Tales From a Hen Weekend by Olivia Ryan Page B

fucking righteous about getting up early, every fucking day, even at weekends.’
    I look at her in total shock. She’s slagging off Perfect Rick? This is unheard-of! I realise she’s drunk, but let’s not go for complete personality changes here – that’s just too freaky.
    ‘You mentioned your husband,’ says Emily sleepily. ‘Forfeit…’
    ‘Can’t be arsed,’ says Lisa. ‘It’s too late. Game’s over.’
    ‘Anyway…’ I can’t let this go, or I won’t be able to sleep tonight. ‘Anyway, Lise – it’s great, isn’t it, Richard getting up early, bringing you tea in bed, doing the kids’ breakfast, all that stuff. You’re so lucky, aren’t you! You know you are!’
    ‘Am I?’ she retorts. ‘Huh. That’s all you know. That’s all you know, ’cos that’s all I tell everyone. You want the truth, now you’re getting married, little sister? Now I’m pissed enough to tell you? Do you?’
    I’ve got a horrible feeling I’m going to hear it, whether I want to or not.

LISA’S STORY
     
    I know what everyone thinks. They’re all looking at me now with those kind of smiles people give you when you’re very drunk and talking rubbish, but they’re going to pretend to go along with you rather than let you get upset, flip out of control and spoil the party. It’s true I’m a bit drunk – but only a bit. I’m not used to it any more, that’s the thing; not like Katie and her friends, still going out to pubs and clubs at the weekend. I’m married with two kids, don’t forget. How could I ever possibly forget?
    My marriage, actually, is shit.
    There. You weren’t expecting that, were you?
    Katie thinks I’ve got a wonderful, perfect marriage, and to be honest I don’t bother to disillusion her. It’s all part of the pretence. I’m a good actress. I don’t admit the truth to anyone – not to Mum, not to my sister or any of my friends.
    It started off good. I suppose it always does – otherwise why would we bother? All the time I was a teenager, I wanted to get married and have kids. It isn’t fashionable these days to admit to that. We’re supposed to have fabulous careers or at the very least go and travel the world, if not both, and to not even consider settling down until the tick of our biological clocks becomes so deafening we can’t hear ourselves think. I was actually twenty-seven before I got married, but it wasn’t for the lack of trying. I’d had serious relationships with two other guys before I met Richard, and I was considering marrying both of them. One of them turned out to be already married so that was a bit of a non-starter, and the other one cooled off when I started buying Brides magazine and window-shopping in Mothercare. In fact he emigrated to New Zealand. I considered following him but perhaps it would have been taking desperation one step too far.
    I was attracted to Richard for a lot of reasons. One: he was older than me, so probably more likely to be ready to settle down than the men of my own age who I’d been seeing. Two: he was sensible. He had a savings account. He owned more than one suit. He knew how to hang wallpaper, lay crazy paving, buy shares. Three: He earned enough to make it possible to buy shares. You can see why I fell in love with him.
    I don’t think I ever had a romantic dream, like Katie does. I didn’t long for a tall dark broodingly handsome stranger to sweep me off my feet, flying me off to fantastic destinations, strolling hand-in-hand in the sunset on white coral beaches, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. She gets all that from reading too much romantic fiction, and in my opinion it doesn’t do her any good at all. My dream was far more prosaic. I wanted to live happily-ever-after in a semi-detached house on a nice estate, with a husband in a good job, two well-behaved children and a tidy garden.
    A good sex life was kind of taken as a given.
    Well, I got the house, the job, the kids and even the garden. Can’t have it all, I