Free The Armchair Bride by Mo Fanning Page A

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 now.

    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