Sunrise in Hong Kong

by Denise Emery

  Margaret knew, all right, though she merely nodded as though Ralph's assessment of Susie's character would have to be taken on faith.

  'So the only thing Mrs Markham did was to ring her solicitors. She asked them to have a few private enquiries made, to find out exactly who Susanna was and where she'd come from. And they said, "Leave it with us," and sure enough they came up with a husband, and a Mexican divorce that isn't valid, and George Baker himself on the very weekend of the party. They rang through, apparently, to say that George Baker had been notified that his wife had been found, and so forth. Mrs Markham said she told them to give George her address, and to tell him that Saturday evening would be the very best time to come along to Richmond to collect his wife.'

  'Good lord!'

  'Yes, well, I expect she figured that George deserved an audience. And it did provide the maximum of splash and dash for Susanna's hopes, of course. Really showed her up in her true colours, you see. I gather she'd given Mrs M. plenty of stick by then.'

  Well… what was Susanna — Susie doing while all that was going on? Surely she didn't sit there smiling politely through?'

  'Oh, my goodness, no, she certainly didn't! Why, she started shouting and screaming and clinging on to Peter for dear life, moaning about how she could get a proper British divorce and how much she truly laved him and all the rest of it. I'll tell you, I've heard of gold-diggers in my time, but that girl takes the biscuit! When no one appeared to be taking any notice of the goings-on, Susie really went bananas. That's when she started cursing like a fishwife… Lordy, and after all her la-de-dah…' Ralph shook his head and laughed to himself, thinking back on the scene. 'In the end, Mrs Markham asked George to remove Susie from the premises. But she wouldn't go, so Clive was instructed to ring the cops. I felt sorry for George, actually. He seemed so determined to have his wife back, in spite of everything… '

  'What was Peter's — Mr Benhurst's reaction to all of this?'

  'That was odd too, really,' Ralph mused thoughtfully.

  'Why?' It was hard to keep that question casual. Margaret's heart was thudding so loudly she felt sure Ralph must be able to hear it.

  'Oh, because his first reaction was to laugh along with all the rest of us. We couldn't help it, lass. It was funny. But he wasn't behaving at all like a man who's just lost the love of the girl he was about to marry or anything like it. He went around smiling all day today, come to think about it… By the way, he asked after you at lunch this afternoon. Said he'd like to see you. He also mentioned you'd met in Hong Kong, at one of the parties.'

  'Really?' Margaret put on a puzzled look, and pretended to try to remember. 'That's odd. I don't remember him. What does he look like?'

  Ralph smiled. 'I don't think I'd know how to describe him, but offhand… well, he's tall, dark-haired, and I think you might even say he's good-looking.' Ralph gave Margaret a long, shrewd look, a look she met successfully by keeping her expression wide-eyed, innocent, and blank.

  'Oh, Ralph, you know that my holiday out there was jam-packed with parties. Remember? Why, I met dozens of people, and I really can't remember him. I'm sure he's very nice, though…'

  That sufficed. 'You did have a good time, didn't you, love?' Ralph said fondly. Out every night, seeing the sights, and so on. Speaking of which, how did things go with you and Frank this weekend?'

  Margaret studied her sherry glass for a moment while she hunted through her mind for the best answer to that.

  'Not too well, actually,' she said finally, inspired at last. 'We, er, well, we had a falling out, you see. I'm not planning to see him any more—'

  But you were so fond—'

  'Ralph, could we please just not talk about Frank now?' she pleaded, doing a fair-to-middling imitation of a young woman whose heart has recently been bent, if not actually broken.

  Ralph reached out clumsily to pat her hand. 'What can I say, lass? There's more fish in the sea than ever came out of it, that's for sure, though it's probably not much comfort to you just now. Here, let me pour you another drink…'

  Margaret accepted it, and then the conversation turned to other things. Ralph pleaded exhaustion after supper and took the Sunday papers to his room, leaving Margaret to wrestle with all the considerable conflict in her heart.

  She had been right about Susanna all along, and so had Linda. What had she said to Peter, the night they parted? Yes, that was it. She'd said, 'If I were you, I wouldn't trust that Baker-Leigh woman as far as I could throw her.' Or at least, that's what she'd started to say. He'd interrupted to describe Susanna as a 'good friend'. Huh! Some friend.

  And then what? Margaret sighed. Then she had told him he'd live to regret their quarrel, but that he wasn't to come to her with his apologies, and he'd said not to worry about it, and that had been the end… or nearly…

  Afterwards there'd been the roses, and the telephone messages she'd torn up, and after that the real end had come, when she'd run into Peter and Susanna on the beach.

  Well, she wouldn't have him back now if he came gift-wrapped.

  'I mean that, too,' she assured Linda shakily, when she rang her on that Sunday evening.

  'Margaret…'

  'Yes?'

  'He hasn't, er, actually tried to get in touch with you, has he? Recently, I mean, like today?'

  'We-ll, no…

  'Then perhaps you won't have to worry about it. Why not cross bridges as and when you come to them? Unless, of course, you're thinking of ringing him…'

  'Linda!' Margaret said, shocked. 'Haven't you been listening?'

  'Yes, I have,' Linda answered crisply, 'to these many moons. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you did ring him, nor would it shock me unduly to hear you'd got back together after all.'

  'Shall we change the subject?' Margaret asked, somewhat grimly.

  They rang off a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that, while Margaret was trying to concentrate on a documentary film on the wildlife of Kenya, the telephone rang.

  It could have been anyone. It could have been Linda ringing back, or Ralph's insurance agent, or one of the secretaries from the agency; it might have been Tim, or any one of dozens of people Ralph and Margaret knew between them. But Margaret took the telephone off its hook without bothering to find out who it was, and after a few seconds she replaced the receiver in the cradle.

  When it rang again, half an hour later, she did the same thing. And then, before it could ring again, Margaret raced upstairs to her bedroom and came down again with a pillow from her bed which she used to bury the phone so that even if it rang again she wouldn't have to answer it, and nor would its wretched ringing disturb Ralph.

  At nine o'clock, Margaret rang Linda again. 'I'm sorry for snapping at you,' Margaret said, and Linda sighed and said it was OK, she understood, and that friendship wasn't friendship without its ups and downs.

  'You didn't try to ring me after our last conversation, did you?' Margaret asked, and held her breath while she waited for the answer.

  'No. I was going to ring you at work tomorrow. Why?'

  'Oh, because the telephone's rung twice within the last half hour or so, and I wondered who it was.'

  'There is one excellent way of finding out,' Linda pointed out. 'You simply lift up the receiver, and say hello. Perhaps you should have done that, Margaret?'

  'I didn't want to.'

  'Hmm…'

  14

  'Travel Unlimited, good morning.'

  'Margaret?'

  'Yes, this is Margaret Hamilton speaking—' She stopped when she recognized Peter Benhurst's voice. 'The receiver felt icy in her hand, and her heart was beating so wildly it was all she could do to keep from dropping the telephone.

  'I tried ringing you at home yesterday evening,' he said quickly, almost as though he was afraid she would hang up on him. 'I realize it's very short notice, but — Margaret, would you have lunch with me?'

  So it had been Peter trying to ring last night! Margaret took a deep breath, summoned ev
ery shred of dignity she could muster while she willed her heart to be indifferent to his deep, familiar voice. 'I'm afraid that's out of the question,' she said coolly.

  'Well then, dinner?'

  'No, thank you. Actually, Peter, I really don't feel we've anything at all to say to one another after all this time, so—'

  'Margaret?'

  'Yes?'

  'I think we do. Among other things, I'd like to say I'm sorry…'

  'It isn't necessary,' she said briskly. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a call on another line.'

  'I suppose I'll have to,' he said glumly. There was a click, and he was gone.

  Fortunately there was another call coming in just then. Having to answer it, having to concentrate on the problem of the client at the other end, gave Margaret a few minutes in which to steady herself. Normally Helen Taylor would have taken the call, as well as the one from Peter. But Helen had gone out for an hour to run errands. That left only Margaret to sit in the reception area, to greet people and to man the telephones.

  Ralph had been careful to keep Travel Unlimited's staff small. 'Small, friendly, and efficient,' he always said. Phyllis Gunter had worked with Ralph for years, and after Phyllis left there had been Margaret. She and Ralph were interchangeable between the Oxford Street and Fulham branches, and to assist them there were only two others, one in each branch: Helen in Oxford Street, and in Fulham, Louise Alsham.

  'If we get too big, we'll be top-heavy,' Ralph had said. 'The best way to run an agency like this one is to find a couple of really good people and pay them well, treat them well, and hope they'll stay a long time.'

  His system did seem to work nicely. But on that particular Monday morning Margaret wished with all her heart that there was a third hand in the office, or that she had gone out to run the errands, leaving Helen to take incoming telephone calls. Never mind, she told herself impatiently. She had handled it well enough. She had made it perfectly clear that it was far too late for her to have anything at all to say to Peter, or for him to have anything to say to her. He wouldn't ring again.

  She was wrong about that. Peter rang the following day, in the afternoon.

  'What shall I tell him?' Helen asked doubtfully. She was a cheerful, easy-going girl, a year or two younger than Margaret. Helen had been with Travel Unlimited for nearly a year, and she was popular with the clients. But she hated telling lies, even the diplomatic, necessary sort.

  'Oh, just tell him I'm busy with a client, or that I've gone out for the day. Anything at all that sounds polite and convincing, and… final. I simply won't speak to him.'

  Helen looked at her shrewdly for a moment, and then she grinned. 'Like that, is it? OK, love, I'll get rid of him for you.'

  That was the best way to put it, Margaret thought: get rid of him. The man had been willing to believe the worst of her, and he was such a poor judge of character that he had trusted Susanna -Susie Baker, with her phoney jet-set airs and graces. He'd implied that Margaret's brief, magical time with him had been an act, a deliberate attempt to get business for Ralph's agency… It was far too painful to think about.

  It was difficult to think of anything else. Margaret's heart felt like a heavy stone lodged in her breast, and in her least guarded moments she was forced to admit to herself that she was no nearer forgetting the taste of Peter's kisses than she'd been on the day she left Hong Kong all those months before. But there was nothing for it but to keep those feelings locked away so tightly they could never run away with her again. Margaret had allowed that to happen once, and once had been quite sufficiently painful to teach her a hard lesson.

  'He and I have nothing further to say to one another,' Margaret said to Linda, when they met for lunch on Wednesday.

  Linda's wedding was nearly upon them, scheduled for Saturday morning. They were talking about the glasses Linda had hired for the reception, and the champagne Richard had ordered to fill them, and the flowers. But abruptly, needing to talk about it, Margaret blurted out the fact that Peter had tried to ring her, several times.

  'You're sure you don't want to talk with him?' Linda asked doubtfully.

  'Oh yes, very sure!'

  'I think you're making a mistake. You never did give him a chance to apologize, you know, and from what you cold me at the time, you both said things you regretted later—'

  So? He was back with that awful Baker woman before I'd even left for home!'

  Linda shrugged. 'But before that, he'd sent flowers to you—'

  'He could afford them!'

  'Well, but money isn't everything.'

  'It is to him! He—'

  'Oh, don't be silly, Margaret! Just listen for a minute. He sent you flowers, and he followed them up with phone messages, and none of it worked. It's understandable he needed some consolation, some friend to talk with, just as you did. For all you know, he was just as broken up about losing you as you were about losing him—'

  'I wasn't!'

  'Oh, come on, Margaret. You're not talking with Ralph now, love, you're talking to me, remember? Think of all that good brandy you got through!'

  Margaret smiled ruefully. 'Point taken. But I'm over it now, that's the main thing.'

  Linda simply snorted at that, and made a wry face across the table.

  'Well, I am! And anyway, if Peter was so broken-hearted, how do you explain his engagement to marry little Susie?'

  'I don't,' Linda answered bluntly. But knowing what we all know about her now, I'd say he would have needed an armed guard to keep her at bay. And you had refused to speak with him. He might have proposed to her on the rebound. It wouldn't be the first time that's ever happened. After all, he did consider her a good friend. If I were you, I'd think it through very carefully before you drive him away again, perhaps to yet another variation of Susan Baker—'

  'That's just it, Linda! If I did start seeing him again, how could I ever really be sure there wouldn't be another Susan lurking in the background, just waiting for her chance to pounce?'

  'Oh, good grief, Margaret! How can anyone ever really be sure of anything? I do think it's safe to give Peter credit for having some sense. I mean, it does sound as though he cares for you, doesn't it? He's a proud man, you know, very sure of himself most of the time. For him to persist in trying to reach out to you… well, it says a lot.'

  'Not to me,' Margaret insisted crisply. 'He's… he's not coming to the wedding, is he?'

  Linda sighed deeply, and rummaged in her handbag for mirror and lipstick. Finally she shook her head. 'No. There'll be just you and Ralph and my parents and Richard's. And Richard and me, of course.'

  Saturday morning was perfect for a wedding. Cottonwool clouds hung innocently in the clear blue sky, and the gentlest of breezes ruffled the daffodils outside the register office where Linda and Richard were married.

  Margaret wore a navy-blue suit, understated and very simple, and she looked lovely. But Linda was so radiant in her peach-coloured bridal dress and Margaret felt a lump rise in her throat as she witnessed her friend's signature, when she signed 'Linda Peterson' for the last time.

  Afterwards they all went trooping back to Linda and Richard's flat. Richard's mother and Linda's dad took it in turn to snap photographs of the newlyweds as they were toasted by the bridal party. Before long, though, the sitting room was crowded almost to capacity with smiling, chattering friends who had come to wish the couple well.

  When Margaret noticed, that Richard's supply of champagne glasses was running low, she walked through into the kitchen in search of more. There were several dozen there, arranged in neat rows on the counter top. Margaret found a tray, loaded it carefully, and turned to carry it through to the buffet table.

  When she found herself face to face with Peter Benhurst, she nearly dropped the tray.

  'Good morning, Margaret,' he said softly.

  'Oh! G-good morning! You will excuse me, won't you? They're waiting for these,' she said as evenly as she could, trying to push past him. He didn't move.

/>   There was only one exit from the kitchen. Short of successful persuasion or brute force, there was no possibility of escaping him. 'Please let me pass,' she said tersely.

  Peter shook his head as he prised the full tray from Margaret's rightly clenched fingers, just in time to rescue several fragile goblets from sliding to the floor. He placed it carefully on the counter top, and then he put his hands on Margaret's shoulders and looked down at her bent head.

  'We have to talk,' he said.

  'Linda promised me you wouldn't be here—'

  'No, she didn't. She merely said I wouldn't be at the wedding, remember? This is the reception—'

  Linda's mother came bustling into the kitchen just then, a round, brown-eyed lady who looked more or less the way Linda would look, given twenty years or so. She was saying, 'Now lass, what have you done with those glasses?' but she stopped mid-sentence when she noticed the ashen pallor of Margaret's face.

  With a murmured 'sorry', Mrs Peterson picked up the tray of glasses from the counter top and left the kitchen as quickly as she could.

  'Shall we go?' Peter said quietly to Margaret when they were alone again.

  'Go?' Margaret looked up then, directly into his eyes. She had forgotten how blue they were, how full of tenderness they could be. The longing she felt to reach out and touch him startled her; it was belied by her next words. 'No! We've nothing—'

  'Haven't we?' he interrupted softly. He raised one quizzical eyebrow and smiled down at her. 'Let's find that out over a quiet drink, shall we? Unless of course you'd rather raise a scene out there,' he added, gesturing towards the sitting room.