Sunrise in Hong Kong

by Denise Emery

  And then, if it was possible, her pain went much, much deeper; Margaret was weeping once more for her mother. Dorothy would have held her, rocked her, listened to the whole sorry little tale, not even flinching (though Margaret did, remembering) when it came to the part about making love with him, committing herself much too fully, much too soon… and how cheap and tawdry and ashamed she felt about it now. Dorothy would have said something funny, probably, something to make her laugh. And then she would have applied her patience and her love to Margaret's wounded pride, her dumb confusion, and it would have eased the pain. But Dorothy was gone, and there was no one.

  Well, there was Ralph, wasn't there? Room 411. She told herself that she must warn him, tell him as much of the truth as was absolutely necessary, or at least as much as would affect him. It was all very well to gallop headlong into a sordid holiday romance that came to grief; it was quite another matter to be accused of meddling in Ralph's business.

  Margaret walked stiffly to the bed, sat down on the very edge of it and reached for the telephone receiver. She fumbled for the 4, but before she had released her index finger to allow the first revolution of the dial, she paused.

  Was it necessary? Or even wise? Oh yes, Peter had accused her of plotting with insane complexity to pretend to be in love so as to ensure Ralph a profitable contract. It was becoming difficult to remember exactly what Peter had said about that. It had been terribly involved, what she was supposed to know. But he'd added that he wouldn't allow his suspicions to cloud his business dealings with Ralph in any way. Peter had said that, hadn't he? Yes, he had. Definitely. It wasn't much to salvage, but it was something.

  Ralph was tired and preoccupied. Telling him part of the story would simply confuse him. And telling him all of it, even if he pretended fondly not to be shocked, would distress him terribly. The trip had been expensive, and its chief object where Margaret was concerned had been to cheer her up, to bring her out of herself. If Ralph found out how badly it had backfired, it would spoil all the pleasure he had gained from being able to give it in the first place. That would be terribly selfish.

  Margaret cradled the telephone reluctantly, feeling very much alone in the gathering darkness. But suddenly she picked up the receiver again, and this time she didn't hesitate as she dialled.

  'Linda?'

  'Oh, hello, Margaret! Nice to hear you. Listen, you're just in time to hear the happy news. Richard writes that he's definitely found a flat, and that he's even signed the lease. What's more, they told me today at work I'll be leaving for home even sooner than I'd hoped. Oh, I'm beside myself! I'm so happy—'

  Linda stopped, mid-flow, when she became aware of the muffled sound of weeping.

  'Margaret?' she asked quickly. 'Something's wrong at your end, isn't it?'

  Margaret controlled her tears with an effort, at least enough to be able to speak intelligibly into the phone. You… m-might say that, Linda. Oh, I—I want to die!'

  'Hey, love, shh…' Linda soothed softly. 'Look, why don't you come over here? Right now. We'll talk about it, and it might help. It's… Peter, isn't it?'

  Linda opened the door to her even before Margaret knocked. She bundled her unceremoniously into the most comfortable chair in the sitting room and shoved a steaming mug of tea into her hands before either of them spoke.

  'Now then,' Linda said with brisk practicality, 'you'd better tell me all about it.'

  It took a while to do that, but Margaret finally got it all said. Linda sat quietly, content to make encouraging noises when they seemed appropriate, and to take Margaret's hand when tears got the better of her friend.

  'It happened so fast, Linda! I should know better, you realize that? It isn't as though I don't know the dangers of the common or garden holiday romance. I saw it in the office nearly every week last summer, in fact, when some gormless little tripper would come into the agency with her second degree sunburn and her guilty conscience, moaning about her heartbreaking fortnight in Torremolinos. And to think I was convinced I was in love with Peter, and he with me, to the point of — well…'

  'To the point of making love with him?' Linda supplied gently.

  Margaret nodded, unable to answer through the tears which engulfed her once again. It was then that Linda fortified her friend's tea with brandy, which she insisted Margaret drink.

  'It's not the end of the world, Margaret. That you made love with him, I mean,' Linda said.

  'Maybe not… for you and Richard, but— Oh, I'm sorry! All I really meant was—'

  'I think I know what you meant. And you're right. I feel more secure, now we've sorted ourselves out with wedding plans and all the rest of it. But I'll be honest with you, Margaret. You can't always know in advance how things are going to work out. The first time… well, the first time Richard and I made love, we didn't have all the official business sorted out, not by a long way. It happens all the time, love, whether people admit it or not. And quite honestly, though this probably isn't the ideal time to say so, I'd say you may be well out of any serious commitment to Peter Benhurst. Oh, he's attractive, even I can see that. And he's fine to work for. But I'd be willing to bet he'll be hell on wheels as a lifetime partner. He's arrogant, for one thing, and prickly. And he's so determined never to be hurt again, he can't even see the simplest truths—'

  'Which are?' Margaret asked, looking up, dazed and swollen-eyed, yet desperate to know the answers, the simplest truths.

  Linda took a deep breath. 'Well, for a start, the truth about that horrid Baker-Leigh woman—'

  'Susanna?'

  'Yes. Though round the office she's referred to as the Baker Baggage.' Margaret giggled, and Linda smiled. 'Honestly!' Linda went on. 'Or sometimes as Madame Susanna. She's a poisonous bitch, and you can count on the fact that whatever "chance remark" she made to Peter this afternoon was loaded with enough venom to blacken a saint. She's so determined to get her hooks into Peter Benhurst it's legendary. She wasn't here when I first came out to Hong Kong, but her very first act when she did arrive was to come sailing into Pan Orient's executive offices to case the joint. Her second act was to try to get me sacked—'

  'But that was silly!'

  'That didn't stop her. Susanna told Peter I'd been "insufferably rude" to her.'

  'What happened then?'

  Nothing. Except I cornered her in the Ladies that very day—'

  'You did?'

  'Yup.'

  'And then what?'

  Linda grinned wickedly, and chuckled with glee at the memory. I shoved Richard's photograph under her nose, and I told her plainly that any interest I have in Peter is strictly professional. I added for good measure that I do my job well enough to earn a fair amount of responsibility. I told her it was going to take a lot more than a lady with time on her hands and a possessive streak to get me out of Pan Orient.'

  'You didn't!' Margaret breathed, forgetting her own troubles for a moment.

  'I certainly did! It worked, too. But I can imagine how she must be feeling about you! Why, even at the office Peter's been acting like a moonstruck kid the last couple of weeks— Oh, Margaret, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that!'

  Even without Linda's unfortunate slip there would probably have been more tears. There was more brandy too, though Linda had to say firmly that it was for medicinal purposes to persuade Margaret to drink enough of it to blur the edges.

  'I'm sorry,' Linda said again. 'I was just trying to give you some idea of how hard Susanna would be willing to work to find any little scrap of information about you which might plant doubts in Peter's mind. I wouldn't be surprised if she did some rather fancy homework to get at it, too—'

  'What do you mean?'

  'I'm not really sure myself,' Linda said slowly. 'It's just that she's… so determined. You know I said about her trying to get me the sack? Well, there was another case where she actually succeeded. The girl was a telephonist…'

  'And Susanna got her the sack?'

  'It was only a piece of offic
e gossip at the time, and you know how the grapevine works. I wouldn't like to have to prove it, but I shouldn't be surprised if Susanna had a lot to do with it. The girl involved was incredibly beautiful…'

  'And Peter liked her?'

  'I'm fairly certain he never even noticed her existence. That was the frightening part of it.'

  'Then why . . ?'

  'There is no reason, Margaret, that's the point! As far as I can tell, Susanna doesn't even seem to like Peter all that much. Oh, I've seen them at parties, and she does cling to him like a barnacle, but I've overheard her being unkind to him more than once. And it isn't that she's after him for his money, either. Rumour has it she's very well off in her own right, thank you very much. For whatever reason, though,- she hangs in there, chasing after him for dear life. And he seems absolutely convinced she's a good friend who has his best interests at heart.' Linda sighed. 'Anyway, let's not talk about her any more.'

  But Margaret could not stop thinking about the events of that crammed, confusing, heartbreaking day. Even when she'd consumed a fair portion of Linda's brandy, and was drifting off to sleep at last on Linda's comfortable sofa, Margaret's mind was racing, and Susanna's image came back to haunt her uneasy dreams.

  In the morning, Linda tiptoed considerately around the flat, trying not to wake her. But Margaret was awake already and when Linda realized that, she brought her a mug of tea in bed.

  Linda Peterson was an asset to Pan Orient. She was thoroughly professional, knowledgeable, and extremely conscientious about doing her job. But that did not prevent her ringing through to her office that morning, pleading a diplomatic cold, thereby freeing herself for the whole of that gloriously sunny day so she could spend it with her friend.

  'Now get a move on, love,' Linda nagged cheerfully. 'If we're going to play at being lady tourists, we'd better get started!'

  That day was crammed so full of landmarks and tourist traps and museums that Margaret had very little time to think, which was precisely the object of Linda's exercise.

  Margaret marvelled afterwards that never once did they venture anywhere near a spot which caused her pain, a place she had seen before… with Peter. Long afterwards, she mentioned that to Linda.

  'It was easy,' Linda insisted modestly. 'Don't you remember? I announced where we were going every time, before we got there. And before we started out, I watched your face.'

  10

  'I like your new suit,' Linda said to Margaret, who was wearing it that evening. 'I like it so much I mentioned it in my latest letter to my parents. They already know that the bad news about my coming home to work is that I won't have anything suitable to wear through a London winter. Dad may suggest I have a suit made for myself while I'm still out here, as a birthday present or something. I'll have to wait and see.'

  Ralph sighed indulgently, and whistled softly at the ceiling. 'You know,' he mused, 'a daughter is a very mysterious creature. No matter how hard you try to keep her dressed, she never seems to have a thing to wear.'

  Linda looked at Margaret, and they both laughed.

  'Oh, come now, Ralph,' Margaret chided gaily, 'it's not so bad as all that!'

  'Hmm…' he answered thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling as he refilled their wine glasses.

  Margaret's hand-made clothes were no more to her by then than bits of cloth; Linda was in a position to know that very well. She also knew that Margaret would never betray that to Ralph, and that to speak of the lovely things he had bought for Margaret would please him.

  She had invited them to dinner in her flat on their last evening in Hong Kong. Margaret mentioned the invitation at breakfast that morning, when she met Ralph in the coffee shop.

  He started to object, saying, 'But what about that fellow you were—' He managed to muffle the rest of it by clinking his teacup noisily against its saucer, and Margaret came swiftly to his rescue.

  'Oh, him!' she said, lightly and dismissively. 'He was just somebody I met at a party. Nice enough, I suppose, but nothing serious.' She shrugged. 'I've been spending most of my time with Linda lately, when she's free,' she added, marvelling at how very easy it was to lie.

  The last part was true enough at least. Margaret had been spending a lot of time with Linda, all the time Linda could decently spare from showing up in her office to earn her salary.

  There had been exactly three days stretching between Margaret's terrible scene with Peter, and her scheduled flight back to London. Three days didn't seem so very many, but if Margaret had been left on her own to fill them she would have been in hell, and Linda knew it.

  The weather continued marvellous, each dazzling day if anything more perfect than the one which had gone before it, a superb tribute to the honesty of all the travel brochures ever printed about Hong Kong in October. But those days were a mockery of Margaret's mood, which swung wildly between the gnawing ache of Peter's abrupt absence from her life, and a stony, unforgiving anger with him. He had said he loved her, but he had so easily mistrusted her. In any frame of mind, Margaret's future seemed to her like one long, bleak, empty tunnel of loneliness.

  The days were bad enough, though she could get through them somehow; when she wasn't out with Linda she read, or wrote postcards to friends in London — though she'd be there before they got them — or she busied herself with packing to go home. Even that was astonishingly painful, especially when she came to fold the beautiful changsung she had worn for Peter on that dreadful evening. She was sure she could never bring herself to wear it ever again. Nevertheless, she wrapped it carefully in tissue, and folded it into a case.

  The evenings were worst of all. It was then that the entire world seemed to go two by two, arm in arm in couples, and there was nothing left for Margaret but regret, and grey despair. She felt ashamed then to think that she had ever laughed at the dull-eyed spinsters she had sent off on long, intensely boring cruises they insisted they could afford.

  'Why not a couple of weeks in Bridlington instead?' she had cajoled brightly, more than once.

  'Oh no, dear! It's all to do with meeting someone, isn't it?' the ladies would confide, all of them using more or less the same words to describe Mr Right, and explain how that sort of person was bound to be found, sooner or later, 'abroad'.

  Linda understood most of what was passing through Margaret's mind without having to be told, and through it all she did her very best to offer the most sensible and sensitive advice she could. It had not been easy. It was soon enough complicated by the fact that almost every time Margaret walked into the lobby of the Star of the Orient, beginning with the morning after she had spent the night in Linda's flat, there was a message waiting for her at the reception desk.

  The first of these had been attached to a most impressive spray of long-stemmed roses; it read simply, 'Sorry, Peter. Please ring.' God, how she'd been tempted to do just that! But even before she'd carried the lovely flowers to her room, Margaret had changed her mind.

  But why?' Linda pleaded, when they met an hour later. 'Oh, I know that I was making noises last night about how you're well out of it and so on, but that was only to try to calm you down at the time. Why not ring him, for heaven's sake? Find out what he has to say? Surely he wouldn't be sending roses if he hadn't been thinking hard.'

  'Never!' Margaret snapped. 'I told him so last night, Linda. The point is, he did say all those terrible things. And if he really cared for me, he'd never have given Susanna's — insinuations — a second thought!'

  Linda sighed, and changed the subject. She suggested they see a film together that evening, a comedy she chose deliberately for its light-hearted fun. When it was finished, Margaret decided to go back to the Star of the Orient. 'You're very welcome to come to the flat instead,' Linda offered gently. 'Are you sure you'll be all right?'

  Positive,' Margaret answered, with a firm bravery she didn't feel. 'I should have breakfast with Ralph tomorrow morning anyway, and besides, I'm far too tired to think. And Linda, thanks… for everything…'

  Ma
rgaret went directly to her room, stopping just long enough to collect three bits of paper on which the reception clerk had noted, on three separate occasions, that 'A gentleman rang to speak with you, Miss Hamilton. You were out, and he left no message.'

  Margaret went straight to bed, after she'd ripped the messages into meticulously tiny pieces which she threw into the bin. For good measure, she threw the flowers after them. She was sure sleep would come, if only she did that first. But several hours passed, and she was still wide awake.

  So, sighing heavily, Margaret climbed out of bed. And though she knew it was the worst thing she could choose to do, nothing short of a particularly cruel form of self-torture, she dressed hurriedly and went out again, to walk along the beach.

  It was very late. Mercifully, the moon was down, and it was dark. That did not prevent each step she took along the silken sand being sharply painful, bringing back memories of other nights, when she'd strolled through the same star-strewn darkness hand in hand with Peter. Nights when they'd lingered, looking out to sea, sharing kisses…

  Perhaps she was being stupid, stupid and childishly stubborn, in refusing to talk with him before she had to leave. Margaret wavered as she allowed a shaft of hope to fill her heart. Perhaps they'd both been hasty, said things they hadn't really meant. People did that, sometimes. Maybe after all they could find their way back together again. Perhaps…

  He spoke twice before she answered. 'I said good evening, Margaret. Perhaps you didn't hear.'

  'Oh!' She looked up, badly startled, and at first she thought her tired mind imagined it, that Peter and Susanna were standing there in front of her, side by side.

  But when Susanna said, 'Hello there, Margaret. Fancy meeting you here,' as she tightened her grip on Peter's arm, Margaret knew with a sickening pounding in her head that it was no dream.