Sunrise in Hong Kong

by Denise Emery

  'That's good news,' Susanna answered happily, smiling up at him. 'Oh, and Peter…' Here she paused for just a fraction of a second before she delivered the crucial bit of that carefully planned conversation — the snippet of information that represented Susanna's only chance.

  Margaret was pleased with the things she'd ordered from Li Hsu, but most especially with the dress he'd made for evening wear. It was waiting for her in her room that afternoon, wrapped in a tidy parcel with the other things.

  Li Hsu had called it a changsung: deceptively demure, with its prim Mandarin collar buttoned high on the neck, in the catalogue it appeared to be a straight tube of heavy silk which barely skimmed the delicately-boned figure of the Chinese girl who posed in it; one side-seam was split thigh-high to allow a generous, tantalizing glimpse of slender leg.

  'This is the traditional Chinese design,' the tailor had explained, 'which fits, as I believe you say, where it touches. For ladies with more, ah, Western figures,' he added discreetly, measuring Margaret's with a practised eye, 'I often modify this basic design to great advantage. It then becomes a fitted garment, very flattering.'

  It certainly was. The emerald green silk followed every line of Margaret's body, emphasizing her high, firm breasts, her neat waist and slim hips. With her dark hair piled high on her head, and eye make-up applied with skilful restraint, Margaret was a knockout, and she knew it.

  It still seemed almost dreamlike to her, that she and Peter had gone so far in love so very quickly, but then she would remember how simple it had been, really. She loved him, and he loved her. She kept remembering the scene on the boat that morning, when they'd become lovers, and every time she thought of that her mouth curved once more into a slow, extraordinary, wondering smile.

  She had set out deliberately to look her best for him that evening, and she knew she had succeeded. Even so, she felt a flutter of nervousness as she stepped out of the lift into the lobby.

  She saw Peter before he saw her, and she stood quite still for a moment, admiring the fine set of his head on his broad shoulders. Then she walked quickly to his side and touched his arm; she waited for his appreciative glance, his answering smile.

  It didn't come. Instead, Peter stared into her eyes with a look which seemed to contain nothing more than cool appraisal. 'Hello, Margaret,' he said at last.

  'Hello yourself,' she teased. She grinned up at him, but when he didn't smile back she frowned, perplexed. 'What is it, love? Don't you feel well?'

  Peter shrugged, muttering something in reply which she couldn't quite catch.

  'Well,' she persisted, 'did you manage to get the tickets for tomorrow evening?' That was sure to lift Peter out of his mood. He adored Chinese opera, and he was certain Margaret was going to like it too. He had said he was going to try for tickets to one of his favourites.

  But the reminder did not succeed in raising Peter's spirits. He sighed wearily, and shook his head. 'We can't talk here,' he said dully. 'Come on, let's have a drink.'

  He led the way across the wide lobby to the hotel bar, and Margaret followed, her mind spinning crazily with all sorts of explanations for Peter's behaviour, none of which made any sense at all. The bar was deserted except for the barman; by the time they were seated, and Peter had asked her what she wanted to drink, Margaret had regained some semblance of having her wits about her.

  She waved his question aside impatiently. 'It doesn't matter, love! First of all, I'd like to know what the devil's bothering you. This is—'

  'You may as well have a drink,' he interrupted. 'Keep me company. For the first time in a long while, I think I need one.'

  Margaret glanced up at him quickly, at the handsome face clouded now with… what could it be? He looked as though he'd lost his best friend. 'Yes, all right,' she answered quietly. 'A sherry, please.'

  They sat in silence for as long as it took Peter to finish his drink. 'Ready for another?'

  He'd bought what appeared to be double measures, and Margaret had barely begun to sip hers. It was all she could do to restrain herself from standing up and shaking him by the shoulders until he told her what was wrong. But something stopped her doing that. It felt somehow as though if she tried it, or anything at all to break down his stubborn wall of silence, Peter might simply rise and walk out of the bar, leaving her there for as long as she chose to remain, alone with the mystery.

  Instead, Margaret steeled herself to patience. 'No, thank you,' she said mildly, 'but you go ahead.'

  'Thank you. I will.'

  Peter was on his third drink when Margaret's patience snapped. 'Please, Peter, talk to me! I can't bear much more of this—'

  'Very well. I find… I find I won't be able to see you for several days. Possibly longer,' he added, staring down into his drink.

  'Oh, darling! No wonder you're in such a grim frame of mind! That's terrible news! It'll mean I won't see you again before I have to leave… for England…'

  'That shouldn't worry you unduly,' he muttered.

  'What?' Margaret's eyes were wide and shocked in her ashen face. 'What did you say?' she repeated, whispering.

  'Oh, come now, Margaret. Surely there's no need for high drama. It's just that I — well, that I have to get away, to think, to try to see things clearly, now the situation's changed. I—'

  'Peter,' Margaret interrupted firmly, will you please, please tell me what's come over you all of a sudden? I have no idea what you're talking about, or—'

  'It's a bit late in the day for you to play the injured innocent, I should say.'

  'Innocent of what?' Margaret demanded, her voice rising dangerously on the last word as though she was very close to hysteria. The barman did his best to ignore them, turning his back to polish glass after sparkling glass with intense concentration.

  Peter looked into Margaret's eyes, and for a fleeting moment she could read his pain. But then he laughed shortly to himself, and took another long swallow of the drink in front of him.

  Margaret began to weep, heedless of what her tears would do to the eye make-up she'd applied so carefully, or what the barman would think of her.

  Peter sat unmoved, toying with his drink as he watched her. 'I can't think what you hope to accomplish with that little trick—'

  'Right!' Margaret shot back, stung into anger. 'Then why don't you explain yourself? When you left me here this afternoon, everything was fine It was more than fine. You — you and I — we…' Margaret began to stammer, very nearly breaking down again in tears, and for the space of a heartbeat Peter's stony expression seemed to soften as he looked at her. But then he frowned again, and his next words were crisp and clear, and very cold.

  'That was before I knew you had come here with Ralph Nickleby,' he said. He pronounced Ralph's name with slow, deliberate care, watching Margaret's face.

  She looked back at him blankly, more bewildered than ever when he added, 'You know, of course, what that means. It's perfectly obvious.'

  Margaret frowned at him, and shook her head. 'Not to me.' She cleared her throat. 'You knew that I'd come here with my dad. I told you that the night you took me for a drink, the night we met on the beach—'

  'Yes, you did. But you were careful, weren't you, not to mention his name? Or the name of his agency in London? Or the fact that he's actually your stepfather, which is the only reasonable explanation for the fact that you don't share the same surname—'

  'I wasn't careful, Peter! It simply didn't come up in conversation. It was you who was so determined not to talk about business, or the convention. Anyway, what of it?'

  'In fact,' Peter continued bitterly, ignoring her question, 'if it hadn't been for a chance remark Susanna made when I ran into her this afternoon, about seeing you and Ralph together at the reception banquet, I would never had made the connection until it was far too late.'

  'Too late for what?' Margaret cried, exasperated.

  To uncover your crude little attempt to drum up business for your stepfather, of course! Don't try to pretend
you didn't know he's been negotiating with me since the day the convention started!'

  'But I didn't!'

  'I think you did,' he answered coldly. 'I looked you up in the registration records, and there you were: 'Margaret Hamilton, Administrative Assistant, Travel Unlimited, London—'

  'What of it? Look, Peter, I've told you why Ralph decided to bring me here in the first place. Why, I haven't so much as typed an envelope since the day we arrived. I know nothing of Ralph's negotiations out here, and that's the simple truth. Incidentally, I find it highly improbable that he's negotiating for a tie-in with Pan Orient. I mean, Hong Kong's not exactly the most accessible holiday paradise for the clients we serve from London. Nor is it cheap for them to come here, by any stretch of the imagination, so—'

  So, indeed,' he interrupted smoothly. 'No doubt you also know that the British don't own Hong Kong. We merely lease it from the Chinese, and no one can be certain they'll renew that lease when it expires. Which explains why Pan Orient are shortly to establish a European subsidiary chain to serve the common market countries. The consequent tie-in with Travel Unlimited, if successfully negotiated, will be more than profitable. I'm sure I needn't spell it out for you.'

  Margaret stared across at him, numbly trying to sort out the whole scrambled mess in her mind, slowly registering all the clues she might have picked up to suspect something of Pan Orient's plans: Linda's announcement that she'd been offered a job in London with the company, Peter's saying he was coming to England too, Ralph's glee over whatever successful deal he'd managed to accomplish in the course of the convention…

  But even if she had known how to put all that together, she still wouldn't have linked Pan Orient with Travel Unlimited! Yet… yet… Peter was clearly willing to assume that she had known, all along; that she had tried to use the information.

  And there was no doubt in her mind that Susanna had done her best to make sure of that. She had seen him first, after all. And the woman was sure to be aware of Peter's fear of being used for his money, his power. Moreover, Susanna had left no illusions in Margaret's mind that she would get him back, if she possibly could. And now it seemed Susanna had convinced Peter that Margaret was nothing but an ambitious little schemer. Oh no, it couldn't be! How could he believe that of her?

  'You decided… that I knew about your dealings with Ralph?' Margaret began slowly. 'That… I pretended to fall in love with you, just to — to boost Ralph's chances of a profitable contract?'

  'What else could I assume?' he asked tersely.

  'Oh, for God's sake, Peter, see sense! I'm not stupid! Even if I had hatched some fiendish little plot to lure you into dealing with Ralph, it wouldn't have been awfully bright of me, now would it? I mean, you'd have met him sooner or later, wouldn't you? With me, I mean—'

  'That's the part that hurts more than anything,' he answered quietly, real anguish in his voice. The thought that you would have introduced me to the man, all fluttering eyelashes and girlish innocence, realizing I'd known him all along. By the way, you needn't worry about the business side of things. I like Ralph, and I respect him. I feel absolutely sure he knows nothing of the plans you may have had. I shall be very careful not to let any of this affect our dealings, you have my word on that. I can't help supposing, though, that after a certain number of intimate dinners and moonlit walks, and sessions… like the one we shared this morning… you assumed I'd be too helplessly in love with you to object to anything you wanted me to do. I can't help wondering… how soon you would have dropped me, after — after contracts had changed hands.'

  'How dare you!' Margaret slapped him. Just once, across the face, as hard as she could. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again, and when she did her voice was low with barely controlled fury.

  'I'll tell you something, Peter Benhurst. You're a bitter, twisted man. And I'll tell you something else. If I were you, I wouldn't trust that — that Baker-Leigh woman — as far as I could throw—'

  'Stop right there!' he hurled back. 'If it hadn't been for Susanna, I'd have been a very lonely man when all this came out. She's a good friend, and I'll not have—'

  'You'll do as you bloody well please! Meanwhile, I think you'll live to regret this conversation and your monstrous assumptions! When that happens, I'll thank you not to come to me with your apologies, your, your—'

  'Don't worry about it!'

  'I won't! But if I live for ever, I will never, ever have anything further to do with you, and that's a promise! Now, if you'll excuse me—'

  'Certainly,' he muttered, as he rose abruptly from his chair; he bowed to her with sarcastic formality as she gathered up her evening bag.

  Margaret left the bar with quick, even steps, her head held proudly high, without once looking back. Her anger protected her from thinking of the man she'd left behind, slumped in his chair with his head in his hands, or of the barman who recognized him instantly when he finally approached the table.

  'May I get you something else, Mr Benhurst?' the young man enquired politely.

  Peter looked up, blinking. 'What? Oh, sorry, ah… yes, please. Just bring the bottle, would you? Put it on my account.'

  'Of course, sir,' and it was done.

  Peter sat there for a long time. Even after the bar began to fill up with the hotel guests who were its pre-dinner trade, he didn't move except to fill his glass, and raise it to his lips. He was trying to think clearly, and it wasn't getting easier. He kept replaying that conversation with Susanna, over and over again.

  She had struck a note of sisterly interest when she asked, almost as an afterthought, 'Oh, and Peter, are you still seeing Ralph Nickleby's daughter?'

  He looked blank for a moment. Then he had frowned slightly, and finally his face had cleared. 'So far as I know, Ralph hasn't got one.'

  'Oh well, stepdaughter, then,' Susanna conceded easily. You know. Margaret. Margaret Hamilton. I'm sure I saw them together at the reception banquet. Surely you knew that, Peter…' Susanna looked puzzled. 'About their being related, I mean…'

  He couldn't remember what, if anything, he'd said to that. Only that it had come as an awful shock.

  Peter sat like that in the Star of the Orient bar until the thoroughly embarrassed bartender was forced to tell him it was time for the bar to close.

  9

  Susanna Baker-Leigh paced back and forth in her luxurious suite at the Victoria, glancing from time to time at her white-gold dress watch. She had made no plans for the evening. Nevertheless, she had dressed with care. One could always say, 'Oh dear, I was just going out! Never mind, I can cancel that,' to explain why one happened to be wearing a light blue velvet evening skirt, and a sequinned blouse of quite astonishing décolletage.

  Not that it would occur to Peter Benhurst to wonder how one had achieved such effortless glamour on such short notice, if he rang. Peter, like any other man, could be persuaded to see what any clever, patient woman wanted him to see — no more, and no less.

  Occasionally Susanna glared at the silent telephone beside her bed, and crossed her fingers. Peter could be such a bore at times. He had gone on and on and on, in dry detail, about the various deals he was planning to negotiate, with Schneider from Germany, and Petroni from Rome, and somebody called Nichols, or Nicholson, or Nichol-something, from London. She had remembered the name when she saw it written down, though, and that had been the main thing. 'They'll all be here, for the convention,' he had said.

  It was an effort, at the time, to smile with what passed for genuine interest, to say enthusiastically, That's marvellous, Peter! Why, just think! By the time you establish in London, you'll have masses of contacts!'

  'That's right, Susanna. Oh, it's grand to be able to really talk to a woman for once…

  Hmm. That hadn't stopped him dropping her, the moment that Hamilton bitch had come tripping out, with her chain-store finery and her big, innocent, googly eyes. And at first it had seemed quite hopeless, trying to connect what she could remember about Peter's everlasti
ng convention with the name Margaret Hamilton. He'd never mentioned a Hamilton, Susanna was sure. But in the end, when he'd begun spending every waking minute in the girl's company, it seemed urgently necessary to do something.

  And then, fortunately, there was Peter's famous horror of being used. He'd had far too much of that in his life, poor thing. He was always on about it…

  Oh damn it! Was he going to ring?

  At last, it seemed that he was not. Susanna sent down to room service for dinner on a tray. She picked at the food without much interest, leafing idly through a magazine she didn't really read. Eventually she sighed, undressed, and went to bed.

  By that time, of course, Margaret had long since made her way back to her room at the Star of the Orient. The first thing she did when she got there was to take her hairbrush from the dressing table, and to hurl it away from her with great force, so that it bounced across the floor.

  That seemed to help a little. It released a bit of Margaret's pent-up fury. But even before the unoffending brush had come to rest against the opposite wall, the protective shell of Margaret's anger had burst, leaving her convulsed with helpless, gulping sobs.

  It took a while for that to pass. When it did, Margaret was left shaking helplessly, shivering with the enormity of what had passed between herself and Peter, downstairs in the bar. Inconveniently, she remembered that she was in love with him, so very much in love with him. He was in love with her, too, she was sure of it. Why, just that morning they had— 'Stop it!' she told herself loudly. But she could not. It kept coming back to her, washing over her in great, terribly painful waves — the delicate, startled wonder she had felt, spinning higher and higher with him into the hoc, sweet glory of the morning.

  And now?

  Now it was as though the world had collapsed into brittle, jagged fragments at her feet, as though the lovely bubble of a daydream had shattered, plunging her to earth with bone-breaking speed. The pain was unbearable, and yet she knew she had to bear it. She felt an overwhelming need to talk with someone; to ask some cooler, wiser person than herself to explain to her exactly what had happened, in simple words which she might understand.