What If?

by Shari Low

  I’d just adjusted my hips and wrapped my legs around his back, starting to match his rhythm when suddenly he juddered and then stopped. My God, he’d come. It was the quickest ejaculation in history and he still hadn’t made a sound. I looked up questioningly, wondering what he would say, but he said nothing. He just smiled and rolled off, satisfaction all over his face.

  Had I missed something? Had I had some weird blackout and missed twenty minutes of time, coming round just at the crucial moment? Or had I just had a sexual encounter that was quicker than boiling an egg?

  ‘I love you, Carly,’ he whispered.

  ‘I love you too, Doug,’ I replied automatically. And it was true, I did. I think. Okay, maybe it was a teeny bit confused with lust. And yes, so the first sexual encounter was like making love to a silent man in a hurry, but it was only sex. In every other way, he was perfect.

  I couldn’t help comparing him to Joe, who turned me on so much with his whispers during lovemaking, but then that had driven me crazy in the end, too. I was just being bloody fickle, I told myself. The sex would get better, I knew it would.

  As for taking things slowly, well, I suppose we did – compared to, say, a Formula One Ferrari.

  Things took on a terrifying momentum. Soon Doug was talking about joint bank accounts and property prices.

  A few months later, Jess and Sarah came home on leave from uni and we had a girls’ night at Kate’s. It was like Benidorm, without the sun and sand. We each brought the group up to date with the latest news: Carol’s new contract, modelling lingerie for an upmarket department store, Kate’s promotion to ‘trainee stylist’, Sarah’s attempt to seduce her maths tutor, and my romance. Jess was gobsmacked at that development.

  ‘What’s happened to you, Cooper? So much for travelling the world and meeting interesting people. You were the last person I expected to marry a guy from their home town and settle down before they reached twenty-one.’

  ‘I know, Jess, but I got my fingers burnt up to the elbows with that one. I’m sure Joe will have a contract out on my head by now. And anyway, what more do I want?’

  ‘Sex that lasts longer than it takes to make a Pot Noodle?’ Carol volunteered.

  I ignored her, even though she was right. We were up to about three minutes now so it still wasn’t rocking my world. It would get better. I just had to give it time. Meanwhile, my indignation was in full flow. ‘Doug’s gorgeous and smart and we’ve known each other since we were kids. I love him to bites.’ I meant ‘bits’, but my Malibu and pineapple had kicked in.

  ‘Exactly!’ Jess’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve known him for ever. Do you really want to go through life with no surprises?’

  ‘For God’s sake, you lot, back off. It’s not as if I’m marrying the guy next week. I mean, we’re only going out together. I’m not getting married until I’m at least thirty.’

  They all looked at me knowingly. Or maybe they just had glazed expressions caused by too many Malibus.

  When Doug arrived the following evening, I was unusually quiet. After at least twenty ‘what’s wrong?’s (him) and the same number of ‘nothing, I’m fine’s (me), I eventually spilled.

  ‘Doug, do you think maybe we’re too serious? Do you ever wish that you were still going clubbing with your mates and meeting new girls every night?’

  He looked at me with a horrified expression. ‘Why would I want to do that? I’ve already found everything I could ever want.’

  He looked like he was about to faint, so I backpedalled furiously. What was I thinking? How could I even contemplate hurting Doug? I loved him like he was already one of the family.

  He practically was.

  Six months later, we were planning our engagement party and putting an offer in on a semi-detached in the next street to my parents. My mother was suggesting having meetings with Doug’s mum to discuss guest lists and the co-ordination of the table covers with the bridesmaids’ dresses.

  And I went along with all of it, somehow unable to press the brakes. I felt like I’d created a monster. My life was no longer my own as I was dragged round wedding shop after wedding shop, trying on dresses that made me look like a cross between a Christmas cake and a toilet roll holder.

  Yet, it was worth it all to be marrying Doug. Somewhere along the way, I started to miss him if he left the room for more than five minutes. I wasn’t content unless he was beside me, wasn’t complete unless he was holding me tight and telling me how he loved me.

  Anyway, it was time I gave up on my wild fantasies and accepted that this was the way life was – you went to school, got a job, settled down and had babies. And no, I wasn’t settling for the easy option (as Jess claimed), I was recognising Mr Right when he was standing in front of me and grabbing him with both hands.

  We set the wedding date for February of the following year, two years after we’d met again in the club. Plenty of time to get used to the idea of being Mrs Cook. It was an ironic name, considering I still couldn’t boil a kettle. Not that Doug minded. He did most of the cooking now and he swore he enjoyed it. Sicko.

  The only nagging worry I had was about our sex life. I kept telling myself to look on the bright side – we could go to bed at 9.55, make love and I’d still catch the start of News At Ten. At least I’d never have to plead a headache to get out of having sex, because most times it was over before I realised it had started. And I’d never get cystitis.

  I know I should have tried to talk to him about it, but any time I raised it, he just told me how wonderful I made him feel and how much I turned him on. Who was I to rain on his parade? I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him, to question one of the aspects of our lives that made him so happy. Sex isn’t everything, I rebuked myself. I could change it over time. It would get better as we grew together. It was just the honeymoon phase that was causing the, erm, swift conclusions.

  The months flew by. The seasons changed but how we felt about each other didn’t – until the last minute.

  It was all Danielle Steel’s fault.

  I was lying in bed reading yet another of her novels, rapt in the story of the hero who had just whisked the heroine off to New York, presented her with diamonds and asked her to marry him, when I had a sudden realisation. That would never happen to me. I would never be ‘whisked off’ – we had to save for six months for a week in Lanzarote. Doug insisted on investing all extra cash in our pensions. And I couldn’t even remember how he had proposed. We’d just kind of fallen into it. Holy crap, was I never going to have any excitement in my life again, ever?

  But, once again, knee-deep in denial, I shrugged it off. Who needed excitement when I had Doug?

  The girls had planned my hen night meticulously. They were so happy for me. Jess, Sarah, Kate and Carol were to be my bridesmaids and would look stunning in dresses designed by Carol and made by a dressmaker friend whom she’d met in a fashion house in London.

  We began the night in a trendy Glasgow restaurant, before moving on to an even trendier pub, full of Glasgow’s beautiful people. God, I’d forgotten what it was like to be out on the town. For the last year, I’d either been working in the club or sitting in my bedroom or Doug’s watching a video. I’d wanted to move in together first, but he didn’t see the point of wasting money on rent when we were saving furiously for our big day.

  The hen night was a riot of laughter and we had no intention of slowing down when we ended the evening in our old favourite, Winston Blues. As we entered, I saw the owner, Richie (or rather I saw two of him), rolling his four eyes as he contemplated the mess our high heels would make on his furniture. He wasn’t wrong. Within minutes, we were on top of the tables belting out ‘Mustang Sally’. At one point, I moved too close to the edge and concussion loomed as I toppled over, only to be caught at the last minute. Mark Barwick saved the day again. How was it possible that he was always in the right place at the right time?

  ‘Cooper, we have to stop meeting like this.’

  I laughed as he set me down
in an upright position. ‘We definitely do.’

  ‘I hear you’re marrying Doug. Congratulations.’

  I looked up to see if his smile extended to his eyes, but I couldn’t focus. Too many Legal Intercourses. I managed a lopsided grin.

  ‘I am.’

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Take care of yourself, Coop. Be happy.’

  ‘I will, Mark,’ I may have slurred slightly. ‘You too.’

  He was lost in the crowd within seconds and I clambered back up for an encore. Ten minutes of wanton gyrations later, the DJ suddenly switched from Kylie’s ‘I Should Be So Lucky’, to Roxette’s ‘It Must Have Been Love’.

  I frantically looked around my feet, hoping that someone had installed a plastic slide at the side of the table, because in my condition I couldn’t see any other way of getting down without a parachute. No slide. I was about to shout for someone to call out a rescue helicopter when two arms reached around my waist and gently lowered me to the floor. I didn’t even have to look. Mark had rescued me so many times he should be wearing his underpants over his trousers. The thought made me giggle.

  He swung me round and suddenly we were dancing. Or rather, he was dancing and I was swaying as I concentrated on remaining upright. My arms were round his neck and I was holding him tight.

  Mark laughed. ‘Did you request this song just for me?’

  ‘Just a freak coincidence.’

  We both knew he’d been my first love and I’d been his. Mark had always been there. When I wore my first bra, Mark tried to take it off. The first time I got suspended from school, Mark went to see my parents and took the blame. The first time I ever got drunk, he picked me up and took me home. I’d spent years writing ‘Carly Barwick’ on my school jotters and taking detours around school between classes just so that I’d inadvertently bump into him. Years later, we were still bumping into each other, but the only difference now was that I was about to be Mrs Carly Cook.

  Kate found us as the lights went up.

  ‘C’mon, children, time to get the blushing bride home to bed.’

  I stared at Mark. Oh bollocks. I felt familiar feelings rising up to my throat. It was attraction. Excitement. Danger. I felt like I was on the edge of a ski slope and just about to jump. I just couldn’t remember whether or not I’d put my skis on.

  ‘Mark’s coming home with us,’ I said, still staring at him. ‘Aren’t you?’

  He paused. Shit, the skis were still in the cupboard.

  He stared back, then slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, began to nod his head.

  ‘Oh, no,’ Kate groaned, as she slapped her hand to her forehead, ‘another crisis coming up.’

  When we entered the flat, Kate went straight to her room. She never could bear to watch drama unfolding. I turned on the stereo to compensate for the paper-thin walls. She didn’t like to hear dramas either.

  ‘Angel Eyes’, by Wet Wet Wet, crooned from the speakers. In minutes, our clothes were off and, oh, it felt good. No, it felt amazing. As he rose above me, hips moving, it didn’t even cross my mind that I was being unfaithful. This was Mark. Carly and Mark. It was like Richard and Judy, without the sofas.

  He didn’t whisper sweet nothings, make false promises, make me swear undying love. I didn’t worry about him respecting me in the morning, or hold my stomach in, or hide my unshaven legs. And I didn’t fake my orgasm. More than seven years after I first kissed Mark Barwick, I finally felt what it was like to make love to him. If I’d known he would feel that good, I’d have done it years ago.

  I fell asleep grinning, wrapped around him like cling film.

  A banging noise woke me the next morning. I tried to open my eyes, but someone had superglued them in the night. My head hurt and a carpet had been fitted to my tongue. I felt an arm across my chest.

  ‘Doug, I think I’m paralysed,’ I groaned.

  No reply.

  ‘Doug, call the paramedics. I need a body transplant.’

  Still no reply. Had I suffocated him in the night?

  I forced an eye open. I opened my mouth to scream, but my tonsils were on strike. If I wasn’t in need of medical attention before then I was now. I was about to have a heart attack. Not Doug. Definitely not Doug. Mark Barwick’s face was only inches from mine.

  He was sleeping soundly, his fingers intertwined in my hair. At least that explained why I couldn’t move my head.

  I winced inside. What had I done? I was a total fuck-up!

  There was more banging, coming from the direction of the hall. I fought the pain barrier and the paralysis and jumped out of bed. A chain of disjointed thoughts had suddenly flashed through my head. Bed – sex – Mark – morning – banging – door… Doug!

  I rushed to see if my worst nightmare had just come true. I peered through the peephole, praying that it was the postman, the milkman, the bailiffs, even my mother. But no, as my eyeball focused, I saw the gorgeous blond hair and the concerned furrow of those familiar brows.

  I panicked and burst back into my bedroom, launching myself on Mark.

  ‘Mark, wake up, wake up!’ I hissed. ‘Doug’s at the door.’

  He was instantly awake. ‘Oh, shit, Carly,’ he moaned.

  ‘Is that it? Mark, do something! Get dressed. Quickly. Go out the window.’

  ‘Carly, we’re on the third floor.’

  ‘Okay, good point.’

  I was verging on hysteria.

  I thought frantically, forcing myself not to hyperventilate.

  ‘Right, I’ve got it. Get up, quick, come with me.’

  I dragged him out of bed, grabbed his worldly belongings into a bundle and thrust him into the hallway and towards Kate’s door.

  ‘Kate, Kate, incoming traffic. Don’t even ask, just go with this, please,’ I begged.

  I pushed Mark into Kate’s bed and ran back to the door. I opened it, yawning, rubbing my eyes and doing a feeble impersonation of someone who’d just woken up.

  ‘Shit, Carly, I was just about to call the police. I thought you’d been murdered in your sleep.’

  I shuddered, thinking that if I’d given Doug a key to the flat, then that would have been a real possibility.

  Mark staggered out of Kate’s room, heading for the bathroom. Doug looked shocked as he said hello.

  He pulled me in to the bedroom. He knows, I thought, he knows.

  ‘Carly, why didn’t you tell me?’

  Because it would have been like ripping your heart out and stamping on it?

  I was still silent as my heart stopped and I braced myself for the explosion.

  It didn’t come. Instead, I got a large helping of concern. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about Kate and Mark? Oh, sweetheart, I know you and him were an item a long time ago, but even so, it must still be hard for you to have them sleeping together next door.’

  I shrugged my shoulders. I couldn’t bear this. I had just committed the equivalent of mass murder to this guy’s heart and here he was worrying about me. I didn’t deserve him. I really didn’t. I almost wished he would shout and scream at me instead.

  ‘Baby, you look knackered. C’mon, let’s go to bed.’ I followed aimlessly. I’d lost the will to live.

  We climbed into bed and as he cuddled me tightly, a look of discomfort crossed his face. He pulled one arm away and it disappeared under the covers. When it resurfaced, it was holding a…

  Oh I couldn’t bear it.

  It was holding a condom wrapper.

  Doug studied it like he expected it to morph into something else, then he looked at me disbelievingly as realisation dawned. He didn’t even speak. He didn’t have to – the expression on his face said everything.

  ‘Doug,’ I began, but he cut me dead.

  ‘Don’t say a word. Just don’t.’

  Instead, I closed my eyes and kept them shut as he got up, dressed and left. Only the slamming door broke the total silence.

  I stared at the ceiling, too numb even to cry. I was waiting to wake up and discover that this
was all a horrible dream when Mark appeared in the doorway.

  ‘I heard him go. Does he know?’

  I nodded mournfully. ‘I thought condoms made sex safe,’ I sighed, the irony seemingly ludicrous.

  Mark stared at his feet for a long time.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Cooper. I guess for once I didn’t save your ass.’

  I thought about Doug and our relationship. Would I truly have been happy for the rest of my life? Would what we had honestly have been enough? Would I really have slept with Mark if I’d truly been in love with my fiancé? Or was this my way of sabotaging something because I didn’t have the courage to face the fact that it wasn’t right?

  ‘I don’t know, Mark,’ I replied, sadness crushing me. ‘Maybe, you did.’

  And no, I never saw Doug Cook again.

  7

  Stop – The Spice Girls

  ‘You’re going to do what?’ Kate bellows, clutching her sides and stomach like she is afraid that the shock will force the immediate birth of the baby. I can’t decide if she is yelling out of outrage or excitement. Outrage wins.

  In the restaurant, all conversation ceases as a hundred diners strain their ears to hear what is causing the commotion. Judging by the incredulous faces of my dinner companions the audience probably thinks I’ve just confessed to some kind of heinous crime or sexual deviance.

  ‘I’m going to find my ex-boyfriends. Track them down. Hunt them out. I’m going to see if I made a mistake in letting them go.’ I’m grinning, but, strangely enough, nobody else is. ‘You know what I was like back then – I was a relationship disaster and bailed on every one of them.’

  I notice no one contradicts me, but neither do they point out the reality that I’m still a relationship disaster, so, on balance, I take the win.