Amy Lynch - Bride without a Groom

‘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.

Barry stalks down the driveway and revs his Jaguar into full throttle.

Who the hell does Rebecca think she is? Pampered princess!

As soon as he turns the key in the ignition, he fires off a quick text message so that she knows he’s on his way.

She’ll understand. She’ll listen. She always has time for me.