What If?

Low Shari

Description

'I absolutely love Shari's books, funny, honest and heartwarming writing' Jenny Colgan, bestselling author

Brand new from #1 bestseller Shari Low.

What if you were wrong to say goodbye to Mr Right...?

1999.

Carly Cooper is 30, single, and after coming close to saying ‘I do’ to six different men, she’s wondering if she accidentally said ‘goodbye’ to Mr Right.

So, Carly quits her job, her flat, her whole life and sets off on a quest to track down all the men she's ever loved.

But there is a problem. Her ex-boyfriends are scattered all over the world and Carly lives in an era before the Internet and Smartphones.

Her Mr Right must be out there, but can she find him?

And what if he’s moved on from the ex-girlfriend who said goodbye?

A laugh-out-loud vintage '90s romantic comedy from #1 bestselling author Shari Low.

The hilarious, laugh-out-loud sequel 'What Now?' is out now!

What readers are saying about What If?:

'I so love Shari Low’s books; they have just the perfect recipe for chilling out and emerging yourself in the crazy world of someone else for a few hours!'

'Shari has such a witty way of writing that makes for an easy, fun read.'

'This book is highly recommended and bound to put a smile on your face.'

'Hilarious, poignant and romantic'

'Full of emotional twists and turns as well as characters to love'

'A nostalgic, delightful, and funny story'

Sujets

• Vie de famille
• Relations familiales
• Mashups
• Holidays
• Alternative Family
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Men
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Dating
• Romantic Comedy
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Topic
• Romance
• Fiction
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 29 septembre 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838891282
• Langue: English

Extrait

WHAT IF?


SHARI LOW
This updated edition first published in Great Britain in 2020 by Boldwood Books Ltd.

Copyright © Shari Low, 2020
Cover Design by Alice Moore Design
Cover Photography: Shutterstock

The moral right of Shari Low to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Every effort has been made to obtain the necessary permissions with reference to copyright material, both illustrative and quoted. We apologise for any omissions in this respect and will be pleased to make the appropriate acknowledgements in any future edition.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-83889-126-8
Large Print ISBN 978-1-83889-824-3
Hardback ISBN 978-1-80162-815-0
Ebook ISBN 978-1-83889-128-2  
Kindle ISBN 978-1-83889-127-5
Audio CD ISBN 978-1-83889-233-3
MP3 CD ISBN 978-1-83889-821-2 
Digital audio download ISBN 978-1-83889-125-1


Boldwood Books Ltd
23 Bowerdean Street
London SW6 3TN
www.boldwoodbooks.com
CONTENTS



A Note From Shari



Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12


Part II


Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue


More from Shari Low

Acknowledgment

About the Author

Also by Shari Low

About Boldwood Books
To my husband John Low,
Who started it all back in 1999 by pointing out that if I wanted to be an author, I should perhaps try to write something. I still hate it when you’re right.
But I love you and our family more than any words on a page.
You’re everything, always…
Shari x
A NOTE FROM SHARI

Before you turn the page….
Thank you so much for reading this 20 th Anniversary re-release of my first ever novel.
When I wrote it back in 1999, Britney Spears had just found fame with ‘Baby One More Time’ and nothing much was impressing Shania Twain.
Hugh Grant was trying to seduce Julia Roberts in Notting Hill and JK Rowling had just released Harry Potter’s third magical mystery.
There were only a few TV channels, DVDs were considered cutting edge technology and we’d never heard of political correctness.
Texting was relatively new and had yet to gain mass popularity and our mobile phones were mostly just used to – shock – talk to people. Oh, and international calls were so expensive it was cheaper to go to Benidorm for a week than to call someone there for a lengthy chat.
The internet was a novelty that made a screeching noise when you dialled it up, and you could make three cups of tea in the time it took to download a page. More importantly, given the story in this book, there was no google, no facebook, no twitter, and if you wanted to find someone you just had to hope that directory enquiries had their phone number, otherwise there was no way to track them down them other than going to their house and throwing stones at their window.
Or – like Carly Cooper – saying goodbye to your whole life and going on an international manhunt.
I really hope you enjoy this step back in time.
And I hope you fall in love with Carly, her pals and the story that started it all…
Much love,
Shari xxx
PART I
1
MILLENNIUM – ROBBIE WILLIAMS

Oh, bollocks.
I love that word. It has a ‘don’t mess with me, I’m a hormonal lethal weapon’ ring to it. I’ve been muttering it dementedly since I got out of bed this morning, because I can’t think of a single thing that’s right with the world today.
I reach over to refill the kettle, dropping the arm of my dressing gown in last night’s dishwater and knocking over my ashtray in the process. It’s not going to be one of my better days. Before you start reaching for the telephone to summon a counselling service to my kitchen, can I just say that I’m having a midlife crisis. I look and feel like Liam Gallagher after a night on the tiles and I can tell you in years, months, days and minutes how long it is since my last sexual experience. But, according to every reputable (trashy) women’s magazine, this behaviour is typical of a single female of my age. One who’s having a midlife crisis, that is.
Do you ever think, ‘What if this is all there is to life?’ Do you ever contemplate your lot and wonder why you’re not a supermodel in Milan? Or the director of a multinational corporation? What about married to an international business tycoon with homes in seven countries? For the purposes of this ponderance, I’m going to ignore that I’ve got forty pounds on any supermodel, I have no cheekbones, zero entrepreneurial skills, I’m a hopeless commitment-phobe and I couldn’t handle seven houses because I get irritated having to run the Hoover round my tiny flat.
But all that aside, look at me now. I’m sitting at my breakfast table alone, having called in sick to work with an ever more ridiculous reason (‘I stubbed my toe in the garden’ isn’t a bad excuse, except that I live in a third floor flat), with absolutely nothing to look forward to except a chocolate croissant and a long linger over the latest edition of Hello! magazine. I can’t help thinking, ‘What if this is it?’ What if this is the way my life is going to be until I’m having Zimmer races up and down the corridor of my retirement home, flirting with old men and cheating at bingo?
I suppose I owe you an explanation for this sudden outpouring of self-pity.
My name is Carly Cooper. I’m careering towards my thirties at terrifying speed, and I pay an obscene portion of my monthly salary to live in a studio-cum-cupboard in the desirable area of Richmond, near London. I arrived here from my native Glasgow via a multitude of countries, adventures and disasters (mostly due to Mr Rights who inevitably turned out to be Mr Couldn’t Be More Wrongs). I’m 5’8”, with long blonde hair (extensions), blue eyes (coloured contact lenses) and ample curves (in many of the non-supermodel places).
I earn a great salary doing a job I detest and therefore spend every penny of it doing things I enjoy to take my mind off work. I am officially a National Accounts Manager for one of the world’s largest manufacturers of tissue-paper products. Translated, this means that I persuade buyers of large multinational companies to sign annual contracts for the supply of their toilet rolls. Don’t laugh. There’s a future in toilet rolls. They’ll be here long after all this modern technology like CDs and carphones are on a scrap heap somewhere.
I’m officially enjoying the single life with no significant other to answer to. Believe me, to paraphrase Jerry Maguire, I absolutely know that I don’t need a man to complete me. I should just be content being a single, cosmopolitan woman of the world. But unofficially, off the record, and with apologies to my fellow singletons everywhere, I’m bored, fed up and itching to be in a couple again.
I’m beginning to despair of ever finding someone to snuggle up to in front of the TV, and snog the face off when I’ve had one too many glasses of whatever vino is on sale in Tesco. I’ve started fantasising about settling down and having a family resembling one of those nauseatingly happy ones in cereal adverts. There’s no denying the irony of this situation. I spent the first ten years of my adult life avoiding commitment, and now that I’m up for it there are no takers. Karma is a bitch.
My only consolation in this sad existence is my trusty group of girlfriends, who, when they can extricate themselves from their children/jobs/husbands/boyfriends, love nothing more than girlie nights out with nachos, cheap plonk and buckets of salacious gossip.
We’re like family, which is just as well because my when it comes to actual blood relatives, support is thin on the ground. My parents divorced a few years ago, thank God. It’s not that I’d have been opposed to them living in happily married bliss, it’s just that their relationship had all the compatibility and cuddly warmth of a civil war. My mum is a teacher, very sensible, very intelligent and very proper. ‘I definitely found you in a skip, darling,’ she utters dryly whenever I disappoint her in any way, which is depressingly often. She’s lovely really, just as long as we don’t stay under the same roof for long enough for her to remember that she wholeheartedly disapproves of most of my personality traits and the way I’ve lived my life.
My dad, on the other hand, is a salesman. If you need a pension, ISA, zeros, gilts, stocks or shares, then he’s the man. He’s totally incorrigible, unbelievably irresponsible and the life and soul of every party until his friend, Jack Daniel’s, possesses his body and turns him into the kind of aggressive, overbearing bore who makes you hope you got none of his traits in the gene-pool lottery.
Sometimes I wonder what they ever saw in each other. I can only suspect it was a rash decision based on a full moon and alcohol. Their marriage survived years of both shouting and stony silences before they finally threw in the towel. I’ll tell you more about it later, but my brothers and I breathed a hearty sigh of relief when they finally called it a day.
Strictly speaking, us Cooper kids should have scar tissue on our souls after surviving the parent wars, but miraculously we seem to have emerged relatively unscathed. I’m the eldest, and a year later came Callum, who is 6’3”, perfectly formed, with abs that look like a toast rack