What If?

by Shari Low

  Over the speakers, Noddy Holder was screaming something about Merry Christmas and everybody having fun.

  I begged to differ.

  The rest of the night passed in a cloud of gloom. When we cleared out the crowd, I told the staff to help themselves to drinks. I’d promised them a party to make up for having to work over Christmas and there was no point in everyone being pissed off just because I was having a bad day.

  I finished my paperwork and joined them. Zeek accosted me with a sprig of mistletoe. I kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘Is that all I get?’ he moaned.

  I laughed and gave him a peck on the lips. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sam get up and make for the exit. Shit, it was now or never. I grabbed the mistletoe from Zeek.

  ‘Hey, Sam,’ I shouted, just before he disappeared into the night. ‘I do believe you have to kiss a lady when she’s holding mistletoe.’

  He turned slowly, as opposed to the thirty heads that swung like spectators at a tennis match, to see what was going on.

  There was a sudden silence. You could have heard tinsel drop as Sam strolled over to me.

  He kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Is that all I get?’ I repeated Zeek’s moan.

  Thirty heads were now looking at each other in astonishment.

  I put my arms round his neck and snogged him.

  ‘But, Carly, what about the boyfriend?’ Zeek shouted, his chin so near the ground that his designer stubble was sanding the floorboards.

  I grinned, still looking at Sam.

  ‘This is the boyfriend, Zeek. Always has been.’

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I whispered in Sam’s ear.

  He lifted me up and swung me round. The sound of stamping feet and a standing ovation filled the room.

  ‘Merry Christmas, babe,’ he replied.

  So the secret was out. The whole world knew that we were shacked up, cohabiting, living in sin, as my gran would say. Sam won the hundred dollar bet among the doormen for getting past first base, but he was disqualified because he was already fraternising with me when the bet was made. I don’t think he minded. And yes, if the bosses at the hotel got wind of it, there would be questions, but the club was making more money than ever, so I was fairly sure I had some leverage.

  The week between Christmas and New Year was quieter than usual, but at least it allowed us to catch our breath before the bedlam began again. It also allowed the staff to get the gossip out of their systems – our big story of the week was superseded by the rumour of a mass Christmas orgy at one of the regular customer’s houses.

  On Hogmanay, we were full by ten thirty and the crowd was in great spirits. I couldn’t help comparing it with the same time two years before when I was at home and in Tiger Alley with the girls and Tom. I wondered what he was doing now, then pushed the thought from my mind. The way things ended with Tom would always be a regret, but I locked it back in its box. Tonight wasn’t the night for sadness or looking back, especially as I was facing down an irrepressible wave of homesickness.

  I checked my watch. 11.50. I missed the people I loved. What was I doing in a room full of strangers on the most important night of the year? I’d give a year’s salary and chocolate for Callum, Michael and the girls to walk in now.

  I looked around for Sam but couldn’t see him anywhere. Suddenly, the music stopped. Oh, fuck, don’t tell me we’ve got a blowout now. Not on New Year’s Eve.

  The lights went up. G blared over the microphone. ‘Would Carly Cooper come to the dance floor, please.’

  Was there a fight? Had somebody collapsed? Tonight was just getting better and better.

  I rushed over, but there was no drama.

  A spotlight focused on me. G spoke again.

  ‘Now, posse,’ he addressed the crowd, ‘we all know our fine manager here, don’t we?’

  There was a roar from the crowd. I made a mental note to sack him.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a message here for her that I thought you all might like to share.’

  Another roar from the crowd. Remind me to sack him twice. Another spotlight. But this time it was on Sam, holding a cordless mike and walking towards me. Oh, bugger, remind me to sack him too.

  Realisation hit me and my stomach lurched. Don’t do this, Sam. Don’t, don’t, don’t.

  He stopped in front of me and took my hand.

  ‘Cooper, I love you very much.’ He paused. There was a chorus of ‘Aaaaahs’ from the crowd and ‘Go, Sam’ from the bar staff. ‘Marry me.’

  Complete silence. What could I say? I’d been ambushed. There were three hundred pairs of eyes on me, two of them bearing down into my soul.

  A tear ran down my cheek. I don’t know if it was from embarrassment or terror. How could this be happening to me? Again! What was I, some king of marriage target practice? Was I a red rag to every non-engaged man on the planet?

  I forced myself to focus on this nightmare. Did I love him? I’d come to realise that my emotions couldn’t be trusted. Did I want to marry him? Not this very minute, but I wouldn’t mind another couple of years of deliberation.

  But was I going to humiliate him in front of all these people? No. There was nothing else for it.

  I nodded my head.

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered.

  He slipped a gleaming diamond solitaire on to my finger. I didn’t mention that years ago I’d had another one just like it.

  The roar from the crowd would have raised the roof if it wasn’t for the fact that we were in the basement and there were forty floors above us.

  G cut in. ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one. Happy New Year, everyone!!!!!!’

  We were engulfed by sweaty bodies.

  ‘Happy New Year, Mrs Morton.’

  ‘Happy New Year, Sam.’

  How was I going to get myself out of this one?

  My cowardly tendencies kicked in over the next few months. Instead of telling Sam that I wasn’t 100 per cent sure about the ever-after stuff, I spent my time getting used to the idea of spending the rest of my life with him.

  Somehow I managed to completely convince myself that it would work. After all, I adored him and loved every moment that we spent together. Yep, it would work. Definitely. Absolutely.

  So why did I keep fobbing him off when he pressed me for a wedding date?

  One day in July, I was summoned by Peter Flynn. I approached his office tentatively. Somehow, I knew it wouldn’t be good news. I was right.

  ‘Miss Cooper, your next posting has come through.’

  I was stunned. ‘But I didn’t apply for one. I was planning to stay here indefinitely.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. It is the policy of this hotel to change the nightclub manager every year. That way, the operation stays fresh. I do believe you knew that.’

  ‘Well, yes, I did…’ I vaguely remembered him telling me that when we first met, but I hadn’t realised it was set in stone. ‘… but I thought you would speak to me before deciding my fate.’

  He was unrepentant.

  ‘Miss Cooper,’ he shrilled, ‘I am a very busy man. I have over thirty expats working in this building. If I spent my time considering all their feelings, I wouldn’t have time to run a hotel.’

  I didn’t know how to answer that, especially as there was clearly no point in arguing with him.

  ‘And where will my next posting be?’

  ‘We have vacancies in London or Dubai. Both hotels are happy to accept you. It’s your choice. You leave in four weeks.’

  London. Dubai. Both of them a world away from Hong Kong. Dammit.

  I thought about it for the rest of the day. Did I want to stay here? I loved Hong Kong, and could probably pick up another job here, but the thought of starting over again in another venue filled me with dread. ‘Asia’ was the best club on the island, with a great clientele. Sure, there were bigger ones, but they were full of teenagers in Wonderbras and Lycra, raving themselves into exhaustion. The very t
hought of it was enough to give me a migraine. No, that wasn’t an option.

  I could try working in another field, but managing nightclubs was all I knew. I wasn’t qualified to do anything else. Nor would I want to. I loved every drunken, decadent, unpredictable minute I spent in a club. They were as much a part of me as breasts and cellulite. No, I’d be miserable working anywhere else.

  Dubai sounded appealing. Sun, sea, sand and the kind of wealth that would make my job easy. But London. Carol, Jess and Kate were there. I longed for a good night out with the girls, to be able to talk to them all night without a time delay. Surely it must be fate? But how could I ask Sam to leave Hong Kong? His whole life was here. He had the next twenty years mapped out like a battle plan. He would have enough money to open his school in two years and that was his lifelong ambition. It was his dream. How could I stand in the way of that when I didn’t know what I was going to be doing a week on Sunday?

  Why did life have to be so bloody difficult?

  Options raced through my mind.

  Maybe Sam would want to come to London?

  Who was I kidding?

  What about having a long distance relationship for a year? At least that would test the strength of our commitment! Sam wasn’t Tom – he would work with me on this.

  Yes, that was it. Sam wouldn’t like it, but surely he’d see that it was the best of a bad lot of options.

  Wrong.

  When I told Sam that night, his reaction was not the one that I’d expected. He flew into his second ever rage, smacking his fist through the wall. At least now we had a ventilation hole.

  ‘They can’t do that!’

  ‘They can, Sam. It’s just the way it works.’

  ‘So leave. Tell them to shove their job. You’ll get another one here, no problem.’

  I said nothing. He stared at me.

  After a couple of moments, absurdly, he laughed.

  ‘Oh, I see. You want to take one of them, don’t you? You’ve made up your fucking mind already. When were you planning to tell me, in a note after you’d left?’

  As if I’d do a thing like that! Eh, had he been speaking to Joe?

  I suddenly transformed into ‘cliché woman’. Every well-worn platitude I could think of was trooped out.

  ‘Sam, look, I want to go home for a while. I’ve been away for nearly three years. I think that maybe I want to take the one in London, but I don’t want it to be the end of us. This has all been such a rush so far. Maybe some time apart will be good for us. It would only be for a year; then I’d come back here. Please, Sam. Think about it.’

  ‘Carly, my life is here. How can you just pack up and take off? I don’t want you in another country, I want you here.’

  He had a point. But surely what I wanted to do was important too? Was this what it came down to, his way or my way? Not again.

  I thought back to Tom. Hadn’t that relationship bitten the dust because I was too stubborn to change my mind? Had I learned nothing? But then, why did it have to be so cut and dried? Why couldn’t we both make the choices that made us happy and trust that it would work out and we’d survive a temporary separation? Couldn’t he even try?

  Apparently not.

  Over the next four weeks, we alternated between tears and tantrums. He begged me not to go. I begged him to understand that it was just for a year, but he refused to accept that. As far as he was concerned, if I left him, then it was over. It was a no-win situation and neither of us triumphed. It had stopped being a battle of wills. Now it was just a battle.

  On my final day, I made a last-ditch effort to change his mind, and Sam did the same.

  ‘Please don’t go, Cooper. I don’t want to live without you. Don’t leave.’

  ‘Then wait for me, Sam. I promise I’ll come back in twelve months.’

  ‘But don’t you see, if you really loved me, you wouldn’t leave?’

  That old chestnut. I sighed. There was nothing like dramatic emotional blackmail to get a girl running in the opposite direction.

  ‘Sam, I’m going. I have to.’ It was true. I felt an overwhelming need to go to London and reconnect with my old life, my family, my friends.

  He looked at me and shook his head.

  ‘Then go,’ he murmured, voice thick with sadness. He got up, grabbed his jacket and left.

  I slowly slipped off my engagement ring and placed it gently on his bedside table. My heart was breaking. I picked up my passport, tickets and suitcase and followed him out of the door. Downstairs, I gave Huey, Dewy and Louie all my remaining Hong Kong dollars, keeping only enough to get me to the airport, then I hailed a taxi, tears blinding me, mascara running down my face like black rain.

  ‘Kai Tak airport, please.’

  The driver looked at me quizzically. I knew what he was thinking. Crazy lady. Maybe he was right.

  I never saw Sam Morton again.

  Part II

  13

  I Don’t Want To Miss A Thing – Aerosmith

  It’s the big day – Mission Manhunt starts here. Unfortunately it’s also the first day after my ‘Leaving London’ party. The next time I decide to fly with a hangover, I’ll remember this moment and stay in bed. My head feels like there’s an illegal rave going on in it. Why do I do this to myself? If that stewardess doesn’t get over here soon with the coffee, I’m going to cry. For the hundredth (maybe thousandth) time in my life, I vow to give up alcohol. Or at least drink in moderation. Okay, at least not drink on an empty stomach.

  As we start our descent to Glasgow Airport, I ponder last night, or at least what I can remember of it. I know it was fantastic. Before I lost my powers of comprehension, I had counted over a hundred people. Paco looked like he was going to faint. There was loud music, even louder singing, and the waiters will never be the same again.

  Last thing I remember was belting out ‘Addicted To Love’, with Kate, Jess and Carol doing backing vocals. One of these days, we’re going to listen to people who tell us that we can’t sing.

  On the bright side, I’d managed to dampen down my orange complexion to a case of mild sunburn with make-up, and after washing and restyling my hair, I somehow made it settle into a passable pixie cut, as opposed to Billy Idol circa 1982.

  The night wasn’t without its share of drama though. And from the most unexpected source. Carol finally buckled to our demands that she bring George, her latest bloke, so that we could give him a full inspection. Her relationship with Clive didn’t survive the swanky holiday. She discovered that he took his teeth out at night, and it was all too much for her. She said goodbye the minute they touched down at Heathrow and we haven’t been allowed to mention him since.

  Not long after she got back, she met George at a photoshoot for his investment company. The first thing she did was check his dental habits and ensure his molars were the kind that stayed in his mouth. She’s only known him for a month and already there’d been a weekend in Venice, a Chanel bag and a diamond bracelet with matching earrings. He passed physical inspection – tall, grey, early sixties, Savile Row suit, Armani shirt, Oxbridge accent and when he pulled out his wallet to buy a bottle of champagne, I spotted layers of gold cards. He looked decidedly uncomfortable in the midst of the mayhem though. Poor bloke. Metaphorically that is – he owns half of Mayfair.

  All was going along according to plan – lots of drinkies, lots of going-away prezzies, lots of ‘we’ll miss you’s (although a lot of these were from gatecrashers whom I’d never met before in my life, just trying to act like they belonged there).

  Kate arrived, looking gorgeous in black leather hipsters and a white T-shirt, not showing so much as a hint of baby yet. How could she look that devastating after giving birth to two children and now being pregnant with her third?

  Bruce gave me a huge cuddle. ‘I feel like one of my kids is leaving home, Cooper,’ he laughed.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bruce. The police will probably bring me back to your door in handcuffs any day soon.’

  He tho
ught I was joking. We’ll see.

  A voice rang out. ‘Cooper, get over here and tell me you’ve changed your mind about this manic idea, you daft bint!’

  It was Jess, for once ahead of us in the alcohol stakes. As I looked over her shoulder, I saw why. Dutch courage. Basil Asquith, MP for Infidelity, was standing behind her. This was unheard of. Basil was never seen in public without his wife and a Hello! photography team. Jess must have used every threat in the book to get him here. Go girl! She was always moaning about being apparently manless at every party, but I never thought she’d do anything about it.

  Suddenly, from behind me, there was a loud, sharp intake of breath. I turned to see George, Carol’s boyfriend, staring at Basil with undisguised fury.

  Basil looked up just in time to see a hand grab his throat and push him with the force of a torpedo through the crowd and out of the front door. The rest of us gawped in amazement.

  We ran after them and reached the front door in time to see George knock Basil to the ground with a right hook that would have done Frank Bruno proud. Basil tried to get back up, but his legs were obviously blancmange.

  George straightened up, marched back inside and informed Carol that he was leaving. When she made no move to join him, he did an about turn and marched straight out to his chauffeur-driven limo, which then roared off.

  Jess ran outside to apply emergency first aid. One of the benefits of being a mistress is that while the unfaithful tossers are maintaining appearances by doing their one night a week out with their wives, you get to sit in every Saturday night and watch Casualty.

  Kate turned to Carol, who was still open mouthed and rooted to the spot. ‘Do you think maybe he didn’t like his tie?’ she volunteered weakly.

  There was more screeching of tyres outside. It was Basil fleeing the scene.

  Jess wandered back in, looking dazed. We got her a seat and a brandy, whilst fanning her with napkins and shouting ‘stand back, there’s nothing to see here’.

  ‘What happened? What was that all about?’ Carol, who’d regained the power of speech, asked.