Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

Dancing soundtrack. The gloves are off, now – that’s a limited edition collector’s item, signed by Patrick Swayze himself (God rest his handsome soul). He hardly ever listens to it. Charitably, I decide that he can have Depeche Mode’s Greatest Hits back. I only faked an interest in that one when he produced it one Christmas in lieu of my specific request for Duran Duran. He may also keep the Karaoke Christmas. His mother bought that one. Bit of a Christmas turkey.

      Will dinner parties become unbearable if our friends take sides in our vicious dispute? Will we be bitter rivals who can’t be in the same room, just like Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner in The War of the Roses? Surely, they will all side with me, the victim in all of this. But will they stay in touch? Will they send Christmas cards? Will I be excluded from smug happy couple events?

      Will we haggle over furniture and whose Tesco club card points are whose? The custody battle for our possessions will be like Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep fighting over their child in Kramer vs. Kramer. Of course, Meryl is way too old to play me if this all ends up in court and is splashed all over the media and then turned into a million dollar budget movie. Perhaps Reese Witherspoon would be a more appropriate casting.

      I’m consuming my own weight in chocolate, flicking channels and tormenting myself with images of what lies ahead. Later, I wake up on the couch with a crick in my neck and a chocolate biscuit mashed into the cream cushion.

      Emer calls to discuss the latest Jodie Marsh scandal, which is splashed all over the tabloids.

      ‘Frankly,’ she confides, ‘I saw it coming a mile off.’

      ‘Mmm.’ I can’t bring myself to muster even a mild gossip.

      ‘So, still no word from him, then?’

      ‘Not a sniff.’

      ‘Hang in there. He’ll call. Let him get settled in after the long journey.’

      Time for a shower, I decide as I catch a whiff of myself. I’m not down and out just yet.

       Eight

      The Mandarin Oriental Hotel Bangkok is pretty damn plush. According to the website, it boasts five stars, so it’s bound to have a well stocked mini bar at the very least. Barry holds his leather holdall on his knee as the taxi speeds through the capital city.

      The heat is so oppressive, sharing a taxi is like sharing a sauna with Shelley and Nigel. Neither of them are saying much, and Nigel is not the freshest after the flight. It’s hard to determine whether the BO is strongest from Nigel or the chatty driver. The heady scent of Nigel’s business-class brandy mingles with Shelley’s sickly sweet perfume. Shelley hasn’t spoken a word since the flight. He wonders if this is from exhaustion or whether things between them have become uncomfortable. He feels a headache start to peck at his temples with a chisel.

      They enter the cool air conditioned lobby and a small elderly man in a heavy uniform takes their luggage, while another hands them welcome drinks. Barry’s drink is pink with a swizzle stick. He doesn’t care if it is the gayest drink he has ever clapped eyes on. He doesn’t care if it’s the middle of the night; he just hopes there is alcohol in it.

      The elderly man is sprightlier than he looks and manages to handle the entire luggage at once. The buttons on his heavy crested jacket go all the way up to his neck. Barry wonders how he sticks the heat.

      Barry had been expecting penny-pinching Nigel to shack himself and Shelley up in some red-light district, flea-bitten hostel with heroin-addicted lady boys, breakfast not included, but he’s pleasantly surprised.

      ‘Get some rest,’ Shelley breaks her silence.

      Barry nods and inserts his key card into the doorframe of the bedroom next to hers. He throws his jeans on the bathroom floor. In his boxers, he lies on the king-sized bed with a vodka tonic and the smallest tube of Pringles he has ever seen. At eight dollars a pop, Nigel better be coughing up for the snacks, he thinks.

      He flicks on the TV. For once, he’s allowed to operate the remote control. His lids feel as though they are made of concrete. He only plans on closing his eyes for a second, but a dream tunes in straight away.

      Barry is standing at the top of the aisle, dressed in a top hat and tails. The church organ plays the Phantom of the Opera. The guests crowd the pews, dressed in black. He cannot see their faces. A figure moves towards him, dressed in a white meringue. She has a white lace garter and reveals a slender leg. He pulls back the veil. It is Shelley.

      A knock on the door wakes him.

      ‘Hey, Barry!’ hisses Shelley. ‘You still up?’

      ‘Hi!’ Barry leaps off the bed.

      ‘Quick!’ she giggles.

      Through the peephole, he can see that she is dressed in a white hotel robe. In her hands are three vodka bottles and a packet of macadamia nuts.

      ‘Oh my God, Shelley, you nutter! Get in quickly before anyone sees you. Just a sec!’

      Barry searches for his robe. He can’t answer the door in his jocks. He squirts some deodorant on his armpits and fumbles with the lock.

      ‘Hey, classic! You’re in the robe too! Legend. Have you checked out the bathroom? It’s amazing! Here.’ She thrusts the booze into his hands and enters the room.

      Barry is reminded of the boy scouts jamboree camp in Liverpool back in 1991, when he was twelve. He feels the same excitement now. He feels like he has snuck from the boys’ tent to the girls’ tent to meet Jenny and play Spin the Bottle.

      ‘So! According to Nigel’s new PA, Jessica, he’s covering all expenses for this trip. Let’s make the most of it. Cheers!’

      Shelley has downed a bottle of the mini vodka straight without any mixer.

      ‘Come on in, then!’

      They sit on the floor and empty the contents of the mini bar. Sitting at the table feels too formal and sitting on the bed feels too close.

      ‘Check out the little mini Snickers. So cute! Oh and they have rum!’

      Barry smirks. Shelley is so charming. It’s amazing that he has never noticed this before.

      Shelley releases her long brown hair from its tight ponytail and lets the hair cascade onto her shoulders. She folds her glasses and places them in the pocket of her dressing gown. She is wearing a lot more make-up than usual.

      It’s three o’clock in the morning local time, which makes it about nine o’clock back in Dublin. Barry knows that Rebecca will be back from the shelter by now and already in a fleece onesie and glued to an episode of TOWIE, and he’s tempted to call.

      It’s as if Shelley reads his mind. ‘No. No way. You are not to call Rebecca. Promise? Let her sweat it out. It can wait till tomorrow.’

      Barry sends a brief text instead while Shelley is busy at the mini bar.

      ‘Hey! Awesome!’ Shelley fishes out something from the back of the mini bar. As she reaches over, her dressing gown flaps open ever so slightly at the front. He can see her blue silk slip underneath.

      ‘They have Singha!’

      ‘They have what?’

      ‘Singha! Thai beer. Nice one.’

      Shelley retrieves two and finds a bottle opener. Barry tries to keep his gaze on her eyes, but they slide back to her chest. That robe looks loosely tied, it wouldn’t take much to open.

      ‘Well, OK. When in… eh… Bangkok,’ Barry cheers.

      Shelley throws her head back and laughs. Rebecca never seems to find him funny. They have been fighting a lot lately, but with Shelley, he feels like an award-winning comedian.

      The