They went into the hotel and up the stairs to Charlotte’s where the maître d’ showed them to a booth and handed them leather-bound menus. Charlotte’s was one of Chung’s favourite Western restaurants and he was pleased to discover that it was the first time Debbie had been there. He recommended she try the salmon, and chose the wine without looking at the wine list.
“I thought you weren’t going to drink and drive,” she said.
“That was for your father’s benefit,” said Chung.
“I thought so,” said Debbie. “You handled him really well. I think he really likes you, and that’s unusual.”
“Because I’m Chinese?”
“No, because you’re a guy. He’s very protective of me. He normally puts prospective boyfriends through the third degree. You got off lightly.”
“Is that what I am?” asked Chung. “A prospective boyfriend?”
Debbie blushed. “I mean anyone who asks me out,” she explained. “Usually I try to keep them away from my parents.”
Their appetisers arrived, cream of zucchini soup with fresh basil for him, smoked chicken for her. Chung tasted the wine and pronounced it excellent.
“I liked your mother,” said Chung. “Is she much younger than your father?”
“About twelve years younger,” said Debbie. “Dad’s fifty-eight, Mum’s forty-six next birthday.”
Chung raised his eyebrows. “She looks younger,” he said.
“Why, Anthony, are you interested in my mother?” asked Debbie in mock horror.
“Of course not,” he said, breaking a fresh bread roll apart. “I just felt there was a bit of an atmosphere, that’s all. Have they been arguing?”
Debbie’s fork stopped on its way to her mouth. “What makes you say that?”
“A feeling, that’s all.”
She nodded. “They argue, sure, but I don’t think that they’re worse than any other married couple. They’re both under a lot of pressure, but for different reasons. Dad is worried about what’s going to happen to the bank, before and after 1997. He’s trying to arrange a merger with a foreign bank so that they’ll be less vulnerable when the communists take over, but he’s finding it difficult because of the loss of confidence in Hong Kong. The stock market keeps falling and the low share price means he can’t cut a good deal. His negotiating position just keeps on getting weaker.”
“And your mother?”
“All her friends are leaving, and she feels as if she’s been left behind. You know what it’s like at the moment – everybody’s bailing out. They’re either going back to Britain or switching to Thailand or Singapore. Soon there won’t be anyone left. That’s how she feels, anyway.”
“She may be right,” said Chung. “How many are leaving now? It’s something like 70,000 every year, almost 200 every day of the week. The brightest and the best.”
“But you’re staying?”
“I’m Chinese,” said Chung. “I help earn foreign currency for China, they need me more than I need them.”
“Plus you have a French passport.”
Chung grinned and raised his glass to her. “That I do,” he agreed.
They chatted all the way through the meal, and Debbie found herself genuinely enjoying his company. Chung was articulate, well read, and had a very dry, almost British, sense of humour. It turned out that he was an ardent fan of Fawlty Towers and had all the episodes on video tape.
The food was superb and after coffee Chung suggested they go along to Hot Gossip, a bar cum disco on Canton Road. As they walked she slipped her arm through his. He was tall for a Chinese, and well built. She noticed that they attracted quite a bit of attention on the streets. She’d like to have thought that it was because they were a well-dressed, good-looking couple, but in her heart she knew that it was because he was Chinese and she was white. If it had been the other way round, if she’d been the local and he’d been British, then no one would have given them a second look, but there was still resentment when a pretty blonde was seen on the arm of a Chinese male. The resentment came from both sides. The British found it strange that one of their own would be attracted to a Chinese man, the Chinese felt that it was a snub to their own women. It was so two-faced, thought Debbie. Everyone knew that the reason single expats liked Hong Kong so much was because they could go out with so many pretty, Oriental girls. But when a white girl went out with a Chinese, it provoked whispers and nudges. Debbie smiled up at Chung and held his arm tighter. She didn’t care what anyone else thought.
Hot Gossip’s upstairs bar was packed so they went straight to the downstairs discotheque. Chung found her a seat and then went off to get them drinks. He returned with a bottle of Moët et Chandon in an ice bucket and two glasses.
“A celebration?” asked Debbie.
“I just felt like champagne,” he said, pouring it for them. He raised his glass and clinked it against hers. Debbie was drinking when she saw Neil Coleman come into the disco, with his friend Phil Donaldson in tow. They were both sweating and had the look of men who’d been drinking heavily for most of the evening.
“Oh shit,” said Debbie, under her breath. She turned away and tried to blend into the wall but Donaldson spotted her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him grab Neil by the arm and whisper something to him.
“Are you okay?” asked Chung.
“An old boyfriend just walked in,” said Debbie. “I hope he doesn’t make a scene. He’s a bit possessive.”
“Don’t worry,” said Chung calmly.
Debbie saw Neil head over in her direction, a fierce frown on his forehead. Donaldson followed him, grinning maniacally and hoping for trouble.
“He’s a policeman,” added Debbie. “So’s his friend.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Chung. He took a slow drink from his champagne glass and gave her an easy smile.
Coleman bumped into a Chinese couple but didn’t apologise. He kept on heading straight towards Debbie like a guided missile. He stood in front of her, swaying unsteadily on his feet. He was wearing baggy brown cotton trousers and a white linen shirt and his sandy hair was unruly, as usual. Neil always blamed Hong Kong’s humidity but Debbie reckoned he just didn’t spend enough on his haircuts.
“Debbie,” said Coleman. Donaldson appeared at his shoulder.
“Hiya, Debbie,” he said.
“Hello, Neil. Hello, Phil,” she said.
“I thought you were seeing a girlfriend tonight,” said Coleman.
“There was a change of plans,” said Debbie. Her mouth felt dry and she swallowed some champagne.
“Champagne?” he said.
“We’re celebrating,” said Chung. He held out his hand to Coleman. “Hi, we haven’t met before. My name’s Anthony Chung.” The gesture took Coleman by surprise, and he shook Chung’s hand. “I work with Debbie’s father, on the corporate finance side,” continued Chung. “We finished a major deal this morning and we were supposed to go out celebrating tonight. He’s gone down with a bad stomach, though, so he insisted that Debbie take me out instead. It’s not every day that the bank gets a ten million dollar fee. Can we get you a glass?”
Coleman looked confused and turned to Donaldson for support. Debbie wondered why Chung had lied. For whatever reason Chung had decided not to tell the truth, his words seemed to have defused the tension now that Neil regarded him as a bank employee rather than as a rival for her affections. It was a smart move, she saw, because Neil was drunk and in the mood for an argument if not a fight.
Chung introduced himself to Donaldson and after they shook hands offered him a glass of champagne. Both Coleman and Donaldson refused, saying they’d prefer a beer. Chung offered to get them beers, laughing that it was all on the bank, but they refused.
“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” Coleman said to Debbie.
“Sure,” said Debbie.
“What time are you leaving?” asked Coleman.
“I don’t know,” said Debbie, annoyed at the question. She wante
d to tell him it was none of his business but she figured that she’d follow Chung’s tactful lead. “Anthony will give me a lift back, he’s left some papers at our house.”
Coleman nodded as if satisfied with her answer. “Okay,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Anthony. I’ll call you,” he repeated to Debbie.
“Come on, Neil, let’s hit the bar,” said Donaldson, tugging at his arm. Coleman looked as if he wanted to say something else to Debbie but then decided against it, shrugging off Donaldson’s hand and following him back to the bar.
Debbie waited until the two men had gone before turning to Chung. “Thanks for not antagonishing him,” she said.
“I could see he was looking for trouble,” said Chung. “I figured you wouldn’t want a scene here, not in front of all these people.”
The way he said it left Debbie in no doubt that if Coleman had come across them in an out-of-the-way spot Chung would have had no hesitation in getting physical. His body was well muscled and he’d told her that he’d studied kung fu as a teenager. Coleman, on the other hand, was starting to run to fat and had given up all sports the day he left school.
“You were so smooth,” she said. “How did you learn to lie so well?”
Chung laughed. “The knack of doing business with the mainland is to blend truth and half-truth and never to believe what your opposite number tells you. You get used to saying one thing and thinking another. I’m sure your dad knows what I mean, he must spend a lot of time dealing with the Chinese.”
“It sounds funny hearing you say that.”
“Saying what?”
“Criticising the Chinese.”
“You mean, when I’m Chinese myself? Sure, I’m Chinese, but I was educated in the West. There’s a difference. Do you think we should go, just in case your boyfriend has a bit more to drink and decides to come back?”
“He’s not my boyfriend!” protested Debbie.
Chung patted her bare arm. “I was joking,” he said. “Come on, let’s go back.”
They walked back to the car park, arm in arm. It was getting late but the streets were crowded. The Mass Transit Railway had shut for the night and the few taxis that had their “for hire” lights on were being frantically waved at, and couples were jostling each other to get to the door handles first. There was no queuing system for catching a Hong Kong cab, it was survival of the fittest, the victor being the one who could open the door first. There was no shame in running alongside a moving taxi and elbowing aside others to be next to the rear doors when it finally stopped. All that mattered was getting the cab. It was, thought Debbie, so typical of Hong Kong. Everybody rushing and fighting to get the best for themselves and their families and to hell with the rest.
As they reached the Ferrari, Chung pulled out his keys. He threw them in a gentle arc to Debbie and she caught them in both hands. “You mean it?” she gasped.
“I promised, didn’t I?” he said.
“Yes, but I didn’t think you meant it,” she said, opening the driver’s door.
“Hey, just because I lied to your boyfriend doesn’t mean I’ll lie to you.”
“He’s not my boyfriend …” she began, but Chung cut her off with a wave and a smile.
“Get in,” he said, walking round to the passenger side.
Debbie was surprised at how harsh the clutch and brakes were on the Ferrari, and how tight the steering was: the slightest touch on the wheel had the car moving left or right. But it was the accelerator that took her breath away. Just touching it with her right foot had the Ferrari leaping forward like a springing cat. Chung said nothing, letting her learn from her mistakes, and she was grateful to him for that. Even when she felt she had the car under control she could sense that it was straining to get away from her. It wanted to fly along the road, turbines screaming, and she could tell that it hated to be confined in traffic. “God, Anthony, it’s beautiful,” she gasped.
She hadn’t anticipated how noisy the car would be, and she could see why there was no sound system like most cars had. Music wouldn’t be heard over the growl of the engine, and besides, it would be totally out of place in such a car. It was built to race, not to cruise.
She edged the car carefully through the night-time traffic and towards the cross-harbour tunnel. Twenty minutes later they were on Hong Kong Island and driving up the Peak.
“It’s like riding a wild animal,” said Debbie, her voice loaded with admiration. “I’ve never felt anything like it. You know that if you put your foot down it’ll fly.”
“You drive well,” said Chung.
“For a girl, you mean?”
Chung shook his head. “No, that’s not what I meant. I meant you drive well, by any standards.”
Debbie grinned, pleased at the compliment. She reached over and ran her hand along his thigh. She slowed the car and turned off the main road. She stopped the car and switched off the engine before unbuckling her harness and turning to face Chung. She stroked the side of his face and then slipped her hand behind his neck and pulled him towards her, kissing him fiercely. His mouth opened and she probed inside with her tongue. His hands reached up to hold either side of her head, brushing her blonde hair clear of her face. Debbie made small, moaning noises and began to climb over the gear stick to Chung’s side of the car. Her head banged on the roof and she giggled. She bent her head and kissed him hard as she tried to straddle him, her hands struggling to pull down his zipper.
“Whoa!” he said, pushing her away.
“What’s wrong?” she said, surprised. Chung appeared confused. There was a smear of her lipstick across his left cheek. Debbie licked her thumb and rubbed it away.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” he said, caressing her cheek. She tried to bite his hand but he moved it to the side. She bent down to kiss him again but he put his hands on her shoulders and held her away. “No,” he said firmly.
Debbie put her hands down between his thighs and rubbed him. “You want it as much as I do,” she said, her voice husky with passion.
Chung grinned and his eyes sparkled. “I can’t deny that. But this isn’t the time or the place.”
“The time’s perfect,” said Debbie. “I want you, Anthony. I want you now.”
“Debbie, I’m not going to make love to you in a car. When we make love we’ll do it properly. There’s no rush, we’ve plenty of time.”
“You’re turning me down?” said Debbie, stunned.
Chung kissed her, and this time his tongue invaded her mouth before he broke away. “I’m not turning you down, I’m just taking a rain check,” he said. “When I make love to you, I want to do it properly, that’s all.”
Debbie sat back in his lap, her shoulders sagging. Chung was the first man ever to have refused her, and she found it difficult to come to terms with.
“Don’t look so offended,” said Chung.
“I’m not,” said Debbie, “I’m just surprised, that’s all.” She slid off his lap and back into her seat. She shook her head as she restarted the Ferrari, put it in gear and pulled a tight U-turn. She didn’t say anything until the car was parked outside her house. Chung got out first and walked around to the driver’s side to open the door for her. Debbie slid her legs out first and Chung helped her up. He kept hold of her hand and pulled her close, kissing her before she had a chance to react. She put her arms around his neck and pressed the full length of her body against his. It was with no small sense of satisfaction that she could feel him hard against her groin. She ground herself into him, pushing her hips from side to side, and then moved away, a sly smile on her face.
“That’ll give you something to remember,” she said. “Until next time.”
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“You’d better,” she answered, and ran to the front door. She unlocked it and disappeared inside without looking back.
Chung stood by the side of the Ferrari and looked up at the house. It was three storeys tall, white-painted stone with large sash windows and a flat
roof. There was a light on in one of the upstairs windows, and as he leant back against the car the curtains drew back and a figure appeared, a black silhouette against the light. The figure’s hair appeared as a golden halo, and he realised it was Anne Fielding. She was wearing a nightdress and the light streamed through it, clearly showing her figure, the swell of her breasts and her trim waist. She moved slightly and he saw her breasts ripple under the nightdress. He wondered if she knew how she was revealing herself to him, and if she cared. He couldn’t see her face but he knew that she was looking down at him as he stood in the light from the porch. Chung smiled, but he couldn’t tell if she smiled back. He gave her a small wave, but she didn’t react. He shrugged and climbed into the driver’s seat of the Ferrari. He looked up again before starting the car; the curtain was back in place and Anne Fielding had gone.
He drove back down the Peak Road, much intrigued by what he had seen.
“You my father?” asked the small boy, his hair light brown and naturally curly, his skin lighter than the Vietnamese the vets were accustomed to seeing.
Lehman ruffled the boy’s hair. “No, kid, I’m not your father,” he said.
The boy grinned, showing brilliant white teeth, perfectly even. “You know him? My father named Hans. From Holland. You come from Holland?”
Lehman shook his head. “From America,” he said. “We’re from America.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully as if considering a difficult problem. “Okay,” he said. “Me go America. You take me?”
“I can’t, kid,” said Lehman gently. He turned to the nun who was showing the group of Americans around the orphanage. Her white habit was stained at the front as if she’d spilled something down it, something brown or maybe red, and the area around the stain was grey and smudged as if she’d tried to get the stain out but had failed. “They speak such good English, Sister Marie,” Lehman said to her.
The Vets (Stephen Leather Thrillers) Page 16