The Armchair Bride by Mo Fanning Page A

Bratislava.’
    ‘They can’t deny you a holiday,’ he says.
    ‘I don’t want to let anyone down.’
    ‘It’s a job, Lisa. You’re not indispensable. You are allowed to have a life.’
    ‘Fine,’ I say and bite my lip. He’s right, even if those aren’t words I wanted to hear. ‘What about Helen’s wedding?’
    ‘You’ll think of some excuse.’
    Andy stops speaking, as it he realises what he’s said and I have no words to argue. I can’t beg him to give up this audition in case he can’t play my husband and help me save face.
    ‘I’ll make more tea,’ I say.
    He doesn’t follow me into the kitchen. He sits on the floor looking subdued and I feel bad about suggesting he punch a hole through his big moment.
    Andy appears as the kettle boils.
    ‘I’ll tell them I have to be back for that weekend,’ he says and puts an arm around me.
    ‘Wait and see if you get the part first. If you start laying down conditions, chances are they’ll tell you to sod off.’
    ‘A man of my vast talent? I doubt it very much, they’ll be lucky to have me.’
    ‘And modest too, don’t forget the modesty.’
    He kisses the top of my head and I hug him before wriggling free.
    ‘Seriously,’ I say. ‘Well done.’

    In the bathroom I run the taps and stare into the mirror, waiting until the room fills with steam and my reflection fades. With a towel held over my face to muffle the sobs, I sit on the floor. I should be happy for Andy, but his news comes at the end of a rubbish day. It’s rare that I let myself be weepy and weak. It feels surprisingly good.
    After my self-pity moment passes, I get dressed to face up to the real world. I know I was being silly and more than a little selfish. If Andy can’t make the wedding, so what? I could say he’s been called away to deal with some high profile case. Since when have I shied away from backing up one untruth with another?

    An extra large cappuccino perks up a morning spent worrying about Helen’s wedding. I’m about to go for an early lunch when switchboard puts through a phone call. Someone who wants to speak directly to me.
    ‘Is this Miss Lisa Doyle?’
    It’s an accent not unlike Mam’s and for one dreadful moment, I wonder if it might be an elderly distant relative calling from Ireland to deliver terrible news.
    ‘This is Sister Avis Julian of the Blessed Lady Mary Sisterhood in Kensington, London,’ she says. ‘ Am I speaking to Miss Doyle?’
    Why is a nun calling to speak to me? I toy with telling her she has a wrong number, but lying to a nun is a bit like lying to Mam - sometimes necessary, usually wrong and almost always likely to end with being found out. Curiosity drives me on.
    ‘This is Lisa speaking.’
    ‘That’s good news. You wouldn’t believe how hard you are to track down.’
    ‘Is there something wrong?’
    ‘Wrong?’ She laughs. ‘Far from it. Do you recall going to school with a Bernadette Lynch?’
    I think for a moment before remembering a short plump girl with a pudding basin haircut, ruddy cheeks and hand-me-down clothes. Her mammy and mine never saw eye to eye. There was once a tense stand off  over the last pair of oven gloves in a fancy kitchen shop. Rifts like that ran deep and rarely healed.
    ‘I think so, why? Is she in trouble or something?’
    ‘Oh good heavens no, child. Why ever would you imagine that?’
    ‘I don’t know. It’s just that…’
    ‘Well, let me cut this long story short. Why waste words when we could use them better for prayer and ask Him for guidance?’
    ‘Erm, quite.’
    ‘Sister Bernie has been doing some work with one of the local prisons and she’s in contact with someone she assures me is an old friend of yours.’
    Who do I know in prison?
    Part of me hopes it might be school bitch Ginny Walters and immediately feel bad for thinking ill of someone while there’s a nun on the other end of the phone. Lapsed catholic or not, the guilt gets you every time.
    ‘It’s a young man who