by Shari Low
I was stunned. Even more surprising, I was experiencing something other than just a thudding heart now.
‘Joe, can I ask you something?’ Oh no. My gob was running away with itself and my brain was desperately trying to apply the brakes.
‘Sure.’
‘Can I kiss you?’ Brake fail. Screech. Crash.
‘Sure.’ He laughed as he stood up and leaned over the desk, turning his head to one side and proffering his cheek.
I reached up slowly and touched his chin, turning his face as I did, so that his eyes met mine. I brushed my lips against his once, then again, then I launched an all-out assault, stopping only for breath when I began to turn a mild shade of pink. This was shocking. Crazy. And absolutely bloody wonderful. But what was wrong with me that my attraction to men seemed to come out of nowhere and ambush me? It had been the same with Nick Russo in that Benidorm bar, and now Joe had gone from my lovely boss to intoxicatingly attractive in the space of a couple of days.
‘I think we need to talk,’ he whispered, panic in his voice. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘But what about the club?’
‘It’s quiet out there. Chad can look after it tonight,’ he insisted.
He grabbed his jacket and my hand and pulled me outside. We walked silently for what seemed like miles, before stopping at an ancient wooden bench on the edge of one of the canals. I waited for him to say something, too terrified to speak in case I had this all wrong. Was he going to give me a lecture about how he was the boss and couldn’t fraternise with the staff? Was he going to fire me? Did snogging the boss constitute gross misconduct? Or was he just going to say that I was incredibly stupid, pat me on the head and tell me to keep my tongue well away from his tonsils in future?
Eventually he spoke. ‘I’ve wanted to kiss you for such a long time.’
Phew!
He continued, ‘You see, I’m in love with you.’
‘I know.’ It came out with a matter of fact nod and shrug.
‘You do? How?’
I giggled. ‘My gran told me.’
His eyes crinkled up in that gorgeous way as he laughed too, then leaned over and did that kissing thing again for a long, long time.
We were still smiling when the sun came up the following morning and we were still sitting on the same bench planning our future. I’d gone from zero to love in two point five seconds and it felt oh so right.
We’d decided that I would leave the hotel and move into his flat. He told me that he was going to open a new restaurant across town and he would split his time between both outlets, leaving the day-to-day running of the Premier Club to me. I argued that I was too young, and an illegal alien to boot, but he disagreed and said that I was more than capable and that my permits would be through any day now. It was the most warm and bubbly feeling. This amazing guy believed in me. And he loved me!
He took me back to his flat that morning and slowly undressed me, his hands tenderly drifting over my body, touching and probing everywhere. Thank God I’d worn my best underwear.
We stayed in bed all day – making love, talking. At one point we were discussing music and I confessed my hidden love of Elvis. Joe broke into an impromptu and really terrible rendition of ‘Burning Love’. I hoped he would never suggest the rhythm method of contraception because he obviously had none. But I didn’t care. Every fibre of my being told me I was on to something special with Joe Cain, and the next six months proved me right.
We worked in the evenings and slept late in the mornings, waking to make love before having a long lunch. The afternoons were filled with long walks and I finally did venture inside Amsterdam’s many museums and galleries. We would lie in the park, my head on his chest as he read to me or simply stroked my hair while I snoozed. Every day I fell more in love with him and I just knew, without a doubt, that we were meant to be together.
On the anniversary of my arrival in Holland, we went to our favourite Italian restaurant. Joe had been edgy all week and I was beginning to panic. What was wrong with him? Was he bored with us? I thought we’d been so happy, but maybe I’d missed something? He hardly spoke throughout the meal. I tried to be windswept and interesting, tried to draw him into conversation, but he wouldn’t have it. He was completely distracted.
Panic turned to sheer terror as he jumped up and asked for the bill the minute we’d finished our coffee.
We made our way outside and instead of looking for a taxi, Joe turned right and started walking, dragging me behind him. Bugger, I was going to break my neck – my shoes were definitely not made for walking. I could feel the blisters rising when he finally came to a stop at the bench where we’d spent our first night together.
‘What are we doing here, Joe? Tell me what’s wrong,’ I begged.
He sat me down and looked at his watch. What the hell was going on? What was he waiting for?
He said nothing.
I turned to face the canal, contemplating jumping in if the night got any worse, when suddenly I saw it. Approaching slowly from the west was a canal boat, lit up like a Christmas tree. As it neared us, I could see that it had a massive banner on the side, words emblazoned on it. I squinted to read it, only managing when it was directly in front of us.
COOPER, I LOVE YOU. MARRY ME.
I squealed, my hand flying to my mouth. It was only when I caught the questioning glint in his eyes that I realised he was waiting for an answer.
I threw my arms around him. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I screamed between kisses, until he disentangled himself and pulled a box from his pocket. When he opened it, there was the most beautiful diamond solitaire I had ever seen.
‘I thought I’d better wait until you said yes before showing you this,’ he laughed. ‘I know how shallow you are and I didn’t want you saying yes just so you could get the diamond.’
‘You know me far too well, Mr Cain,’ I answered, heart swollen to bursting point. ‘Do I get matching earrings if we last a year?’
As always, his eyes crinkled as he laughed, and if it was possible, I loved him even more. In fact, I was so besotted that I managed to get over the twinge of sadness that I wasn’t sharing tonight with anyone from home. Callum would interrogate Joe to make sure he was good enough. Michael would love the thought of having another brother. Kate would hug me, Sarah would shriek with happiness, Carol would try to work out the value of the ring and Jess would give me a full run down on the legal implications of marriage and divorce. I pushed the longing away. I missed my girls and my brothers madly, but the excitement of working in the club and living with Joe seemed a million miles from my old life.
My pals would love him, though. I was sure of it.
Joe. My fiancé. The girl who had spent years watching her parents’ marriage and vowing she’d never walk into that trap, was engaged. And crazy as it was, it felt great to have someone who loved me so much he wanted to spend a lifetime with me.
That night, we went home and had the most passionate sex I’d ever known. It was ferocious: licking, biting, swinging from the lights… I’m sure most of it would have been illegal in several countries. But thankfully, not Holland. When we were finally satisfied, I felt like I required oxygen and a pacemaker.
Joe rolled over. ‘Cooper, tell me your ultimate sexual fantasy.’ This was a game we often played before, during or after sex – there was a prize for the most original composition. Our fantasies were like cocktails. We had a fantasy of the week, a daily special fantasy and a monthly themed fantasy. It was all harmless humour and most of them were so ridiculous that we usually ended up in fits of giggles.
‘The ultimate one?’ I enquired.
‘The ultimate one,’ he responded. ‘The one that you definitely want to do in this lifetime.’
I racked my brains, trying to think of the most interesting one. There were loads to choose from, but, to tell you the truth, although I had fun thinking about them, I wasn’t sure that I actually wanted to physically act on them.
Com
e on, Cooper, play the game.
‘I guess it would be the one where we have sex in a room full of strangers – that would be a turn on.’
Mistake. Big mistake.
A week later it was our night off and Joe and I went to our usual bar on the edge of the Red Light area. After six-too-many cocktails we left and Joe steered me to a concealed doorway in an alley off the Leidseplein. I didn’t give it a second thought. Joe knew the city’s nightlife inside out and had taken me to loads of gems that were off the beaten track.
He rapped on the door. After a few minutes, it was answered by a burly chap with an English accent and a bad wig.
He beckoned us inside. I was ten feet inside the door when I froze to the spot. Everyone was naked. The bar was full of people sipping cocktails and chatting like it was the most natural thing in the world (which, I suppose, it was, really). Mother of God, you didn’t find bars like this in Glasgow. It was too bloody cold there, for a start.
The shock sobered me immediately. I scanned the room. Good grief, there was a couple having sex in the corner and nobody was batting an eyelid.
Joe put his arm around me. ‘It’s your fantasy, Carly. We can do whatever you want.’
How about a dash to the door?
I took a deep breath. I could handle this, I thought. I was a cosmopolitan woman of the world. Anyway, hadn’t I come to Amsterdam looking for adventure and new experiences?
As usual in times of crisis, I got a mental image of my mum. She didn’t have to say a word – she just pursed her lips and frowned, shaking her head.
I forced the image from my mind. Come on, Cooper, get a grip. No-one else here was in the least bit flustered, so why was I the same colour as the red lights spinning on the ceiling? I could do this. I could.
Time to put on my party pants. Or rather, to take them off.
We checked in our clothes at the cloakroom and made our way to the bar. It was bizarre. From the necks up, it looked like a room of lawyers, teachers and doctors, but from the necks down, it was a party in a nudist colony. And there was I, in the middle of it all, wearing high heels and a smile. Why hadn’t I stuck to that last diet? My wobbly bits were trembling. More deep breaths. I sucked in my stomach until my abdominal muscles threatened to snap. Then I realised something. Nobody was looking at me. Nobody was inspecting my thighs for cellulite or pointing in horror at the size of my bum. I started to giggle.
‘What?’ Joe asked. ‘What are you laughing at?’
By this time, I was splitting my naked sides. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. If the girls at home could see me now, they’d think I’d lost it and ambush me with a packet of pants!’
I tried to see the whole thing as a turn-on, but it was too ridiculous, so we settled for a game of pornographic ‘I Spy’ and a quick grope behind a pillar when I was positive that nobody could see us.
Eventually, we went home and slumped into bed, still giggling like kids during their first sex education lesson.
Joe pulled me on top of him. ‘Tell me another fantasy, Cooper.’
I’d learned my lesson. ‘No way, Mr Cain. You take things entirely too literally.’
Over the following months, our roller-coaster fired along without any major derailments. Thankfully, our sojourn to the ‘bare bum bar’ was never repeated and we continued to have long nights and mornings of love with lots of fantasies thrown in to keep things interesting.
In fact, that had started to niggle somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain. It seemed like our sex life revolved more and more around talking dirty than it did around love. I chided myself that I was just moaning about too much of a good thing. After all, I enjoyed the fantasies. But every night…?
It was a small price to pay. During the days, Joe was his usual funny, kind, caring, protective, interesting, gorgeous self. We spent endless hours talking about our wedding, a knees-up back in Scotland with my girl gang as bridesmaids. One Christmas Eve, I’d called everyone with the news. My granny had whooped with glee, my mother had said she hoped I knew what I was doing and my brothers demanded to meet him and asked if he was any good at football. My dad asked if he got a discount at the club now. I told him he was barred.
Next I called Kate’s house, hoping all my pals would be there, and they were. They’d all huddled around the phone, and when I’d told them I was engaged they’d shrieked with excitement for me. I promised I’d bring Joe back to meet them soon, but it hadn’t happened. The problem with owning and running clubs pretty much single-handedly is that there’s no one to take over when the boss wants a break. Chad could cover for a few hours, but he had his hands full on the door. All our staff were part-time, so – other than me – Joe didn’t have anyone he could trust with managing things in his absence. Add to that his workaholic nature, and I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get a break. Every time I mentioned it, Joe would promise me we’d get a holiday soon and my hopes would rise, then fall again as more time passed and it still didn’t happen.
On a freezing cold night in January, as I made my way to work, I knew it was going to be a quiet night. I was on my own, because Joe was out scouting other clubs, searching for his next investment. There were few tourists at this time of year and the six inches of snow on the ground would stop most of the locals coming out. By midnight, only a few tables were busy as I worked the room, chatting to all the regulars. At a corner table was a couple I’d never seen before, so I introduced myself as I passed them.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the guy replied. ‘It’s a great club you’ve got here.’
I stopped in my tracks. It was the broadest Glasgow accent. I turned and smiled.
‘You’re from Glasgow!’ Why did my stomach just do a somersault in glee? And why did I want to hug them? ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ I offered, suddenly excited. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a dull night after all.
When I took over their drinks and joined them, they introduced themselves as Fraser and Wendy. They were over on a weekend break and as we chatted, it transpired that not only were they from Glasgow, but they were from the same area as me. In fact, Fraser played in the same football team as my brother, Callum.
I interrogated them for stories of home. How was Callum? Did they know Michael? What about Kate, Carol, Sarah and Jess? Fraser told me that my brother had broken his leg the week before. I was stunned. Callum had broken his leg and I didn’t know about it. What kind of a sister was I? I felt like I’d been overtaken by a variety pack of emotions. On the one hand, it was great to talk to people from home. But on the other… well, it was strange – I had never been homesick before and now waves of it were sweeping over me.
At closing time, they staggered out, drunk on the drinks that I had been plying them with as thanks for answering my relentless questions all night. I let all the staff go and as I waited for Joe to collect me, gloom descended. I tried to pinpoint what was wrong, but I couldn’t understand it. Suddenly, I just wanted to get on the first plane available and go home.
I sat silently in the car all the way back to our apartment, then listlessly undressed and climbed into bed. Joe put his arms around me.
‘Make love to me, Joe,’ I asked.
‘Sure, babe. Why don’t you tell me a story first?’
He didn’t get it. I didn’t want acrobatic sex and horny fantasies. I wanted him to make slow tender love to me. To make me feel better. To make me feel like I belonged here.
I rolled over and stared at the photo on my bedside table. It was of all the girls on our last day in Benidorm. We were literally falling over each other as we made daft gestures into the camera, faces the colour of tomatoes from too much sun. We looked like we didn’t have a care in the world. What were they doing right now? Our friendships were still there, but we’d all gone our separate ways and our contact was limited to the occasional letter or infrequent phone call, always instigated by me because Sarah and Jess were skint students, Carol was working in a bar between modelling gigs to make ends meet an
d Kate was living on just over thirty quid a week as a junior in a salon.
I reached for the phone to call Kate, but stopped myself; it would only make me feel worse.
Instead, I turned to look at Joe, who unfortunately was in an extremely unattractive, open mouthed mid-snore. Did he ever feel like this? Did he ever want to be somewhere else (I mean, other than a nudist bar in Barbados – fantasy number forty-six)?
Maybe it was an age thing, I mused. Joe was thirty-seven, I was nearly twenty years younger. He was only the second man I’d ever slept with, for God’s sake. And if I married him, then he’d be the last. Panic began to rise. Did I really want to look at the same penis for the rest of my life? What if this was a huge mistake? What would life be like in ten years’ time – would I be married with six kids by then, covered in food, tears and snot, trapped in domesticated hell? I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to promise the rest of my life to this man, no matter how bloody spectacular he was.
And spectacular, he definitely was. I touched his cheek. He was everything I’d ever wanted. He was funny, sexy, smart…
I was so confused. I mean, this wasn’t a mild dilemma, like would I take the holiday or the car if I won on Family Fortunes. This was a full-blown life-changing crossroads and I had no idea which way to turn.
When I got out of bed at 5 a.m., the world seemed different. Joe still lay sleeping beside me, the snoring now ceased, the mouth closed and looking unbearably gorgeous and touchable. But it didn’t matter. I knew what I was going to do and I hated myself for it.
I leaned over and kissed him, feeling traitorous but unable to stop myself from betraying him.
You see, I knew I wasn’t staying. I knew I had to go home for a while. Back to Callum and Michael and my gran and the girls. Back to Maw and Paw Walton. Just home. But I knew that if I told Joe, he would insist on coming with me and that wasn’t the answer. I wanted to go alone, to see my mates and my family. To think about us and what we were doing. He would never understand. After all, hadn’t we vowed never to spend a night apart?
