by Ian Hamilton
“I’m sorry for being late,” a voice said.
Ava turned to see Amanda rushing towards them.
“Was there a problem?” she asked.
“No, just the opposite,” Amanda said breathlessly. “Chi-Tze called to tell me that the event site is already buzzing. They’re expecting a full house, and the PR people are predicting that Pang Fai’s appearance is going to generate outstanding press coverage.”
“Did Chi-Tze mention how Pang Fai is doing?”
“She’s as cool as can be. The other girls, especially the Chinese ones, aren’t quite so composed. The fact that they’re going to be sharing the runway with her might have something to do with it.”
“Do we know what she will be wearing?” Ava asked.
“I don’t have a clue, and neither does Chi-Tze or Gillian. Clark and the show director have been huddling together for days, and Pang Fai was with them yesterday. None of them are talking about what she’s going to wear or when she’ll make her entrance.”
“We should be going,” May interrupted.
They stepped into a taxi and started the trip that would take them across London Bridge to Southwark, on the south side of the Thames River. Ava gazed out of the window. The last time she’d been to London she had been working for the debt-collection company she ran with her old partner, Uncle. They had worked together for more than ten years, chasing scam artists and thieves around the world. Uncle had died more than a year ago, but he was still a part of her life, often appearing in her dreams and memories. She had started the transition into the Three Sisters partially at his insistence, just before his death.
“I don’t know if I’m more nervous or excited,” Amanda said as they neared the bridge.
“How is Clark?” Ava asked
“He’s a mess.”
“Good. He was the same in Shanghai, and look how well that turned out.”
“Is Elsa here?” May asked, referring to Elsa Ngan, a friend of Amanda’s and an editor at Hong Kong Vogue. Elsa had been one of PÖ’s first fans.
“Yes, she said there was no way she was going to miss our introduction to the West,” Amanda said. “And, by the way, she told me that Carrie Song flew in from Hong Kong yesterday.”
“You say that as if it’s unusual. I thought Carrie would have attended these fashion weeks every year.”
“Apparently not. Normally it’s the head buyers from Lane Crawford and Joyce who come to the shows.”
“Thank god for her support,” May said. “Getting probably the best retailer of women’s clothes in Hong Kong and Asia to carry our line was such a coup.”
“Carrying them and selling them are two different things,” Amanda said. “I have no doubt that Carrie is here only because we’ve been selling very well.”
“That and the fact that she still feels she owes Ava a debt of gratitude,” May said.
“Are you still having doubts about the setting for the show?” Ava asked, slightly uncomfortable about discussing her relationship with Song. She preferred to believe that it was the quality of Clark’s clothes, not her guanxi, that had been the determining factor in Song’s decision to take on the line.
“No. I was thinking about it last night and I believe the director we hired to create the show is being honest when he says it’s the coolest venue he’s ever worked in.”
“Clark loves it,” Amanda said.
The show was to be staged on a vacant floor more than halfway up the eighty-seven-storey Shard. With its floor-to-ceiling windows as a dramatic backdrop, the venue had been converted into a theatre with a specially constructed stage and a U-shaped runway extending more than thirty metres. Three rows of seats were placed on each side of the runway for the press, photographers, bloggers, retailers, and purchasing groups. The front-row seats were reserved for the major buyers and people of huge influence in the fashion world.
“It is dramatic,” Ava said. “And those silk warlord banners we used in Shanghai are going to look fantastic in that light.”
“We debated about using them again,” Amanda said. “But they worked so well in Shanghai, and we have almost an entirely different audience here, so the director decided to do it.”
“And did you finally decide what to do about music?” May asked.
“We’re going with Cantopop — loud and upbeat,” Amanda said.
They reached the Thames, crossed the bridge, and in a few minutes found themselves on London Bridge Street looking up at the glass-encased Shard.
“This is crazy,” Ava said, as they got out of the taxi and stepped into a crowd of people. “They can’t all be here for the launch.”
“No, this is a busy building most days,” Amanda said. “Follow me.”
It took them ten minutes to work their way through the lobby and into an elevator. When they exited, they walked straight into a throng of photographers who were taking shots of people posing on the red carpet against a backdrop emblazoned with the PÖ logo. Ava didn’t recognize any of them, but Amanda whispered, “The woman with the red hair is a senior editor at Elle.” Another crowd was gathered near the door to the venue. Ava had never seen a larger collection of well-dressed people. Inside, at least a third of the seats were already taken, mainly those in the second and third rows. Ava, Amanda, and May had been offered front-row seats, but May had been quick to say no.
“We don’t need our egos stroked,” she said. “I’d rather have someone who can help make our company a success sit there.”
“Do you want to go backstage and wish everyone good luck?” Amanda asked as they stepped inside.
“No,” Ava said. “We didn’t in Shanghai. I don’t want us to jinx them.”
“Then I guess that’s a no from me as well,” May said with a laugh.
They took their seats and looked anxiously around. The runway ran from the far end of the room towards the main entrance. The U-shaped design had the added advantage of enabling a maximum number of front-row seats. Five minutes before the show was scheduled to start, and there was hardly an empty seat. Ava looked at the front-row centre seats and saw they were full. She breathed a sigh of relief. The director had made it clear that if some of the major buyers and media people were running late, the show wouldn’t start until they got there.
“I saw Carrie and Elsa arrive,” May said. “Besides them, I don’t know a soul.”
“We’re not on home turf anymore,” Ava said.
The lights dimmed and Jacky Cheung’s voice filled the room. Ava felt a slight breeze, and the banners they had brought from Shanghai began to flutter.
Ava was sitting between May and Amanda, and when the first model appeared, she reached for their hands. For the next twenty minutes, she didn’t let go.
After seeing the show in Shanghai, Ava was familiar with the rhythm of the models appearing seconds apart. She knew they were going to show about forty outfits, or “exits,” as the director called them, but she quickly lost count. The show was tightly paced, and because of that, Ava noticed that instead of one outfit being singularly prominent, it was the general impression that stayed with her. In this case, she was taken by how beautifully cut everything was, how vibrant the linens — Clark Po’s favourite medium — and how well he straddled East and West, with designs that hinted at a Western sensibility but still had distinctivly Eastern touches such as cheongsam and bell collars and voluminous cuffs.
Unlike the Shanghai show, where the workers from the PÖ sample factory were in attendance and cheered loudly, the reaction in London was muted, although Ava thought she could hear muttering that seemed to indicate approval. But success in the fashion world was all so subjective, she knew, skewed to reputation and expectation, and PÖ still lacked the former. One thing that did bode well, she thought, was the number of people taking photos or filming with their smartphones. It seemed as though every other person had a phone aime
d at the runway.
Ava lost track of how many models had walked by, but she knew the end of the show was approaching, and there was still no sign of Pang Fai. “I’m beginning to worry about Fai,” she whispered to May. “Maybe she’s changed her mind about doing this.”
The constant flow of models quite suddenly stopped, and Ava watched the last three women walk past them and disappear backstage. There was a buzz in the air. Ava could detect disappointment in it, and felt a rush of anxiety. Was it possible Pang Fai wouldn’t appear?
Then all of the models began streaming onto the runway, followed by Clark, who was wearing white linen slacks with a red silk scarf tied around his waist and a loose-fitting white linen shirt with colourful glass buttons. He took five or six steps forward, stopped, turned, and extended his right arm back towards the runway entrance.
Ava felt time stand still. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes. Then an extraordinarily tall woman stepped onto the runway. She wore a delicately spun black linen coat shot through with thin strands of red and gold. All three colours shimmered under the lights. The coat was tightly fitted and came to just below the knee. The clean, minimalist cut was juxtaposed with a scalloped hem and bell sleeves. The model’s face was obscured by a multi-layered hood trimmed in red.
“Is that Pang?” May said.
The model took three steps forward and then stopped. She rolled her shoulders back and then held out a hand towards Clark. He walked to her, took her hand, and led her slowly down the centre of the runway.
Ava could hear herself breathing and realized that the entire room had fallen silent.
Clark faced the woman and whispered something to her. When she nodded, he began to undo the onyx coat buttons. When he finished, he moved back and took two steps to the side.
Her hands reached up and pulled the coat off. It floated to the floor.
May gasped, and Ava felt her own breathing stop for a second.
Pang Fai raised her head. She wore no makeup and her hair was cut in a simple pageboy. She had on a white linen T-shirt that barely reached her thighs, exposing nearly all of the famous Pang legs. The word “PÖ” was written in red, and along the bottom were the date and the word “London.”
The models lined the runway, surrounding Clark and Pang. May, Amanda, and Ava hardly noticed the steadily rising applause. Their attention was fixed on Pang Fai.
“Whoever thought of having her so plain under that coat is a genius,” Amanda said.
“So plain?” May said. “I’ve never seen anyone so beautiful.”
Clark picked up the coat and placed it over Pang Fai’s shoulders. She smiled affectionately and leaned over and kissed him on the lips.
He turned and bowed, waved to the crowd, and took Pang Fai’s hand and led her backstage.
Ava felt her body sag and realized she had been caught up in the drama of it all. The applause abated and the crowd began to disperse. Most people were already making their way towards the exit, while a few headed backstage. The director had warned them about the rapid departures. There were shows going on all over London, and schedules were tight. Ava was turning to talk to May when out of the corner of her eye she saw Carrie Song hurrying towards them.
“What did you think?” Ava said.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for anything,” Carrie said, shaking her head. “The clothes were wonderful, and Pang Fai — my god, only a real superstar could have pulled that off.”
“She was amazing.”
“There is something else I want to tell you. Do you see that stocky man in the grey suit and light blue tie?” Carrie said, motioning towards the exit.
“The one surrounded by three or four other men in grey and black suits?”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“Dominic Ventola, the chairman of VLG, the world’s second largest luxury brand company.”
“I know the name, and I know of VLG. Why would he come to our show?”
“Like everyone else, he may have wanted to see if Pang Fai would make an appearance. But I can tell you that once the show started he had his assistants — those other men in suits — taking photographs of every outfit.”
“Why would they have such an interest?”
“Not to steal Clark’s designs, if that’s what you’re thinking. They don’t operate like that,” Carrie said. “But, among other things, Dominic likes to invest in talented young designers.”
“We don’t need any investors.”
“I’m not suggesting you do or that that’s what he wants,” Carrie said. “I probably shouldn’t have said anything at all.”
“No, I’m glad you did, and I’m sure Clark will be pleased to hear that a man like Ventola saw fit to attend his show and thought enough of his designs to record them.”
“He should be.”
“And I need to tell you how pleased I am that you came today,” Ava said.
“I feel like I have a stake in all of this and all of you.”
“A big enough stake that I can entice you to join us for a celebratory lunch?”
“Will Pang Fai be there?”
“Of course, as well as May, Amanda, Clark, and our entire Shanghai team.”
“I didn’t mean to sound quite so star-struck,” Carrie said with a laugh.
“Fai does that to people.”
Carrie looked at her watch. “I have two more shows scheduled over the next two hours. One is in Soho and the other is in the Docklands. I can’t miss them.”
“I understand, but by the time they’re done, in all likelihood we’ll just be getting started, and it won’t be a problem if you’re late.”
“I’ll try to make it.”
“Great. We’ve reserved the private dining area at Hakkasan Restaurant in Hanway Place. It’s near Tottenham Court Road, about a twenty-minute cab ride from here.”
“It sounds Chinese,” Carrie said.
“It is Chinese, actually Cantonese. We are a predictable bunch.”
“That’s the very last thing anyone would ever call you.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This is the ninth installment in the Ava Lee series and it was one of the most difficult to write because some of the subject matter was far removed from my own personal experiences. There were four people in particular who helped fill in the blanks for me and I’d like to thank them:
Carrie Kirkman and Mary Turner — both fashion mavens and astute businesswomen in the fashion trade — who educated me on the workings of an industry I didn’t know very well.
A trio of eagle eyes scanned the page proofs for me and found a number of errors that even a large amount of diligence hadn’t previously discovered — so thanks to Catherine Roseburgh, Carol Shetler, and Robin Spano.
Kristine Wookey, who supplied me with a dizzying amount of information on linen.
Lawrence Wong, a Hong Kong resident, who advised on past and current business practices in China, and other things Chinese.
I also want to thank my publisher, Sarah MacLachlan, and her team at House of Anansi Press. They are unfailingly responsive and supportive. I want to especially mention Laura Meyer, my publicist. Laura is totally efficient and professional, but it is her wonderfully positive attitude and perpetual good cheer that make her a joy to work with.
As always, I need to thank my editor at Anansi, the great Janie Yoon. Even after eight books, she doesn’t let me glide. She continues to challenge me and, in her own subtle way, she keeps pushing to make every book better than the one before. At times it can be frustrating, but when I’m done, I’m grateful.
In terms of support, my own very large family continues to promote the books any way they can. My thanks to them all.
My agents, Bruce Westwood and Carolyn Forde, are almost like family now. Their support is also without question, but I value the
m as much for the honest advice and guidance they provide.
Last, I want to thank some booksellers. Each time we launch a new book I experience mixed feelings of anticipation and dread. We were fortunate to be able to launch the last two books at the Indigo store in the Manulife Centre at Bay and Bloor Streets in Toronto and at the Burlington Central Library, with the support of A Different Drummer Books. I want to personally thank Colleen Logan, general manager at the Manulife Indigo, and Ian Elliot, the owner of A Different Drummer, for their tremendous support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
IAN HAMILTON is the author of nine novels in the Ava Lee series. The books have been shortlisted for numerous prizes, including the Arthur Ellis Award, the Barry Award, and the Lambda Literary Prize, and are national bestsellers. The Water Rat of Wanchai was the winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Novel and was named a best book of the year by Amazon.ca, the Toronto Star, and Quill & Quire. BBC Culture named Hamilton one of the ten mystery/crime writers from the past thirty years who should be on your bookshelf. The series is being adapted for television.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”