Oriental Hotel (60 page)

‘You don't know what a treat this is for me,' Elise said as she stretched inconspicuously. ‘ Now, I dare say you have a few formalities to attend to and you must not let us interfere with that.'

‘Not at all.' Stuart Brittain smiled easily. ‘That
is
something which company pilots can do very well! What's more, I have asked him to let the Peninsula Hotel know we have arrived, so that they can send a car for you.'

Elise smoothed down the silk dress in shades of delicate mauve and blue that travelled so well.

‘Marvellous as the flight was, I must say I'm looking forward to a bath after the journey.'

‘And after you've freshened and rested, I hope you will come out to Shek-o,' Stuart suggested.

She nodded. ‘Yes. There are quite a few things I want to do while I'm here, of course – places to revisit and things to see. But I assure you, coming to Shek-o is at the top of my list.'

‘Good.' He smiled and Elise had the grace to feel slightly guilty. What would he say, she wondered, if he knew why she was so anxious to visit Shek-o? But no matter. If she could arrange a private interview with his grandfather, there would be no need for him ever to know.

‘If it would be any help to you, I can have a company car placed at your disposal,' he said. On a sudden impulse she reached out and touched his hand as it rested on the back of the couch. It felt hard and sinuous beneath her fingers, reminiscent of another hand which she had held in what now seemed another life.

‘I don't know why you have gone to so much trouble,' she said warmly. ‘But I really am very glad, you know.'

Eyes, slightly darker than hazel but with the same wicked gleam, met hers in what was almost a wink.

‘I don't think you realise – you are a boyhood dream come to life!' he told her.

Kowloon was a hotch-potch of teeming streets – taxis and minibuses bearing the names of the luxury hotels; bicycles, motor cycles and omnibuses, modern office apartments and slums and a Chinese laundry where the washing was spread out along the roadside. As they passed the streets where the chickens hung, coated with cooking syrup, outside the shops, the odour of the East grew even stronger, wafting in to mix with the subdued leather smell of the interior of the Rolls Royce. Then as they drew level with the waterfront, the strong whiff of fish became predominant.

Nathan Road was wide, clean and bustling, the harbour sparkling blue; on the other side of the water, on Hong Kong Island, a flurry of skyscrapers rose, dwarfed by the majestic height of Victoria Peak yet giants in their own right.

Elise thought briefly of the last time she had seen it. There had been no skyscrapers then – only the solid blocks which were the legacy of an empire long since dispersed – and everything had been obscured by that terrible fog of thick, black smoke. She shuddered now at the memory. How had she lived through it all? She could not imagine, she only knew she would not like to face it again. Yet even now that she was here, it seemed so long ago.

A domed building on the opposite side of the road from the Peninsula drew her attention – a planetarium. Then the Rolls was sweeping round the flower beds and the fountain to the main entrance of the famous hotel.

Bellboys ran down the steps the moment the Rolls came to a halt; one held open the doors, another began unpacking cases and stacking them with an expertise born of long practice. In the lobby Elise paused for a moment, remembering the Peninsula not as it had been the last time she had seen it – disrupted by the chaotic tumble of refugees and stripped for action – but as she had known it in the days when she and Brit had met here. Naturally there were changes – the overhead fans and ornate chandeliers had gone, replaced long since by air conditioning and concealed lighting; and the furniture, though similar in shape to the old squarely welcoming design, was strictly modern. But the atmosphere was the same, the air of elegance and sophistication, so that the changes were not immediately noticeable.

She waited while Katy attended to the formalities of booking in, then they crossed to one of the row of mirrored and adorned caskets that could not, she thought, be demeaned by the name ‘lift'. It rose smoothly, so that one was not aware of movement, taking them to the fourth floor where she had been fortunate enough to be able to book the sumptuous Moon Pearl Suite. Then, when they were alone, she sank into one of the soft chairs, kicking off her shoes and sighing gratefully.

‘Katy, I have come all this way to look at the past, yet just at the moment I have no plans beyond a bath, a cup of tea and the most delicious rest.'

Katy laughed, taking in the pearly greys and moonlight blues that had been used in the Moon Pearl Suite to interpret the old Chinese legend which had inspired it – admiring, yet in no way in awe. It was a disadvantage in a way, Elise thought, to be born into a world that took such things for granted.

‘You're quite right. Granny,' Katy said now. ‘ I agree with you about the bath and the tea, and I'm sure a rest will do you the world of good. But while you are resting. I should like to go out and have a look round. Will that be all right?'

‘I'm sure it will,' Elise had never felt anything but safe on the streets of Hong Kong. ‘And you need hardly leave the hotel in order to look at the most super shops – there are arcades of them right here. But if you want to go out, go ahead. I shall be here where you get back, I promise.'

Later, as the door closed after Katy, she leaned back and closed her eyes, content for the moment simply to be once again in Hong Kong.

‘Well, and how was the trip? Sorted Roydell out, have you?'

The tall, well-made man was pouring generous measures of Glenfiddich whisky into crystal tumblers as he spoke.

To Stuart Brittain, the broad, linen-jacketed back was as unchanging as ever. Throughout his life he could never remember seeing his grandfather in shirt-sleeves, no matter how steamy the weather. The thick, dark hair had turned to iron grey, though not thinned, the lines in the leathery face had deepened and the trim waist had thickened to a slight paunch. But Charles Brittain,
tai-pan
of Cormorant, wore what had become virtually his uniform throughout – linen suits and hand-made cream silk shirts by day, tuxedos by night. Never once had Stuart seen him dressed for relaxation – Charles Brittain did
not
relax! He worked a sixteen-hour day, seven days a week and he had always thrived on it. One day, the inevitable would happen and he would hand over as
tai-pan
, but to do so would probably kill him. Work was his life-blood, and to him this penthouse apartment which crowned the Cormorant building on the Hong Kong Island waterfront was home in a way that his mansion at Shek-o never could be.

Waiting for his drink, Stuart glanced quickly around. It was very much his grandfather's domain, this apartment. The familiar aroma of his cigars had impregnated the heavy cream curtains and the deep carpet, the silver-framed photograph on the desk was of his wife who had died ten years before Stuart was born. But there was much here that was older, part of the tradition of Cormorant – the Chinese lacquer and the jade carvings, the antique ship's clock and the oil paintings of the East India clippers in which the founders of the company had sailed. Even the decanter was of the flat-bottomed type and had come from one of the early Cormorant ships. History merged with everything that was vital and modern about Hong Kong here, and Stuart found it a little daunting – though no less stimulating – to realise that one day all this would be his responsibility. Groomed from his earliest youth as ‘ Crown Prince' of Cormorant, he had not become blase about the prospect; but neither was he over-awed, as many were, by his grandfather. For an inner confidence told him that when the time came he would be as good a
tai-pan
as Charles. Less single-minded, perhaps, but that would be his strength. To the house of Cormorant he would bring his own fresh approach, his own enthusiasm and judgement which would work for another forty years or so at least.

Charles turned, handing him the whisky tumbler. ‘ Well, how were Roydell?' he asked again.

Stuart tipped his glass slightly in acknowledgement to his grandfather and drank.

‘Eager.'

‘Good.' Charles tipped his own glass. ‘You ironed out a contract which is beneficial to us, then?'

‘No, I didn't actually.'

Iron-grey brows knitted together. ‘Why not?'

Stuart crossed to the window. From its vantage point more than twenty storeys up, it gave a panoramic view of Hong Kong: ant people and toy cars in the street below, toy boats glinting against the blue water of the harbour as the sun caught them, skyscrapers rising in a slight haze on the Kowloon side and blending into the hills of the Chinese mainland.

‘I don't know.'

‘What do you mean, you don't know?'

‘Instinct, I suppose,
tai-pan
.' He had almost called his grandfather ‘Sir'. Strange how the childhood form of address returned to slip off his tongue when his grandfather questioned him in this overbearing way. But ever since adulthood he, like everyone else, had addressed Charles as ‘
tai-pan
. ‘Roydell want the order, that's plain. The chap who met me – a Grantly Hedges – was falling over himself. And the terms are good. But I'm not confident they can deliver.'

Charles brought his whisky tumbler down hard on the desk.

‘Dammit, Stuart, we need those parts.'

‘We'll get them; I shall see to it. But in my own way.' ‘ I hope so. I don't understand why there should be any doubt. Roydell have never let us down in the past and they are known throughout the world.'

‘I know that, and I have promised them that when I have had time to check the contract details, provided everything is in order I will sign. This is my department,
tai-pan
. Let me do things in my own way.'

The iron-grey brows furrowed again and the deep, leathery lines around the mouth deepened. I'm still
tai-pan
here and don't you forget it, that look seemed to say, but Stuart ignored it, looking out instead at the panorama laid out beneath the penthouse windows.

‘How has Hong Kong been in my absence?'

‘How would I know?' Charles asked crustily. ‘I never see Hong Kong.'

‘The business?'

‘Which part of it?'

‘Any part. Is anything new?'

‘Everything and nothing. We'll talk over lunch. In the meantime you ought to see Helen; she has been deputising for you in your absence.' He bent over the desk to reach for an intercom button and depressed it: ‘Helen, can you come in?' He glanced up at Stuart, his eyes sharp hazel beneath the heavy brows. ‘She's a great asset, is Helen. But I don't have to tell you that, do I?'

Stuart said nothing. The
tai-pan
clearly knew he had been dating Helen and just as clearly he approved. Helen Shaw was, as he said, an asset. And whatever faults Charles Brittain might be guilty of, snobbery was not one of them. With him, the fact that Helen might not be of their social standing would not go against her. If Stuart wished to marry her and she fitted Charles's very strict criteria in other ways, then he would have his grandfather's blessing.

There was a brief knock on the door and it opened without waiting for Charles's summons – further proof, if any were needed, of Helen's closeness to the
tai-pan
.

‘You wanted me,
tai-pan
…' She broke off as she saw Stuart, her perfectly painted lips curving into a surprised smile. ‘Stuart, I didn't know you were back!'

‘Your office door was firmly closed when I came by.' Stuart swirled the remains of his whisky over the ice, looking at her and wishing she inspired more in him than admiration and a sense of near-guilt that his feelings were no stronger. She was so attractive – beautiful, almost, with her dark hair cut sharply geometric, her eyes wide and dark behind a fringe of lashes and her mouth, full and red, perfectly shaped and perfectly made-up. A vivid flame blouse set off net dark hair, her cream pleated skin was fresh and elegant; her shoes, though cool and open-weave, had heels which were sufficiently high and slender to enhance her long legs and give her that little extra height and poise.

Helen was perfect – perfect voice, perfect appearance, perfect manner, bright, charming, as good at making love as she was at everything else, and yet …

Dammit, if her door was closed when I came by I ought to have wanted to kick it in after spending half a week away, but I didn't! Stuart thought bad-temperedly.

‘Drink, Helen?' Charles's hand hovered near the lacquered cabinet.

She shook her head. Her hair moved with it and then fell back into place, evidence of the most expensive cutting.

‘Good heavens, no!'

One corner of his mouth quirked. ‘All right, all right, there's no need to sound so disapproving! This girl likes to think she can run me, you know,' he added to Stuart.

‘No such thing. It's simply that I shall fall asleep if I drink in the middle of the day.' Helen rejoined.

‘I find that impossible to imagine,' Charles said, and silently Stuart agreed with him. When Helen slept, it would be on an unruffled pillow, wearing no doubt a Janet Reger nightdress. A drunken stupor in her office, even in private, was certainly not her style.

‘I've asked you to come in so that you can put Stuart in the picture about what you have done for him in his absence.' Charles extracted a cigar and unwrapped it lazily, somehow managing to leave little doubt that personal conversation had now been exchanged for business.

Helen's eyes flicked up. ‘If Stuart would like to come along to my office there would be no need for us to disturb you any longer,
tai-pan
.'

‘No, please carry on here.' It was a command and Stuart understood it. His grandfather's great strength lay in the total grip he retained on the company. There was not an aspect he did not understand – and control. Every item of information, every detail he assimilated, stored and often used.