Oriental Hotel (32 page)

‘My dear Elise, what a surprise!'

‘Mrs Hemmings. Mr Hemmings.'

They were neighbours in Kowloon. Mr Hemmings renred factory space in the same building as Gordon, making silk shirts for export. But although they and Gordon were on Christian-name terms, Elise had never wanted to call them Bertrand and Florence and had always felt oddly uncomfortable with them. Standing with Brit's hand about her waist, the feeling was intensified a hundredfold.

Now that his wife had drawn attention to her presence, Mr Hemmings got to his feet.

‘Thought it was you, Elise. What are you doing in this part of the world?' he asked, his eyes still studiously avoiding Brit.

‘I'm on my way home. You know from Gordon that I was caught in Cairo, I expect?'

‘We did hear.' Florence Hemmings' sharp little eyes were flickering over Brit – not missing a detail, Elise thought – and the odd tight curve of her lips was not pleasant.

‘Mr Brittain here was kind enough to arrange a passage for me.'

Elise's voice was almost level. ‘Do you know him? He's on his way to Hong Kong too.'

The eyes sharpened still more. Elise was aware of their piercing quality and knew suddenly what it was she had always disliked about the other woman.

‘Mr Brittain? Now that is a familiar name …'

‘Since we are all from Hong Kong, how about joining us? Unless you already have a party, of course.' Mr Hemmings managed to sound jovial and casual and Elise was grateful to him.

‘It's kind of you, but you must excuse us …'

‘Of course. Of course.'

‘What a pity! Maybe if you're still here another day …'

‘Maybe,' she smiled stiffly. Behind her she was aware of Brit nodding coolly, in no way discomfited.

And why should he be? she thought. He doesn't know them. But what a moment to run into someone like Florence Hemmings!

‘Who were they?' Brit asked as they moved away, but he sounded almost disinterested.

‘Oh – small business people like us; they make shirts. They're probably here buying silk or something. I just hope they didn't see …' Her voice tailed away.

‘See what?'

She didn't answer and he spoke for her. ‘You were dancing, that's all.'

It wasn't all! she wanted to say, but she could not.

‘It's enough, really, isn't it?' she said sharply. ‘How would you feel if you were Gordon and you heard I had been out dancing when we were hundreds of miles apart?'

‘As I told you once before, if you were my wife you wouldn't be gallivanting about the world on your own, war or no war. Anyway, will he get to know?'

‘I should think so. I imagine that woman will tell the whole of Hong Kong society when she gets back.'

‘You mean the snobs in the ground-floor lounge at the Hong Kong Hotel? I have a feeling this is where we came in.'

‘I wish we hadn't!' she said with feeling.

‘For heaven's sake, Elise, what can she tell them? You're getting in a state over nothing,' he said impatiently. ‘Now have another drink and calm down.'

Another drink! She was already tiddly enough to behave like a tart and he suggested another drink!

‘No, thank you. I think l ought to go to bed. And Brit … please don't take this wrongly, but I honestly think it would be better if we weren't seen alone together again.'

‘
What
?'

‘Don't you think it would be best? You know how people talk …'

‘I don't give a damn about people talking. I never have. I lead my own life.'

She looked up at him, at his hard and slightly twisted profile; at the lines etched in shadow from nose to mouth; at the narrowed eyes and the way he held his head.

The dangerous desire twisted within her once again. ‘I'm sure you do,' she said. Suppressed emotion lent her tone an edge she had not intended.

He moved his arm from her waist to her shoulder, a casually possessive gesture that made her fold up inside.

‘Change your mind about that drink. We can go back into the lounge …'

‘No, really.' Stiff lips, not wanting to refuse. Stiff back, trying not to be affected by his touch. ‘I'm honestly tired. Goodnight, Brit.'

She turned away and he did not stop her. Her cheeks were burning with shame and embarrassment as she wondered how she could possibly have been such an idiot.

But part of her was remembering still the way her body had responded to his and despite the shame and embarrassment, she knew that in the quiet of her room she would remember again – remember and glory in remembering.

‘A large whisky.'
‘A
large
one, sir?' The Malay barman's expression was
inscrutable, but he managed to inject the merest hint of surprise
into his voice.

Throughout his long and precise training it had been instilled into him that clients of the hotel must always be treated with the utmost respect, even when he considered they had done nothing whatever to earn it. A lady known to the world as an Italian countess must still be treated as such, even if he happened to hear an accent closer to the Bronx than Milan coming from behind the closed doors of her suite; a so-called prince whose family had been exiled for generations expected all the respect due to a crowned head. And if a member of one of the leading families of the East appeared to be drinking more whisky than was good for him, this was a matter which needed to be dealt with in the most tactful way possible.

‘Yes, man, a large one, damn it!'

The hint had not been lost on Brit and he was infuriated by it. What right had a barman to criticise him? If he wanted a large whisky, he would have one!

As the barman refilled his glass he leaned against the high-backed bar stool, sliding out his cigarettes and lighting one. He blew smoke in a steady stream towards the glass fishing floats in their net cases which hung from the ceiling.

Women! There was no reason in them. Especially married women, wearing their conscience along with their wedding ring like some invisible chastity belt.

As the barman put down the whisky in front of him, he pushed a note across the counter and raised his glass.

‘I give you women. And God only knows, you can keep'em!'

Ten minutes and another large whisky later, he pushed back his glass and caught the barman's sloe-eyed gaze. The obvious anxiety he read there made him smile this time.

‘It's all right. I'm not going to ask for more. I'm going!'

‘Sorry, sir, I do not understand …'

‘Oh yes you do, Charlie. You've been here long enough to speak English as well as I do when you choose.' He stubbed out his cigarette and grinned at the barman's expression of mock puzzlement. ‘Goodnight, my friend.'

‘Goodnight, Mr Brittain.'

Although it was late, the E & O was far from sleeping. Music still floated from the ballroom, glasses clinked above the murmur of conversation in the richly furnished cocktail lounge. The corridor in which their rooms were situated was deserted, though, and the sounds of life still going on downstairs were muted.

He stopped outside his own door, feeling in his pocket for the key and glancing towards Elise's room.

Was she asleep?

The thought of her stirred him again as her nearness on the dance floor had done; he swung round, drawn towards her door, raised his hand and knocked.

For a moment there was silence and he knocked again, impatient now. Then he heard movement within and Elise's voice, low and anxious.

‘Who is it?'

‘It's me – Brit! Open the door.'

He heard her fumbling with the catch and the door swung open. Her hair was tied back, damp curls falling around her face as if she had been bathing, and she was wearing a Chinese silk robe that clung to her curves.

‘Brit …'

‘Let me in.'

She stepped aside and he slammed the door shut behind him.

The room was full of her – the perfumed steam from her bath, her stockings hanging over the back of the chair, her nightdress laid out across the bed.

He moved towards her and she backed away, holding the silk gown around her.

‘Brit, what do you want?' Her voice was panicky and it lit another fuse within him.

He reached for her, his fingers closing round her upper arm. ‘What the hell do you think I want?
You
!'

Before she could even protest he pushed her back against the wall, pinning her there while his mouth sought hers. As the whisky and tobacco fumes hit her she twisted her face away, freed her arm and pushed sharply at his chest. Then, as he staggered slightly, she followed through with her hand and slapped him full in the face.

Shock sobered him as he raised his hand to his stinging cheek.

‘What on earth did you do that for?'

‘You're drunk. I think you ought to go.'

‘Elise …'

‘Please leave, Brit.'

She crossed the room and opened the door. For a moment he stood looking at her helplessly; then, with a shrug, he moved away.

‘All right. If that's the way you want it.'

The corridor was still deserted; the light from the chandelier over the staircase hurt his eyes. He half turned, not wanting to leave her this way, but she had pushed the door shut behind him; as he raised his hand he heard the final click and then the bolt went across.

‘Damn it to hell!' he said.

But his voice was absorbed in the cushioned atmosphere and there was nothing left for him to do but go into his own room.

Next morning Elise asked for breakfast to be served in her room. But when it arrived, set out on a silver tray with a single long-stemmed rose in a crystal specimen vase, she found she had no appetite.

Impatiently she put the tray aside, walking on bare feet across the deep russet carpet to stand at the window looking out at the gardens of the E & O Hotel, already lit to bright and luscious greens by the morning sun.

Although she had lain awake half the night remembering it, she could still scarcely believe the strength of the desire which had brought her alive last night in the ballroom, the trembling longing which had seemed strong enough to envelop them both.

She realised she had never felt that way before – not even with Gordon – and the thought sent guilt spiralling through her: not only because she had felt for a virtual stranger something she had never felt for her husband, but also because she had let Brit know it.

What happened afterwards, was my fault she thought. I led him on and gave him the wrong impression. He probably thought that with a little persuasion I would fall into his bed. Even alone, the thought made her uncomfortable and she turned away from the window wondering what to do.

Certainly she must put off seeing Brit for as long as possible. She could no more have faced him over breakfast this morning than she could have leapt into a tank of piranha fish. And it would be better if the Hemmings woman didn't see them breakfasting together, too.

But avoiding him in the dining room was one thing. Knowing that, with his room just across the corridor, she was likely to run into him the moment she left her suite was quite another.

I'll do some shopping, she decided. Losing almost everything she possessed when the
Maid of Darjeeling
went down gave her the perfect excuse to visit the stores for clothes and the street markets for souvenirs to take back to Alex.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts; a maid asked if it would be convenient for the dressmaker to come for a fitting.

Elise's heart sank, for she had always hated fittings. She could well remember how as a child her mother had shouted at her to keep still, while the dressmaker they had used had to make first this adjustment and then that, all of which entailed the risk of being pricked in the most tender places as the half-made garment was removed.

But the E & O dressmaker was an artiste. She worked fast and cleverly, shaping with a dart here and a tuck there to turn the lengths of jewel-coloured fabric into beautiful gowns almost before a stitch had been sewn. Watching her, Elise thought of Joyce Lindsell's pathetic Utility dress and had the grace to feel guilty for her own lack of patience. In England, women like Joyce were struggling to look attractive on a meagre allowance of clothing coupons, while
she
was able to snap her fingers and have the richest fabrics the East could offer delivered to her door. The least she could do was try to appreciate it!

When the dressmaker finally left Elise crept out for her shopping trip, uncomfortably, certain that she would run into Brit around every corner. But the door to his room was closed. She walked swiftly along the corridors, looking neither to left nor right, and was relieved that she neither ran into him nor heard his voice calling after her. Not that he would do that, she thought; his was the most casual of attitudes. Except when he had burst into her room last night …

At some time Elise had heard of the Million Buddhas Precious Pagoda, inspired by the vision of a priest so it was said, and built on a hillside high above Ayer Itam. The romanticism of it had attracted her then; now she thought of it as a haven where she was least likely to meet Brit unexpectedly.

A taxi took her as far as the Buddhist temple of Kek Lok Si, then she climbed the shallow stairs, flanked by a warren of souvenir shops, to the pagodas, the myriad altars and the fishponds where lived tortoises who had been there since the temple was built.

She stayed for a while longer, looking round, and then continued the long climb to the monastery. Before long her legs ached with the effort, but the higher she went the cooler it became and the farther behind her she left the confusion and embarrassment of the previous night. It was almost like being part of the endless blue sky and she could understand why the monastery had been built here, high above Penang.

Enjoying the peace, she stayed longer than she had intended and when she eventually walked back down the sloping steps she had to wait some time for a taxi to take her back.