‘So. I almost forgot,’ Barry clears his throat and puts his fork down.
This is it.
‘Yes!’ I cry, startling the couple at the next table.
‘Eh, so…yeah. Happy birthday, Rebecca.’
Barry reaches into his breast pocket. Here it is. I watch in slow motion. I can’t take the suspense any longer. It is killing me. I nearly shout at him to hurry the flip up, but I catch myself in time.
‘Oh, what’s this?’ I force my eyebrows back down.
‘Open it and see. Just a small little something. I saw you admiring it a while ago in the jeweller’s window.’
Holy Flipping Divine. I try a deep breath. The banoffee is performing somersaults. The box looks too big for a ring, now that I examine it a second time. It must be a whopper. He must have blown a packet on it.
Slowly, tantalisingly, I tease open the box. I am savouring the moment of joy. Tears are pricking my lids in preparation. As the velvet lid opens ajar, I get a flash of diamond. There, in all its glory is a… surely not. What the?!
‘It’s a …’ I swallow.
There is an uncomfortable lump in my throat. Perhaps the dessert is coming back up for its final revenge. I reach for my champagne flute but it is empty. I reach for the bottle, which is also empty.
‘A…’ I can hardly pronounce the word, a dirty word, a vulgar word.
‘Bracelet…’
‘Yes, it’s the diamond tennis bracelet. I saw you admiring it in the window of Weir’s in Dundrum town centre. That’s the one you were pointing to, yeah?’
I try to speak but can’t. All I can do is nod mutely. Inside, I am screaming.
‘Yes, that’s the one alright.’ I scrounge a smile.
He’s right. It’s the one I pointed to. However, it was after I’d pointed to the engagement rings. It was a greedy afterthought, following much drooling at the diamond and platinum pretties to the left.
‘Do you like it?’ Barry looks hurt. I’d better say something. I’d better fix this. I’m ruining the evening.
‘Thank you,’ my voice is small. ‘So much. I love it.’
The waiter doesn’t even glance in our direction. There is no mariachi band hiding behind the curtains to serenade the newly engaged couple. There are no fellow diners clapping and smiling. The dream is over. Soon, it will be midnight and my golden carriage will turn back into a pumpkin. My dress will turn into rags. The waiters will turn into mice.
A twelve-year-old Rebecca is shaking her head; the mission will be marked harshly with an ink stamp.
DEADLINE PASSED.
Barry is oblivious. ‘Cheque, please.’
I tell him I’m tired, bit of a headache, too much champers perhaps. We drive home in silence.
What will the girls think? I’m a wreck; we’re talking tears and snot, here. Scrambling through my overstuffed Chloé handbag, in between soggy tissues, my wallet and a hairbrush, I retrieve a make-up bag and study myself in a compact mirror. Once I wipe away the panda eyes and smooth my sleek blonde hair, I’m passable. A dash of daring red lippie finishes the patch-up job. You can do this!
The taxi pulls up at the Ice bar, and I thrust a tenner at the driver. He mutters something, but doesn’t even have the decency to ogle my legs as I get out. I’m scuttling towards the door to escape the drizzle which threatens to frizz my hair. This is not easy in an overpriced pair of Manolo Blahniks, as they are of six-inch-heel proportions, and are already killing me. Still, they make me feel like I might pass for my late twenties, so I decide that it will be worth it. Beauty is pain!
A few stiff drinks will be just the ticket. Yes, Barry and I have had the mother ship of arguments. No, last night’s birthday dinner didn’t exactly go to plan. But deadlines are extended all the time. It will all work out.
I’m ready to make an entrance.
The girls have already arrived, and are sitting in a booth with the drinks lined up. They spot me instantly and are on their feet to greet me.
‘OMG! Rebecca, you look so thin!’ Emer squeals in approval as we air kiss.
‘Becks! You skinny malink.’ Pam kisses me twice on each cheek. I think the month in France at the family chalet has gone to her head.
I’m sucking in my tummy.
‘No! Are you serious? I’ve bloody ballooned. Thanks, though.’
Quick aside: I’d squeezed myself into something very tight and black before the taxi had honked. FYI, the ensemble was over a one-size-too-small pair of Spanx that I had purchased (with huge shame) in Marks & Spencer’s. Judging by my gal pals, it has sucked me in at all the right places and created a slimming illusion. Honestly, it is a kind of black magic – worth every penny. Breathing is so over-rated, anyway.
Since I’ve now passed the big Three-Oh threshold, I’ll need to be on major frump alert.
‘Happy birthday,’ Emer and Pam chorus as I slide in beside them.
Pam passes me a Brown Thomas gift bag, and I air kiss her again. It’s probably a darling lipstick from the Chanel counter. Pam slides a birthday card over to me, with a badge that reads ‘I’m 30, buy me a drink!’, and there is a spa gift voucher inside.
‘Thanks, girls,’ I give a watery smile. ‘Let’s hope this evening is better than last night.’
The girls exchange uneasy looks. I’d texted them both this afternoon in a right state, so they know that something is up. Hopefully, they can utter words of wisdom in between cocktails.
‘What happened, pet?’ Emer asks.
Dressed in a jersey wrap dress and expensive jewellery, Emer oozes effortless class. She smacks of old money. You know, there’s not much of that about these days. Such a pity. Her blonde hair is shoulder length and sensible.
Pam, on the other hand, is dressed in a black shapeless dress, and her auburn hair is scraped into a large clip. I can tell that she’s hungover from the night before by the way she’s knocking back her Malibu and Coke. Her eye make-up is smudged.
‘Well,’ I sigh dramatically for effect.
The girls lean in closer. I’m the centre of attention, and loving every minute.
‘I think I’ll start with a Sex on the Beach. For old time’s sake.’
‘Forget the drinks!’ says Pam. ‘Tell us!’
‘What’s up?’ Emer rests her chin on her left hand, and I notice her dazzler. At three carats, it’s hard to miss. You can probably see it from space. I’m practically blind looking at it, but can’t avert my gaze. The bitchy school girl in me shouts how gauche it is, but I know that if I had a granny I’d sell her for one just like it. Emer orders us a Strawberry Daiquiri, a Mojito and an Appletini. I’m ready to divulge the sordid details.
‘It’s all gone tits up, girls. Barry took me out to dinner last night for my birthday and gave me this.’
I produce my limp wrist with the bracelet dangling, and study their faces for a reaction.
‘Oh, wow. It’s gorgeous.’ Emer strokes the diamonds.
‘Yeah. I suppose. Kind of hoping