Bride Without a Groom
Bride without a Groom
AMY LYNCH
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by Avon an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2015
Copyright © Amy Lynch 2015
Cover illustration © Alice Moore 2015
Amy Lynch asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780008146443
Version 2015-04-16
For Eoin Sorry about all the burnt dinners, darling. As you can see, I’ve been a little busy…
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Publisher
Prologue
This is it. I can feel it. Four years of waiting for my beloved Barry to pop the question. Four years of hinting. Four years of dreaming and praying and wishing. Tonight’s the night.
He has chosen the perfect evening for it. You’ve got to give the man credit where credit is due. I mean, surprising me with an engagement ring on my thirtieth birthday in Jacques restaurant? It’s elegant class. I couldn’t have scripted it better.
I spied the velvet box last week, accidentally stumbling upon it when I was innocently vacuuming under the mattress. I’d already gone through his wardrobe and chest of drawers with a feather duster and rummaged through his bedside locker with a wet cloth. OK, OK, you’ve got me. I don’t dust. I don’t vacuum. I don’t wipe sticky things clean with wet cloths. Yuk! I admit it, I was snooping. But can you blame me? The suspense was killing me.
Fumbling with the box, so close to opening it, I heard the key in the door. Rumbled! Sneaking back later, he’d moved it. Next thing you know, he’s booked a table at the most pretentious restaurant in town. All deliciously suspicious behaviour.
The night is upon us. I have taken glam to a whole new level, even shelling out for a new posh frock, a designer one. The works! My tan is flawless, not pasty, not orange, just perfectly in the middle. My lipstick and shellac nails are a deep vixen red. It’s the kind of colour that says ‘Yes, I’ll marry you, my darling. And I’ll rip you apart in bed later.’
Barry is driving so that I can have a drink when we get there. Super sweet! He probably wants to keep a clear head. You know, for the proposal and all. I close my eyes. I love Barry so much I could explode.
‘Now, I just got you something small for your birthday. Give it to you later.’
He plays a good game, I’ll give him that. He’s throwing me off the scent.
Yeah, right! Something small, is it? I love the whole fake out. So devious of him!
‘Of course,’ I wink at him. He doesn’t wink back. ‘Sure, the best things come in small packages, eh?’ I wink again.
He glances sideways with a confused look on his face.
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
Oh, this is great! Bless him. He really thinks he has me fooled! Of course, to spare his manhood, I will naturally act all, like, shock horror when he produces the bling ring. The poor man is probably sweating buckets. It must be so much pressure to ask someone to marry you!
He is concentrating hard on the road, probably practising his romantic speech. Perhaps he is considering whether he should go down on bended knee or not. Maybe he’s worried he’ll cry when I say yes. I send him a telepathic message.
Bended knee, yes! Declaration of love, yes! Tears, no!
The man needs his dignity, after all.
‘You’re quiet,’ he breaks my fantasy.
I’m thinking about my supersized reaction and visualising the smattering of applause from the waiters.
‘Just thinking how lucky I am. You know – being whisked out for my birthday, and all. Special night, eh?’
‘Absolutely. You only turn thirty once, right?’
Don’t remind me. At least I will have reached the goal I set when I was twelve to be engaged by the time I am thirty. I have no intention of failing. I will have scraped to the finish line by the elastic of my knickers. If he pops the question before midnight, I will be on target.
Barry opens the car door for me. He’s always such a gent! The waiter shows us to our table. I am grinning so much that I have a pain in my jaw. It doesn’t matter. I want to mentally record the whole evening.
‘This is magical. Don’t you think it’s magical?’
‘Yeah, sure.’
‘Champagne?’ I suggest to Barry as the waiter approaches with our menus.
‘Eh… Sure, order whatever you like. I’ll have a Coke.’
Sweet! He’s dedicated to remaining sober and clear headed so that he doesn’t muddle his words. He’s probably overwrought with emotion at this very moment.
‘Jesus, I’m bloody starving,’ Barry is looking around for his starter.
I will have to edit out his impatience when I regale our freckle-faced-pig-tailed grand kiddies with tales of the storybook evening. ‘Tell me again, Granny, about the night Granddad proposed,’ the little ones will plead as I sip my G&T.
The dessert is coming now. I can feel the anticipation building. It’s either anticipation or heartburn due to the copious amount of Bollinger I am knocking back. The jury
is still out. It’s nothing a ridiculously large rock on my ring finger and a bumper packet of Rennie’s can’t cure.
Barry reaches subconsciously for the pocket of his sports jacket and taps lightly. I hold my breath. He is checking that the lush velvet box is still safely nestled, waiting to dazzle me.
Still, I play the game. We are making small talk. We are weaving and bobbing. What holiday do I think we should go on next year? How is work going? Is that a new dress? Where am I off to with the girls tomorrow night?
The waiter arrives with banoffee and profiteroles.
‘Bon appétit.’ The waiter beams at us. He gives a quick glance at my cleavage and then smiles into my face.
OH…MY…GOD! The waiter knows! The whole restaurant is probably in on it. It is all one big conspiracy. Do Mum and Dad know? Did Barry ask Dad for my delicate hand in marriage? Did my BFFs help him with the arrangements?
The banoffee is heaven sent but I can’t stomach it. Still, I make a pretty good attempt so as not to be rude. I don’t want Barry to be suspicious.
‘So. I almost forgot,’ Barry clears his throat and puts his fork down.
This is it.
‘Yes!’ I cry, startling the couple at the next table.
‘Eh, so…yeah. Happy birthday, Rebecca.’
Barry reaches into his breast pocket. Here it is. I watch in slow motion. I can’t take the suspense any longer. It is killing me. I nearly shout at him to hurry the flip up, but I catch myself in time.
‘Oh, what’s this?’ I force my eyebrows back down.
‘Open it and see. Just a small little something. I saw you admiring it a while ago in the jeweller’s window.’
Holy Flipping Divine. I try a deep breath. The banoffee is performing somersaults. The box looks too big for a ring, now that I examine it a second time. It must be a whopper. He must have blown a packet on it.
Slowly, tantalisingly, I tease open the box. I am savouring the moment of joy. Tears are pricking my lids in preparation. As the velvet lid opens ajar, I get a flash of diamond. There, in all its glory is a… surely not. What the?!
‘It’s a …’ I swallow.
There is an uncomfortable lump in my throat. Perhaps the dessert is coming back up for its final revenge. I reach for my champagne flute but it is empty. I reach for the bottle, which is also empty.
‘A…’ I can hardly pronounce the word, a dirty word, a vulgar word.
‘Bracelet…’
‘Yes, it’s the diamond tennis bracelet. I saw you admiring it in the window of Weir’s in Dundrum town centre. That’s the one you were pointing to, yeah?’
I try to speak but can’t. All I can do is nod mutely. Inside, I am screaming.
‘Yes, that’s the one alright.’ I scrounge a smile.
He’s right. It’s the one I pointed to. However, it was after I’d pointed to the engagement rings. It was a greedy afterthought, following much drooling at the diamond and platinum pretties to the left.
‘Do you like it?’ Barry looks hurt. I’d better say something. I’d better fix this. I’m ruining the evening.
‘Thank you,’ my voice is small. ‘So much. I love it.’
The waiter doesn’t even glance in our direction. There is no mariachi band hiding behind the curtains to serenade the newly engaged couple. There are no fellow diners clapping and smiling. The dream is over. Soon, it will be midnight and my golden carriage will turn back into a pumpkin. My dress will turn into rags. The waiters will turn into mice.
A twelve-year-old Rebecca is shaking her head; the mission will be marked harshly with an ink stamp.
DEADLINE PASSED.
Barry is oblivious. ‘Cheque, please.’
I tell him I’m tired, bit of a headache, too much champers perhaps. We drive home in silence.
One
What will the girls think? I’m a wreck; we’re talking tears and snot, here. Scrambling through my overstuffed Chloé handbag, in between soggy tissues, my wallet and a hairbrush, I retrieve a make-up bag and study myself in a compact mirror. Once I wipe away the panda eyes and smooth my sleek blonde hair, I’m passable. A dash of daring red lippie finishes the patch-up job. You can do this!
The taxi pulls up at the Ice bar, and I thrust a tenner at the driver. He mutters something, but doesn’t even have the decency to ogle my legs as I get out. I’m scuttling towards the door to escape the drizzle which threatens to frizz my hair. This is not easy in an overpriced pair of Manolo Blahniks, as they are of six-inch-heel proportions, and are already killing me. Still, they make me feel like I might pass for my late twenties, so I decide that it will be worth it. Beauty is pain!
A few stiff drinks will be just the ticket. Yes, Barry and I have had the mother ship of arguments. No, last night’s birthday dinner didn’t exactly go to plan. But deadlines are extended all the time. It will all work out.
I’m ready to make an entrance.
The girls have already arrived, and are sitting in a booth with the drinks lined up. They spot me instantly and are on their feet to greet me.
‘OMG! Rebecca, you look so thin!’ Emer squeals in approval as we air kiss.
‘Becks! You skinny malink.’ Pam kisses me twice on each cheek. I think the month in France at the family chalet has gone to her head.
I’m sucking in my tummy.
‘No! Are you serious? I’ve bloody ballooned. Thanks, though.’
Quick aside: I’d squeezed myself into something very tight and black before the taxi had honked. FYI, the ensemble was over a one-size-too-small pair of Spanx that I had purchased (with huge shame) in Marks & Spencer’s. Judging by my gal pals, it has sucked me in at all the right places and created a slimming illusion. Honestly, it is a kind of black magic – worth every penny. Breathing is so over-rated, anyway.
Since I’ve now passed the big Three-Oh threshold, I’ll need to be on major frump alert.
‘Happy birthday,’ Emer and Pam chorus as I slide in beside them.
Pam passes me a Brown Thomas gift bag, and I air kiss her again. It’s probably a darling lipstick from the Chanel counter. Pam slides a birthday card over to me, with a badge that reads ‘I’m 30, buy me a drink!’, and there is a spa gift voucher inside.
‘Thanks, girls,’ I give a watery smile. ‘Let’s hope this evening is better than last night.’
The girls exchange uneasy looks. I’d texted them both this afternoon in a right state, so they know that something is up. Hopefully, they can utter words of wisdom in between cocktails.
‘What happened, pet?’ Emer asks.
Dressed in a jersey wrap dress and expensive jewellery, Emer oozes effortless class. She smacks of old money. You know, there’s not much of that about these days. Such a pity. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and sensible.
Pam, on the other hand, is dressed in a black shapeless dress, and her auburn hair is scraped into a large clip. I can tell that she’s hungover from the night before by the way she’s knocking back her Malibu and Coke. Her eye make-up is smudged.
‘Well,’ I sigh dramatically for effect.
The girls lean in closer. I’m the centre of attention, and loving every minute.
‘I think I’ll start with a Sex on the Beach. For old time’s sake.’
‘Forget the drinks!’ says Pam. ‘Tell us!’
‘What’s up?’ Emer rests her chin on her left hand, and I notice her dazzler. At three carats, it’s hard to miss. You can probably see it from space. I’m practically blind looking at it, but can’t avert my gaze. The bitchy school girl in me shouts how gauche it is, but I know that if I had a granny I’d sell her for one just like it. Emer orders us a Strawberry Daiquiri, a Mojito and an Appletini. I’m ready to divulge the sordid details.
‘It’s all gone tits up, girls. Barry took me out to dinner last night for my birthday and gave me this.’
I produce my limp wrist with the bracelet dangling, and study their faces for a reaction.
‘Oh, wow. It’s gorgeous.’ Emer strokes the di
amonds.
‘Yeah. I suppose. Kind of hoping for something else though, you know?’ I point to my bare left ring finger.
‘Ah, Rebecca, don’t worry. Give him time.’
Emer is right, of course she is, but I can’t help it, I’m devastated.
‘Anyway, this morning before work we had a massive row.’
‘Jesus, another one?’
Pam can be a tad cheeky. I decide to take the high road. Much less traffic.
‘He says he’s not ready to get married just yet.’
‘Selfish eejit,’ Pam declares.
‘He stormed off to work and I haven’t seen him since. He hasn’t called to check on me or anything. I think it’s over. I had to ring in sick to work, I was in such a state.’
‘He’ll be back,’ soothes Emer. ‘Let him cool off.’
I’m fluttering my fingertips at my eyes, as if I can shoo the tears back in. One lands with a plop on the table. I feel all wobbly. Perhaps it’s the emotional trauma of it all. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before. Now, I know it’s hard to believe, but if I don’t get my full ten hours a night, I’m a complete diva! Besides, according to Tyra Banks, the best thing you can have in your make-up bag is a good night’s sleep.
‘You poor thing,’ Emer continues.
That’s more like it.
‘Thanks. And you know, all I said to set the war off this time was “What are your thoughts on wedding lists?” It’s a simple enough question, yeah? I mean, am I not allowed to make conversation over breakfast? Are people these days meant to resort to censorship? This isn’t communist Russia, last time I checked!’