by Denise Emery
'Hello there,' this vision said indifferently to Margaret.
'Oh, hello, both of you. Nice evening!'
Peter laughed softly at that, shaking his head as though something puzzled him. 'A very nice evening, I should say,' he murmured.
'Well, good night!' Margaret said, a trifle too loudly, painfully aware of the idiotic grin she wore as she hurried away from them.
It wasn't until she had reached the safety of the beach entrance to the Star of the Orient that Margaret realized Peter had probably watched her straight-backed strides, that he'd doubtless seen where she was going when she walked away from him. Him and his constant companion! Still, there wasn't very much she could do about that. She could hardly avoid the beach which stretched so invitingly in front of her own hotel, not for the entire three weeks of her holiday, surely! It was sheer bliss to swim there after an exhausting day of sightseeing, or to stand quietly in the softness of night, gazing dreamily at the twinkling lights of a passing pleasure boat. And why on earth shouldn't she do these things? If she ran into the couple again, she could simply nod and smile and go her own way.
The following evening, when Peter Benhurst came up behind her on the beach and took her arm, Margaret did no such thing. She simply stared up into his face in astonishment.
'Where's Susanna?' she asked, before she could stop herself. In the shock of seeing him there beside her, and feeling the touch of his hand on her arm, the question came out on a hoarse croak.
He grinned. 'Shall we go and look for her together?' he teased.
'Well, I only meant—'
'Umm. If I bought you a drink, would you promise not to spill it all over me?'
Margaret frowned angrily, and straightened away from his grip to look directly into his eyes. 'I think that joke is wearing rather thin, don't you?' she asked coolly.
Quite suddenly, Peter's expression changed; he looked exactly like a small boy who's been caught out putting frogs in people's beds. 'I'm sorry,' he said, gazing at his shoes. 'I think you're perfectly right,' he added humbly. 'Let me put it politely, Margaret, Please may I buy you a drink?'
Peter Benhurst was without a doubt a practised and accomplished flirt, and his about-face had instant effect. Once Margaret had put him firmly in his place, she felt sorry for the sharpish way she'd spoken to him. Or, if she hadn't exactly melted totally, she had certainly thawed a bit. 'Oh, it's all right! I didn't mean to sound so harsh.'
'I knew you didn't!' he crowed victoriously, all traces of little-boy-scolded gone from his tone. Margaret frowned again, and turned to go.
'Oh, come on, Margaret Hamilton, this is silly!' he said quickly. He laughed down at her and took her arm again. 'We're wasting valuable drinking time!'
The bar they walked to was just off the beach, festive with strings of multi-coloured fairy lights which framed the open terrace where they sat.
Margaret was wearing a blue-green sarong dress that evening, not real silk though it may as well have been for the way it skimmed and revealed her slim curves. She had taken pains with her make-up too, almost as if she'd had a premonition of Peter Benhurst's sudden appearance on the beach, though she would have denied that, even to herself, if. anyone had suggested it to her.
Over iced vermouth and lemon, Margaret relaxed very quickly in Peter's company. He listened so intently as she told him her first impressions of Hong Kong that before she realized quite what was happening, she had decided that he really was a whole lot nicer than she'd thought.
'How do you happen to be out here just now?' he asked.
'Well, officially I'm with the convention. But in fact, my dad brought me our here as a way of rewarding me for finishing at college. My mother died, you see, last Christmas—'
'I am sorry,' he said quietly. 'Please, go on.'
'Well, that was very sudden, and afterwards I didn't see the point of going on with anything. The promise of this trip was a simple bribe, to get me going again. I've wanted to come to Hong Kong ever since I can remember, though I must admit I've done nothing at all in the way of work since I arrived. Too busy sightseeing.'
Peter grinned at that. 'That's the way to do it! The trouble with me is that I've thought of nothing but the damned convention for months on end. As Managing Director of Pan Orient—'
'You're not!' she breathed, utterly amazed. If Margaret had given the matter any thought at all, which she had not, she would have assumed the MD of Pan Orient to be a white-haired, elderly tycoon.
'Oh yes I am.' Peter sighed wearily, running one slim hand through his thick dark hair. 'Though I try very hard not to take it too seriously, and I am learning to leave it behind me once in a while. Like tonight, for example.'
He changed the subject then, and for the rest of the evening the two of them talked about everything under the sun except Pan Orient and the convention.
It was very late by the time Peter walked Margaret back to the Star of the Orient. As he took leave of her, he said, 'I'll see you soon, Margaret. At least, I hope so.'
And she answered, 'Yes, I'd like that. Thanks for a wonderful time.'
It was long after midnight before Margaret slept that night. She spent a couple of restless hours debating whether Peter Benhurst's parting speech had been made out of mere politeness, or whether she really would be seeing him again. Alone, just the two of them.
And if so, how soon.
4
'Will Miss Margaret Hamilton please come to the desk in the reception area… Miss Margaret Hamilton…'
'I'm Margaret Hamilton,' she announced politely to the reception clerk, moments after she'd scraped back her chair in the coffee shop and come through into the lobby.
'Oh, good morning. There's a telephone call for you. We tried to put it through to your room, and when there was no reply the gentleman suggested we page you in the restaurant. You can take it over there. Booth number three, please. Oh, and Miss Hamilton, there's a note here for you as well.'
Margaret accepted the plain white envelope on which her name had been scrawled in Ralph's familiar handwriting. She pocketed that, and then she walked to the row of carpeted glass boxes in which telephones and comfortable armchairs had been installed for the convenience of the hotel's guests.
A gentleman, the smiling clerk had said. It could, of course, be Ralph, but that was unlikely. Margaret slowed her steps across the broad lobby to a casual saunter which belied the sudden, intense excitement she was feeling.
'Hello?'
'Hello, Margaret. I hope you slept well.'
'Peter?'
'Who else?' he answered, chuckling.
For a fleeting instant, Margaret felt irritation prickle at the back of her throat at the arrogance of that; it helped to steady her voice.
'Good morning, Peter. I hope you slept well too,' she said briskly, ignoring his sarcasm.
'Thank you. I was wondering… could you join me for dinner this evening? That is, if you haven't already made firm plans?'
Margaret hesitated. She might have made plans, mightn't she? People did, all the time, even while they were on holiday. She decided to give Peter full marks for the courtesy of allowing for the possibility.
'Why yes, thank you. I'd like that very much,' she said.
Margaret had lingered over a solitary late breakfast, and she had finished all but the last few sips of her second cup of tea before she'd been called to the phone. When the brief conversation was finished, she went directly back to her room.
She waited until she got there, with the door firmly closed behind her, before she hugged herself with glee. Then she performed a few jigging dance steps to the tall wardrobe, flung open the doors, and began the serious decision-making process over what to wear that evening.
She'd been wearing the orange linen on the night they met. And the sarong-type dress, which .had been bought to wear to a cousin's wedding reception the previous June, was what she'd had on when he took her for a drink.
It wasn't that she had an exceptionally large
wardrobe from which to choose, or that she never wore the same thing twice. Nor was she above haunting street markets for really cheap tops, or anything else she could find. But she did like nice clothes, and since she'd been working in the agency, she'd been able to indulge her fashion-consciousness even more fully than Ralph and her mother had indulged it for her while she was still at school.
For the most part, though, she was fairly conservative in the way she dressed, and a lot of her purchases were made with the office in mind. What few outfits she owned for evening wear would take her, in their season, to almost any festive occasion.
There was one outfit, however, which she had acquired for its sheer razzle-dazzle. It was what Margaret thought of as 'fun' fashion, the sort of thing she might just work up enough courage to wear to one of the more sophisticated London discotheques (though she hadn't, yet) but which no girl in her right mind could regard as an 'enduring classic'.
She decided it was just the thing to wear for an evening out with Peter Benhurst.
The satin trousers were toffee-apple red, as were the 'glass' slippers she had bought to go with them. The silk top, sprinkled with red sequins, was hot-pink; on a hanger it looked shapeless, and much too large for her.
But when the long top was gathered at the bottom into a loose, careless knot on one hip, no girl with a figure like Margaret's needed to fear the competition, if glamour was at issue. And it seemed, judging by the way Susanna Baker-Leigh managed to out-sizzle everyone in sight, that it was.
It was nearly an hour before Margaret got round to reading the note Ralph had left for her at the desk. At first she stared numbly at the message, and then she shook her head. She sat down in an armchair by the French windows, and read it through again, brushing away a tear that threatened to blot the paper in her lap. One thing was certain. When Ralph set out to treat her to a dream holiday, he didn't go by halves. The note read:
Dear Margaret,
I was going to tell you about this at breakfast this morning, but it's as well to write it down. That way you can't argue me out of it, or even try. You may know already that Hong Kong is famous for the fact that people who come here can have clothes tailor-made to order, quickly and at knock-down prices. I decided months ago — and budgeted accordingly, by the way -that no visit would be complete for a young lady unless she went home afterwards with some new gear, or whatever it is you call clothes these days. I want you to have at least one suit, a couple of daytime dresses, and something to wear when you go out in the evenings. But exactly what you order is up to you, love…
The note went on to give her the address of Mr Li Hsu's shop in central Hong Kong (which had, Ralph added, been very highly recommended) and rough directions on how to get there. He added that he would try to 'pop into the coffee shop for a cuppa' around five, and he finished with a PS: 'Now do you know why I lied to you about the baggage allowance?' Beside that, he had drawn a rough sketch of a stout, middle-aged man, carrying two full armloads of cases.
Margaret had suspected something of the kind before they left London, when Ralph went into a flap over the weight of the second of the two cases she had packed. She hadn't argued when he insisted she leave it more than half empty; she had simply accepted his statement that she'd soon fill it up with 'gimcracks and souvenirs' once she got to Hong Kong. She knew about the world-famous Chinese tailors of Hong Kong, but she hadn't mentioned them to Ralph: if he was planning a surprise of handmade clothes for her, she certainly didn't want to spoil his fun by guessing it in advance.
The rest of that day was so full of tape measurements and hem-length discussions, and fabrics and colours and style choices, that Margaret had very little time in which to be jittery about seeing Peter Benhurst again not twenty-four hours after he'd left her in the Star of the Orient lobby the previous evening.
She didn't forget about it, of course, though she did very nearly forget to mention her date to Ralph when they met for tea at five. She was far too busy thanking him for his generous surprise.
'I'm glad you're pleased,' he said happily. 'It seemed to me that visiting Hong Kong without buying a frock or two would be like going to Brighton and coming back without a stick of rock, if you see what I mean.'
'Sort of,' Margaret agreed doubtfully, stirring sugar into her tea, 'except I can't remember being quite so thrilled with boiled sweets as I am with Mr Li Hsu's handiwork!'
Ralph chortled at that, smiling at a memory. 'Well, you were, lass. Take my word for that.'
It wasn't until they'd nearly finished their tea, and Ralph had glanced at his watch and asked, 'Are you joining me tonight for dinner?' that she remembered.
'I — I know it's the second evening in a row,' she began guiltily, 'but—'
'But you've been invited out,' he finished for her matter-of-factly. 'Doesn't surprise me one bit. And it'll give me a chance for a swim and a light snack and another very welcome early night. You have a good time, you hear?'
Even after she had showered and made up her face and brushed her hair into a dark, burnished cloud around her shoulders, Margaret had plenty of time left in which to dither about whether she really dared to wear the outfit she'd chosen that morning. But the longer she looked at her own reflection in the full-length mirror, the more she realized just how glamorous and confident the daring combination of red and pink and glitter made her feel, and how very flattering it was against her wealth of long dark hair.
Linda rang just as Margaret was debating whether or not to wear diamante ear-rings.
'I know it's short notice,' Linda said, 'but if you're free this evening, I thought you might like to go out somewhere with me.'
'Any other time, Linda,' Margaret answered happily, smiling at the phone. 'But I've got a date tonight.'
'Ah ha! Anyone I know?' Linda teased.
Margaret was about to say no, she didn't think so, but then she remembered about Peter being MD of Pan Orient. Linda worked for his company. She couldn't fail to know him, at least by sight.
'Actually, I'm sure you do,' Margaret answered. 'It's Peter Benhurst.'
There was a momentary pause on the other end, caused apparently by Linda's sudden need to cough. 'Where did you meet him, Margaret?' she asked, when she had recovered.
'At the party. You weren't there at the time, but I managed to spill a glass of wine all down the sleeve of his dinner jacket. After that, I bumped into him a couple of times, and the result is he's asked me out to dinner.'
'Oh, well, that's really nice!' Linda said, perhaps a shade too heartily. Peter and I will be working together in London, you know, though I don't suppose I mentioned that to you before. I didn't realize you'd met him—'
'You mean — he's going back to London too?' Margaret asked, trying hard to keep her voice as even and chatty as Linda's.
'Well, he'll have to, won't he? If we're going to work together?' Linda said, laughing.
Margaret laughed back, grateful for the chance to cover her reaction. 'Hmm. Wish I'd thought of that!'
The importance of Linda's news dawned on Margaret so suddenly that she felt her pulses racing. She felt sure Linda could hear the thudding of her heart through the telephone receiver. Why, she and Peter might go on seeing one another, perhaps might grow very fond of one another, perhaps—
'Oh, nonsense!' Margaret said, to stop herself. Unfortunately she said it rather loudly, and Linda heard it too.
'Sorry?' Linda asked, startled.
'Oh! Nothing, Linda. I — I didn't mean to say that to you. I've, urn, I've just smeared my nail varnish on the table top, that's all. I am sorry. Now, what were you saying? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you properly.'
Linda had been saying that she'd got a letter from Richard that morning, and he missed her as much as she missed him, and there was a possibility that he might get a flat quite near Notting Hill Gate, and wasn't that where Margaret lived?
Margaret was silent as Linda said all of it over again, and lots of other things besides, except when she made encouragin
g noises to indicate she was glad to listen (which she was) and that she was paying full attention to what Linda was telling her (which she was not).
But Linda would have been the first person to understand and forgive that, had she realized a fraction of the turmoil in Margaret Hamilton's normally tranquil heart.
5
In the elegant, oak-panelled bar of the Cote d'Medici, several heads turned as Margaret Hamilton was escorted to a table. The men admired while the women appraised, and Peter Benhurst looked pleased.
'I wanted to show you off,' he confided as they sipped their drinks. 'It isn't every evening I get to be seen around town with a beautiful woman.'
'You exaggerate,' Margaret answered lightly, 'but thank you, kind sir.' Privately she was thinking that if anything, Peter was more than likely spoiled for choice when it came to women, beautiful or otherwise. One must not forget the cool, confident Miss Baker-Leigh, who up till the previous evening had been very much in evidence by his side.
The maitre d'hotel came through from the dining room just as they finished their sherries, offering a large, tasselled menu to Peter with a deft flourish and the suggestion of a bow. But Peter merely smiled at the man and shook his head. Moments later, he whisked Margaret out through the foyer and back into the street.
'Where are we going now?' she asked, laughing up at him.
'Ah! That would be telling,' he answered.
Peter hailed a passing taxi, but Margaret was no wiser about their destination after he spoke to the driver. Once they were under way, Peter looked at Margaret, about to say something. When he saw her expression of wide-eyed astonishment, he laughed.
