Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

      ‘I was about to tell her, but we got into another…’

      Shelley raises one eyebrow, and Barry chooses his words carefully. The last time he vented to Shelley about Rebecca, they ended up practically on top of each other. It’s best to be clear.

      ‘…discussion. It doesn’t matter. Anyway. Still friends?’

      ‘Sure.’

      Christ, this is painful. Shelley puts on her headphones and selects an in-flight movie. Barry does the same and orders another beer and pretzels. This is going to be a long trip. The seatbelt light has been on since the turbulence over Singapore. The pilot makes an announcement instructing all passengers to return to their seats. Shelley is still asleep and he is in no rush to wake her. Things between them are still strained. She’s breathing softly – unlike Rebecca, who snores like a fog horn.

      A frazzled woman at the top of the aisle is struggling to keep her three-year-old son under control, much to the annoyance of the highly bronzed air hostess and fellow passengers. The child screeches in defiance and Shelley stirs.

      ‘Honestly,’ Barry mutters. ‘Why anyone would drag a small chid halfway across the world is beyond me.’

      The child’s mother smoothes her frizzy hair in an attempt to tidy herself. Like her unruly child, however, her hair fails to cooperate, leaving her exasperated. She offers the child chocolate buttons if he will just return to his seat and he reluctantly agrees. Relief spreads through the aeroplane.

      ‘Great. That’s just what the kid needs – more sugar!’

      ‘Hey, what’s eating you, Bar?’ Shelley rubs her eyes.

      ‘Nothing.’

      The flushed air hostess scowls. Her midriff bulges in the turquoise polyester Trans Air uniform and she clutches her seat. The plane dips and bumps.

      ‘Hey, the joys of travelling economy class, eh?’ Shelley smiles.

      ‘You’d think that they’d have coughed up for a business-class ticket, seeing as how we are hauling our asses all the way to Thailand for this conference.’

      ‘True. But just think,’ there is a boyish grin on Barry’s face. ‘Nigel is just through those curtains. He’s probably flicking through a copy of the Financial Times and talking absolute rubbish.’

      ‘Hey, yeah. I bet you he’s swilling expensive champagne and deciding between the salmon or fillet steak. No doubt he’s ogling the air hostesses.’

      Shelley makes a face and they both laugh. Barry can’t remember the last time he and Rebecca laughed like this. Everything is so serious lately. At least Shelley knows how to have a good time.

      ‘Yeah. Thank God we don’t have to endure that pompous windbag for nine long hours, eh?’ That last beer is making him a little light headed.

      ‘So. Go on, Barry. Tell us what the fight was about this time.’

      Barry hesitates. ‘The usual.’

      His stomach lurches as the plane circles over Bangkok. If he hadn’t given Rebecca such a hard time, she’d have helped him pack his luggage like she always does. She wouldn’t have let him forget his travel sickness medication, that’s for sure. She always remembers the little things. On the other side of the aircraft, the young boy rests angelically in his mother’s arms. She runs her fingers through his dishevelled blond hair.

      Shelley follows his gaze. ‘Didn’t you tell me once that Rebecca doesn’t want kids?’

      ‘No! I mean…she does, just not yet.’

      ‘Yeah. She thinks they’ll ruin her figure, you said?’

      ‘No. She was only joking. She likes kids, she’s just not ready.’

      ‘And she’s still a broken record about getting married. It must be doing your head in.’

      Barry holds back. He doesn’t want to reveal to Shelley about the priest and the honeymoon booking. The plane makes its final descent. The last time he’d flown long haul, Rebecca had insisted that he take the window seat to help with his travel anxiety, and let him squeeze her hand even though it must have hurt. She had packed his sleeping pills and an air cushion for his old shoulder injury sustained back at university.

      ‘She sounds like a drama queen.’

      Shelley’s words hang in the air. The aircraft hits the runway with a slight bounce. Barry is queasy, he knows he shouldn’t have had that last drink. He doesn’t reply. Instead, he stretches his long stiff legs under the seat in front. His toes search for his missing shoes.

      Yes, thinks Barry. But she is my drama queen.

       Five

      Barry’s last words before he left echo on a continuous loop.

       I just don’t know about us any more.

      It’s time to face the harsh reality. I’m a bride without a groom. I’ve been planning a bloody wedding before Barry has even popped the question! Now he’s well and truly fed up.

      ‘What’s the harm in being organised?’ I ask an unconscious Jess. ‘Just in case.’

      There are endless decisions to make about flowers, cakes and cars. When the guy plucks up the courage to finally ask me to marry him, I want to be ready. According to Barry, I live a champagne lifestyle on a lemonade budget. He says I can’t manage money. It’s such tosh. I mean, I got a C in maths. It would have been an A, except I was upset that year, what with Dad refusing to buy me a car and all. Little does he know, I’ve been planning out the finances for our entire wedding. I have a spreadsheet and everything, labelled ‘Work stuff’ so that he will not stumble upon it on our laptop. I’ve kindly worked out what the whole thing will cost him.

      Over the years, I’ve planned every glorious glistening detail. I’ve fantasised about the cake Kim Kardashian and Kanye 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