“Cou … could you please …”
He opened the door and closed it after him.
The sour sweet stench in the tiny bathroom was heavy but he paid it no attention.
“I … it…” Another spasm twisted her.
“Now don’t worry,” he said, calming her, and put one hand on her back and the other on her stomach, helping to support her tormented abdominal muscles. His hands massaged gently and with great knowledge. “There, there! Just let yourself go, I won’t let you fall.” He felt the knotting under his fingers and willed his warmth and strength into her. “You’re just about my daughter’s age, my youngest. I’ve three and the eldest has two children.… There, just let yourself relax, just think the pains away, soon you’ll feel nice and warm….” In time the cramps passed.
“I … God, sorr … sorry.” The young woman groped for the toilet roll but another cramp took her and another. It was awkward for him in the small room but he tended her and kept his strong hands supporting her as best he could. An ache leapt into his back.
“I’m … I’m all right now,” she said. “Thank you.”
He knew she was not. The sweat had soaked her. He sponged off her face and dried it for her. Then he helped her stand, taking her weight, gentling her all the time. He cleaned her. The paper showed traces of blood and the bowl traces of blood mucus among the discolored water but she was not hemorrhaging yet and he sighed with relief. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “Here, hold on a second. Don’t be afraid!” He guided her hands to the sink. Quickly he folded a dry towel lengthwise and wrapped it tightly around her stomach, tucking the ends in to hold it. “This’s the best for gippy tummy, the very best. It supports your tum and keeps it warm. My grandfather was a doctor too, in the Indian Army, and he swore this was the best.” He looked at her keenly. “You’re a fine brave young lady. You’re going to be fine. Ready?”
“Yes. Sorr—sorry about…”
He opened the door. Peter Marlowe rushed to help. They put her to bed.
She lay there exhausted, a thread of damp hair on her forehead. Dr. Tooley brushed it away and stared down at her thoughtfully. “I think, young lady, that we’ll put you into a nursing home for a day or two.”
“Oh but … but…”
“Nothing to worry about. But we’d better give the baby-to-be every chance, eh? And with two small children here to fret over. Two days of rest will be enough.” His gruff voice touched both of them, calming them. “I’ll make the arrangements and be back in a quarter of an hour.” He looked at Peter Marlowe under his great bushy eyebrows. “The nursing home’s in Kowloon so it’ll save any long journey to the Island. A lot of us use it and it’s good, clean and equipped for any emergency. Perhaps you’d pack a small bag for her?” He wrote the address and phone number. “So, young lady, I’ll be back in a few minutes. It’ll be best, then you won’t have to worry about the children. I know what a trial that can be if you’re sick.” He smiled at both of them. “Don’t worry about a thing, Mr. Marlowe, eh? I’ll talk to your houseboy and ask him to help make things shipshape here. And don’t worry about the money.” The deep lines around his eyes deepened even more. “We’re very philanthropic here in Hong Kong with our young guests.”
He went out. Peter Marlowe sat on the bed. Disconsolate.
“I hope the kids got to school all right,” she said.
“Oh yes. Ah Sop’s fine.”
“How will you manage?”
“Easy. I’ll be like Old Mother Hubbard. It’ll only be a day or two.”
She moved wearily, leaning on a hand and watching the rain, and beyond it, the flat gray of the hotel across the narrow street that she hated so much because it cut off the sky. “I … I hope it’s not going … going to cost too much,” she said, her voice weightless.
“Don’t worry about it, Fleur. We’ll be all right. The Writers Guild’ll pay.”
“Will they? I bet they won’t, Peter, not in time. Blast! We … we’re so tight on our budget already.”
“I can always borrow against next year’s drop dead check. Don—”
“Oh no! No we won’t do that, Peter. We mustn’t. We agreed. Other … otherwise you’re trapped ag … again.”
“Something’ll turn up,” he said confidently. “Next month we’ve got a Friday the thirteenth and that’s always been lucky for us.” His novel was published on a thirteenth and went on to the best-seller list on a thirteenth. When he and his wife were at bottom, three years ago, on another thirteenth he had made a fine screenwriting deal that had carried them again. His first directing assignment had been confirmed on a thirteenth. And last April, Friday the thirteenth, one of the studios in Hollywood had bought the film rights to his novel for $157,000. The agent had taken 10 percent and then Peter Marlowe had spread the remainder over five years—in advance. Five years of family drop dead money. 25,000 per year every January. Enough, with care, for school and medical expenses and mortgage and car and other payments—five glorious years of freedom from all the usual worries. And freedom to turn down a directing-screenwriting job to come to Hong Kong for a year, unpaid, but free to look for the second book. Oh Christ, Peter Marlowe thought, suddenly petrified. What the hell am I looking for anyway? What the hell am I doing here? “Christ,” he said miserably, “if I hadn’t insisted on us going to that party this would never have happened.”
“Joss.” She smiled faintly. “Joss, Peter. Remember what you’re … you’re always saying to me. Joss. It’s joss, just joss, Peter. Oh Christ I feel awful.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
10:01 A.M.:
Orlanda Ramos opened the door of her apartment and put her sodden umbrella into a stand. “Come in, Linc,” she said radiantly. “Minha casa é vossa casa. My house is yours.”
Linc smiled. “You’re sure?”
She laughed and said lightly, “Ah! That remains to be seen. It’s just an old Portuguese custom … to offer one’s house.” She was taking off her shiny, very fashionable raincoat. In the corridor he was doing the same to a soaked, well-used raincoat.
“Here, let me hang it up,” she said. “Oh, don’t mind about the wet, my amah will mop it up. Come on in.”
He noticed how neat and tidy the living room was, feminine, in very good taste and welcoming. She shut the door behind him and hung his coat on a peg. He went over to the French windows that let out onto a small balcony. Her apartment was on the eighth floor of Rose Court in Kotewall Road.
“Is the rain always this heavy?” he asked.
“In a real typhoon it’s much worse. Perhaps twelve to eighteen inches in a day. Then there are mud slides and the resettlement areas get washed away.”
He was looking down through the overcast. Most of the view was blocked by high-rises, ribbon-built on the winding roads that were cut into the mountainside. From time to time he could see glimpses of Central and the shoreline far below. “It’s like being in an airplane, Orlanda. On a balmy night it must be terrific.”
“Yes. Yes it is. I love it. You can see all of Kowloon. Before Sinclair Towers was built—that’s the block straight ahead—we had the best view in Hong Kong. Did you know Struan’s own Sinclair Towers? I think Ian Dunross helped have it built to spite Quillan. Quillan has the penthouse apartment here … at least he did.”
“It spoiled his view?”
“Ruined it.”
“That’s an expensive attack.”
“No. Both blocks are immensely profitable. Quillan told me everything in Hong Kong’s amortized over three years. Everything. Property’s the thing to own. You could make …” She laughed. “You could improve your fortune if you wanted to.”
“If I stay, where should I live?”
“Here in Mid Levels. Farther up the Peak you’re always very damp, the walls sweat and everything mildews.” She took off her headscarf and shook her hair free, then sat on the arm of a chair, looking at his back, waiting patiently.
“How long have you been here?” he asked.
br />
“Five, almost six years. Since the block was built.”
He turned and leaned against the window. “It’s great,” he said. “And so are you.”
“Thank you, kind sir. Would you like coffee?”
“Please.” Linc Bartlett ran his fingers through his hair, peering at an oil painting. “This a Quance?”
“Yes. Yes it is. Quillan gave it to me. Espresso?”
“Yes. Black, please. Wish I knew more about paintings …” He was going to add, Casey does, but he stopped himself and watched her open one of the doors. The kitchen was large, modern and very well equipped. “That’s like something out of House and Garden!”
“This was all Quillan’s idea. He loves food and loves cooking. This’s all his design, the rest … the rest is mine though he taught me good from kitsch.”
“You sorry you broke up with him?”
“Yes and no. It’s joss, karma. He … that was joss. The time had come.” Her quietness touched him. “It could never have lasted. Never. Not here.” He saw a sadness go over her momentarily but she brushed it aside and busied herself with the sparkling espresso maker. All the shelves were spotless. “Quillan was a stickler for tidiness, thank God it rubbed off on me. My amah, Ah Fat, she drives me insane.”
“Does she live here?”
“Oh yes, yes of course, but she’s shopping now—her room’s at the end of the corridor. Look around if you like. I won’t be a minute.”
Filled with curiosity he wandered off. A good dining room with a round table to seat eight. Her bedroom was white and pink, light and airy with soft pink drapes hung from the ceiling that fell around the huge bed making it into a vast four-poster. There were flowers in a delicate arrangement. A modern bathroom, tiled and perfect, with matching towels. A second bedroom with books and phone and hi-fi and smaller bed, again everything neat and tasteful.
Casey’s outclassed, he told himself, remembering the easy, careless untidiness of her little house in the Los Angeles canyon, red brick, piles of books everywhere, barbecue, phones, duplicators and electric typewriters. Troubled at his thought and the way he automatically seemed to be comparing them, he strolled back to the kitchen, bypassing the amah’s room, his walk soundless. Orlanda was concentrating on the coffee maker, unaware that now he was watching her. He enjoyed watching her.
This morning he had phoned her early, very concerned, waking her, wanting to remind her to see a doctor, just in case. In the melee last night, by the time he and Casey and Dunross had got ashore she had already gone home.
“Oh, thank you, Linc, how thoughtful of you to phone! No, I’m fine,” she had said in a happy rush. “At least I am now. Are you all right? Is Casey all right? Oh I can’t thank you enough, I was petrified … You saved my life, you and Casey …”
They had chatted happily on the phone and she had promised to see her doctor anyway, and then he had asked if she’d like breakfast. At once she had said yes and he had gone Hong Kong side, enjoying the downpour, the temperature nice. Breakfast atop the Mandarin, eggs Benedict and toast and coffee, feeling grand, Orlanda sparkling and so appreciative of him and of Casey.
“I thought I was dead. I knew I’d drown, Linc, but I was too frightened to scream. If you hadn’t done it all so quickly I’d never … The moment I was under, dear Casey was there and I was alive again and safe before I knew it….”
It was the best breakfast he had ever had. She had ministered to him, small things, passing him toast and pouring coffee without having to ask for it, picking up his serviette when it fell, entertaining and being entertained, assured and feminine, making him feel masculine and strong. And she reached out once and put her hand on his arm, long fingers and exquisite nails, and the feel of that touch still lingered. Then he had escorted her home and inveigled an invitation up to her apartment and now he was here, watching her concentrate in the kitchen, silk skirt and Russian-style rain boots, loose blouse that was tight to her tiny waist, letting his eyes flow over her.
Jesus, he thought, I’d better be careful.
“Oh, I didn’t see you, Linc. You walk quietly for a man of your height!”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Linc!” The steam hissed to a crescendo. Jet droplets began to fill the cups. “A twist of lemon?”
“Thanks. You?”
“No. I prefer cappuccino.” She heated the milk, the sound fine and the smell of the coffee grand, then carried the tray to the breakfast area. Silver spoons and good porcelain, both of them aware of the currents in the room but pretending there were none.
Bartlett sipped his coffee. “It’s wonderful, Orlanda! The best I’ve ever had. But it’s different.”
“It’s the dash of chocolate.”
“You like cooking?”
“Oh yes! Very much. Quillan said I was a good pupil. I love keeping house and organizing parties, and Quillan always …” A small frown was on her face now. She looked at him directly. “I seem to be always mentioning him. Sorry but it’s still … it’s still automatic. He was the first man in my life—the only man—so he’s a part of me that’s indelible.”
“You don’t have to explain, Orlanda, I und—”
“I know, but I’d like to. I’ve no real friends, I’ve never talked about him to anyone, never wanted to, but somehow … somehow well, I like being with you and …” A sudden, vast smile went across her. “Of course! I’d forgotten! Now I’m your responsibility!” She laughed and clapped her tiny hands.
“What do you mean?”
“According to Chinese custom you’ve interfered with joss or fate. Oh yes. You interfered with the gods. You saved my life because without you I’d surely have died—probably would have died—but that would have been up to the gods. But because you interfered you took over their responsibility, so now you have to look after me forever! That’s good wise Chinese custom!” Her eyes were dancing and he had never seen whites as white or dark brown pupils so limpid, or a face so pleasing. “Forever!”
“You’re on!” He laughed with her, the strength of her joy surrounding him.
“Oh good!” she said, then became a little serious and touched him on the arm. “I was only joking, Linc. You’re so gallant—I’m not used to such gallantry. I formally release you—my Chinese half releases you.”
“Perhaps I don’t want to be released.” At once he saw her eyes widen. His chest was feeling tight, his heart quickening. Her perfume tantalized him. Abruptly the force between them surged. His hand reached out and touched her hair, so silky and fine and sensuous. First touch. Caressing her. A little shiver and then they were kissing. He felt her lips soft and, in a moment, welcoming, just a little moist, without lipstick, the taste so clean and good.
Their passion grew. His hand moved to her breast and the heat came through the silk. Again she shivered and weakly tried to back off but he held her firmly, his heart racing, fondling her, then her hands went to his chest and stayed awhile, touching him, then pressed against him and she broke the kiss but stayed close, gathering her breath, her heart racing, as intoxicated as he was.
“Linc … you …”
“You feel so good,” he said softly, holding her close. He bent to kiss her again but she avoided his kiss.
“Wait, Linc. First…”
He kissed her neck and tried again, sensing her want.
“Linc, wait … first…”
“First kiss, then wait!”
She laughed. The tension broke. He cursed himself for making the mistake, his desire strong, whipped by hers. Now the moment had passed and they were fencing again. His anger began to flood but before it possessed him she reached up and kissed him perfectly. At once his anger vanished. Only warmth remained.
“You’re too strong for me, Linc,” she said, her voice throaty, arms around his neck but cautiously. “Too strong and too attractive and too nice and truly, truly I do owe you a life.” Her hand caressed his neck and he felt it in his loins as she looked up at him, all her defense
s settled, strong yet inviolate. Perhaps, he thought.
“First talk,” she said, moving away, “then perhaps we will kiss again.”
“Good.” At once he went to her but, both of them in good humor now, she put her finger on his lips, preventing him.
“Mr. Bartlett! Are all Americans like you?”
“No,” he said immediately but she would not take the bait.
“Yes, I know.” Her voice was serious. “I know. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Coffee?”
“Sure,” he said, waiting, wondering how to proceed, gauging her, wanting her, not sure of this jungle, fascinated by it and by her.
Carefully she poured the coffee. It tasted as good as the first. He was in control though the ache remained.
“Let’s go into the living room,” she said. “I’ll bring your cup.”
He got up and kept a hand around her waist. She did not object and he felt that she liked his touch too. He sat in one of the deep armchairs. “Sit here,” he said, patting the arm. “Please.”
“Later. First I want to talk.” She smiled a little shyly and sat on the sofa opposite. It was dark blue velvet and matched the Chinese rug on shiny parquet floors. “Linc, I’ve only known you a few days and I … I’m not a good-time girl.” Orlanda reddened as she said it and carried on a rush over what he was going to say. “Sorry but I’m not. Quillan was the first and only one and I don’t want an affair. I don’t want a frantic or friendly tumble and a shy or aching good-bye. I’ve learned to live without love, I just cannot go through that all again. I did love Quillan, I don’t now. I was seventeen when we … when we began and now I’m twenty-five. We’ve been apart for almost three years. Everything’s been finished for three years and I don’t love him anymore. I don’t love anyone and I’m sorry, I’m sorry but I’m not a good-time girl.”
“I never thought you were,” he said and knew in his heart it was a lie and cursed his luck. “Hell, what do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a fine man,” she said at once, sincerely, “but in Asia a girl, any girl, finds out very quickly that men want to pillow and that’s really all they want. Sorry, Linc, casual pillowing’s not my thing. Perhaps it will be one day but not now. Yes I’m Eurasian but I’m not … you know what I’m saying?”