‘Must you? Don’t want to be too late at the project.’
‘Yes, I must – otherwise she won’t know what’s happened to me. She’ll probably send out search parties.’
When it came to the point, she decided, for some reason, to tell Deborah a little white lie and said that Jean-Louis had called her back to the office.
Six
Bumping around in Drew’s battered Land Rover in her best suit, Claire worried that she was seriously overdressed for an up-country expedition. She was rather pleased to have come across the local expression ‘up-country’ – it made her seem like a tropical expert. When she mentioned that she might be a nuisance tottering around the farm in her straight skirt and high-heeled strappy sandals, he insisted on stopping at a market stall and buying her what he called sandshoes.
‘Freaky footwear,’ she said, putting on the purple and orange sneakers, the only ones that fitted.
He smiled. ‘No worries. Farmer Lek isn’t a fashion man.’
They drove on past flat rice fields, empty apart from the occasional water buffalo, and began to climb into the higher, more arid country. The road deteriorated into a rutted dirt track and she was thankful when they eventually arrived at a small group of bamboo houses.
Mr Lek greeted Drew like an old friend. Short and scrawny, with skin like a dried chestnut, he wore long blue shorts and a sweat-stained indigo shirt. He bowed politely to Claire and made a small speech, smiling a great deal and nodding his head. Not having progressed very far with her language lessons, she understood nothing.
‘He’s pleased that you’re English. He says he wants to show you all around because part of this irrigation project has been paid for by your great queen,’ translated Drew. ‘The section donated by you Brits is only half an hour’s walk.’
She groaned. ‘Oh my God, I don’t think I can last ten minutes in this heat.’
‘Do you good,’ said Drew, taking her arm to help her up a steep bank.
Claire was acutely conscious of his touch. She broke away quickly and began to ask Drew questions to translate about irrigation and rice crops and other matters which did not really interest her. Mr Lek talked a great deal more and Drew listened to him with great patience and politeness.
Inland there seemed to be very little wind and the hard-baked red earth reflected back the heat. Eventually, to her relief, the tour ended in the shade of the palm-thatched hut.
‘Mr Lek wants to know whether you would like Fanta or Sprite,’ said Drew. ‘Oh, I don’t mind. Anything. I’m dying of thirst.’ She regretted her vagueness when she was presented with a revoltingly sweet red drink that tasted of cherries boiled in old Rugby socks.
Before they left, Mr Lek insisted on unlocking a dilapidated shed to show them some gleaming stainless-steel machinery.
‘Brand new dairy equipment – apparently the Danes gave it to him,’ said Drew. ‘It’s worth thousands of dollars. He’s very proud of it. Can’t actually use it, of course, as one part went wrong and no one here can fix it. Anyway, he’s only got six cows.’
‘What a waste. Shouldn’t someone do something?’
‘Yeah, but that’s up to the European Community. It’s part of their aid. I can’t interfere. I only work for the FAO and, of course, Oz projects.’ He laughed. ‘You’ll get used to international bureaucracy one of these days.’
To Mr Lek’s evident delight, Drew took several photographs of him with Claire. Then he shook hands with the farmer and his quiet wife who had appeared from the fields where she had evidently been working all afternoon.
‘We’d better go, Claire,’ said Drew. ‘Need to get to the restaurant in good time. Don’t want to miss the sunset.’
Clinging to the seat, she closed her eyes as they raced along the highway. When she opened them again, Drew was manoeuvring down an increasingly narrow road full of potholes. She saw that the rice fields had given way to dismal shacks and a row of concrete shops. Parking behind a malodorous warehouse, he helped her down from the Land Rover and, continuing to hold her hand rather longer than necessary, led the way around the corner. There, much to her surprise, was the sea and, reaching out into the clear shallow water, a magnificent old wooden pier.
‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘The scenery gets better every step you take.’
She was not disappointed. At the end of the pier was a traditional outdoor restaurant, plain dark wooden tables and chairs, white cloths, pots of frangipani, oleander and small fronded palms. A few prosperous-looking islanders sat sipping drinks at the long bar, but otherwise the place was quiet and empty.
A smiling girl in a tight batik skirt ushered them to a table overlooking the sea.
Claire sat and stared. The sun, dark orange, was balanced on the horizon. She watched entranced as it sank into the water, illuminating the sky and the sea with dramatic shades of crimson, scarlet and pink. Quite quickly darkness fell and a candle in a glass globe was brought to their table.
Drew had remained silent during the sunset. Now he smiled across at her. ‘Hope you like fish. It’s all they serve. Shall I order for you? I know what’s good. They do a great seafood dish here with island veggies and lemon grass.’
Normally she disliked men who offered to order for her, but tonight she watched contentedly as he negotiated with the waitress. ‘I’m impressed by how well you speak the language.’
He grinned. ‘When you’ve had a few more lessons yourself, you’ll realize how bad my accent is. And I don’t go much for grammar either. Not too good on verbs. But I get by, after a fashion. I communicate.’
She smiled back at him. ‘Yes, you communicate well. I liked the way you talked to Mr Lek.’
‘Ah well, he’s a mate, a good bloke.’
‘He seemed to think you were a good bloke too. Tell me about your work. What else do agricultural advisers do?’ she asked, sitting back in anticipation of a long male monologue, but Drew said he wanted to know all about her. As she talked, she was aware that he was watching her intently, studying her face with his dark eyes.
Eventually they fell silent. She could hear the sea lapping below them in the darkness. The night was warm and she’d been sipping her wine more steadily than she’d intended. She felt the sexual tension between them grow. She smiled to herself. Oh dear, she thought. Watch it. Wouldn’t be a good idea.
They did not speak much on the way home. Back in the city he parked outside Lotus Court and switched off the ignition.
For a moment Claire looked at her hands. She’d more or less decided not to ask him in, but then heard herself say, ‘Would you like to come up to my apartment – for a drink, I mean.’
Well, at least she’d managed a casual, unprovocative manner. He wasn’t the type to pounce uninvited so she was just being polite, really she was.
‘I’d like to see where you live, but, uh, better not tonight. I’m off to Rome for a conference tomorrow. The flight leaves at five a.m. God-awful time, so I need to pack and sort out a few papers. I’d originally planned to go straight home from the farm, so I’m not organized.’
‘Goodnight then and thank you so much for a lovely day,’ she said quickly, and began to open the door.
‘Don’t rush away. I need your phone number,’ he said.
Yay, thought Claire, mollified. She scrabbled in her handbag and gave him her card.
‘Thanks.’ He shoved it in his pocket. ‘I’ll see you to your apartment.’
‘Not necessary, really. Bye-bye. Have a good trip to Rome.’ She jumped down from the Land Rover and hurried up the steps. After a hearty goodbye wave of her hand, she closed the heavy teak door of Lotus Court behind her and took the lift to her apartment. Throwing her clothes in a heap on the chair, she lay down on the bed. But after a while she turned on the light again – she just couldn’t sleep, so she got up and paced about for some time.
Ensconced comfortably on the sofa, Grace the cat lay watching her.
‘Not my type at all, Grace, actually. Most unsuitable. What do yo
u think?’
Grace yawned, showing her sharp teeth.
‘You’re right. Not an interesting subject. I’ll shut up. Don’t worry. I’m going back to bed straight away.’
Suddenly the telephone rang, very loud in the silent flat.
‘I’ve finished my packing.’ Drew’s voice was low.
‘That was quick,’ she said, smiling to herself.
‘Could I come round for a beer or a coffee after all? I know it’s late, but . . .’
*
‘That was quick,’ she repeated when he appeared at her door fifteen minutes later.
‘Yeah, not much traffic at this time of night. It’s very late. But you’re still dressed. Though you’re wearing something different.’
‘I got dressed again when you rang.’ She did not describe the panic as she’d raced around the flat, tidying, adjusting the lighting and the music, persuading the cat to go out, choosing something suitable to wear and then discarding it for a dress even more demure and high-necked.
She led him through into the sitting room. Oh God, that music was too sultry and the lights a little too low. She turned on an extra lamp. ‘Do sit down,’ she said formally. ‘Black or white?’
‘What?’
‘Would you care for black or white coffee? Or perhaps you would prefer a drink? There’s whisky, I know. Oh, yes, you said beer. I think there’s one in the fridge, maybe you’d . . .’
‘White coffee, please.’
She went to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a tray. ‘I’m afraid it’s instant. Do help yourself to milk and sugar. Sorry I don’t have any cream.’
‘Are you always this socially polite?’
‘Oh, yes, always. I like to do the right thing,’ she said, still smiling but keeping a distance between them.
He sipped his coffee. ‘Me too. That’s why I’ve come.’
‘Oh?’ Claire raised her eyebrows.
‘Yeah.’ He spoke rather quickly. ‘I came to tell you that I’m a bit of an emotional wreck after I split up with my wife last year, and I’m not into committing myself in any way as far as women are concerned . . . and I thought that if I spent the night with you, you might expect some sort of commitment. Oh God, I’m not putting this well.’
‘We hardly know each other. I didn’t invite or expect you to spend the night,’ she said sharply.
‘I know, but I wanted to, and you knew I wanted to. I still want to, for that matter.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘It’s tough behaving like a gentleman.’
‘Perhaps.’
He looked up. ‘Perhaps what?’
She didn’t return his smile. ‘Perhaps I don’t know anything. Look, Drew, I think you’ve made your position pretty clear. And you’re right. I’m not the type for a one-night stand, never was. Now we both know where we are, you’d better go home and get some sleep before you go to the airport.’
He stood up slowly. ‘OK, I get the message.’ He took a few steps and turned. ‘Before I go, will you tell me about that bloke Howard?’
‘What about him?’
‘I mean, what’s the situation between you and him?’
‘No situation. We’re just friends really.’
‘So how do you feel about him?’
‘I like him. He’s a nice man.’
‘So you just have a cosy relationship, you and good old Howard?’
‘None of your damn business,’ she said evenly.
He walked to the door. ‘Yeah, sorry, I had no right to ask. I’d better go before you kick me out.’
Trying to breathe normally, she accompanied him to the hall.
‘G’night then,’ he said.
‘Goodnight, Drew. And thanks for the lovely present.’ She waved her hands at the purple and orange sneakers.
‘Don’t mention it.’
She smiled. ‘Shall I put away the coffee or will you be phoning in an hour or so to say you’re coming back for another cup?’
‘Tempting invitation. You’re such a nice polite English person.’ He looked at his watch. ‘But if I don’t go straight to the airport, I’ll miss the bloody plane. You’re in luck, Claire. You’ve got shot of me at last.’
He kissed her gently and quickly on the lips, his arms encircling her waist. They stood in the doorway. She thought he would kiss her again and was about to reach up to him, but then with a sudden goodbye, he left.
Claire closed the door. Eventually, restless, excited, uncertain, she went to bed.
Seven
Claire and her common sense had a long dialogue over the next few days and she told herself that common sense had won. Drew was not for her. Everything was against him, most of all, of course, was the fact that he was newly divorced and still heavily caught up with his ex. He’d actually said so himself. She was too mature and sensible and, let’s face it, too old to waste time with the wrong sort of man. She would slowly explore the possibilities of her relationship with Howard and, more importantly, concentrate on her work.
*
At first she’d been apprehensive about working in such a small organisation, more of a household than a business. Jean-Louis was still charm itself in a distant and slightly creepy sort of way. She was also intrigued by Pel who turned out to be a lot more than a so-called toy boy.
At first he’d regarded her with some suspicion. He must have considered her a rival, not in a sexual sense obviously, but as a person who took up too much of Jean-Louis’ attention. He used to spend a great deal of time whispering to Jean-Louis, as if determined to exclude her from the conversation. But apparently reassured by her unassuming and businesslike approach, he had accepted her presence.
Pel did not seem to have a great deal to do. He spent hours swimming lengths in the pool and practised some form of oriental martial exercises each morning. She liked to watch him surreptitiously. Small and lithe, catlike, he was extremely attractive with his thick black hair and fine eyes. His skin was a pale creamy brown and he always wore a gold cross around his neck which glinted in the sun.
She supposed him to be yet another object of beauty in Jean-Louis’ collection. But then one day, when she came early to work, she saw him in the garden shooting at a series of targets with a small black revolver. He did not miss a shot. Perhaps there was more to Pel than met the eye.
The turning point in her working relationship with Pel occurred when he discovered he was older than she was. Age and respect for age were important to Cambodians, the younger person should respect the older one, he explained with a smile. Claire was mystified, but surmised that maybe he’d feared she would displace him in the hierarchy now she’d become Jean-Louis’ special assistant. So she trod a cautious path, asking Pel’s advice whenever she could, and this tactful approach seemed to be working. It wasn’t hard to be nice to Pel because he was such a sweet and gentle person, much easier to deal with than the demanding, volatile Jean-Louis. Sometimes J-L was charm itself and other times her presence would suddenly seem superfluous or inconvenient. He’d shut the door in her face and had long telephone calls in one Asian language or another, she couldn’t tell which.
But he was a generous employer and continued to provide her luxurious apartment virtually rent-free. He even offered to find her a maid, but Claire thought that if she ever changed her mind and took such a step, she’d rather find someone unconnected with Jean-Louis. A maid produced by him would seem like a spy.
*
‘What do you reckon, Grace?’ Claire asked the cat one weekend. ‘Maybe we should have a maid or rather a part-time cleaner after all. It’s very hot for housework, even with the air-conditioning, and you’d have someone else to boss around.’
Grace gazed at her in a bored manner, half-closing her green-grey eyes.
‘But as it’s Saturday I think we should have a domestic-goddess morning and get things straight before we even think of a maid. I’m going to put those naff lamps and vile rug away in the cupboard under the eaves – I’ve been meaning to do it for weeks
– and I’m going to put you on the balcony before I do.’
Grace was not impressed by this move. While the cat glared at her through the balcony window, Claire hardened her heart. She was rarely in the mood for reorganization and didn’t wish to be distracted by interference from Grace, who tended to ignore her completely when Claire needed company, but, on the other hand, liked to pad about on the computer keyboard at most inconvenient moments.
Already hot and bothered, Claire found the hoover and, propping up her torch, began to clean out the eaves cupboard. ‘Damn, forgot that pile of newspaper, hope there’s nothing worse.’ The hoover clunked on something behind the newspapers. She cursed again and, rearranging the flickering torch, got down on her hands and knees. There wasn’t much space, but she could just about see two boxes right at the back of the cupboard. Quite heavy as she dragged them forward. No point in not opening them, so she did.
Blimey.
In each box were two ancient bronze Buddha heads. It was clear from the shiny metal at the neck that they had, relatively recently, been severed from their respective bodies.
Blimey, she muttered again. How strange that the former tenants had forgotten something as valuable as these Buddhas. What to do – she had no address, no email, no way of contacting them. Jean-Louis was away, so she decided, after some thought, to ring Pel, who said, to her surprise, that he would come round right away.
*
Pel examined the Buddhas and then looked grave. ‘I believe these may be stolen,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice.
Claire’s heart sank to her bare feet. ‘Stolen?’
‘We must return them to their owner.’
‘But hadn’t we better call the police?’
‘That is not a good idea.’
‘But surely it’s the right thing to do.’
‘What may be the right thing in your country is not always the right thing here. If you as a Westerner have stolen property in your apartment, then the police may blame you.’
Tropical Connections Page 5
