Bride without a Groom. Amy Lynch

      Donna from Swindon (overweight, pale, plain Jane) is marrying Garry from Manchester (unemployed, bald and tattooed) in dismal circumstances.

      ‘It’s so unfair,’ I tell Jess who has not moved an inch all day.

      The groom completely messes it up, which thrills me beyond belief. The bride’s dream of an elegant castle wedding with fine silver service dining has gone out the window, since the budget is blown on the stag do. The bride’s unusually orange face registers horror when she discovers the cream puff wedding dress and sees the sausage roll reception at the local community sports hall. The devastation cannot be hidden under a false smile. There are fisticuffs on the dancefloor as the best man lunges at the photographer.

      Their misery lifts my spirits. It’s just the tonic I need. I block out the memories of my fight yesterday morning with Barry by watching recorded episodes of Ricki Lake and Neighbours. This is the type of thing that Barry refuses to watch and labels as ‘tosh’. Fat Americans are reunited with old flames, and skinny Australian characters in the soap squabble over petty problems. Everyone has found true love except for me.

      ‘Damn people with their damn perfect lives,’ I spit, spraying crisps on the cream carpet.

      The key is in the door. It’s Barry. Hiding the crisp packets under the cushions, I wipe the crumbs off my face.

      ‘Hi.’ Barry looks worn out.

      ‘Hi.’

      ‘We need to talk.’

       Crap!

      ‘I went to Mum’s after work. Needed some space. We can’t keep having the same fight over and over. I’m sick of it.’

      ‘I know. It’s just that, well, we’ve been together for four years now. Don’t you want to get married? Be a proper little family? You, me and Jess? Don’t you think we should take it to the next level?’

      ‘Look, Becks. I do. I’m just not ready yet. You keep pushing me and pushing me…’

      ‘I’m so sorry.’ My voice is small.

      This is all my fault. Our relationship was like a glorious golden soufflé rising from a hot oven, but I came along with my wedding talk and stabbed it with a sharp knife until it was nothing but a sunken soggy mess.

      ‘I know.’ Barry has his head in his hands. He looks up and I notice the dark circles around his eyes.

      ‘I’ll try to stop…’

      Our conversation is cut short. There’s someone at the door. The bell rings again and Barry stands.

      ‘Whoever it is,’ I bark, ‘tell them to kindly shove off!’

      ‘Father Maguire!’ Barry cannot hide his surprise. The conversation at the front door is muffled, and I’m ear-wigging like my life depends on it.

      ‘Won’t you please come in?’

       Oh no!

      The miniature priest is standing in our living room. I’m feeling decidedly queasy.

      ‘Ah, Rebecca. Thank you for your email last week. I was just passing, so I thought I’d pop in quickly. Hope it’s not a bad time? How’s your mother?’

      ‘I… She…Of course, please have a seat.’ I scooch Jess from the couch and he hisses at me.

      I’m staring at the priest blankly and Barry is making a puzzled face behind him. The penny drops.

       My email! Last week!

      ‘Thank you,’ the priest receives the tea that Barry has brought in on a tray.

      ‘Biscuit?’ Barry offers.

      ‘Yes, please. Well, now. First of all, congratulations.’

       Sweet mothering divine Jesus H Christ our Lord and Saviour.

      I pray that the ground will open up and swallow me. God declines my request. I have lied. To an actual priest! I’ve told porkies right into his sweet innocent Catholic face. I’ll surely burn for all eternity. Barry’s eyebrows are raised and his eyes are piercing mine, but I stay silent.

      ‘So. You were requesting dates for the church.’ Father Maguire flicks through his black pocket diary.

      ‘Well, I…we…’ I’m unable to form the words.

      ‘Aha. Yes. You’re in luck. Now, it’s usually booked well in advance. Especially the Saturdays. But we do have a cancellation for February. What date were you thinking?’

      I’ve never seen that particular shade of purple on Barry’s face before. The power of speech has eluded me. I’ve been caught red handed, it seems. Lock me up and throw away the key.

      ‘Pencil us in for June,’ Barry’s face is like thunder.

      ‘Right. So, there’s Saturday the twentieth? Two o’clock?’ his pencil hovers over the date.

      ‘Fine.’ Barry refuses to look at me.

      ‘OK, then…’ the priest is unable to understand. He has missed the punch line of the sick joke.

      ‘Please excuse me, Father. I’m off on a business trip this evening, so I need to get packing. Thanks for stopping by.’

      Barry shakes his hand and leaves the room without glancing in my direction.

      ‘Eh, more tea?’ There is a tremor in my voice and the teapot lid is rattling.

      ‘Thank you, Rebecca, but no.’

      Father Maguire is on his feet and moving in the direction of the front door.

      ‘Must be off. I’m on my way to see another parishioner. Just recovering from a stroke, poor dear. God bless. I’ll be in touch.’

      My hands are glued over my mouth and nose as Barry returns to the room.

      ‘Listen, I can explain…’

      Barry doesn’t interrupt me.

      ‘Honestly, he must be getting senile or something. I just, like, ages ago, emailed him to see how busy the church is. Just an informal enquiry.’

      Barry remains silent.

      ‘Good catch on the whole business trip, ha-ha. That lit a fire under the old geezer, eh?’

      ‘Rebecca, I am going away tonight. The conference? Jesus, does anything I say actually register?’

      ‘Oh, yes!’ I pretend.

      ‘The flight leaves at nine, I’ve got to get packing and leave for the airport at six.’

      ‘Airport. Right.’ I scramble.

      I’m sure that he has told me. He has no doubt been banging on about it for weeks despite my distinct lack of interest. Approximately half of Barry’s boring work banter goes in one ear and out the other. It’s so dreary that I cannot focus. My brain is like a sieve – it filters out the tiresome and retains all information pertaining to celebrities, fashion or weddings. He really should know this by now.

      ‘To Berlin!’ I say.

      ‘Bangkok. I’ll be back next Saturday.’ His face is still deadpan.

      ‘Yes. I knew it started with a B. Ha-ha.’

      Barry is shoving shirts and suits into a suitcase and I’m sitting on the side of the bed. I’m still trying to read him. Important questions are running through my mind.

       Am I forgiven? Who will put out the bins while he is gone? Will he bring me back a gift? If so, what kind?

      Barry is usually only this quiet during football matches. Thankfully, I don’t let him hold the remote control very often.

      ‘There