had this morning. They nod sympathetically in all the right spots as I rehash every unpleasant detail. By now, they’re no strangers to the dilemma at hand: Barry will not commit. We’ve thrashed out the issue and analysed the details many times.
‘I mean, Barry hasn’t taken me on a romantic spa mini break in practically weeks!’ I whine, trying to force out another tear. ‘This back won’t massage itself. I’m so tense!’
The girls nod dutifully.
‘He’s busy with work,’ Emer reasons.
‘He’s selfish!’ Pam cries.
‘And another thing,’ I rage. ‘Barry is definitely commitment phobic. According to Dr Phil’s Relationship Recovery, you have to invest in your emotional currency!’
I’ve got the full collection of Dr Phil’s enlightening books, and I’ve memorised certain quotes from them. You can borrow one if you like. Also, I don’t mean to brag, but I took an entire lecture in psychology once. I’d accidentally stumbled into the wrong lecture hall in the arts block, and was too hungover to leave. A surprising amount of useful information must have sunk in.
Pam erupts into hysterical laughter and then burps. Not very lady-like if you ask me. I’m starting to suspect that she’s not taking this at all seriously. Undeterred, I go on, full throttle. I start at the top of the list of Barry’s flaws and work my way down. Like Pam’s flatulence, this stuff is better out than in.
‘Oh, and he outright refused to attend a wedding fair with me last week. Something about his grandfather’s removal? Shoddy excuse!’
Emer’s jaw drops. Her eyebrows would be raised if the Botox wasn’t so potent. My tummy churns with the guilt of slagging Barry off, but sometimes I just need to vent to the girls.
‘Look, he doesn’t deserve you,’ Pam manages to get a word in.
‘Damn right!’ I thump my fist on the table in agreement and slosh half of a Piña Colada on Pam’s shoes. She doesn’t seem to notice. The three of us make our way through the cocktail list and the ex-boyfriend list. We murder both.
I smile. To my delight, another tray of the overpriced multi-coloured drinks arrives. Before I can weakly protest, Emer whips out her platinum card. Pam points to a nearby table. A group of lads are smiling over. One says something to the other, and they howl with laughter. Pam says they’re cute and they probably fancy us, so she wants to join them, but I’m afraid of losing my audience. Besides, I haven’t even gotten to the part about Barry’s refusal to sample wedding cake yet.
‘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
