by Kris Webb
Sarah had mercifully slept through the whole process but was beginning to stir, and as I looked at my watch I realised she was overdue for a feed.
Focusing on the problem of where to feed Sarah allowed me to concentrate on something other than my sense of failure. Somehow I didn’t think that the hall was likely to have any parents’ rooms so I headed back to the entrance, figuring that I’d find somewhere outside to feed Sarah and call Debbie.
The aisle I’d come down was quite busy and I decided to go back up the next one. Definitely the lacquer aisle, I thought, as I walked along, spotting plates, drink coasters, platters and boxes in varying vivid colours. About to turn the corner and head back out the door, an object on the stall to my left caught my attention. Heading over to it, I saw that it was a book cover, made of two thin lacquer pieces held together by a brass hinge.
The man standing next to the stall smiled at me as I picked the cover up and turned it over in my hands. It was fabulous. The one I held was a vivid green, but judging by the colours of the other objects on display, a cherry red, shimmering blue and silver and gold were also options. Somehow the silk-covered books had never seemed entirely right to me. I’d always been concerned that the corners would rub off and the silk wouldn’t stand the test of time. But these would look the same in thirty years as they did now, and the unusual nature of the hard covers and wonderful colours would give our books the distinctive look we’d been after.
Reining in my enthusiasm I told myself that timing was sure to still be a problem and that the price was likely to be way too high to make it worthwhile.
‘Hello, my name’s Sophie Anderson,’ I introduced myself to the young salesman.
‘Hello,’ he replied in a gentle voice, handing me his business card. ‘Please call me Kim. Do you like the book covers?’
‘I love them,’ I replied frankly. ‘My business partner and I–’
He glanced at Sarah and raised his eyebrows.
I smiled before continuing. ‘My business partner and I are interested in buying about four thousand covers like this. Could you give me some idea of your pricing?’
At the mention of the price my heart leapt. With shipping and other costs we would be able to land the books in Australia for about four dollars each. That was slightly more than what we had budgeted for, but not significantly so. I’d have to talk to Debbie, but it was definitely an option.
‘Would there be any possibility of you producing the order within six weeks?’ I asked, holding my breath as I waited for the answer.
Kim didn’t reply immediately but frowned and turned to pick up a book that was sitting beside him. Leafing through the book he scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper, stared at them for a few seconds and then looked up.
‘Yes, madam, we could do that.’
With great effort I retained my poker face, knowing enough about business negotiations to realise that showing my delight would not help me secure a good deal. Debbie had spoken to me sternly about the things I had to investigate before I placed an order with anyone. Resisting the temptation to throw myself at Kim’s feet and ask him to make me four thousand book covers as quickly as he could, I visualised the list Debbie had given me.
‘Where is your factory, Kim?’
‘In Vietnam, madam.’
I paused to interject, ‘Kim, please call me Sophie.’
‘Yes, madam,’ he replied, smiling as he realised what he’d said. ‘My family has a small lacquer factory outside Hanoi,’ he continued. ‘For years my father has had a shop in the city where he sells our products. However, I believe we should be selling to people outside Vietnam, and after many months I convinced him that I should attend this trade fair and talk to people who wish to sell lacquerware in their countries.’
The serious young man in front of me had as much at stake as I did, I realised. A trip to Hong Kong must represent a fortune for a family with a small business in Vietnam and I couldn’t imagine his father letting him attend another such gathering if he wasn’t successful at this one.
‘Can you tell me about your business and your products, Kim?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps you would like to sit down and have a cup of coffee, mad – Sophie?’
Suddenly I remembered that Sarah needed feeding. ‘That would be lovely, but first I need to feed my baby. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve finished.’
‘Please feel free to feed her here,’ Kim said. Seeing my obvious reluctance he continued, ‘My wife and I have three children.’
Well, I thought, I’d fed Sarah in bars and restaurants all over Sydney, why not add a stall at a trade show in Hong Kong?
Kim pulled out a chair and as I took Sarah out of her pram and positioned her on my lap, he busied himself with something under a shelf behind me. After a couple of minutes I could smell the aroma of strong coffee drifting towards me. Kim looked around and smiled mischievously.
‘We aren’t supposed to have a stove here, but a friend who had been to Hong Kong years ago told me that the coffee here is terrible,’ he said, looking genuinely pained. ‘So I brought a small burner and can make my own.’
By the time the coffee was ready, I had finished feeding Sarah and put her back in her pram.
Pouring two cups of coffee from the stovetop percolator, Kim pulled a can of condensed milk off another shelf and held it over the top of each cup for several seconds.
‘You have had Vietnamese coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied as he handed a cup to me.
The idea of an inch of condensed milk sitting at the bottom of my coffee cup sounded very odd. For the sake of politeness, though, I took a sip and was surprised by the lovely bitter coffee taste, which was followed by the separate taste of the buttery, sweet condensed milk.
‘This is delicious, Kim,’ I exclaimed.
‘Thank you,’ he smiled happily, handing me a spoon, which he explained I needed in order to be able to eat the condensed milk as well as drink the coffee.
For the next forty-five minutes we discussed Kim’s set-up, products and capacity and he showed me photos of the factory and their shop, as well as several of his wife and children. At the end of the time I felt convinced that Kim’s family had a small but well-established business, and we had discussed practical issues such as payment and shipping.
With Debbie’s instructions ringing in my ears, I left Kim and spoke to the other dealers at the surrounding stalls. Only a few of them had the lacquer book covers and while their pricing was similar to Kim’s, none of them gave me the same feeling of confidence. Figuring that I had done my homework well and that I couldn’t go any further before speaking to Debbie, I headed back to the hotel with a bundle of samples under my arm.
Blessing the whim that had made me throw my black cocktail dress into the suitcase, I pulled it over my head, trying not to dislodge the rollers I’d put in twenty minutes before. The phenomenal humidity of the last couple of days had caused my hair to stick flat against my head, but to my great surprise the hotel’s housekeeping department had been able to produce some big rollers, which I hoped would give it some semblance of body.
Debbie and I had talked for about half an hour after I’d arrived back at the hotel and she was enthusiastic about the change of product, although she was reserving judgment until she saw the covers. She had never trusted my taste since the time in the early eighties when I had worn a fluorescent ‘Wake me up before you go-go’ shirt. We’d agreed that I would speak to Kim the next day and tell him that we were very interested and I would contact him once I was back in Australia.
Stuffing my feet into the white hotel slippers, which were about five sizes too big, I walked back to the bed where Sarah was lying.
‘Right, young lady, time for you to slip into something fabulous,’ I said brightly, feeling happy about the prospect of a night out.
Pulling Sarah’s shirt over her head, I froze when I saw that her stomach was covered in pink dots.
Debbie�
��s doctor had said there was a chance Sarah could have picked up chickenpox from her, but I’d thought the symptoms would have shown up by now and so had assumed she was safe.
I felt a sudden stab of panic. Chickenpox in a small baby could be serious and I’d have been worried enough at home, let alone in the middle of Hong Kong. Where on earth would I find a doctor or a hospital here, I wondered frantically.
Taking a grip on myself I tried to think rationally. Suddenly I remembered that I was staying in a five-star hotel. Picking up the phone, I dialled reception. ‘My baby is sick, I think she has chickenpox,’ I managed in a shaking voice. ‘Can you help me find a doctor?’
‘Of course,’ the receptionist answered smoothly. ‘I’ll call our doctor and have him come up to your room immediately.’
Replacing the receiver, I felt slightly calmer. At least I didn’t have to traipse around the streets of Hong Kong with a feverish baby, trying to find medical attention.
I stripped off Sarah’s clothes and examined the rest of her body for spots, but didn’t find any. I put my hand on her forehead as I’d seen Karen doing with her children. Was she hot? I suddenly had no idea what her forehead normally felt like.
The doorbell rang and I looked at my watch with a start, realising that it was seven o’clock and David must have arrived to pick us up. I crossed the room, but stopped suddenly with my hand on the doorknob as I remembered I still had my rollers in. Pulling them out with both hands, I threw them over the other side of the bed and opened the door.
David was standing there looking incredibly sophisticated in a black single-breasted suit and dark grey shirt.
‘Hi . . .’ He trailed off as he registered my very unready state. ‘Am I a little early?’
Shaking my head I said, ‘No, David. I’m really sorry, please come in.’
He stood awkwardly next to the bed, obviously noticing that Sarah was in a similar state of readiness to her mother.
‘Sarah has spots all over her stomach. I think she must have picked up Debbie’s chickenpox.’ My voice wobbled as I finished speaking and I bit my lip fiercely, determined not to cry.
David seemed to realise that too much sympathy would bring floods of tears and, no doubt thinking of the damage I could wreak on the front of his suit, he became suddenly businesslike. ‘Have you called a doctor?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘They’re sending someone up straightaway.’
As I finished speaking, the doorbell rang and I opened it to see a slight Chinese man carrying a doctor’s bag.
‘Good evening, Ms Anderson, I’m Dr Chen. Your baby is sick?’
‘Yes, I think she has chickenpox. A friend of mine in Australia has it and Sarah must have caught it from her.’ I stood back and gestured towards Sarah on the bed.
‘Okay, let’s have a look.’ Placing his bag on the bed beside Sarah, he looked down at her. As he did, Sarah suddenly started crying.
Without even touching Sarah, the doctor turned back to me. ‘That’s not chickenpox, Ms Anderson. Your daughter just has a heat rash.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘I’ll check her anyway,’ he said. ‘But I think she’s fine.’
After listening to her chest and looking in her ears and mouth, the doctor pronounced her perfectly healthy and left, leaving me with a still-crying Sarah and feeling incredibly stupid.
‘Sorry, David, you must think I’m totally neurotic,’ I muttered, looking over at him.
‘Not at all,’ he answered with a smile. ‘Chickenpox sounded like a perfectly reasonable diagnosis to me.’
Relief that there was nothing wrong with Sarah hit me, and as her crying subsided I felt my tension levels drop.
‘I guess we need to get moving then,’ I said.
I fished around in my suitcase for clothes for Sarah. The case was overflowing and I discreetly buried some dirty underwear that had been hanging over the side. Despite the fact that each item of Sarah’s clothing took up about a tenth of the space of mine, her wardrobe and assorted bits and pieces took up three-quarters of the suitcase. I had no idea how I had managed to fill a case before I had her.
Laying Sarah on the bed, I pulled a singlet over her head. It seemed to me that singlet manufacturers deliberately made the head hole about three sizes too small. I had distinct memories of having my nose and ears squashed against my head when my father put my singlets on and had thought it was his technique that was lacking until I found myself doing the same thing to Sarah.
The singlet safely on, I pushed Sarah’s arms and legs into the outfit and did up the zip which ran down the front.
David looked on with great interest. ‘Aren’t you worried that you’re going to snap off a couple of fingers or toes when you do that?’
‘Somehow it doesn’t seem to happen,’ I answered. ‘Trust me, that was a gentle exercise. Sarah lets me know if it becomes too brutal.’
‘You seem to be very good at all this baby stuff,’ David said.
‘It’s amazing how quickly it all becomes normal,’ I replied. ‘Before Sarah was born I struggled out of bed at seven-thirty each morning and needed two coffees before I could even start to think about the day ahead. I’d hardly ever held a baby, let alone changed a nappy or dressed one. Now nine in the morning seems like lunchtime and it feels as though I’ve been feeding and looking after a baby for years.’
‘Would you mind if I held her?’
‘Of course not.’ I handed Sarah across to him.
‘Hang on, not so fast,’ he stuttered. ‘I need some instructions about how I should do it first.’
‘Her neck’s strong so you don’t need to worry about holding that,’ I replied, smothering a smile. ‘Here, sit down, put your arms together and just rest her in the crook of your arm.’ I pulled his arms into place and laid Sarah on top of them.
David sat bolt upright, looking down at her as though she might explode any second.
‘Relax, she won’t bite you,’ I laughed.
Gingerly David moved around so that he was in a more comfortable position and moved Sarah so that she was facing his chest. Lucky girl, I thought.
Sarah started squirming and began crying again. Suddenly I thought about the process of getting her to the other hotel and settling her with the baby-sitter. The prospect of things going smoothly, and getting to dinner without David wishing he’d never suggested it, seemed very remote. There was no other option, though, and I moved around the room, quickly throwing things into a bag.
David seemed to have sensed my thoughts. ‘Look, Sophie, is this all a bit hard?’
My heart sank. We hadn’t even got out of the hotel room and already he was sick to death of my dramas. ‘No, no, It’ll be fine,’ I said with an optimism I didn’t feel.
‘Maybe it would be easier if we took a raincheck on dinner and did it when we were home in Sydney,’ he suggested.
‘That’s probably a good idea,’ I answered, trying not to show my disappointment.
‘Or what about having dinner in the room?’ he continued. ‘You could put Sarah to bed and we can have a drink and order in some room service.’
‘That sounds great,’ I replied with relief. The prospect of having David’s company without having to deal with the whole Sarah factor sounded like the perfect scenario.
‘All right, can I use your phone for a second?’
I nodded and heard him cancelling our dinner reservations and the babysitter.
As if Sarah felt me relax, she stopped crying and yawned. I took her into the walk-in dressing room where I’d had the hotel staff set up the cot, and laid her down. After kissing her goodnight, I pulled the door shut behind me and walked back into the bedroom. To my surprise there was silence – she’d gone straight to sleep.
David was sitting at the desk poring over the room service menu. He looked up and smiled.
Suddenly I realised I was still wearing the hotel slippers. Looking down at myself, I grimaced. ‘I’m not sure what the room service dress code i
s. Do you think I’m appropriately attired?’ I stuck one hip out in a model’s pose.
‘Hmmm,’ he considered, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me. ‘I’d say that’s just about spot on. I particularly like the two rollers on top of your head. I’ve heard that’s what everyone is wearing in Paris this season.’
My hands flew to my head and I realised in horror that I’d missed two of the rollers when I’d pulled them out earlier. About to apologise, I started laughing and threw the rollers onto the desk. ‘Anything else I should know about?’ I asked.
‘Nope, everything else is perfect,’ David replied seriously, looking at me intently.
Unsure of how to respond, I broke his gaze and moved behind him to look at the menu. ‘Wow, the food sounds great,’ I said. ‘After a steady diet of noodles the last two days, that rack of lamb looks very appealing.’
‘Rack of lamb, it is.’ David picked up the phone and ordered the food and a bottle of wine.
‘Would you like something to drink while we’re waiting?’ I asked as he put the phone down.
‘A beer would be terrific,’ he replied.
I pulled two beers out of the bar fridge and poured them into glasses. We moved the chairs up to the window and sipped our drinks, looking down over the bright lights on the other side of the harbour and chatting easily. The time passed quickly and I was surprised when I heard the doorbell ring.
Obviously I’d never stayed at the right hotels before. Until now my room service experiences had always meant a lukewarm meal delivered on a tray, but as I watched, the waiter wheeled in a narrow table covered in a crisp white cloth with a rose in a crystal vase on top.
Briskly the waiter flipped up and secured the edges of the table and produced two fabulous-looking meals from what must have been a hot box under-neath. After showing the wine to David, he pulled the top off, poured some for him to taste and then filled two glasses.
David whisked the bill in its black leather cover off the trolley, wrote in his own room number and signed it, despite my protests.
With a small bow the waiter was gone and we were alone.
