is serious, now. She takes a swig of the beer but her penetrating eyes don’t leave his. She bites her lower lip and pouts.
‘So. No hard feelings, then?’ Barry studies her face nervously. ‘Still friends?’
‘Friends,’ Shelley smirks. ‘Good friends.’
Shelley reaches her right hand inside Barry’s robe and rubs the hot palm of her hand down his stomach and then along the waistband of his boxers. His erection is throbbing. He’s reminded of the first time he pitched a tent, that summer in 1991 with Jenny.
Shelley spills her beer and Barry automatically reaches for it. He thinks of the cream couch, cream carpet, cream walls – cream bloody life back in Dublin. He pulls back his outstretched hand and watches it glug glug onto the hotel carpet. Let someone else worry about it for a change.
Shelley’s arms are around his neck and she sits on his lap. Their faces are dangerously close together. Barry’s mouth opens to protest, but in one smooth move, Shelley’s white robe heaps onto the floor. She rubs herself against the bulge in his underwear, and slips her tongue into his mouth. Her hands paw through his hair.
In the background, a phone is ringing. But Barry’s bedside locker is a million miles from the floor. Shelley shoots a warning glance at Barry.
‘Don’t answer it.’
The trance is broken and Barry snaps back to reality. It’s as if a hypnotist has clicked his fingers in front of his face – except instead of Barry finding himself on stage pretending to be a chicken, he finds himself playing tonsil hockey with a scantily clad woman. Barry recoils. This is wrong!
‘Shelley, no. Don’t.’
Barry stands, leaving Shelley on the floor, reaching for her robe.
‘I’m sorry, Shelley. I’m with Rebecca. I think you should go now.’
The TV is really rubbish for a Sunday night, and my muscles are aching from all of the shovelling at the shelter. I try to half heartedly flick through some celebrity hot gossip magazines. Even OK! can’t hold my attention for long. There’s this really juicy feature on the Kardashians, but I just can’t be bothered. My mind drifts to Barry as I reach for some more wine from the fridge. His text is unusually cryptic. I read it over and over again, analysing every punctuation mark or lack thereof.
Hello.
What does he mean by this, exactly? Is he being purposefully formal? Is this merely a greeting?
I’ve landed safely.
What am I, his mother? I didn’t ask if his plane had plunged into the Atlantic, or whatever ocean there is near Japan. I just want to know if he’s still in a big fat snot over the whole honeymoon misunderstanding.
The hotel is nice.
I’m not a travel agent. I didn’t ask what the hotel is like.
Call you tomorrow.
This is the worst line yet. Why didn’t he call me today when he landed? Leaving me to hang until tomorrow is torture. There’s no clue as to whether he is missing me or hating me. There’s no hint as to what kind of present he’ll buy me from his trip. There are no kisses at the end! No smiley faces! Not even a measly LOL!
It’s best to decide to swallow my pride and follow Mum’s advice. She says that I should just call him and apologise, even if he is a non-committing selfish toad. I may have added in that last part. Emer and Mum must be in cahoots, because she is also nagging me every five minutes to give poor Barry a break. I’ve given in and dialled his number. There’s a funny ringtone but no answer.
‘Hello, you have reached Barry Costello, of Hodges Myrtell and O’Brien Solicitors. Please leave your name and a detailed message after the tone. Thank you.’
I hang up hurriedly, as I’m now sobbing at such a high pitch that only dogs can understand me. Why did he not answer me? I’m sure there is some, like, time difference shenanigans going on over there in Cambodia or whatever third world country he’s in, but this is preposterous. Barry is the reliable kind. That’s one of the things I love about him. He calls me every lunch break without fail. Surely he’s missing me too by now?
There’s a celebrity special edition of Come Dine with Me that has just started. I watch between blowing snot into a tissue and shoving barbeque nuts into my mouth. A tangerine coloured WAG rifles through the knickers drawer of a failed 80s pop star, whilst verbally berating her fondue.
Pam’s name appears on my mobile, and I answer it as I’ve nothing better to do.
‘Emer says he hasn’t called yet? Honestly, Becks! Dump him! Get there first before he dumps you!’
I explain about the time difference in Bombay, and fill her in on the text message to get her honest opinion – it’s bleak and I regret asking.
‘Crap. Maybe we’re headed for Splits-Ville. Breaking up with Barry will be a bit like grieving,’ I ponder aloud.
One of my gal pals once told me during a zealous drinking session in Temple Bar that breaking up with her Kevin was a bit like grieving. At the time, I thought she was being dramatic and attention-seeking, shamelessly trying to steer the conversation away from my ‘what to wear to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding’ saga, which was clearly a far more pressing matter at the time. Perhaps, I realise as I drain my glass, she had a point. This must be what Oprah means by an ‘Aha!’ moment.
I’d worn a ravishing red off the shoulder number to the wedding, by the way. Just in case you were wondering. I’m not one to let the lack of an invitation stop me from attending. Tiernan, my ex, must have thought I was the one who got away. I’d say he was cursing himself for breaking up with a hottie like me. Yes, he smiled for the camera that day, but really he was hiding the pain. Asking me to leave was just for show. He was checking me out in between posing for wedding snaps and speeches. His bride was decidedly plain, I’m not being cruel.
‘I dunno…’ Pam says.
‘Seriously, though. A break-up is like the five stages of grieving. I think they covered that in our psychology, but I must have out been sick that day.’
‘Or hungover,’ Pam sniggers.
‘True.’
Please note if you have not already done so, that I’m not some thicko. I’m an educated, accomplished woman who scraped a pass at a top university. My four years at Trinners were a fulfilling time that led to many introductions to eligible men. I juggled ten hours of lectures a week plus a full dating schedule. I’m washing the sour cream and onion crisps down with another gulp of wine, and recalling the theory. It goes a little something like this:
1 Phase 1: Denial
2 OK, things have gone belly up with Barry. He thinks I’m a priest-stalking, honeymoon-booking, Confetti-magazine-reading psycho. Fine! But maybe there is still hope that he will come home and forgive me and all will be rosy again. You know – like Ross and Rachel?
3 Phase 2: Anger
4 Barry boarded a plane to the other side of the world, despite the fact that we are at a critical relationship crossroad. I’ve a fire of rage that burns deep in the pit of my stomach. Either that, or the wine is cheapo plonk from Aldi.
5 Phase 3: Bargaining
6 I’d give anything to have Barry back. Anything, I tell you! Except for my shoe collection. They’re like my children, and will go to the grave with me.
7 Phase 4: Depression
8 I love the bones of Barry. Anyone with a pulse can see that I’m depressed