Time to put on my party pants. Or rather, to take them off.
We checked in our clothes at the cloakroom and made our way to the bar. It was bizarre. From the necks up, it looked like a room of lawyers, teachers and doctors, but from the necks down, it was a party in a nudist colony. And there was I, in the middle of it all, wearing high heels and a smile. Why hadn’t I stuck to that last diet? My wobbly bits were trembling. More deep breaths. I sucked in my stomach until my abdominal muscles threatened to snap. Then I realised something. Nobody was looking at me. Nobody was inspecting my thighs for cellulite or pointing in horror at the size of my bum. I started to giggle.
‘What?’ Joe asked. ‘What are you laughing at?’
By this time, I was splitting my naked sides. ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this. If the girls at home could see me now, they’d think I’d lost it and ambush me with a packet of pants!’
I tried to see the whole thing as a turn-on, but it was too ridiculous, so we settled for a game of pornographic ‘I Spy’ and a quick grope behind a pillar when I was positive that nobody could see us.
Eventually, we went home and slumped into bed, still giggling like kids during their first sex education lesson.
Joe pulled me on top of him. ‘Tell me another fantasy, Cooper.’
I’d learned my lesson. ‘No way, Mr Cain. You take things entirely too literally.’
Over the following months, our roller-coaster fired along without any major derailments. Thankfully, our sojourn to the ‘bare bum bar’ was never repeated and we continued to have long nights and mornings of love with lots of fantasies thrown in to keep things interesting.
In fact, that had started to niggle somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain. It seemed like our sex life revolved more and more around talking dirty than it did around love. I chided myself that I was just moaning about too much of a good thing. After all, I enjoyed the fantasies. But every night…?
It was a small price to pay. During the days, Joe was his usual funny, kind, caring, protective, interesting, gorgeous self. We spent endless hours talking about our wedding, a knees-up back in Scotland with my girl gang as bridesmaids. One Christmas Eve, I’d called everyone with the news. My granny had whooped with glee, my mother had said she hoped I knew what I was doing and my brothers demanded to meet him and asked if he was any good at football. My dad asked if he got a discount at the club now. I told him he was barred.
Next I called Kate’s house, hoping all my pals would be there, and they were. They’d all huddled around the phone, and when I’d told them I was engaged they’d shrieked with excitement for me. I promised I’d bring Joe back to meet them soon, but it hadn’t happened. The problem with owning and running clubs pretty much single-handedly is that there’s no one to take over when the boss wants a break. Chad could cover for a few hours, but he had his hands full on the door. All our staff were part-time, so – other than me – Joe didn’t have anyone he could trust with managing things in his absence. Add to that his workaholic nature, and I was beginning to wonder if we’d ever get a break. Every time I mentioned it, Joe would promise me we’d get a holiday soon and my hopes would rise, then fall again as more time passed and it still didn’t happen.
On a freezing cold night in January, as I made my way to work, I knew it was going to be a quiet night. I was on my own, because Joe was out scouting other clubs, searching for his next investment. There were few tourists at this time of year and the six inches of snow on the ground would stop most of the locals coming out. By midnight, only a few tables were busy as I worked the room, chatting to all the regulars. At a corner table was a couple I’d never seen before, so I introduced myself as I passed them.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the guy replied. ‘It’s a great club you’ve got here.’
I stopped in my tracks. It was the broadest Glasgow accent. I turned and smiled.
‘You’re from Glasgow!’ Why did my stomach just do a somersault in glee? And why did I want to hug them? ‘Let me buy you a drink,’ I offered, suddenly excited. Maybe it wasn’t going to be such a dull night after all.
When I took over their drinks and joined them, they introduced themselves as Fraser and Wendy. They were over on a weekend break and as we chatted, it transpired that not only were they from Glasgow, but they were from the same area as me. In fact, Fraser played in the same football team as my brother, Callum.
I interrogated them for stories of home. How was Callum? Did they know Michael? What about Kate, Carol, Sarah and Jess? Fraser told me that my brother had broken his leg the week before. I was stunned. Callum had broken his leg and I didn’t know about it. What kind of a sister was I? I felt like I’d been overtaken by a variety pack of emotions. On the one hand, it was great to talk to people from home. But on the other… well, it was strange – I had never been homesick before and now waves of it were sweeping over me.
At closing time, they staggered out, drunk on the drinks that I had been plying them with as thanks for answering my relentless questions all night. I let all the staff go and as I waited for Joe to collect me, gloom descended. I tried to pinpoint what was wrong, but I couldn’t understand it. Suddenly, I just wanted to get on the first plane available and go home.
I sat silently in the car all the way back to our apartment, then listlessly undressed and climbed into bed. Joe put his arms around me.
‘Make love to me, Joe,’ I asked.
‘Sure, babe. Why don’t you tell me a story first?’
He didn’t get it. I didn’t want acrobatic sex and horny fantasies. I wanted him to make slow tender love to me. To make me feel better. To make me feel like I belonged here.
I rolled over and stared at the photo on my bedside table. It was of all the girls on our last day in Benidorm. We were literally falling over each other as we made daft gestures into the camera, faces the colour of tomatoes from too much sun. We looked like we didn’t have a care in the world. What were they doing right now? Our friendships were still there, but we’d all gone our separate ways and our contact was limited to the occasional letter or infrequent phone call, always instigated by me because Sarah and Jess were skint students, Carol was working in a bar between modelling gigs to make ends meet and Kate was living on just over thirty quid a week as a junior in a salon.
I reached for the phone to call Kate, but stopped myself; it would only make me feel worse.
Instead, I turned to look at Joe, who unfortunately was in an extremely unattractive, open mouthed mid-snore. Did he ever feel like this? Did he ever want to be somewhere else (I mean, other than a nudist bar in Barbados – fantasy number forty-six)?
Maybe it was an age thing, I mused. Joe was thirty-seven, I was nearly twenty years younger. He was only the second man I’d ever slept with, for God’s sake. And if I married him, then he’d be the last. Panic began to rise. Did I really want to look at the same penis for the rest of my life? What if this was a huge mistake? What would life be like in ten years’ time – would I be married with six kids by then, covered in food, tears and snot, trapped in domesticated hell? I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to promise the rest of my life to this man, no matter how bloody spectacular he was.
And spectacular, he definitely was. I touched his cheek. He was everything I’d ever wanted. He was funny, sexy, smart…
I was so confused. I mean, this wasn’t a mild dilemma, like would I take the holiday or the car if I won on Family Fortunes. This was a full-blown life-changing crossroads and I had no idea which way to turn.
When I got out of bed at 5 a.m., the world seemed different. Joe still lay sleeping beside me, the snoring now ceased, the mouth closed and looking unbearably gorgeous and touchable. But it didn’t matter. I knew what I was going to do and I hated myself for it.