What If?. Shari Low

      ‘I know.’ It came out with a matter of fact nod and shrug.

      ‘You do? How?’

      I giggled. ‘My gran told me.’

      His eyes crinkled up in that gorgeous way as he laughed too, then leaned over and did that kissing thing again for a long, long time.

      We were still smiling when the sun came up the following morning and we were still sitting on the same bench planning our future. I’d gone from zero to love in two point five seconds and it felt oh so right.

      We’d decided that I would leave the hotel and move into his flat. He told me that he was going to open a new restaurant across town and he would split his time between both outlets, leaving the day-to-day running of the Premier Club to me. I argued that I was too young, and an illegal alien to boot, but he disagreed and said that I was more than capable and that my permits would be through any day now. It was the most warm and bubbly feeling. This amazing guy believed in me. And he loved me!

      He took me back to his flat that morning and slowly undressed me, his hands tenderly drifting over my body, touching and probing everywhere. Thank God I’d worn my best underwear.

      We stayed in bed all day – making love, talking. At one point we were discussing music and I confessed my hidden love of Elvis. Joe broke into an impromptu and really terrible rendition of ‘Burning Love’. I hoped he would never suggest the rhythm method of contraception because he obviously had none. But I didn’t care. Every fibre of my being told me I was on to something special with Joe Cain, and the next six months proved me right.

      We worked in the evenings and slept late in the mornings, waking to make love before having a long lunch. The afternoons were filled with long walks and I finally did venture inside Amsterdam’s many museums and galleries. We would lie in the park, my head on his chest as he read to me or simply stroked my hair while I snoozed. Every day I fell more in love with him and I just knew, without a doubt, that we were meant to be together.

      On the anniversary of my arrival in Holland, we went to our favourite Italian restaurant. Joe had been edgy all week and I was beginning to panic. What was wrong with him? Was he bored with us? I thought we’d been so happy, but maybe I’d missed something? He hardly spoke throughout the meal. I tried to be windswept and interesting, tried to draw him into conversation, but he wouldn’t have it. He was completely distracted.

      Panic turned to sheer terror as he jumped up and asked for the bill the minute we’d finished our coffee.

      We made our way outside and instead of looking for a taxi, Joe turned right and started walking, dragging me behind him. Bugger, I was going to break my neck – my shoes were definitely not made for walking. I could feel the blisters rising when he finally came to a stop at the bench where we’d spent our first night together.

      ‘What are we doing here, Joe? Tell me what’s wrong,’ I begged.

      He sat me down and looked at his watch. What the hell was going on? What was he waiting for?

      He said nothing.

      I turned to face the canal, contemplating jumping in if the night got any worse, when suddenly I saw it. Approaching slowly from the west was a canal boat, lit up like a Christmas tree. As it neared us, I could see that it had a massive banner on the side, words emblazoned on it. I squinted to read it, only managing when it was directly in front of us.

      COOPER, I LOVE YOU. MARRY ME.

      I squealed, my hand flying to my mouth. It was only when I caught the questioning glint in his eyes that I realised he was waiting for an answer.

      I threw my arms around him. ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ I screamed between kisses, until he disentangled himself and pulled a box from his pocket. When he opened it, there was the most beautiful diamond solitaire I had ever seen.

      ‘I thought I’d better wait until you said yes before showing you this,’ he laughed. ‘I know how shallow you are and I didn’t want you saying yes just so you could get the diamond.’

      ‘You know me far too well, Mr Cain,’ I answered, heart swollen to bursting point. ‘Do I get matching earrings if we last a year?’

      As always, his eyes crinkled as he laughed, and if it was possible, I loved him even more. In fact, I was so besotted that I managed to get over the twinge of sadness that I wasn’t sharing tonight with anyone from home. Callum would interrogate Joe to make sure he was good enough. Michael would love the thought of having another brother. Kate would hug me, Sarah would shriek with happiness, Carol would try to work out the value of the ring and Jess would give me a full run down on the legal implications of marriage and divorce. I pushed the longing away. I missed my girls and my brothers madly, but the excitement of working in the club and living with Joe seemed a million miles from my old life.

      My pals would love him, though. I was sure of it.

      Joe. My fiancé. The girl who had spent years watching her parents’ marriage and vowing she’d never walk into that trap, was engaged. And crazy as it was, it felt great to have someone who loved me so much he wanted to spend a lifetime with me.

      That night, we went home and had the most passionate sex I’d ever known. It was ferocious: licking, biting, swinging from the lights… I’m sure most of it would have been illegal in several countries. But thankfully, not Holland. When we were finally satisfied, I felt like I required oxygen and a pacemaker.

      Joe rolled over. ‘Cooper, tell me your ultimate sexual fantasy.’ This was a game we often played before, during or after sex – there was a prize for the most original composition. Our fantasies were like cocktails. We had a fantasy of the week, a daily special fantasy and a monthly themed fantasy. It was all harmless humour and most of them were so ridiculous that we usually ended up in fits of giggles.

      ‘The ultimate one?’ I enquired.

      ‘The ultimate one,’ he responded. ‘The one that you definitely want to do in this lifetime.’

      I racked my brains, trying to think of the most interesting one. There were loads to choose from, but, to tell you the truth, although I had fun thinking about them, I wasn’t sure that I actually wanted to physically act on them.

       Come on, Cooper, play the game.

      ‘I guess it would be the one where we have sex in a room full of strangers – that would be a turn on.’

      Mistake. Big mistake.

      A week later it was our night off and Joe and I went to our usual bar on the edge of the Red Light area. After six-too-many cocktails we left and Joe steered me to a concealed doorway in an alley off the Leidseplein. I didn’t give it a second thought. Joe knew the city’s nightlife inside out and had taken me to loads of gems that were off the beaten track.

      He rapped on the door. After a few minutes, it was answered by a burly chap with an English accent and a bad wig.

      He beckoned us inside. I was ten feet inside the door when I froze to the spot. Everyone was naked. The bar was full of people sipping cocktails and chatting like it was the most natural thing in the world (which, I suppose, it was, really). Mother of God, you didn’t find bars like this in Glasgow. It was too bloody cold there, for a start.

      The shock sobered me immediately. I scanned the room. Good grief, there was a couple having sex in the corner and nobody was batting an eyelid.

      Joe put his arm around me. ‘It’s your fantasy, Carly. We can do whatever you want.’

      How about a dash to the door?

      I took a deep breath. I could handle this, I thought. I was a cosmopolitan woman of the world. Anyway, hadn’t I come to Amsterdam looking for adventure and new experiences?

      As usual in times of crisis, I got a mental image of my mum. She didn’t have to say a word – she just pursed her lips and frowned, shaking her head.