West chose. It had five tiers and was a six-foot-tall black and white chocolate and vanilla masterpiece. I’ve pictured myself married in Manolos, parading about in some stylish and elegant wedding venue (preferably something that was featured in Hello! magazine). I’ve entertained romantic daydreams of being presented with a glittering rock by Barry-on-bended-knee.
But four years have come and gone. We’re no closer to tying the knot. Barry is twenty thousand feet in the air and having serious doubts about us. He’s crushing my dreams of a fairytale ending. What a kill joy.
I can stand the empty house no longer, and Jess is proving to be a pretty poor conversationalist. I dial Karen’s number. I’ve been meaning to get in touch for ages.
‘Scuba slut!’ she answers the call in an ear splitting shriek. ‘Happy birthday!’
Karen and I are old college buddies. Time spent with her immediately pulls me back in time to sculling pints of Scrumpy Jack cider until I passed out in the Buttery Bar, Trinity College. Or ‘The Scuttery’, as we called it. We skipped more lectures than you’ve watched Corrie episodes. Married with three kids under three, Karen’s life has changed dramatically while mine remains stagnant.
‘Dive babe!’ I reply. ‘Been ages!’
The nicknames are a long story. Basically, we joined all kinds of clubs in college in order to meet dishy men. Our most successful endeavour was the Scuba Leisure Undergraduates Team – or SLUT for short. We met hunks in wet suits, shared air tubes and held hands under the water whilst pretending to drown. It was kind of like damsel in distress meets Titanic. Anyway, our plan was going swimmingly (get it?) and we were snogging our way through the club like good-oh, when we realised the fatal flaw in our scheme: neither of us likes getting our hair wet. Also, the wet suit adds at least ten pounds and does not flatter from behind. We moved on to something in-doorsy and male-dominated – Judo. It involved being pinned down on mats by cute guys and we were deliberately awful at it.
‘Great to hear from you.’ Karen talks like the clappers and I try to squeeze in a syllable.
‘I’ve been meaning to call, but the kids are hanging out of me non-stop. Driving me nuts. Hashtag crazy mama!’
Oh, I forgot to tell you. Karen talks in hashtags. No, really. It gets old pretty quickly. As a stay at home mum, Twitter is her only social outlet some days.
‘Barry and I had a whopper fight,’ I interrupt.
‘Ah, no!’
‘Will we meet up some time? For a real catch-up.’
‘Yeah! What about tonight! Let’s get hammered! Hashtag old school! FRANK!’ she bellows. ‘FRANK! FRAAAANK! I’m going out.’
‘Oh. OK, then. Are you sure that’s OK for tonight? Won’t Frank mind?’
‘Nah. Believe me, it’s my turn to get out. Haven’t done this in forever. FRANK! FRAAANK! Can you get the kids in the BAAAAATH! FRAAAANK.’
There is a ringing in my left ear.
I’ve suggested a local Chinese restaurant that hosts karaoke sessions on a Saturday night. It’s been christened ‘Curryoke’ by yours truly. Am I not so clever? Anyway, I find that at your lowest point, eating a few prawn crackers with the girls and belting out a couple of good old 1980s power ballads is the perfect night out. Never fails.
Karen meets me within the hour. She’s only too thrilled to escape her domestic drudgery and teething toddlers for the evening. We hug hello at the restaurant.
‘You look amazing,’ I smile at Karen.
Sickeningly, her twins are only babies and her daughter is nearly three, yet she is skinnier than me. It’s not fair. I vow to fatten her up by ordering something deep fried.
‘What? Sure the kids have me run ragged.’
‘Ah, no. Really?’
‘Yeah. Sure, Anna still doesn’t sleep through the night!’
‘Ah, but sure kids are like pancakes. The first one is always a throwaway.’
Karen howls with laughter. I’ve no idea why.
‘Hilarious. Fecking Frank is working, like, all the time. I think he’s avoiding us. I don’t get any sleep. Oh, and this is the only thing that didn’t have baby vomit or snot on it!’ She points to her sequined top. ‘Hashtag ewwwww!’
We are escorted to our tables and hand our heavy coats to the waiter. I’m wearing a new black dress and was thrilled to have an excuse to take the tags off. It’s very forgiving around the stomach area, which is handy because I plan on going to town with the spring rolls.
‘All OK at home?’ I enquire. ‘Do you need to call and check?’
‘Nah. I swear to God,’ whispers Karen, as if in confession. ‘Let fecking Frank get them to bed for a change.’
We study the menu briefly and order a bottle of house white. Karen is giddy to be out of the house and away from 24/7 mammying. Soon the meal for two arrives. It is an embarrassingly large array of skewered chicken satay, baby ribs, spicy kung pao beef, egg fried rice, chips and noodles.
Karen continues her monologue. She reveals the nightmare of sleep deprivation and admits to suffering from migraines since the twins were born. I feel a fleeting pang of guilt that I still have not come to visit the babies who are now three months old. Then I remember that the babies had colic, so no wonder I’ve been avoiding them like the plague. It’s a wonder that poor Karen is still sane with three pesky kids rubbing off the cream walls, with their boundless energy and unreasonable demands.
‘I think I’d need a lie down in a dark room after just one day of that,’ I admit.
Karen isn’t like my other married friends. She doesn’t rattle on about clever potty training, or what ingenious things her brood can do until you want to stab yourself in the eye with a chicken skewer. She bitches about competitive mums and reveals what a pain in the ass it is to have to deal with nappy rash (if you’ll pardon the pun). She scoffs at others who tell you how angelic their little demons are. She tells it like it is.
‘I’ve instructed fecking Frank to only call me in an absolute emergency. And that does not include calling to ask me where the bloody Calpol is!’
‘Good luck to him!’ I raise my glass.
We order a second bottle, as both of us seem quite thirsty.
‘Yeah, sure the last time myself and fecking Frank were out together on a date, I’d never heard of the term negative equity! Honestly, and all we talk about is whose turn it is to change the nappies!’
Barry and I are starting to look like the Waltons in comparison. I top up the glasses and go over the whole Barry saga again in detail. It’s a refresher course in case she missed any bits over the phone.
‘I love him but…He just won’t commit!’ I leave out the bit about my dress fittings and cake tastings.
‘He will. Just give him more time. Honestly, he’ll come crawling back from the trip and thank his lucky stars he has such a ride like you. Hashtag hot stuff!’
