Bride without a Groom

‘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.’