Darcy was mute. Shock, confusion and fear stopped her vocal cords from sounding. She’d been personally fucked by Will and now she was being professionally fucked by him.
“She’s already agreed to keep everything off the record,” said Will, his voice sharp-edged with anger, making Darcy’s thigh muscles bunch. Three days ago, when she’d joked with her anonymous fellow detainee about the meaning of off the record, she’d had no idea it would be used against her so comprehensively.
Peter exhaled noisily and continued. “If in the course of your private or professional life you use any information about or obtained from Will Parker while in Pudong Airport or at the Peninsula Hotel, Parker Corporation will sue you, your editor, your managing editor and the publisher.”
Peter sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs nonchalantly as though he threatened to sue someone every Monday morning. “Do you understand me?”
Darcy understood Will Parker just killed her career.
If she did anything other than obey his officially binding off the record command, anything other than buckle to his legal might, she’d be unemployable.
She felt then the depth of Will’s duplicity and betrayal. This man, who’d promised he wouldn’t hurt her, had cut her off at the knees professionally.
She had no interview to take home and every incredible detail she’d learned about Will was barred from use unless she wanted to risk bringing legal hell down on the paper. Worse to even think about a defensive strategy with the paper’s lawyers; she’d have to discuss how she got the information, and there was no way to do that without admitting she’d sold herself to him.
She’d thought she was in control. Thought she’d made an educated choice and found Shangri-La. Instead she’d prostituted herself to the devil and walked headfirst into hell.
14. Web
“To be wronged is nothing, unless you continue to remember it.” — Confucius
Standing on Lover’s Walk outside the offices of hell, watching the boat traffic on the Huangpu and the sun glint off the outrageously pink dome of the Pearl Tower, Darcy tried to still the shaking of her hands. She’d been gripping the metal railing but that hadn’t helped. She focused on the rhythm of breathing, the slow count of time, and made a conscious effort to feel calm.
The sun was high and mercilessly hot, it bounced off the pavement and stung her skin like the sight of her false lover had stung her heart. It burned like the thought of how he’d designed her downfall, planned her detention and every move she’d made since.
She’d joked she hated him and he’d answered, “Not yet.” He’d made her his plaything and she’d let him. Now the hatred was no joke.
She needed a plan; a way of getting back, of salvaging something from this trip. She simply could not go home without a story, and she couldn’t see any way she could safely use anything she knew about Will. The knowledge she had was too personal, too traceable to be randomly fed to another journalist to use.
Why had he told her the things he had? Tara, the shipping container, Miss Frederick, his dyslexia. He’d given her such deeply personal details, only to tear them away from her as though they were mere lint, insubstantial fluff. Why not just lie in the first place?
Darcy stood in the middle of the Bund in the stunning heat and tears streamed down her face. She’d never felt so foolish, so stupid, so vulnerable, and so alone. There was no one she could talk to about this who wouldn’t judge her the architect of her own defeat.
In a couple of hours she had to phone Gerry, report in, and she needed something to tell him. Telling him they’d cancelled last minute, telling him they’d tried to substitute Peter for Will, though the ostensible truth, was a sure ticket to a job on some beat she had no interest in. Gerry would wash his hands of her. The insinuation that Parker’s people had rejected her for the job would be too strong to avoid. She’d become exactly what Gerry always suspected she was. A writer more useful for her family name than her ability.
She could go above him and talk to Mark, but Mark would only tell her she’d better come home with something, and do her the credit of not finishing the thought till she sat in front of him with an empty steno pad and a sack full of regret.
She needed a plan. She also needed to get out of the sun before she melted.
Back at the Peninsula, she thought briefly about changing hotels for her last night, but it was already going to be tricky enough to fudge her expense report. She had no receipts for accommodation or food, other than her coffee at Starbucks, or even transport from the airport. If she simply changed rooms she could come up with some lie about being given free accommodation because of a stuff-up at the hotel.
She had to argue with the desk clerk to get her own room, and even then her butler was engaged to relocate her meagre luggage. While she was waiting for the room to be ready, the clerk offered her complimentary Chinese tea.
Complimentary like Will said the Palace Suite was. Another of his lies. He’d obviously paid for it. She sat in the lobby bar and sipped her tea. She was cooling down both physically and mentally, and she needed to so she could think, plan, save herself. She watched a hotel employee making a change to a signboard with the events of the day on it. He was adding the evening’s activities.
What if Will hadn’t lied about the room? Hotels gave away drinks, even food, to keep guests happy. But they seldom gave away rooms. They’d almost never give away their top suite. What if it was Parker who was holding an event at the hotel tonight and a complimentary suite was part of their package?
Judging by the events board there were three functions at the hotel tonight: an awards event for a global accounting firm, a networking cocktail party for the local motor industry and a gala dinner. What if the dinner was for Parker?
According to the concierge, the gala black tie event was for the Peony Society, so that shot that angle in the foot. Darcy was halfway back to her complimentary teapot before she thought to ask if the Peony Society had sponsors.
They did. She was back in business. And she knew how she was going to pad her expenses. She went shopping.
Four hours later and fifteen hundred dollars poorer, she was back at the hotel having bought the single most expensive garment she’d ever owned. It was silver grey silk, heavily beaded with a sweetheart neckline and tiny glittery straps. It fit like a second skin. She had new shoes and a small beaded purse with a wrist strap. She had an appointment at the hotel’s hairdressing salon. Tonight she was going out on the town without leaving the hotel.
Gerry had sworn like a sailor down the phone when she’d called in. His blue language must have lit up telephone exchanges right across the Pacific. He didn’t go so far as to say she was responsible for Parker pulling the interview, but he said her new plan was harebrained. Mark was more moderate, but he was equally sceptical, though they both agreed if she could pull it off, it would be a coup.
There was only the half mirror in the tiny bathroom so Darcy couldn’t see the full effect of the dress, but she’d never felt so glamorous, so unlike herself. The salon had given her smoky eyes and ruby lips and set her hair artfully with a single perfect pink peony.
She knew she looked good when the Herald’s wire service photographer, Robert Yee, gave her a very obvious once over when they met in the hotel bar.
They did that thing when two people who don’t know each other meet at an arranged time and place. That half hesitant, maybe, you must be, oh yes, skating glance, smile, hello thing. Except after the initial shifting eye contact, Robert’s gaze took a long time to make it to back to Darcy’s face. She should’ve been offended, but it was the confidence boost she needed.
“Robert Yee?” she said to what was almost the top of his head.
His eyes raked up her body and he wore a big goofy grin when he was finally eye to eye with her. He straightened what she guessed was a hastily hired bow tie. One hand shot out. “Darcy Campbell,” he said in a broad Australian accent. “They said formal, they didn’t say dream
date.”
She shook his hand and gave him a half smile. This was no date. This was war.
For all his frivolous flirtation, Robert knew what he was doing. He’d been a stringer for the Herald in China for three years. His usual turf was natural disasters, cultural events and political intrigue, but subterfuge and gotcha weren’t outside his skill set.
The first hurdle was entering the grand ballroom for the Peony Society event. Without tickets, Darcy knew they’d have to tailgate through reception with a large enough crowd to hide them and then loiter about until only the seats of guests who’d failed to show up were still empty. They’d have to do all that and not look out of place, or in Darcy’s case, be discovered. There were three sets of eyes she’d have to avoid, assuming they let Will out for events like this. And if they didn’t, the battle was lost.
Choosing to meet Robert in the bar was the first element of the strategy. Darcy figured other guests would meet there too, providing the crowd they’d need to surf. She was right. They were able to attach themselves to a group of giggling girls in shiny dresses and gaudy fascinators, and their less obviously joyful cummerbunded boyfriends. Riding in the packed elevator to the grand ballroom, Darcy was uncomfortably aware her height and blonde hair made her a standout, and her inability to understand anything being said made her a liability.
Robert played his part well. Taking her arm, whispering in her ear. No one would know he was simply relaying directions or gossip about what was going on around them.
Ensconced in the group from the bar, they managed to glide past the official registration table, aided by the sheer mass of people arriving simultaneously.
Inside the ballroom, Robert snagged drinks and they stood in the shadows behind a huge pillar of flowering orchids trying to look like they belonged while the room filled up with ticketed guests and people found their tables.
If everyone showed up they were in trouble, if they claimed vacant seats too soon and the people who’d paid for them were simply late, they were in bigger trouble. This wasn’t like being in the wrong seat at the theatre. You couldn’t simply shuffle over. They couldn’t afford to draw any attention to themselves and the plan needed time to ripen.
Darcy watched the room intently. She needed to avoid being seen by Peter Parker or Aileen McVale. It helped she looked wildly different in her finery from the woman who’d come out swinging in their office this morning. More importantly, she needed to track Will.
She knew the knots in her stomach were about the risk of getting caught, not nervousness about seeing him. Because there was no guarantee he’d come, and no way to anticipate how seeing him again would make her feel. Her knuckles were bruised and sore but her resolve had hardened. She hated Will Parker and he’d get what he deserved.
“This is more fun than a mudslide,” said Robert, exchanging his empty glass of wine for a full one as a waiter swept by. “You know charity is controlled by the Party here. Private charitable organisations, like what Parker is doing, are a big deal.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be drinking so much, honey,” said Darcy, taking the glass from his hand. She didn’t think Parker and charity belonged in the same sentence. “Are you all set? If we’re lucky I’ll spot Will quickly, and we won’t even need to find a table.”
“And if he doesn’t come?”
Darcy shrugged, making the fringed beading on her skirt shimmer. “Then I’m all dressed up with nowhere to go.” And totally screwed over.
“Stand there while I test the camera for this light,” said Robert, moving Darcy to the left of the orchids. “Smile, babe,” he laughed.
While Robert played with camera settings, Darcy saw Aileen sweep into the room on the arm of a much older man. The banker husband had white hair and a regal manner. In a full-length red satin dress that left her shoulders bare and had slits to both thighs and black elbow length gloves, Aileen looked part royal consort, part dominatrix.
Peter Parker made an entry a few minutes behind her. His date, wife, escort, whoever she was, wore virginal white, the dress so tight she was forced to take small steps. Twice Peter had to turn back to look for her. He seemed impatient about that. He looked like the wealthiest man in the room. Everything about him seemed to shine.
Seeing Aileen and Peter was a relief. It was a sign this plan had a chance. There’d been every possibility the event was sponsored by Parker but more junior company flunkies did the honours. Gerry had bet on it. It was a spine-stiffener to know Gerry was wrong.
Darcy watched the door. Will wasn’t already in the room, she was sure of it, so maybe he really wasn’t coming. She couldn’t think about that. She turned her attention to the fast filling tables. She needed to find places they could sit. Right up until the official speeches there was still a chance Will might show.
She jumped when Robert touched her hand. “Over there, table thirty-two.” He was pointing towards the back of the room. “Someone’s kid’s sick, we can sit there.”
“How do you know that?”
He laughed. “My father is deaf. I lip-read.”
“You could’ve told me that.”
“Like a good Lin Gui I like to keep my weapons hidden.”
“Lin what?”
“Chinese Ninja. Come on, I’m starving.”
At the table, Robert said, “Smile and nod,” and launched into introductions, explanations, who knew, but Darcy smiled and nodded, and got smiles and nods back from the others at the table.
Sitting down she felt less conspicuous, but it was also harder to scope the room out. In this crowd, maybe five hundred people, she might never see Will.
The first dishes arrived. Shark fin soup, braised abalone with vegetables, sirloin steak with broccoli. Waiters circled with wine. Peter Parker worked the other end of the room, shaking hands and laughing. Robert said he was speaking Shanghainese, talking about fundraising. More dishes arrived. Crispy whole fried chicken, stir fried lobster with ginger and scallions, steamed fish. Darcy took Robert’s glass away and two of the women at the table laughed. Husbands who drank too much were obviously a problem needing no common language.
Dessert arrived. Sweet red bean soup and dish made of ground chestnuts and whipped cream called Peking Dust. A band started playing and couples got up to dance.
Will Parker slipped into the room when Darcy had given up expecting to see him. When she’d chugged her own second glass of wine and copped an elbow in her bead-covered ribs from Robert.
She was separated from Will by four rows of tables and a mass of swirling movement, but she knew he’d arrived because chills rolled up the back of her neck. He was directly in her line of sight. She grabbed Robert’s arm and sank into his side as Will’s gaze roved across the room. His unruly hair was brushed smooth. His tux was an old-fashioned glamour number with satin stripes down the pants legs. He had the jacket slung carelessly over his shoulder and his bow tie was undone. He looked every bit the wily pirate and her pulse pounded at the sight of him.
He was looking for someone and for one untamed moment Darcy hoped it was her. Then she remembered.
“Babe,” said Robert and he flung an arm around her shoulders. “That him?”
“That’s him.” She kept her face averted, eyes down on her lap.
“He’s a commanding looking dude.”
“He’s a duplicitous bastard.”
“He’s, er, coming this way.”
Darcy jammed her new shoes hard into the wood panel floor scrambling to push away from the table. She had to move now, get out before Will found her.
Robert was in her ear, holding her arm. “Be still, he’ll walk past.”
The older woman sitting next to Darcy leaned across and said something to Robert. He replied, then said, “I told her you had morning sickness.”
Darcy smiled weakly at the woman who nodded, smiled and patted her hand. The next contact she felt was on the top of her shoulder. She knew that touch. It stung like sunburn, it burned like deceit.
; “Darcy.”
She was undone.
She didn’t need to be a lip-reader to understand Robert mouthing, “Shit!”
There was nothing she could do but face her betrayer. She pushed back her chair and stood. His name weighed down her tongue, making it hard to speak. “Will.”
He might have asked why she was here, insisted she leave. He might have called security, or grabbed her by the hair and hauled her out of the room himself. He said, “Dance with me,” holding out his hand, expecting her to take it.
“Don’t mind me,” said Robert, who’d scrambled to his feet as well.
Will laughed. He appeared to notice Robert for the first time. “I’ll bring her back. Darcy?”
After pretending not to know her name, he was intent on wearing it out.
“Go away, Will.”
He stepped in behind her, his hip bumping hers, surrounding her with the citrus tang of his cologne. “What are you doing here?” His hand closed around the back of her neck and her bones started to liquefy.
“I’m here with a colleague.” She tried to pull away, but one thumb rubbed small circles up the column of her neck and anchored her in place.
“I don’t care. Dance with me.”
“No.”
His lips brushed her ear, “You’re divine.”
She angled her face away from him. “I hate you.” Not an adult response. He’d turned her into a sixteen year old, broken-hearted over Nathan Tucker all over again.
He ran his hand down her back till it rested at her waist. “No, you don’t.”
“Stop telling me what to do.” She spun to face him. “Stop telling me what to think.” His arm was around her, he yanked her to him. “Stop making me feel this way.”
The words were out before she understood they told him too much. She saw understanding in the flex of his eyebrow, in the fire in his eyes. He was going to kiss her. She was going to scream.
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