Читать книгу Bride without a Groom - Amy Lynch - Страница 9

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.

I tune into Corrie for a bit of distraction. Tracy’s having a blow-up with Gail Platt. My life is starting to look even messier than hers. Before I know it, I’ll have the protruding neck veins to go with the bad haircut!