What If?

by Shari Low

  ‘And?’ she persists.

  ‘And I’m meeting him tonight for dinner,’ I squeal, doing an impersonation of a pogo stick. She’s incredulous and I don’t blame her. I could hardly believe the turnaround myself. To start with, he was absolutely hating me and then it was like a switch flicked and he suggested we carry on the conversation tonight at some trendy restaurant.

  She bangs a drum roll on the kitchen counter. The kids flee for cover – Mummy and Auntie Carly have obviously had too much caffeine again.

  That evening, I don my new Kookai dress, purchased on my return from Wimbledon. Yes, I know I’ve got the financial stability of a seesaw, but this could be one of the most important nights of my life. Anyway, I can always take it back for a refund tomorrow.

  Doug takes me to Marco Pierre White’s Titanic. Not exactly quiet and romantic, but definitely my kind of place – it’s frantically busy, deafeningly noisy and unbelievably shallow and trendy. I catch sight of us in the mirrors behind the bar. We look good together. We could definitely be a couple.

  We’re seated at a relatively quiet table. For once I’m glad that a waiter called Tarquin takes twenty minutes telling us about the specials – it gives me time to regulate my heartbeat. I choose ‘Steak à la McDonald’, expecting a prime cut of meat draped in a sauce made of the finest Scotch whisky. Instead I get a hamburger. Marco has a strange sense of humour.

  At first, conversation is awkward, so I go for the safe option. We swap tales of the events in our lives since our last meeting, me being somewhat economical with the truth. I’ve done this three times in the last two months now. I’m considering putting it on tape for any future reunions.

  Doug tells me that he’s never married but he lived with a girlfriend in Manchester for six years before deciding that it wasn’t right. Now, that sounds like the Doug I knew.

  We share a sticky toffee pudding. As I contemplate my ice cream, I do a quick mental review of the situation. I have to say there’s been an incredible thaw in his attitude since this morning.

  In fact, I hate to be too confident, but I actually think we’re having a good time. The starter was a bit awkward, main course was decidedly warmer and by the time dessert came there was lots of laughing, accidental brushes of hands and long lingering looks.

  I contemplate Doug and, to my eternal amazement, realise that he’s being, well, just Doug again – he’s charming, funny, sweet and comfortable. I spoke too soon – he’s just gone silent.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ I ask, not sure that I want to hear the answer.

  ‘I’m thinking that I want to take you home with me. What are you thinking?’ he says, staring at me earnestly.

  This is a bad idea. It is. A really bad idea. The worst idea I’ve ever heard. I just can’t quite think why at the moment because my libido has assumed control of my faculties and absolutely, definitely wants to play.

  ‘I’m thinking that I just might let you,’ I reply, trying to smile seductively, but probably only managing inane and gormless.

  We take a cab back to his house in Fulham. It’s a three storey town house on a litter-free street, lined with BMWs, Porsches and Mercs.

  Inside, Doug switches on a lamp to reveal a lounge straight out of Good Housekeeping. The walls are cream, with gold uplighters focused on prints of Monet, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci’s works of art. The flooring is stripped wood and there are two black leather sofas bordering a glass coffee table with an antique gold base. The television and hi-fi are neatly set in a glass unit on the far wall and there are brass statues on the two glass side tables. I’m terrified to touch anything in case I leave finger marks. How does he dust all this?

  He presses a button on a remote control and the sounds of Quincy Jones flood the room. I cringe a little. This is paint-by-numbers seduction and, to my shame, not only are my hormones whisking up a frenzy, but the rest of me is enjoying it too.

  Doug pours me a glass of champagne, then takes my hand and guides me through to the bedroom. He kisses me slowly, then urgently, pressing me against a wall.

  I pull at his shirt, sending buttons ricocheting across the room. He tears at my dress and it dissolves into pieces before falling to the floor. Shit, there goes that refund. Still, at least I wore my black, lace, G-string and underwired, ‘hold all your bits in place’ body suit.

  He pulls me up and over to the bed. He kneels above me and bends to kiss my lips, my neck… all the way down to my toes. If this goes on for much longer, then I’m going to come before he does. I remember his haste in the sexual department and realise that’ll be a first.

  He slides back up to kiss me on the lips, at the same time reaching into a bedside drawer, pulling out a condom, opening it and slipping it on with one hand. This boy’s been practising.

  ‘I love you, Cooper. I always have,’ he whispers as he slips inside me. His words send my lust level into orbit. He still loves me. Wow.

  He moves slowly back and forward, murmuring in my ear the whole time, telling me everything he’s going to do to me. My legs are locked around his back just in case he thinks of escaping. There’s no way I’m letting this one go.

  He’s relentless, moving my body into positions that I thought were only possible after years of intensive yoga. Every time I think he’s going to climax, he controls himself and carries on. After multiple orgasms on my side, he finally lets go and comes, gasping and grinding to a halt. He collapses beside me.

  I want to say something, but I can’t. I’m in shock. This guy has developed serious skills. Oh, and he loves me. Or was that just something he blurted out in the moment?

  He leans over and traces my face with his finger.

  ‘I love you, Carly,’ he tells me again. Not an accidental outburst then.

  I smile back and lean over to kiss him. Nope, I’m not even going to go there. Too many times before, I’ve rushed into the whole ‘love you’ stuff and it’s ended up in chaos. This is a new me. I’m going to take my time, be sure of how I feel before promising the earth and delivering disaster. I’m a reformed character. But I have to say, I’m feeling something here that’s more than just lust.

  ‘So what happens next, Mr Cook?’

  ‘Carly, there’s no way I’m letting you go again. Is that okay with you?’ he smiles and pushes my hair back off my face.

  ‘I think maybe I could get used to the idea.’

  He holds me tight as he slips off to sleep. I’ve never felt so warm and safe in my life. How did I ever let this man slip through my fingers?

  Doug starts to snore quietly, but I’m so excited that I’ll be lucky to sleep again this year. I look at the clock – 2 a.m.. Who’s likely to be awake at this time?

  I pad through to the lounge and call Carol. She answers immediately.

  ‘George, I told you to fuck off,’ she yells, before slamming the phone down.

  Okay, I’ve obviously missed an episode in her life. I thought her and George had kissed and made up? I try again. ‘Carol, don’t hang up, it’s me. Are you okay?’

  ‘No!’ she cries.

  Oh, shit. Trust me to walk right into the middle of a crisis. I knew today was too good to be true.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ I promise, slamming down the phone. I find my dress, but the only thing it can be used for now is dusters. Bugger it. I grab Doug’s trousers and belt, then slip on his shirt and tie it in a knot. I pause to look at him before I leave the bedroom. He is truly beautiful. And he loves me! I would dance, only my legs are so sore they’d probably buckle.

  In the lounge, I search for a pen and a piece of paper.

  Doug,

  Carol’s had a crisis and I’m the only available emergency service. Last night was amazing. Please call me in the morning (mobile: 0911 234231). Can’t wait to speak to you.

  Luv,

  Cooper.

  I call a cab, then realise that I don’t know where I am. I run outside, check the street name and house number and try again. How is it possible for
a night to go so far down the toilet in such a short space of time? This is a record even for me.

  Twenty minutes later, Carol lets me into her flat. She’s still sniffling and her eyes look like burst plums.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I ask as I give her a cuddle.

  That does it – Niagara gushes down her face.

  I pour her a large brandy, then an even larger one for me and order her to lie down on the sofa. I get a flannel from the bathroom, run it under the cold tap, then return to the lounge and put it over her face.

  ‘Don’t say anything for a moment,’ I tell her.

  After a few minutes, I remove the cloth. That’s better – she only looks mildly disfigured now.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ I urge again.

  She’s silent for a long time.

  ‘George asked me to marry him.’

  I’m confused. ‘And that’s bad, why?’

  ‘Carly, look at me. How did I end up like this? I’m thirty-one years old and a guy who’ll soon qualify for a bus pass is the closest I can get to a stable relationship.’

  ‘But I thought that was the whole point. I thought that was what you wanted – older, rich guys that have their lives sorted.’

  ‘I know, Carly, it was, but it just all seems so pointless now. I mean, how can I spend the rest of my life with men who take an afternoon nap. What have I been thinking?’

  I’d forgotten about the golden rule of being female. It’s our prerogative to change our minds at any given time, without warning and expect the rest of the world to understand and fall in line.

  ‘So what do you want now?’

  ‘I want a real relationship. One that’s not based on bank balances and being a trophy girlfriend. I want children and a house and a life.’

  Well, knock me over and call me Kate Moss.

  ‘Carol, you can have all that. You’re beautiful, you’re successful, you’re funny, you’re intelligent and you’re a good person. You could have any man you wanted.’

  She wipes her nose on her sleeve. Remind me never to borrow that jumper.

  She thinks for a moment. ‘But look at you. You’re all those things too and you still haven’t found anyone.’

  A stake through my heart.

  ‘Yes, but that’s because I’m officially hopeless.’

  She laughs.

  I take that as progress and press on. We talk until the sun comes up, until I have to sleep before my body collapses in a heap.

  ‘Right, from now on, you will accept all offers of dates that you receive from any men under forty-five, regardless of their bank balance. You’ll only be drawn to men who are younger than your dad and you’ll stop socialising in the Help the Aged canteen. Okay?’

  She smiles, then clutches her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, shit, Carly. I’ve been so busy talking about me that I forgot to ask how your date with Doug went.’

  I wrinkle up my nose and grin like a deranged maniac. ‘Well, we ended up in bed making lurve.’

  She doesn’t miss a beat. ‘Okay, so that took care of five minutes, what about the rest of the night?’

  Crisis over. Carol is definitely back to her wonderfully sarcastic self.

  Friends. Who’d be without them?

  I wait all day for Doug to call, but he doesn’t. At four o’clock, I capitulate and call him.

  ‘Doug, it’s me. I’m really sorry about leaving last night, but it was an emergency, honest.’

  He explodes. ‘Carly, I don’t want to hear it. You show up after all these years, I tell you how I feel about you, then you fucking disappear again. I’m not playing your stupid games any more.’

  Do I detect a note of unhappiness? I pull on kneepads and grovel, offering every piece of mitigation I’ve ever seen on re-runs of LA Law. I finally resort to that old girl’s favourite. ‘Look, Doug, it was a gynaecological thing. You see what happened was…’

  ‘Stop!’ he bellows. It works every time. I’ve not yet met a guy who can bear to discuss anything to do with a woman’s reproductive system. He finally concedes. ‘Look, I can’t see you tonight. I play football on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays. But I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven, okay?’

  I feel like a cat who’s just discovered that she’s got ten lives.

  I spend hours preparing for dinner the following night. Every surplus hair is electrocuted, every pore exfoliated, hard skin is sandblasted and three buckets of body lotion are applied.

  As Doug walks up Kate’s path, there’s an earth tremor. No, that’s just me trying to walk in Carol’s four inch Gucci heels without tearing Jess’s pink Voyage dress. I’m a living, almost breathing, almost walking, hand-me-down.

  We go to Henry’s, one of my favourite Richmond restaurants, and sit at a table on the balcony overlooking the Thames. Over dinner, my mind wanders back to that last morning, all those years ago, with Doug. I can’t believe he’s sitting here with me now. I look up at the sky. If this were a Danielle Steel novel, it would say that the stars were shining down on me.

  I snap back to reality. Sod Danielle Steel. If I remember correctly, she helped me get into that mess in the first place.

  I tell Doug about Carol and Jess and about meeting Sarah again. I warn him that I’m unemployed, in debt and homeless. He laughs and shakes his head at that bit. He might at least have the decency to look surprised. But before I have time to put my offended face on, he leans over and kisses me.

  ‘Carly, who cares? This is more important than any of that.’

  And he’s right. Suddenly everything has been worth it. Maybe this was all meant to happen. We were supposed to break up, so that we could find each other again and this time we’d have no worries that we were too young or settling down too soon.

  We go back to his house. After a few hours in bed, I’m desperate to ask him where he got his new techniques and stamina from, but I figure that’s a boat I don’t want to rock.

  I wake in his arms the following morning.

  ‘You’re still here,’ he nuzzles into my neck.

  ‘Thought I’d wait around to see what you’re like in the mornings.’

  He pulls my hand under the covers and wraps it around his hard-on. ‘Answer your question?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Here we go again. At this rate, I’ll have the toned body of an athlete before the week’s out. Either that or chronic exhaustion.

  It’s girls’ night at Paco’s. We’ve changed it to the first Thursday of the month to accommodate Kate’s antenatal classes. Paco loves us to pieces after the publicity generated by the Basil and George show. The restaurant has been fully booked ever since.

  I can’t believe it’s July already. It’s been over three months since I left my job and eight whole weeks since I rediscovered Doug.

  ‘Cooper, will you stop grinning like that, it’s nauseating and you’re putting me off my nachos.’ Jess is in a foul mood. There must be trouble in the world of politics again.

  ‘I’m sorry. I forgot to practice my “miserable cow” face before I came out tonight. So anyway, what were you saying?’

  Kate kicks me under the table for not paying attention.

  Jess, it seems, has finally given the Right Honourable Basil Asquith MP an ultimatum – he either leaves his wife and moves in with her or it’s over. The upstanding Mr Asquith buckled and begged her for more time, pleading that he had his children to think of and he must prepare them for such trauma. Given that his kids are thirty-two and thirty-four, I can understand why she’s cynical.

  ‘And this time I mean it. I’m not capitulating. No. Definitely not. I’m getting way too old for this mistress nonsense. No, I mean it. Absolutely. This is it.’

  It’s a reaffirmation thing Jess does when she’s facing a challenge. You know, like the self-help books preach that you should look in the mirror every morning and say, ‘You’re beautiful, you’re fulfilled, and all is right in your world.’ I would try it, only I fear that my mirror would answer back and contradic
t me.

  We move on to Kate’s condition. She now looks like she’s hiding a basketball up her shirt.

  ‘Well, I think Bruce is a great name,’ Carol is trying to convince her.

  ‘I’m not bloody calling him after his father. You know what happens. He’ll end up being known as “Wee Bruce”. That’s bordering on child abuse.’

  ‘What about Douglas?’ It’s out of my mouth before I realise that I’ve said it.

  Four heads spin round to face me.

  ‘Cooper, you’re obsessed. First sign of a decent shag and you lose control of your senses.’

  ‘I know, isn’t it great?’ I agree.

  ‘You’re a nightmare.’ Kate tries to introduce logic into the conversation, ‘You’ve only been seeing him again for a few weeks and the whole sex thing has got you completely entranced.’

  ‘It’s not just the sex, Kate. Would I be that shallow?’

  Even the people at the next table nod.

  ‘It’s not, honestly. He’s, well, he’s…’ I struggle to find the words. ‘He’s everything. I am totally, completely falling in love with him again.’

  Four groans. It sounds like the diners at this table have a bad case of indigestion.

  ‘So the great manhunt is over?’ Carol asks.

  ‘Definitely. And at the cost of £1934.56, it was a bargain.’ I’d finally opened my credit card statements that morning. Now I just have to take more money out of them to pay the bills. I need a job quickly.

  ‘Jesus, Cooper, what did you buy in Scotland, a small island?’

  ‘Don’t even ask, but it was worth it.’ Every time I talk to Sarah on the phone, she sounds like she’s still smiling.

  ‘Have you told him yet?’ Kate asks.

  ‘Who? What?’

  ‘Focus, Carly, focus. Have you told Doug that he’s the lucky winner in the potential husband competition?’

  ‘Not yet. I’m just taking it slow and letting things take their natural course.’