Single Daddy Scot (Hot Scots)

‘She should’ve taken the bra off, gotten down to pasties,’ critiques Will.

‘A girl wi’ a chest that size can’nae go prancing around the stage without support,’ replies Keir.

‘I’d give her support.’ From Will’s tone, that’s exactly the opposite of what he’d do.

The cheers show no sign of dying, and the girl is pretty pleased, all red lipsticked blown kisses and smiles. There’s something about her, though, as she turns, pushing the veil a fraction from her face. Something about the curve of her cheekbone. The jut of chin.

And then it hits me—hits me like a bowling ball to the face.

That’s not a fucking burlesque dancer. That’s Ella. My Ella. Fucking hell.

I almost flinch as Will begins his critique, talking about her body as if he has the right.

‘Shut your face,’ I grate out, pointing one dangerous finger at him. ‘Shut your fucking face right now, or I swear to God, I’ll—’

‘What? What did I do now?’

But I don’t wait to answer, pushing back my chair and storming away.

Keep calm. Don’t blow you top. Fix your expression. Fix all those things before you get to the barman.

‘What can I get you?’

I rub my nose, which probably makes me look like a coke head. ‘How do I get into the back?’ Shit. Not calm. Not cool. Try fucking rabid.

‘You don’t,’ comes his reasonable reply. ‘Sit down. Have another drink. There’s another act coming on soon.’

‘I’m not interested in another act,’ I say, spitting out the word as though it tastes bad. ‘I want to speak to the previous one.’ One sentence, ten beats, and with each stroke, my anger increases.

‘Don’t we all, mate!’ My head turns to the fuckwit to my left, his elbows resting on the bar top. I sniff again as I wonder which of his elbows I’ll break. See, I’m mostly calm. Mostly sensible. But I have the devil’s own temper, as my granny used to say.

‘Do yourself a favour, pal. Get out of my way.’

At some silent signal from the barman, I’m suddenly flanked by two brick shithouses of blokes. And I’ll bet just as intelligent. Black t-shirts denote them as security.

‘I don’t want any trouble. I just want to speak to Ella.’ I lift my elbows away as they reach for them, and at the same moment, Will and Keir appear.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ This from Keir.

‘Come on, lads,’ adds Will. ‘I’m sure this is something we can sort out. There appears to be some kind of misunderstanding, yeah?’

‘No misunderstanding here. Patrons are not allowed access to the acts.’

‘To the stripper?’

‘Will,’ I growl, stepping from the reach of a security guard, right at the same moment recognition crosses his face.

‘Shite. That was Ella?’ His jaw almost hits the floor, his tongue lolling. Okay, so this is all happening in his mind. Or mine. I din’nae ‘ken.

‘That’s it. I’m rippin’ your eyes out on stalks.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Will begins, ignoring my threat. ‘My friend here wants to talk to his girlfriend. Girlfriend,’ he asks looking at me for confirmation.

‘Will, I swear—’

‘As a member of the sister club next door and, I might add, a valued member of that very exclusive clientele.’ His words heavy with meaning, but what that meaning is, I really don’t know. And I’ve no time to consider. It also seems like dumb and dumber aren’t interested, either. ‘I can vouch for my friend here.’ He claps me on the shoulder. ‘And,’ he adds as they approach him, ‘I’m also a friend of your boss. Mr Masters? Surely, there’s something we can do to sort this out.’

And to their satisfaction, there is. When the three of us get escorted from the club.

29

Ella

‘What’s your favourite drink?’

The “dressing room” is little more than a white-walled cupboard lit by harsh strobe lighting. A couple of tiny dressers sit against the far wall and fastened above them sit mirrors from Ikea. Probably with names like Jung and Freud. I wonder what tales they’d tell if they could talk.

‘You’re really out of it, aren’t you?’ Farah, my dance teacher, speaks tremulously with suppressed laughter.

‘What . . . sorry?’ As I look up, the chair rocks a little on its uneven legs.

‘I can’t tell if you’re terrified or on an audience high.’

‘Erm, me either.’ I feel sort of sick. Ill. I can’t believe I went through with it, and I can’t believe the audience applause is still ringing in my ears. And then there was that other thing at the end—

‘So do you have one? A favourite drink?’

‘N-no. No really.’

Farah laughs. ‘After a show, my favourite drink is usually the next one. Calms the nerves, you know?’

‘So this is normal?’ I ask. ‘How I feel?’

‘A mixture of terror and delight?’ I nod. ‘Totally. You can go out into the bar if you like? Your fans will treat you like a goddess if that’s your thing.’