What If?. Shari Low
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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…
2
Don’t Leave Me This Way – The Communards
The holiday was booked for the end of June, a few weeks before my eighteenth birthday, and the day after I attended the mothership of all that was oppressive in society, St Mary the Blessed Virgin High School in Glasgow, for the last time.
Actually, school wasn’t that bad. Where else could you hang out with your mates all day, get free ciggies from the guys at lunchtime, and be involved in more daily drama than an episode of Neighbours? The only inconvenience was tolerating the punishments that were regularly meted out to me for answering back, not paying attention, and generally causing affray. But it was all innocent and done in the name of fun.
My favourite class was French, where my ‘disruptive’ behaviour pushed the highly strung Mr Distell too far and he made me sit behind a filing cabinet for a whole year. It was a great opportunity to catch up with lost sleep.
As for the work, much as I don’t want to appear conceited, I officially possess the memory of an elephant. Even when I was staring transfixed at John Potts’s thighs in biology, I could still remember every word the teacher uttered. Exams, therefore, were never a problem. Straight A student, straight zero work. Life was bliss.
I think that’s why I agreed to go on holiday. I wanted to prolong the last year with my school pals for as long as possible. We knew we would all go in different directions afterwards. Sarah Moore, my friend since we were in the womb and our mothers went to antenatal classes together, was going to Edinburgh University to study mathematics. Such a rational subject for a joyfully irrational person. Carol Sweeney, Glasgow’s answer to Kate Moss, was going to London to try to launch her modelling career. Jess Latham, Aberdeen University, reading politics. Politics! She said she chose it because it was sure to include lots of men and dinner parties. And Kate Wilkes, who had been butchering our coiffures for