Scratch (10 page)

‘Okay,’ Veronica said, blushing.

 
‘Right.’ Terry took control of proceedings. ‘This is a round-and-a-half occasion. It’s your night Jim, so the first choice is yours.’

Fair enough. ‘Tequila,’ I said.

‘Predictable but valid,’ Terry said. ‘Craig, sixteen tequilas with salt and lemon, and get them to turn the sounds up.’ He handed the pint pot with the kitty in it to Craig Thomson, one of my taxi-queue acquaintances.

A round-and-a-half night was as it sounds - halfway through each round of pints or whatever, you get a round of halves. Short of the dreaded cocktails it was by far the most reliable way of getting hammered anyone I knew had come up with. Tradition, at least for Terry and me, held that each ‘half’ round should consist of a different shot, and that each member of the company took turns in making the selection. Only when it was your turn again were you allowed to repeat a beverage, making it highly unlikely I would make it to my second tequila that night.

‘Lick, drink, suck!’ I shouted a few minutes later and, as one, sixteen adults who should have known better deliberately and with glee condemned their gullets to a serious bout of heartburn in the not at all distant future.

By
seven o’clock
we had added Sambuca and Triple-Sec to the roster and everyone seemed to be having a fine old time. I’d discovered that the previously-unknown-to-me Veronica was the person who put those complaint letters on my desk every lunchtime, and thanked her profusely for no coherent reason. The bar staff settled into their roles and had our ‘main’ round memorised and our kitty beside the till for easy access. I knew this meant their tip was guaranteed whether we agreed to it or not but I didn’t care, partly because I had been in their position many times myself and understood, but mainly because, as the man of the moment, I hadn’t contributed a penny towards the rapidly dwindling fund.

Patrick made a brief appearance - his request for a Malibu and coke throwing the barman for a moment - shook my hand man(
ish
)fully and wished me all the best for the future, before taking his drink from the bar and sitting beside Terry.

As I watched my former boss say his hesitant goodbyes twenty minutes later, I made a mental note to ask Terry what they had been whispering about. I would have done it there and then but my new friend Veronica was in the middle of a story and it would have been rude to cut her off.

‘So Uncle Jamie said I should give him Stevie’s address then think no more about it, so I did. I haven’t had any bother from Stevie since, so it seems to have worked out okay.’

I nodded carefully. ‘You’re better off without him, clearly. Make sure you tell your Uncle Jamie how much I appreciated the smoking jacket. It’s very classy.’

‘Aw, I will.’ Veronica gave me a big, innocent smile. ‘He’s always saying, if you’re my friend you’re his friend.’

I guessed there was another side to that statement. ‘I’m glad we got the chance to become friends tonight, Veronica.’

‘Call me Ronni.’

‘Will do, Ronni. I need to go to the bar now.’

‘Okay.’

Nothing but warmth in her smile, I mused, as I ran away. The very definition of blissful ignorance.

‘So, Mark,’ I said once I reached the bar. ‘Did I tell you I used to work here?’ I’d introduced myself to the barman while ordering a previous round. He was one of those guys who are big without being heavy and younger without seeming young - envy inducing, essentially.

‘Yes you did. What can I get you?’

‘I just needed to escape for a minute to be honest, mate.’

‘No bother.’

‘I might as well have a tequila, seeing as I’m here.’ Why waste a visit to the bar?

‘From the kitty?’

‘Christ, yeah. It’s my night.’

Mark smirked and turned to the gantry to prepare the drink. ‘So what are you moving on to then, Jim?’

‘Eh, I’m not too sure, actually. I haven’t got anything lined up just yet.’

‘Bit risky, isn’t it?’ Mark placed a shot glass filled with clear liquid on the bar in front of me, with a salt cellar and a slice of lemon on a saucer beside it.

‘I prefer to think of it as romantic,’ I said, before downing the tequila and ramming the lemon in my mouth.

‘Romantic, how? You planning on shagging your giro?’

‘Ha
ha
. I just mean I’m looking on it as more of a grand gesture. I’m offering myself up to fate.’

‘Okay. Well, best of luck with that.’

It’s annoying to be patronised by someone who’s a decade younger and has far more hair than you, and I was trying to think up a witty retort when a voice behind me said: ‘Tell me that isn’t Jim Cooper.’

I turned to see a smartly-dressed, forty-something guy with close-cropped dark hair and a well-trimmed goatee staring at me, an amused look on his face. It took me a moment, then I blurted: ‘Sammy!’

My former manager shook his head with a smile and extended a hand, which I readily shook. ‘You know, I think that’s exactly where you were the last time I saw you.’

‘More than likely,’ I said. ‘How the hell are you? I’d heard you bought the place. I can’t believe you managed to get it looking the same. How did you remember everything? I mean, you’ve even got the old violin on the wall.’ I was rambling.

‘Well, I did own a camera back in the olden days, Jim. It really wasn’t too difficult.’

‘Oh, yeah. That makes sense, sorry.’

‘Still a bit of a wanker?’

Mark, who had taken a deferential step back to allow Sammy access, giggled.

I took a breath and smiled, relaxing. ‘So I’m told, a bit more frequently than seems polite sometimes, to be honest.’

‘Aye well, the truth isn’t always pleasant. Incidentally, I didn’t buy this place, I just work for the brewery that did.’

‘Oh, right. So you’re the manager?’ Did it count as
deja
-vu if something really had happened before?

‘
Excuuuse
me, Mr Cooper,’ Sammy said, flaring his nostrils and raising his eyebrows. I’d been surprised back when I’d first started working for him when Paula told me Sammy was gay. It was only at times like this, when he pretended to be angry, than he allowed an element of camp to creep in. ‘I’d hope I’ve moved up in the world a bit in the last decade! I’m the Scottish Regional Manager, I’ll have you know. They asked me to get this place opened and running, given I’ve got some history with the old shit-heap. Anyway, what are you up to these days?’

‘Hah, funny you should ask,’ I said. I was sure I heard Mark snigger again from the back office. I was about to go on when an arm draped round my shoulder.

‘C’mon, Jimmy boy,’ Terry slurred in my ear, ‘it’s half time again,
Ronni’s
choice. I hope your gut can handle an Aftershock.’

I groaned. ‘I’d better get back, Sammy. Catch up with you a bit later?’

‘No problem, Jim. I’m here for a while.’ I could hear the bemusement on Sammy’s face, even if he was polite enough not to let me see it.

I sat next to Terry, ensuring a polite but safe three-body distance from Veronica, who kept smiling at me. We downed our Aftershocks, and I managed not to throw mine straight back up into the glass. It had never been a favourite.

Another pint and a load of verbal bollocks later, I heard the intro to
In A Broken Dream
by Python Lee Jackson blast out of the speaker above my head. I looked over to the bar in surprise and saw Sammy standing next to the PC monitor on the corner shelf, where the double tape-deck had been back in my day. The track, by a relatively unknown Australian band whose manager, in 1968, somehow talked Rod Stewart into singing a couple of tunes for them, had been my all-time favourite song when I worked in The Basement. Sammy gave me a thumbs-up and I smiled back as I marvelled at his memory. Christ,
I
had even forgotten I liked that song. I’d forgotten it
existed
. That must have been a hell of a camera Sammy had, back then.

I quickly drank the B52 Terry had passed me from the recently arrived tray of ‘halves’ and headed back to the bar.

‘Jesus, Sammy. Where did you dig that up from?’

‘The wonders of
itunes
, Jim,’ Sammy said. ‘I’m downloading
Layla
as we speak.’

‘Oh Christ, don’t. I’ve moved on a wee bit myself, you know.’

He laughed. ‘Okay, but that’s 79p you owe me.’

‘Take it out of the kitty, if there’s anything left.’ I pulled over a bar stool and sat. ‘It’s good to see you, Sam. You’re looking great.’

‘It’s good to see you too, Jim.’

I waited for a second, hoping he might return my compliment. Nope. ‘Yeah, cheers.’

‘So what are you up to, then? Where are you leaving and where are you going?’ Sammy placed an unasked for but greatly appreciated pint in front of me.

Ten minutes later I had explained the situation, with an unexpected result, when I got the biggest fright of my life.

‘
Jaysus
, have I been in a
Tardis
and no one’s told me?’

For the second time that night I turned to see a face from my past smiling at me. ‘Paula? What the fuck?’ I blurted.

It was her,
Paula Fraser
. She looked ... like ...
Paula Fraser
. The hair was still long (though not quite so curly), the eyes still sparked and the bum was no doubt still gorgeous. And the smile,
Jesus
, the smile.

I could hear, never mind feel, my heart gallop. My mouth dried up as my palms (and other things) moistened. All those halves suddenly ambushed my brain and turned it to mush, and I was very glad indeed I had a barstool under my arse to prevent an embarrassing collapse. Yep, it was definitely Paula.

‘Jim bloody Cooper and Sammy bloody Sutherland, either side of that bar. I hope neither of you have said
deja
-vu, yet.’

‘Polly-
wolly
-pom-pom! Give us a hug, you gorgeous thing.’ Sammy, who got a bit camp when he was emotional, too, shrieked and rushed through the bar-hatch, grabbing Paula in a bear-hug. ‘Look at you,’ he said, once he’d finished smothering her. ‘You’re still a wee stunner. You were always the only one I might have strayed to the dark side for.’

‘Oh shush, you,’ Paula said, holding on to Sammy’s hands and staring at him with obvious affection. ‘You’re looking almost dignified in your old age, Mr S. Like the face-fuzz, makes you look nearly respectable.’

I sat there feeling like the awkward imbecile I was as I watched their mutual adoration play out. Sammy was friends with Paula’s sister Andrea and had known Paula since she was fifteen. She’d always looked on him as a big brother, and she was the wee sister he never had.

This was lovely. Very sweet. Not something I had any right to feel even remotely jealous about. Obviously. That would have been crass and immature. Not like me at all.

Their love-in did at least give me time to try and compose myself. Time, as it turned out, I didn’t spend well. ‘So, how do you, Paula?’ I said, with volume and idiocy, as opposed to the calmness and nonchalance I’d been aiming for.

Paula turned to me, still smiling, still holding on to Sammy’s hands. ‘How do I what, Jim?’

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Many halves. How are you, is what I meant. And yes, I’m still a wanker, to save you asking.’ That was slightly better.

Paula’s smile turned into a laugh. ‘Good to know, though my dad has already alerted me to that fact. You’re a balding wanker, I see.’