The only nagging worry I had was about our sex life. I kept telling myself to look on the bright side – we could go to bed at 9.55, make love and I’d still catch the start of News At Ten. At least I’d never have to plead a headache to get out of having sex, because most times it was over before I realised it had started. And I’d never get cystitis.
I know I should have tried to talk to him about it, but any time I raised it, he just told me how wonderful I made him feel and how much I turned him on. Who was I to rain on his parade? I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him, to question one of the aspects of our lives that made him so happy. Sex isn’t everything, I rebuked myself. I could change it over time. It would get better as we grew together. It was just the honeymoon phase that was causing the, erm, swift conclusions.
The months flew by. The seasons changed but how we felt about each other didn’t – until the last minute.
It was all Danielle Steel’s fault.
I was lying in bed reading yet another of her novels, rapt in the story of the hero who had just whisked the heroine off to New York, presented her with diamonds and asked her to marry him, when I had a sudden realisation. That would never happen to me. I would never be ‘whisked off’ – we had to save for six months for a week in Lanzarote. Doug insisted on investing all extra cash in our pensions. And I couldn’t even remember how he had proposed. We’d just kind of fallen into it. Holy crap, was I never going to have any excitement in my life again, ever?
But, once again, knee-deep in denial, I shrugged it off. Who needed excitement when I had Doug?
The girls had planned my hen night meticulously. They were so happy for me. Jess, Sarah, Kate and Carol were to be my bridesmaids and would look stunning in dresses designed by Carol and made by a dressmaker friend whom she’d met in a fashion house in London.
We began the night in a trendy Glasgow restaurant, before moving on to an even trendier pub, full of Glasgow’s beautiful people. God, I’d forgotten what it was like to be out on the town. For the last year, I’d either been working in the club or sitting in my bedroom or Doug’s watching a video. I’d wanted to move in together first, but he didn’t see the point of wasting money on rent when we were saving furiously for our big day.
The hen night was a riot of laughter and we had no intention of slowing down when we ended the evening in our old favourite, Winston Blues. As we entered, I saw the owner, Richie (or rather I saw two of him), rolling his four eyes as he contemplated the mess our high heels would make on his furniture. He wasn’t wrong. Within minutes, we were on top of the tables belting out ‘Mustang Sally’. At one point, I moved too close to the edge and concussion loomed as I toppled over, only to be caught at the last minute. Mark Barwick saved the day again. How was it possible that he was always in the right place at the right time?
‘Cooper, we have to stop meeting like this.’
I laughed as he set me down in an upright position. ‘We definitely do.’
‘I hear you’re marrying Doug. Congratulations.’
I looked up to see if his smile extended to his eyes, but I couldn’t focus. Too many Legal Intercourses. I managed a lopsided grin.
‘I am.’
He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Take care of yourself, Coop. Be happy.’
‘I will, Mark,’ I may have slurred slightly. ‘You too.’
He was lost in the crowd within seconds and I clambered back up for an encore. Ten minutes of wanton gyrations later, the DJ suddenly switched from Kylie’s ‘I Should Be So Lucky’, to Roxette’s ‘It Must Have Been Love’.
I frantically looked around my feet, hoping that someone had installed a plastic slide at the side of the table, because in my condition I couldn’t see any other way of getting down without a parachute. No slide. I was about to shout for someone to call out a rescue helicopter when two arms reached around my waist and gently lowered me to the floor. I didn’t even have to look. Mark had rescued me so many times he should be wearing his underpants over his trousers. The thought made me giggle.
He swung me round and suddenly we were dancing. Or rather, he was dancing and I was swaying as I concentrated on remaining upright. My arms were round his neck and I was holding him tight.
Mark laughed. ‘Did you request this song just for me?’
‘Just a freak coincidence.’
We both knew he’d been my first love and I’d been his. Mark had always been there. When I wore my first bra, Mark tried to take it off. The first time I got suspended from school, Mark went to see my parents and took the blame. The first time I ever got drunk, he picked me up and took me home. I’d spent years writing ‘Carly Barwick’ on my school jotters and taking detours around school between classes just so that I’d inadvertently bump into him. Years later, we were still bumping into each other, but the only difference now was that I was about to be Mrs Carly Cook.
Kate found us as the lights went up.
‘C’mon, children, time to get the blushing bride home to bed.’
I stared at Mark. Oh bollocks. I felt familiar feelings rising up to my throat. It was attraction. Excitement. Danger. I felt like I was on the edge of a ski slope and just about to jump. I just couldn’t remember whether or not I’d