What If?

by Shari Low

  The joint was jumping. The clientele were obviously Hong Kong’s beautiful people. Most of the guys were in suits (Boss and Armani), walking with limps due to the weight of their Tag Heuer watches and concentrating furiously on their bottles of Bud to ensure they didn’t spill a drop on their Gucci shoes. I hoped the mirrors in the toilets were huge, otherwise I feared violence as they jostled for position to check their designer stubble and super-gelled hair.

  So, lots of people, lots of money, lots of style. The place had great potential.

  I checked out the predominantly Western staff: two bouncers inside, four on the door. The two internals were both holding court to groups of ladies, clearly turning on the charm. In my experience, it was a familiar scenario with door stewards. As soon as you gave them a black tie and a title, they walked like a cowboy and became irresistible to women.

  My eyes strayed to the door, then locked on to Mr Adonis, who’d spoken to me when I entered. He was staring back with a look that combined disdain with mild amusement. Were my knickers showing? Was the fluorescent lighting making me look like I had dandruff?

  The sound of glass smashing interrupted my thoughts. I swivelled round to see an obviously intoxicated guy looking extremely wet, picking maraschino cherries out of his hair and being yelled at by an outraged Sandra Bullock look-alike. What a waste of a good cocktail.

  I watched as Mr Adonis swiftly interjected. He had crossed the room and was now calmly steering one confused drunk to the nearest exit. I was impressed.

  Thirty seconds later, he was back and negotiating with the female. I could see her face snarling in anger, then gradually mellowing into a smile as he replaced her drink and calmed her down. Here we go, I thought, predator goes in for the kill – soon they’ll be exchanging phone numbers and she’ll be gazing into his eyes in adoration. But that didn’t happen. He just made sure that she was happy and then returned to his post at the door. Smooth.

  I glanced back to the two internal guys. Both were still engrossed with their groupies, oblivious to all that had occurred. There could have been an all-out riot and these guys wouldn’t have noticed. Somehow I felt that their employment was about to come to an abrupt end.

  I studied the bar staff for the next hour. It was a bigger scam than the Maxwell pension fund. There were eight waiting staff and nine bartenders. Three of the bar workers were under-pouring and under-ringing, pocketing the excess cash, and another two were drinking more than they were serving. It was a miracle that they were still standing.

  The Commodores’ ‘Three Times A Lady’ softened the mood. Those who’d already paired off were smooching on the dance floor, the guys surreptitiously checking between the gold, platinum and black credit cards in their wallets for change for the condom machine. The few remaining blokes were now approaching all single females, taking the view that if they asked enough women, eventually one would say yes.

  I made for the door, relatively satisfied with my new place of employment – a couple of problems to iron out, but I was going to have a lot of fun.

  I was just about to exit, when Mr Adonis filled the doorway.

  ‘No business tonight, love?’

  Pardon? I was confused for a second, then realisation dawned. You could almost see the light bulb flash on above my head. He thought I was a hooker!

  I looked up at him and smiled. ‘Not tonight. You see, I’m very, very expensive and I don’t think any of that lot could afford me.’

  I held my head up and squeezed past him. That’s it, the dress was going in the bin.

  I arrived promptly for my induction the next morning. Peter Flynn was the kind of guy that you woke up with after a party and immediately vowed to be teetotal for the rest of your life. About 5’8” tall, with brown, Brillo-pad hair, tiny darting eyes, and a sneering expression.

  ‘Miss Cooper, delighted to have you on board. I’ve heard great things about you from Jack McBurnie.’ He said the whole sentence without looking up or cracking a smile.

  ‘Glad to be here.’ I suddenly wasn’t sure that I was.

  ‘Now, down to business. “Asia” is open every night except Monday from 10 p.m. until 3 a.m.. You’ll have complete autonomy to do whatever you want, as long as you stay within budget. You are fully responsible for all aspects of the operation. If you miss target sales in three consecutive months, we will immediately terminate your contract.’

  He really needed to work on his motivational speeches.

  ‘I expect you to start work tonight. You’re not entitled to vacation time until you’ve completed four months’ service. You may stay in the hotel for one month to allow you time to find suitable accommodation. Thereafter you will receive a 50 per cent discount on hotel facilities.’

  Be still my heart. His compassion was overwhelming.

  ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Yes. I need the services of five bar staff from other areas of the hotel tomorrow night and I need to inform you that I’ll be recruiting new stewards.’

  He didn’t even ask why. He picked up the phone and barked orders to some poor defenceless minion. He replaced the receiver.

  ‘It’s arranged. I’ll meet you at the club at 8 p.m. tonight to introduce you to the staff and then you’ll take over from there. Good luck, Miss Cooper.’

  He handed me a folder of financial records and I was dismissed with a wave of the hand.

  I spent the afternoon shopping like a woman possessed. I prayed that they didn’t terminate me after three months, as I’d just spent six months’ salary on new clothes. I was having an out-of-body experience. My brain was carefully calculating the costs and advising caution whilst my body was careering around stores with my credit cards.

  That night, I took hours getting ready. My hair was styled to within an inch of its life, I donned more fake tan than a bodybuilder and I took ages applying about forty-seven make-up products in the hope of looking like a natural beauty.

  I pondered what to wear before deciding on my favourite purchase of the day – a black crepe dinner jacket with silk lapels and trousers with a silk seam running down the side. Underneath, I forced my lumps into a black satin bodysuit and slipped into black stilettos with heels so thin and high that they’d be handy for making kebabs.

  I looked in the mirror, threw back my shoulders and smiled. Ready for battle.

  Flynn met me outside the club and ushered me in. About thirty staff were congregated on one of the corner sofas, smoking, drinking and chatting. He banged on the bar as I stood in the background surveying the crowd.

  ‘Attention, please. As you all know, we have been waiting for a replacement manager to join us from Shanghai. I’m glad to say that she’s finally arrived.’

  He turned to beckon me forward.

  ‘Miss Carly Cooper.’

  They all looked up with mild curiosity. Except Mr Adonis. He visibly groaned, then put his head in his hands. I struggled to suppress a grin.

  I went round the room, letting each one of them introduce themselves. I learned that Mr Adonis was Sam Morton, London born and bred, ex-army, twenty-seven and couldn’t look me in the eye. I gave them all the ‘I’m glad to be here and I’m sure we’ll make a great team’ speech. Sam Morton’s rueful grimace suggested that he wasn’t too confident about that.

  I spent the night exploring every area of the club, familiarising myself with the operation. In the office that was more suited to the role of cupboard, I dug deeper into the financial books, stock records, personnel files and cash systems.

  I checked out the cellars, stores and back-of-house areas, before spending a couple of hours serving behind the bar to assess the layout and set up. Finally, I moved to the door for the busy period, watching the entering clientele and the cash desk. I avoided conversation with any of the staff, other than to ask questions relevant to their role or duties. Still no eye contact from Mr Adonis.

  For the last couple of hours, I just stood in a corner of the DJ booth from where I could see every corner of the room. The
DJ was a tall, breathtakingly handsome black guy with gleaming dreadlocks called ‘G’. He was dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans and was the epitome of cool.

  ‘What does “G” stand for?’ I asked.

  ‘Gorgeous and Great in bed,’ he replied, with a cheeky grin.

  I laughed. ‘And there’s me thinking it was Gerald or Gene.’

  It should have stood for ‘Genius on a mixing desk’ as he hyped up the crowd, always knowing exactly what record to play next to keep the atmosphere just right. It was a classic combination of old Motown, seventies soul, R&B and hip-hop.

  I surveyed the scene. The gigolo bouncers were at it again, spending more time chatting up girls than actually working. The bar staff were still doing their bit for organised crime and systematically draining the stock that they weren’t selling, and I was glad I’d asked Peter for several new members of staff for the next day. It had been the right call. I was satisfied that I had a fairly good handle on the situation. Nothing here was incurable; after a couple of areas of minor treatment – nothing even close to the massive changes I’d made in previous clubs – it could be a fairly healthy specimen. The essentials were there – a busy crowd spending buckets of money, a great music policy, classy venue and other than the few undesirables, the rest of the employees were doing a decent job.

  At the end of the evening, I asked the staff to wait behind and allowed them all a drink. They congregated again on the corner sofas and I sat at the bar on the opposite side of the room, in view, but out of earshot of normal conversation. I summoned the three fiddling bar staff first. They walked over, the weight of the cash in their pockets slowing them down. I handed each of them an envelope containing a week’s wages, more than generous considering they’d probably scammed twice that amount tonight alone. When I informed them that their services were no longer required, one started to protest loudly. I stopped him, mid-yell.

  ‘See that flashing light in the corner?’ I pointed to the smoke detector in the ceiling at the end of the bar. ‘That’s a camera and we’ve got your whole performance tonight on tape. You pocketed at least 25 per cent of the cash you took and you underpoured half your drinks, I’m assuming to try to balance the stock levels. Now, you can either leave quietly or I call in the police and let them view the film. So, what’s it to be?’

  They were out before I’d finished the sentence, which was a good thing, because I was lying through my teeth about the camera.

  Next were the two alcohol guzzlers. They staggered over, trying and failing miserably to walk in a straight line. I repeated the camera story, giving them their wages and the telephone number of Alcoholics Anonymous.

  I called over the Viagra twins.

  ‘Lads, if you want to chat up women all night, then I suggest you join a singles club.’

  They looked shocked, then recovered admirably.

  ‘C’mon, babe. It’s all part of the attraction of this place. We’ve got the ladies flocking in. Tell you what, why don’t you let us take you out for the night and show you our credentials,’ one suggested leeringly.

  ‘Interesting offer, but I’ll pass. Now, why don’t you take your credentials outside and stick to using them to pee out of.’

  It took them a moment to process the refusal. I don’t think they’d ever been rejected before.

  It was ironic, I mused. Here I was, Miss In Control, Calm and Collected at work, yet the minute I had to deal with my personal life, all control and calm went out of the window.

  I was contemplating how to get off the bar stool without breaking my neck, when Sam, the door steward, approached.

  ‘I thought I’d save you the trouble of calling me over.’

  Direct. Bold. I liked that in a man.

  ‘That’s very kind of you. And why, exactly, would I want to speak to you?’

  He looked puzzled. ‘Well, last night…’

  ‘Sam, in that dress I’d have thought I was a hooker. I’m not going to fire you just because I decided to dress like an extra in a blue movie. It was my mistake, not yours. I’m just insulted that I got no offers.’

  He paused, then flashed his pearlies. He could be an ambassador for Colgate.

  ‘Now, come back over and join the others and help me convince them that I’m not about to cast them all into the nearest dole office.’

  He visibly relaxed and followed me to the waiting crowd. I poured everyone drinks and gave a toast.

  ‘To “Asia”.’

  ‘To “Asia”,’ they repeated, looking relieved and happy.

  I caught Sam’s eye and he winked.

  Oh, shit, I thought, feeling a sensation that had been absent for a long time.

  Hello, danger.

  My first two weeks at ‘Asia’ were focused on understanding the operation, building rapport with the regulars and gaining the trust and respect of the staff. It was a fairly straightforward operation to manage. There was little trouble, the club filled to capacity most nights and after my initial clear-out, I had no further problems with the staff.

  I recruited two new bouncers – a mad Australian surfer called Zeek, and Kenny, an unusually tall, kick-boxing, Hong Kong national. I stationed them on the door with Sam and Hugh, a cheeky Welshman who had a never-ending stream of really bad jokes.

  I moved Derek and Jamie, two overdeveloped, bodybuilding Scotsmen inside, warning them that if they so much as swapped telephone numbers with a paying customer, I’d cut their wages for a month. That did the trick.

  My only problem was finding somewhere to live. The rentals in Hong Kong were astronomical. It cost the same there to rent a claustrophobic one bedroom flat as it would to rent an estate with deer and a babbling brook at home. Even though the hotel was giving me a generous housing allowance, I still couldn’t find anything that I liked.

  I contemplated the problem one night as I stood at the door, watching the nightly exhibits in the ‘Asia’ catwalk enter.

  Sam interrupted my thoughts. ‘So, Carly, when are we going out?’

  I wondered if I’d misheard him. ‘Pardon?’

  He repeated his question and I immediately grasped what he was asking. This presented me with a dilemma. You see, there is an unwritten law in man-management called the DEFTS code – Don’t Ever Fuck The Staff. I had always adhered religiously to it, having seen too many casualties who had broken the code and ended up unemployed, lonely and bitter. It just wasn’t worth it. As a result, although I tried to form congenial working relationships with my employees, I always kept my personal life completely separate.

  ‘We’re not going out, Sam. Why don’t you concentrate on the door instead of on your love life?’

  Succinct. Detached. But suddenly I was feeling ambidextrous. On the one hand, I was impressed with his boldness, the concept of a man – especially one who looked like Sam – taking charge was reducing me to a submissive, drooling teenager. On the other hand, I was outraged at his audacity. How dare he assume that his boss would just jump when he deigned to snap his fingers? Trouble was, I couldn’t remember if I was left or right handed.

  It didn’t matter. My rebuff had zero effect.

  ‘Look, Carly. We’re going out together. It’s inevitable. Just tell me when.’

  ‘Forget it, Sam. It isn’t going to happen.’

  He was obviously a guy who bore up well under rejection. He bombarded me all night; every time I passed him, he repeated the question. What aspect of ‘No’ didn’t he understand? I acted irritated, aloof and disdainful, but inside I was melting like lava. He was cute, funny, cheeky and bold, but he was also smart and quick-witted. I’d observed him over the previous nights, handling every potential situation with maturity, firmness and calm. He had the people management skills of a diplomat. If I ever developed musical talent and became a globe-trotting rock star, then this was the guy that I’d want to watch my back.

  But no. A relationship with a bouncer was out of the question. Absolutely not. No way. Never.

  At the end of the evening,
desperate to put some space between us before I weakened and did something I’d regret, I achieved a new world record for the clear-out, clear-up and clean-down of a nightclub. I was back upstairs in my hotel room before the last drunken reveller had reached the end of the street.

  I undressed and climbed into bed without even removing my make-up. I put a pillow over my head and groaned. God, this was like being a compulsive eater in a sweet shop, but knowing that if I took so much as a bite of a Yorkie, I’d explode into a big, fat trucker.

  I tossed and turned; my body severely pissed off with my brain for rejecting an opportunity to rediscover my sex drive.

  I gave up trying to sleep at 6 a.m. and dialled Kate’s number in the UK. The international call would cost about a week’s wages, but it was worth it. She answered sleepily.

  ‘Kate, what are you doing in bed? It’s only 10 p.m..’

  ‘Cooper, come and take me away from all this. This baby has turned me in to a physical wreck.’

  Kate’s life had changed dramatically too – when I was in Shanghai, she’d had the opportunity to move to London and share a flat with Carol. She’d snatched the chance, and almost as soon as she arrived, she met Bruce, when he popped in for a trim. Within four months, they had a quickie, low-key wedding, and six months later, Cameron was born. At least I couldn’t be accused of being the only spontaneous one in our group – Kate had moved to London, met Bruce, was married and became a mother all in the space of less than a year. It must have been something in our upbringing.

  I explained the night’s events.

  ‘Let me get this straight. An intelligent bloke with the body of a Greek God is lusting after you and you’re resisting because of some stupid rule that was probably made up by a hypocritical guy whilst he was banging his secretary. And let’s face it, how many times in the last eighteen months have you had sex?’