The Armchair Bride Read Online Free Page A

was my birthday and Mam had bought me a new t-shirt with a tiger on it - like the ones worn by the girls in Abba.
    Helen and I stayed friends long after school and she’d visit me in Manchester for weekends. But then time got in the way. Some weekends I’d have to work extra shifts. Or she’d agree to do some sponsored walk and I’d be stuck with a housewarming party or she’d have a baby shower. With one thing or another, we’ve not been in touch for a bit and I’ve a horrible feeling I forgot her last birthday.
    My mobile sings into life - it’s Andy.
    ‘Hey big spender, fancy joining us for a hair of the dog?’
    I ignore the obvious attempt at sustained psychological damage. ‘Who’s us exactly?’
    ‘Well just me, actually. Nelek promised he’d meet me here, but he’s rung to say he’s been called in to do an extra shift.’
    ‘So I’m the booby prize?’
    ‘Do you fancy coming or not?’
    ‘I feel like death.’
    ‘Me too, let’s die together.’
    Rather than face a night on my own, I agree to meet up and busy myself with getting ready. I shower, tie my hair back into an acceptable knot and throw concealer at my face. There’s little point in doing any major renovation work, I’m unlikely to meet the man of my dreams in the sort of bar Andy frequents. Not for the first time does it cross my mind that a single woman of my age really ought to visit fewer gay bars. Much as I love my extended family, I need more contact with eligible and available straight men.
    I ring Sharon - I hardly saw her at the staff party thanks to spending half of it under a table and the other half the worse for drink.
    ‘Fancy meeting up for a quick drink? Andy’s been stood up and needs my support. I wondered if you fancied tagging along.’
    ‘Oh Lisa, I’d love to, but we’ve got to baby-sit Rob’s sister’s kids tonight. They had Bethany last night.’
    ‘That’s OK, some other time though? Andy’s sort of backed me into admitting I ought to get out and about more in places where single, straight men gather.’
    ‘He’s right,’ she says. ‘How about we meet up on Saturday?’
    ‘Oddly enough, I am free,’ I sigh and draw a circle around the date on our new calendar - Oil Rig Workers of the North Sea - twelve men covered in soot and oil with their shirts off.
    I’m about to switch off my computer and call a cab when something pings.
    I have mail.
    Probably from someone in Nigeria to ask for bank details and my mother’s maiden name to deposit seventeen million dollars in my account.
    Any sane being would ignore it for now. It’s New Year’s Day, what does it matter. The world has a hangover. It can wait.
    My resolve holds for all of ten seconds.

    From: Helen McVeigh
    To: Lisa Doyle
    Subject: Wedding Bells

    Hi Lisa

    Long time no see – and YES it probably is all my fault! Thought I’d get in touch to invite you to my wedding to Jamie in March.

    I know Christmas is a busy time for you theatre people, so I guessed email might be the best way to let you know. Hope you get this and please say you can come, it’s on March 18th. Write me back when you get this and I’ll send you the proper invite. Need to ask you a favour too!

    Happy New Year! Helen
    xox

    How nice, I think. Someone else getting married. Which husband will this be? Number two? Number three? Then the words sink in. Helen McVeigh. My fellow misfit.
    Oh. My. God!
    I read the mail twice more, maybe I’ve misunderstood. I haven’t. She’s deserting the cause. One more tick on the spreadsheet.
    Of course she mentioned him in her Christmas card. Love from Helen and Jamie, she wrote and I thought nothing of it. How was I to know how significant he’d become?
    This is a disaster.
    No matter how you carve it up, I’m forced to accept I now stand alone. The last remaining spinster of this parish.

    When I reach the pub, I spot Andy on his own reading a newspaper. Next to his pint is what looks like a vodka and tonic. I throw down my coat,