Читать книгу: «Bride without a Groom»
Bride without a Groom
AMY LYNCH
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HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015
Copyright © Amy Lynch 2015
Cover illustration © Alice Moore 2015
Amy Lynch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008146443
Version 2015-04-16
For Eoin Sorry about all the burnt dinners, darling. As you can see, I’ve been a little busy…
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
This is it. I can feel it. Four years of waiting for my beloved Barry to pop the question. Four years of hinting. Four years of dreaming and praying and wishing. Tonight’s the night.
He has chosen the perfect evening for it. You’ve got to give the man credit where credit is due. I mean, surprising me with an engagement ring on my thirtieth birthday in Jacques restaurant? It’s elegant class. I couldn’t have scripted it better.
I spied the velvet box last week, accidentally stumbling upon it when I was innocently vacuuming under the mattress. I’d already gone through his wardrobe and chest of drawers with a feather duster and rummaged through his bedside locker with a wet cloth. OK, OK, you’ve got me. I don’t dust. I don’t vacuum. I don’t wipe sticky things clean with wet cloths. Yuk! I admit it, I was snooping. But can you blame me? The suspense was killing me.
Fumbling with the box, so close to opening it, I heard the key in the door. Rumbled! Sneaking back later, he’d moved it. Next thing you know, he’s booked a table at the most pretentious restaurant in town. All deliciously suspicious behaviour.
The night is upon us. I have taken glam to a whole new level, even shelling out for a new posh frock, a designer one. The works! My tan is flawless, not pasty, not orange, just perfectly in the middle. My lipstick and shellac nails are a deep vixen red. It’s the kind of colour that says ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, my darling. And I’ll rip you apart in bed later.’
Barry is driving so that I can have a drink when we get there. Super sweet! He probably wants to keep a clear head. You know, for the proposal and all. I close my eyes. I love Barry so much I could explode.
‘Now, I just got you something small for your birthday. Give it to you later.’
He plays a good game, I’ll give him that. He’s throwing me off the scent.
Yeah, right! Something small, is it? I love the whole fake out. So devious of him!
‘Of course,’ I wink at him. He doesn’t wink back. ‘Sure, the best things come in small packages, eh?’ I wink again.
He glances sideways with a confused look on his face.
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
Oh, this is great! Bless him. He really thinks he has me fooled! Of course, to spare his manhood, I will naturally act all, like, shock horror when he produces the bling ring. The poor man is probably sweating buckets. It must be so much pressure to ask someone to marry you!
He is concentrating hard on the road, probably practising his romantic speech. Perhaps he is considering whether he should go down on bended knee or not. Maybe he’s worried he’ll cry when I say yes. I send him a telepathic message.
Bended knee, yes! Declaration of love, yes! Tears, no!
The man needs his dignity, after all.
‘You’re quiet,’ he breaks my fantasy.
I’m thinking about my supersized reaction and visualising the smattering of applause from the waiters.
‘Just thinking how lucky I am. You know – being whisked out for my birthday, and all. Special night, eh?’
‘Absolutely. You only turn thirty once, right?’
Don’t remind me. At least I will have reached the goal I set when I was twelve to be engaged by the time I am thirty. I have no intention of failing. I will have scraped to the finish line by the elastic of my knickers. If he pops the question before midnight, I will be on target.
Barry opens the car door for me. He’s always such a gent! The waiter shows us to our table. I am grinning so much that I have a pain in my jaw. It doesn’t matter. I want to mentally record the whole evening.
‘This is magical. Don’t you think it’s magical?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Champagne?’ I suggest to Barry as the waiter approaches with our menus.
‘Eh… Sure, order whatever you like. I’ll have a Coke.’
Sweet! He’s dedicated to remaining sober and clear headed so that he doesn’t muddle his words. He’s probably overwrought with emotion at this very moment.
‘Jesus, I’m bloody starving,’ Barry is looking around for his starter.
I will have to edit out his impatience when I regale our freckle-faced-pig-tailed grand kiddies with tales of the storybook evening. ‘Tell me again, Granny, about the night Granddad proposed,’ the little ones will plead as I sip my G&T.
The dessert is coming now. I can feel the anticipation building. It’s either anticipation or heartburn due to the copious amount of Bollinger I am knocking back. The jury is still out. It’s nothing a ridiculously large rock on my ring finger and a bumper packet of Rennie’s can’t cure.
Barry reaches subconsciously for the pocket of his sports jacket and taps lightly. I hold my breath. He is checking that the lush velvet box is still safely nestled, waiting to dazzle me.
Still, I play the game. We are making small talk. We are weaving and bobbing. What holiday do I think we should go on next year? How is work going? Is that a new dress? Where am I off to with the girls tomorrow night?
The waiter arrives with banoffee and profiteroles.
‘Bon appétit.’ The waiter beams at us. He gives a quick glance at my cleavage and then smiles into my face.
OH…MY…GOD! The waiter knows! The whole restaurant is probably in on it. It is all one big conspiracy. Do Mum and Dad know? Did Barry ask Dad for my delicate hand in marriage? Did my BFFs help him with the arrangements?
The banoffee is heaven sent but I can’t stomach it. Still, I make a pretty good attempt so as not to be rude. I don’t want Barry to be suspicious.
‘So. I almost forgot,’ Barry clears his throat and puts his fork down.
This is it.
‘Yes!’ I cry, startling the couple at the next table.
‘Eh, so…yeah. Happy birthday, Rebecca.’
Barry reaches into his breast pocket. Here it is. I watch in slow motion. I can’t take the suspense any longer. It is killing me. I nearly shout at him to hurry the flip up, but I catch myself in time.
‘Oh, what’s this?’ I force my eyebrows back down.
‘Open it and see. Just a small little something. I saw you admiring it a while ago in the jeweller’s window.’
Holy Flipping Divine. I try a deep breath. The banoffee is performing somersaults. The box looks too big for a ring, now that I examine it a second time. It must be a whopper. He must have blown a packet on it.
Slowly, tantalisingly, I tease open the box. I am savouring the moment of joy. Tears are pricking my lids in preparation. As the velvet lid opens ajar, I get a flash of diamond. There, in all its glory is a… surely not. What the?!
‘It’s a …’ I swallow.
There is an uncomfortable lump in my throat. Perhaps the dessert is coming back up for its final revenge. I reach for my champagne flute but it is empty. I reach for the bottle, which is also empty.
‘A…’ I can hardly pronounce the word, a dirty word, a vulgar word.
‘Bracelet…’
‘Yes, it’s the diamond tennis bracelet. I saw you admiring it in the window of Weir’s in Dundrum town centre. That’s the one you were pointing to, yeah?’
I try to speak but can’t. All I can do is nod mutely. Inside, I am screaming.
‘Yes, that’s the one alright.’ I scrounge a smile.
He’s right. It’s the one I pointed to. However, it was after I’d pointed to the engagement rings. It was a greedy afterthought, following much drooling at the diamond and platinum pretties to the left.
‘Do you like it?’ Barry looks hurt. I’d better say something. I’d better fix this. I’m ruining the evening.
‘Thank you,’ my voice is small. ‘So much. I love it.’
The waiter doesn’t even glance in our direction. There is no mariachi band hiding behind the curtains to serenade the newly engaged couple. There are no fellow diners clapping and smiling. The dream is over. Soon, it will be midnight and my golden carriage will turn back into a pumpkin. My dress will turn into rags. The waiters will turn into mice.
A twelve-year-old Rebecca is shaking her head; the mission will be marked harshly with an ink stamp.
DEADLINE PASSED.
Barry is oblivious. ‘Cheque, please.’
I tell him I’m tired, bit of a headache, too much champers perhaps. We drive home in silence.
One
What will the girls think? I’m a wreck; we’re talking tears and snot, here. Scrambling through my overstuffed Chloé handbag, in between soggy tissues, my wallet and a hairbrush, I retrieve a make-up bag and study myself in a compact mirror. Once I wipe away the panda eyes and smooth my sleek blonde hair, I’m passable. A dash of daring red lippie finishes the patch-up job. You can do this!
The taxi pulls up at the Ice bar, and I thrust a tenner at the driver. He mutters something, but doesn’t even have the decency to ogle my legs as I get out. I’m scuttling towards the door to escape the drizzle which threatens to frizz my hair. This is not easy in an overpriced pair of Manolo Blahniks, as they are of six-inch-heel proportions, and are already killing me. Still, they make me feel like I might pass for my late twenties, so I decide that it will be worth it. Beauty is pain!
A few stiff drinks will be just the ticket. Yes, Barry and I have had the mother ship of arguments. No, last night’s birthday dinner didn’t exactly go to plan. But deadlines are extended all the time. It will all work out.
I’m ready to make an entrance.
The girls have already arrived, and are sitting in a booth with the drinks lined up. They spot me instantly and are on their feet to greet me.
‘OMG! Rebecca, you look so thin!’ Emer squeals in approval as we air kiss.
‘Becks! You skinny malink.’ Pam kisses me twice on each cheek. I think the month in France at the family chalet has gone to her head.
I’m sucking in my tummy.
‘No! Are you serious? I’ve bloody ballooned. Thanks, though.’
Quick aside: I’d squeezed myself into something very tight and black before the taxi had honked. FYI, the ensemble was over a one-size-too-small pair of Spanx that I had purchased (with huge shame) in Marks & Spencer’s. Judging by my gal pals, it has sucked me in at all the right places and created a slimming illusion. Honestly, it is a kind of black magic – worth every penny. Breathing is so over-rated, anyway.
Since I’ve now passed the big Three-Oh threshold, I’ll need to be on major frump alert.
‘Happy birthday,’ Emer and Pam chorus as I slide in beside them.
Pam passes me a Brown Thomas gift bag, and I air kiss her again. It’s probably a darling lipstick from the Chanel counter. Pam slides a birthday card over to me, with a badge that reads ‘I’m 30, buy me a drink!’, and there is a spa gift voucher inside.
‘Thanks, girls,’ I give a watery smile. ‘Let’s hope this evening is better than last night.’
The girls exchange uneasy looks. I’d texted them both this afternoon in a right state, so they know that something is up. Hopefully, they can utter words of wisdom in between cocktails.
‘What happened, pet?’ Emer asks.
Dressed in a jersey wrap dress and expensive jewellery, Emer oozes effortless class. She smacks of old money. You know, there’s not much of that about these days. Such a pity. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and sensible.
Pam, on the other hand, is dressed in a black shapeless dress, and her auburn hair is scraped into a large clip. I can tell that she’s hungover from the night before by the way she’s knocking back her Malibu and Coke. Her eye make-up is smudged.
‘Well,’ I sigh dramatically for effect.
The girls lean in closer. I’m the centre of attention, and loving every minute.
‘I think I’ll start with a Sex on the Beach. For old time’s sake.’
‘Forget the drinks!’ says Pam. ‘Tell us!’
‘What’s up?’ Emer rests her chin on her left hand, and I notice her dazzler. At three carats, it’s hard to miss. You can probably see it from space. I’m practically blind looking at it, but can’t avert my gaze. The bitchy school girl in me shouts how gauche it is, but I know that if I had a granny I’d sell her for one just like it. Emer orders us a Strawberry Daiquiri, a Mojito and an Appletini. I’m ready to divulge the sordid details.
‘It’s all gone tits up, girls. Barry took me out to dinner last night for my birthday and gave me this.’
I produce my limp wrist with the bracelet dangling, and study their faces for a reaction.
‘Oh, wow. It’s gorgeous.’ Emer strokes the diamonds.
‘Yeah. I suppose. Kind of hoping for something else though, you know?’ I point to my bare left ring finger.
‘Ah, Rebecca, don’t worry. Give him time.’
Emer is right, of course she is, but I can’t help it, I’m devastated.
‘Anyway, this morning before work we had a massive row.’
‘Jesus, another one?’
Pam can be a tad cheeky. I decide to take the high road. Much less traffic.
‘He says he’s not ready to get married just yet.’
‘Selfish eejit,’ Pam declares.
‘He stormed off to work and I haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t called to check on me or anything. I think it’s over. I had to ring in sick to work, I was in such a state.’
‘He’ll be back,’ soothes Emer. ‘Let him cool off.’
I’m fluttering my fingertips at my eyes, as if I can shoo the tears back in. One lands with a plop on the table. I feel all wobbly. Perhaps it’s the emotional trauma of it all. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Now, I know it’s hard to believe, but if I don’t get my full ten hours a night, I’m a complete diva! Besides, according to Tyra Banks, the best thing you can have in your make-up bag is a good night’s sleep.
‘You poor thing,’ Emer continues.
That’s more like it.
‘Thanks. And you know, all I said to set the war off this time was “What are your thoughts on wedding lists?” It’s a simple enough question, yeah? I mean, am I not allowed to make conversation over breakfast? Are people these days meant to resort to censorship? This isn’t communist Russia, last time I checked!’
‘Good riddance to him. Like I always say,’ Pam is slurring already, ‘another man is just around the next cocktail!’
Pam raises her glass and loses half of the contents of her Malibu and Coke. Emer elbows her in the ribs and gives her a warning look.
‘Ah, give him a chance.’ Emer touches her pearl earring with a French-manicured finger.
Pam is the devil on my shoulder and Emer is the angel. They’re kind of a package deal, you know? It’s like buying the lasagne sauce and getting the free dish. We all met in the late nineties in Trinity College Dublin (or Trinners, as we fondly refer to it). This was, of course, back in the days before we discovered mobile phones and fake tans. Frankly, I don’t know how we survived before either. Emer completed an honours business and marketing degree and graduated first in her year. In sharp contrast, Pam had started an arts degree like myself, but never quite limped to the finish line. A trip to India got in the way. She went to find herself, but I think she’s still looking.
Emer has it all. While I slip slowly into insanity in a dead-end job, she’s a successful marketing director with a finance firm in the city centre. I’m still not sure exactly what that entails, although she’s explained it to me a few times, but I know it involves a lot of hiring and firing of incompetent assistants and wearing tailored suits. While I drive a beaten-up Volkswagen Golf with windscreen wipers that don’t move (not ideal in this climate), her latest bonus allows her to drive a convertible Mercedes. And most infuriatingly, while I can’t seem to get Barry to commit, she and husband David are DINKS – Double Income No Kids. They enjoy luxury breaks and the latest gadgets. It’s ever so slightly sickening, really. If I wasn’t simply mad about her (oh, and if Barry and I didn’t holiday in her Majorcan villa), she would likely be someone I would despise.
Pam, on the other hand, is not so lucky. This is especially true in love. Between you and me, she is like a Jedward performance when it comes to the romance department. Quite the cringe fest! She bounces from one poisonous relationship to the next. Married men, sleazy men, men who don’t call the next day – she has experienced them all. Twice. The worst part is that she gives them so many chances, and then Emer and I have to tell her to cop the flip on. Still, it doesn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Bless her.
‘Anyway.’
I give a blow-by-blow account of the row of the century that we’d had this morning. They nod sympathetically in all the right spots as I rehash every unpleasant detail. By now, they’re no strangers to the dilemma at hand: Barry will not commit. We’ve thrashed out the issue and analysed the details many times.
‘I mean, Barry hasn’t taken me on a romantic spa mini break in practically weeks!’ I whine, trying to force out another tear. ‘This back won’t massage itself. I’m so tense!’
The girls nod dutifully.
‘He’s busy with work,’ Emer reasons.
‘He’s selfish!’ Pam cries.
‘And another thing,’ I rage. ‘Barry is definitely commitment phobic. According to Dr Phil’s Relationship Recovery, you have to invest in your emotional currency!’
I’ve got the full collection of Dr Phil’s enlightening books, and I’ve memorised certain quotes from them. You can borrow one if you like. Also, I don’t mean to brag, but I took an entire lecture in psychology once. I’d accidentally stumbled into the wrong lecture hall in the arts block, and was too hungover to leave. A surprising amount of useful information must have sunk in.
Pam erupts into hysterical laughter and then burps. Not very lady-like if you ask me. I’m starting to suspect that she’s not taking this at all seriously. Undeterred, I go on, full throttle. I start at the top of the list of Barry’s flaws and work my way down. Like Pam’s flatulence, this stuff is better out than in.
‘Oh, and he outright refused to attend a wedding fair with me last week. Something about his grandfather’s removal? Shoddy excuse!’
Emer’s jaw drops. Her eyebrows would be raised if the Botox wasn’t so potent. My tummy churns with the guilt of slagging Barry off, but sometimes I just need to vent to the girls.
‘Look, he doesn’t deserve you,’ Pam manages to get a word in.
‘Damn right!’ I thump my fist on the table in agreement and slosh half of a Piña Colada on Pam’s shoes. She doesn’t seem to notice. The three of us make our way through the cocktail list and the ex-boyfriend list. We murder both.
I smile. To my delight, another tray of the overpriced multi-coloured drinks arrives. Before I can weakly protest, Emer whips out her platinum card. Pam points to a nearby table. A group of lads are smiling over. One says something to the other, and they howl with laughter. Pam says they’re cute and they probably fancy us, so she wants to join them, but I’m afraid of losing my audience. Besides, I haven’t even gotten to the part about Barry’s refusal to sample wedding cake yet.
‘Anyway,’ Emer lovingly diverts the conversational traffic back in my direction. ‘Did you go to look at engagement rings that time? You said that he was going to take you ring shopping?’
A deep burgundy hue creeps up my neck, and the stomach churn returns. The ever so shameful truth is that, technically, he did not promise anything of the kind. Technically, I led him blindly by the arm to Weir & Sons the last time we went to Dundrum town centre. I’d accidentally on purpose taken a wrong turn, falsely luring him to the centre with a sneaky suggestion that he take a look in Tommy Hilfiger for a new polo shirt. His old one was decidedly shabby, I had convinced him. I couldn’t give a flying flip about his polo shirts, but the tactic worked. He allowed me to stand and point at the window in the direction of engagement rings. The chocolate cake I’d fed him moments before from Butler’s made him sluggish and docile. He’s easier to manage that way. Sadly, as you may have guessed, it was the tennis bracelet that caught his eye.
‘Absolutely,’ I lie. ‘He can’t say he doesn’t know what kind of ring I want. I mean, I bloody pointed to the exact one. Remember? It’s the two-carat, Edwardian-style, oval-cut solitaire diamond ring with pavé detail? It’s set in platinum and rose gold? Just like the one Tom Cruise gave to Katie Holmes on top of the Eiffel Tower?’
They know. I’ve only mentioned it, like, a bazillion times. I do have exquisite taste.
‘Also, I left him a magazine clipping of it in his lunchbox one day, along with a little love note…’
They laugh, and I don’t correct them. Perhaps it’s best if they think I’m joking.
I decide that I’ve done nothing wrong. Let them snigger. There is absolutely no point in taking a chance and ending up with a hideous article to be worn ‘till death do us part’. The shame would, quite frankly, be too much to bear. Let’s be honest – the first question you’ll be asked upon announcing your impending wedding is about the bling, and there’s just no getting around it. Research shows that an oh-so-subtle hint dropped here and there in the right places is merely a gentle way of leading a clueless chap towards the right ring. My plan is to feign surprise when he chooses correctly, and then brag to my girlfriends that he knows me so well. Flawless plan, yes?
My ring-size and preference are just information I’ve passed along to Barry a few dozen times. As I said, I picture diamonds, platinum and perhaps a princess cut. Sometimes I worry that Barry doesn’t have these words in his male vocabulary. Besides, returning an ill-fitting or generally revolting ring to the store and thus ruining my engagement buzz hardly seems like what a bride to be dreams of. What’s more, Barry has a distinct lack of creative flair. I’m purely thinking of him – saving him from himself, you might say. This is far too important a job for Barry to mess up!
‘So, where do you think he went?’ Pam’s gaze is fixed on the hotties across the bar. She is really half-assing my birthday night out; she should be putting her whole ass into it!
‘Who knows!’ I reply. I’m trying to adopt a tough attitude, but I’m not convinced I can pull it off. ‘Probably his mother’s. Honestly, though, I can’t face calling her. I mean, don’t get me wrong, Margaret likes me, and she’s lovely. But she’s going to take his side.’
It’s best not to tell the girls about the wedding singer I went along to see last week, and I’m interrupted before I can launch into my thoughts on wedding scrapbooks. (Surely everybody does this? Weddings need themes!) A stocky man in a black shirt is standing over Emer. Highly annoying.
‘Just a packet of dry roasted peanuts,’ I wave my hand. I wish that he would go away before the subject is changed and I don’t get to hear their opinions on church music.
‘Eh, no…’ The man is still standing there. What does he bloody want?
‘Fine. Salted, then,’ I roll my eyes.
‘Would you like a drink?’
Rudely, he’s not even asking me, the birthday girl. He’s focussed on Emer, as in the non-birthday girl!
I can’t help but notice how the top button on his crisp black shirt bulges ever so slightly. It’s probably because his muscles are so ridiculous. Honestly, who does that? Come to think of it, his arms are quite chunky too. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.
Before I can protest, he and his staggeringly handsome friends have joined our table and Pam’s laughter has reached hysteria. Emer is, as always, demure. Pam is flirting up a storm. I decide to join in. Besides, there’s a strong chance that they’ll be coughing up for the next round of drinkies and mine’s going to be a large one.
Ciaran sits next to me. His enthusiasm to impress me reminds me of Milly, our beloved poodle when I was growing up. I admit to myself that he’s quite a hunk, but that might be just the Kir Royale talking. And yes, he’s paying.
He’s a tad young for me, but yum nonetheless in a Colin Farrell kind of way. He has a Dublin accent, but it’s not strong enough to make me think that he’s going to try and steal my purse.
If it wasn’t for the excessive tanning on his rippling biceps, he might be my type. Ciaran tells me that he and his mates all work together at Go Gym, and that one of them has recently appeared on the car-crash TV show Tallaght-fornia. It’s all so working class. I’m really slumming it now!
‘Really, Ciaran? Tell me more over another drink. I’ll have a Cosmo.’
I notice that Pam’s skirt hemline has definitely gone up a couple of inches. She’s so shameless! She drains the last of her Screaming Orgasm, and insists that her new admirer order another one for her personally. We all titter around the table.
‘So. And are you with anyone?’ Ciaran’s blue eyes penetrate mine.
I stop. Am I with anyone? Good bloody question! We’ve got the joint mortgage but no wedding ring. We also have our beloved fur baby cat. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? I mumble about needing the loo, and shuffle off to the ladies. In the mirror, I see a hot fluster has spread across my face. It’s a boost to my recently battered ego.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, and Pam has just spotted one of her ex-flings sitting across from us. The mood has gone decidedly downhill. She gives him the evils across the bar, and Emer and I stop her from lunging over there to tell him what’s what. We make a sharp exit onto the street, leaving the lads behind.
‘They were cute,’ says a sozzled Pam.
‘I suppose,’ I admit.
We stagger on, making plans for the rest of the night. Pam is demanding garlic fries and is slumped against a wall. She gurgles something about Leeson Street and the late wine licence. She tries in vain to tie her shoelace but slips and falls on the pavement. I laugh so hard that a bit of wee comes out. Then I laugh at that.
Emer has hailed a taxi. Says she’s had enough and wants to go home to David. Pam and I choose Leggs nightclub as the next venue. I hope we don’t get dancefloor-related whiplash again. With so much booze on board, we can get a little carried away.
‘Seriously though, Rebecca.’ Emer’s recently knocked back gin and tonic has taken full effect. ‘Are you alright, pet?’
‘Never better.’ The churn in my stomach tells me that that’s a lie.
Two
Barry stalks down the driveway and revs his Jaguar into full throttle.
Who the hell does Rebecca think she is? Pampered princess!
As soon as he turns the key in the ignition, he fires off a quick text message so that she knows he’s on his way.
She’ll understand. She’ll listen. She always has time for me.
The car crunches down the driveway. Barry steps on the accelerator, unable to get away fast enough. Soon, the house is a mere speck in his rear-view mirror. He tunes his powerful stereo to 80s FM full blast and veers his sports saloon onto the Stillorgan dual carriageway. There’s very little traffic since it’s a Friday morning. He reaches the solicitor’s firm on Clyde Road in minutes.
‘Hey, Bar,’ Shelley looks up from her desk.
‘Hey, Shell.’
‘Got your text. What happened this time?’
Barry notices two brown paper bags from Maxi’s Deli – his favourite.
‘Thought you might be hungry,’ Shelley scoops her long brown hair behind her ears and pushes her glasses up to the top of her nose. She tears open the wrappers to reveal two breakfast bagels. One has extra mayo and a layer of crispy bacon, just how he likes it. They tuck in with gusto.
‘Suppose we’d better prepare for this conference, then,’ Barry sighs.
‘Forget that for a minute. What was the fight about this time?’
Barry rubs his temples.
‘OK. So, remember I said I was taking her out for a slap-up dinner last night for her birthday? Fecking Jacques of all places. Got her this bracelet she wanted. Cost a packet, too. I’m thinking… nice one, Barry. Some major brownie points coming my way. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘Nope. We drive home without a word. She’s got some bloody huff on about something. I thought she’d be happy. This morning she’s back to hinting about getting married. She’s like a broken record.’
‘Barry, honestly. She doesn’t deserve you. She’s totally obsessed with getting married.’
Irritation surfaces. He has felt this before with Shelley. It’s OK for him to let off a little steam, but he doesn’t want to hear anyone else saying a bad word against Rebecca. The gentleman in him wants to jump to Rebecca’s defence.
‘We’re just not on the same page right now, that’s all.’
‘She’s like Bridezilla. Dragging you to wedding fairs and band rehearsals. Ordering bridal magazines like they’re going out of print. Talking about cake tasting. Unbelievable!’
Barry feels guilt prick his conscience. He shouldn’t have told Shelley so much over the last few months. But he needed someone to vent to.
‘No. No, I mean… I love her to bits. Maybe I should just propose.’
Shelley closes her eyes. Is that a flicker of jealousy he sees? He puts the thought straight out of his mind. Surely Shelley doesn’t think of him that way. They are just friends. Aren’t they?
‘No. Bad idea. Listen, Barry. Some women want to marry just for the sake of it. Some girls I know? It’s all about the big day. You need a break away from each other. Don’t even call her. Don’t go home tonight.’
‘Really? You think?’
‘Definitely.’
Shelley stands to throw the wrappers in the bin and Barry notices how her tight jeans cling to her pert bum. He shoos the thought away.
At six o’clock, Barry switches off his PC, and Shelley comes to his office.
‘Tough day?’
‘Yeah. I’m swamped.’
Barry places a buff folder containing the documents for the conference next week under his arm.
‘I can read all this on the flight on Saturday. Gonna call it a day. Have a good weekend, Shell.’
Shelley closes the office door and stands close to Barry. She leans in closer. Before he can move away, her lips are wet and her tongue is in his mouth.
Three
When I wake up, Barry is not beside me. His side of the bed is smooth and empty. My head pounds as I lift it from the pillow; my mouth is like sandpaper. I’ve accidentally knocked over the dregs of a bottle of wine I took to bed the night before, like a child brings his blankie. I reach for the alarm clock to shut up its incessant ticking. Why must the world move on when I have been abandoned?
As rubbish moments in my life go, this is the worst. It even tops the time I was subjected to a four-hour drive to Kerry with Barry’s five-year-old twin nephews. Barry’s brother was meeting us in Killarney and the Chuckle Twins had tagged along for the entire car ride on our way from Dublin to a plush country hotel. I mean they’re cute kids, but they had blatantly gate-crashed our romantic getaway. Just stop for a minute and imagine about four hours of the little darlings mashing crisps into the grey leather upholstery whilst demanding the Wiggles Greatest hits (believe me, they aren’t that great) on a loop. For a full week I had that ‘Hot Potato’ song going around and around in my head. When I have kids one day (you know, when I’m old and saggy) I’ll ban children’s music!
There’s an annoyingly upbeat ringtone piercing my skull. When I find the offending article in my coat pocket, I see ‘Pam’ on the caller ID.
‘I think I’m going to die,’ I answer.
‘Just checking you’re still alive, birthday girl.’ I can actually hear her smirking.
‘I wish I wasn’t. What happened?’
‘I swear to God, I’ve absolutely no idea.’
I fumble in my bedside locker for a pain pill and wash it down with the dregs of the wine, praying that I’ll be able to keep it down for long enough to feel human again.
‘Any word from Barry?’
‘Not a sniff. What am I going to do?? I mean, if he has no intention of this relationship going anywhere, like marriage and kids, then don’t waste my bloody time!’
‘Yeah,’ Pam agrees. ‘But the kids part? Nah. They are sticky, whiny things.’
‘Well…’
I pout. Who will want me now? I’m on the wrong side of thirty and single. I used to laugh at people like me. I’m a cliché on top of a cliché, wrapped in a pathetic lonely desperate blanket of despair. OK, enough amateur dramatics. Let’s just say that I’m destined never to be loved again and leave it at that.
‘Honestly though, Pam. I miss him. It’s so quiet here without him. I used to curse his snoring, duvet hogging, drooling and heavy breathing. The sharp toe-nails on his hairy hobbit toes scratch me, and the other night I threatened to banish him to the spare bed if he didn’t put a sock in it. I should be grateful to be living in a fart-free zone. He’s no Jon Bon Jovi, that’s for sure. But Jesus, I’d give anything to have him here. The big lump!’
‘God, you have it bad. Forget him.’
‘I can’t, Pam, I love him.’
I had tossed and turned all night and by my calculations had only managed to get about seven hours’ sleep. How is anyone expected to act rationally and reasonably on that kind of rest? I read about sleep deprivation in a magazine once in a doctor’s office, and it frightened the life out of me.
The stress might lead me to depression or to drive my car off a steep cliff. This is the rubble that Barry has reduced me to. Now, thanks to him, I’ll be forced to drink caffeine all day. This is in direct conflict with my previous ambitions to detoxify using Gillian McKeith’s strict regime.
‘Perhaps you don’t have a hangover. Perhaps you’re suffering from a common celebrity complaint.’
‘Oh?’ Now she has my attention. I feel like maybe I was a celebrity in a past life. Or someone regal. Possibly both.
‘You know, like, emotional exhaustion? Jennifer Anniston apparently was treated for it after the whole Brad Pitt/Angelina Jolie thing.’
I toy with the idea. Perhaps I’ll have to check myself in for some rest, relaxation and intensive counselling at whatever the Dublin version of Betty Ford is. Naturally, I shall use Barry’s credit card to cover said expenses – the whole damn thing is of course his entire fault!
‘Nah. Probably just a hangover. We had a truck load of cocktails, Pam.’
‘True. Anyway, I’ve got to go. Meeting Doug for brunch!’
Before I can half heartedly ask ‘Who?’ she is gone.
‘My life is ruined! I’ll be like Miss Havisham sitting here, waiting for Barry to come back.’ I reach out to Jess, our long-haired white cat. He’s been my loyal companion since Barry and I rescued him from the animal shelter I volunteer at, and he’s quite a good listener. He’s curled up at my feet and unresponsive. He wears a pink studded collar with a little jingly bell. Sometimes I think that Jess is a dead ringer for that snooty cat on those cat food adverts. You know, except he is morbidly obese. I poke him where his ribs should be, but just feel fur-covered blubber. He doesn’t move. Perhaps he is dead. No, he’s still breathing, but offering me no comfort.
This birthday weekend is a big fat disaster. I climb back under the cool cotton duvet, which is slightly damp from last night’s wine spillage. I’ll try to get back to sleep and shut the world out with my pink glitter eye shades. I’ve nothing to get up for now, anyway. It’s not like I have exciting plans, thanks to my feeble excuse of a boyfriend. The worst damn part is that it is Saturday – a whole depressing weekend of loneliness and despair stretches out in front of me. That’s just typical of inconsiderate bloody Barry.
By eleven o’clock, my need for deep fried food is taking over my need for wallowing. I throw back the duvet and sigh.
‘Waffles will help me get through this rocky patch,’ I tell Jess, ‘and plenty of them.’
Walking down the stairs requires far more effort than I’d expected. I dip the waffles into the deep fat fryer.
‘And another thing…’ I address the empty kitchen as I reach for the ketchup ‘…Slimmers’ Club can take their membership this week and shove it where the sun don’t shine.’
The last thing I need on top of my crippling grief is to be named and shamed on a weighing scales like a common whale. That patronising Debbie can keep her ‘never mind’ smiles this week. I’ve had enough humiliation for one weekend, thank you very much!
Back in bed, I reach for the chocolate marshmallow cookies that I keep buried deep inside my bedside locker, and slovenly roll over to reach for my iPad and proclaim my total and utter devastation to the entire globe via Twitter. The only downside is that you have to limit your whinging to one hundred and forty characters.
Barry doesn’t get the whole Twitter thing. He calls it TWITer, with an annoying overemphasis on the twit part. Once, he told me that only wannabe, Z-list celebrities like Jordan are on it, and all they talk about is what they had for breakfast. It’s so much more, I had argued. Sometimes they tweet about lunch and dinner too. Barry is hilarious. He doesn’t even have a Facebook account. I mean, that’s simply outrageous!
Personally, I love Twitter. I can pretend that Oprah and I are friends. One of these days, she’ll re-tweet something deep and meaningful I’ve commented about her pet dogs and we’ll no doubt strike up a lifelong friendship. She just doesn’t know it yet. She’s probably just busy out with her friend Gayle and hasn’t followed me back. It isn’t personal. Any time now, Gok Wan will reply to one of my fashion insights about wearing the right bra size. Or Alan Carr will use one of my hilarious anecdotes in his stand-up routine. I can just feel it!
Somewhere between unconscious and awake, I visualise Barry. He enters the room, discovering me in a pool of blood. Scratch that, it’s red wine. I’m clutching a photo of him in one hand, and a Cadbury’s Flake in the other in our tastefully decorated home. Discarded on the floor, he finds a chocolate-smeared letter. ‘Goodbye, cruel world,’ are my last words. I’m strewn dramatically over a green velvet chaise longue. That reminds me, I should buy one for such an occasion. They have an adorable little one in Harvey Nichols that might be in the sale by now.
‘Don’t die on me now, damn it!’ Guilt is streaked across Barry’s unshaven face. ‘I need you. Kiss me, you fool!’ A solitary tear runs down his plump cheek. He thumps the wall and vows never to love again. He can never forgive himself for leaving me, the love of his life!
A large celebrity crowd gathers around the coffin. Brad Pitt is there. He’s simply inconsolable and tells that Angelina Jolie to sling her hook. ‘Death by broken heart’ is written on my headstone.
Jess opens one yellow eye and glares in my direction, as if to say ‘Yeah, death-by-chocolate, more like.’
As I answer a call from Emer, I fish under the bed for my pink fluffy slippers and make my way down the stairs again and into the sitting room. Since it’s now officially the afternoon, it’s socially acceptable to have a little drinkie poo. I mix the cool white wine with a splash of lemonade – after all, I’m not a total lush!
‘Now listen, darling,’ Emer instructs in her polished Southside accent. Emer can be very bossy. ‘It’s going to be alright. Just give the poor man time. Get out of those onesie pyjamas, get off the couch and step away from the cakes.’
How does she know?
I’m standing at the fridge, deciding between the macaroon and the carrot cake. It’s a no brainer: both. The blood rushes to my face as I see the message on the fridge door. It is pinned with a magnetic bride and groom and reads:
VW, 2PM, Saturday.
Sweet Jesus! I’d written the message in code so as not to alert Barry. Every self-respecting girl knows that VW stands for Vera Wang. I’ll keep the bridal boutique appointment. You know, in case Barry changes his mind about the whole engagement thing. Fingers crossed! I mean, wedding dresses must be ordered months in advance and altered a dozen times. If Barry comes to his senses and pops the question, I can hardly choose an off-the-rack gown. I shudder at the thought. Even Katie Price wouldn’t stoop that low.
I race into the shower, dress and speed off in the direction of the city. Driving while hungover is never a good idea.
‘Rebecca! Welcome,’ Marianna greets me. ‘Want to try it on again? Just to be sure?’
This is my eighth visit to the shop. I’ve pored over the whole strapless/sleeveless debate, but now I know that this is The One. Marianna fetches it for me and laces me up at the back. In the full-length mirror, I imagine myself swishing down the aisle. I’m in love. How can one describe perfection? It’s a plush cream off-the-shoulder number with lace overlay and Swarovski crystals. On the big day, it will be teamed with Manolo Blahniks of dangerously high-heeled proportions and miracle-working sucky-in pants.
‘Beautiful,’ breathes Marianna.
She’s right, the dress is beautiful. I, however, need to seriously whip myself into shape if I’ll ever be able to lace it up. No-one wants to see the bride’s knickers flapping at the back! I thank her, but I have to admit, I think she’s being kind.
Now, not only do Vera’s have the most amazing (note: pronounce ‘ah-maaaay-zing!’) frocks to try on, but they also serve champagne while you are doing so. I’ve conveniently forgotten that I’ve got to drive myself home afterwards.
‘Cheers,’ Marianna hands me a flute, breaking my fantasy of throwing the bouquet. ‘So! What date is the wedding, again?’
Uh-oh! What did I tell her the last time? Oh, what a tangled web I’ve weaved.
‘Well, it’s… you see it’s… July,’ I pluck a month from the sky.
‘Right. And did your engagement ring come back from the jewellers yet? Such a shame the first one was stolen …in that drive-by armed robbery…’
‘Such a shame. Yes…’
‘And your maid of honour. Has she recovered from her coma?’
‘It’s touch and go…’
‘Sure. Well, would you like to secure the deposit today? I wouldn’t want someone to beat you to it.’
Perhaps I’m imagining things, but this week the mood has changed. OK, she’s on commission. I get it. She has got to close the deal. I’ve hummed and hawed over dozens of dresses and quaffed many a glass of bubbly. Today I only get a half glass. Marianna is being pushy. One must be one hundred percent sure before committing. Forget the groom, this is the biggest decision of a girl’s life!
‘Yes. Absolutely. I’ll just move some money about.’
I mumble something about a Swiss bank account, and strip off with a vague promise. Now, I’ll be honest. Between you and me, the frock ain’t cheap. When I say it’s to die for, I’m not exaggerating. In fact, I may have to sell my left kidney on the black market to some shady types in order to come up with the deposit. However, it’ll be totally worth it. Sure, you only need one kidney to survive. That’s why God gave me a spare.
On second thoughts, I’ll wait until Barry has finally popped the question before paying any deposit. Then I can bat my eyelids and ask him sweetly. It’s better if I’m in possession of all my essential organs on the big day.
How strange, I seem to have wandered into the wedding gift department. Quite spooky, really. Maybe it’s an omen. I’ve decided to register some little pretties. I won’t go mad, just get a head start. It’ll be one less thing for Barry to have to worry about. Sure, I can cancel them if Barry and I don’t kiss and make up. I point and click the scanner on some stylish Waterford crystal vases and exquisite Newbridge silverware photo frames. Barry probably doesn’t even know what a butter dish is for. He would eat straight from the tub if I let him, the silly billy!
I leave with a churning in my stomach. What the hell am I doing?
I’m home and exhausted. There’s still no word from Barry. The hangover pills are wearing off, so I take some more. I nestle onto the sofa to watch back-to-back episodes of Don’t Tell the Bride.
Donna from Swindon (overweight, pale, plain Jane) is marrying Garry from Manchester (unemployed, bald and tattooed) in dismal circumstances.
‘It’s so unfair,’ I tell Jess who has not moved an inch all day.
The groom completely messes it up, which thrills me beyond belief. The bride’s dream of an elegant castle wedding with fine silver service dining has gone out the window, since the budget is blown on the stag do. The bride’s unusually orange face registers horror when she discovers the cream puff wedding dress and sees the sausage roll reception at the local community sports hall. The devastation cannot be hidden under a false smile. There are fisticuffs on the dancefloor as the best man lunges at the photographer.
Their misery lifts my spirits. It’s just the tonic I need. I block out the memories of my fight yesterday morning with Barry by watching recorded episodes of Ricki Lake and Neighbours. This is the type of thing that Barry refuses to watch and labels as ‘tosh’. Fat Americans are reunited with old flames, and skinny Australian characters in the soap squabble over petty problems. Everyone has found true love except for me.
‘Damn people with their damn perfect lives,’ I spit, spraying crisps on the cream carpet.
The key is in the door. It’s Barry. Hiding the crisp packets under the cushions, I wipe the crumbs off my face.
‘Hi.’ Barry looks worn out.
‘Hi.’
‘We need to talk.’
Crap!
‘I went to Mum’s after work. Needed some space. We can’t keep having the same fight over and over. I’m sick of it.’
‘I know. It’s just that, well, we’ve been together for four years now. Don’t you want to get married? Be a proper little family? You, me and Jess? Don’t you think we should take it to the next level?’
‘Look, Becks. I do. I’m just not ready yet. You keep pushing me and pushing me…’
‘I’m so sorry.’ My voice is small.
This is all my fault. Our relationship was like a glorious golden soufflé rising from a hot oven, but I came along with my wedding talk and stabbed it with a sharp knife until it was nothing but a sunken soggy mess.
‘I know.’ Barry has his head in his hands. He looks up and I notice the dark circles around his eyes.
‘I’ll try to stop…’
Our conversation is cut short. There’s someone at the door. The bell rings again and Barry stands.
‘Whoever it is,’ I bark, ‘tell them to kindly shove off!’
‘Father Maguire!’ Barry cannot hide his surprise. The conversation at the front door is muffled, and I’m ear-wigging like my life depends on it.
‘Won’t you please come in?’
Oh no!
The miniature priest is standing in our living room. I’m feeling decidedly queasy.
‘Ah, Rebecca. Thank you for your email last week. I was just passing, so I thought I’d pop in quickly. Hope it’s not a bad time? How’s your mother?’
‘I… She…Of course, please have a seat.’ I scooch Jess from the couch and he hisses at me.
I’m staring at the priest blankly and Barry is making a puzzled face behind him. The penny drops.
My email! Last week!
‘Thank you,’ the priest receives the tea that Barry has brought in on a tray.
‘Biscuit?’ Barry offers.
‘Yes, please. Well, now. First of all, congratulations.’
Sweet mothering divine Jesus H Christ our Lord and Saviour.
I pray that the ground will open up and swallow me. God declines my request. I have lied. To an actual priest! I’ve told porkies right into his sweet innocent Catholic face. I’ll surely burn for all eternity. Barry’s eyebrows are raised and his eyes are piercing mine, but I stay silent.
‘So. You were requesting dates for the church.’ Father Maguire flicks through his black pocket diary.
‘Well, I…we…’ I’m unable to form the words.
‘Aha. Yes. You’re in luck. Now, it’s usually booked well in advance. Especially the Saturdays. But we do have a cancellation for February. What date were you thinking?’
I’ve never seen that particular shade of purple on Barry’s face before. The power of speech has eluded me. I’ve been caught red handed, it seems. Lock me up and throw away the key.
‘Pencil us in for June,’ Barry’s face is like thunder.
‘Right. So, there’s Saturday the twentieth? Two o’clock?’ his pencil hovers over the date.
‘Fine.’ Barry refuses to look at me.
‘OK, then…’ the priest is unable to understand. He has missed the punch line of the sick joke.
‘Please excuse me, Father. I’m off on a business trip this evening, so I need to get packing. Thanks for stopping by.’
Barry shakes his hand and leaves the room without glancing in my direction.
‘Eh, more tea?’ There is a tremor in my voice and the teapot lid is rattling.
‘Thank you, Rebecca, but no.’
Father Maguire is on his feet and moving in the direction of the front door.
‘Must be off. I’m on my way to see another parishioner. Just recovering from a stroke, poor dear. God bless. I’ll be in touch.’
My hands are glued over my mouth and nose as Barry returns to the room.
‘Listen, I can explain…’
Barry doesn’t interrupt me.
‘Honestly, he must be getting senile or something. I just, like, ages ago, emailed him to see how busy the church is. Just an informal enquiry.’
Barry remains silent.
‘Good catch on the whole business trip, ha-ha. That lit a fire under the old geezer, eh?’
‘Rebecca, I am going away tonight. The conference? Jesus, does anything I say actually register?’
‘Oh, yes!’ I pretend.
‘The flight leaves at nine, I’ve got to get packing and leave for the airport at six.’
‘Airport. Right.’ I scramble.
I’m sure that he has told me. He has no doubt been banging on about it for weeks despite my distinct lack of interest. Approximately half of Barry’s boring work banter goes in one ear and out the other. It’s so dreary that I cannot focus. My brain is like a sieve – it filters out the tiresome and retains all information pertaining to celebrities, fashion or weddings. He really should know this by now.
‘To Berlin!’ I say.
‘Bangkok. I’ll be back next Saturday.’ His face is still deadpan.
‘Yes. I knew it started with a B. Ha-ha.’
Barry is shoving shirts and suits into a suitcase and I’m sitting on the side of the bed. I’m still trying to read him. Important questions are running through my mind.
Am I forgiven? Who will put out the bins while he is gone? Will he bring me back a gift? If so, what kind?
Barry is usually only this quiet during football matches. Thankfully, I don’t let him hold the remote control very often.
‘There is some post for you on the kitchen counter. Will I get you something to eat before you have to go?’
I am upbeat and aiming for considerate, but he’s so quiet.
‘A snack would be nice.’
Great! The silent treatment is over. Barry can never resist a bit of grub.
At the dining table, Barry tucks into his home-made burgers while opening his post. Well, when I say home-made, I mean Supervalu made them. They’re fully defrosted and cooked all the way through this time. Another bout of food poisoning is highly unlikely. I feel like I would make an excellent wife. I open a bottle of wine.
‘Look, there’s something I should tell you. It’s about yesterday at the office…’ Barry has put his knife and fork down, so it must be important.
‘Yes, love?’
He glances at the credit card statement on the table and squints.
‘What the…?’ Barry is on his feet with the papers in his hands.
‘What’s wrong? Are they still frozen in the middle again? I’ll sue that crowd in Supervalu.’
‘What? No! Fifteen hundred euro has been charged to…’ He runs his finger along the statement. ‘…Honeymoons Direct?!’
Oh. My. God. I’m sick, but I can’t blame the burgers this time. I didn’t think the deposit would come through so fast. They promised me it wouldn’t be charged this month. Cold sweat has broken out over the old sweat. It’s basically a new layer of sweat.
‘I’ll call the bank. See has our card been tampered with.’
‘No, don’t,’ I pull his arm. ‘It’s not a mistake.’ My voice is a whisper.
I fear that each fistful of Pringles I’m shoving into my mouth and washing down with Pinot Grigio will come back in reverse.
‘OK. Funny story. So, I saw a special offer to this five-star resort in the Maldives. All inclusive for two weeks. A bargain.’
‘And?’
‘And… surprise!’
Barry is looking at me as if we have never met. Perhaps he’s considering alerting a shrink to have me psychiatrically assessed.
‘Look, Barry, who says a trip to the Maldives has to be a honeymoon? The fact that you get to stay in the bridal suite and order champagne for breakfast is just a bonus, for God’s sake. I thought you’d love it!’
‘Fifteen hundred euro,’ he repeats slowly.
Barry can be a stick in the mud. He knows I have expensive taste. He knows that I break out in a rash if hotels use cheap washing powder and that I have strict requirements when it comes to catering. He’s overreacting. Cracks are appearing in the fantasy that I’ve been nurturing all week. I allow myself one last peek at the exclusive tropical island before Barry smashes it with a sledgehammer.
There is white sand between my manicured toes and the turquoise water laps. My new wedding ring is sparkling in the sunshine next to my engagement ring. Wills and Kate sit next to us over a candlelit supper and we swap stories of how we met. Dressed in a designer bikini, I’m the skinniest I’ve ever been. This is thanks to the, like, gazillion calories I’ve burnt off with the honeymoon nookie. Later, we enjoy the warm breeze while Fernando serves us more ice for our drinkies and fans us with a palm leaf.
‘Yes. But according to the brochure…’ I try to find where I put the damn thing. It’s probably hidden with all of the other wedding-related contraband. It’s with the massive scrapbook and back issues of Confetti magazine.
‘A personal chef will whip up anything you fancy.’
I know the nosh will pique his interest.
‘And they have these dreamy four poster beds? And they scatter flower petals on the sheets. Oh, and they make these, like, little towels shaped like baby elephants!’
Barry tries to get a word in edgeways, but I don’t allow him. I haven’t come to the hard sell, yet.
‘So anyway, they have these wicked Piña Coladas with sparklers in them. Pierce Brosnan got married there, I saw the pics in OK! magazine.
‘But,’ interrupts Barry.
‘But what?’
‘But… We’re not engaged, Rebecca.’
Rub it in, why don’t you?
There goes my dream honeymoon. I wave goodbye to the luxury spa and award-winning golf club.
‘I just got carried away…’
‘You’ve been doing a lot of that, lately. Like I said, Rebecca. It’s too much pressure.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Look, I need to get going. The conference will give me time to think. You know? A bit of space from each other.’
‘Space? Space?’ I realise that I’m shouting, but I can’t stop. I reach for another bottle of wine.
‘We can talk when I’m back. I just… I just don’t know about us any more.’
His words are a dagger in my heart. In response, I throw a cushion at his head. I hear the reassuring tinkle as the wine hits the glass. Barry drags the suitcase to the car and speeds off.
‘God. I’ve really done it this time, Jess.’
Hopefully, the neighbours haven’t heard me through the cardboard-like walls. I sneak out and pretend to move the wheelie bin. Bernie next door is twitching at the curtains. She’ll have plenty to gossip about with the other stay at home mammies. Little Katie and Shane have torn themselves away from SpongeBob SquarePants (or whatever other pre-school drivel they’re glued to) and join their gawping mother at the window.
I slam the door shut. We should have gone for the detached house. Then we could have had blazing rows in peace. Barry had said that we couldn’t afford a detached house on this side of Dublin. He can be a real wet blanket like that. Everybody knows that Leopardstown is, like, the Marbella of Dublin. He was just being a meanie with the cash.
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