Читать книгу Bride without a Groom - Amy Lynch - Страница 6

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.