Читать книгу Bride without a Groom - Amy Lynch - Страница 11

Barry’s last words before he left echo on a continuous loop.

I just don’t know about us any more.

It’s time to face the harsh reality. I’m a bride without a groom. I’ve been planning a bloody wedding before Barry has even popped the question! Now he’s well and truly fed up.

‘What’s the harm in being organised?’ I ask an unconscious Jess. ‘Just in case.’

There are endless decisions to make about flowers, cakes and cars. When the guy plucks up the courage to finally ask me to marry him, I want to be ready. According to Barry, I live a champagne lifestyle on a lemonade budget. He says I can’t manage money. It’s such tosh. I mean, I got a C in maths. It would have been an A, except I was upset that year, what with Dad refusing to buy me a car and all. Little does he know, I’ve been planning out the finances for our entire wedding. I have a spreadsheet and everything, labelled ‘Work stuff’ so that he will not stumble upon it on our laptop. I’ve kindly worked out what the whole thing will cost him.

Over the years, I’ve planned every glorious glistening detail. I’ve fantasised about the cake Kim Kardashian and Kanye West chose. It had five tiers and was a six-foot-tall black and white chocolate and vanilla masterpiece. I’ve pictured myself married in Manolos, parading about in some stylish and elegant wedding venue (preferably something that was featured in Hello! magazine). I’ve entertained romantic daydreams of being presented with a glittering rock by Barry-on-bended-knee.

But four years have come and gone. We’re no closer to tying the knot. Barry is twenty thousand feet in the air and having serious doubts about us. He’s crushing my dreams of a fairytale ending. What a kill joy.

I can stand the empty house no longer, and Jess is proving to be a pretty poor conversationalist. I dial Karen’s number. I’ve been meaning to get in touch for ages.

‘Scuba slut!’ she answers the call in an ear splitting shriek. ‘Happy birthday!’

Karen and I are old college buddies. Time spent with her immediately pulls me back in time to sculling pints of Scrumpy Jack cider until I passed out in the Buttery Bar, Trinity College. Or ‘The Scuttery’, as we called it. We skipped more lectures than you’ve watched Corrie episodes. Married with three kids under three, Karen’s life has changed dramatically while mine remains stagnant.

‘Dive babe!’ I reply. ‘Been ages!’

The nicknames are a long story. Basically, we joined all kinds of clubs in college in order to meet dishy men. Our most successful endeavour was the Scuba Leisure Undergraduates Team – or SLUT for short. We met hunks in wet suits, shared air tubes and held hands under the water whilst pretending to drown. It was kind of like damsel in distress meets Titanic. Anyway, our plan was going swimmingly (get it?) and we were snogging our way through the club like good-oh, when we realised the fatal flaw in our scheme: neither of us likes getting our hair wet. Also, the wet suit adds at least ten pounds and does not flatter from behind. We moved on to something in-doorsy and male-dominated – Judo. It involved being pinned down on mats by cute guys and we were deliberately awful at it.

‘Great to hear from you.’ Karen talks like the clappers and I try to squeeze in a syllable.

‘I’ve been meaning to call, but the kids are hanging out of me non-stop. Driving me nuts. Hashtag crazy mama!’

Oh, I forgot to tell you. Karen talks in hashtags. No, really. It gets old pretty quickly. As a stay at home mum, Twitter is her only social outlet some days.

‘Barry and I had a whopper fight,’ I interrupt.

‘Ah, no!’

‘Will we meet up some time? For a real catch-up.’

‘Yeah! What about tonight! Let’s get hammered! Hashtag old school! FRANK!’ she bellows. ‘FRANK! FRAAAANK! I’m going out.’

‘Oh. OK, then. Are you sure that’s OK for tonight? Won’t Frank mind?’

‘Nah. Believe me, it’s my turn to get out. Haven’t done this in forever. FRANK! FRAAANK! Can you get the kids in the BAAAAATH! FRAAAANK.’

There is a ringing in my left ear.

I’ve suggested a local Chinese restaurant that hosts karaoke sessions on a Saturday night. It’s been christened ‘Curryoke’ by yours truly. Am I not so clever? Anyway, I find that at your lowest point, eating a few prawn crackers with the girls and belting out a couple of good old 1980s power ballads is the perfect night out. Never fails.

Karen meets me within the hour. She’s only too thrilled to escape her domestic drudgery and teething toddlers for the evening. We hug hello at the restaurant.

‘You look amazing,’ I smile at Karen.

Sickeningly, her twins are only babies and her daughter is nearly three, yet she is skinnier than me. It’s not fair. I vow to fatten her up by ordering something deep fried.

‘What? Sure the kids have me run ragged.’

‘Ah, no. Really?’

‘Yeah. Sure, Anna still doesn’t sleep through the night!’

‘Ah, but sure kids are like pancakes. The first one is always a throwaway.’

Karen howls with laughter. I’ve no idea why.

‘Hilarious. Fecking Frank is working, like, all the time. I think he’s avoiding us. I don’t get any sleep. Oh, and this is the only thing that didn’t have baby vomit or snot on it!’ She points to her sequined top. ‘Hashtag ewwwww!’

We are escorted to our tables and hand our heavy coats to the waiter. I’m wearing a new black dress and was thrilled to have an excuse to take the tags off. It’s very forgiving around the stomach area, which is handy because I plan on going to town with the spring rolls.

‘All OK at home?’ I enquire. ‘Do you need to call and check?’

‘Nah. I swear to God,’ whispers Karen, as if in confession. ‘Let fecking Frank get them to bed for a change.’

We study the menu briefly and order a bottle of house white. Karen is giddy to be out of the house and away from 24/7 mammying. Soon the meal for two arrives. It is an embarrassingly large array of skewered chicken satay, baby ribs, spicy kung pao beef, egg fried rice, chips and noodles.

Karen continues her monologue. She reveals the nightmare of sleep deprivation and admits to suffering from migraines since the twins were born. I feel a fleeting pang of guilt that I still have not come to visit the babies who are now three months old. Then I remember that the babies had colic, so no wonder I’ve been avoiding them like the plague. It’s a wonder that poor Karen is still sane with three pesky kids rubbing off the cream walls, with their boundless energy and unreasonable demands.

‘I think I’d need a lie down in a dark room after just one day of that,’ I admit.

Karen isn’t like my other married friends. She doesn’t rattle on about clever potty training, or what ingenious things her brood can do until you want to stab yourself in the eye with a chicken skewer. She bitches about competitive mums and reveals what a pain in the ass it is to have to deal with nappy rash (if you’ll pardon the pun). She scoffs at others who tell you how angelic their little demons are. She tells it like it is.

‘I’ve instructed fecking Frank to only call me in an absolute emergency. And that does not include calling to ask me where the bloody Calpol is!’

‘Good luck to him!’ I raise my glass.

We order a second bottle, as both of us seem quite thirsty.

‘Yeah, sure the last time myself and fecking Frank were out together on a date, I’d never heard of the term negative equity! Honestly, and all we talk about is whose turn it is to change the nappies!’

Barry and I are starting to look like the Waltons in comparison. I top up the glasses and go over the whole Barry saga again in detail. It’s a refresher course in case she missed any bits over the phone.

‘I love him but…He just won’t commit!’ I leave out the bit about my dress fittings and cake tastings.

‘He will. Just give him more time. Honestly, he’ll come crawling back from the trip and thank his lucky stars he has such a ride like you. Hashtag hot stuff!’

‘Ah. Thanks.’

I don’t think I can take another hashtag. I never thought I’d reach hashtag saturation point, but here I am.

The next bottle of wine tastes even better than the last and the banana fritters arrive. Across the restaurant, we spy a couple on a date. They’re holding hands across the table. We titter. Their peace and quiet is about to be shattered gloriously. The waiters clear the top table and a large screen descends. Realisation dawns on the happy couple, as the word ‘Karaoke’ displays on the screen.

‘You’ve had your dinner,’ I raise my glass to Karen. ‘Now, here’s the show!’

I snatch a microphone and laminated song book from a passing waitress and clear my throat. Let the games begin! There’s no need to consult the book, that’s for amateurs. I don’t mean to brag, but you have my permission to describe me as a karaoke master if you like. If they ever start giving out black belts for karaoke, I’ll be the first in line. I scrawl my choice on a scrap of paper and thrust it into the hand of our waiter. As Dr Phil says, ‘This ain’t my first rodeo.’

Karen scribbles her selection and returns her attention to the cocktail menu. She orders two Cosmos and claims that they are for Dutch courage. The big moment is upon us. The opening lines of ‘Don’t You Want Me Baby’ by The Human League appear on the screen.

‘You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar,’ warbles Karen, ‘when I met you.’

The staff exchange uneasy looks and diners shift in their seats. The happy couple have hastily paid their bill and are reaching for their coats. I grab the microphone from Karen for the chorus.

‘Don’t you want me, Barry? Don’t you want me, woah!’

Karen can’t sing any more because she is doubled over with laughter. She drains the last of her Cosmo and orders a Martini in an attempt to recapture our lost youth. I’m hogging the microphone for a passionate rendition of the Beyoncé classic ‘Single Ladies’.

‘If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it.’

Despite the fact that I’m pointing to my bare left ring finger during the heartfelt performance, the microphone is taken from me at the end. There’s a minor scuffle.

‘Uh-oh. Hashtag awkward!’

‘Shush, Karen.’

We endure a tuneless rendition of Robbie Williams’ ‘Angels’ from the next table. They’re murdering it, so we talk loudly over it. Some people are so tone deaf! I’ve retrieved the microphone, and treat my enchanted audience to a touching duet from ‘Dirty Dancing’. I play the part of Patrick Swayze aka Johnny Castle (quite convincingly, I think) and Karen plays the role of Jennifer Grey aka Baby. Not everyone finds it as hilarious as I do when I repeat ‘Johnny!’ into the microphone and Karen launches herself on top of me. She is, of course, attempting the iconic ‘lift’ from the film.

However, we’re not as graceful as we thought we’d be. This is due to:

1 a) our staggeringly high blood alcohol levels, and

2 b) our lack of an idyllic lake setting.

Sadly, I’m unable to catch Karen, and we both end up under the table. The microphone has been passed along to the next table and I suspect that I may in fact have carpet burn on my bum.

The restaurant is empty now, and the lyrics to ‘All By Myself’ line up. I decide to give it a bash. It’s a bitter and tearful performance. Karen lines up a shot of Sambuca to keep us on our toes. She can no longer pronounce the word ‘hashtag’. Thank Christ. The waitress keeps yawning. It’s such an insult to my art form. Another waitress is stacking chairs and one is polishing the glasses. I suppose that’s what you do at three in the morning.

‘Rack ‘em up,’ garbles Karen incoherently. She’s pointing vaguely to the cocktail menu, and in desperate need of subtitles at this point – even I cannot understand her.

‘Yeah! Surprise us!’

We’ve sampled the full array of beverages, and are unsure of what to order next.

‘Yeah!’ I address the youngest waiter. ‘Use your initiative!’

By the way, ‘initiative’ is an impossible word to get my tongue around.

The screen is blank and the power has been cut from our microphones. I’m tapping ferociously.

‘So many songs are left unsung. We’re only getting started! Hey! You there! You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, buster! I was Gretel Von Trapp in the 1992 school production of The Sound of Music. I had to say “I have a sore finger”. It was critically acclaimed!’

The staff are oblivious to my pleas, and I seem to have spilled my last drink. Since I don’t remember all of the words to ‘My Favourite Things’ or ‘Doe a Deer, a Female Deer’, I drop the subject. Pity, really. Still, this little setback doesn’t dampen our enthusiasm. With tears rolling down my face, I launch into ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’. This is easily the best Foreigner hit. Who needs a backing track when you’ve a belter pair of lungs and a belly full of heart ache?

The bill, along with two black coffees, is placed on our table. A miniature mint decorates the saucer. Karen is playing air guitar against the backdrop of a Chinese pan pipe version of ‘Lady in Red’. It’s absolutely genius; if only I’d thought of it first. Our long-suffering waiter stands beside us with the pin pad, and we blatantly ignore him. How dare he stifle my creativity? He is raining all over my parade!

‘Would you like a taxi, ladies?’ a little Chinese man offers kindly.

‘How absolutely dare you?’ I snigger.

Karen and I make admissions of undying eternal love to each other. Then we have a Mrs-Doyle-style row over who will pay the bill.

‘Put your money away,’ shouts Karen. ‘Your money’s no good here.’

I produce Barry’s credit card and punch in the pin number with glee.

‘Barry’s treat. Serves him right for not marrying me! Ha-ha!’

Karen has to help me up off the floor because I’ve just realised that I’m possibly the funniest person in the world. Really, I should write this stuff down. I might even win the Perrier Comedy Award some day.

We wave to the staff and promise to return soon. Ling Ling the waitress and I are now soul mates. I’ll send her a Christmas card. I never knew that we were kindred spirits. Karen links my arm as we make our way unsteadily onto the cobblestone pavement, and then bundle into a waiting taxi. It’s with great determination that I finally turn the key in the door. There’s much curtain twitching from that cow next door. I can feel a hangover starting already. This is possibly not a good sign. The house is so still. So silent! I pan around the downstairs – the flat-screen TV, the cream leather couch, and the Shaker-style kitchen. I climb the stairs.

Alone in our king-sized bed, I sob into my duvet, my mascara staining the Egyptian cotton pillow cases.

I would have made a beautiful bride!