Oriental Hotel

by Janet Tanner

  ‘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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.

  At the E & O it was the cocktail hour – the ‘blue hour’ as the Americans called it – and laughter, chatter and the chink of glasses could be heard from the cocktail lounge.

  Elise hurried by. Brit was not one for cocktails – whisky and ice under the palm trees by the swimming pool was much more his style – but it was possible he was there and she did not want to meet him unprepared.

  In her room she was amazed to see the first of the gowns made by the hotel dressmaker completed and hanging there for her approval – a cheong-sam in glowing scarlet brocade, cut on simple traditional Chinese lines with a high-buttoned mandarin collar. When she had bathed she tried it on.

  This morning’s fitting had been well worth-while and the dress hugged her figure perfectly from shoulder to hip, then fell in a shining sheet to her ankles. From the front view the impression created was demure, a cover-up for everything but her slender, sun-browned arms, but when she turned sideways, demure became provocative, with a split seam reaching almost to her thigh.

  Elise smiled ruefully. The dress seemed to sum up all the things she was discovering about herself. At first sight, she seemed the very epitome of a perfect wife and mother. But seen from another angle, who knew what would be revealed? Yes, beautiful as it was, the cheong-sam would be quite the wrong dress to wear this evening. It was a dress for a temptress, and the last thing she wanted to do was to give Brit the impression that she might be available after all.

  She had made it quite clear that it would be better if they were not seen together again, of course, and after the later episode surely he would not try to force himself on her? But with a man like him, one never knew. He was quite capable of ignoring any of the accepted proprieties. Whereas another man would respect her wishes and pretend she was not there, Brit was quite likely to come directly up to her and say whatever came into his head, whether or not it meant making an exhibition of them both.

  Perhaps, she thought, the wisest thing would be to have dinner sent up here to her room. She picked up the house telephone and ordered her meal, then regretfully took off the cheong-sam and slipped into a silk kimono.

  How long she could continue to avoid Brit in this way, she did not know. But for the present she simply felt she could not bring herself to face him.

  Dinner arrived – chilled soup followed by King prawns, and then coffee as Elise had not wanted any dessert. A boy poured it for her and set it at her elbow, she thanked him and he left the room soundlessly. Then, a few minutes later, there was another knock at the door. She glanced up in surprise.

  ‘Come in!’ she called. There was no response.

  ‘Come in!’

  Still no reply, but another knock. Puzzled she got up, crossed to the door and opened it. Then she froze, the colour rushing to her cheeks and draining away again.

  All day she had been avoiding him, but now she could avoid him no longer.

  ‘Oh, it’s you!’ Embarrassment made her voice hard and at the same time she was so acutely aware of him that she began to tremble. ‘ I hope you’re not drunk this time!’

  ‘No – but I’ve still got a bloody hangover.’

  ‘That serves you right.’

  He smiled ruefully. ‘ I suppose I asked for that! I’ve been trying to see you all day to apologise, but you seem to have been keeping out of my way.’

  Unable to deny it, she did not answer. Then a dread of other guests seeing him here and overhearing their conversation suddenly took precedence over any other considerations, and she opened the door wider.

  ‘Do you want to come in? Here is hardly the place …’

  He followed her into the room, then stood with hands in pockets, watching her with a look she found disconcerting.

  ‘Sit down … have some coffee …’

  He shook his head, his eyes still on her. ‘ I thought you might slam the door in my face.’

  Like her turbulent emotions, this conversation was not quite under control, she decided.

  ‘I still might do so. Why did you come?’

  ‘I told you to apologise for my drunken behaviour last night …’

  She bent to pour more coffee for herself – anything to escape those wicked hazel eyes which even now were saying things he had not put into words.

  ‘… and also to tell you that I have made arrangements for us to travel to Singapore.’

  ‘Oh!’ Even that made her flush. Here she was thinking he might have come to her room with a repeat performance in mind, when actually the visit was pure business.

  ‘I thought you would be pleased.’

  ‘Of course I am! I’m just surprised. When do we sail?’

  He took out his cigarette case and offered it to her. Rarely though she smoked, she found herself accepting, though she coughed on the smoke as the lighter flared.

  ‘The day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a flatness inside her suddenly, as if all the nervous tension had escaped at once. She was aware of him watching her through the smoke and wished she was better at hiding her feelings.

  ‘Yes. So we could be back in Hong Kong in not much more than a week if there is a good connection.’

  ‘My husband said he might meet me in Singapore.’

  The hazel eyes narrowed as he drew smoke, half turning away.

  ‘Good! The sooner you are safely back with him, the better it will be for you.’

  Something raw tore at her suddenly, finding a chink in all the confusion and embarrassment – deep gratitude to him for getting her through where all the officials had insisted it was impossible, combined with a sense of utter, inexplicable desolation. ‘Brit

  He had turned away towards the door and impulsively she caught at his arm. ‘Brit – I owe you so much. Thank you!’

  She felt rather than saw his flicker of surprise. Then he put his arm around her shoulder, squeezing gently and smiling down at her.

  ‘That’s all right.’

  His mouth was twisted into that familiar hum
orous curve and there were deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The strength seemed to drain out of her suddenly and her head, heavy on her neck, rested against his shoulder.

  The contact made her reckless for a moment – his shoulder felt so good beneath her cheek, hard and safe – and without thinking she raised her arm to curl it around his back. Beneath her fingers the sinews were taut and the thrill of awareness that ran through her was warning enough. Like a trapped bird she tried to move away, but before she could translate thought to action his free hand came up to hold her head against his chest. His thumb was across her mouth, his fingers straddled her face with a touch that was at once protective and aggressive. Breath caught in her throat and she stood motionless while flickers of warmth darted within her. Then slowly he turned her to face, him so that their bodies met.

  At the contact the spirals of warmth grew sharper and more insistent. She was becoming aware of him now with every one of her senses. The faint musk smell of the soap he had used clung to his skin at the open neck of his shirt; the taste of his tobacco was on her tongue. She could feel him, too, with the length of her body – the lean maleness of his hips, the sinewy strength of his legs.

  Little by little the warmth spread through her until she seemed to be on fire with it, but it was a living fire which left her sensitised and sharply aware. His hands moved in gentle, caressing circles over her back and wherever they touched the nerve endings seemed to move in response.

  When he drew away slightly her clinging arms moved to hold him back. But he only took the cigarette from her fingers, reaching over to stub it out in the crystal ashtray; as he turned back, she raised her face to his.

  His mouth was tentative at first, a gentle pressure as if he half expected her to hit out at him again. But when her lips softened and parted his hand moved to the back of her neck, holding her head firm while he pressed down hard on to her mouth – exploring, relaxing and then exploring again.

  Beneath that kiss her world shrank until it was all encompassed in their two bodies. Guilt and fear melted away as sensation after sensation flowed through her like the molten lava of an erupting volcano. Gordon, Alex and Hong Kong not only ceased to matter – they ceased to exist. She was aware of nothing but the two of them and the power of the magic they made together.