Shame on me (by Heather)

You have an experience of seeing your life from an outside perspective, and as a result you see something familiar in a completely new light.

I drop my spoon, causing it to clang loudly on the saucer of my coffee. I smother the spoon quickly with my hand and avert my head in case Ben looks in my direction.

But I needn’t have worried. Ben is too busy finding a booth at the same time as scanning the room for someone.

What on earth is he doing here, when he’d told me a few minutes ago that he was heading off to finish up a job he’d been working on? He lied to me! What for?

He disappears from my view for a second and then startles me by popping into the booth right next to mine, screened by a trellissy sort of thing. I’m trying madly to decide whether or not to pop my head over the screen and say hello.

I am still debating this when a perky brunette comes through the door, breaks into a big smile and heads straight to his booth. “Ben!” she says. “How good is it to see you!” He leaps up and she gives him a huge hug. He hugs her unreservedly back.

I freeze like a deer in the headlights. This is my worst nightmare; it must be every fiancée’s worst nightmare. You catch your man practically in flagrante with someone else just months before your wedding. I have a thought that it’s lucky I don’t have a gun, because if I did, I might start shooting. Instead, I concentrate on listening.

“Well, congratulations on your engagement,” the brunette says in this fruity contralto voice. “I hear you had a big shindig.”

Ben coughs uncomfortably. “Well, yes, sorry about not inviting you. I’d have loved to but Suz is a little, well, possessive. She goes off like rocket if I so much as look at someone else.”

“That’s a shame,” Contralto Voice says. “So she’s a little insecure?”

I bristle and the anger builds. I’m being patronised? If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s insecure. My friends tell me I’m drop dead gorgeous; well, at least I make the most of myself. I’ve had a few small procedures to enhance…

I can’t believe it. Ben is telling her about them.

“For example,” he says, “she’s had a few what she calls ‘small procedures’. She’s had her nose done, and…”

Ben, don’t. Don’t!

“…And she had her breasts augmented. I mean, they’re great, very attractive, the guys give me a hard time which is terrific, but really, it was the last thing I wanted her to do.”

By now I am sitting very very still. I seem to be paralysed. I hear my heartbeat in my ears. I want desperately to be transported to some other part of the planet, Afghanistan, maybe. A train is bearing down on me and I’m powerless to stop it. I can feel every fibre of my being coming unglued.

“I’ve been to the wedding website, and love your photos. She’s very pretty,” says Contralto.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about the wedding,” Ben says, and another dagger strikes my heart. “I said from the beginning I just wanted something small, intimate, but it’s like I’m invisible. This thing is shaping up bigger than the launch of the Titanic.”

“Bad metaphor,” the brunette laughs.

“It’s going to break the bank for both her parents and my parents. But it’ll be impressive and that’s the important thing,” he says bitterly.

“And I won’t be able to come and be impressed,” she says softly.

Ben takes a while replying and sounds sad. “No, I’d never get an ex-girlfriend past her onto the guest list.”

“That’s all right, Ben,” she says. “What I like is a good talk with you. I’m happy to catch up like this.”

“Even if I have to sneak out,” laughs Ben.

“Even if,” she replies, a smile in her voice.

I can feel the bile rising up my throat. I’ve never felt anything like this – a wave of shame so extreme that I think I might die on the spot.

“We call her Princess,” Ben says, betraying me even further. “Her dad used to call her Princess, and now I do. But I do it…”

“…With a hint of irony,” she supplies.

“Plenty of irony,” says Ben.

And then she says: “You sure she’s right for you, Ben?”

The silence that follows is the longest ten minutes of my life. Well, maybe it isn’t ten minutes but it feels like it. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. Even the hand holding my coffee cup stops shaking.

Finally he says, so quietly I can hardly hear him, “Oh yes, I’m sure. I’ve never been so sure of anything. She’s warm and funny and endearing and I just love her,” he says simply.

I gulp back a sob and suddenly I can’t endure it anymore. I drop a $10 bill on the table and slink out. “I hope everything was okay, miss,” somebody calls out loudly as I head toward the door. I don’t turn my back.


Later that afternoon, Ben comes home. I’m ready for him.

He hangs up his jacket and looks at me closely. “Have you been crying?”

“I’ve been thinking,” I say quickly before a fresh crop of tears can give me away. “I’ve been thinking about our wedding.”

Ben looks alarmed. “Princess, we’ve already…”

I cut him off. “Stop,” I say. “I was thinking about doing something much simpler, much more…” I hesitate, “…intimate. Just a few family members, some of our closest old friends, even people from before we knew each other. Maybe in your mum’s garden, followed by some tasty snacks.” I skid to a halt. I can’t say any more.

Ben’s expression flashes bewilderment, flickers for a microsecond on sceptical and finally lands on relieved and radiant. That look is my reward for everything in my life that I have done right.

“And don’t call me Princess,” I add. “Please? Okay? I don’t want to be called Princess anymore.”