Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

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!’

      ‘Good riddance to him. Like I always say,’ Pam is slurring already, ‘another man is just around the next cocktail!’

      Pam raises her glass and loses half of the contents of her Malibu and Coke. Emer elbows her in the ribs and gives her a warning look.

      ‘Ah, give him a chance.’ Emer touches her pearl earring with a French-manicured finger.

      Pam is the devil on my shoulder and Emer is the angel. They’re kind of a package deal, you know? It’s like buying the lasagne sauce and getting the free dish. We all met in the late nineties in Trinity College Dublin (or Trinners, as we fondly refer to it). This was, of course, back in the days before we discovered mobile phones and fake tans. Frankly, I don’t know how we survived before either. Emer completed an honours business and marketing degree and graduated first in her year. In sharp contrast, Pam had started an arts degree like myself, but never quite limped to the finish line. A trip to India got in the way. She went to find herself, but I think she’s still looking.

      Emer has it all. While I slip slowly into insanity in a dead-end job, she’s a successful marketing director with a finance firm in the city centre. I’m still not sure exactly what that entails, although she’s explained it to me a few times, but I know it involves a lot of hiring and firing of incompetent assistants and wearing tailored suits. While I drive a beaten-up Volkswagen Golf with windscreen wipers that don’t move (not ideal in this climate), her latest bonus allows her to drive a convertible Mercedes. And most infuriatingly, while I can’t seem to get Barry to commit, she and husband David are DINKS – Double Income No Kids. They enjoy luxury breaks and the latest gadgets. It’s ever so slightly sickening, really. If I wasn’t simply mad about her (oh, and if Barry and I didn’t holiday in her Majorcan villa), she would likely be someone I would despise.

      Pam, on the other hand, is not so lucky. This is especially true in love. Between you and me, she is like a Jedward performance when it comes to the romance department. Quite the cringe fest! She bounces from one poisonous relationship to the next. Married men, sleazy men, men who don’t call the next day – she has experienced them all. Twice. The worst part is that she gives them so many chances, and then Emer and I have to tell her to cop the flip on. Still, it doesn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm. Bless her.

      ‘Anyway.’

      I give a blow-by-blow account of the row of the century that we’d 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