The coffee shop is almost deserted when I enter. The whole coffee trend hasn’t quite caught on here yet. If it were a tea shop, it would be standing room only. I’m about to sit down when I notice a Western man sitting on his own in the corner, immersed in paperwork. I recognise that face! No, it’s not Phil Lowery, that would be too simple, but it’s close. It’s my second favourite person in China: Jack McBurnie, the Food and Beverage Director and the man who offered me the job here in the first place.
‘Hey, mister, fifty bucks and I’m yours for the night. I’ll show you a good time,’ I offer.
He simultaneously raises his head and reaches for his walkie-talkie to call security.
I sit down, grinning. ‘Or, alternatively, you could buy me a coffee and I’ll give you a freebie.’
His mouth is open, but nothing is coming out, then he laughs so loudly that the staff stop to stare.
‘Carly, what the hell are you doing here?’
‘Don’t even ask, Jack, you wouldn’t believe it. Anyway, what about you? It must be over fifteen years you’ve been here now. Jesus, you get less than that for murder.’
‘I know, I know, but this place grows on you. Shame you didn’t stick around long enough to find that out,’ he teases.
I finally get my coffee, with a double thick doughnut to keep it company. I tell myself I’m comfort eating to soothe the pain of recent traumas. In truth, I’m just desperate to indulge in a pastry that I know will have come out of the oven only a few hours ago.
Jack brings me up to date with the events since I left. None of the original management team remain except him. Heinz and Hans now run an Austrian restaurant in the centre of the city. Dan and Arnie returned to Australia shortly after I left, and Chuck and Linden work in the same hotel in Hong Kong that I had transferred to.
‘And what about Ritza and Olga?’
‘Last I heard they opened a private nursing home in Berlin.’
I feel an immediate wave of sympathy for the elderly.
We chat for a while longer, every bit as comfortable as we were the day I left. After my second coffee, I check my watch. Six o’clock. If the shoot finished on time, and Carol made her flight, then she’d land around nine.
‘Jack, can you do me a favour?’
‘Anything.’
‘I’ve got a friend arriving on the nine o’clock from Tokyo. Could you send the flashiest, most over-the-top, fuck-off car that you’ve got for her?’
‘Is she as superficial as you?’
‘Maybe even more,’ I answer proudly.
He grins. ‘Then it would be a pleasure.’
I’m waiting in the lobby bar when Carol rushes in, face flushed with what could be excitement, embarrassment or a desperate longing for the loo. The head of every man in the bar turns to stare in awe. With her chocolate hair in tendrils reaching down to her waist, brown eyes the size of hazelnuts and a figure that looks seriously deprived of a good pudding, she’s every man’s fantasy.
‘A gold Rolls-Royce! A bloody Rolls-Royce! Cooper, I don’t know what you did to get that car, but it was worth it.’
‘I sold my body. Twice.’
‘Well, sell it again – I want that car for a week.’
That’s why I love Carol – she makes me look deep.
We take a bottle of champagne up to the room to drink while we change. Yes, I know it’s a superfluous overindulgence, but how often does one of your best mates fly from another country to support you in a ridiculous mission? And besides, after the journey in the Rolls, I can hardly bring her crashing back down to earth with a vodka and diet coke.
‘Thanks for doing this, Carol. For coming all this way. After Doug, I don’t think I could have done this on my own.’
‘Don’t mention it, my love. You’re always there for me.’
‘What happened with George? Is it over?’
She nods. ‘I have no idea what I was doing with him. Or any of the others for that matter. Don’t get me started again – we can only have one midlife crisis at a time. Anyway, I’m here, so every cloud has a silver cover.’
She’s totally bemused as to why I’ve collapsed in a fit of giggles on the bed.
We polish off the bubbles and head for Champagne, the nightclub that I managed when I worked here. Only, when we get there, it’s not called Champagne any more. It’s now the ‘Downtown Karaoke Club’. Inside, it has been redecorated, but still in the same colours and fabrics. Even now, it doesn’t look dated.
‘Right then, ladies and gentlemen, next up is Johnny Woo, singing “That’ll Be the Day”. C’mon up here, Johnny.’
There aren’t enough exclamation marks in the English language to describe my hysteria. Up on the stage, still with the Bee Gees haircut and a gold medallion that’s sure to leave him with osteoporosis in later years, is the DJ, Zac. I catch his eye and he bounds over, Johnny Woo now murdering his chosen song.
‘Hey, Carly, baby. You’re still the ravishing sex bomb you always were.’
‘Yes, Zac, and you’re still a twat,’ I laugh.
‘All part of the service, baby.’ He gives a bow and we swap small talk before he checks out my ring finger and gets to the important stuff. ‘So, not married? Never meet anyone that could match up to the Zac machine?’ he asks, so over the top that I lose it again.
‘Zac, you put me off men for life. I’m a
