Sunrise in Hong Kong

by Denise Emery

  And then, in the middle of January, she met Tim Dowson.

  'Do you like pizza?' he asked her, the day he came into the Oxford Street branch to book his holiday.

  'Why yes. Yes, I do,' Margaret answered, smiling, a bit taken aback by the unexpectedness of the invitation; really, it had only been a question, but she felt certain an invitation would follow, and it did.

  'Well then, there's nothing to stop us sharing one for lunch, is there? It is about that time…'

  Tim was two years older then Margaret. He was fair, as fair as Peter had been dark. And while Peter had been sure of himself to the point of arrogance, Tim was rather shy.

  'It took me quite a while to develop that breezy air of confidence,' he said. 'That would-be devil-may-care tone of voice I used when I asked you out to lunch.'

  Margaret laughed with him, feeling relaxed in a man's company for the first time in—well, for the first time since the previous October, actually. She'd accepted several dates since then, invitations from guys she'd met through friends, or at parties. But nearly every one of them had been so disappointing that she'd politely refused to go when they rang to ask her out again.

  Tim was different. Tim was good company, and she liked him. Margaret didn't stop just then to reflect that she compared Tim with Peter constantly, that almost every gesture and mannerism of Tim's was something she ticked off automatically against her memories of Peter Benhurst. It would have discouraged Margaret terribly to realize it — that Peter lived, and vividly, in one carefully-shuttered chamber of her heart. She would have told herself it was high time she cleared that space for someone else. She knew deep within herself that she would never really be able to forget Peter until she'd found someone to take his place.

  She really tried, with Tim. He liked sentimental films, and so did she; they shared the same tastes in lots of things, in music, and in books, and in the places they meant to visit. And when Margaret introduced him to Chinese food, one Saturday evening when they ventured into Soho, Tim became an enthusiastic convert. 'You've done the impossible!' he said, delighted.

  'What's that?' Margaret asked.

  'You've weaned me away from my perpetual diet of hamburgers and pizza,' he answered, sampling another of the fragrant dishes she'd ordered for them both.

  There was only one problem. When Tim kissed her, Margaret felt nothing. Nothing except dismay that she couldn't seem to bring herself to fancy him.

  'It isn't something you switch on and off, Linda pointed out patiently over lunch one day early in February, several weeks after she'd flown back to London to take up her new job.

  'But he's so nice, Linda. So right in every way…'

  'Hmm. That's not got anything at all to do with it,' Linda commented drily.

  'But Richard's nice, and you fancy him,' Margaret pleaded wistfully.

  Linda nodded, drawing patterns on the tablecloth with the edge of her teaspoon. 'Yes, I know, but that was luck as much as anything else. It always is.'

  Nevertheless, it was true. Richard Naylor was a tall, kind, slow-moving man with a shock of sandy hair and eyes of quite astonishing green. And it was perfectly obvious that he felt as much for Linda as she did for him.

  The flat he had rented for them to share after their marriage in a few months' time was a lucky find as well. It was really the first floor of what once had been an Edwardian townhouse, somewhat arbitrarily partitioned into kitchen, bath, bedroom, and a sitting room overlooking a cul-de-sac lined with trees. But it was airy and spacious, and just right for two.

  Until her marriage, which was planned for a Saturday morning early in May, Linda's official residence in London was a bedsitting room several blocks away from the flat, though Richard had already installed himself there, and was using most of his free time to decorate the place.

  But Linda had confided to Margaret that she didn't spend much time in her own place. 'Only when my mum comes down to see me,' she had said.

  And who could blame her? Margaret had seen Linda and Richard together several times since Linda's return to England, and the longer she knew them the more certain she became that they were right together, that their marriage would be happy.

  'I am lucky,' Linda said thoughtfully, 'and I know it. And I realize it wasn't easy for you, what happened out in Hong Kong. But look, love, what you're trying to do is wrong. You can't force yourself into feeling attracted to Tim or anybody else, and why try? There's plenty of time, plenty of other guys floating around. Meanwhile, since Tim's such a nice guy, why not simply be honest with him?'

  'Honest?' Once again, it seemed to Margaret that Linda could see her more clearly than she could see herself.

  'Yes. If you're honest, you'll see that you're still more than a little bit wrapped up in your memories of Peter. You do realize that, don't you?'

  Margaret sighed. 'Is it really so obvious?'

  Linda smiled across at her in quick sympathy. 'I know you're doing your best,' she said kindly. 'Just don't try so hard. You'll never find a new love while you're so hell-bent on looking for one. I know it's trite to say it, but it's true.

  Margaret and Tim had made a date to meet that evening, to see a comedy in the West End and to share supper afterwards. She told him, over the coffee.

  'It isn't fair on you, Tim'. For me to go on trying to pretend I'm getting involved — well, romantically — when I'm still trying to get over someone else…'

  Tim's chief reaction to that was relief. 'I wondered if there wasn't something like that going on,' he said quietly, 'and I'm glad you've told me. It doesn't stop us being friends, though, does it?'

  It didn't. The friendship with Tim continued to thrive, and though they saw rather less of one another after that, when they did meet Margaret was able to enjoy his company without having to feel guilty about it.

  But her honesty left Margaret very firmly back at square one, a member of one of the largest social clubs in the world: she was one of the thousands of young, attractive, unattached women who lived and worked in London while they waited for the right man to come along.

  Margaret's work was important to her, and it filled her days with challenge and variety. In that she was very lucky. There were more than enough people who came into the agency with their visions of the southern coast of Spain, or northern France, or a stand-by flight to Boston — more than enough people who sought Margaret's patient, increasingly skilled advice to ensure that the dream would come true.

  In the evenings there was Ralph to look after, to cook for, to sit with watching television. And Margaret had lots of friends, Tim among them. And now she had Linda again, and through her, Richard. She was busy, busy and popular and increasingly valuable to Ralph at the agency. And if ever she faltered, wondering if that was all there was ever going to be to her life, Linda was there to reassure her, to remind her that sooner or later life would turn a corner, because life always did.

  At the beginning of March Richard was away for several days, chosen by a senior partner in the law firm he had joined to go to Newcastle to negotiate an industrial dispute for a client.

  'Anyone for non-stop girl talk?' Linda asked when she invited Margaret to join her for dinner, the first night he was away.

  They cooked together that evening in Richard's flat, a wildly experimental meal of Chinese dishes for which they shared a passion. It was a great success, and to make it seem even closer to the real thing Margaret brought a bottle of rice wine to drink with it. She considered buying chopsticks from a shop she knew in Queensway, but in the end she decided Linda would undoubtedly have several pairs. She was right; Linda did, as well as china soup spoons with which they ate the clear, delicious broth which was their first course.

  'A rather convincing imitation of the McCoy, no?' Linda said when they'd finished eating.

  'Yes,' Margaret answered, smiling. But abruptly, her smile faded. A clear and painful picture had floated into her mind just then, the memory of the first time Peter had taken her to dinner… to the floatin
g kitchens of the typhoon shelter at Causeway Bay, in a hired sampan.

  'What is it, love?' Linda asked.

  Margaret began to cry. 'Oh, Linda, it's no use,' she stammered. 'I have to ask you, really I do. I simply have to know. About Peter -where he is, what he's d-doing…'

  Linda shook her head firmly. 'Let's not talk about him, Margaret, please. It won't do any good. You know it's over, and you've simply got to come to terms with that. It's been a long time—'

  'How can you be so sure it's over?' Margaret blazed angrily. 'You don't know what a man might be thinking and feeling just because you happen to work for him— Oh, I'm sorry, Linda, I didn't mean it to come out like that—'

  'It's OK,' Linda said quietly, patting Margaret's hand. She rose from the table and began to stack the dinner things on to a large tray; she carried it through into the kitchen, and busied herself there for several minutes before she came back again. When she did she sat down at the table, and poured out more wine for each of them.

  'I'm sorry too,' Linda said softly. 'It's not my place to play God, or even to give lectures. It's only that the longer you allow yourself to dwell on Peter Benhurst, the longer it's going to take for the hurt to heal completely. You can see that, can't you?'

  'Yes, but I keep thinking of the way he tried to reach me after that quarrel. The roses he sent, and all those telephone messages. I was a fool not to ring him back, Linda, not to give him a chance to explain, or apologize . Looking back—'

  'Don't look back,' Linda insisted quickly.

  'But maybe, Linda, just maybe—'

  'No.'

  'Why not, Linda? How can you be so sure?'

  Linda took a deep breath, and a sip of her wine, before she answered. 'He's engaged, Margaret. I was gong to wait as long as I possibly could… before I told you. I'm sorry…'

  'To Susanna?'

  Linda didn't answer. She simply reached out for Margaret's hand, held it very tightly, and nodded.

  12

  Spring dragged its heels that year.

  The snow which had seemed so right on Christmas Eve, smooth and crisp and even round the carollers who sang so sweetly in the London streets, had become a menace long before it buried the first brave crocuses in the London parks.

  'Any place that's warm and sunny, please,' became a chant among the clientele of Travel Unlimited, as business boomed. Everyone who could beg, borrow or steal the time and money to leave that world of ice and slush and hazardous driving, if only for a long weekend, was determined to do so, and as soon as possible.

  It wasn't always possible. Margaret learned a lot, then; more than she wished to know about certain things. Like the way a train could be slowed or stopped altogether when points froze on the line over which it ran, and the missed connections that resulted; or how the oil and water in the hydraulic system of a plane could freeze solid in arctic weather conditions, rendering the plane quite unable to carry its passengers off to Minorca or the Canaries.

  'Icing on the wing?' she asked, bewildered, the first time she heard the phrase from a ground-crew controller at Heathrow, over the telephone. 'You don't mean frosting, do you, sir?' she ventured timidly, feeling remarkably stupid.

  The harassed man at the other end hadn't stopped working all that day, and he was very tired, but he laughed so long and hard at that that he nearly choked. When he finally recovered, he said, 'Oh, darling, you've made my day! No, not frosting, though I wish it was—' He stopped there to laugh again. 'It's ice, dear. Ordinary ice, like the kind you keep in the top of your fridge at home. Except it's all over the wings of a big, shiny Boeing just at the moment, and every man jack of the happy trippers in Gate 7 boarding area is going to have to wait at least four hours before we can ship 'em off to the Med. We thought we'd better let the travel agents know about it, because you're more than likely to get your share of comeback later on. We're doing all we can, of course.'

  When Ralph heard about that conversation, he teased Margaret unmercifully; she was certain she'd never live it down. It was useful, though, to have a funny story to tell on themselves when they were soothing the ruffled, disappointed, delayed, and inconvenienced customers.

  There were plenty of them, too. Even when Ralph or Margaret finally managed to get them out of London and into some sundrenched haven or another, it was frequently even more daunting to get them back again.

  More than once, a flight which had been scheduled to land at Gatwick or Heathrow had been forced to set down at Luton, or, on one very fraught occasion, at Birmingham, and the hasty, last-minute arrangements by the airlines to lay on coaches to bring passengers back to where they should have been didn't always work out as smoothly as they'd been meant to.

  Margaret got plenty of practice in saying, 'We're so very sorry… Yes, it must have been awful for you… Oh my, yes, it really was terrible…' And once, when one of their particularly valued clients found himself stranded in Glasgow for fourteen hours when he had intended to toast himself in Greece, Ralph deputized Margaret to take the man out to lunch, on the firm, the day after he came storming into the Oxford Street branch to pound the counter top and terrify poor Helen Taylor, the girl on reception.

  'Spare no expense, Margaret,' Ralph told her. 'Dave's a silly old codger, and I did warn him. Nevertheless, he's a regular, has been for yonks. Flirt with him a little. Oh, and I happen to know he's got a weakness for port, and you'd better make sure it's a vintage port at that. I've already fixed up the matter of the bill, so there'll be no awkward moments at the end of lunch…'

  It had to be springtime sooner or later, and finally it was. Hyacinths made their cautious appearance, the pavements dried, the sun shone, and everyone at Travel Unlimited sighed deeply with relief.

  Linda was full of her wedding plans by then, pleased with the dress she'd chosen with her mother's help, thrilled with the progress Richard had made with decorating the flat, already making lists of what they'd need to order for the reception they were planning to hold there.

  'We finally managed to convince my mum that we're determined to get married in London, that we don't want fourteen bridesmaids and a flower girl, and that I really don't want the flowing white with veil bit, but absolutely not. Actually, I think Dad's more than a little bit relieved, seeing as how the whole shebang's going to be simple enough to keep him well away from his bank manager's inner sanctum on account of it.'

  That was early in April, on a Saturday morning when Richard had to work. Linda invited Margaret specially to the flat in his absence so that she could show off the pale peach linen dress she and her mother had chosen for her to be married in. She had found a marvellously romantic picture hat to go with it, and patent leather shoes. The outfit was simplicity itself, but the lines of the dress flattered Linda's good figure, and the colour suited her well.

  'You're going to be lovely!' Margaret said happily when Linda modelled if for her. 'Have you decided yet how much time you're taking off from work?'

  'Oh, just a week. We're using the money we might have spent on a honeymoon to paint the kitchen and buy a washing-up machine. I know it sounds a bit dull, but it's quite exciting enough becoming Mrs Richard Naylor at long last. And anyway, Richard can't get away at all until late summer, and I had all that time in Hong Kong—' Linda stopped there guiltily, gulping at her blunder.

  Several weeks had passed since the evening she'd told Margaret of Peter Benhurst's engagement to Susanna Baker-Leigh, a time in which Linda had been very careful to avoid mentioning Hong Kong, or her work in Peter's firm, or anything at all which would remind Margaret of the news.

  'I'm sorry,' Linda said contritely, 'I didn't mean—' 'Oh for heaven's sake, Linda, don't worry about it,' Margaret interrupted in a breezy tone. 'You can't walk on eggs for ever and ever if we're going to be friends, can you? You think I haven't noticed that while I've been boring you silly about my work, you haven't mentioned yours once? Honestly. I've thought about everything you said when you told me, and you're absolutely right. It's time
I got over him, and that's all there is to it. Why, I wouldn't have him back now if he came gift-wrapped! On good days, I can even feel a sort of fiendish glee that they're together. I keep telling myself they deserve each other.'

  Those were brave words, and if Margaret didn't really mean them in her heart of hearts, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. She was prepared at least to behave as though she meant them, that was the main thing. It would have to do. Linda respected that. She steered the conversation well away from Peter Benhurst, and she was careful not to mention him again.

  Ralph did, though.

  He had spent that Saturday working, and the first thing he did when he came rushing into the house at half past six was to grin broadly at Margaret and insist she suspend supper preparations while he ceremoniously poured out measures of sherry for both of them.

  'Close your eyes and hold out your hands,' he said, when they'd clinked glasses.

  'But what—'

  'No buts, lass! Do as I ask, please.'

  Margaret laughed, set her glass down on the kitchen table, and obeyed him. Ralph balanced something on her outstretched palms with reverent care.

  'What is it?'

  'Open your eyes and look, girl!'

  Margaret saw that she was holding several sheets of stiff paper which had been bound along one side to keep them together. 'I still don't know what it is,' she said, shaking her head. 'Some sort of contract?'

  Right in one!' Ralph answered, beaming. Just a little matter of all that work in Hong Kong about to pay off at last!' Ralph took the papers back, riffled through them impatiently until he found the last page.

  Peter Benhurst's flowing signature appeared at the bottom of that, and beneath it was typed, On behalf of Transcontinental Inns, a subsidiary company of Pan Orient Hotels Ltd.'

  'Now do you see?' Ralph asked. 'Skipping all the wheretofores and whatnots for the moment, what it means is that we agree to send them customers, and they agree to send us a percentage of their profits!'