Bride without a Groom

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.