Читать книгу Bride without a Groom - Amy Lynch - Страница 7

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.