If I do not go in I shall once again prove myself the coward I was before. If I do not go in I shall regret it forever.
In a way she could not understand, her will was disconnected from her body as now she walked down the street between the grey and silent buildings, crossed to the entrance and went up the steps to the glass door.
The door creaked as she pushed it open. She went in. And stopped, staring at the paintings hanging around the room.
They were a universe of colour, a battle cry and celebration of golds and greens and reds. A dozen shades of red. The artist had shaped ecstasy and flung it in the face of the observer. A powerful statement by a man she had known yet, it was now obvious, had never known at all.
The colours overwhelmed in their intensity, filling the exhibition room with light. They were too much, too much. Jennifer closed her eyes yet the vibrations remained. She could sense their brilliance; terror could lurk in those violent hues.
‘You are supposed to look at them.’
She heard the smile; knew the voice.
‘I am drowning, Martin.’
This before she had opened her eyes. Drowning, and not only in the colours. Again her heart was thundering. Again her limbs seemed disconnected from her will. Her eyes were pleading as she opened them and looked up at him. Helpless, after so long.
He had always been big but was more solid now, with a little grey in his hair and crow’s feet about his eyes, but he was still Martin. Still the man she knew now she had never ceased to love.
‘You look like you could do with a cup of coffee,’ he said.
The café was just round the corner from the exhibition hall. It was odd; she had thought it would be awkward, sitting with each other after such a long time, but it was not. Chatting was as easy as though they had never parted. Nothing weighty, at least to begin with. What they’d done; what they had not done. No sense at all of skirting around the edges of pain. No pain at all; rather a sense of rediscovery.
No, he had never married. Not exactly celibate but nothing serious. Nothing permanent.
She, still married. Davis was doing well, oh yes. No, they had no children. A nice house in Brighton; a cottage in the Whitsundays.
She did not tell him that her life was consumed by endless failure and futility.
Until Martin, his artist’s eyes prising out the secrets she had hidden even from herself, said: ‘You are not happy.’
It was not a question.
She stared back at him, trying to muster a show of defiance to conceal her shame. ‘You have no right to say that.’
‘I have every right,’ he said. He leant across the table to wipe the tears from her cheeks but there were many tears and he could not.
‘I betrayed you,’ she said.
‘We betrayed each other.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should have stopped you.’
The hint of a smile like sunlight through cloud. ‘How could you do that?’
‘I should have forced you. Dragged you by the hair, if I had to.’
‘Dear Martin…’ Impulsively she leant forwards and covered his hands with her own. ‘That might have been a bit painful.’
‘No more painful than it was anyway.’
Which was true.
‘But what’s the point of talking about it?’ she said. ‘It’s too late. And I have a husband.’
Whom it would not do to underestimate.
‘Of course it’s too late to talk.’
Jennifer was taken aback; she had not expected him to agree so readily. But Martin had not finished.
‘Too late to talk. Now we have to act.’
‘Act?’ She stared.
‘You don’t think I’ll let you get away again?’
Jennifer unable to speak, knowing he was right.
‘I have a boat,’ Martin said. ‘You know anything about boats?’
Jennifer was stunned by the suddenness of it all, as though all decisions had been taken away from her.
‘Boats? No. I have never –’
‘Then now is the time to learn.’
2
Jennifer Lander lay on the cushioned berth in the cabin of the little sailing boat, listening to the sound of the water against the hull, feeling the movement as the tightly drawn sails propelled them over the waters of Port Phillip Bay, and watching the reflections of sunlight flowing across the white-painted deck over her head. She was thirty-six no longer. She was plump and middle-aged no longer. She was twenty-two and reed-slim and knew with absolute certainty that none of this could be happening to her.
I am not that type of woman, she told herself. I am not. Yet mingled with incredulity was the warmth and joy of knowing that what had happened had indeed happened and that when the opportunity came she would do it again, do it gladly. At that moment she cared about nothing else, neither Davis nor what her friends – friends? – might say. Nothing else mattered but this, this, this.
I am willing to be his slave, she thought. Oh I love him. I did before, all those years ago, yet somehow never realised until now what I had been missing in my life. She thought of herself when she had really been twenty-two years old. I was such a fool.
3
She saw him at a party. She turned to Katie Barnes, the girlfriend with whom she was staying.
‘Who is that?’
‘Which one?’
‘The tall man in the corner. The one with the beard and the blonde girl in tow.’
Katie looked. She laughed. ‘You’ve certainly got an eye for an alpha male. That is Martin Gulliver.’
She spoke as though the world knew his name but Jennifer had never heard of him. ‘Who is Martin Gulliver?’
‘He’s an artist. He is also the original devil on horseback.’ She laughed. ‘That’s why all the girls want to eat him up.’
‘And do they?’
‘Some do, some don’t.’
‘Did you?’
Katie laughed. ‘That would be telling.’ She took Jennifer’s hand. ‘Come and meet him.’
Panic stirred. ‘No. Leave it.’
‘Up to you.’
‘Leave it.’
That was the start of it. Two days later he turned up on Katie’s doorstep. Up close Martin Gulliver was as tall as a tower, with broad shoulders and an exuberant air that took Jennifer’s breath away. Before they had exchanged a word she already knew she had never met anyone like him.
He asked her out and she couldn’t wait. She was stifled with shyness, wondering why on earth a man like this should seek her out, thankful only that he had.
‘Painting is my life,’ he said and that was fine.
He took her first to an art gallery and then back to his room, where he had paintings all over the place, framed and unframed, on the walls and on the floor. The room looked as though it had not seen a broom or duster in years, and that was fine too.
So this was how bohemians lived, she thought, and supposed you could get used even to that, if you had to. He undid her dress and kissed her breasts which no one had ever done and the unexpected sensation swept her like a tidal wave. She let him go no further and thought she’d blown it but she hadn’t and they became an item, improbable but accepted by his friends. She knew they assumed they must be sleeping together. It would have embarrassed her once but she found she didn’t care what anyone thought, knowing herself, startlingly, to be in love.
4
He took her to more art galleries and exhibitions, showed her paintings by El Greco (weird), Turner (disturbing) and Nicholson (incomprehensible); through him she met other artists and would-be artists, writers and would-be writers.
Yet, Martin apart, it was an environment where she knew she would never be at home. Her longing for respectability was undiminished and respectability was sadly lacking in Martin’s life. Her feelings for him remained strong, at least for the time being, but she told herself there could be no long-term future in what for
her was an alien world.
Martin told her he was planning a painting trip into the Outback.
‘Come with me.’
She gasped, a pulse leaping savagely down there when he said it and when he told her about the countryside, harsh, unforgiving and beautiful, the red and green palette of the earth, the mulga scrub, the polished gibber plains flowing like a grey tide, the distant promise of Lake Eyre white as salt beneath an unforgiving sun. The way he spoke made her ache to see it but scared her too. She was frightened of going with him into that landscape, of committing herself to the flame of a relationship that she was uncertain she could handle, this man who might plumb her soul. She wanted safety and knew that with Martin Gulliver, an unknown artist with not a penny to his name, there was no safety to be had.
5
Today she had gone out with him in his sloop and sailed to the far side of Port Phillip Bay, where they had anchored and gone ashore and eaten lunch at a hotel with old-fashioned furnishings, thoroughly delightful, and afterwards had returned on a dying breeze. When they were well offshore but still clear of the main shipping lane they had hove to and made love again. Already she had lost count of the number of times it had happened. Now they were under way again, the breeze had picked up and soon she would be going back to the house and a life that was no longer real to her.
What was to become of her she did not know, nor did she think about it. For the moment the present was everything. She was someone whose life had been a desert but had now become miraculously rich and green and that was enough.
Careless of observers, open to love and life as never before, she went up naked into the cockpit and sat at Martin’s side. He smiled at her but made no comment. The sun was strong and she felt it biting into her white shoulders. She looked at his arm, brown and muscled, at the fingers holding the tiller, and there was a quiver deep inside her.
Insatiable, she thought with pleasure. That’s me. She quaked with hidden laughter. The sunlight, falling upon her naked body, was full of joy.
She thought of Mother – she had never felt comfortable calling her Hilary – and of Sara who had phoned the previous night to say she was leaving for Hong Kong. ‘I wanted to know if there was anything you’d like me to buy for you while I’m over there.’
She hadn’t been able to think of a thing but was interested by Sara’s news. ‘How exciting. A holiday or is Channel 12 sending you?’
‘Mother is sending me over there with Martha Tan. It’ll be a long way from being a holiday, I fear.’
They had never really got on – she had always thought Sara hard – but felt more kindly towards her at the moment. ‘I hope you have a good time and don’t work too much.’
Sara had laughed and that had been the end of it. Now, in the middle of Port Phillip Bay, Jennifer wondered what Mother and Sara would make of her new relationship, if they ever found out about it. Mother would be pleased; she had never had any time for Davis. She hoped Sara might approve as well; she had discovered they had more in common than she had suspected. Like herself and everyone else, she thought, Sara was looking for fulfilment.
‘The only difference is,’ she said aloud, ‘is that now I have found it.’
Although God alone knew how it would work out.
Martin glanced at her but said nothing and she did not explain. Warmed by sunlight and by love, Jennifer smiled.
RAIDING PARTY
1
On its approach to Chek Lap Kok international airport the Airbus flew over the crowded streets of what Martha, pointing over her shoulder, told Sara was Kowloon, the scarcely less crowded ones of the island with the harbour between them shining like a golden shield in the afternoon sunlight.
Sara stared down at the forest of concrete and steel that was the high-rise buildings of Hong Kong and turned to her companion. ‘You were telling me Brand Corporation has been involved in some of the construction work in Hong Kong?’
‘As member of various local consortiums, yes. It would have been considered inappropriate to give a western company a contract to build a complete building.’
‘Too colonial?’
‘As you say. The local businessmen would have been unhappy too which could have made difficulties for the government. The logistics might have caused problems as well. We would have had to open our own office here, with staff to supervise, and that would have been very expensive.’
The steward came. ‘Make ready for landing, ladies. If you please.’
They raised the backs of their seats, checked their seat belts were fastened and sat waiting as the engine sound died to a whisper. They barely felt the bump of the wheels hitting the tarmac.
The airport buildings were huge and impressive and Sara, first time in Hong Kong, said so.
‘We had a hand in building the terminal also,’ Martha said.
‘How come?’
‘Hilary is a friend of the architect.’
‘He did her a favour?’
‘Not at all. He was impressed with our work on two high-rise buildings in Happy Valley so suggested we should put in a tender. And we won,’ Martha said. ‘Also the 2ifc, which is Hong Kong’s tallest building. Again contact with the architect helped.’
Typical Hilary, Sara thought. Always going for height.
‘Again we were members of a consortium. We couldn’t do it all ourselves but our work was the best. Everybody said so. We made nothing on the deal but it opened the door to other opportunities.’
‘I trust profitable opportunities?’
‘Very profitable,’ Martha said contentedly.
They cleared immigration and customs. Martha led the way across the arrivals hall, pushing her way through the mob. ‘Hong Kong is a very crowded place. Worse than Singapore.’ They reached the automatic doors. The shadows were long and a sneak wind was blowing dust down the street. ‘The train, the MTR, is fast and clean,’ Martha said. ‘But I have arranged a limo.’
‘More convenient?’
‘Certainly, and more comfortable. But I did it to create a good impression. Image is very important,’ Martha said.
‘Who are we trying to impress?’
‘Everybody,’ Martha said.
2
Wary of the driver’s ears, neither of them mentioned business until they were in Sara’s hotel room, with its spectacular views of Victoria Harbour.
‘Remind me how we found out about the Lennoxes,’ Sara asked.
‘Andrea Chan tipped us off. All being well we shall be meeting her tomorrow.’
‘Who is Andrea Chan?’
‘The senior assistant at Lennox Brothers. At first she was troubled about betraying her employer but when she found that funds intended for China were being diverted elsewhere she felt it her duty to warn us. It wasn’t an easy decision for her.’
‘The whole thing was hardly ethical,’ Sara said. ‘Paying these guys to bribe Chinese officials.’
Martha shrugged. ‘That’s business. Quite simply, we have no choice.’
‘And now?’
‘Now we are here to find out where the money has gone.’
‘So what do we do about it?’
‘First we meet with Andrea Chan. We need to discuss the situation with her. Then we can decide what to do.’
‘When are we meeting her?’
‘I hope tomorrow.’
‘You hope? Is nothing arranged?’
‘Her time isn’t her own. She works for them, remember. There is a Chinese saying: a suspicious man is a dangerous man. When I spoke to her on the telephone two days ago she sounded frightened. It is most important we fit in with her timetable or it could mean bad trouble for her.’
‘She might lose her job?’
‘Her job is nothing. What I am thinking about is her life.’
Sara was taken aback. ‘You’re saying they might harm her?’
‘Of course. We are talking millions of dollars. In this city people have been murdered for much less.’
That was ce
rtainly something to chew on. ‘So we are in her hands.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘What do we do in the meantime?’
‘We wait. She has my mobile phone number. Today, maybe tomorrow, she will phone. In the meantime I’ll take you shopping. Hong Kong is great for that. And we’ll be meeting important people later in the week. Very influential men, so we need to be properly dressed. That way we honour them and ourselves at the same time.’
‘What sort of thing should we wear?’
‘I’ll help you with that,’ Martha Tan said.
3
They went to the Pedder Building, to the world-famous establishment called Shanghai Tang.
It was spread over two floors and Aladdin’s cave wasn’t in it – if you supposed Aladdin to have been Chinese – with brocade-covered walls, red lacquer cabinets and a long table that Martha said was made from huanghuali, the wood of the flowering pear.
‘Very rare,’ Martha said. ‘Very pricey.’
Across the table were draped deceptively casual displays of silks, linens and cashmere, all in the vibrant colours Martha said were the hallmark of Shanghai Tang.
Sara looked doubtfully at a tangerine-coloured cheongsam on a stand. ‘I am not sure Chinese clothes go on a westerner.’
‘I certainly wouldn’t recommend a cheongsam,’ Martha said. ‘But you are slim and will be suited by other clothes from this designer, elegant clothes that you will be able to carry very well.’
By the time they left they had ordered two dresses each, silk lined, for evening wear. All were in vibrant shades of rose-red and blue and patterned with chrysanthemums, two with short sleeves and two sleeveless. All had high collars.
‘Very good choices,’ Martha said. ‘These dresses are made in the style they call qipao. And the chrysanthemum is traditionally a good luck flower also.’
Sara also ordered two pairs of pants, two blouses and three dresses for daytime use. Martha bought a light summer coat, green cotton and embroidered with silk peonies. Everything would be delivered to the hotel by the following evening.
The store manager herself came to bid them a ceremonial goodbye, smiling and bowing at the door.
‘So she should, the money we’ve spent,’ Sara said. ‘If we’d stayed much longer we’d have bankrupted the company.’
A Woman of Courage Page 20
