What If?. Shari Low

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a bitter and twisted man hater. On the contrary, I love them. Perhaps a little too often, granted. Sweeping confession coming up. I’m just going to blurt it out and get it over with. I’ve been engaged to be joined in the holy vows of matrimony no fewer than four times and had two further near misses, before I pulled on my Reebok high tops and did a runner. Metaphorically speaking, of course. If you ever see me jogging, you can be pretty sure it’s because someone is chasing me with a weapon.

      It’s just come to me that I could form an ex-boyfriend five-a-side football team, complete with substitute. I realise that to some my serial chucking may seem a tad unstable, heartless, cruel or indecisive, but it was none of these. No, it was down to optimism. You see, no matter how great the guy was, no matter if he was loving, faithful, made me laugh, and set my knickers alight, there was always some incident of conflict or disaster. Whereupon, instead of persevering and trying to make it work, I ended the relationship before careering headlong into the next fiasco. I was just always sure that the next romance would be the perfect one – one that wouldn’t require work, compromise or sacrifice on either side. Naiveté and optimism won the day, time after time. And look where that’s got me.

      The ringing of the phone stops me from slipping deeper into my abyss of self-reflection. I reach for the green handset with the big white buttons that hangs on my wall. The company I work for issued us all with a high-tech mobile phone a few years ago, but the accountants get twitchy if it’s used for personal calls, so it usually languishes at the bottom of my briefcase, the perfect place to ignore it when it rings. My boss has started typing inspirational and nagging messages on his and sending them to us. Why, oh why, are those text thingies necessary? Whoever invented that little method of communication needs to have a serious word with themselves.

      I put the green handset to my ear. ‘Hello?’

      ‘I called your office and they said you’re sick, so, let me guess, you’re still in your dressing gown, aren’t you?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      ‘And there’s nothing actually wrong with you.’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘Except that you’re feeling sorry for yourself.’

      ‘Definitely. It’s a recognised symptom of a midlife crisis.’

      Kate. My best mate. Or long-suffering mate, if we’re going for accuracy. We’ve been pals since we sat next to each other in Primary 7, and both got detention because we wouldn’t admit which one of us opened a can of Tango under our desk, causing an explosion of orange fizz that hit everyone within ten feet of us. Incidentally, it was Kate. I shared the punishment, but she’s been bailing me out ever since, so I think I got the better deal.

      She sighs because she’s been listening to me moaning for weeks now. ‘Cooper…’ My pals all call me by my surname, because there were two Carlys in our Primary class and it just stuck. Now, when I hear my first name being uttered, I automatically fear that my mother is in the vicinity. ‘We’re going to have to make this quick, because I’ve got a Spice Girls tribute act due in for blow-dries any minute.’

      When she’s not busy being my personal relationship advisor, Kate’s a hairdresser in an achingly hip Kensington salon. She came to London ten years ago, originally to be near Carol, another one of our teenage gang, who, like my brother, was hustling her way in the modelling world and looking for company. They shared a flat in Camden for a year, before Kate met a very lovely architect called Bruce, and was swept off her feet by his vaulted ceilings and elevated angles.

      She lives in nearby Chiswick, with Bruce and their two amazing children: Cameron, six, and Zoe, four. Both of them have Kate’s features – long chestnut hair, huge green eyes and infectious grins. I can sense that there’s one on her face right now.

      ‘You’re not having a midlife crisis. You’re having a millennium crisis. It’s a thing. The psychological millennium bug. I read about it in Woman’s Own, so it must be true. Or maybe it was in Take A Break. I really need to cut down on my magazine subscriptions. Anyway, apparently, it’s not just technology that’s going to implode at the dawn of the new century. It’s making people reflect on their lives and relationships and make changes. They reckon the divorce rate is going to go through the roof. I keep stocking up on Bruce’s favourite biscuits just to keep him on side.’

      I ponder that for a moment. ‘You can’t beat the contentment delivered by a Wagon Wheel. Anyway, maybe you’ve got a point. Maybe I’m having a midlife crisis and a case of the millennium bug. Maybe it’s both.’

      Kate laughs. ‘Nope, sorry. You don’t get to make claims on two different crisis situations. Pick one and stick to it.’

      I get the feeling she’s not taking me seriously and, to be honest, I don’t blame her. In my defence, as well as doing my share of navel gazing, I have made some efforts to change. For the past couple of years, I’ve deliberately stayed single. In my quest to understand and analyse where it all went wrong, I’ve been spending long nights contemplating all my past relationships, trying to understand why they didn’t work out. I’m not sure it’s helped, but sales of those Marks & Spencer dinners for one have rocketed.

      I’ve just realised that I’ve scoffed the whole croissant and don’t even remember doing it. And I’ve missed the start of Richard & Judy.

      ‘Is there a cure for the millennium bug? Other than educating yourself about life from the pages of women’s magazines?’ I ask.

      ‘Yes. Apparently you have to just get over yourself and take action, make changes, solve the problem. Okay, spell it out for me. Tell me exactly what’s bothering you.’

      ‘I just think…’ The words catch in my throat, so I change tack. ‘I just wonder if…’ Nope, can’t get that out either. I close my eyes, brace myself and prepare to tell her the thought that kept me awake last night. ‘I can’t get it out of my head that I might have made a mistake. What if one of my exes was my forever soulmate and I was just too stupid to see it? What if I trampled Mr Right in the rush to meet another Mr Wrong? Maybe I’ve missed my chance. How will I ever know?’

      There’s a pause as she considers my dilemma. I’m hoping she’ll come up with something wise and insightful.

      ‘You could always win the lottery and go and visit them all.’

      Hopes dashed. Although, she’s not wrong. You see, my exes are scattered all over the world. Oh yes, I did more to bring countries together than the United Nations.

      I hear a bell ringing in the background at the other end of the line and Kate immediately wraps things up. ‘Hot N Spicy are here, I need to go. I’ll call you later and you’d better be out of your dressing gown.’

      The line goes dead. I replace the handset, finish making my tea and carry it over to the sofa, Kate’s words playing in my mind. Lottery win aside, maybe there’s something in what she says. This is 1999. The last year of the century. How incredible would it be to have turned my life around and go into the 2000’s happy, fulfilled and in love again? Let’s face it, nothing is going to change unless I do something to make it happen. An idea begins to form in my mind. There’s an obvious way to find out if my happy ever after lies with an ex, but where would I start? I suppose I’d do it in chronological order. That would mean going back twelve years to my first love, Nick Russo, and to a time when I still had a connection to the word ‘virgin’, other than the fact that I’ve flown on their aeroplanes…

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