What If?

by Shari Low

  I search frantically for something for Kate, Sarah and Jess, but nothing appeals to me. Sod it, back to the jewellers. Three gold bracelets later, I reach for my credit card to pay. The assistant runs it through the machine, then looks up, embarrassed. My Visa card has been rejected. Oh, the indignity. I turn a mild shade of purple and hand her my Mastercard. Same result – no authorisation for payment. I look around to check that nobody in the store is watching me and that the manager isn’t on the phone to the fraud squad. I’m so mortified that I stare at the floor as I hand her my Diners Card. I look like I need to pee because I’ve got my fingers, my arms and my legs crossed. The machine spits my card out like a fish bone. My panic is reaching hysteria. I curse myself for spending my teenage years in school, instead of in Marks & Spencer’s learning to shoplift.

  It’s my last hope. My hand trembles as I pass over my American Express card. Even the shop assistant is willing it to work; such is her pity for this desperate woman in front of her. I close my eyes. I can’t look, it’s too painful. Kerching! The machine kicks into life and starts to print the receipt. YES! A cheer goes up from behind the counter and I open my eyes to see four shop assistants, all with their hands raised in triumph.

  I decide to push my luck.

  American Express card in hand, I buy a brooch for Maw Walton, and a case of Jack Daniel’s for Paw. Almost done. Over to the toy section. I find a Barbie and Martial Arts Ken for Zoe and a two foot wide model of the Starship Enterprise for Cameron. Auntie Carly’s credit card holds out and I stagger to the bar, laden down like a packhorse. Sam rolls his eyes in amazement as I slump down beside him.

  ‘Sam, I’ll love you for ever if a gin and tonic appears in front of me in the next ten seconds.’

  Bing-bong. The PA system interrupts us.

  ‘Air Bangladesh regrets that the 10.45 p.m. flight to London Heathrow is now subject to a three hour delay. We do apologise for this inconvenience, which was caused by the late arrival of the incoming flight.’

  NO! Don’t do this to me, I can’t bear it. My life is over. If I’m late, my friends will hate me and my family will disown me. Mongolia suddenly seems like a good option.

  I look up at Sam. ‘Better make that a double.’

  Three hours later, I’m wobbling in my seat and singing ‘I’m Getting Married in the Morning.’ Sam’s doing backing vocals.

  Bing-bong. ‘Would the final remaining passengers, Miss Cooper and Mr Morton, flying to London Heathrow on Air Bangladesh flight BG2234, please make their way to Gate 41 as the flight is about to depart.’

  Fuck! Where’s gate 41?

  We spring up, grab the bags and start running. Two minutes later, my legs hurt, my head is pounding, sweat is running down my back and we’re still only at gate five. I spot an airport worker in an electronic buggy.

  ‘STOP,’ I scream as I jump on, followed immediately by Sam. ‘It’s a matter of life and death! Gate 41 and step on it!’

  We stagger onto the plane, hot, sweaty and bedraggled. The stewardess eyes all my packages and I know she’s about to tell me that I’ve got too much hand luggage. I stare at her, daggers shooting from my eyes and pinning her against the wall. Don’t even go there, I telepathically tell her, I’m a woman on the edge.

  She picks up the telepathic signal and lets me past.

  We stow our luggage with some help from three flight attendants and find our seats. I snuggle down into Sam’s shoulder.

  He whispers in my ear. ‘Carly, don’t go to sleep, I want to talk to you.’

  I straighten up to face him as he fumbles in his pocket. He pulls out a tiny black box and opens it. My hand flies to my mouth. Nestled in velvet in the centre of the box is my engagement ring, the one I left on his bedside table all those years ago. My eyes fill up.

  ‘Sam, I can’t…’

  ‘Don’t say a word, Carly. I’ve got a speech all prepared and I need you to listen.’

  I bite my bottom lip and nod.

  ‘I want you to have this back. You deserve it. The last few weeks have been the best of my life and I want you to know that. This is just to say thanks. Nothing’s changed, Carly. I still love you more than I could ever tell you. I’d marry you tomorrow if you’d let me.’ He pauses and swallows.

  The flight attendant stares in amazement at the couple huddled over an engagement ring, both crying their eyes out.

  Sam slips the ring on my finger and continues. ‘But I know that’s not going to happen. I know that everything that’s happened over the years has made that impossible. But I want you to have this anyway, just in case you ever change your mind.’

  I pull him over and hug him tightly, then kiss away his tears, my stomach in knots.

  What do I do? I know I love him. I know that we could be so happy together. But I just can’t do it, can I? I think for a few moments. Maybe I could. Why not? Maybe I could just forget what’s happened and we could start afresh, somewhere that rich females don’t automatically look for their chequebook and Filofax when they see him coming.

  I look down at the ring. I’m not ready to decide on this.

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam, I think you’re right. I don’t think it could ever happen. But can I have a few days to think about it?’

  He nods his head and pulls me into his arms.

  The air hostess flies over. ‘Excuse me, I couldn’t help noticing. Congratulations! Oh, it’s so romantic. Can I bring you some champagne with our compliments to help you celebrate?’

  Who am I to dispel her excitement? Champagne is exactly what I could do with right now. I can taste it already. I smile at her and nod.

  ‘That would be lovely, thank you.’

  Twelve hours later, we touch down at Heathrow. Sam and I steamroller our way through to the transit area. I collapse, breathless, over the British Airways desk.

  ‘Cooper and Morton,’ I gasp. ‘We were booked on the 7 a.m. to Glasgow this morning, but our flight from Hong Kong was delayed. I need two seats on the next available flight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miss Cooper, but there’s a problem—’

  ‘I DON’T CARE IF THE FLIGHTS ARE FULL,’ I yell.

  Everyone in the lounge stops to stare.

  I take a deep breath and try to bring my heart rate down from a level that will induce a coronary. I try again, this time in a semblance of a reasonable voice.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry, but this really is an emergency. I need to get to Scotland this morning, so I don’t care if I have to pay double, just please get me on the flight.’

  ‘Miss Cooper, you don’t understand. It’s not that the flights are full. Glasgow Airport is fogbound, so no planes can land. We do anticipate it clearing in the next couple of hours, though, so I can book you on to the first available flight. I just can’t tell you when it will leave.’

  A couple of hours? My head bangs down on to the desk. A couple of hours? Callum and Carol will be back from their honeymoon before I get there.

  All I can do is pray to the weather gods.

  We take our boarding passes and sit under an information screen, willing it to flash that the flight is cleared for departure. I sit. I stand. I pace the floor. I rip up tissues. I pick up a newspaper. Can’t concentrate. I put it back down. I look at the clock – surely it must be wrong; it’s moving far too slowly. I pace again. Hurry up. Hurry up.

  At twelve o’clock, I call Kate’s mobile.

  ‘Kate, I’m stuck in London. Glasgow Airport is fucking fogbound,’ I wail. ‘I don’t know if I’ll make it. Where’s the ceremony?’

  ‘It’s at the Lomond Manor Hotel. We’re there already – we’re in the hairdressing salon just now. Hold on, Carol wants to speak to you.’

  ‘Cooper, if you want to stay attached to your limbs, you’d better get here. Callum’s going ballistic and your mother is hyperventilating. I can’t believe I’m joining this family, I must be nuts. Now, get here and make it faster than a speeding bloody arrow.’ It’s on the tip of my tongue to correct her, but I don’t have t
he heart.

  Instead I hang up and slump down the wall, staring into space. This is the worst day of my life.

  Twenty minutes later, Sam rushes over and pulls me to my feet, telling me that the flight is taking off. I raise my eyes to heaven in thanks, then run after him.

  At 1.40 p.m., we start our descent to Glasgow. I pull out my make-up mirror and check my appearance. Oh, good grief. My hair is standing on end due to four hours of trying to pull it out. I scrape it back, attempting and failing to look like one of the goddesses in Robert Palmer’s ‘Addicted To Love’ video. The face, however, is irreparable. The combination of alcohol, fluid retention and outbursts of sobbing have left my eyes puffed up like marshmallows. There’s only one thing for it. Dark glasses. I slip them on. I’m now like a rock star trying to be inconspicuous and standing out like a sore thumb. There isn’t much call for sunglasses in Glasgow in December.

  We gather up our collection of plastic bags, dash through to the reclaim area for our cases, then charge through customs. Don’t even think about stopping us! But there’s nobody there. They’re obviously all away at their Christmas party.

  We run to the front of the taxi queue and jump into the first cab, to indignant shouts from those waiting in line. I shrug apologetically, but carry on regardless.

  I tell the driver that there’s fifty quid for him if he can get us to Loch Lomond by two-thirty. Twenty-five minutes. It’s been done before, but only by Concorde.

  At exactly two thirty five, we race down the driveway of the Lomond Manor Hotel and screech to a halt at the front door. He missed it by five minutes, but I throw fifty quid at the driver for his effort.

  I lunge out the door to see Callum pacing up and down. He screams, throws his arms out, and comes rushing towards me, forgetting to apply the brakes as he reaches me. We sprawl across the ground and he lands on top of me – yet another moment of indignity. After hugs, kisses, and vows of ‘I knew you would make it’, I throw him off, spit the gravel out of my mouth and jump up. I ask Callum to take care of Sam.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, mate,’ says Callum, pumping Sam’s hand. ‘Er, who are you?’

  ‘Sam Morton. I’m Carly’s, em, well, I’m her boyfriend.’

  Callum gives me the girls’ room number and I bound upstairs. When I reach the room, I throw the door open, giving Jess, who was standing behind it, concussion.

  ‘I believe you’re missing a bridesmaid.’

  A collective shriek shakes the foundations of the building as we converge into a team hug.

  Eventually, I disentangle myself and take a step back to survey the sight before me. Carol, mascara now smudged, is just the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing an ivory silk sheath that is strapless and fans out into a train at the bottom. The edges are trimmed with pearls, as are her long silk gloves. Her hair is loose, in glossy dark tendrils that cascade down her back. On the top of her head is a magnificent pearl and diamond tiara and she’s holding a massive bouquet of white lilies. She’s breathtaking.

  I turn to the girls. Jess and Sarah are wearing deep sapphire blue, sleeveless silk dresses, which fall from a high neckline in a slim-fitting column to their calves. They’re both stunning and all traces of the sad, exhausted Sarah I’d met back in April are gone. She’s bright eyed, gorgeous and radiating such happiness my heart swells. Kate also looks glorious, in an identical dress, but hers is punctuated in the front with what looks like a spacehopper.

  ‘Good grief, Kate, you look like you’ve got the groom under there.’

  She throws a hairbrush in my general direction. Still, at least she’s got somewhere to rest her flowers if she tires of carrying them.

  Carol pulls out a hanger with another bridesmaid’s dress on it and thrusts it at me, ordering me to change at once. She’s getting bossier now that we’re almost sisters.

  I quickly throw it on, grab a bouquet of bluebells from the windowsill and announce that I’m ready.

  The others stand and we converge in the middle of the room for one last hug.

  I kiss Carol. ‘I’m so glad you’re marrying Callum. Welcome to the family.’

  Oh no, more mascara adjustments required all round.

  As we finally move towards the door, Kate nudges me. ‘Cooper, I think you should remove the sunglasses now, you look like a bodyguard.’

  I’d forgotten all about them. I take them off and chuck them behind me.

  Kate takes another look at my face.

  ‘On second thoughts, maybe you looked better with them on,’ she laughs.

  We make our way downstairs and pause at the doorway of the ballroom while someone runs to tell the organist to start the music. I look at the backs of two hundred heads. There’s Mum in the corner, wearing a hat that looks like a frisbee. The kids will be playing with that before the night is out. Who’s that sitting next to her? On her left is a blond hulk of a man with Slavic features. Ivan, I suspect. On her right is Sam, now changed into a tuxedo and easily tying with Callum for the award of ‘Best Looking Man in the Room’. Mum’s obviously beside herself, because her head is whirling from side to side. I think she’s overcome by the close proximity to that much testosterone.

  I spot my dad. He’s easy to find because he’s the only one slumped at an angle on his chair. Obviously, his partner for the night is Jack Daniel’s. Luckily, Michael, looking gorgeous, is sitting on his left in what must be the best man’s seat, so at least he’s propping Dad up. I can’t wait to see what will happen when the music starts and Michael stands up.

  Right on cue, the first bars of ‘Here Comes The Bride’ resound through the room. Michael jumps to his feet and a bewildered Dad lands in a heap on the floor, much to the amusement of the congregation and the disgust of my mum. No change there, then.

  I’m just about to take the first step, when I hear Jess take a sharp intake of breath. I turn around to see her looking panic-stricken.

  ‘What’s up?’ I whisper.

  ‘I forgot to tell you, I found Tom McCallum. I invited him over ’cause I figured you’d want to see him. He’s here somewhere.’

  My thumping heart drowns out the music. Where is he? As we walk up the aisle, I maniacally search the faces of the people in each row.

  Oh, no. NO. What the hell is going on? There’s Joe Cain, sitting in the back row, looking pleadingly at me. And shit! In front of him is Doug Cook. This can’t be happening. I turn my head to the other side and the first thing I see is Phil Lowery’s smiling face. This is a conspiracy! My heart is now pumping so fast that blood is gushing through my body like a burst dam. This can’t be happening to me.

  I can see Sam playing the worried fiancé, watching me with a face full of concern because it must be obvious that I’m about to have a heart attack. Then, just when I think it can’t possibly be any worse, life takes another nose dive. Nick Russo is sitting next to my gran. What the hell is he doing here? Somebody find a gun and shoot me, please.

  Then I spot him. I think. It’s hard to tell; I hardly recognise him. Yes, it is him. Sitting two rows from the front, looking at least seventy pounds heavier than he was the last time I saw him, is Tom McCallum. We make eye contact and he grins warmly, and I hope he realises that my panicked expression isn’t down to him. It’s down to all of them.

  So this is what it’s come to. What if… all my ex-boyfriends turned up at the same place, at the same time? What if… I made a sharp exit through the nearest window and hitch-hiked to Mongolia in a blue bridesmaid’s dress?

  I’m sweating so much that I’m in danger of making damp patches on my dress. Luckily, it’s a dark colour, so it might not be too obvious. I could have bathed in Sure Extra Dry and I’d still be sweating.

  The ceremony passes in a blur. All I can feel is six pairs of eyes boring into my back. Six pairs of eyes that belong to guys who either want to talk to me, kidnap me, marry me or kill me. I feel faint.

  Please don’t let me pass out in the middle of Callum and Carol’s wedding. They’d n
ever forgive me.

  ‘I, Carol Sweeney, take Callum Elvis Cooper (yes, I know it’s ridiculous, but he was apparently conceived during a rendition of ‘Love Me Tender’), to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer, to the exclusion of all others, for as long as I live.’

  She had her fingers crossed at the ‘poorer’ bit.

  Callum repeats the vow, looking at Carol with such raw adoration that I suddenly have goosebumps. This is what it should be like. This is the kind of love that you need to spend the rest of your life with someone.

  A jolt runs though me. What had I been thinking? If I had felt this before with any of the guys, then I’d never have left them in the first place. If they had been right for me, then I’d still be with them, not hunting them down in some sad attempt to recreate a feeling that never existed. Or had it? Oh God, I’m so confused. And it’s not helped by the fact that I’ve been naked with at least six of the men in this room.

  ‘I now pronounce you man and wife. Callum, you may kiss your bride.’

  But Carol beats him to it.

  A high-decibel cheer, accompanied by whoops, whistles and stamping feet fills the room.

  We finally prise them apart and they dance back down the aisle. I follow closely behind them and, as soon as we’re clear of the room, make a bolt for the nearest loo. I lunge into a cubicle, slam the door and sit on the closed lid.

  I stay here for what seems like hours. I’m completely numb and thoughts are crashing around in my head. So what should I do? Should I marry Sam? Should I find out what Joe’s ‘big mistake’ is and hope that he’s come back for me? Should I go and find Tom and try to give our relationship another go? Should I punch Doug Cook in the mouth? And why are Nick and Phil here? And where can I find a black wig and glasses that will disguise me enough to get me out of this hotel without facing any of them? It’s official. My life sucks.