What If?

by Shari Low

  ‘I’ll contact the government with your suggestion,’ she jokes. ‘Anyway, I’ve had no luck yet finding Tom. I traced his friends in Canada, but they told me that he’d returned to Ireland. I think I’m going to have to call in Interpol.’

  Given her connections, that wasn’t completely outlandish, so I hoped she was joking.

  ‘Thanks, Jess. You’ll get your reward for all this eventually. I’ll leave you my engagement rings in my will.’

  ‘You gave them all back.’

  ‘Ah, yep, I did. Will you settle for my shoe collection and custody of my goldfish?’

  ‘It’s a deal.’

  Despite our exchange making me smile, I hang up feeling more than a little dejected. So far, Mission Manhunt sucks. I‘ve met four of my potential partners and so far there’s been one with no sexual chemistry, one is gay, one is a twisted cheat and the other is a lovely pal who’s happily married. Maybe my claims of joining a nunnery weren’t too far-fetched. Two more disappointments and I’d happily volunteer to be Sister Carly.

  After four more sleepless hours, I searched for the old address book I’d bought years ago to replace the personal organiser I lost last time I was here. I found Sam’s home number and called it. Disconnected. The way my luck is going, he’s probably back in London, living round the corner from my old flat, and in a polygamous relationship with half the street. Nothing would surprise me.

  Next, I try all the martial arts academies listed in the book. Nope, no Sam Morton.

  I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decide to try his old apartment. Maybe he’s still there and has just changed his number.

  I take the MTR to Causeway Bay. When I alight, I’m astounded by the changes. In front of me is a huge new shopping mall called Times Square. For a few moments I’m torn between looking for Sam or wandering round the designer shops. My credit cards start to tremble in my bag.

  Stay focused.

  I put my head down and charge past the mall. Get thee behind me, Satan.

  As I turn into Sam’s street, I spot a familiar face having an afternoon siesta. Huey, one of the lovely old guys who lived under the flyover, is still there. Good grief, he must be about 106.

  He smiles as I approach. Either he recognises me or I look like a sure thing for a couple of dollars.

  ‘Huey, lay ho ma?’ I greet him with the only Cantonese I can remember.

  His eyes light up and I know for sure he remembers me. He starts speaking rapidly and I look around in panic. I don’t understand a word. I spot a jewellery shop across the road and dash over. Inside, I enlist the services of an assistant and drag him over to Huey’s penthouse. Huey eyes him with suspicion and clams up.

  ‘Please ask him if he remembers Sam, the Englishman who used to live in that building,’ I ask, pointing to Sam’s block.

  He chatters to Huey and my hopes rise as Huey nods his head.

  ‘Ask him if he still lives there.’

  Another Cantonese monologue, but this time my elevator of optimism crashes back to the ground floor as Huey shakes his head. He still hasn’t uttered a sound to the stranger.

  ‘Ask him if he knows where he lives now.’

  This time, Huey responds by shrugging his shoulders. This isn’t going well. I ask the shop assistant to say ‘Thanks’, and turn to walk away. I haven’t got more than ten feet when Huey shouts something.

  ‘What did he say?’ I ask the jeweller, who is now thoroughly fed up with this game and just wants to get back to his shop.

  ‘He says that for fifty dollars he can tell you how to find the man you’re looking for.’

  I’m aghast. ‘That’s extortion! Shame on you, Huey.’ But my money is already out of my purse and in his hand.

  He talks to the translating gem dealer.

  ‘He says that he still comes here every Friday evening to bring him beer.’

  Friday! That’s tonight.

  ‘What time?’ I realise that of course Huey doesn’t wear a watch. ‘Early evening. Or late?”

  More chat.

  ‘Early. Before the sun goes down. Just after rush hour.’

  It’s all I can do not to punch the air. Instead, I thank them both profusely, using lots of thumbs up to Huey. I slip him another fifty dollars and resolve to bring him some food when I come back later. I wonder what happened to his friends, but I think it’s probably obvious. I reckoned they were both in their eighties when I was last here.

  I head back to the MTR station to return to the hotel, thinking about the fact that Sam still looks out for the old man. I wonder if that kind of loyalty extends to ex-girlfriends who ran out on him too.

  Back at the hotel, I spend the rest of the day preparing myself for the big reunion. I can’t decide what to wear. Bearing in mind that I’ll probably have to stand on a street corner waiting for Sam to arrive, I don’t think that a black leather miniskirt is a wise choice. Not unless I want passers-by to throw money at me. Although, given my VISA bill, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.

  In the end, I opt for the ‘recent death in the family’ look. Black three inch stiletto boots, black jeans and a shirt to match.

  I take a taxi back to Causeway Bay; there’s no way these boots will get me up and down the steps of the subway without danger to life. I arrive at exactly six o’clock and take up residence on the steps of Sam’s old building. I wave across to Huey and he waves back, then shrugs his shoulders. I take that to mean that Sam hasn’t come yet.

  My legs are starting to shake, but I don’t know if it’s nervous excitement or because my jeans are too tight. The time drags by. Six thirty. Seven o’clock. Seven thirty. Eight fifteen.

  He’s not coming. He’s heard I’m in town and he’s gone into hiding.

  I’m trying to decide how long I can sit here before getting arrested for vagrancy – twenty years, if Huey is anything to go by – when a silver Porsche turns in to the street. Flash git. People shouldn’t be allowed to buy cars like that; it just makes the rest of us mere mortals feel inadequate.

  Huey jumps up and the car stops beside him. He leans into the driver’s window. So that’s it. Huey has a drug habit and this is his dealer.

  Suddenly, the driver’s door flies open and Sam is running towards me. My chin bone drops to the pavement. God, I’d forgotten how magnificent he looked. His brown hair is still short and no stranger to styling gel, he’s tanned and exquisitely muscular. He’s a work of art. Someone should cast him in bronze and open him to the public. What had ever possessed me to leave this man?

  ‘What did you do, Sam, rob a bank?’ I splutter.

  ‘Cooper! What the hell are you doing here?’ How many times have men asked me that in recent months?

  ‘I forgot my keys. I came back five years ago and you weren’t in, so I’ve been sitting here ever since.’

  His face cracks into a huge smile as he hugs me.

  ‘No, really, why are you here?’

  I can think of a thousand bullshit reasons but I’m tired of all the subterfuge and nonsense, so I go for compete honesty.

  ‘I came to see you. It’s a long story.’

  I can see this catches him off guard, but he doesn’t look horrified, so that’s a bonus.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘At the Windsor.’

  ‘That place is extortionate!’

  ‘I know. My credit card cried when I checked in.’

  ‘Look, that’s crazy. Come and stay with me.’

  I thought he’d never ask. I’m about to thank him when a flicker of something crosses his face, turning his grin to a frown. ‘Shit, there’s a slight problem.’

  Here we go, I think, running through my past experiences. Which one is it? You’re gay, you’re married, you hate me, or you have to disappear to Canada. As for the question of whether there’s still a sexual attraction, that was answered the moment I saw him.

  ‘I need to go to work for a while tonight. Tell you what, I’ll take you back to the Windsor
and you can grab your stuff and head over to my place. I’ll get back as soon as I can.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief, sending the butterflies in my stomach into overdrive again. This could be good. It could be really, really good.

  He drops me at the Windsor, gives me his new address and a set of keys, and I promise that I’ll be waiting there for him tonight.

  I pack my bags, check out and take a taxi to his apartment, giddy with excitement. I scold myself. Have all my experiences so far taught me nothing? Be calm. Be wary. Take it easy. My optimism gene hears the warnings and decides to ignore them all.

  When the taxi driver stops, I’m sure he’s got the address wrong. Sam did rob a bank. The flat is on the Peak, the most expensive area on the island. It’s in an ultra-modern block, with a red carpet under the awning leading to the entrance. There are two doormen in uniform waiting to open the doors for me. I can visualise myself living here. I am SO destined to end up in a place like this. When I say who I’m here to see, they immediately summon the lift.

  ‘Welcome. Mr Morton called and said we should expect you.’

  I flush. Giddy optimism is in charge yet again.

  As I open the door to the flat, it just gets better and better. The floor is a light cream marble, the walls a pale shade of gold. Three of the walls have white leather sofas curving round them and in the centre is a low marble table big enough to throw a blanket on and sleep four. There are church candles on every surface and a chandelier that could illuminate Blackpool is suspended from the ceiling.

  I move through to the dining area. The colour scheme is the same and I can’t stop staring at the dining table. This wouldn’t be out of place in a royal residence. There are twelve Chippendale chairs placed around a twelve foot mahogany table that I can see my reflection in. In the middle is a two foot tall bronze piece of art – a perfectly formed nude male body. I wonder if it’s Sam’s.

  The surprises keep coming. I wander through to the master bedroom and gasp out loud. On one wall, there are three doors; one leading to a dressing room that’s larger than the gents’ department in Harrods, one leading to a sauna and the other to a marble bathroom with a bath you could swim laps in. On another wall is a multimedia centre, with television, hi-fi, video and laser disc. The bed is king size and covered in white silk. But it’s the other side of the room that takes my breath away. There’s a floor-to-ceiling window spanning the whole length of the room, with a view of Hong Kong that’s normally reserved for postcards. This is a palace.

  I don’t know what to do with myself, what gadget to play with first. I decide on the sauna and Jacuzzi, then choose an Otis Reading CD from the collection of hundreds. By the time I’ve worked out how to switch the hi-fi on, the sauna is too hot and the Jacuzzi is too cold.

  The telephone rings, then clicks on to the answering machine. I hear Sam’s voice first. Just hearing his voice makes me hug myself in happiness.

  ‘Hi, this is Sam Morton.’ His voice is oh so sexy. ‘Please leave your name, number and message after the tone and I’ll call you back as soon as possible. Thank you.’

  A female voice cuts in.

  ‘Hi, Sam, this is Vivian.’

  Who the fuck is Vivian?

  ‘I know it’s short notice, but I wonder if you’re free on Saturday night?’ she purrs. ‘Call me.’

  Call her? I’ll kill her. Doesn’t she know yet that he’s officially off the market? Okay, so I’ve only been back for an hour and a half, but I’m already choosing hymns and planning the honeymoon.

  Twenty minutes later, I’m blowing bubbles in the Jacuzzi when the phone rings again. If it’s Vivian, then we have to have a serious chat.

  ‘Sam, baby, this is Estelle,’ her voice is husky, like a telephone sex line. ‘I need you. Now. Call me back soon.’

  I want to tear the phone out of the wall. But what did I expect? Sam is a gorgeous man; of course he’s going to have women falling at his feet. In fact, I tell myself, it’s probably a good thing that there’s more than one because it means that he’s not serious about either of them. That leaves plenty of room for little old me to step in and sweep him off to a life of bliss.

  I’m lathering on enough body lotion to moisturise a small horse when the phone rings again. I groan inside. Please let it be his mother calling to ask if he wants her to send over sweaters for the winter.

  ‘Hello, Sam, long time no see. This is Caroline. I’m in town for a couple of days and I’d simply love it if you could fit me in. Call me at the Sheraton.’

  Okay, the joke’s over. Is this Sam getting all the female bar staff at whatever pub he works in now to call up in some crazy attempt to make me jealous? Well, if so, it’s working. Or did he finally start his martial arts school and these are all clients? Yep, that must be it. Makes total sense.

  I take a book out of the bookcase and lie back on the bed – the very bed that, with a bit of luck, I’ll be lying in with Sam tonight and every night from now on. This is finally it, I muse. All these months of blood, sweat and heartache have finally paid off. I know he won’t have changed – he’ll still be the sensitive, funny, intelligent guy that I fell in love with before. And I’m ready for it now. I’m ready for the whole marriage and ever-after bit. All the others were just trial and error to get me back to where I belong, here with Sam. I just hope he still feels the same. Then I remember the look on his face when he saw me sitting on the steps. He still loves me, I know he does.

  I brush out my hair, reapply my make-up, then slip on a huge white robe that’s hanging on the back of the bedroom door. I check my appearance in the mirror, practising my most seductive ‘come over here and bite me’ looks. I light the candles. Okay, lights, sounds and looks are taken care of. I’m ready.

  At midnight I hear the now familiar ringing.

  ‘Sam, this is Diane. I’ve had a good day today; I closed a deal that’s made both my bank manager and me very happy indeed, so I’ve decided to treat myself to a night with my favourite escort. How about Monday? Let me know, darling.’

  My coffee mug smashes to the floor. What did she say?

  My heart starts to race. I frantically press every button on the answering machine and finally manage to play the message back. ‘ESCORT’. What was she talking about? She can’t have had the wrong number, because she referred to Sam by name. Maybe she meant ‘escort’ in the old-fashioned sense, like my gran does when she talks about her courting days.

  But then I look around and realisation dawns. My stomach does a spin cycle. Who am I trying to kid? The Porsche, the millionaire’s row apartment…

  I close my eyes. I am so stupid. My head is spinning and I want to throw up and I suddenly feel very sorry for myself. I need fresh air and a brandy, so I pour one and go out on to the balcony. I slump to the floor and cry until there isn’t a drop of fluid left in my head. I’m exhausted. I’m gutted. And I’ve absolutely had enough of this ridiculous bloody quest. How insane had I been to actually think it could work?

  Sam finds me there an hour later.

  ‘Carly?’

  I don’t answer him, just stare into the skyline. There’s a long pause. Then a groan.

  ‘How did you find out?’ He sounds terrified, devastated. Good.

  ‘You mean that you’re a hooker?’ I say, and the challenge in my voice makes him recoil. Another pause.

  ‘I prefer “escort”,’ he whispers.

  ‘I bet you fucking do. How did this happen?’ I ask, my words tight and stilted. ‘You were the most moralistic person I’d ever met.’

  But he’s gone. I sit outside until my teeth start to chatter. This never happens in the movies. The heroines gaze into the darkness, looking serene and poignant, they never get swollen eyes and snot that refuses to stop.

  I go back into the lounge. He’s sitting in the candlelight, looking defeated and weary. For a moment I can’t speak. In some crazy way, I feel like I’ve never loved him more. He senses that I’m there and starts to speak slowly, in a low, quiet
voice.

  ‘After you left, I couldn’t bear it. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Everything hurt so much and I was so angry. I would go to work every night and watch all the couples, all looking so happy, and I couldn’t believe that it wasn’t us. One night, one of the women that I trained asked me to go to a company dinner with her. It was a “partners” function and she didn’t want to go on her own. I felt sorry for her, so I went. And afterwards, she insisted on paying me for my time, said it was just like a personal training session.

  ‘The next week, she called again. Then her friends started calling and, before I knew it, I was booked out every night. Gradually I charged more and more, but the business just kept coming in. Soon after, I gave up everything else. I was making more money than I could ever have dreamt of. And it was so easy.’

  His devastated expression makes guilt and sorrow seep from my pores.

  ‘So you never opened the martial arts school?’

  ‘No,’ he answers, and there is more sadness and regret in that one word than I can bear.

  My silence prompts him to continue.

  ‘At first, it was just dinner and conversation, then somewhere along the line it became… more. I didn’t care. They were buying my time, I was already selling myself, so what did it matter? I was convinced I’d never fall in love again and that part turned out to be true…’

  A knife twists in my chest.

  ‘… So now this is who I am. And it works for me. No strings, no emotion, no hurt. In a few years’ time, when I don’t look so good, I’ll take the money and run. I’ll retire and I’ll never work again. Things happen, Carly. We don’t always end up how we’d imagined in life.’

  Don’t I know it, I think sadly.

  He gets up and walks past me to the bedroom.

  ‘I understand that you want to leave. You can sleep in the spare room tonight. I’ll take you back to the hotel in the morning.’

  I sit down on the sofa and think for a long time. The rage has dissipated now and I just feel empty. What right do I have to judge him? He’s not a bad person. He doesn’t hurt anyone. It’s not his fault that my dreams have just been shattered; it’s not as if he promised me anything or was unfaithful to me. If anything I should be drowning in guilt because running out on him led him to this life. It was his choice, but my actions played a part. And as for the way I’m feeling right now, I’ve brought all this upon myself with some crazy idea that I’ll probably regret for the rest of my life. I’m no better than him – we’ve both fucked things up.