What If?

by Shari Low

  I stumble to the door and open it just wide enough for me to see who it is, but not to allow them to see that I’m wearing blue pyjamas with Terminator 2 blazoned across the front and woolly socks. I look like an overgrown cartoon character.

  ‘Er, I have a hire car for a Miss Cooper?’ He looks about fourteen. Surely he’s not old enough to drive? God, I’m getting old.

  Covering my pjs with a cardi, I get my driving licence and we complete the paperwork.

  When he leaves, I wake Sarah by wafting a cup of Kenco’s finest under her nose. She sits up, then clutches her head and lies back down.

  ‘My head hurts,’ she whines.

  ‘That’s because you’re out of practice. Now, get your kit on and let’s go. We’ve got a man to find.’

  ‘Story of my life,’ she answers.

  An hour and two packets of Resolve later, we set off. It’s like a Scottish version of Thelma and Louise. More ‘Morag and Agnes’.

  The drive to St Andrews is beautiful. We stop for a coffee and a doughnut at the services beside the Forth Road Bridge and admire the view. I suddenly come over all patriotic. I want to paint my face blue with a white cross in the middle and shag Mel Gibson in a kilt.

  We detour to the petrol station for fuel and Pick’n’Mix, but as I pass the newspaper stand, a familiar sight is plastered across the front page of every tabloid. Sarah recognises the astonishment on my face.

  ‘Carly, what is it?’ She follows my eyeline to the picture on the newspapers. ‘Who are they?’ The photograph is a little grainy. It was obviously taken in the evening by an inexperienced photographer at an unfortunate angle. But there is no mistaking the situation. Or the main characters.

  BAD BOY BASIL AND BROTHER-IN-LAW BRAWL

  MP DOWN AND KNOCKED OUT

  STREET CRIME RISES, BASIL FALLS

  ‘Sarah, let me introduce you to Jess’s boyfriend, Basil. This was taken at my leaving party.’

  She looks at the papers and then slowly back to me. ‘Basil Asquith? The MP?’

  I nod.

  ‘Bloody hell, Carly! What kind of lives have you lot been leading?’

  We look at each other for a few seconds before our shoulders begin to shake. Our world is getting more absurd by the minute.

  We rush to the payphone to call Jess, but there’s no answer. We try Carol, but no one’s there either. There’s nothing else for it. I call Kate at work.

  ‘Good afternoon, this is the Cutting Edge, Porsche speaking, how can I help you?’

  ‘Can I speak to Kate, please?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Kate is frightfully busy at the moment.’ She whispers the last bit in a smug, superior tone, as always. This is like trying to get past the receptionists at my local doctors.

  I assume the most superior voice I can muster. ‘This is her gynaecologist and I must speak to her IMMEDIATELY about her recent STD test. It’s a medical emergency.’

  I can picture Porsche visibly paling at the thought of stirrups, spatulas and sexually transmitted infections. Kate is on the line in twenty seconds.

  ‘Kate, it’s me. I saw the papers! Oh, and don’t hate me but the only way I could get past your receptionist was to tell her I was your gynaecologist and calling with your STD results.’

  Porsche is obviously listening to Kate’s side of the conversation, because she just groans, as opposed to threatening to kill me.

  ‘You have the results then?’ she answers wearily, playing along.

  ‘No, I can’t get through to Jess or Carol. Where are they?’

  ‘Ah, gone into remission,’ she stammers, as if repeating what I’ve said. This is hard work.

  ‘Is Jess okay?’ I persevere.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘And Basil?’

  ‘It’s definitely terminal.’ I hear a thud in the background as Porsche hits the floor. At least there’s never a dull moment.

  We drown out Motown’s Greatest Hits on the CD player. We’re Dancing In the Street as we cross the bridge, giving Respect as we head up through Cupar, then getting soaked by a Rainy Night in Georgia as we approach the coast.

  My twenty page guide to St Andrews bed and breakfasts is on my lap. After all, we’re on a budget – albeit a fraudulently attained one.

  The first thing we see as we enter St Andrews is the beach and the resplendent Old Course Hotel.

  ‘That is stunning,’ I gasp.

  Sarah’s eyes widen. ‘Who stays in somewhere like that? It must cost a fortune!’

  I take a deep breath and shake my head. Oh, no!

  ‘Fuck it. We do.’ I do a handbrake turn to the left and screech up the driveway.

  Sarah splutters, spilling coffee down the front of her shirt. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No, you’re not! Oh, sweet Jesus.’

  As Carol would say, ‘May as well get hung for a sheep as a bird in the hand.’

  We cross the marble floor of the reception area. In the middle is a table with a display of lilies that must have cost more than a small cottage.

  ‘Excuse me, do you have a twin room available?’

  Sarah’s behind me, sniffing the lilies.

  ‘For how long, madam?’

  I haven’t thought about that. How long will it take me to find him? I hope it’s not long or my credit cards will be up to the limit before I even leave Scotland. I say that four nights will suffice. Even if I find him quickly, I know I’ll want to stick around and get to know him again.

  The receptionist checks her computer, then looks up and smiles. ‘We do, madam. The rate will be—’

  I hold up my hand. ‘Stop! Please don’t tell me, you’ll give me indigestion. Just charge it to this, please.’

  I hand over my Visa card. The last of my sensible brain cells give up and go into hibernation.

  We find our room, giggling like two schoolgirls trying on their first bras, and throw open the door. For once in my life I’m speechless. The room is class, class and more class. In the centre are two stunningly dressed double beds. Cream fabric covers them, matching the drapes that are so perfect that I’m afraid to touch them. There are fresh flowers on the oak dressing table, lace cushions on the sofas and a selection of chocolates on the coffee table, which is probably just as well because I’ll never be able to afford to eat again. But it’s worth it for the look of sheer wonderment on Sarah’s face.

  We unpack, make a posh coffee using some swanky, high-tech machine, and stretch out on the sofas, contemplating the view of the golf course and the beach beyond it.

  ‘Isn’t that Michael Douglas down there?’ Sarah asks.

  I dive to the window and press my nose against the pane. She could be right. I’ve been besotted by him since The Streets of San Francisco.

  Right, down to work before I capitulate to a life of luxury.

  Plan A. I locate a phone book and search for ‘Russo’. I mean, how many can there be in a town this size?

  I search some more.

  None. Zero. Zilch. He must be ex-directory.

  I throw down the book in disgust.

  ‘What’s plan B?’ Sarah asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I hadn’t got past A.’ I feel defeated.

  ‘Right. C’mon, get your jacket,’ she says assertively. That’s the old Sarah.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Didn’t your mother teach you anything? When all else fails, ask a policeman.’

  She pulls me out of the door by the scruff of the neck. Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the reception of the local cop shop. How do I explain this?

  ‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to find a guy who lives in this town. His name is Nick Russo.’

  PC Plod looks at me like I’ve landed from another planet. ‘Are you having me on?’

  ‘I know it’s a long shot. I guess I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Follow me, lass.’ He’s coming round to the front of the desk. Is he going to arrest us for suspected chemical abuse? Or is he just going to kick our b
ums out onto the street?

  I contemplate making a run for it but he reaches the door first. He opens it wide and signals for us to join him.

  ‘I think that might give you a bit of a clue, lass.’

  My eyes follow the direction of his finger and my face turns a ripe shade of tomato. Across the road, not twenty yards away, is what looks like a wine bar and bistro. Above it, in two foot high letters, is ‘Russo’s’. He guffaws. ‘Do me a favour, love. Don’t ever decide to become a detective.’

  He’s still laughing as Sarah and I dash across the road. Outside the bar, I grind to a halt. It’s suddenly struck me that I’m about to meet the guy that I’ve thought about for the last twelve or so years. I’m panic-stricken. I clutch Sarah for reassurance as I enter.

  I approach a barman who looks like the car hire guy’s younger brother. Have they lowered the legal age to sell alcohol to twelve? I feel like my gran.

  I try to speak, but the saliva in my mouth has turned to glue and my tongue can’t move.

  Sarah steps in. ‘Excuse me. Does Nick Russo work here?’

  ‘Naw, he disnae work here,’ he replies.

  My hopes plummet.

  But the barman isn’t finished. ‘He owns the place.’

  ‘Is he here?’ Holy crap, have I actually found him? I can’t believe it. Thank God Sarah is with me because I’d still be stumbling over my words.

  The barman shakes his head. ‘He won’t be in till t’night.’

  I finally regain the power of speech. ‘Tell me, does his wife work here too?’

  Sarah looks at me, proud of my astuteness.

  ‘His wife? Naw, Nick’s nae married, love.’

  I exhale loudly. I hadn’t even realised that I was holding my breath.

  We thank him and leave. As soon as we’re out of sight, we look at each other and shriek. Passers-by stop and stare as we hug, jumping up and down.

  ‘Half an hour, Sarah, that’s all it took. You’re a genius. I love you, love you, love you.’

  An old woman shakes her head and mutters, ‘Oooh, there’s two of those gay people, Martha. What do you call them? Has-beens?’

  ‘Lesbians, Ethel, lesbians.’

  We collapse in a heap. This beats normal life any day of the week.

  At eight o’clock, we enter Russo’s and ask for a table. I should be feeling calmer now that I’ve had all day to prepare, but the passing hours have had the opposite effect. My insides are churning and I’m smoking. Lots.

  I’m wearing a white T-shirt, black boots and black leather trousers. Kate looked so good in the same outfit at the party that I’ve decided to copy her. It’s a big mistake – from the back, I look like a two seater sofa and I’m sweating so much that it’ll take a week to get them off. And my hair has rebelled against the product I’d used to flatten it down and now looks like I’ve travelled here on a motorbike – kind of Meg Ryan after electric shock treatment.

  I scan the room, but there’s nobody that even resembles Nick. What am I thinking? It’s been a million years. I could win him in a raffle and I wouldn’t recognise him.

  We order two wines. Bottles, that is.

  ‘Will you be eating, madam?’ the waitress asks.

  Sarah takes charge. ‘We’ll just have an Americano pizza to share, please.’

  I say another prayer of thanks that Sarah is with me. I couldn’t have done this without her. We check out every man in the room. Not one of them could be him.

  The waitress returns with the pizza and I take my chance.

  ‘I wonder if you could possibly get the owner for us. Tell him that we have a complaint.’

  ‘But you haven’t even tried your pizza yet,’ she looks puzzled. ‘Did it take too long?’

  ‘No, it’s nothing to do with the food or the service. I’d rather discuss it with the owner.’

  She shrugs her shoulders and leaves, obviously thinking that we’re neurotic tourists.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Sarah hisses.

  ‘I can’t wait any longer. My trousers are going to melt or shrink if I don’t get this over with.’

  Three minutes later (I count the seconds), a door opens behind the bar and the waitress points in our direction. She stands to one side and there he is. Nick Russo is walking towards us.

  Please God, don’t let me have a heart attack now – not until I’ve at least spoken to him.

  I study him as he approaches. His hair is now flecked with grey, his face a little haggard. He’s broader than he was back then, and dressed top to toe in black. He’s still attractive, but no longer drop-dead gorgeous. He used to be David Ginola. Now he’s more like a bloke that occasionally plays Sunday league.

  He frowns as he stops at the table.

  ‘Ladies, I’m Nick Russo, the owner here. I believe you have a complaint?’

  That voice. I melt, before summoning all my strength to formulate words. English, Cooper, English.

  ‘Yes, we do. We just think it’s ridiculous that old friends aren’t welcomed with a personal greeting.’

  ‘Old friends? I’m sorry, do I…?’ He stops, confused.

  Please recognise me. If you don’t, I’m going to go outside and crawl under a stone.

  ‘Benidorm,’ Sarah helps him.

  He swings his head back round and stares at me.

  ‘Carly? Fuck, Carly Cooper.’ Well, at least he remembers that bit.

  He sits down next to me and crushes me in a bear hug.

  ‘Carly Cooper. What are you doing here?’

  I disentangle myself.

  ‘Well, I waited ten years for you to come for me and you didn’t. Then I decided to give you the benefit of the doubt and waited another two, in case you had trouble tracking me down. Finally, I gave up and thought I’d come here and make it easy for you.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’ He looks shocked and confused. And so do the entire staff of the establishment as they stare incredulously.

  I laugh. ‘Yes, of course I’m kidding. Sarah and I are up here for a break and we saw the bar and figured it must be you.’

  I’ll never pass a lie detector test.

  He leans over and gives Sarah a kiss. He keeps shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe this – it’s brilliant. Can you stay? Have dinner with me. Where are you staying? How long for?’

  ‘Yes, okay. The Old Course Hotel and a couple of days.’

  He orders a bottle of champagne and more food and we start to swap stories. Benidorm is first. Then we move on to fill in the gaps of the last twelve years.

  Nick tells us that he married his childhood sweetheart when he was twenty-one and divorced when he was twenty-five. He has no children and has owned this place for five years, since his parents retired to their home town of Sorrento. It had been a quiet restaurant in the old days and he has transformed it into the ‘in-place’ in St Andrews. He had a few relationships over the years, but his marriage, or rather his divorce, has put him off wedding rings for life.

  ‘What happened to your friend? Graham, wasn’t it?’ Sarah asks. Of course! When I was with Nick, Sarah had a fling with his pal.

  ‘God, Graham. I haven’t thought about him for years. He emigrated to Australia soon after we came back from Benidorm and we lost touch.’

  I have a sudden pang of disappointment that Graham isn’t around. Wouldn’t that have been a brilliant twist? I bring her here to track down my ex, and she rekindles an old romance of her own? That would have been brilliant, but if Sarah is disappointed, she doesn’t let it show.

  Instead, we answer Nick’s questions, giving him edited versions of our life stories, both of us leaving out the troubles and sticking to the good bits.

  I suddenly realise that we’re the only people in the room. I look at my watch. One o’clock. We must be in a time warp, I’m sure we just got here.

  Nick stands up. ‘Why don’t we go for a wander along the beach?’

  Sarah yawns. ‘I’m really tired. Why don’t you two go and I’ll head back to the hotel.’


  She’ll never win an Oscar. That’s the worst performance since Farrah Fawcett left Charlie’s Angels.

  We walk her back to the hotel, then head for the sands.

  I feel awkward. What should I say to him?

  He takes my hand. ‘It really is good to see you, Cooper.’

  ‘And you.’ And it is. So how come I’m not being swept away on a wave of desire and longing? Maybe my libido drowned inside my leather trousers.

  We walk for a mile in silence.

  ‘Did you ever think about me over the years?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. A lot. And you?’

  ‘Sure. I tried to contact you once, but your mother said you’d gone to Paris, or Amsterdam or somewhere.’

  ‘She never told me,’ I reply honestly. Deep down, I know it wouldn’t have made any difference. Back then, I wasn’t ready for us to be anything more than what we were.

  He shrugs. ‘I figured that it was just a holiday romance and you’d have forgotten all about me.’

  ‘Nick, you were the first guy I ever slept with. I’ll never forget that.’

  He kisses the top of my head. ‘Likewise.’

  I do a mental inventory of my body. No weak knees, no rushing blood. I think these trousers have destroyed all my nerve endings.

  We make our way back to the hotel, chatting like old friends. At the door, we pause. It should be awkward, but it isn’t. It’s just, well, nice. In a non-lusty kind of way. I’m never wearing leather again.

  ‘Will you join me for lunch tomorrow?’ he asks.

  I’m confused. My body obviously belongs to someone else or has died and failed to notify my brain. I’m feeling nothing from the neck down – except sweaty.

  ‘Sure,’ I agree and kiss him goodnight on the cheek. ‘Lunch would be great.’

  Sarah opens the door before I’ve even had a chance to knock.

  ‘I was listening out for you. Well, what’s the verdict?’

  ‘He’s lovely. Really lovely.’

  ‘Carly, that’s like saying that someone is nice. How come I fear that there’s a “but” coming?’

  How can I explain it? I know that I’ve only spent a few hours with him, but unlike the first time we met, there was no spark, no electricity. Okay, so I’m a spontaneous nightmare and I can’t base every judgement in my life on an instant reaction, but surely if this man was going to father my children, then I should at least have a glimmer of attraction? I should be desperate to drink champagne and dance in the moonlight with him, not just order a cappuccino and talk about old times. Not once tonight had I had the urge to back him into a corner and snog his face off. What’s more, I’m pretty sure that he felt the same about me, otherwise we’d probably be lying out on the beach just now, talking romantic nonsense about the stars and fate.