by Denise Emery
Susanna Baker-Leigh was silver-blonde, and her straight, shining hair hung to her shoulders. She had the colouring to match it, too; the delicately pale skin, and smoky grey eyes.
She wore black silk that night, a floor-length gown which left one lovely, tanned shoulder exposed: a dress of such clean, simple lines that it could only have cost the earth.
The woman could hardly have doubted her own attractiveness, and yet the brittle smile of greeting she bestowed on Margaret seemed to sour the beauty which the high, fine bones of her face and her flawless make-up should have guaranteed.
'Really?' Susanna sounded slightly bored. Her accent had no doubt been acquired at some exclusive boarding school, the sort of school that always seems to go with English country houses and real ponies to ride in the holidays. 'Did you really ruin his jacket? How?'
'Oh, I—'
'She spilled, wine all down my sleeve,' Peter supplied happily, winking at Margaret; winking, she was certain, to let her know he was enjoying her squirming humiliation.
Susanna sighed. 'How tiresome,' she said languidly. 'But really, darling, the others are waiting for us.' With that, she pulled lightly at Peter's arm and bore him off like a tugboat, aiming a triumphant smirk over her bare shoulder at Margaret as they went.
For a moment Margaret simply stood where she was, staring after the pair of them, not at all sure how she felt about her encounter with Peter Benhurst and his possessive girlfriend. Susanna was his girlfriend, surely. Wasn't she?
Well yes, of course she was. She must be. And if she wasn't, going by all the evidence she was very much determined to stake her claim to him. Oh, but so what? They probably deserved each other, Susanna with her icy little smiles and Peter with his gleeful, teasing account of the way Margaret had 'ruined' his jacket. Oh well, in fairness, it wasn't as though he'd been really unkind, but still…
The half-formed thought that he'd actually been flirting with her did occur to Margaret. It was the remark he'd made about 'if a wine stain is the worst you ever do to me' when she'd apologized. And that had been before Susanna Baker-Leigh came floating up to them…
Oh, no. No way was Peter Benhurst going to be allowed to flit around in Margaret's head for another moment. This was a party, she reminded herself sternly. She had come to enjoy herself.
The band took its place again, and Margaret spotted Linda on the dance floor, performing the energetic steps of one of Margaret's favourite golden-oldies. She caught Linda's eye, smiled and waved, and immediately felt better. She found herself another glass of wine, and when a tall young man named Phil, or maybe it was Bill, asked her to dance with him, Margaret accepted.
By the time the party was over, Margaret had nearly forgotten about Peter Benhurst and his friend. Well, she did remember how attractive Peter had seemed, smiling down at her. Once or twice, as she was falling asleep that night, she wondered idly if she'd see him again during her holiday. Not that she cared, one way or the other.
3
She saw him again two days later. Or rather, he saw her.
Margaret got off a bus outside the Kowloon ferry terminal, and just as she turned to walk to the docks Peter tapped her lightly on the shoulder. 'Hello there, Margaret Hamilton,' he said.
Startled, Margaret wheeled around to face him. 'Oh, hello, Peter… and Susanna,' she added quickly, for the girl was with him, clinging to his arm.
'Fancy meeting you here,' he quipped, smiling down at her with those disturbing eyes. 'Off to Kowloon, are you? We've just come from there. It's—'
'It's crowded, and hot, and I'm gasping for a cup of tea,' Susanna interrupted impatiently. 'Come along, Peter.' To soften her brusqueness a little, Susanna treated Margaret to a brief smile.
That morning Susanna was wearing a pair of white cotton shorts with a gaily-striped halter-neck top, an outfit which displayed her marvellous tan — and her figure — to maximum advantage. Margaret felt downright dowdy by comparison. Her glazed-cotton sundress, with its flounced, flowered border at the hem, was at least two years old. Teamed as it was with stout, sensible walking shoes, with street maps and bus timetables poking higgledy-piggledy from the top of her shoulder bag, Margaret thought she probably looked like a cartoon lady-tourist.
'Yes, well—' she stammered. 'I'd best be off now.'
'Why?' Peter asked. 'If you're only going across to Kowloon, there's a ferry every five minutes or so. You could join us for—'
'No, really I couldn't. I'm, er, eager to see as much as I possibly can today,' Margaret answered quickly. One glance at Susanna's storm-cloud pout had left her in little doubt about exactly how welcome she'd be to join them for anything at all. She hurried off abruptly into the harbour crowd, paid her fare, and concentrated on the traffic in the bay — anything at all to take her thoughts away from Peter Benhurst.
But it wasn't twenty minutes later, in an open market on the Kowloon side, when she hesitated in front of a stall where an elderly Chinese woman was telling fortunes, using cards selected for her by a brightly-plumed bird in a bamboo cage. Margaret swallowed hard and stepped forward, and when the woman told her, in very halting English, to expect 'large happiness with good man, very dark, and many prosperous children,' Margaret blushed. The image of Peter Benhurst rushed back into her mind, and she paid the woman twice the sum requested. Only then (rather strangely, too, it seemed to her at the time) was she able to banish Peter firmly from her thoughts so she was free to concentrate on the colourful reality in which she found herself.
There was one thing Ralph Nickleby had said over and over again about travelling, in the years he'd been talking 'shop' around the dinner table: the sure way to ruin a dream holiday was to cram it so full of famous fountains and quaint little villages, and 'must see, must do', that the visitor ends up with a packet of blurred snapshots of sights he never really saw properly, and sore feet into the bargain.
Remembering that, Margaret had kept her sightseeing plans as flexible as possible, and it was just as well: the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong is enormous. Not only does it include the twin cities of Hong Kong and Kowloon, separated by the short ferry ride across Victoria Harbour which is a tourist attraction in itself, but it also includes the sprawling New Territories north of Kowloon — farming country, where towns are few and far between, where country people in their flat straw hats walk behind the water buffalo which plough the rice fields. In addition there are the more than two hundred islands off the South China coast. Taken together, the New Territories and the islands cover an area which is more than ten times the size of the twin cities put together.
No one could really take all that in properly in three weeks. Margaret was determined to see what little she could as thoroughly as possible, and to savour each new experience as it came. That clear, hot morning was the third of her holiday; she had decided to use the entire day to explore the countless, nameless little back streets of Kowloon.
She smiled at fruit peelers who offered deft slices of bright, yellow pineapple from their lacquered stalls. She paused, wide-eyed and curious, outside snake shops — though she declined to sample snakes' venom mixed with Chinese wine when it was offered to her against 'winter chill'. She stopped at several paper shops to buy gay, pretty lanterns in the shapes of butterflies (for longevity), and lobsters (for mirth), and strange household gods (for happiness), and others for no special reason that she knew of, except that they were lovely.
And everywhere Margaret walked that day, she was accompanied by the increasingly familiar music of stall-holders' cries, and craftsmen's hammering, and the click-click-click of dice games — an atmosphere she came to think of as the world's largest fun fair, and typically Chinese, and which she never afterwards forgot.
By lunchtime, Margaret had wandered so far off the beaten track that she was obliged to point to the dishes she wanted to order. The grinning young Cantonese behind the food stall knew only the English word 'tasty' to describe the steamed vegetables and rice he offered, and Margaret had nothing mo
re than the simple phrase do jye with which to thank him for it. Even so, that simple exchange boosted Margaret's confidence, and after lunch she wandered even further away from the broad main streets she knew would lead her to the harbour.
By late afternoon, she hadn't a clue where she was. Worse than that, she approached four taxi drivers before at last she came to one who said 'Sure, lady, hop in!' when she asked him if he could speak English. Shortly afterwards she was wishing she'd taken her chances on foot. The drive through the tangle of tiny twisting streets was conducted at speed. That in itself was hair-raising, but it was made all the more so by the fact that the streets were packed at that hour with so much traffic (both motorized and human) that they made Oxford Street at Christmas seem like a deserted village.
'But finally,' she said, laughing as she told Ralph about it over dinner, 'the driver was whistled to a screeching halt by a policeman, though that didn't happen until we'd come into a main road—'
'Quite right, too!' Ralph interrupted, with all the pious indignation of a careful, British driver.
'Oh, but wait for it! This policeman was perched right at the top of a red and gilt pagoda, smack in the middle of a major intersection! I didn't understand what they said to each other, but at one point I was certain they were headed for a punch-up. They were shaking their fists and hollering, and all the while the rest of the traffic whizzed past like billy-ho in all directions. Anyway, I got back to the ferry in one piece, as you can see.'
Ralph smiled fondly. Big as life! And I take it you're enjoying yourself.'
Margaret nodded happily. 'What about you, though? I'll bet you haven't been free long enough to go swimming since we got here, much less to see anything of the sights. And so far I haven't so much as typed an envelope.'
'Now, now,' Ralph said soothingly, 'remember what I told you before we came? Your job out here is to have yourself a good time. Why, I can already see the roses coming back into your cheeks. And besides,' he added, stabbing the air with his fork for emphasis, 'most of these talks are so confidential and top-secret and what-not that your presence would only arouse suspicion, even though you are my assistant. Top-level management-only sort of thing. Why, one Italian travel agent was politely requested to send his under-manager out of one session. So don't let it worry you, eh? Incidentally, I think you'll be surprised when you realize how much you'll learn from this trip that'll come in useful at the agency once we're home again.'
Ralph insisted he was tired that evening, and no doubt he was. Nevertheless, Margaret insisted on dragging him out with her to the jumbled riot of colour and music of a night market.
They didn't stay long, but at least Ralph entered very fully into the spirit of the thing: he bargained happily, half in English and half in gestures, for a delicately carved ivory rose which Margaret pronounced the perfect souvenir for Phyllis Gunter.
When Margaret returned to her room that evening to hear the telephone ringing inside, there was no good reason why her heart started thumping wildly as she fumbled for her key, or why disappointment mixed with her relief when Linda Peterson's voice greeted her breathless 'Hello?'
Linda had been in touch with her before, on the morning after the Chungking Towers party. She'd left a breezy note at the reception desk for Margaret, saying how much she'd enjoyed their evening together, and that she would ring later in the week.
Margaret said hello again, deliberately injecting warmth into the word so that Linda wouldn't feel slighted, as though Margaret had hoped to hear from someone else.
After all, whom else did Margaret-know in Hong Kong? If she had been half-wishing it might be Peter Benhurst… well, that was out of the question, she told herself impatiently. She had never quite got round to telling him where she was staying, had she? And furthermore, even if she had, there was no reason for him to ring. None whatsoever.
Meanwhile Linda was saying she was free the following day, all unaware of the turmoil in Margaret's head. Would Margaret like to spend the day with her?
'Oh! Why, yes, of course!' Margaret said almost at once, shaking herself back into the present. 'Except you'll probably laugh at some of the touristy things I've been up to since we last met. Not to mention the list I hope to work through before I leave.'
'No,' Linda said, laughing. 'Not at all. I adore sightseeing myself. Say, I'll tell you what… let's go out to Lantau Island tomorrow. We can look at the golden statue of Buddha with the rest of the tourists, and afterwards we can have a picnic in the hills. It's lovely there, unspoiled. It'll make a nice change from all the bustle and bright lights around here.'
It did. Once they'd admired the temples, gaily painted and exotic with incense, and the great, golden Buddha, and the monks of Po-Lin Monastery in their saffron robes, there was little else to do but walk in the wild, rocky hills, and to share their lunch on Sunset Peak while they admired the superb view of Kowloon it offered them.
'You must love it, living here,' Margaret said almost wistfully, as they sat there together.
Linda shrugged lightly. 'I've enjoyed it very much,' she answered quietly, 'and in some ways, yes, I have grown to love it — the excitement, the constant contrast of east and west. But just now I'm counting the days until I go home, back to England. It won't be long now.'
Linda smiled softly, and when she spoke again her face was radiant and her voice held unmistakable excitement. 'I'm engaged,' she confided, liking the sound of it. 'His name's Richard Naylor, and we've known each other nearly all our lives. Actually, I doubt if either of us has ever really been out with anybody else…' Linda sighed, and shrugged again. 'My parents persuaded us to wait, although we've known for nearly two years now that we want to marry. They said we should put off any serious plans, at least long enough for Richard to finish law school and get himself established somewhere. When — well, when I was offered this job in Hong Kong with Pan Orient—'
'Your parents persuaded you to take it?' Margaret prompted quietly, sensing Linda's need to talk about it.
'Yes. Not that I regret it, not at all. In fact, I can quite see it now, how right they were. If anything, this separation's brought Richard and me even closer together.
'He's working now, in London. And by a handy coincidence, Pan Orient have offered me a job in London too. I won't bore you with the technical details of that, but it works out really well for Richard and me.'
'And your parents? Are they reconciled to the idea of you and Richard getting back together?'
'Oh, heavens, yes! It wasn't as though they didn't like him, or anything like that. They were just afraid we were rushing things a bit. Now that they realize we're perfectly serious they're pleased about it. We'll set a wedding date soon, probably for early May next year, and with their blessings. Oh Margaret,' she finished impulsively, her eyes shining. 'Say you'll be there!'
Margaret laughed, delighted with Linda's obvious happiness, very pleased to be included in it. 'Of course I shall,' she promised gaily. I wouldn't miss it for the world!'
After that, Linda turned the conversation round to Margaret. She listened very quietly while Margaret told her of the shock of her mother's sudden death, and the way her stepfather had pulled her out of the numb depression which had followed it; she even explained how her trip to Hong Kong had come about.
'And is there anyone special in your life?' Linda asked. 'Romantically, I mean—' She clapped her hand across her mouth, embarrassed. 'Forgive my asking that! For a girl who plans to make a serious career in public relations, I do put my foot into it sometimes—'
'No, no, don't worry,' Margaret reassured her, smiling. 'There isn't anybody, anyway. There never really has been. Not anyone I cared about the way you care for Richard…' She allowed her sentence to trail off there, as the image of Peter Benhurst floated once more into her mind.
She very nearly mentioned him to Linda, told her about the way they'd met at the party, how he had looked at her, and the possessive way Susanna Baker-Leigh had carted him off. But she changed her mind
before she began. What would be the point? Peter Benhurst was a very unlikely candidate for a romance with Margaret, and no one knew that better than she did. It was high time she refused to allow him to wander in and out of her thoughts. Anyway, Linda had probably never met the man, nor was she likely to be very impressed with him if she had done.
'Oh, you know,' she finished vaguely, 'I've been out with the odd bloke to a disco, and to the films and parties and so on. But I don't think I've ever really been in love.'
'Never fear,' Linda warned her, mock-solemn. 'Your turn will come.'
Margaret had already told Ralph not to expect her to join him for dinner that evening, and as she and Linda prepared a simple meal in Linda's compact, comfortable flat, the two girls found they had a lot in common, a lot to talk about. By the time Margaret left, shortly after nine, she and Linda had made firm plans to meet again, convinced that they had begun a lasting friendship which would grow nicely after Linda came back to live in London.
Linda offered her a lift home in her Mini, but when Margaret realized that her hotel was less than a mile from Linda's flat, and that she could walk most of the distance along the beach, she declined the offer. She was pleasantly tired, but she wanted to walk for a while. When she reached the shore, she eased off her shoes, delighted with the scene before her. The lights of the grand hotels along the Bay made a glowing pathway for her in the soft sand.
She was within a few hundred yards of the Star of the Orient when she was nearly jolted out of her skin.
'Isn't it a small world, Margaret Hamilton?' asked a deep, teasing, masculine voice behind her.
She turned to face Peter Benhurst and Susanna Baker-Leigh, and her first reaction was the dismayed realization that she had been caught out… again. She had worn jeans to rugged Lantau Island. Jeans, and a halter top she'd picked up in the Portobello Road the previous summer for fifteen pence.
Susanna Baker-Leigh was dressed in filmy white chiffon — harem trousers and a wisp of a blouse which made her fragile figure seem almost insubstantial. She might have been floating a few inches above the gleaming beach. Oh, she was barefoot, just like Margaret. But Susanna's strappy evening sandals dangled gracefully from one hand, and they shone silver in the moonlight.
