Oriental Hotel (31 page)

It was strange how everything seemed to remind her of him. Even when her mind was totally occupied with what she was doing – shopping in Campbell Street, wandering round a Buddhist temple where the offerings of fruit, cake and even chickens were spread out on the altars – she was aware of a strange, sharp-edged excitement giving a lift to her step and a buzz to the blood in her veins.

But thinking of him consciously was less pleasant, because she knew that tonight she would have to face him over dinner, talk naturally, behave as if he was just a person she knew, not someone about whom she had begun to weave juvenile dreams, even to become obsessed with.

She knew he only needed to look at her in that particular way, with his eyes narrowed and teasing and his mouth twisted into a faintly mocking smile, and she would be unable to avoid blushing. Even thinking about it now in the courtyard in front of the Buddhist temple, where the pilgrims walked and the stoves belched smoke from the burning joss money, she could still feel the treacherous, tingling response that spiralled from deep within her to meet the barely-veiled challenge.

He was making a fool of her and she was letting him do so, she thought. Just remember he is a Brittain, she told herself. Like the rest of his family, he is rude, arrogant and impatient. He likes nothing better than to run rings around his opponents, and probably his friends too. He is most certainly not desirable in any way.

But when she met him that night in the dining room at the E & O, she knew she had fooled no one, least of all herself. All of those things he might be, nevertheless it was impossible to dislike Gerald Brittain.

At least his attitude towards her seemed to have changed, though. His conversation was easy and friendly; with none of those disturbing glances coming her way, she found herself beginning to relax and enjoy his company.

Over the hors-d'oeuvre he encouraged her to tell him about her day, and when the main course – the fish and pork dish which was one of the specialities of the Chinese chef – was served, he began to talk about the Tongs: the Chinese secret societies which had once existed to further opium and prostitution, amongst other things.

‘They were very strong here in Penang. The so-called riots in 1867 were really a Tong War – one faction against another and God help anyone who got in the way.'

The romance and mystery of the Tongs had always fascinated Elise; now the last of her self-consciousness was forgotten as she listened to him describing their hatreds and rivalries, the gambling schools and protection rackets, the sansu distilleries turning out their illicit liquor, the blue film clubs run for gamblers and villagers alike.

By the time dinner was over and coffee was served in the lounge, she was beginning to wonder why on earth she had worried. There was nothing harmful or disturbing about this comfortable companionship, and for the first time in ages she was simply enjoying herself.

See how easy it is to put juvenile infatuation out of your head when you try, she congratulated herself – and allowed him to order her a crème de menthe when he called for his brandy.

He was talking about Hong Kong society now – the artificial colonial snobbery of the Europeans who frequented the Hong Kong Hotel in Pedder Street, fiercely defending their place in the pecking order and freezing out those whom they considered beneath them.

‘They're more dangerous than the Tongs,' he said, grinning.

Her second crème de menthe slid over her tongue like mint-flavoured honey and she laughed. His comment had reminded her of a St Andrew's Night Ball she and Gordon had attended at the Peninsula Hotel – and of something that had happened there which had burned itself into her memory and given her many a quiet smile in recollection.

‘Do you know Mrs de Lorean?' she asked.

He shook his head. ‘I don't think I have had that pleasure.'

‘Pleasure!' She giggled. ‘I wouldn't call it that, she's the most shocking woman! Her husband is something in the government and she thinks that makes her superior to anyone else. She wears enough jewels to knock your eye out and heavily upholstered gowns in an effort to hide her mountains of flesh. But she spends her time back-biting and running down anyone who happens not to be there at the time.'

‘Charming!'

‘Exactly; that was what made it so funny! There we were at this St Andrew's Night Ball, and there was she, looking like an enormously fat bat in her black crepe de Chine.'

‘And?'

‘A young couple came in whom she thought had no right to be there. The wife clearly had some Chinese blood and that was enough for Mrs de Lorean. She kept asking loudly who they thought they were, and saying that such people should not be allowed in an old established place like the Peninsula Hotel. I think she would have had them thrown out if she could, but as this was impossible she spent the whole time doing her best to embarrass them.

‘Well, about half-way through the evening the band struck up a progressive valeta; eventually of course the circle changed partners often enough for Mrs de Lorean to reach the young man whose wife she had been insulting.

‘She stuck her nose in the air and held his hand as though she thought she was going to be contaminated, but when it came to the waltz part there was nothing she could do but allow him to twirl her round. And at the end he passed her under his arm and somehow managed to catch his cuff buttons in her hair.'

‘Painful,' Brit said.

‘Worse!' Elise laughed at the memory. ‘She spun under his arm and hurried to get to the next partner, but her hair was still dangling from his cuff. It was a wig! We had all suspected she wore one, but naturally no one had even seen her without it. And now here she was in the middle of the dance floor with her secret exposed! Gordon was very cross with me for laughing; he said I should have pretended nothing had happened. But I ask you …! Everywhere I looked, I kept seeing her again and I just couldn't stop giggling. It was her ‘‘come-uppance'', all right. In fact I've always thought the man did it on purpose, though how he could have known for sure that she was wearing a wig, I can't imagine!'

She laughed again and looked at Brit to see him laughing too. But as their eyes met the laughter died and that inexplicable tinder sparked again. She felt as if magnetised, while the long thrust of searing fire licked deep within her and the glow of it was reflected in her cheeks.

Desperately she searched around for something to say: ‘Have you ever been to a St Andrew's Night Ball?'

He shook his head, smiling, but his eyes still held hers. ‘I never go to that kind of thing if I can help it.'

‘Don't you like dancing?' She knew she was prattling, but anything was better than to let him know the way her body was coming alive under the amused scrutiny of those hypnotic eyes.

A moment ago she had felt so comfortable with him, like being with an old friend. Now, suddenly, the shared laughter and the shared glance had sparked a reaction that embarrassed her with its intensity.

‘I can't dance,' he said.

She flushed again at her gaffe. ‘ Of course – your leg. I'm so sorry.'

‘No, I couldn't dance before that. No one's ever been able to teach me.' His eyes narrowed to a wicked twinkle, but she was too confused to notice. ‘A pity really. The physiotherapist at the hospital where my leg was patched up said dancing would help. Good exercise, they said.'

‘Then you should try to learn. It's not difficult.'

The crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened.

‘All right.
You
teach me.'

‘
Me
?'

‘Yes. Fair's fair.
I
organized
you
a passage.
You
teach
me
to dance. I'll be a model pupil, I promise.'

‘But we won't have the opportunity, surely,' she said hastily. ‘We shall be sailing in a couple of days.'

‘Excuses!' he teased. ‘ I don't blame you – I can see you value your toes.'

‘Don't be silly! It's not that. But when …?'

‘You've heard the old saying that there's no time like the present. There's a dance going on in the ballroom and I've always heard that the best way to learn to swim is to be thrown in at the deep end. The same probably goes for dancing. Come on, now – it's a daunting prospect, I know, but think of it as your contribution to the war effort.'

She laughed, in spite of the tightening in her stomach. There was no way out of this, she would just have to go through with it.

With his hand resting lightly on her waist, he guided her through to the ballroom. On a small stage, behind potted palms, a six-piece orchestra was softly playing sweet haunting melodies, and the polished dance floor was crowded with couples – the women bright butterflies against the white and black of their partners' evening clothes.

‘So – how do we begin?' he asked in her ear.

‘You must at least know that?'

‘Show me.'

‘Brit! You're making an exhibition of us!'

‘Like this?' He put his arm around her waist, took her right hand in his. Small tingles ran through her at his touch and she steeled herself to ignore them. ‘Now what?'

‘It's a waltz. ‘‘Carolina Moon''. Just follow me.'

Their hips were close. His leg, following through, brushed hers and she struggled to concentrate.

‘Count. That helps. One-two-three … One-two-three …'

‘Helps what?'

‘Helps you to get your feet right.'

His hand was firm on her waist; through the thin peacock-blue Thai silk she could feel the even pressure of his fingers.

‘How am I doing?' he asked.

‘Very well. I thought you said you couldn't dance?'

‘I can't.'

‘That's not the way it seems to me. You haven't trodden on my toes once.'

‘Which just goes to show how nimble you are.'

A break in the music caught them at the far side of the floor. Elise tried to move away but he held her there. ‘Surely my lesson's not over yet?'

The band struck up again, a faster tempo than before. Relieved, she said, ‘A quickstep. Much too difficult for your first attempt.'

‘I don't agree. You should stretch your pupil's capabilities.'

This time he did not wait for her to begin. His hips pushed against hers, leading her, and she had no option but to follow. She looked up at him, eyes bright with helpless anger.

‘If you can't dance, how can you manage a perfectly good quickstep?'

The corner of his mouth quirked. ‘The quickstep was always my best.'

‘You made a fool of me!'

Away from the circle of the twirling globe of light his eyes were shadowed. ‘Never!'

‘You did, you told me …'

‘It was the only way I could think of to get you to dance with me.'

A sharp twist of desire spiralled through the deepest pan of her and in its wake her emotions tumbled and twisted. She tried to produce a smart, pert reply which would hide the way she was feeling, but no words would come. She was much too aware of him. And the haunting music of the orchestra was in her ears, drowning out all coherent thought …

‘You made me love you.
I didn't want to do it.
I didn't want to do it …'

She was trembling now as if an electric current was passing through her body. She could feel it tingling in every pore, bringing alive hidden nerves and throbbing with the beat of the music. Her feet were slowing. It was as if all her energy was being sucked up by the electricity, and the rest of her was becoming putty.

He was holding her closer, his hand spread more widely around her waist, his arm more encircling; now the hollow of her cheek rested against the hard jutting line of his chin and their bodies seemed moulded to one.

She closed her eyes as music, desire and the sheer closeness of him merged to sweep her up to some dimension she had never previously experienced. It was like floating, she thought, from the corner of her mind which was still functioning normally, and the sweetness was being drawn up from the core of her so that every nerve ending was taut. At the same time, she was so aware of Brit that she could feel him not only with her body but with her mind – a fusion so powerful that it took her breath, made her heartbeat fast and shallow, moved her like a puppet in the grip of its intensity.

She turned her head, and he moved with her. Their lips brushed, hovered, then clung, their feet slowed and then stopped altogether. Beneath her fingers the muscles of his arm were tense and hard as he held her against the long lines of his body and she was aware of nothing but her need for him.

‘Oh Brit! Brit!'

It was a soundless cry from the heart of her, which at the same time had the effect of catapulting her back to reality.

The room took shape around her and with a shock she realised that the music had stopped. Around them dancers were moving off the floor and in the dim light all eyes were avoiding them, but she felt suddenly agonisingly conspicuous.

What
am
I doing? I must be drunk!

She stiffened, trying to move away, but although he released her hand, his arm remained around her waist. Unable to shake it off without making a scene – the last thing she wanted – she allowed him to guide her off the dance floor.

Her thoughts were chaotic, her heart bearing in time with them.

What am I to do? I wanted him and he knew it. I let my guard down and now he knows how I feel about him …

The tables at the edge of the floor were mostly occupied and Elise's glance flickered over them as they passed. Then, with a sense of shock, she focused on one couple – the man distinguished, grey-haired, with a clipped military moustache; the woman too rounded, hair still bobbed in the twenties style which had been popular in her youth.

The man was not looking at her and there seemed something almost deliberate in the way he was staring past her. But the woman was less tactful; the pursed mouth was smiling a tight greeting and the eyes were sharp behind large round spectacles.