Читать книгу Bride without a Groom - Amy Lynch - Страница 15

The TV is really rubbish for a Sunday night, and my muscles are aching from all of the shovelling at the shelter. I try to half heartedly flick through some celebrity hot gossip magazines. Even OK! can’t hold my attention for long. There’s this really juicy feature on the Kardashians, but I just can’t be bothered. My mind drifts to Barry as I reach for some more wine from the fridge. His text is unusually cryptic. I read it over and over again, analysing every punctuation mark or lack thereof.

Hello.

What does he mean by this, exactly? Is he being purposefully formal? Is this merely a greeting?

I’ve landed safely.

What am I, his mother? I didn’t ask if his plane had plunged into the Atlantic, or whatever ocean there is near Japan. I just want to know if he’s still in a big fat snot over the whole honeymoon misunderstanding.

The hotel is nice.

I’m not a travel agent. I didn’t ask what the hotel is like.

Call you tomorrow.

This is the worst line yet. Why didn’t he call me today when he landed? Leaving me to hang until tomorrow is torture. There’s no clue as to whether he is missing me or hating me. There’s no hint as to what kind of present he’ll buy me from his trip. There are no kisses at the end! No smiley faces! Not even a measly LOL!

It’s best to decide to swallow my pride and follow Mum’s advice. She says that I should just call him and apologise, even if he is a non-committing selfish toad. I may have added in that last part. Emer and Mum must be in cahoots, because she is also nagging me every five minutes to give poor Barry a break. I’ve given in and dialled his number. There’s a funny ringtone but no answer.

‘Hello, you have reached Barry Costello, of Hodges Myrtell and O’Brien Solicitors. Please leave your name and a detailed message after the tone. Thank you.’

I hang up hurriedly, as I’m now sobbing at such a high pitch that only dogs can understand me. Why did he not answer me? I’m sure there is some, like, time difference shenanigans going on over there in Cambodia or whatever third world country he’s in, but this is preposterous. Barry is the reliable kind. That’s one of the things I love about him. He calls me every lunch break without fail. Surely he’s missing me too by now?

There’s a celebrity special edition of Come Dine with Me that has just started. I watch between blowing snot into a tissue and shoving barbeque nuts into my mouth. A tangerine coloured WAG rifles through the knickers drawer of a failed 80s pop star, whilst verbally berating her fondue.

Pam’s name appears on my mobile, and I answer it as I’ve nothing better to do.

‘Emer says he hasn’t called yet? Honestly, Becks! Dump him! Get there first before he dumps you!’

I explain about the time difference in Bombay, and fill her in on the text message to get her honest opinion – it’s bleak and I regret asking.

‘Crap. Maybe we’re headed for Splits-Ville. Breaking up with Barry will be a bit like grieving,’ I ponder aloud.

One of my gal pals once told me during a zealous drinking session in Temple Bar that breaking up with her Kevin was a bit like grieving. At the time, I thought she was being dramatic and attention-seeking, shamelessly trying to steer the conversation away from my ‘what to wear to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding’ saga, which was clearly a far more pressing matter at the time. Perhaps, I realise as I drain my glass, she had a point. This must be what Oprah means by an ‘Aha!’ moment.

I’d worn a ravishing red off the shoulder number to the wedding, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. I’m not one to let the lack of an invitation stop me from attending. Tiernan, my ex, must have thought I was the one who got away. I’d say he was cursing himself for breaking up with a hottie like me. Yes, he smiled for the camera that day, but really he was hiding the pain. Asking me to leave was just for show. He was checking me out in between posing for wedding snaps and speeches. His bride was decidedly plain, I’m not being cruel.

‘I dunno…’ Pam says.

‘Seriously, though. A break-up is like the five stages of grieving. I think they covered that in our psychology, but I must have out been sick that day.’

‘Or hungover,’ Pam sniggers.

‘True.’

Please note if you have not already done so, that I’m not some thicko. I’m an educated, accomplished woman who scraped a pass at a top university. My four years at Trinners were a fulfilling time that led to many introductions to eligible men. I juggled ten hours of lectures a week plus a full dating schedule. I’m washing the sour cream and onion crisps down with another gulp of wine, and recalling the theory. It goes a little something like this:

1  Phase 1: Denial

2 OK, things have gone belly up with Barry. He thinks I’m a priest-stalking, honeymoon-booking, Confetti-magazine-reading psycho. Fine! But maybe there is still hope that he will come home and forgive me and all will be rosy again. You know – like Ross and Rachel?

3  Phase 2: Anger

4 Barry boarded a plane to the other side of the world, despite the fact that we are at a critical relationship crossroad. I’ve a fire of rage that burns deep in the pit of my stomach. Either that, or the wine is cheapo plonk from Aldi.

5  Phase 3: Bargaining

6 I’d give anything to have Barry back. Anything, I tell you! Except for my shoe collection. They’re like my children, and will go to the grave with me.

7  Phase 4: Depression

8 I love the bones of Barry. Anyone with a pulse can see that I’m depressed – even a New York retail therapy trip couldn’t cure me. I’ve got a red blotchy face and bitter tears that ruin my new mascara. Soon, I’ll be hitting my GP for Valium and will have the Samaritans on speed dial.

9  Phase 5: Acceptance

The only thing that I can accept right now is that I drove Barry mental, and it’s all my fault.

‘God, Pam. This is the pits.’

I gently move Jess off the couch so that I can stretch my legs. He makes a swipe for me but thankfully I had him de-clawed last year.

‘If he comes back from the conference and dumps me, I’ll have to change my status on Facebook from “In a relationship” to…’

‘Single…’ Pam finishes my sentence solemnly. ‘Do it now. Go on. Log on.’

I realise I must do everything in my power to prevent this catastrophe.

‘There are more phases, Pam. Like Phase 6? Consuming the daily calories of a sumo wrestler.’

‘Defo!’

Pam has had enough break-ups to earn a PhD in misery. For once, she’s an expert on something.

‘When Wayne dumped me, I became a bottomless pit. Honestly, I had more chins than a Chinese phone directory.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’

She was a bit of a fattie after that train wreck.

This weekend, I’ve fallen victim, through no fault of my own, to the lure of junk food. But I ask you. Who among us doesn’t cram Jammy Dodgers into their lonely mouths when the going gets tough? Let she who is without sin cast the first stone. The truth is that custard creams have a soothing quality.

‘What about Phase 7?’ suggests Pam.

If only she’d applied herself this well at Trinners, she’d have an impressive arts degree like me.

‘Starvation.’

She’s right. This post-break-up stage afflicts celebrities all the time. They become child-sized versions of their former selves, unable to lift their forks to consume their usual prune juice and lettuce diet. The drama turns them into lollipop people.

‘Mary-Kate or Ashley is exhibit A. And when Posh became even more of a skeleton during the whole Rebecca Loos episode!’ Pam is over-excited now.

Unfortunately, I’ve yet to experience the starvation stage. Perhaps it’ll come, I think optimistically, reaching for the cheddar cheese Kettle Chips.

‘Phase 8. Drinking like Charlie Sheen,’ giggles Pam.

‘Well, we did that on Friday night, eh?’

I’m cringing. If Pam could see the large glass of wine in my trembling hand she might suspect that I’m some booze-soaked lush like Britney, although she’s far more messed up than me. At least I haven’t shaved my hair. Anyway, I’ve had no choice but to replace the dream that was so harshly snatched from me with copious amounts of alcohol and carbohydrates. It’s out of my hands.

‘Oh, Phase 9. A woman scorned. Imagine if you slashed his tyres! Or if you ripped up all of his suits! Or sold his Jag on eBay! That would be hilarious!’

Luckily for Barry, I love him too much to do that. Besides, he hasn’t dumped me yet. There is still a sliver of hope.

‘We should write to that professor guy, say that we’ve created a whole, like, new theory.’

I laugh at her ridiculous suggestion. Then again, maybe we’ll get some sort of honorary doctorate like celebrities do. You know, for our humanitarian effort? Or a Nobel Peace Prize. Possibly both. I close my eyes. I’m dressed in a pink Chanel trouser suit. ‘Dr Rebecca Browne, PhD, MBE,’ the Queen knights me, just like Sir Elton John!

Pam is talking about her recent date. I’m trying to focus on what she’s saying. Really, I am. I catch the words ‘blind date’ and ‘never again’. Then there’s something about trying to escape from a moving car, but she’s very dramatic so you should take what she says with a vat of salt. By the end of her monologue, she has turned full circle and is considering giving the creep a second chance.

‘Maybe Barry will give me a second chance. Maybe I should lay off the whole wedding pressure,’ I craftily steer her back to the most important topic of the day.

‘Look. The relationship is dead in the water, Becks. Maybe you should trawl the water for some new fish?’

I don’t find Pam in the least bit philosophical. She knows I don’t like fish, they’re too fishy. Also, I’m not great on boats.

‘Come speed dating with me tonight! You’ll love it!’

‘Oh, I don’t know, Pam. I mean, Barry’s no Johnny Depp, but he’s attractive in an overweight Richard Gere kind of way. I couldn’t bear to break up with him.’

Pam says that she won’t take no for an answer and that she’s on her way over with the speed-dating tickets right now.

‘I can’t be single, Jess,’ I deliberate as the cat purrs softly on my lap. He’s a good listener and doesn’t interrupt, but hasn’t got much to offer in the way of guidance. ‘It isn’t my destiny!’

I don’t know how Pam handles all of those speed dates and blind dates, and then picks herself up when it all goes horribly wrong. I mean, imagine! The stench of aftershave and sweat and desperation. Trying to summarise my entire life story into the allocated three minutes before the bell rings. Impossible!

And just think how cringey online dating would be! I don’t even know the language. GSH and WLTM? Not a clue! And I’d have to do up one of those mortifying profiles and everything. Pam told me that they expect snazzy pictures and quippy descriptions. ‘If you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain’ is a bit cheesy, although I do enjoy a good cocktail, it must be said.

Then of course there’s the Lonely Hearts columns. Look, if I absolutely had to, my advert would look like this.

WANTED: 6’5 hunk, uncanny resemblance to Patrick Swayze. Available for wedding fairs and cake tasting. Good Sense of Humour, ridiculously wealthy, enjoys Dirty Dancing (the movie and the actual dancing), chocolate and shopping. Contact me for endless celebrity gossip and copious amounts of wine.