What If?

by Shari Low

  Sarah is still waiting for a reply.

  ‘I don’t know, Sarah. Maybe I’ve changed a lot since I was seventeen. Or maybe he has. Maybe I was expecting too much. Maybe I’m a hopeless case who should think seriously about joining a nunnery.’

  ‘You don’t fancy him.’ It’s a statement, not a question.

  She is right.

  I go to lunch the next day with an open mind. Okay, so last night he didn’t light my candle, blow my socks off or set my knickers alight, but maybe it was just an off day. C’mon, hormones, feel free to kick in whenever you’re ready.

  Nick’s waiting for us when we arrive at the restaurant. He’s wearing blue jeans, a pale blue polo shirt and deck shoes. He’s Ralph Lauren. As we attack our nachos, he tells us of his plans to open another three restaurants in nearby towns over the next four years. I can see the excitement in his eyes as he talks.

  Okay, Cooper, weigh up the pros:

  a. He’s a good-looking guy who’s funny, kind and sweet. And he drives a Jaguar.

  b. He’s successful, obviously wealthy and full of ambition. A top-of-the-range, black Jaguar.

  c. He’s open, interesting and passionate about life. Leather interior, CD system, Jaguar.

  d. All in all he’s a great catch. A Jaguar-driving catch.

  And the cons?

  a. I don’t care about flash cars much.

  ‘So, when are you leaving?’ Nick cuts into my thoughts.

  My mouth makes a split-second decision, way ahead of my brain. ‘Em, we’re leaving, em, tonight.’

  His face falls and Sarah’s trying her best not to look gobsmacked.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he frowns. ‘It’s been great seeing you again.’

  ‘You too, but I’m going abroad tomorrow.’

  ‘Anywhere nice?’

  I look at Sarah. It’s no use, I tell her telepathically, he’s not ‘the one’.

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  I can smell the tulips already. Joe Cain, I hope you’re ready.

  I hug Nick tightly as I kiss him goodbye.

  ‘See you in another twelve years.’

  ‘It’s a date,’ he laughs.

  Sarah puts her arm through mine as we walk back to the hotel. ‘Are you sad?’

  ‘Nope. I guess it would have been too good to be true if Nick had been “it”. Life’s never that easy. And anyway, I’ve got my credit cards to think of – they’re expecting a round-the-world trip. It would be terrible to disappoint them.’

  ‘You’re right. The Royal Society For the Prevention Of Cruelty to Credit Cards would have you shot. Still,’ she adds, ‘I’ll be sad to leave here – I was just getting used to having room service and a shagpile carpet.’

  I have a flash of inspiration. ‘Come to Amsterdam with me,’ I beg.

  ‘I can’t. I don’t have a passport.’

  My spirits crash, then I have an idea. ‘Then stay here. Sarah, I’ve paid for four days. Just because my mission has crashed and burned like a home-made rocket doesn’t mean you have to leave too. Stay another couple of days, relax, spoil yourself, drink all those posh coffees in the room. You deserve it.’

  She thinks about it. ‘Are you sure? It would be amazing and I could just jump on the train home.’

  ‘I insist. But only on one condition.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I could hear the joy bubbling in her voice.

  ‘You use the hotel stationery to send a letter to Bill and let him see that you’re living it up and moving on to better things. There’s nothing like rubbing salt in the wound. Or, as Carol would say, rubbing pepper in the cut.’

  Her face creases with laughter. ‘So she still gets her sayings mixed up?’

  I nod. ‘As sure as eggs are bacon and more often than always.’

  She’s still laughing as I wave her goodbye. In my rear view mirror, I can see her waving back, looking radiantly happy and contented with life.

  This definitely wasn’t such a waste of time after all.

  Now, where are my clogs?

  15

  Together Again – Janet Jackson

  I do a mental review of the situation as I attack the aeroplane breakfast roll with a chisel. One down, five to go.

  There’s a tiny little bit of me that’s disappointed about Nick, but, to be honest, I’ve now got a desperate curiosity about all of the guys. Don’t get me wrong, the minute I meet ‘him’, then I’m going to seize the moment, but it would have been so pathetic to tell everyone who knew about this trip that I never got further than Scotland. Not exactly a grand voyage, is it? It would have been like Marco Polo stopping at the first ancient Little Chef for breakfast and deciding to just stay there.

  The Schiphol Airport to Amsterdam city centre express train screeches into Centraal Station and I disembark with the hordes of tourists seeking either to experience the stunning views of the city’s beautiful architecture, or the stunning architecture of the city’s ladies.

  I jump into a taxi.

  ‘Damstraat, alstublieft.’

  Big mistake. The driver now thinks I can speak Dutch and launches into a fifteen minute dialogue as he drives. I just smile and nod my head in agreement when he pauses for breath. When he drops me at my destination, we’re already best friends forever. He probably thinks I’m a great listener.

  I enter the hotel and approach the gent at reception, who’s engrossed in the morning newspaper behind the desk.

  ‘Excuse me, I’d like a room, please.’

  He grunts and opens his registration book without even looking up.

  ‘Yes, I’d like a room with peeling paint, holes in the carpet, fungus in the bathroom and a grumpy old bastard knocking on the door every five minutes with cups of coffee that taste like diesel.’

  René lifts his head. ‘Oh, mon dieu.’ He throws open his arms and reaches across the desk to envelop me in a bear hug ‘Carly! You have come back to us. We thought you were dead!’

  ‘Cheery as ever, René,’ I laugh and return his squeeze. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  After many more hugs, exclamations and chat, he shows me to my old room, still a resplendent dump. I don’t think it’s been decorated since I left it and I would swear they’re the same blankets on the bed.

  I shake my head, laughing. ‘My God, René, how do you get away with charging people to live in this squalor?’

  ‘We charge for the friendly service and the wonderful staff,’ he answers with a wink, as he backs out of the room. He’s incorrigible. If he were forty years younger, I’d snap him up.

  I throw open a window before my respiratory system collapses and then unpack, making sure that I line the drawer with a plastic bag before putting my clothes in it. I don’t want my sweaters being eaten before I get the chance to wear them.

  When I join René back downstairs, he has a cup of diesel ready and waiting. I can’t stop grinning. I explain why I’m here, leaving out the fact that this is part of a master plan that will hopefully end in me wearing white satin and dancing up an aisle. I don’t want René joining the long list of people who think I’m bonkers.

  I ask him if he knows where I can find Joe and he ponders for a moment, rubbing his chin. ‘Ma chère, it was so long ago. I’m an old man and the memory is not so good now.’

  I’m surprised. The René I knew could remember the colour of a hooker’s bra from 1962.

  ‘You must know something, René. You’re the Buddha of all knowledge,’ I joke, rubbing his hugely expanded belly. ‘Anything that would make this easier. I don’t want to have to trawl the streets for days looking for him, only to find he fled the country two months after I left.’

  ‘Would that be so bad, my chérie?’ he asks.

  I frown. Why’s René being so coy about this? I have a growing suspicion that there’s something he’s not telling me.

  ‘It would be terrible, René! Then I’ll have to go to America to find his parents and track him down that way. I’m not giving up until I’ve found him.’ Good
grief, my resolve is even surprising me.

  René sighs and pauses for a few seconds, before something shifts and he decides to elaborate. ‘The Premier Club closed many years ago – about two years after you left.’

  Oh, crap! I’ve only just got here and I’ve hit a dead end already.

  But René continues, ‘I did hear that your Joe still owns a club on the other side of town, though.’

  My spirits soar. Or maybe that’s just the aeroplane food having a strange effect.

  ‘You know, my darling, there have been a lot of changes since you left here.’ He seems apprehensive and I suspect again that I’m not hearing the full story.

  I try to probe but he tells me nothing more.

  I persuade him to join me for a walk along the canals, with the promise that we’ll stop at a café so he can sample what real coffee is supposed to taste like.

  ‘Why have you never married, René?’

  He says nothing for a long time and then sighs.

  ‘I was in love once with a beautiful girl from my home town. She was, how you say, spectacular. She was everything to me. But she left me for another man, an American.’

  That would explain why he refused to sell Budweiser and bagels.

  ‘After that, my heart was broken. You see, she was the only one for me. I believe that everyone has one person in the world who was made for them and she was mine.’

  Oh, the romance of it.

  I take his arm. ‘So what if you never meet the person who’s right for you? And how do you know when you have?’

  ‘Ah, my petite chérie, that’s where God comes in. He arranges the meeting and when it happens, you just know.’

  I ponder this. So how come I’ve ‘known’ so many times? I think I might have been reading the signals wrong. Or maybe I haven’t met the right guy at all. I have a scary thought. What if this is a completely futile mission fuelled by desperation and optimism and it’s doomed to fail?

  I’m consumed by gloom for a whole five seconds before I shake it off and give myself a talking to. Fuck it. I’m young-ish, healthy (if you excuse the lungs and the liver), mostly happy and I’m walking along the banks of a canal on a glorious day with a charming man. What is there to be miserable about?

  Too much profound thought – my head is starting to hurt. We cross the Singel canal and head for a tiny French café opposite the beautiful copper-domed Koepel Church. The owner greets René with handshakes and a kiss on both cheeks.

  ‘René, my old friend. It’s been too long,’ he roars. ‘C’est formidable! And this,’ he turns to me, ‘this must be your daughter, no?’

  Cheeky bugger. If he’s an old friend, then he must know that René doesn’t have children.

  ‘Non, monsieur. René is not my father. How do you say it in French, René? He is my sugar daddy.’

  René beams with pride. I think I just made an old man very happy. He’s now been elevated to the status of ‘babe-magnet’ in his friend’s eyes. This will be in the Dutch OAP’s Gazette before the day is out.

  After coffee, we stop at a shop so that I can buy disinfectant for the bath in my room.

  I lie surrounded with bubbles until I look like a marinated prune. I eventually managed to wangle the name of Joe’s club out of René, and now I’m trying to decide if I’m more excited, anxious or petrified at the prospect of meeting him again. Excitement wins, but it’s a tight contest.

  How do I introduce myself? ‘Hello, Joe, did you get my note?’ or ‘Remember me? Carly Houdini?’

  I blow some bubbles off my nipples. Optimism kicks in. Okay, guys, I tell them, brace yourselves, we’re going out to play.

  I pull on a pair of white Capri pants and a pale blue shirt. I look in the mirror. Nope, too casual. A red miniskirt with a black T-shirt? I’ll never get to the club without being offered money for a quickie. I settle on black trousers and a black skinny-rib polo neck. Useful outfit for hiding in doorways and I can always plead a recent bereavement if I have to make a quick exit.

  René hugs me like he’ll never see me again as I leave. Given my track record, maybe he has a point, but he’s acting as if he’s casting me off to meet my doom. If I wasn’t nervous before, then I am now.

  ‘Just remember, ma chérie, keep an open mind.’

  Again, I have the distinct feeling that there’s something I’m missing here. Is the club a sadomasochistic whipping room? Knowing Joe, that wouldn’t surprise me. Is it some other kind of illicit place where people live out their sexual fantasies? No great surprises there either.

  I turn into the Rembrandtplein just after nine o’clock. Music is pouring out of every pub and club and there’s a thronging, eclectic crowd. Cross-dressers, crazy dressers, no dressers – the whole street is Rio on a carnival day. I search for Joe’s club, which René has reliably informed me is called ‘J.C.’s Heaven’. I bet the Catholic Church isn’t amused about that one. There are probably nuns picketing the door.

  I spot a group of beautifully formed men entering what looks like a converted warehouse a few yards ahead of me. When they’ve passed, I see the bouncer standing on the door. Good God, doesn’t anyone ever leave this place?

  ‘Has anyone ever told you that you’ll catch a cold standing out here?’

  He stares down at me, ready to crush me like a cockroach until a flicker of recognition crosses his eyes. ‘Holy shit! Carly Cooper. What the hell are you doin’ here, girl?’

  I seem to spend my life surprising people these days. I feel like Cilla Black.

  ‘Just passing through, Chad. Thought I’d come and see if I could find my favourite pillar of the community.’

  He booms with laughter and slaps me on the back. That’ll be a fractured spine and two broken ribs.

  ‘And I also came to see Joe. Is he here?’

  He pauses. Am I being paranoid or does he look uncomfortable? What is it, is Joe’s wife in there or something?

  ‘Sure, baby. He’s inside. I’ll get someone to take you to him.’

  He calls another bouncer, who is so tall he must have spent his childhood in a growbag. Leon, as he introduces himself, takes me through the crowd to a back staircase. As I climb up it, my legs are doing a good impersonation of strawberry jelly. Leon gestures to a blue door.

  As I knock, my mind rewinds to the last time I knocked on Joe’s door, straight out of Scotland and so naive. Joe listened and took a chance on me. I just hope he’s as welcoming this time.

  ‘Come in,’ a voice calls out, but it’s not Joe’s.

  I tentatively open the door and gasp. In front of me is a Nordic god: long blond hair, eyes like sapphires, cheekbones that could fell a tree. My libido flares and I mentally rein it in. Right reaction, wrong guy.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asks in a thick Dutch accent.

  I’m trying to think of a witty answer when I sense someone to my left. I turn to see Joe Cain, hands behind his head, feet up on the desk. He looks different – his head is completely shaven and he’s wearing a black net T-shirt and skintight suede jeans. He’s a cross between a Buddhist monk and a Tetley teabag. But he’s still seriously, seriously attractive. In a Yul Brynner kind of way.

  I can see he’s stunned, but he recovers quickly. ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t the prodigal girlfriend,’ he laughs.

  This is good – humour, no anger, no outrage, just a tiny touch of bitterness. I can deal with bitter. After all, I didn’t expect a ‘Welcome Home’ banner and a marching band.

  ‘Looking for another job?’ he asks, a cheeky glint in his eyes now.

  I’m desperately trying to come up with a witty reply when there’s the sound of someone clearing his throat – I’d forgotten all about Hagar, the Norse god.

  ‘Cooper, this is Claus, my partner. Claus, meet Carly Cooper, disappearing act extraordinaire.’

  ‘Ah, Miss Cooper,’ he says, as though everything is suddenly making sense. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’ I have the feeling that it wasn’t glowing testimonies to my virtues as a
human being.

  ‘So what brings you here then?’ Joe asks.

  I’m still trying to play cool and collected. ‘I was in the city and wanted to look you up. Can we go somewhere and talk?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Every time you go to the toilet, I’ll expect you not to return.’

  ‘You can tie a piece of string to my ankle.’

  He smiles. He seems to be defrosting. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all. I just need to make sure I keep him away from sharp objects.

  I turn to say goodbye to Claus and he grunts a response. Is it my imagination or does he look like he wants to scratch my eyes out with a pickaxe?

  We go to an Italian restaurant across the road from the club, where Joe orders two glasses of wine and some garlic bread. Obviously there’ll be no snogging tonight then. There’s an awkward silence as he stares at me. He’s not going to make this easy.

  I take a deep breath, hold my nose and jump in. ‘I don’t suppose “Sorry” will make a huge difference now?’ I mumble hopefully.

  He’s quiet for a moment, then, ‘No, but maybe an explanation will help.’

  I was kidnapped and sold into white slavery? I bumped my head and suffered complete amnesia? There’s a hint of sadness in his voice and it ramps my guilt up even further.

  I go with the truth – I was confused and got cold feet, then bottled out like a heartless coward. That just about covered it.