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Short story

Love in the time of Corona – Chapter 3

March 26, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Closure

New readers start here
This is a short story to fill the gap between books – a love story set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going. Read the first chapter here

Smug Ellen’s face looms enormous on the screen as Liz ducks past to take the last free boardroom chair. When she sits, a nerdy guy shakes his head.

‘That’s an isolation seat.’

‘OK,’ she whispers. ‘But I’m late. I need to sit down.’

‘You can’t. We need to stay at least one chair away from each other.’

Now might be as good a time as any to explain that she’s spent two entire weeks climbing her Farrow and Ball-painted flat walls in self-isolation. Corona holds no fear for Liz. She’s become immune.

‘You need to move,’ he says again. ‘It’s not safe.’

So much for sneaking in unseen. Her boss scribbles something on a notepad. Liz drags her isolation seat level with the boardroom door.

‘The thing to remember is take care of each other.’ Smug Ellen’s tinny voice crackles through black-grilled speakers set into a long grey table. ‘Check in and make sure we’re all doing fine.’

Eyes roll as she launches into a self-aggrandising story of how she plans to spend her evenings knocking on the doors of old folk to ask if they need emergency supplies. She’s already signed up to be an official volunteer.

‘Likely so she gets to shop in Tesco during the special hours,’ Derek from the Sales Team says, and heads nod.

Liz has no idea what he means. Derek is her work husband. One of the few people she still likes at Allied Recruitment.

Smug Ellen ends the meeting by suggesting they all say out loud the one thing they feel grateful for in what she calls ‘difficult times’.

Liz has heard that phrase too often. The words lose all impact. Like when people say sorry after letting a door slam in your face.

Difficult times.

‘I’m grateful for having lived through Corona,’ she says and looks around. ‘Now I’m immune.’

Nobody appears sure what sort of face to pull.

Liz hit a nerve.

‘So if anybody fancies going to the pub after work, I’m buying,’ she says, determined to lighten the mood. ‘First drinks only. No doubles.’

Nervous looks are exchanged.

Determined to win over the room, she claps her hand to her mouth and does comedy bug eyes. ‘I forgot, the pub’s are out of bounds.’

‘Face,’ everyone yells.

The ferocity causes Liz to startle.

‘OK,’ she says, still rattled. ‘Some other time.’

Smug Ellen’s face vanishes and people file out.

One by one.

*     *     *     *     *

‘Why did everyone shout?’ she asks Derek as they join a line to use the office kettle.

‘BoJo’s latest advice,’ he says, and when she wrinkles her nose, he explains further. ‘Boris Johnson reckons we need to learn new behaviours. Each time someone touches their nose or mouth or eyes, you yell ‘face’.’

‘Why the hell would anyone sane do that?’

‘To relearn nasty habits.’

‘Is that what’s passing for government advice?’

Out of habit Liz avoids the news. When Corona took over the headlines, she unplugged her TV, stopped going online and rediscovered the joy of a book. Let others spend their days worried where they might secure the next loo roll. When a doctor in a mask confirmed she had Corona, it came as a surprise. Fair enough, she’d refused to become a total nob-head and deny NHS workers protective clothing, but she’d used handwash and lived off Deliveroo.

‘You and me are the only ones who know,’ Derek says.

‘Know what?’

‘BoJo acts like Corona is the black death. People think if they so much as touch a door handle they’ll die in pain.’

‘Are things that bad?’

‘I went to Waitrose this morning. They’re out of olives.’

‘No.’ Liz feigns shock. ‘Tell me they’re OK for quinoa.’

She nods at Derek for his coffee cup.

‘We’re not allowed to make drinks for each other,’ he says. ‘HR policy.’

She doesn’t bother arguing.

*     *     *     *     *

Liz only spots an unfamiliar number flash up on her phone by chance. She’s listening to music on her headphones thanks to the office no talking rule. Words spread germs.

‘It’s Brett,’ a familiar voice says when she answers. ‘How’s your day going?’

She gave him her number after much pestering.

‘Full-on,’ she says. ‘We’re being made to sit two metres apart and most people are working from home.’

‘Wish we could do that.’

Brett worked in Boots, behind the pharmacy counter. His day was taken  up arguing with people determined to panic buy paracetamol. Angry customers blamed him for the lack of hand sanitiser.

‘They’ve impounded the staff kitchen.’ Brett sounds mournful. ‘We have to bring drinks from home.’

She looks up as Helen from reception walks past with a roll of yellow tape and starts to stick strips around the stationery cupboard.

‘We’re about to ration sticky notes,’ Liz says. ‘The world might as well end tomorrow.’

Derek sits down at the next desk. She turns away to stop him eavesdropping.

‘Are you getting the bus home?’ she says, part hoping they might spend more time laughing at this weird world.

‘That’s why I’m calling,’ Brett says. ‘There are no buses.’

‘OK … so, we’ll share an Uber.’

‘The app says there’s a four hour wait. I might hire a car. Do you fancy going half?’

‘I can’t drive.’

‘I can.’

A bubble of joy lifts inside. How come she never spoke to this weird guy before?

‘Is that a yes?’ he says.

What else was she going to spend her wages on? Most of the shops were closed. Cafes were shut. Pubs were now only fit for pariahs.

‘It’s a yes,’ she says.

‘OK, I’ll pick you up at six.’

Liz’s working day ended at five, but she didn’t mind hanging around. She’d find something to do.

‘Hot date?’ Derek asks when she puts down her phone. ‘Your latest boyfriend?’

‘What?’ Her skin prickles. ‘No.’

‘It’s just you did that giggle thing you always do when you talk to someone you fancy.’

‘What giggle thing?’

Derek purses his lips and skips from one foot to the other.

‘Oh, you.’ He affects a lisp. ‘You’re such a powerful man, maybe you can help me carry this big heavy box of paper.’

Liz glares. A year ago, she tried to cop off with Andy from the tech team, and still her best work friend won’t let her forget the shame of hearing about his husband and two adopted children.

‘It’s my neighbour, if you must know,’ she says. ‘And he’s most likely gay too.’

Filed Under: Love in the time of Corona, Short story Tagged With: Corona, COVID-19, Short story, Story

Love in the age of Corona – Chapter 2

March 20, 2020 by Mo Fanning 1 Comment

Coffee machine

New readers start here
This is a short story to fill the gap between books – a love story set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going. Read the first chapter here

Liz and Nod Hello Man – or Brett as she now knows him to be called – reach the main road. On any other day, four lanes of traffic would rattle towards the city centre. Today, Liz hears bird song.

Brett’s grey gimlet eyes narrow. ‘That’s weird,’ he says.

Liz snorts. ‘Perhaps all the sensible people decided to self isolate. How many died now? I didn’t read the news.’

Brett fishes a phone from his bag and taps the screen. ‘I can’t get a signal down here.’

She can’t help but notice it’s a minute to nine.

‘I’m about to miss  the start of my meeting,’ she says, deflated. ‘I might as well get coffee.’

Costa is closed.

Pret too.

Liz groans.

‘How are we meant to survive?’

Brett frowns. ‘I know a van. They do the best bagels.’

Liz wonders if they might be the only two people stupid enough to venture out. Back when the whole Corona thing started, her boss was super supportive and insisted the team work from home. When everyone found reasons to skip the Tuesday meeting, his tone changed.

I’ll supply the santiser, you supply the magic, a terse email suggested. Let’s make this a face-to-face.

She wanted to reply with snark and was glad she held back when sheep-like colleagues sent supportive messages about the values of social cohesion.

Smug Ellen is due to present today. Smug Ellen says things like ‘No matter what I eat, I never put on weight’.

‘I’m already late,’ Liz says with a shrug. ‘What harm can more minutes do?’

Brett leads the way down a side street.

‘It’s gone,’ he says as they emerge onto another car-free road. ‘That’s weird.’

‘Perhaps they shut him down.’

‘They said we can eat at takeaways. There’s less temptation to lick tables.’

Liz allows him a smile. Until now, she took him to be the sort of bloke who conveys a free spirit through flamboyant ties. He just might have a personality.

‘My sister lives near here,’ she says. ‘And she has more money than sense. She bought an obscenely expensive coffee machine.

Brett falls in beside her.

‘I’m going to the office because my boss is a twat, what’s your excuse?’ she says.

‘I figured I ought to make the effort. I’ve been off sick for two weeks.’

‘Did you have Corona?’

His brow darkens as if she’s said the most moronic thing ever.

‘Stupid question. Obviously you had Corona.What was it like?’

‘Flu.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

They stop in front of a red brick building, and Liz studies the buttons.

‘I know the entry code,’ she says, although Monica keeps threatening to change the combination.

She types four numbers and the door clicks open. Liz smiles.

Once inside, instinct sees her beeline for hand sanitiser. The bottle is empty. Dust on the counter suggests a cleaner off sick.

‘Don’t bother,’ she tells Brett as he leans past to do the same.

Luck must be on her side, as a lift stands open on the ground floor.

‘I usually have to wait ages,’ Liz says as they step inside.

On the third floor, Liz hammers Monica’s front door.

‘Come on,’ she calls through the letterbox. ‘I know you’re home. We need coffee.’

‘Perhaps she’s out?’ Brett says.

Liz rolls her eyes. ‘Monica works nights. She’s home.’

‘Right, so … is she a nurse or something?’

‘Or something.’

When there’s no answer, Liz rummages in her bag for a key.

‘Should you be doing that?’ Brett says as she lets them in. ‘Aren’t we trespassing?’

‘She’s my sister. I do stuff like this all the time.’

Still, he hesitates.

‘Do you want coffee or not?’ she says. ‘Last chance.’

He looks around as if casing the joint and steps inside.

Monica’s flat is a mess. Lipstick stains an empty wineglass on the filthy kitchen counter. Green fur grows on dishes that fester in the sink.

‘She’s not a nurse,’ Brett says. ‘Unless she’s growing penicillin.’

‘My sister is a confirmed slob.’ Liz holds her nose as she drops a dirty dishcloth into an overflowing bin. A mouse darts under the washing machine.

Brett screams. Liz brays a laugh.

‘How can you find this funny?’ he says. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I lived in Amsterdam for five years. You get used to the mice.’

‘This isn’t Amsterdam.’

Liz pulls out her phone. ‘Even by Monica’s standards, this is extreme.’

A recorded voice confirms her sister has turned off her phone.

‘Typical,’ Liz says. ‘We need coffee and she’s on the missing list.’

Brett doesn’t answer.

‘If you’re willing to take your life into your hands, I can make coffee,’ she says and reaches into a cupboard for a jar of coffee beans. Like everything else, it’s sprinkled with dust. Typical Monica. She spent a fortune on the biggest, best machine, and promptly lost interest.

‘I should get going,’ he says. ‘I’ll be late for work.’

Filed Under: Love in the time of Corona, Short story Tagged With: Corona, COVID-19, Love, Romance, Short story, Story

Love in the time of Corona – Chapter 1

March 18, 2020 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

Love in the time of Corona 1

Chapter One
I’ve decided to write a short story to plug the gap between books and wanted to make it topical – which I don’t usually get to do with a novel – there’s such a lag between idea and publication. This is a love story (I think) set in the soon-to-be present time. I’m making it up as I go along, so who knows where it’s going? I’ll post installments every few days … whenever the urge/muse hits. Hope you enjoy it.

7.30am.

How did she sleep through another alarm? Liz knows her boss will have a fit when she rolls in late. It’s Tuesday. Strategy brainstorm day. Everyone gets to stare at the boardroom table and wish their lives shorter while this week’s sacrificial lamb flicks through six drab PowerPoint slides and explains away disappointing sales figures.

The milk is off.

How can that be? She only bought it two days ago. Or maybe three. Certainly, it’s not older than a week. She’ll stop going to that garage. Nothing from there lasts.

There’s a cereal bar in her bag. Liz eats it.

She runs a brush through her hair.

If she runs, she might just make the meeting.

Waiting for a bus, Liz remembers she didn’t clean her teeth and finds a single breath mint stuck to the lining of her pocket.

Always be prepared.

A nearby car looks abandoned. That happens a lot these days. Sussex Street used to be lovely, but it’s gone downhill since all the big houses became flats and they took away the parking permits.

The car is covered in dust.

The roads are quiet.

Quieter than usual. It’s never mad busy in this part of town, but this feels more like Sunday.

Briefly, Liz wonders if she overslept and mixed up her days. Is it Sunday?

She pulls out her phone.

Tuesday, 17 March 2020.

8.15am.

Liz could call in sick. But she already did that.

Two weeks ago, she self isolated, claiming a sore throat and fever, and coughing when her boss sounded like he might not be buying it.

‘They warned us to stay home for seven days,’ she reminded him. ‘The last thing I want to do is spread my germs or infect an old person.’

Across the street, she spots a guy who always nods hello.

He’s grown his hair. It suits him.

He nods hello.

8.25am.

Liz fiddles with her phone. Even if a bus comes now, she’ll be late. Perhaps she could go home and scavenge breakfast. An egg. There might be bread. Certainly there’s crusts. And a jar of cinnamon-spiced marmalade left over from the sales team Christmas hamper. Money would have been nicer, but the biscuits were lovely.

‘Do you think there’s been an accident?’ Nod Hello Man says.

Liz puffs out her cheeks, checks the time and looks both ways.

‘It is quiet today,’ she says.

Filed Under: Love in the time of Corona, Short story Tagged With: Corona, COVID-19, Love, Romance, Short story, Story

An unexpected gift

December 24, 2016 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

The tree is up, the cupboards groan with food, but Josie can’t bring herself to feel it. The thought of Christmas fills her with dread.

Everyone at work was full of cheer. And she joined in. She wore a reindeer jumper and helped out at the bake sale. But behind the fixed smile lay sadness. It’s three weeks to the day that she took her best friend for his final walk. Tomorrow will be the first Christmas in sixteen years without Bertie.

She’s downloaded A Wonderful Life. Of course it will make her cry, but Josie hopes it might kick-start the Christmas gene. She’ll watch it with the lights off and a box of mince pies. If she keeps the room dark, she could pretend Bertie is still here. Fast asleep in his basket that she’s not yet managed to move from in front of the fire.

The weather has been typically Christmas. Rainy and dull, but as the afternoon wore on, the sun broke through. It bathed the garden in a beautiful light. Josie glanced at Bertie’s lead, still hanging on the back of the door. Around about now, she’d rattle her keys and he’d leap from his basket to dance a jig at her feet.

She missed the walks. Almost as much as she missed Bertie. Even though Josie lived alone and didn’t hang out much with the people from work, she had dog walking friends. They’ll have noticed her absence. Did they guess that Bertie had gone?

Why shouldn’t she still go out?

Josie heads through the woods, and smiles as she pictures Bertie snuffling his way along the path. She nods hello to Schnauzer Elaine and Labrador Bill. She can’t bring herself to stop and chat, because they’ll want to know about Bertie. Up ahead, there’s someone sitting on a bench. No dog at their side. As she gets closer she realises that it’s Poodle Pete.

‘Hello lovely lady,’ he says, and shuffles over for her to sit.
Josie isn’t sure. Any minute Stinker will come rushing through the bushes, haa-haa-ing his way across the grass, chasing a squirrel. She’s not sure she can cope with pretending there’s nothing wrong.
‘Are you all sorted for Christmas Day?’ she says and he nods.
‘My Maureen has bankrupted us, and for what? It’s only a big dinner.’
They sit in silence for a while, and when there’s no sign of Stinker, she’s forced to ask.
‘Are you alone?’
He nods and Josie’s heart bursts. How could two of the loveliest boys leave this world at the same time?
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, and overwhelmed by sadness gets to her feet. ‘I best head home, it’ll be dark soon.’
‘Three girls and a boy,’ Pete says. ‘I don’t suppose you fancy seeing them?’

Photo of the Fanning family Christmas treeStinker is the most attentive father. He fusses around Molly like he knows she’s unsure where the four little hungry balls of fluff came from.
‘They’re beautiful,’ Josie says.
‘That little black one,’ Pete says. ‘I bet he reminds you of someone.’
Of course he does, and Josie has been doing her best not to say anything. She’s only got the one picture of Bertie as a pup. He grew up so fast after he left the dog’s home.
‘We can’t keep them,’ Pete says. ‘So I suppose come the new year, it’s adoption time.’
All at once, Josie knows that she’s feeling Christmas. She looks around Pete’s front room, taking in the tree, the twinkling lights, the crackling logs on the open fire. The smell of something lovely wafting from the kitchen.
‘I could take him,’ she says, and then quickly adds. ‘That’s if you don’t mind.’

Josie smiles and sips her sherry in the flickering light of the television screen. She smiles over at Bertie’s empty basket.
‘You don’t mind, lad?’ she says.
And somewhere, far away she hears him barking.
Or maybe it was the wind.
She just can’t be sure.
‘Merry Christmas, old boy.’

Filed Under: Short story Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Short story

Exchanging gifts

December 12, 2014 by Mo Fanning Leave a Comment

xmasI’ve sometimes been asked what became of Lisa Doyle, the main character from The Armchair Bride. So for a change, here’s a short story for Christmas to bring you up to date on her life these days. Two years on from the end of that book, Lisa’s home with Brian for a family Christmas and about to encounter a ghost from the past!

Mam looks up from the pile of Christmas cards gathered on the kitchen table.
‘Do you have an address for Ginny Baker?’ she says. ‘Last thing I heard she was living in one of those new flats near the precinct.’
‘You’re not seriously sending her a card?’ I say and try to keep my voice even. ‘After everything she did.’
‘It’s a time to forgive.’
‘She almost got me killed.’
Mam shakes her head. ‘It was a toy gun.’
‘Nobody knew that.’
‘Guru Westwood says you have to forgive to be able to move on.’ Mam scribbles a greeting in the card. ‘Life’s too short to hold grudges.’
Two months ago, Mam saw a flyer in the library for The Golden Buddha Trust – a group for retired people in search of answers to life’s many questions. These days she loves everyone – with the possible exception of Muriel opposite who never puts the lid on her recycling bin.

Brian dumps the oversize bag I insisted he pack in the hall.
‘Do you need anything else from the car?’ he says. ‘I’ve left Amy and Sue’s presents in the boot like you said.’
Mum rolls her eyes. ‘What’s wrong with putting gifts under the tree?’
‘They’ll keep prodding at them. Let’s have some surprises this year.’
Both Mam and Brian stare at my belly. My huge, eight-month pregnant belly.
‘I think I’ve already had my share of surprises,’ she says. ‘Haven’t there been enough secrets in this family?’

I found out I was expecting Lucinda on my forty-second birthday. Brian held my hand as a nurse smeared gel over my distended stomach, and we stared at the monitor to make sense of random light patterns.
‘Do you want to know the sex?’ the nurse asked and before Brian could answer I said yes.
The name came two days later.
‘I read somewhere that the first name you think of is the right one and that you should write it down,’ I said and produced a scrap of paper from my pocket. On it I’d written Lucinda.
Brian peered at it. ‘When did you do that?’
My plan had been to act all mystical and insist the name materialised in a dream, spoken by angelic voices. In fact Lucinda was my Nan’s name and Dad once made me promise to consider it if grandchildren came along.
‘It’s been in my head a while,’ I said.
‘Lucinda?’ Brian made the name sound like one he’d never heard before. ‘It’s cute. Lucy for short.’
I enjoyed the smug feeling of someone who knew best. Lucinda was a noble name; one not open for teasing.

The doorbell rings and Brian is sent to answer. I hear voices and then a scratching at the door. Bertie pushes his nose round and dives into the bags gathered round my feet.
‘Does this dog ever stop?’ I cry as Mam laughs.
‘Give him a biscuit,’ she says. ‘He likes Digestives.’
The mere mention of the word biscuit has Bertie on his haunches, brown eyes burning into mine.
My sister drags two reluctant offspring into the kitchen.
‘Isn’t Amy here yet?’ she says and everyone exchanges awkward looks.
‘Glen has business to tend to,’ Mam mutters darkly. ‘Special business.’
Sue gets it at once and even though her face flushes she manages a smile.

Most families would applaud charity work. The idea of one of their kin giving up time to hand out gifts to orphans and the homeless should be a good thing. And maybe Mam would be totally on board with this had Glen agreed to disguise himself as Santa Claus or even as an elf. It’s his insistence on dressing as Susan Boyle that has her on edge.
‘What time is it over?’ Mam says.
‘Amy reckoned they’ll be here by five,’ I say and look anxiously around. All I want to do is change the subject before she launches into another distinctly unforgiving, un-Buddhist rant. I’m too late.
‘Don’t get me wrong. I’ve tried to understand,’ she says. ‘But it has me stumped. I sometimes wonder if I’d have been happier if he had been having an affair. Having a father who gets his jollies by wearing women’s knickers. Well, it’s not the right sort of environment for a child.’
‘How can you say that?’ Sue jumps in to defend Glen and Amy. ‘Tishiba is the luckiest little girl living.’
‘There’s that name again,’ Mam says. ‘She sounds like she should be stood in Dixon’s window.’
The door goes again and Bertie runs barking into the hall.
Brian goes to answer.
‘Probably carol singers,’ Mam says. ‘I had a group round last night. They couldn’t hold a tune in a bucket.’
When he comes back, Brian looks worried.
‘It’s for you,’ he says. ‘It’s Ginny.’

When I last saw Ginny Baker she wore a tight red dress and expensive heels. She’d been picking her way through the debris of an almost ruined wedding and I told myself that would be the last time we ever spoke. But even back then, a tiny voice inside warned that things remained unfinished.
The woman perched on of Mam’s sofa in the Good Room is almost unrecognisable. The long blonde hair has been cut short and left to grow out dark. The expensive make-up is a thing of the past. This Ginny regards me with empty eyes.
‘I’m dying,’ she says without any preamble. ‘Someone told me you were down for Christmas, so I thought I’d come along and tell you first hand. Save you hearing it from someone else.’
‘My God,’ I say. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? I’m dying.’
‘What of?’
‘Cancer. Is there anything else these days.’ She shuffles uneasily. ‘Breast, metastatic into my bones. It’s incurable. They’ve said weeks not months.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
She nods. ‘People usually are.’
An awkward silence is broken when Mam pops her head round the door to offer cups of tea.
‘I really did cause trouble for you, didn’t I?’ Ginny says when we’re alone again.
‘It’s all sorted out now. We’re fine. Everything’s fine.’
‘And you even tried to make friends with me … that day when …’
‘Yes, well, never mind. It was a strange old day I suppose. We all said things we regret.’
‘Actually, Lisa. I didn’t.’ Ginny gets up and walks to the window. ‘I’m glad I didn’t give you what you wanted.’
‘OK,’ I say, unsure where any of this might be going.
‘I needed to get away from here. It was what I always dreamed of doing and really, you gave me the chance to escape. Right after that wedding, I got into my car and started to drive. I ended up in London.’
‘Someone told me that’s where you were living.’
‘I had a good few years there, all things considered.’ Ginny stops talking, turns around and stares at me. ‘I’ve come here to thank you. I suppose that was your gift to me.’
‘Thank me?’
‘I was the one holding me back. I blamed everyone else, but it was me in charge all along. You made me see that.’

Ginny sips from a glass of red wine and watches everyone open presents, try on slippers and gloves, spray each other with perfume and hand around expensive chocolates.
‘You did a nice thing,’ Brian says as he puts an arm around me. ‘Inviting her to dinner like this.’
‘She’s not quite the monster I used to think,’ I say. ‘Actually, inside she’s just the same as me.’
Bertie barks and the kids play tag. Mam sits in her chair, enjoying the love of her family; even Glen is permitted a smile despite the fluffy pink mules he insists on wearing – a gift from Amy.

The ambulance arrives at six thirty, just after Mam loads the dishwasher.
‘You’re calling her Lucinda?’ Ginny says as I help her into the wheelchair. ‘Loo, rhymes with Poo. That poor kid. Bullies will make her life hell. If I give you nothing else, take it from someone who knows.’
She laughs, a raspy wheezy rattle.
As they pull away, Brian slips an arm around me.
‘You OK?’ he says and I nod. There’s the smallest of kicks inside and I know what I have to do.
‘Sophie’ a lovely name isn’t it?’ I say. ‘Maybe we should rethink the whole Lucinda thing after all.’

 

 

The Armchair BrideThe Armchair Bride

We all say things we’ll regret on New Year’s Eve. Lisa Doyle is no exception. At the annual office bash, along with best friend, colleague and flat mate Andy, she contemplates another year as a singleton. Tired, emotional and a little worse for wear Andy challenges Lisa to find love before hitting 40. Lisa bets Andy he cannot land a decent acting job within the next year.

Will either rise to the challenge? Is Lisa destined to spend her evenings online, checking out old classmates? Could Andy’s audition morph into something excitingly concrete? And could love for Lisa be closer at hand than she’d ever imagined?

Add a cross-dressing relative and a wedding that turns into an homage to Tarantino and the scene is set for a year in the life of The Armchair Bride.

  • ISBN-10: 0955988535 | ISBN-13: 978-0955988530
  • Price: £8.99

Buy The Armchair Bride from Amazon | Buy The Armchair Bride from The Book Depository | Buy The Armchair Bride from Waterstones

Filed Under: Short story, Writing Tagged With: Armchair Bride, Short story

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About Mo Fanning

Mo Fanning

Mo Fanning (@mofanning) tells jokes on a stage and writes contemporary fiction. He’s the bestselling author of The Armchair Bride. Mo makes fabulous tea – milk in last – and is a Society of Authors member and cancer bore.

 
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