What If?

by Shari Low

  Two things happened at once. Tom’s dad jumped up to congratulate us, leaned over the table to give me a hug and somehow managed to put his elbows in what was left of the mashed potatoes, whilst his mum turned purple and keeled over. We picked her up and put her head between her knees.

  Tom looked at me for reassurance that he’d done the right thing. I smiled at him reassuringly, hoping that he couldn’t see I was bluffing. Surely Mrs McCallum would see how in love we were, and then get used to the idea and be happy for her son?

  The fact that she picked up her rosary beads and took off for a lie down made me wonder if I was being too optimistic again.

  His dad, however, was more enthusiastic about the impending nuptials, and later that evening, Joseph insisted on breaking open his best bottle of Bushmills in celebration. We toasted our future, our children’s future, our future crops. It went on all night until we were very drunk and – mother in law aside – I was on a lovely little cloud of happiness and contentment.

  All too soon it was time for me to go home. I cried so much at the airport, the thought that I wouldn’t see Tom every day was too much to bear.

  ‘It won’t be long, ma darlin’,’ he tried to cheer me up. ‘I’ll send you a cardboard cut-out of me to talk to. Anyway, it’s only for six months.’

  I couldn’t even raise a smile. Six months seemed like a lifetime away and not even the prospect of seeing each other two weekends a month, one in Scotland and one in Ireland, could console me. I looked around for a manacle to attach myself to his ankle, but all I saw was a huge board announcing the final call for my flight back to an empty bed. I kissed him, I said another goodbye, then I trudged through the gate, my heart aching.

  That evening, I dragged myself into work.

  ‘Cooper, office, I need to talk to you,’ Ray bellowed the minute I walked in the door.

  My spirits rose. Maybe he was going to fire me and I could be on the first flight back to Dublin the next morning. I’ve always been very rational when in love.

  I lurched expectantly into the office.

  ‘Cooper, we signed final contracts today on Tiger Alley. We take over on Monday.’

  My jaw hit the floor. Tiger Alley was an iconic Glasgow nightclub, the biggest in Scotland, with 4,000 clubbers on a busy night. It also had a ferocious reputation for prostitution, more drugs than a high street chemist chain, and a criminal record that would fill a library. It definitely wasn’t for the faint-hearted and I’d had no idea Ray was planning to acquire it.

  ‘I’m putting Carter in to manage it,’ he added, naming Paul Carter, the manager of one of his other clubs.

  I exhaled in relief.

  Too soon.

  ‘And you, my little darling. I want you to manage it with him and control the door.’

  The voice of sarcasm in my head went into overdrive. Brilliant. Beam me up, Scottie. My life just got better and better.

  I had to cancel my trip to Dublin two weeks later as Ray had blocked all holidays for the next decade to get Tiger Alley sorted out. The problems were endless: staff stealing from the tills, booze being delivered then going straight out the back doors into unmarked vans, rampant prostitution levels and, worst of all, two drugs families feuding over the territory. I had fourteen stewards working on the door with me, another thirty-two inside, and it still wasn’t enough. Every night was a battle from start to finish, with us on the losing side, but we weren’t giving in.

  First things first. We identified the main culprits in the petty crime department. To the threats of law suits, violence and the removal of our internal organs, we fired the assistant manager, twenty-two bar staff, eleven bouncers and the cellarman. Another dozen bar staff walked out in protest – no bad thing given the circumstances.

  We drafted in trusted staff from the other outlets in the chain to man the pumps. It was frantic, fretful and full of mishaps, but I loved every adrenalin-fuelled minute of it. I called in every favour I was ever owed and a few that I made up besides. At one point I had Kate, Carol, Sarah, Jess, Callum and Michael serving behind bars.

  Paul and I worked eighteen hours a day. Some nights we didn’t even go home, collapsing instead on the overstuffed sofas in the lounge. The club had become an obsession with both of us. We were determined to turn it around and make it work. And anyway, it kept my mind off the fact that my gorgeous Tom was hundreds of miles away.

  Eventually, the numbers through the door dropped every night as undesirables got the message that they were no longer welcome.

  Phase two of our plan swung in to action. We brought in decorators, interior designers, publicists and an advertising agency that came up with a media promo campaign.

  We booked the most popular bands for week nights and the trendiest DJs for the weekends. The numbers started to rise, but it wasn’t enough for Ray, who wanted a fast return on his investment. We needed a capacity crowd nightly and quickly to satisfy him.

  We decided to host a ‘relaunch’ party on the first Friday of the following month. But it wasn’t entirely straightforward. We had a plan. Or rather, I had a plan and if I had bollocks they’d be well and truly on the line. We advertised it in the press for ten days beforehand, and, telling the staff that we expected only a small, select crowd, we gave most of them the night off and retained only a trusted few bar staff and our eight most discreet bouncers.

  The club usually opened its doors at ten o’clock to catch any early trade, although the masses wouldn’t start arriving until after eleven. ‘We’ve Got The Power’ by Snap blared from the external speakers as the first of our adoring public poured out of taxis just after ten.

  Baz, our head steward, looked at me questioningly.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Sorry, folks,’ he apologised, ‘we’re already full.’

  ‘But it’s only ten thirty,’ argued a petite female in white PVC hot pants with stilettos to match. In that outfit she wasn’t getting in anyway, she looked like a Q-tip.

  ‘Well, darling, you’ll just have to get here earlier next time,’ Baz chided, giving them the story we’d asked the door staff to deliver.

  This set the pattern for the rest of the night. Not one person got through the doors. We knocked back everyone, regardless of age, status or bribes. Inside, the few bar staff that remained spent the time training on the new cocktail menu.

  Next day, the phones were relentless with enquiries about opening times and dress codes.

  I gave Paul a playful dig in the ribs.

  ‘People always want what they can’t have.’

  He’d been cynical about the plan, so I admit to gloating.

  That night, they came in droves. Word of mouth had spread around the city.

  Ray chuckled as he congratulated us. ‘All these lies. You’ll never go to heaven, Cooper.’

  I think my track record in the romance department had already established that fact.

  This time, however, things were still looking good.

  I still couldn’t take time off to go to see Tom, so instead he continued to come over for a few days every month. We’d spend every spare moment of our time walking at the beach or lying in bed planning our future. As Tom talked of harvests and agriculture laws, I hung on his every word. It wouldn’t have mattered if he were reading out the Yellow Pages, I’d still be hypnotised by those piercing green eyes and soft Irish voice. This man was so going to be the father of my children. My ovaries danced every time he came near me.

  Sometimes he would get annoyed that I couldn’t spend more time with him, as I had to work nights when he was over, but what could I do? I couldn’t let the guys at the club down and if Tom loved me, then he should understand that. Anyway, I was doing this for him too. Ray had promised me a huge bonus if the club hit the astronomical targets that he’d set and every penny of that was going to the wedding fund. And the phone bill! When Tom was in Ireland, we still had our long, lingering phone calls every night, even if they were sometimes punctuated by my snores as I fell asl
eep after another eighteen hour shift.

  Inevitably, Christmas loomed and so did the end of Tom’s patience. I knew that he was anxious for me to stop work and move to Ireland as soon as possible. I was too, although I must confess to one or twenty moments of trepidation when I realised that I’d be expected to cook, clean and share a house with his parents. I’d never been a fan of communal living and I came out in a rash if I even saw a vacuum cleaner. I could sense his mother’s disapproval from over three hundred miles away.

  Still, it would be worth it to snuggle down at night with the most gorgeous, loving, kind and funny man on the planet.

  Looking back, I should have seen that this was a disaster just waiting to happen.

  Tom wanted us to spend the festive season in Ireland, but the last two weeks of December are the busiest of the year for any club, so we reached a compromise – he would spend Christmas with his family and then New Year in Scotland with me.

  I’d be working Christmas Day anyway, but I planned to nip round to my parent’s house to see them for a quick dinner, until I got a call from my mother that derailed that idea.

  ‘Just to let you know, Carly, we’re not doing Christmas dinner this year.’

  I’m ashamed to say my first reaction was relief that I didn’t have to spend my only two hours off on Christmas Day listening to my dad rambling and my mum moaning about the state of him. I already knew that my gran was off on a cruise with her line dancing pals, Callum was in New York, and Michael was going to an all-night rave.

  ‘No worries, Mum. Are you and Dad going out instead?’ I asked, trying to make conversation.

  ‘No, darling, we’re divorcing. I know we should have told you face to face but you’re always so busy.’

  I was stunned into silence. They were actually doing it. I did a quick self-scan to check for twinges of hurt or sadness, but there were none. They should have done it years ago. Neither of them were bad people, but they didn’t belong together and they truly made each other miserable. Maybe this would spur my dad to do something about his drinking and perhaps my mum could finally find some happiness. It could only be a good thing.

  ‘Are you ok, Mum?’ I asked her, feeling a bit weird. She’d never been the type of woman to talk about her feelings or to show emotion or sentimentality. I’m sure a psychologist would have a field day linking up my parents’ dysfunction to my commitment woes, Callum’s flippant disregard for relationships and Michael’s insecurities, but we weren’t the kind of family that delved into any kind of self-reflection.

  Case in point…

  ‘Absolutely,’ my mum replied curtly. ‘Bloody relieved to tell you the truth. Anyway, must go. I’ve a step class at one o’clock.’

  The line went dead. Holy crap. I immediately dialled the number of the student flat that Michael had moved into in September.

  ‘Hey, just checking in,’ I told him, with as much cheeriness as I could manage. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘Not bad…’ he said. Oh God, did he not know? ‘… for a child from a broken home,’ he added. So he knew. Relief.

  ‘I just heard,’ I told him. ‘How are you feeling about it all? You know that if you need me I’m always here. You can stay with me over Christmas if you want to.’

  ‘Eh, thanks, sis, but I’m good. Honestly.’

  I heard another voice in the background at his end. ‘Mikey, baby, come on…’ a female purred, giving me the giggles. No wonder he was fine.

  ‘Mikey baby?’ I asked him, my amusement obvious.

  ‘It’s… erm… need to go. Love you, sis.’

  A swell of happiness drowned out the worry. Mikey baby was happy and was going to be ok. I left a message on Callum’s answering machine, but I knew he’d be fine too.

  And me?

  I really had no idea how to feel, so I went with my usual approach to anything deeper than the fluid in my contact lens case – I compartmentalised it into a box in my mind, shoved on a padlock and consoled myself with the thought that my Christmas dinner would now consist of a mega pack of Wotsits and a family size Whole Nut.

  And at least I still had New Year with Tom to look forward to.

  I was missing him, but I was way too busy to dwell on it. Christmas passed in a blur, as we worked round the clock to accommodate a full house every night, and spent the days getting the club ready to do it all again. No time off, no cosy yuletide moments, just hard graft creating a seemingly endless party.

  My heart was bursting with excitement when I finally collected my love at the airport at 2 p.m. on Hogmanay. It was a brief reunion, as I dropped him at my house, then headed to work for the ultimate celebration of the year. We could lie in bed all day tomorrow – the only day of the year that the club was closed.

  At 11 p.m. that night, sixty minutes before the bells would ring in the new year, the foundations of Tiger Alley creaked under the strain of 4,000 revellers. The hours before had been relatively trouble free – two punch-ups and an inebriated man flashing his bum in the ladies’ toilets.

  As I stood at the door, I thought about how I would miss this. There’s nothing like the chat-up lines of a drunken Scot: ‘Yo, Ruby Lips, are we shagging?’ (Not so as I had noticed).

  Or the joy of separating the fights between grown men who thought that they were Rocky and Van Damme.

  Or the inevitable cries of ‘Do you know who I am?’ when we refused entry to all males wearing white socks with black shoes.

  I felt two arms circle my waist from behind and lift me into the air. Obviously a strong man. I was just about to give my assailant a reverse kick to the nether regions when a voice shouted, ‘Holy shit, Cooper, you need to cut down on the Christmas puddings – I think I’ve slipped a disc.’

  Mickey Quinn! One of my favourite people in Glasgow. Mickey owned the trendiest bars in the city and would invariably come to the club for a nightcap after his pubs had closed for the evening.

  ‘Cooper, meet Jack McBurnie, one of my oldest mates. McBurnie, meet Carly Cooper, the best looking female nightclub manager I’ve ever met.’

  ‘Mickey, I’m the only female nightclub manager you’ve ever met.’ Gender equality hadn’t quite reached the world I worked in yet.

  ‘My point exactly,’ he grinned, enveloping me in another bear hug.

  I extricated myself and shook the stranger’s hand.

  ‘Excuse the deluded ramblings of this old man, Mr McBurnie. At his age, he gets very jealous of the younger generation.’ Mickey clutched his heart in mock anguish as I continued, ‘He’ll be much happier when we get him in to a home with people of his own age.’

  Jack McBurnie roared with laughter as I ushered them both to the VIP suite and sat them down with Kate, Carol, Jess and a bottle of Bollinger. Sarah wasn’t with them – she was still living in Edinburgh, had moved in with her boyfriend there and hadn’t been back since my first week at Tiger Alley, when she helped out behind the bar.

  ‘Voluntary work for Help The Aged,’ I informed them to more howls.

  Across the room, I could see Tom laughing with Callum. My heart flipped. My fiancé was stunning.

  He caught my eye and winked. I watched him for a few moments and realised how stupid I’d been. I realised I’d been neglecting him in my obsession with this club. No, I wouldn’t let it get in the way of the best thing that ever happened to me any more, I decided. Okay, so life wouldn’t be a roller coaster of excitement, but this was an artificial world I lived in.

  That’s it, I decided – I’d resign first thing tomorrow morning and by the end of January I’d be picking hay off my Jimmy Choo boots and having girls’ nights out with Daisy and Ermentrude. I was heading for a new, stress-free, hassle-free, loving, happy life with the man I adored.

  Ten, nine, eight…

  The countdown continued.

  I headed over to Tom, who pulled me in to his chest.

  ‘I love you, Cooper,’ he promised.

  ‘I love you too, Tom McCallum,’ I replied. And I did. At that m
oment, I really did.

  I woke next afternoon with ringing in my ears. Bloody tinnitus, I thought.

  Tom gave me a kick under the duvet and told me to answer the phone. I scrambled for the receiver, knocking over a redundant alarm clock and a bottle of anti-wrinkle cream.

  I groaned a hello in the general direction of the mouthpiece.

  ‘Carly, hello. This is Jack McBurnie. We met last night.’

  I struggled for some kind of memory to kick in.

  ‘I was with Mickey Quinn.’

  Ah! A vague but definite flashback was forming.

  ‘I wonder if we could meet for a chat later today,’ he continued.

  ‘But it’s New Year’s Day.’

  ‘I know, but I have to catch a flight later tonight and I really would like to speak with you before I go.’

  Now I was intrigued. A flight? To where? The Christopher Columbus inside me woke up and sniffed a new adventure. I gave him directions to my house, trying desperately to remember what condition I’d left the lounge in when I’d come to bed.

  An hour later, after I’d had just enough time to take Tom a cup of coffee in bed, evict Callum and four of his mates, shove a mountain of beer cans into bin bags and run a brush through my hair, the doorbell rang. I invited Jack in and offered him a coffee. While the kettle boiled, he filled in some of the blanks.

  Jack McBurnie, it transpired, despite being born and brought up in Glasgow, was the Food and Beverage Director of the Windsor International Hotel (part of the extensive and prestigious global chain) in Shanghai. The hotel catered predominately for business people, which was why he’d taken the opportunity of a quiet Christmas season to return to Glasgow to visit his family and friends for the first time in five years.

  A recent dilemma for him, he explained, was what to do with the hotel nightclub, Champagne, which was under his charge. It was old, shabby and run-down and, due to a lack of control, had become a magnet for criminals running prostitution rings. Mickey Quinn had filled Jack in on my success at Tiger Alley and now Jack was offering me a position in Champagne.