The Armchair Bride Read Free

months; surely you can get someone to notice you in five. Go to Hollywood, hang around the studios. It’s what you always said you’d do.’
    ‘Hollywood?’
    ‘London then. I’ll pay your bus fare.’
    ‘Unless you’ve forgotten I have a full-time job.’
    ‘Not as of now, you haven’t.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m your manager, I’m letting you go.’
    ‘You’re firing me?’
    For auld lang syne my dear, for auld lang syne...
    If Andy’s having problems believing what he hears, he isn’t the only one. I’ve no idea what has hold of my head, but I can’t stop. Somehow, in this moment, it all sounds right.
    ‘I’m letting you go. Giving you time and space to live your dream.’
    ‘You can’t do that. I’ll appeal. I’ll take you to an industrial tribunal.’
    ‘I’ve still got the photos of you pissing in the punch at the closing party for 42nd Street , I’m not afraid to use them.’
    ‘You wouldn’t!’
    ‘You’ve always hated this job,’ I say. ‘You said yourself you’d leave if you could afford to. Well this is my gift to you. I can manage the rent for a bit while you concentrate on acting full-time. Call it a sabbatical.’
    I take hold of his hand.
    ‘If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back.’
    I’m enjoying this more than feels right. A plan forms - I will become his Svengali, but before Andy points out I appear to have taken leave of my senses, someone yanks aside the tablecloth.
    ‘There they are.’
    Penny has come mob-handed with Angela, who still has hold of the mistletoe and now looks even more like the sort of woman who eats boys like Andy for breakfast.
    ‘Come to mummy,’ she says.
    Andy runs for his life and I follow.
    Past higgledy-piggledy rows of chairs draped with spent streamers. Past abandoned tables strewn with empty plastic cups, and out into the night.

    On the street, we stare at each other, neither really sure what has been agreed. Andy flags down a passing cab.
    ‘Where to mate?’ says the driver, happy to land his first double clock fare of the year.
    ‘Did you mean what you said?’ Andy whispers.
    I could so easily shake my head and laugh, tell him it was a mad minute and that of course I didn’t mean it.
    ‘Did you ?’ I say.
    He nods. ‘You’ve been on your own too long, Lisa. It’s getting weird. I won’t always be around.’
    ‘Then yes,’ I say. ‘I meant what I said too.’
    The driver turns around.
    ‘You know the clock is running?’ he says. ‘Whether you sit here all night, you’ll still have to pay me.’
    ‘Canal Street,’ Andy sits back in the seat. ‘Take me where the poor boys dance. I’m one of them now.’

Two

    The alarm clock rings. Why did I even set it? I lie very still in bed convinced that at some point in the last few hours there must have been a major road traffic accident. My head hurts and when I try to open my eyes, the light stings. Best to settle for shallow breathing, just taking in enough oxygen to stave off major organ failure.
    ‘What the hell happened last night?’ I croak to myself.
    ‘I have no idea,’ a male voice says and I freeze. I’m not alone. For all I know, this isn’t my own bed.
    I lie still and try to decide my next move. Run for the door? Pretend to have fallen back to sleep? How did this even happen?
    I replay highlights from a faint and fuzzy argument with Andy after we talked our way into an already full gay club. He pushed a glass of something into my hand and I necked it in one. I have long since accepted my lack of will power and can only imagine the evening continued in much the same vein.
    Slowly, I force open one eye and feel a rush of relief to see my Hello Kitty collection. I’m on home ground. No need to run for any doors. There’s a glass of water on the bedside table which I down in one.
    ‘No!’ The whispering man gasps. ‘My contact lenses. You’ve swallowed my contact lenses.’
    Wincing with the effort of sitting up, I find I’m sharing