Oriental Hotel (23 page)

The man on the table had finished his beer, deafening cheers followed and Elise watched fascinated as he towelled his chest with a tolled-up shirt, then shook it out and put it on again. As the cheering died away the pianist took advantage of the lull to strike up again, and voices were raised in a slurred chorus of ‘Lili Marlene'.

‘Do you want a drink?' Brit asked, shouting to make himself heard. ‘I can't guarantee how long it will take to get one, but I can try.'

‘No!' She didn't like the idea of him disappearing to the bar and leaving her here alone in this seething, noisy crush. ‘Had enough, have you?'

She nodded. Her eyes were stinging from the cigarette smoke and there was something almost alarming about the frivolity if you were not really a part of it.

He eased her out again. As the doors closed behind them she felt nothing but relief.

‘You know there's an officers' party going on, do you?' he asked when they were sufficiently far away from the ballroom to be able to make themselves heard more easily.

‘Yes. But I said I didn't want to go. After what happened to John Grimly, I didn't feel like it somehow. And I'm still pretty tired, actually. It was a very exhausting day.'

They were on deck now, beneath that perfect expanse of velvet dark that Elise thought she would never tire of seeing.

‘Yes – it must have been quite a broadening couple of days for you, one way and another,' Brit said.

The levity in his tone annoyed her. How he could equate the horror of nursing the wounded and watching John Grimly die with the wild party she had just witnessed, she did not know. But it was true, whether she liked it or not. Until the last few days, she had not realised how sheltered a life she had always led.

‘What did you think of the party in there, then?' Brit asked.

‘Well … it was … different. I wouldn't have missed it, though I should think Gordon would have a fit if he knew.'

‘He would?'

‘He would never have let me anywhere near it!'

‘Really? How strange!'

‘What do you mean?'

He was lighting a cigarette, not looking at her. ‘ Strange that a man who protects his wife from a rowdy party should allow her to go charging about the world in time of war. Now to me, that seems a total nonsense.'

She felt an instant and prickling response.

‘What on earth has that got to do with it?'

‘Nothing really. It just doesn't make sense to refuse to let you be contaminated by the common hurly-burly, yet not turn a hair at your wandering around in what is without doubt a very dangerous situation.'

‘How do you know he's not turning a hair?'

‘Well, he let you come, didn't he?'

‘Only because my mother was dying.' Oh how easy it was to let him rile her. The voice of caution was warning her to take no notice, but it fell on deaf ears. ‘I had to see her. And in any case, the situation wasn't like it is now. Everything was just as usual – in Hong Kong, anyway.'

He blew smoke into the aromatic breeze.

‘Business in Hong Kong is always as usual. Making money is what keeps the place ticking over – or haven't you realised that yet? It's an insular world and I suppose your husband's not entirely to blame for not foreseeing what was going to happen. Unfortunately, it's all too true that someone who can accurately forecast next year's trade figures hasn't a clue about ordinary mundane things affecting their own family. It's the way a businessman's mind works.'

The suggestion that Gordon cared more for the business than he did for her was both insulting and infuriating, and she thrust aside the creeping memory of her occasional resentment of mornings when she awoke to find he had already left for the factory and nights when he worked until the small hours in his study; times when he was there but the business intruded – breakfasts when he hardly raised his head from the business section of the
South China Morning Post
, and evening dinners shared with clients or business associates. It was necessary for him to be single-minded if he was to be successful – their whole future depended on it. And to criticise him without knowing anything about him was as intolerable as the implication that he was also stupid.

‘I don't really think it's any of your business,' she flared.

‘Ouch!' But he didn't sound hurt, only amused still. ‘You're quite right, of course; it isn't any of my business. I was merely making the point that if you were my wife, dying mother or no dying mother, I'd have made sure you stayed where I could keep an eye on you.'

In the darkness her face flamed. ‘I think this conversation has gone quite far enough.'

‘Probably. Anyway, I still haven't told you why I was looking for you. We land at Bombay tomorrow and will be there for about a week. I shall be staying at the Taj Mahal Hotel. Perhaps when you've fixed up accommodation for yourself you will let me know where you are?'

‘Why?'

‘So that I can let you know the arrangements for the next stage.'

‘Oh!' The flush deepened as she realised how aggressive her question must have sounded.

‘Do you know yet where you will be?'

‘When I was last in Bombay I stayed at the Taj Mahal, too. I should imagine I will go there again.'

‘Fine! That will make it easy, then, won't it?' He threw his cigarette butt towards the sea. ‘Do you want me to see you back to your cabin, or will you be all right?'

‘Thank you, but I'll be all right.'

He smiled and in the bright moonlight his teeth showed very white.

‘Yes. In your present mood I think you will be. I feel quite sorry for any drunken sailor who gets in your way!'

‘Elise Monkton! I
don't
believe it!'

Elise swung round as the voice – very English and upper-class – carried across the lounge of the Taj Mahal, ringing clear and bell-like underneath the cut-glass chandeliers.

A tall young woman, elegant and reed-slim, in buttercup yellow trousers and a gaily patterned silk blouse in toning shades from burnt orange through to palest sand, was standing with arms spread wide like the ancient carved statue of the Elephant God. Her flaming red hair seemed to continue the colour scheme of her clothes and a gold Sobranie extended from a slender holder in her mouth.

At the sight of her Elise's expression changed from surprise to pure pleasure and disbelief.

‘Lola! What are you doing here?'

‘I might well ask you the same question! Bombay in the middle of a war – it's crazy! And I don't believe I've seen you since St Honore in 1936!'

‘No. Oh, Lola!'

They hugged, laughing, with all the delight of old friends. It was true that after a year of living together within the close confines of their finishing school at St Honore, near Geneva, their paths had never crossed. Elise had gone straight into marriage with Gordon and moved to the Far East; Lola, daughter of an English viscount and an Italian film actress, had moved into the circles that provided meat and drink for the gossip columnists and was seldom seen until after dark.

‘Elise, darling, come and have a drink with me. There must be so much to catch up on! Will the Long Bar do? Now don't say it's too early, darling, because if you do I shall simply pretend I'm quite deaf. Tea may have its merits, but I have yet to discover them. Cocktails are so much more fun, don't you think?'

Elise laughed. Although she did not usually drink until dinner, she had no intention of saying so and spoiling the reunion.

It was four days since she had arrived in Bombay and the delay was driving her crazy.

The Taj Mahal was a beautiful hotel, of course – one of the greatest not only in the East but in the world. With domes and minarets, it was a masterpiece of a blend of Victorian and Saracen Moghul splendour, dominating the Bombay waterfront. Within its pale stone walls no expense was spared, no whim left unattended.

But Bombay was not a city for solitary sightseeing. There were too many beggars crouching on the pavements, rattling their bowls, too many sneak-thieves ready to relieve one of one's valuables and then sell them openly in the Thieves' Market in Chor Bazaar.

When she had telephoned him on her first night in Bombay, Gordon had warned her about going out alone. She had promised him she would not do so, and it was not a promise she had found difficult to keep. But time had hung very heavily on her hands and when time hung heavily it was all too easy to worry about the future.

The Long Bar, a favourite rendezvous for many of the Taj Mahal guests, was already crowded but she and Lola were quickly served with the cocktails they ordered from the inviting list – including Manhattan and Side Car, Old-Fashioned and Madly Gay – mixed in a silver shaker, decorated with fresh fruit and sugared leaves and topped with tiny, delicate paper parasols.

‘So tell me what you're doing here,' Lola insisted, sipping her choice through a long coloured straw.

‘I'm killing time waiting for a boat to Calcutta.' Elise found she had slipped naturally back into the girlhood habit of countering Lola's gush with brevity.

‘Calcutta! My dear, that is the most ghastly place on God's earth! A steamy swamp! Why on earth are you going there? No – don't tell me! It concerns a man?'

Elise giggled. ‘Yes, but not in the way you think.'

‘What man?' Lola drawled with voluptuous emphasis.

‘His name's Gerald Brittain, but he likes to be called Brit, and he's arranged my passage back to Hong Kong.'

‘Brittain? My darling – one of
the
Brittains – Cormorant and all that?'

‘The same.'

‘My, my! And is he also quite gorgeous?'

‘Lola, you haven't changed a bit. Your mind still runs on one track!'

‘But of course. Do you know a better one?'

Lola laughed, a deep throaty chuckle that reminded Elise of balmy Swiss nights. The girls had been supposedly well chaperoned during their year at St Honore, but Lola had found ways of beating the ban.

‘Practice, my sweets, makes perfect!' she had told her amused and admiring peers, and when vocations had come under discussion none of them had been in any doubt where Lola's talent lay.

‘I intend to get the best from life,' she had said simply. ‘And I shall do it my way.'

Again, they had understood. Lola had the face and figure of an angel and without doubt could have made a career as a model even if a lack of talent had precluded her following her mother onto the silver screen. But Lola had no intention of spending long days enduring snapped-out orders under hot lights, or parading on a catwalk for other women. Her talent was for enjoying herself and helping others – preferably men – to do the same.

‘And what are
you
doing here, Lola?' Elise asked.

Lola lifted a lazy hand to order more cocktails. ‘I'm with the Sultan of Mohar and his party.'

‘The Sultan of
where
?'

‘Mohar.' Lola was totally unabashed. ‘He's very interested in rubies, darling. Amongst other things …' Again, the meaningful drawl and the long, sideways look.

Elise laughed, feeling her worries drop away. From the moment Lola had called her by her maiden name it seemed she had become Elise Monkton once more, with no cares, no responsibilities, no image to maintain.

‘Listen, my pet.' Lola glanced at the slender gold watch that circled her wrist and drained her second cocktail before Elise had finished her first. ‘I shall have to fly. Certain people become very impatient if I am not around at certain times – and a pre-dinner shower is one of them. But we must meet again. I suppose you spend an awesome amount of time with your gorgeous Mr Brittain?'

‘He's not mine, and I spend very little time with him.'

‘Why ever not? No – don't stop to explain just now, you can tell me later. Have dinner with us, darling. Will you promise, now?'

‘But what about the Sultan? Won't he mind?'

‘Charlie? Oh, absolutely not. He has the sweetest temperament – as long as
I
provide the honey. I shall tell him we were at school together, and he'll be delighted to meet you. She set down her glass and her green eyes sparkled wickedly. ‘ I ran into Josephine van Heffner the other day – do you remember Josephine? But I certainly wasn't going to admit to being at school with her! She looks quite thirty if a day! But then, she never did get the hang of making the best of herself, did she, poor thing? A lump, in spite of Daddy's millions … See you later, darling!'

All eyes followed as she swept away, leaving Elise to reminisce slightly breathlessly.

It had been good to see Lola again and she would look forward to dining with her tonight – as long as there were not any unattached men in her party who expected Lola's friends to be as sweetly accommodating as she was. But in any case, Elise felt confident of being able to handle them. If nothing else, the John Grimly episode had taught her that.

For the first time since arriving at the Taj Mahal, she prepared for dinner with pleasure and anticipation.

‘Darling, who is that man who keeps staring at us? Is it someone we know?'

Lola inserted a gold Sobranie into her long slender holder, pointing with it, and Elise flushed with anger and embarrassment.

She knew who Lola was referring to without even bothering to follow the direction she indicated. She too had been very aware of the long, narrow glances, although she had done her best to avoid them.

‘It's Gerald Brittain, who arranged my passage for me,' she said shortly.

Dinner was almost over – four courses, each with its appropriate wine, had been served by the liveried and turbanned waiters, and now a chef was flaming brandy-soaked crepes on a silver trolley beside their table.

The setting was spectacular – the sparkling chandeliers showed to their best advantage the ornately carved frieze, the gilt pillars and scarlet walls, the scarlet cloths on the exquisitely laid out cold table. As always the service had been faultless. And the company could hardly have been more entertaining – the Sultan of Mohar, ivory tuxedo contrasting with swarthy skin; an English actor known for his wit and grace; a Greek shipping magnate's daughter and an exiled Spanish nobleman.