‘No, thank you. Not even a special parrot. The cat will be more than enough,’ she said.
*
Back at the apartment she found Grace sitting by the waste-paper basket, sniffing at the photograph of Leo. Treacherous bastard, what was he doing now? Claire could guess. She shook her head. No, no, she’d wasted enough precious years on him. She was now going to concentrate on more important things.
Meanwhile, Johnny’s interruption had distracted her. The muddle and confusion – suitcases, boxes, and so much crumpled yellow packing paper – looked worse than ever. She began to undo three cases at once in an attempt to make the flat seem like home. Grace retreated to the sofa and, folding both paws under her chest, lay down on a pile of clean white sheets.
‘Very helpful, madam,’ said Claire, opening yet another box. She propped a set of English flower prints on the bookcase, but the room had a personality of its own which seemed to overwhelm her few possessions.
Whoever had developed Lotus Court had spared no expense. Everything from the lampshades to the panelled walls had been decorated with bows and curlicues – a modern oriental chocolate box. She had planned to put away the gilded lamps and the hideous puce rugs, but where? Ah. Under the eaves at the back of the bedroom cupboard, of course, once she had cleaned it out. On second thoughts, maybe it would be good to have a cleaner from time to time, but a so-called maid was out of the question, far too uncomfortable and archaic.
It was surprising that her artistic boss, who owned this flat, hadn’t bothered to change the decor to a more minimalist style, but then he only leased it to his employees, so why bother? And the rent was very cheap.
She was exhausted, frustrated and, yes, lonely. More and more, she needed a kindred spirit to talk to, though not someone like pompous, oversexed Johnny. Was he a typical expat?
She’d meet her new employer tomorrow. An unnerving thought, but he was a cultured, educated man, bound to be different from the Johnny-type in most respects. At least he wouldn’t make a pass. She had been informed by her London colleagues that, though he was said to have once been married, Jean-Louis Durant-Vandenberg these days preferred men. There was talk of a young Cambodian friend.
*
When the taxi delivered her to the compound set on the edge of the city near where the rice fields began, she found Mr Vandenberg waiting for her on the verandah of his large, romantic-looking wooden bungalow. Beaming and shaking her hand, he exuded bonhomie but his eyes were small and sharp. His nose was small and sharp too, and rested in the middle of his pale face as if pinched from a ball of dough. Short, plump and youthfully middle-aged, with thin grey hair tied in a neat pony tail, he wore black sandals and a Chinese-style shirt without a tie – a kind of sophisticated hippy.
He moved quickly, gesticulating with long, manicured fingers and talking a great deal, pointing out all his treasures, his office, hers – a large modern room with everything one could wish for in the way of computers and other equipment.
The house itself was an elegant blend of oriental and western, old and new, with ornate dark red inlaid cabinets offset by cream Thai-silk curtains and thick, luxuriant Chinese rugs. As for his wonderful collection of Buddhist art – the scale of it took her breath away.
Despite Jean-Louis’ jovial manner, she felt uncertain in his presence: his playful smile seemed to her faintly sinister rather than reassuring. God knows why she felt like this – she’d met all sorts of artistic weirdos over the years and anyway he seemed extremely kind.
As he showed her around, he told her she must not think of coming to work full-time until she was truly settled chez elle and comfortable in her skin, as he put it.
As she was exploring the office, she came across a locked filing cabinet. When she asked Jean-Louis what it contained, he said smoothly, ‘Those are my personal files, my dear. You need not concern yourself with them.’
He turned at the sound of the door opening. ‘Ah, Pel, I should like you to meet Claire, our new colleague. You will find Pel a great help, Claire, as he is Cambodian and something of an expert in Khmer art.’
Dressed in hip Western gear, Pel was youngish and beautiful in his delicate Asian perfection, she thought. He smiled cautiously at her and made a bow, bringing the palms of his hands together as if in prayer. Claire remembered to respond in the same way.
‘Welcome. I hope you will be happy here,’ he said in reasonably clear English.
Claire gushed that she was sure she would.
The men smiled at each other and she felt oddly excluded by their complicity.
*
Later, back at her apartment, she pondered about Jean-Louis. Perhaps she was just too English to strike up an immediate rapport with a mega-rich, gay, half-French Swiss with a Dutch name. But her senior colleague in the Oriental Department of Sotheby’s spoke very highly of J. L. Durant-Vandenberg. He’d supported her application for the job with Jean-Louis, so it must be all right, above board and a good thing.
Clearly, though, her new neighbour disapproved of her new boss, but then Johnny Case talked in a rather old-fashioned manner. In his masculine pomposity he reminded her of Howard. Perhaps expatriates who had stayed in the East most of their lives were a breed apart, their thoughts and attitudes pickled in aspic at the time they or their parents left the British Isles all those years ago. Or maybe they just acquired a new style of thought and behaviour from one another. They were certainly different from people one met in England, and that, too, must be a good thing. Travel broadens the mind, said Claire to herself, doubtfully.
One of these days she would telephone Howard – dear, sensible Howard sitting in Selby’s bank on the other side of town, doing whatever international bankers did. Howard was the only person she knew in Maising, but each day something had prevented her from calling him to say that she had arrived.
At her age, when unspoilt, decent single men were starting to become thin on the ground, it would be crazy not to take him seriously. She didn’t like to admit to herself that kind-hearted, well-mannered and really rather nice Howard could be a long stop, a fall-back position. Just in case the brave new life didn’t work out.
Two
‘I guess you need a friend, Claire. Just drop by any time you need anything.’
Deborah Case was so different from the reptilian Johnny that Claire wondered how they came to marry. Large and lovely with abundant natural charm, Deborah visited almost every day so that her neighbour would not suffer from what she called the ‘newcomer blues’. In spite of her newish baby and demanding small boy, she seemed to have plenty of time to show Claire around the city.
Today Deborah had promised her an expedition to the tourist market. ‘We’ll take a taxi – they’re very cheap out here,’ she said. ‘It’s too hot to walk and there’s nowhere to park a car in town. Sounds crazy to take taxis to go bargain hunting, but that’s the way it is.’ She talked continuously as they stood on the dusty pavement, explaining this and pointing out that – the orange-robed monks, the tiled pagodas, the modern office blocks, the dilapidated wooden shacks, the stalls selling purple and white orchids and elaborate jasmine garlands.
Claire thought she would never be able to assimilate all the sights, and the information and advice she received from every side. When they were finally settled in an ancient Datsun taxi with shiny seats that stuck to their legs, Deborah turned to her.
‘So, you’re single, are you? Forgive me if this is too inquisitive, but the caretaker gave us your mail by mistake and it said Mrs Downing.’
Claire sighed. These questions were always difficult, even though she found herself answering them a thousand times. ‘Technically, legally, I’m a widow.’
‘A widow? Oh, I’m sorry.’
‘It’s OK. It happened a long time ago.’
‘You must have been very young.’
‘I was, he was. We were in our early twenties. We weren’t married long, only eighteen months.’ To save further questions on that front, she added, �
��It was a car crash.’
‘That’s just awful.’
‘It was devastating, utterly, utterly devastating, but time does heal. You get over it. I did get over it. You have to.’
‘No children?’
‘No, sadly.’
Deborah digested all this information, then she said, ‘I’m surprised you didn’t marry again. You’re very attractive. And still young.’
Claire smiled. ‘Thanks. Very kind of you, Deb, but I’m not that young any more. One of these fine days I’ll probably bore you to bits with my life story including my excessive caution and lack of success with blokes ever since, but right now it’s a bit hot for this conversation. It’s addling my brain, this heat. Sometimes I feel as if I’m breathing fifty per cent carbon monoxide.’
‘Yes, I know, it sometimes takes a while to acclimatize – you’ll get used to it. But tell me what you’re doing here, of all places? Why did you pick Maising? Was it just the job with Vandenberg or is there a boyfriend involved?’
‘Not really.’
‘What do you mean, not really?’ Deborah smiled widely.
‘Well, there’s a man I know in Maising, but he’s not a boyfriend, just a friend.’
‘And might he become the man in your life, this friend?’
Nosy old Deb, thought Claire. She smiled good-humouredly. ‘No way. Life’s quite complicated enough without men confusing the issue. I’ve decided I prefer to remain serenely single.’ She waved her arm. ‘What’s that grand tower?’
‘Just a hotel, another new one, the Intercontinental. New buildings all the time these days. Never stop knocking old wooden houses down and sticking up a modern concrete block.’
‘Where are we? Are we nearly at the market? All these streets, it’s so confusing.’
But Deborah was not to be distracted. ‘What’s his name this Maising friend?’
‘Oh, he’s called Howard Gillespie,’ said Claire, staring out of the window, trying to memorize the route, though without much success.
‘Howard?’ said Deborah, after an almost imperceptible pause.
‘Yes, d’you know him?’
‘Sure,’ said Deborah. ‘Everybody knows everybody, and besides he and Johnny work for the same bank. We must get you two together.’
‘No hurry,’ said Claire quickly, as the taxi screeched to a halt in a narrow street which led to still narrower lanes, covered with blue awning, hot and damp, and smelling of sickly sweet fruit, strong spices and not altogether fresh fish.
She was relieved that Deborah abandoned the subject of Howard and reverted to enthusiastic advice giving.
They went on to examine the street stalls with rack upon rack of cheap beach clothes and garish shirts embellished with fake designer labels. Others sold leather-look handbags and purses featuring the name of Dunhill or Dior. In the increasing heat, Deborah bargained happily for five minutes or more over a yellow snakeskin belt costing less than five dollars. Then, as Claire complained of exhaustion, they entered small shops crammed with blue and green pottery, and intricate jewellery set with semi-precious stones.
‘You like watch?’ asked the vendor, thin, bright-eyed and smartly dressed in a white safari suit. ‘I have Lolex, Cahtier, anything you want. You two nice laidee, I give you special price.’ He led the way around the back of the shop, past a foul-smelling open ditch and unlocked the door of a corrugated-iron shed. Producing several large plastic boxes, he laid them on the table. ‘Lolex? You like for laidee watch or man watch?’
He opened the box to reveal about fifty watches bearing famous European names nestling on dirty cotton wool. After much laughter and more bargaining, Deborah bought a Rolex copy and Claire selected one inscribed ‘Cartier Genève’.
On their way home, Claire said with a smile, ‘You know, I wouldn’t dream of buying a fake watch on a London street. Very improper.’
Deborah laughed. ‘You may find yourself doing other things you wouldn’t do back home.’
*
Then the ever-hospitable Deborah asked her to a party. ‘We usually like to have people Saturdays. Tonight it’s just some folks from the bank and a few islanders, mostly business contacts of Johnny’s – apart from Drew. He’s a newly divorced Australian guy. I asked him along because he needs cheering up, I guess. Oh, and maybe Howard will look in. He often does... What to wear? Oh, anything you like. God knows if I’ll fit into any of my clothes – I’m so damn fat after the baby. I’ll just die if I have to wear a maternity dress.’ She rolled her brown eyes upwards as she tried to squeeze in her waist with her large hands.
As Claire dressed for the party, she thought about Howard. Would he be there? As usual, she worried about her appearance. She was pale and thin, but it was too hot to eat much and too hot to sunbathe on her city balcony – she’d tried, but the instant she sat down she was covered in sweat. Maybe she’d make it to the beach one weekend to get a healthy tan like the rest of the Westerners here. But even the most beautiful tanned blonde couldn’t compete with the Maising island girls with their long black hair and lovely creamed-coffee complexion.
Grace padded into the room as she was staring at a heap of clothes on her bed. After a thoughtful pause, the cat leapt on to the dressing table to survey the scene.
‘What do you think about this dress, pusscat? Yes, you’re right. I look like a peeled banana in yellow. How about black? Too sad. I think I’ll go for the blue. Deb said it was informal. She’s nice, isn’t she? But a bit inquisitive.
‘Not the only one, of course – people often ask me why I haven’t remarried. As if there’s a massive queue of prospective suitors. Some hope. Thing is though, despite my so-called career and lovely life, maybe I ought to try and find a husband before I’m too old to pull the blokes. My mother certainly thinks I should.’
Grace gazed impassively, her tail twitching slightly at the end.
‘Yes, I know some women can pull until they’re seventy or more, but you can’t have babies when you’re that old. Well, you probably can these days, but it isn’t a good idea.’
Claire took off the blue and tried the black again. ‘So why haven’t I taken the plunge? Same old story. Because I’m over cautious and because, whenever I do throw caution to the wind, I’ve been compulsively going for the wrong type. To be honest, cat, I have – or used to have – a weakness for handsome men. But I’ve changed. I’ve made a new sensible resolution and that’s partly why I’m here. . . Actually I think I’ll wear the blue after all. Doesn’t make me look quite so limp.’
After further doubts and delay about shoes, she arrived at the Cases’ door and rang the bell, which had an irritating chime like her own. Deborah’s maid, dressed up in a smart black uniform, ushered her into the room, already crowded and noisy. Howard was not there. She did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed as she looked around at the guests.
‘Hi, Claire, great to see you. Sorry Johnny’s late. He had to play in a tennis match.’ Deborah rushed her around, introducing her to a sea of coppery faces, reeling off names so fast that Claire did not even try to remember them. Yes, she had just arrived, she found herself saying over and over again. Yes, she liked Maising. Yes, it was hot. Yes, she was working for Durant-Vandenberg. This latter point seemed to cause several raised eyebrows. Eventually Deborah whirled her out on to the balcony where she was presented to a dark-haired man who was standing by himself, staring down at the city street below.
As he turned towards her, Claire caught her breath, recognizing the sudden spark, the kind that was inclined to start a rip-roaring and inevitably disastrous fire.
She smiled up at him, trying to avoid transmitting her thoughts, but, she feared, not entirely succeeding. Their hostess rattled off again to attend to another guest.
‘Hi, I’m Drew, the token Australian.’ He was looking at her with interest. About her own age, he was thin, tall, and good-looking in a dishevelled, windburned way, but his dark eyes, sunk deep in their sockets, were tired and strained. His faded sh
irt was dark blue and, unlike the other men, who were all smartly dressed in tropical suits, he wore creased off-white chinos.
Pulling herself together, she said politely, ‘I’m Claire Downing, the token new blood.’
‘Always a good thing in these parts, new blood. This is a pretty incestuous society – all these expats in a small country socializing with each other and minding each other’s business.’ He gestured towards her empty glass. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘No, thanks, I’m fine.’
‘Yes, you are, the finest thing I’ve seen in a while,’ he said, smiling again. His Australian voice was low and musical. ‘So, tell me, what brings you to Maising, Claire? Did you come here with your husband?’
Straight to the point, she thought, amused.
‘No, I don’t have a husband.’
‘Divorced?’
‘No, widowed in my twenties.’ Claire resigned herself to cross-examination.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘A long time ago obviously. And to save you asking, I don’t have any children.’
‘Sorry again.’ He looked very sympathetic as people did.
She smiled sadly. ‘Me too, but there you are.’
‘I know a little about the feeling. I’m separated myself.’
Good news. Not that she cared, of course. Aloud she said, ‘Oh dear. And do you have children?’
‘No, my wife didn’t want any – bad for the career.’
It was hard to tell what he felt about all this. He seemed the laconic, buttoned-up type rather than an emotional new man.
‘So were you married long?’ he asked, and so she answered his questions calmly but briefly. She preferred to give as few details as possible.
‘Sounds like you went through the mill a bit,’ he said.
‘Yes, but I survived. You have to.’
‘Must have been very hard.’
‘It was hard, but, as I said, it was a long time ago now. I’m absolutely fine these days.’
Tropical Connections Page 2
