Bride without a Groom

Barry is reminded of the boy scouts jamboree camp in Liverpool back in 1991, when he was twelve. He feels the same excitement now. He feels like he has snuck from the boys’ tent to the girls’ tent to meet Jenny and play Spin the Bottle.

‘So! According to Nigel’s new PA, Jessica, he’s covering all expenses for this trip. Let’s make the most of it. Cheers!’

Shelley has downed a bottle of the mini vodka straight without any mixer.

‘Come on in, then!’

They sit on the floor and empty the contents of the mini bar. Sitting at the table feels too formal and sitting on the bed feels too close.

‘Check out the little mini Snickers. So cute! Oh and they have rum!’

Barry smirks. Shelley is so charming. It’s amazing that he has never noticed this before.

Shelley releases her long brown hair from its tight ponytail and lets the hair cascade onto her shoulders. She folds her glasses and places them in the pocket of her dressing gown. She is wearing a lot more make-up than usual.

It’s three o’clock in the morning local time, which makes it about nine o’clock back in Dublin. Barry knows that Rebecca will be back from the shelter by now and already in a fleece onesie and glued to an episode of TOWIE, and he’s tempted to call.

It’s as if Shelley reads his mind. ‘No. No way. You are not to call Rebecca. Promise? Let her sweat it out. It can wait till tomorrow.’

Barry sends a brief text instead while Shelley is busy at the mini bar.

‘Hey! Awesome!’ Shelley fishes out something from the back of the mini bar. As she reaches over, her dressing gown flaps open ever so slightly at the front. He can see her blue silk slip underneath.

‘They have Singha!’

‘They have what?’

‘Singha! Thai beer. Nice one.’

Shelley retrieves two and finds a bottle opener. Barry tries to keep his gaze on her eyes, but they slide back to her chest. That robe looks loosely tied, it wouldn’t take much to open.

‘Well, OK. When in… eh… Bangkok,’ Barry cheers.

Shelley throws her head back and laughs. Rebecca never seems to find him funny. They have been fighting a lot lately, but with Shelley, he feels like an award-winning comedian.

The beer is cool and they clink bottles.

‘Cheers!’

Shelley is serious, now. She takes a swig of the beer but her penetrating eyes don’t leave his. She bites her lower lip and pouts.

‘So. No hard feelings, then?’ Barry studies her face nervously. ‘Still friends?’

‘Friends,’ Shelley smirks. ‘Good friends.’

Shelley reaches her right hand inside Barry’s robe and rubs the hot palm of her hand down his stomach and then along the waistband of his boxers. His erection is throbbing. He’s reminded of the first time he pitched a tent, that summer in 1991 with Jenny.

Shelley spills her beer and Barry automatically reaches for it. He thinks of the cream couch, cream carpet, cream walls – cream bloody life back in Dublin. He pulls back his outstretched hand and watches it glug glug onto the hotel carpet. Let someone else worry about it for a change.

Shelley’s arms are around his neck and she sits on his lap. Their faces are dangerously close together. Barry’s mouth opens to protest, but in one smooth move, Shelley’s white robe heaps onto the floor. She rubs herself against the bulge in his underwear, and slips her tongue into his mouth. Her hands paw through his hair.

In the background, a phone is ringing. But Barry’s bedside locker is a million miles from the floor. Shelley shoots a warning glance at Barry.

‘Don’t answer it.’

The trance is broken and Barry snaps back to reality. It’s as if a hypnotist has clicked his fingers in front of his face – except instead of Barry finding himself on stage pretending to be a chicken, he finds himself playing tonsil hockey with a scantily clad woman. Barry recoils. This is wrong!

‘Shelley, no. Don’t.’

Barry stands, leaving Shelley on the floor, reaching for her robe.

‘I’m sorry, Shelley. I’m with Rebecca. I think you should go now.’

Nine (#ulink_3c3a0588-2ccb-5528-a53f-e212ba848a01)

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.