  She rings off as Amy appears and takes one look at me in the blue armchair, wrapped in Andy’s old dressing gown, wearing a pair of thick gray football socks and shakes her head.

  ‘Is it any bloody wonder you’re still single? Get in that bathroom and use the tub of scrub. I’ll help you do your hair and make-up.’

  I sulk into the bathroom, and stop dead when I clap eyes on the line-up of products laid out. It’s like being given free run of the beauty counter in a posh department store. Revitalising body scrub, refreshing facial toner, eye boost, and lip plumping gel, everything I’ve ever dreamed of owning and all in my own bathroom. I want to hug Amy, but know she’ll make some comment about how time is ticking away and point out that if I don’t make full use of what’s on offer, no man will look twice, let alone stump up for a three-course meal.

  ‘Right, when I say go, open your eyes,’ Amy says after spending what feels like an eternity messing with curling tongs, a hairdryer and something called anti-frizz- super-body serum. She’s refused all requests for a mirror and forced me to sit very still in her tight posh frock while making up my face.

  ‘Go,’ she says and I open one eye.

  I look like a polished, grown-up, improved version of me.

  ‘I look so…’ I struggle to find the right words.

  ‘Fuckable?’ she leers.

  ‘Amy!’

  ‘Isn’t that the whole idea?’

  ‘I’m only going for dinner.’

  I stand to check how the dress looks from behind.

  Perfect, obviously.

  ‘And I bet you wouldn’t mind being desert.’

  ‘That’s the sort of thing I’d expect from Andy.’

  ‘He rang while you were in the shower.’

  I feel let down, why didn’t Amy call me? Tonight of all nights, I really do need to speak to my best mate.

  ‘I was going to shout you, but when he heard all about your date, he said you needed every minute you can get to stand any chance of looking half way decent. Bit cheeky I thought.’

  I smile in spite of his words.

  ‘That does sound like Andy.’

  ‘His final advice to me was ‘make sure she looks fuckable’. So is this mission accomplished?’

  I look in the mirror again.

  ‘Mission accomplished.’

  ‘And just because a car looks like it’ll go fast, doesn’t mean you have to drive it that way.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mam said that to me the first time I went out with Glen.’

  Amy brushes a speck of lint from my dress as the doorbell rings.

  ‘Oh my good God, he’s here,’ I say. I can’t breathe. All of a sudden, the dress feels too tight. I’m hot and want to throw open a window. All my make-up will run down my face and I’ll look like an Edvard Munch painting. Amy shoves me towards the intercom.

  I must have said I’m on the way down, because she slips an expensive coat around my shoulders, opens the front door, hands me my keys and bag and waves goodbye.

  ‘Have a lovely evening,’ she says. ‘Don’t rush back, I need to spend some quality time with my best friends Ben and Jerry.’

  I want to run back inside, heat up oven chips and suggest a Netflix blow out, but Amy blocks my way.

  ‘You look stunning,’ Brian says from where he stands below, half way up the stairs.

  Amy closes the door.

  Brian’s wearing a black tuxedo and he’s had his hair cut. The trademark five o’clock stubble is gone. Uh-oh, I think. Someone is making an effort.

  He holds out a hand to help me down the stairs. Not a bad idea given that the last time I’d walked in heels this high I tripped and spent the evening waiting for an x-ray on what turned out to be a fractured ankle.

  ‘Your carriage awaits,’ he whispers and I catch a whiff of his aftershave.

  Sweet, sharp.

  Sexy.

  Outside, I climb into a taxi and he closes the door, walking around to the other side.

  Uh oh, again.

  He’s not driving, that means we’ll both end up drinking too much. Here comes trouble.

  Twenty

  It’s a long taxi ride to The Old Vicarage, a small, but much talked about eatery on the outskirts of nearby Knutsford. It’s the kind of place grown-ups go. Brian and I barely exchange more than a few words during the journey.

  I stare out of the window. It’s starting to rain and the wind is getting up. Jabbering voices on the radio talk up storm warnings and by the time we crunch up a gravel path the windscreen wipers struggle to keep pace with the downpour.

  ‘Wait here,’ Brian says and leaps out.

  ‘Who’s paying my fare?’ the cabbie says.

  I shrug. ‘Don’t look at me.’

  Our eyes meet in the rear view mirror and I look away. He pulls shut a small plastic window to shut me off and re-tunes his radio to commentary from a football match.

  Where the hell is Brian?

  I’m about to make a run for it when he emerges with a huge umbrella. Struggling to keep control, he opens the cab door.

  ‘Quick, he says, or you’ll get soaked.’

  He puts one arm around my shoulders to shelter me from the gathering storm and I totter across the gravel into the restaurant. I’m about to say thank you when he ducks back out to pay the driver.

  A smiling waiter bows his head and tells me to follow him.

  The dining room is breathtaking. Huge windows down one side reach all the way up to the ceiling. The trees outside are floodlit in red and add to the drama of filthy weather. Rain lashes the windows, yet the atmosphere within remains serene. Candles send flickering shadows dancing up the walls.

  The waiter pulls out a chair and invites me to sit. He unfolds a heavy cloth napkin before discretely melting away.

  So this is how the other half lives.

  Brian appears.

  ‘This place is stunning,’ I say. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

  ‘Wait till you’ve tried the food,’ he says with a wink. ‘You might not be thanking me then.’

  I look around anxiously.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  A smile lights up his face and he shakes his head.

  ‘I’ve never been here myself. Never h
ad the excuse before.’

  ‘Is that what I am?’ I say and mock outrage. ‘An excuse?’

  The waiter returns with menus and Brian orders a bottle of wine, naming both a vineyard and a year. I can’t help but be impressed.

  ‘I asked the barman at the Travel Lodge,’ he says. ‘Turns out he’s a bit of an expert.’

  The menu is mostly in French and has me stumped. The chef may as well have chosen to present dinner options in semaphore.

  ‘What are geziers?’ I say. ‘They sound dangerous.’

  ‘Gizzards.’

  ‘What?’

  He indicates his stomach.

  ‘The bit where chickens store up and grind their food. They’re a delicacy, very popular in France.’

  ‘The French will eat anything won’t they?’ I say and wince. ‘Thank God you’re here. I’d be lost without your help. Did you study French at school?’

  Brian looks sheepish.

  ‘I downloaded the menu and translated it all online about two hours ago,’ he says.

  ‘You big fraud.’

  I smile and feel myself relax.

  By the time the waiter takes our order, we’re both acting far more like we want to be out together. We tease each other about how to pronounce each dish. Brian refreshes my drink after we tuck into our starters - both of us play safe and go for the French onion soup. It is, though, absolutely the best French onion soup I’ve ever tasted. Sweet and salty at the same time, topped with crusty bread and oozy melty cheese.

  ‘I’m so glad you finally agreed to come to dinner,’ he says.

  ‘It’s not like I was trying to avoid you,’ I say and know it makes it sound like that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.

  Four courses come and go and conversation flows easily - more so when Brian orders a second bottle of wine. By the time we’re offered coffee, I feel like we’ve been friends for years. And in effect we have.