Oriental Hotel (42 page)

A tiny frown puckered the girl's forehead. ‘ Is anything the matter, Mrs Sanderson?'

‘Nothing. It's just that I was thinking I should quite like to take him myself.'

‘Come with us then.'

What was it about the girl's inflection that managed to be patronising? she wondered. ‘Come with us', as if Su Ming and Alex were the natural pairing and Elise was the outsider. And that was how it would be if she did join them, too – Su Ming holding on to Alex's hand, issuing instructions, planning the day. Su Ming taking charge …

You're becoming a possessive mother, she chided herself. Su Ming is his amah – you mustn't undermine her authority. And above all you must not use Alex to fill gaps in your own life …

‘No, I won't come today, Su Ming. I've a lot of things to do,' she said.

But when they had left, she could not think of a single thing of importance. For a while she pottered and wandered, picking up photographs, books and ornaments – bits and pieces from another life – but everywhere she looked she saw his face: tanned, angular, with his mouth mocking and his eyes saying things his lips never uttered. Why he should so fill every corner of this house, where he had never been, she did not know – unless it was that he had somehow mysteriously infiltrated the whole of her past as he had infiltrated her present life. But the ‘why' was unimportant in any case. All that mattered was that he did.

A dozen times since her return she had gone to the drawing room, where the dragon took pride of place on a rosewood plinth, in order to look at it and touch it; now, taking advantage of being alone in the house apart from the servants who were busy with their chores, she did so again, and as always the sight of its self-conscious ferocity took her back to that last afternoon she had spent with Brit when he had bought it for her.

The sense of pleasure being enjoyed on a short lease returned, filling her with the same sharp sweetness; she took the dragon's pug face between her hands, pressing so hard that her palms hurt.

Why couldn't it have lasted just a little longer, that wonderful singing awareness of living and loving? Brit, Brit – why couldn't I have had just a little longer with you? Oh, greedy, greedy Elise, not satisfied with what you had! But who would be? Who would willingly give up something so special? I love him. I love him and I can't tell him so. I love him, but perhaps I will never see him again. I love him and maybe I have hurt him.

Hurt him?
she scoffed at herself. He couldn't be hurt. You played along with him, did it his way, the way he wanted it. Why should he be hurt?

She wrinkled her nose, puzzled by the thought, and as her eyes fell on the dragon's stiff back she understood.

When she had first seen it she had thought it would remind her of Singapore, but now she knew it was not only Singapore it recalled to mind. That mock ferocity was all too reminiscent of someone she had come to know and love; that stiff back was not unlike the one he had presented to her on board the
Lively
.

‘He is trying to be fearsome, but he's really just sweet,' she had said of the dragon. Well, ‘sweet' might not be an adjective likely to be used to describe Brit, but certainly beneath that very fierce exterior he had depths she would never have expected to find.

If only I could see him, she thought, just to explain what happened that last day. Or maybe not even see him – speak to him on the telephone.

The thought tingled through her and she removed her hands from the dragon, pressing them together in indecision.

Phone him – just to explain.

Who do you think you are fooling? a voice inside her enquired. Wanting to explain is just an excuse. You just want to hear his voice.

So what? she rejoined tartly. He wouldn't know that.

He would.

He would not!

So why not do it?

I'm going to!

With a burst of nervous energy she left the drawing room and crossed the hail to Gordon's study. The telephone extension there was, she thought, the most private in the house. Her hand was trembling and as she tried to check the number she almost gave up. The Brittains of Cormorant would not have their telephone number bandied about. Not one would give it to her. Unless …

Gordon's diary lay on the desk and alongside it a flip-up telephone index. Without much hope she flipped the ‘B' button, it snapped open and her eyes ran down the page. Belmond, Brevitt Industries, Betty and Dick – Betty and Dick? she had imagined only she would be inefficient enough to index a telephone number under a Christian name! – and then, unbelievably – Brittain, Charles. A surge of weakness made her senses swim and quickly, before she could change her mind, she picked up the telephone and dialled. As she listened to it ringing, fresh waves of weakness assailed her and she almost slammed it down. Only her need and the knowledge of how miserable she would be kept the receiver in her hand.

‘Hello. The Brittain residence.' The voice clearly belonged to a Chinese house boy.

‘Would it be possible to speak to Mr Gerald Brittain, please?'

‘Oh, I am sorry.'

‘I can't?'

‘Mr Brittain is not here. Can I tell him who called, please?'

‘Oh …' Her thoughts chased in wildly incoherent circles. ‘Yes, tell him Elise. It's not important; I just wanted to speak to him.'

‘Can I perhaps ask him to call you back?'

‘Yes, if you like.'

‘Thank you. Good day.'

As she replaced the receiver her heart was pumping. You did it! You've asked him to ring you! But when? You forgot to find out when he was expected back. Idiot – idiot! Supposing he rings when Gordon is here? No, he wouldn't be that foolish; he knows the situation. Trust him.
Trust him
… Or perhaps he won't ring at all! Why should he? But he might. Oh, let him ring, please! Just so that I can hear his voice once more …

The longing was a pain inside her.

As the morning wore on, every nerve in her was alive and waiting. Su Ming and Alex returned and she greeted them, asking Alex about the Jade Market, arranging his lunch, and all with one half of her mind preoccupied, listening, ready to leap into action if the telephone rang. Once when it did, she jumped physically, answering it with breathless haste, but it was only someone wanting to speak to Gordon. The afternoon passed – nothing. Gordon came home a little earlier than usual, dinner was served and she ate fast, tasting nothing, tense and nervy. When he retired to his study her guilt consumed her again. Supposing she had left the directory open at the Bs? She knew she had not done so, yet it still nagged at her and she half expected him to come storming out, asking her who she had been phoning and why. But he did not, and if the telephone rang she did not hear it.

Bedtime. She shared a night-cap with Gordon and went upstairs praying that tonight he would make no demands on her. Twice since she had returned, he had made love to her. Twice she had lain as passive as before, unable to summon any response yet also unable to refuse. But tonight he went to his own bed and she thanked God. She could not have borne it.

A sleepless night, tossing and turning, wondering if Brit had received her message. Another day when she waited, with depression beginning to consume her.

He wasn't going to call her back. She should have known that he would not. He had said it would have to be over when her husband was on the scene and he wasn't going to do anything that might resurrect what had been between them.

And then, on the third day, the telephone rang.

She was in the garden and she jumped as she had jumped each time. But she was past hoping now, even though she hurried still to answer it.

‘Hello? Elise Sanderson.' Even without hope the breathless quality was there, creeping in.

And unbelievably that familiar dark brown voice said ‘Elise? It's me – Brit. I understand you've been trying to get hold of me?'

‘Brit.' The room was receding from her and then coming back; her pulses hammered.

‘I couldn't ring you before – I've been away. Is something wrong?'

‘No – I just wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you I'm sorry about that last day in Singapore. I didn't expect Gordon so soon. When I got back to the hotel he was there …' How stupid it sounded now, she thought.

‘I guessed that,' Brit said easily.

‘Well – as long as you know … I felt dreadful, springing him on you like that …'

‘It's quite all right.'

There was a silence and she thought: That's it. There's nothing more to say. I shall just have to say goodbye and hang up.

Then, into the silence, Brit said, ‘ What are you doing then?'

‘Oh, nothing much. Trying to readjust. But everything seems to have gone very smoothly in my absence. The house still runs like clockwork and Su Ming's taken over total responsibility for Alex.'

‘And Gordon?'

‘Still working as if nothing had happened.'

‘And right now, what are you doing?'

‘Oh, I was in the garden. Pottering.'

‘Alone?'

‘Yes. What about you? Where are you?'

‘I'm at home in Shek-o. As to what I'm doing – nothing much at the moment. Now ask me what I should like to do.'

‘All right. What would you like to do?'

‘I'd like to see you.'

Weakness flooding though her. ‘Oh Brit, would you? But I thought you said …'

‘Never mind what I said. I want to see you and I suspect you want to see me. So how about it?'

‘Oh, I don't know! Where? How? Suppose someone sees us?'

There was a small strained silence.

‘Be bold. Meet me in the lobby at the Peninsula!'

‘Don't be crazy! Everyone goes there.'

‘All right. Take the ferry over to Hong Kong Island and I'll pick you up and drive you back here.'

‘To your home?'

‘Why not?'

Elise was shaking. ‘Now I
know
you're crazy. All right, make it the lobby at the Peninsula. If anyone
does
see us, I suppose it looks too open to mean anything.'

‘That was what I was afraid of.' He sounded regretful. ‘Can you make it this afternoon? Say in half an hour?'

‘Half an hour? How can you get from Shek-o in half an hour?'

He laughed. ‘I lied to you; I'm already at the Peninsula. So hurry up, Mrs Sanderson. I'm getting impatient and I don't like being kept waiting.'

From Nathan Road on the Kowloon waterfront the Peninsula resembled a gigantic ‘E' with the middle prong missing. Above the colonnaded ground floor six upper storeys, with every detail of the windows and balconies in perfect symmetry, rose to the flat roof with its sculpted scrolls and the three flagpoles, one on each wing. On the first floor a terrace ran around the inside edge of the ‘E', with casement windows opening into the Long Gallery where guests could sit to enjoy afternoon tea or an evening pipe looking out across the harbour to Victoria Peak; and a Rolls-Royce length away from the steps that led up to the main door, a fountain played as the centrepiece of a neatly laid-out garden with lawn, flowers and potted shrubs.

The Peninsula was the centre of social activity in Hong Kong and it showed. At all hours of the day the chauffeur-driven cars swept around that paved drive and a fleet of bell-boys in their smart white uniforms ran down the steps to attend to the luggage of the rich and famous as they alighted and were bowed into the hotel by more bell-boys who manned the glass-panelled doors.

As she walked along the pavement past the bottom prong of the ‘E', Elise's breath came in shallow gasps and she hesitated for a moment in an effort to control it. At this time of day she knew the lobby would be crowded with guests taking tea, and by common consent there were virtually two separate sections of it – the left-hand side of the vast hall was used by single people not averse to dalliance, the right-hand side by married couples and platonic friends. Brit had given her no indication as to which side he would be waiting for her, and as she walked around the central garden and up the steps nervousness and the overwhelming longing to see him again mixed and merged.

Through the doors she went. As she had expected, the lobby was crowded. It was a beautiful room, with an elaborate ceiling decorated with sculpted angels and supported by impressive Cinquecento columns, lit by chandeliers and cooled by overhead fans. Normally she paused to drink it in, but not today! Today she could think only of Brit. The clocks on the central column showed 3. 30 and she knew the half-hour was more than up. But she could not see him amongst the tea-sipping patrons. She swivelled, wondering if perhaps he would not come after all – and there he was, a few yards away, making his way between the tables.

Against his cool white ducks his face looked more tanned than ever. In the midst of all the emotion she felt for him, she had almost forgotten how good-looking he was. Not handsome – not even she would call him handsome, but definitely very attractive in a totally masculine way.

‘You came then.' There was a hint of the old mockery in his eyes. ‘I thought you might have changed your mind.'

She shook her head, her heart pounding so loudly that she could not speak.

‘Would you like tea?'

She looked around, horrified. ‘
Here
?'

Again his eyes mocked. ‘So you haven't decided to throw caution completely to the winds.'

‘I haven't thought about it, but there's no point in courting trouble,' she said tartly.

He laughed aloud. ‘You haven't lost your sharp tongue since you got home then, I see. Oh, don't apologise! I rather like it.'

‘I had no intention of apologising.' Why had they started like this, needling one another again, she wondered, when all she wanted was to have his arms around her. ‘Why on earth
should
I apologise?'