What Now?

by Low, Shari

  ‘Rough couple of years,’ I answered with a rueful shrug, as I sat down on the end of the bed, facing him.

  I could see the concern on his face. ‘I’ve been worried about you.’

  ‘Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine,’ I said, brushing it off. ‘It’s just taking me a minute to get used to my new life, but I’ll get there.’

  Bloody hell, I appeared to have been struck down with cliché-itus. This was Sam. Someone I’d been close to for over twenty-five years. Someone whom I’d spent endless nights with, as lovers then friends, drinking wine and chatting until dawn. Why was I acting like I’d just bumped into him while waiting for a number 42 bus? Either I was tired, self-conscious about how terrible I looked, unwilling to put a damper on the day by unloading my problems, or just depressingly unused to talking to a man who actually wanted to know the truth about how I was feeling.

  Or all of the above.

  If he was surprised at my superficiality, he didn’t say it. Instead, he pushed himself up off the chair and kissed the top of my head. ‘I’ll let you get some sleep. Goodnight, Cooper.’ He was almost out of the door, when he stopped. ‘This will always be a place for you to come when things are tough. You know that, right?’

  ‘I know,’ I said, with a grateful smile. It was a lovely moment. Sweet. Sincere. Loving. So, of course, I charged right through it with, ‘And if you need to come to a slightly dilapidated, semi-detached in Chiswick to forget your woes, the offer goes both ways.’

  Fuck. I truly had the emotional depth of Val’s swimming cap.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said, as if he was truly going to giving it deep contemplation. ‘Anyway, sleep as long as you like. No plans.’

  ‘Thanks, Sam. For everything.’

  ‘Any time, Coop,’ he murmured lovingly, then off he went, travelling the approximate length of the equator, back to the other side of the house.

  Feet still on the floor, I flopped back on the bed, ready for the assault of self-doubt and recrimination that I knew was coming. What was wrong with me? Why was I being weird with him? Did I have some underlying emotions towards him that I needed to sort through? Or was I just so used to being closed off, that I’d forgotten how to be honest and authentic? Sam genuinely cared about me and I genuinely cared about him. We’d never gone for bullshit answers and superficial brush-offs. And what was I doing in my bedroom when I wasn’t even bloody tired?

  I let all that simmer for a moment. What did I want? What did I actually want to do right now? Other than go back downstairs and finish off the nachos.

  The answer didn’t take long to come. I wanted to go and get Sam. I wanted to hug him, and snuggle down, and drink more coffee and share everything that had happened. Of course, he knew the details, because we spoke most weeks on the phone, but I needed to explain to him what was really going on in my head. And I wanted to hear what was going on with him. I wanted to make him laugh, to reconnect, to hang out with my buddy, to lie on his sofa with my head on his lap and just be close to him.

  Bugger it. I wasn’t going to waste any more time sitting here like Nobby No Mates when, for once, I was on the same continent as Sam Morton.

  Jumping up, I was about to open the door, when I stopped. Nope, not like this. I couldn’t be young, sexy Carly, but I could have a stab at looking human.

  I peeled off my clothes, and wandered into the bathroom, my eyes on stalks when I saw the cream marble of the shower and the rich dark woods of the wall-mounted vanity. I could have lived without the reflection I saw in the full-length, gilt-edged mirror on the opposite wall, but I just averted my eyes, deciding that if I couldn’t count all my spare tyres on the fingers of one hand, it was better not to look.

  In the shower, I smiled as I saw the toiletries that were already there. Coconut shower gel, shampoo and conditioner. He’d remembered my favourites. Somewhere in my fragmented heart, that gesture of thoughtfulness made a tiny crack disappear. Perhaps if I stayed here long enough, Sam Morton could superglue the whole lot back together again.

  12

  Sam’s House, LA

  Complicated – Avril Lavigne

  Re-energised by the shower and the aroma of a Bounty bar in Tahiti, I rubbed my skin hard with the super-soft towels, then took a white fluffy robe from the back of the door.

  Back in the bedroom, I opened my suitcase and surveyed the chaos. In the rush to pack, I’d tossed in a mish-mash of clothes, all of which looked like Val had used them as dusters, none of which were sexy nightwear.

  Sod it. The bathrobe would just have to do. It wasn’t like I was going to walk in, pull the belt open and drop it to reveal my naked body in a bid to seduce my ex-lover. This was more of a ‘nothing to wear, I’m comfy, and, by the way, can I take this robe home with me’ kind of deal. Sam wouldn’t even notice.

  Feet bare, I padded out of the room, wondering if I should take a packed lunch and flare guns for the journey. Like me, Sam was a bit of an insomniac, who watched movies in bed, so I was pretty sure that despite the late hour, he would still be awake. Probably lying on the chaise in the lounge area of his bedroom. Oh yes. He had a lounge. In the bedroom. I didn’t even have a laundry basket in my bedroom back home.

  When I knocked on his door and there was no answer, I figured I’d guessed wrong. Bugger. Maybe this was the universe telling me to get my arse back to my room and stop wandering about in my dressing gown.

  I was about to backtrack when the door opened and… Sweet Jesus. Sam. In just his jeans. Bare feet. His tanned torso naked and still in the kind of shape that was no stranger to a crunchie. And not the chocolate variety.

  What sick twisted evil was the universe up to now? And why was I suddenly experiencing flutters in places that hadn’t been stirred in a long, long time.

  My face flushed and I just hoped the robe was thick enough to disguise the fact that I seemed to be having a reaction in the nipple area. Oh. My. God. I was actually turned on. This menopausal, knackered, sexually dormant woman, who’d spent the last few years with a husband whose interest extended to a missionary position quickie on birthdays and bank holidays, was actually feeling… it took me a moment to put a name to it. Horny.

  ‘Hey. Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I…’ My throat dried up completely. I tried to clear it, setting off a very attractive coughing fit. At which point, I bent over, my bathrobe dropped open, and I flashed him. Two boobs, pointing at the floor, and a stomach that had layers.

  As I desperately pulled it all back together, I closed my eyes and hoped for a quick death.

  ‘Sorry! I was just… just…’ Nope, couldn’t speak again.

  ‘Cooper, are you okay?’ he asked, a smile flickering in the corner of his mouth, his eyes doing that wholly intoxicating amused twinkling thing. My hormones had another swirl for good measure.

  ‘Yes! Of course! I… I…’ Bloody hell, what had happened to my powers of speech? Just because he was standing there, in his thigh-hugging jeans, top button open, topless… ‘You know, you really need to work out more,’ I told him drily.

  His laugh sounded like it came from somewhere deep inside his six-pack and I exhaled with relief. Ice broken. Ridiculous jokes. Situation normal. I had this.

  ‘Let me know if you need some tips,’ I said, giving him a playful punch. My hand bounced off his abs. That didn’t help the hormone situation.

  Ignoring his amusement, I shooed myself on into his room.

  Mistake. As Carol would say, one step forward, six steps backwards.

  ‘So I was thinking we could…’

  I stopped, only registering his flinch of panic when it was too late.

  My gaze scanned the room, and it took me a split second to spot that something wasn’t quite right. The bedside tables. On one side, Sam’s phone, a couple of books, the watch that used to belong to his dad, the pad he always left there to take notes. On the other side, a candle. A moisturiser, the kind that cost more than a flight to Alicante. Earrings. Emerald. A gold chain.
On the floor below, a handbag, a pair of shoes. Red soles.

  I managed a puzzled, ‘Sam?’ and saw the little pulse that always throbbed in his jaw when he was anxious. Shit. I made a quick decision. Act normal. Act blasé. One of us had to redeem this situation, before we drowned in a deep well of awkward. ‘Honey, are you going through something you want to share?’ I asked him. ‘A Mrs Doubtfire phase? Only, I think you might want to get a larger size in those Louboutins.’

  ‘They’re Estelle’s,’ he said.

  ‘Estelle…?’ Keep it light. Casual. Just one friend chatting to another. And maybe he’s forgotten that he saw your boobs thirty seconds ago.

  ‘Estelle Conran.’

  ‘Holy shit. Estelle Conran was here?’ There was no hope of downplaying the shock. Estelle Conran, romcom queen, willowy beauty and the leading lady in the movie Sam had produced last summer. If Julia Roberts and Sandra Bullock had a love child, Estelle Conran was it.

  ‘She lives here,’ he said.

  Too many questions, so I went with the most obvious, then added on a few more. ‘You live together? How long have you been a thing? Is it serious? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He tried to keep it light, but the pulse in his cheek was still throbbing. ‘Yes, a year or so, I’m not sure and…’

  I could easily have fainted, but I didn’t trust the robe to hold it together and I couldn’t flash him twice in one day.

  ‘I didn’t say anything because you’ve been going through a shitstorm of heartache and it didn’t seem like the right time.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Something dropped into place in my head. That’s why he’d put me in a room at the other end of the house – he didn’t want me to hear him having wild, raunchy sex with Estelle Bloody Conran. My cheeks began to burn.

  ‘I’m sorry. I should have said.’

  ‘No, that’s okay,’ I countered, my voice going a little too high as I tried to act like absolutely, definitely, positively, nothing was bothering me about this announcement. ‘I’m thrilled for you. I really am.’ Another thought dropped. ‘So where is she?’

  ‘Shooting some retakes for the movie she’s just wrapped. She should be back some time next week. I was going to tell you all about her earlier, but I couldn’t get a word in.’

  Or maybe a couple of words would have been handy. Along the lines of ‘Don’t flash your baps at me because I’ve got a girlfriend.’ I didn’t say that out loud.

  Keep going. You can do this. I forced a smile. ‘I hope she gets back.’ I didn’t. ‘It would be amazing to meet her.’ It wouldn’t.

  ‘Cool,’ he said, and I could see his relief. Another pause. ‘So what did you come to tell me? You said you’d been thinking?’

  Damn. Damn. Damn. What could I say? I was thinking we could… have a bit of a snuggle and talk for a while. I could put my head on your lap and be close to you? Because I was thinking that I just need to laugh, and to connect, and to feel something that doesn’t hurt. And I was thinking maybe something more would happen. Something that I’ve been missing for so long.

  Actually, now I was thinking that I’d completely lost my mind. Estelle Conran.

  ‘I was just thinking… I forgot to… eh… ask you for the Wi-Fi code.’

  My last shreds of dignity and integrity just topped themselves.

  ‘I wrote it on the pad on the side of your bed,’ Sam said. ‘We’re like the Hilton here.’

  I immediately dished out a warning to my gob. Do. Not. Say. Anything. About. Room. Service. Instead, I went romcom breezy. Bite me, Estelle Conran. ‘Fantastic. Right. Well. I’ll go and sort that out then. I like a browse on Twitter before I go to sleep.’

  With that little nugget of glamour, I bolted out of his bedroom.

  My cheeks burned with embarrassment all the way back to my room, where I sank onto the bed and covered my face with a pillow.

  Never again.

  I’d almost made a complete tit of myself and if I had, I could have done real damage to my friendship.

  What was I thinking, going there in a flipping bathrobe? And what did Sam think I was doing. Oh shit, did he think I came to seduce him? And what would he have done? How would he have gently let down the ex-girlfriend who’d turned into a sex-chasing hot mess?

  Sam was a friend. He would never be any more than that.

  And those lust-fuelled feelings that had been turned back on? I was just going to have to find the off switch.

  13

  LA. The Next Morning

  Girl Crush – Little Big Town

  ‘Estelle Conran! You have got to be kidding me!’ Carol exclaimed.

  The beautician, Crystal, nudged my ankle and I took my right foot out of the bubbling basin and replaced it with my left. ‘Yeah, because I always joke about my ex-boyfriends upgrading to a genuine Hollywood star who’s half my age and has a waist that’s the same size as my thigh. I find that boosts my ego no end.’

  Over at the next station, where she was having her nail varnish removed and replaced with a purple hue the same shade as her boob tube, Val raised an eyebrow. ‘Is she the one that did that orgasm scene in the café? Our Josie once copied that at a coffee morning in the community centre. They asked us to leave.’

  I turned to Carol. ‘Is it just me, or is she the gift that keeps on giving?’

  Carol crumbled into fits of giggles. ‘No, Val, that was Meg Ryan. Estelle is the one who gave up the presidency of the USA to run off to Hawaii with the secret billionaire.’

  ‘Aye, I remember that one. Aren’t her eyes a bit close together?’

  I flicked through the movie scenes in my memory, praying it was true. Sadly, there was definitely no evidence of this genetic drawback on Estelle Conran’s perfectly symmetrical face.

  ‘I don’t think so, Val,’ I said sadly, as Crystal began to grate the soles of my feet with something that looked like it should be used for removing graffiti from walls.

  Val nodded thoughtfully. ‘Ah right. Och well. I bet you she’s got no personality. The good-looking ones are always dull as dishwater.’

  ‘Hello?’ Carol chided pointedly. ‘Speaking as someone who made FHM magazine’s sexiest women list every year from 1995 to 2004, I can assure you that just because someone looks great doesn’t mean they’re dull as… as…’ I could see that she was struggling to pinpoint what Val had said so she could insert the correct word. ‘… Dishwashers.’

  So close.

  Today had been Carol’s idea and I was thrilled she’d taken charge. We’d slept late and when we finally emerged mid-morning, we all had tender heads and no voices, so we were less than enthusiastic about Val’s plans to track down Sylvester Stallone’s mansion. She’d had a thing for him since Rambo.

  ‘Tell you what, why don’t I treat us all to a day at a salon? There’s one over on Robertson that I always use when I’m here and I’m sure they’ll find spaces for us.’

  She didn’t get any arguments from us. Arnie let us know that Sam had left early for a meeting at the Peninsula Hotel with the backers of his next movie, and offered to be our driver for the day. I ignored the two gremlins of paranoia and embarrassment that were telling the rest of my brain Sam had really left because he was trying to escape after the awkwardness of last night. He was probably hiding out in the garage until the coast was clear. The minute we were out of the driveway, he’d probably commando crawl his way back into the safety of his kitchen and get online to order a panic room that shuts down if I come within fifty feet of it.

  Shaking off the thought, we gratefully accepted Arnie’s offer, although there was a worrying moment when we found out he drove a Hummer. It had taken three of us to give Val a heave up into the passenger seat.

  Now that we were ensconced here for the afternoon, we knew it had been the right move. The salon was ultra-trendy, all mirrors and ebony workspaces, with an army of staff tackling every aspect of cosmetic improvement. We’d each been assigned our own beautician for the day, and Crystal drew the short straw,
landing the biggest challenge with my long-neglected grooming standards. We scheduled in several glorious hours of pampering, with manicures, pedicures, eyebrows, lashes, tan, and for me, a hair trim and colour. I’d had those dark roots for so long I was considering hosting a farewell lunch for them. I’d never in a million years consider spending money or time on this type of thing at home, but, well, I was on holiday and it was Carol’s treat. She maintained that everything was content for her posts, her blogs or her interviews. No doubt my eyebrow transformation from slug to slimline would show up in her Snapchat before the end of the day.

  ‘Is it serious?’ Carol asked, taking photos of the ombre nail art that was being applied to her toes. Her three million social media followers would love it.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  ‘Sam and Estelle!’

  ‘I think so. I’m not really sure. After I flashed him, it didn’t feel like the right time to have an in-depth discussion about his future.’

  Carol couldn’t keep her face straight. ‘I’m laughing with you, not at you,’ she promised, but I wasn’t convinced.

  ‘So, tell me… how do you feel about him?’

  ‘I feel the same way I’ve felt for the last twenty years. He’s my platonic movie star pal. He lives in LA, I live in Chiswick. He’s the perfect long-distance friend and I love him like a brother. That’s it.’ If my manicure was accessorised by a polygraph right now, the needle would be screeching across the page.

  Now it was Carol’s turn to be unconvinced. Like the others, she knew all about my history with Sam, the splits, the reunions, and the torn feelings and occasional regrets.

  ‘Carly, I love Mark, you know I do, and I’ve always kinda hoped that you two would get back together.’

  That wasn’t a surprise. I knew Carol felt that way, and Kate did too. Only Jess thought that I should definitely cut the cord and start over. Hard as it was, I knew she was right.