1

Sunrise in Hong Kong

By

Denise Emery

SUNRISE IN HONG KONG 'How dare you!' Margaret slapped him. Just once, across the face, as hard as she could. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again, and when she did her voice was low with barely controlled fury. 'I'll tell you something, Peter Benhurst. You're a bitter, twisted man. And I'll tell you something else. I think you'll live to regret this conversation and your monstrous assumptions! When that happens, I'll thank you not to come to me with your apologies, your, your' 'Don't worry about it!' 'I won't! But if I live for ever, I will never, ever have anything further to do with you, and that's a promise . .'

SUNRISE IN HONG KONG ISBN 0600 20266 6 First published in Great Britain 1981 by Severn House Publishers Ltd Hamlyn Paperbacks edition 1982 Copyright 1980 by Denise Emery

As a Director of the Barwell College of Business, Charles Beeson gave the final lecture of the spring term to those students who had just completed Barwell's two-year intensive course. His remarks touched on Determination, and Ambition, and Honourable Business Ethics. Over the noise of London traffic which intruded with the breeze through the open windows of the lecture hall, Mr Beeson wished the sixty-five hopeful faces in front of him the best of luck in their future careers. Finally, with measured dignity, he eased his lanky frame out from behind the oaken lectern, and walked slowly down the neat rows of chairs, handing out the sealed envelopes which contained the formal announcement of how well or how badly each student had done. Margaret Hamilton, seated at the end of the last row but one at the back of the room, looked far too fragile to have absorbed four full terms of the demanding course for which Barwell's was famous. Her dark hair was brushed into a businesslike coil at the nape of her neck, but it framed a heart-shaped face in which the features were both regular and delicate. She was sitting directly in the path of a shaft of sunlight, and burnished highlights of red-gold appeared in the curling mass. And although the bottle-green cotton shirtwaist dress she wore would have been suitable in the most formal office, it fitted her slender figure as though it had been made for her, and further emphasized her air of exquisite femininity.

Yet Margaret Hamilton seemed noticeably more relaxed about her results than many of the others in the large room, and as Mr Beeson approached her, she smiled up at him. He smiled back, handing her the envelope on which her name was written. 'Well done, Margaret,' he said with quiet approval, as he had to one or two of the others before her. Fifteen minutes later, when Margaret emerged from the college into a cul-de-sac off the Tottenham Court Road, Ralph Nickleby was waiting for her in their estate car; when he saw her, he leaned out of the window. 'Thought you'd be ready for a snack, lass!' he shouted cheerfully. She wrinkled her nose at him as she walked towards the car. When she'd settled herself into the seat beside him, she looked across in mock-despair. 'I haven't looked yet, Ralph, but I expect I failed every course except alphabetical filing. Never mind, you can take me out to lunch as a consolation!' Ralph sat patiently while Margaret opened her envelope and withdrew its contents, read quickly through her examination results and passed them to him. 'Celebration, more like!' he crowed, beaming. 'What will it be for the lady? Italian, or Greek? Or maybe,' he suggested teasingly, 'you'd prefer Chinese?' He said that as though it was an afterthought. It wasn't. It was a reference to the promise Ralph had made to her, on the raw day late in the previous January when the sombre skies and frozen ground had so accurately reflected the misery in Margaret's heart

Margaret Hamilton's father died in a traffic accident two months after she was born. Martin Hamilton's only legacy to his daughter, apart from his name, had been a handful of fading snapshots of his youthful, smiling face, photographs which Margaret's mother had carefully preserved. When Margaret was three Dorothy Hamilton married Ralph Nickleby, and almost from the day she met him Margaret thought of Ralph as her dad. In his mid-thirties then, married for the first time, Ralph was delighted with his new status, with the lovely wife and small daughter who were his 'instant family'. He was proud of his responsibility for Margaret, too, determined to look after her in every way as though she was his own. Ralph Nickleby's profession was the travel business. He had founded his own agency, Travel Unlimited, Limited, a shoestring operation in Fulham, the year he and Dorothy met. At first he had worked on his own to nurse the business into a solidly successful venture. But later, when he and Dorothy married, she had worked with him, doing most of the agency book-keeping from home. The business thrived, and when Ralph opened a second, larger branch in a busy side street just off Oxford Circus, it became far too much for the two of them to manage on their own. That was when Ralph had found the thoroughly capable Phyllis Gunter, who came to work for him as manageress of the Fulham branch. 'But not for ever, Ralph,' Phyllis had admitted to him with cheerful honesty. 'Just until my Bill retires in a few years' time. After that, we're planning to see a bit of the world for ourselves. By then,

of course,' she'd added, her eyes twinkling, 'you'll have young Margaret here, to help you!' Ever since Margaret had been old enough to go with Ralph to his office on Saturday mornings, she had seen his work as both exciting and thoroughly worthwhile; long before she left primary school, she had decided she wanted to join Ralph in the agency. Travel Unlimited had not made them rich. But the business had paid for the tall, spacious house in Notting Hill Gate where Dorothy and Ralph and Margaret were so happy together, and for a new car almost every other year. When the time came, Margaret's fees at Barwell-College of Business were found too. As Dorothy put it, 'If you're serious about joining Ralph, love, you'd best learn as much about business procedure as you can before you do it. And then if you change your mind after a few years, you'll be able to go off and make a career somewhere else if you want to.' Margaret was happy enough to do the course, and grateful for the opportunity. But she knew she wouldn't change her mind about joining the travel agency. It was something Ralph said, often and happily, that summed up Margaret's feeling for the business: 'What better way to earn a living than by bringing pleasure to folks by sending them off on holiday? Ah, but there's an art to that,' he'd go on thoughtfully, running his hand through his thick, greying hair. 'The real secret lies in matching the needs and means of each client to what we've got to offer, even if it means taking less profit than we might have done. Can't go around bankrupting people just to send them off on world cruises they won't enjoy for worry.'

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Margaret's first year at Barwell's passed uneventfully, though her struggles with 'Accounts Procedures in the Modern General Office' were more than enough of a challenge to convince her that her mother had been right to suggest she do the course. The first term of her second and final year included work which was even more difficult and demanding; by the end of it, shortly before Christmas, Margaret was exhausted. Christmas was especially festive that year, deliberately so; Dorothy planned it that way, determined to give her daughter a real treat before the beginning of her final months at college. 'An oldfashioned feast,' Dorothy promised, 'with all the trimmings, and plenty of people to share it with!' It was a treat for Margaret. She had celebrated her twenty-first birthday that autumn; even so, she still loved Christmas with a child's joy. But as an only child, and well past/the true age of childhood, Margaret had long since accepted the fact that Christmas dinner, more often than not, was a meal shared with Ralph and her mother in a restaurant. That year, though, the house strained and bulged with people. Dorothy invited both of Ralph's married sisters and their families down from Birmingham for Christmas Day and Boxing Day. 'The more the merrier,' she proclaimed gaily as she baked and cleaned and laundered in preparation for them all. Three days after Boxing Day, Ralph had shaken Margaret awake at five o'clock in the morning, ashen-faced in the shock of having to tell her that her mother was dead. They found out later that Dorothy Nickleby had died peacefully in her sleep of a heart attack. Thus it

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was that for a very long time afterwards Margaret brooded on that special Christmas, and exactly what it had cost her mother to provide it. But Margaret's first reaction to her mother's death was stunned, dryeyed shock, her mind so filled with the terrible absence that she couldn't bring herself to weep, not even when the first shovelful of earth followed Dorothy's simple coffin into the ground. It went on for many weeks. The college term started, but it started without Margaret Hamilton. Finally, as delicately and tactfully as he could, Ralph intruded. 'Ah Margaret, lass. Charles Beeson's been on to me by telephone, several times. He's wondering when' 'Tell him never!' Margaret snapped. 'Can't you see it doesn't matter any more? Can't you simply leave me alone?' 'No! No, indeed I can't, love,' Ralph answered firmly. 'Life goes on. If your mum were here to back me up on that, she'd I'd' He broke down then, overcome, as tears welled into his eyes and choked his voice. Seeing it, Margaret at last began weeping too, and after that some of the tension of her first grief was eased. Even then, though, Margaret continued in a depression that was so deep she no longer wanted to do anything at all. Some days she didn't even bother to get dressed. Instead, she stayed in her bedroom in her dressing-gown, listening over and over again to the records which had been her music-loving mother's favourites. Finally, in desperation, Ralph tried a piece of straightforward bribery to pull Margaret out of her extended and useless mourning. 'By the way,' he said casually over dinner, one evening near the end of

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January. 'I, ah, don't think I mentioned it to you, but I'm planning a sort of holiday for next autumn. I well, I wondered if you'd like to come along with me.' Margaret looked up from her plate, her green eyes alight with genuine curiosity for the first time since her mother's death. 'What sort of holiday?' 'Actually, it's a working holiday,' he answered thankfully. 'I was thinking that if you did want to come, I could take you along as my assistant. It would be tax-deductible that way.' He thought about that for a moment, and then shook his head doubtfully. 'Probably couldn't get away with that, on second thoughts. If I were to do it, I'd have to be able to prove to the accountant that you really were my assistant. Fully qualified to take up employment with Travel Unlimited, and so on' 'This wouldn't be a bribe, would it, Ralph? To get me to finish college, I mean?' Margaret asked drily. 'Oh, I'd not put it like that, love!' Ralph answered hastily, as though it was the furthest thing from his mind. 'Of course if you were to finish your course at Barwell's, and if you were to come into the agency next summer, then Phyllis and I between us could begin to show you the ropes, and then, well! Though, of course, once we got out there, your real job would be to enjoy yourself.' 'Where exactly is "out there"?' Margaret asked quietly, placing her fork on her plate with great care. 'Hong Kong.' 'Hong Kong, China?' she breathed, hardly daring to believe it.

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'Unless they've moved it,' he answered innocently, trying to keep a straight face. Hong Kong had been Margaret's daydream of paradise for as long as she could remember, and certainly since before she could read. She couldn't have been much older than four on the Saturday morning she first gathered a handful of the gawdy, exciting brochures from the reception area of Ralph's Fulham agency, brochures which had been placed there to tempt anyone rich enough and adventurous enough to want to go there. Margaret had taken the leaflets home with her, and her mother had helped her to sound out the simple, singsong syllables which were the city's name. Dorothy had explained patiently that Hong Kong was an island at the southeastern tip of the Chinese mainland. But it was the pictures, more than Dorothy's explanations, which had caught and held Margaret's imagination: Hong Kong's waterfront by night, shimmering with many-coloured lights; fishing boats at rest in the dusky waters of Aberdeen Bay, like so many huge birds; doubledecker buses painted in strong, gay colours, announcing their destinations in familiar English, as well as in inscrutable Chinese characters; modern office blocks overlooking street markets piled high with exotic wares; and the whole pulsating, hectic city teeming with people, a tantalizing mixture of east and west. Ever since, Margaret had been fascinated by that beautiful island of so many worlds, nestling in the South China Sea; she wanted to go there and see it for herself. Ralph Nickleby knew that very well, had known it for years. 'Oh dear,' he had said, scratching his head when Margaret asked him

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about it on her fourteenth birthday. Someday, perhaps. But Hong Kong is a very long way away, and the fares being what they are, it gets visited most often by folks on their way out to Australia, or the far east. It's not the sort of holiday we could afford for the odd long weekend, lass.' Even then, the return fares between London and Hong Kong had hovered extravagantly close to the five hundred pound mark, and Margaret was old enough by then to know that for most people a visit there was out of the question. Even so, she could dream. In short, Ralph could hardly have done better than to come up with a travel convention in Hong Kong, which Margaret could attend with him, provided she finished her college course, provided she agreed to start living her life again Margaret was seated in her less-than-comfortable lecture chair the very next morning, neatly dressed in a tartan skirt and woollen jumper, her hair combed and a dash of lipstick brightening her sorrow-paled face. She listened to her tutor's dry remarks about profit and loss as though he was the most interesting speaker in the world. She was at college every day after that, too, until at last it was late spring, and she had finished her course with flying colours, and her stepfather was waiting outside the college, to treat her to a celebration lunch.

That summer, Margaret divided her days between Phyllis Gunter and Ralph Nickleby. She sat behind one desk or another, picking up what Barwell's course hadn't even attempted to teach her: she began to

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learn the day to day, specific practicalities of the travel business at first hand. She got into the habit of smiling at people, even when they were hot and tired and unforgivably rude; she sounded cheerful on the telephone throughout what Ralph called the 'worst air traffic control strike in the history of British tourism.' She was patient while whole families dithered endlessly over the relative merits of Bournemouth and Bognor Regis. And when Phyllis decided to take a fortnight's holiday, Margaret pitched in and did her share of invoice typing, too. When each busy day was finally over, she was too tired to do more than go back to the house in Notting Hill Gate, which seemed so empty still without her mother, and throw together a simple meal for Ralph and herself before she climbed tiredly up to her room for an early night. She hadn't forgotten her mother, or the way Dorothy had been taken from them so suddenly. Her grief had dulled with time and work, but it was there all the same. Ralph knew that, for he felt something very similar. And he never stopped pushing Margaret in every way he could think of, relentlessly in the direction of life. Even at weekends, Ralph insisted she go out with the friends she'd made at college, just as she had done when her mother was alive. And although there were times when the strobe lights and loud music of a disco made Margaret feel she was about eighty-seven years old, she went just to please Ralph.

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Summer passed, and the promised trip to Hong Kong beckoned ever more brightly in Margaret's mind, like a vivid beam of light at the end of a tunnel. And then, very suddenly, it arrived: the crisp, clear September day of their departure from London, and with it Ralph's last-minute doubts about going off to the other side of the world, leaving Phyllis Gunter in sole charge of Travel Unlimited. 'Now don't you worry about me, Ralph!' Phyllis boomed over her shoulder as she drove them to Heathrow. 'If I'm going to miss anybody, it'll be Margaret.' She glanced across at Margaret in the seat beside her, gave her a quick, affectionate smile. 'She's worked for two, ever since she joined us. Anyway, it's not the peak season, so if I divide my days between Fulham and Oxford Street, which I intend to do, I can't think the business will fall into total ruin in the short space of three weeks. Furthermore,' she finished, grinning at Ralph in the rear-view mirror, 'we've been through all this before, so relax!' Margaret sat, at Ralph's gallant insistence, in a window seat in the enormous jet. It was a long flight, but Margaret slept through most of it, and any tiredness she may have felt vanished as the plane approached Kai Tak airport. She stared down, wide-eyed, at the islands, far too many of them to count, which were flung like an emerald necklace in the blue water below. She gasped when the harbour came into view, when she could see Hong Kong Island itself, with Victoria Peak, towering above the tallest buildings in the heart of the city.

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She turned then to speak to Ralph, to thank him, but she ended up grinning and shaking her head wordlessly, far too excited to say anything at all. 'Don't mention it, love,' Ralph said happily. 'A bargain's a bargain, after all,' he added gruffly, patting her hand, 'and I don't mind telling you I'm proud of the way you kept your end of it.'

'What I need is a few hours' kip. You don't mind, do you?' Ralph stifled a yawn. He hadn't managed any real sleep during the sixteenhour flight from London, and their arrival early in the afternoon had offered more than a taste of the non-stop carnival that is Hong Kong. Kai Tak airport, on the tip of the Kowloon Peninsula, is separated from Hong Kong Island by Victoria Harbour; Ralph and Margaret made the short crossing on a ferry, catching their first close glimpse of the city's skyline from its deck. Just as they docked, there was a bit of unscheduled excitement in the busy harbour: Margaret watched in horrified fascination as a fragile Chinese fishing sampan risked collision with an oil tanker, missing it by inches. And though the taxi driver who sped them from the docks to their hotel drove along the broad main streets of the city, they had only to look out of the window to see the endlessly intersecting maze of the alleyways which are .thoroughly Chinese. It was all Margaret could do to keep

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from jumping out of the cab, every time it was halted by the traffic, so she could begin to explore the city at once. The conference was to be based at the Star of the Orient Hotel, one of the most elegant along the beach at Repulse Bay; office space had been provided there for the participants. Ralph had booked their accommodation there as well. He and Margaret agreed to meet in the hotel lobby after they'd been shown to their rooms. When Ralph hailed her from a chair near the reception desk, Margaret walked quickly towards him, smiling broadly, quite charmingly unaware of how fresh and pretty she looked in her new blue cotton dress. 'Did you realize my room overlooks the bay?' she asked excitedly. 'Good grief, Ralph, this must be costing you a small fortune!' He waved that aside. 'Don't worry about it, love. We're getting the trade discount, after all, so I thought we may as well be comfortable while we're about it.' Comfortable, at least as that word applied to Margaret's room, and the gleaming bathroom which adjoined it, was an understatement. It was simply furnished, and decorated in tones of beige and off-white, a colour-scheme favoured by hotel owners everywhere as being least likely to offend any particular guest. But the coverlet on the bed, of palest green, was made of pure silk, as were the lampshades on the tables at either side of it. A wide-screen television had been built into the wall opposite the bed, and its remote-control tuning device had been placed on one of the bedside tables. With it were instructions, in English, Chinese and French, informing Margaret how to use it along with a current programme for each of the five channels available (in colour) for her entertainment. Best of all, tall French

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windows opened out of the bedroom on to a wide balcony from which Margaret could enjoy the entire white sweep of the beach below, and the sparkling water of Repulse Bay beyond it. 'There's a telephone too, of course,' she finished, laughing. 'I've only to dial out for anything I fancy, from high-speed dry-cleaning services to an eight-course meal for six. I could have a glorious time here without ever stirring out of bed!' 'Not much danger of that, though, is there?' Ralph asked mildly, winking at her. Margaret shook her head. 'In fact, while you're napping, I thought I'd go out. I suppose I'll get well and truly lost, but' Ralph chuckled. 'I wouldn't worry over it. Getting lost here is said to be part of the fun. Just take your street map along, and if all else fails, find yourself a taxi driver who understands enough English to get you back to the Star of the Orient. Oh, and be sure to be back in plenty of time for the reception banquet at seven. They've promised us a real slap-up Chinese nosh, so don't forget.'

Margaret walked for miles that afternoon, and it never even occurred to her to join any kind of organized sightseeing tour. It was enough, once she found her way to the oldest part of Hong Kong, to venture into the narrow, twisting side streets which she felt certain were among the most exciting places the city had to offer. These streets are tightly packed with flimsy two- and three-storeyed wooden structures, jerry-built to serve as houses as well as shops in which the counters are piled high with jade rings and bolts of silk,

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dolls and cameras and watches, and fruits and vegetables which Margaret had never seen in her life before that afternoon. Much more than mere commerce goes on there, too, of course. When so many people live and work so closely together, whole lives are lived as much as possible in the open air. Margaret listened, entranced, to the constant, ceaseless chattering of Chinese voices; background music to her, since she could understand none of it. She watched, from what she hoped was a polite distance, as gossiping and trading and scolding surged all around her, as children laughed and played and quarrelled, as dice games were conducted with furious intensity in the middle of the street. When she realized she was hungry, she approached a stall where a young woman was selling bowls full of spiced noodles, tempting passers-by with a smiling, singsong sales pitch. Margaret was shy at first about making the purchase, but when the girl behind the counter spoke to her in careful, correct English, Margaret was both pleased and relieved. And the Chinese girl, who looked far too young to be the mother of the cheerful, gurgling baby who was strapped to her back, grinned her approval as Margaret ate the fragrant snack with chopsticks, in the proper Chinese manner. At five o'clock or so, Margaret made her way back to a main avenue very staid and British-looking after all she had seen and heard and she was enormously pleased with herself when she was able to identify and board a riotously-painted green and yellow doubledecker bus which delivered her, safe and sound, at the front entrance to the hotel.

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As Margaret showered and dressed for dinner that evening, she wasn't even remotely aware of feeling tired. The prospect of the festive evening stretching ahead seemed to her a perfect way to end what had been a very satisfying day. She was glad, too, that she'd followed Ralph's advice about what to pack for the trip. She had planned to bring the clothes she had bought in the July sales for wear in the London autumn, but Ralph had talked her out of that, persuading her to bring instead the lightest, most summery clothes she owned, plus perhaps a cardigan in case the nights turned cool. At six-thirty on that clear, September evening, the temperature in Hong Kong hovered somewhere in the seventies, so Margaret chose the coolest of the outfits she had brought specially for evening wear during her holiday. A low-necked orange linen which skimmed the tips of her evening sandals, the dress was stunning in its simplicity. She arranged her dark hair in a sleek, shining coil, more because the style was deliciously cool than for the way it flattered her delicate features. And when she had applied the lightest possible make-up, and fastened the pair of silver filigree ear-rings which had belonged to her mother, Margaret hurried downstairs to join Ralph for a predinner sherry. 'Now where would you be with your woollen frocks?' he teased, after he told her how nice she looked. As they sipped their drinks, Margaret told him of the excitement of her afternoon. With no little pride, she made a point of telling him how she had come back to the hotel at the end of it, using public transport.

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The Star of the Orient Hotel had been chosen as the site of the tourism conference because its owners, the Pan Orient Company, had organized the convention. The Star of the Orient was their showpiece, being the newest and most luxurious hotel in their large chain. As the dinner which marked the beginning of three weeks of business talks was, as Ralph had put it, 'a real slap-up Chinese nosh', forty round tables had been set up in the hotel's largest dining-room to accommodate the two hundred travel agents and hotel owners who had come to Hong Kong to participate. Friendliness and happy talk are an important part of Chinese eating tradition; this had been explained in one of the convention pamphlets. Round tables made it easier for the five or six people seated at each to get to know one another, and to share and sample each course as it came. To make the visitors feel even more welcome, a Pan Orient representative was seated at each table. The organization of that sort of dinner for so many people can be quite a headache. Margaret remarked on this when she and Ralph sat down to dinner, along with two travel agents from New York and Linda Peterson, the smiling blonde girl who introduced herself as a member of Pan Orient's public relations department. 'Oh yes, you're right!' Linda answered, her brown eyes crinkling with laughter. 'But I must say it was good practice. We run conventions for other people all the time, but somehow it's quite another matter when you do it for your own company I blush to admit it, but I was personally responsible for one of the worst of the near-disasters. Our invitations were printed in five languages, and I came very close to

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sending the Japanese lot off to Italy. You should have seen me belting along to the post office in time to get them back before it was too late!' That broke the ice nicely, and Margaret decided on the spot that if every host or hostess at the dinner was half as good as Linda at putting people at their ease, then the whole thing would turn out to be a roaring success. The five of them laughed together at the charming, unaffected way in which Linda admitted her very human mistake, and Ralph chimed in with the loyal remark that only a lass from Birmingham could be counted on to catch that sort of thing in time. 'How did you know I was a Brummie?' Linda asked, astonished. 'Oh, it was easy,' Ralph answered. 'All you had to do was say a few words. I was born there myself.' After such a promising beginning to break it, the ice positively melted a few minutes later when Ralph looked down at the pair of bamboo chopsticks beside his plate in honest bewilderment. 'Ah, er, Linda,' he stammered, 'I wonder if we could ask a waiter to bring me a fork before they start serving?' He coughed sheepishly into his hand, glancing at the others in embarrassment. But the New Yorkers smiled across at him in sympathy, and relief too, as it turned out: neither of them had ever used chopsticks either. Margaret gave in to a fit of giggles, and so, before she could stop herself, did Linda. Linda recovered first, saying soothingly, 'If you can use a pencil, you'll get the hang of chopsticks quickly enough. Here, let me show you'

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She proceeded to do so, with Margaret's help. Or rather, Linda instructed Ralph while Margaret volunteered to show the New Yorkers exactly how the eating implements should be used. It was a skill Margaret had mastered in early adolescence, at about the same time she had first asked Ralph about the possibility of visiting her dream city. By the time dinner began to arrive, borne to their table by Chinese waiters in spotless white coats, Ralph and the two Americans were plying their chopsticks almost as skilfully as their teachers. But then, as the first courses were see-before them, Ralph's doubtful glances at the contents of the silver serving platters sent Margaret into another fit of giggling. She was extremely fond of Chinese food, the more authentic the better. That had been part and parcel of her long love affair with China. Even when she was still at secondary school, Margaret had been known to squirrel away her pocket money so she could treat herself and any willing, adventurous school friend to Saturday lunch in Soho's Chinatown. But Ralph's only exposure to the most ancient and varied cuisine in the world had been the 'sweet and sour' take-away sort, and that is a very tame imitation of the style of food served in just one of the provinces of China: Canton, where sugar cane and oranges and pineapples grow in abundance, where fish is plentiful, and rice is very cheap. The menu that evening owed nothing to Cantonese cooking, delicious though that can be at its best. Instead, the banquet was a masterful display of the very finest of northern Chinese cookery,

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from the province of Peking. It featured many courses which were lovingly faithful duplications of dishes once enjoyed by the Emperors of China in their long-vanished royal households. Ralph had never even heard of paper-wrapped chicken, or Peking Duck with pancakes, or stir-fried mushrooms lightly cooked with beancurd. But by the time chiaotzu appeared on their table (and Margaret and Linda between them had a fine time teaching the three men how to pronounce it properly: 'jowtsa'), Ralph had become an enthusiastic convert, ready to try anything. Chiaotzu are delicious: wafer-thin dumplings with fillings of finelychopped prawns and spring onions and bamboo shoots, delicately seasoned with soy, sesame and ginger. They are steamed first and then fried, and at table they are dipped into an utterly irresistible sauce. Ralph alone ate seven of them. There was a party planned after dinner that evening, but it hadn't been organized by Pan Orient as a convention activity. 'And I suppose it's only fair to tell you,' Linda added, grinning, 'that the hosts are among Pan Orient's most successful rivals. Actually, the rivalry's pretty friendly, so there'll be lots of Pan Orient people there, including me. I'm sure you'd all be very welcome, if you'd like to come. It's only a few minutes' walk along the beach.' The American travel agents pleaded exhaustion, but Margaret smiled delightedly. She was about to accept Linda's invitation when she glanced over at Ralph; he looked so tired that she hesitated. But he shook his head. 'Don't let me stop you, love! Go ahead with Linda and have a good time. See you in the morning!'

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The Chungking Towers, less than half a mile from the Star of the Orient, was a much older hotel older, but nearly as elegant, though in a more ornate and formal style. The floor-to-ceiling windows of its penthouse ballroom overlooked Deep Water Bay, and miles of very lovely beach and water That view was one reason why the Chungking Towers had become something of a Hong Kong landmark. Not that it was possible for Margaret and Linda to get anywhere near the windows through the crush of people who had gathered there that night for the party. Shouting over the music of the rock group who were stationed on the bandstand, Linda introduced Margaret to several of the guests. Just as Linda turned away to hail yet another of her friends, someone thrust a glass of wine into Margaret's hand. She glanced up to thank whoever had given it to her, and a large, bejewelled woman chose that moment to jostle her elbow. Margaret's glass tipped wildly, and she was horrified when its red contents splashed on to the darker red velvet sleeve of the dinner jacket being worn by a man who was standing beside her. 'Oh, I'm so sorry!' she shouted over the music, only to blush almost the colour of his stained jacket when the music stopped very suddenly. 'Sorry' seemed to ring out in the room like a shriek, turning several curious heads in their direction. Margaret looked around desperately for Linda, but Linda had vanished, at least for the moment. So she soldiered on with as much dignity as she could muster, still far too flustered to register the fact that the man was smiling down at her in genuine amusement.

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'I really am terribly sorry,' she said quietly. 'My name is Margaret Hamilton, and I'll be very happy to have your jacket cleaned. My hotel' 'I really can't think why you should be so worried about it, Margaret Hamilton,' he said softly, 'though it's nice to know your name. Mine's Peter Benhurst, and I assure you that if a wine stain is the worst thing you ever do to me, I shall count myself a very lucky man.' He held her eyes with his own as he said that, and Margaret was at last aware that his eyes were quite startlingly blue in his tanned, handsome face, and that his hair was as dark as her own. The thought flickered into her mind that he was quite the most attractive man she had ever seen. He was probably in his early thirties, she thought, and his voice betrayed that he had been born and raised in England, and that he was well-educated. Peter Benhurst was a man who exuded total confidence, from the toes of his polished evening shoes to the tips of his fingers. But, as swiftly, Margaret decided that she wasn't at all sure she liked him very much. He was a man to whom the cost of cleaning a jacket meant less than nothing. That was fair enough, and it was obvious. But he needn't have laughed at her for offering it. 'Well then,' Margaret said firmly, or as firmly as she could, for he was still appraising her with a lingering glance so frank she felt a flush rise again to her face, and hated herself for it. 'I, ah, won't. Worry about it, I mean. Now, if you'll excuse me' But before Margaret could move off, lose herself in the party in the hope of bumping into Linda (and suddenly the company of the friendly girl she'd known mere hours seemed like a haven of safety),

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a tall slender woman of quite amazing beauty appeared at Peter's side, linked arms with him, and cooed into his ear. 'Oh, here you are, darling! Oh, I thought I'd lost my pet in this rotten crush!' That rather silly speech took the space of seconds, and then the woman fixed Margaret with a glance which would have kept the polar ice cap nicely frozen, and asked flatly (and with no trace at all of her previous coyness): 'Who's this?' 'Oh, this is Margaret Hamilton,' Peter answered easily. 'We've become friends now because she ruined my jacket. Margaret, this is Susanna Baker-Leigh.' Susanna Baker-Leigh was silver-blonde, and her straight, shining hair hung to her shoulders. She had the colouring to match it, too; the delicately pale skin, and smoky grey eyes. She wore black silk that night, a floor-length gown which left one lovely, tanned shoulder exposed: a dress of such clean, simple lines that it could only have cost the earth. The woman could hardly have doubted her own attractiveness, and yet the brittle smile of greeting she bestowed on Margaret seemed to sour the beauty which the high, fine bones of her face and her flawless make-up should have guaranteed. 'Really?' Susanna sounded slightly bored. Her accent had no doubt been acquired at some exclusive boarding school, the sort of school that always seems to go with English country houses and real ponies to ride in the holidays. 'Did you really ruin his jacket? How?' 'Oh, I'

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'She spilled, wine all down my sleeve,' Peter supplied happily, winking at Margaret; winking, she was certain, to let her know he was enjoying her squirming humiliation. Susanna sighed. 'How tiresome,' she said languidly. 'But really, darling, the others are waiting for us.' With that, she pulled lightly at Peter's arm and bore him off like a tugboat, aiming a triumphant smirk over her bare shoulder at Margaret as they went. For a moment Margaret simply stood where she was, staring after the pair of them, not at all sure how she felt about her encounter with Peter Benhurst and his possessive girlfriend. Susanna was his girlfriend, surely. Wasn't she? Well yes, of course she was. She must be. And if she wasn't, going by all the evidence she was very much determined to stake her claim to him. Oh, but so what? They probably deserved each other, Susanna with her icy little smiles and Peter with his gleeful, teasing account of the way Margaret had 'ruined' his jacket. Oh well, in fairness, it wasn't as though he'd been really unkind, but still The half-formed thought that he'd actually been flirting with her did occur to Margaret. It was the remark he'd made about 'if a wine stain is the worst you ever do to me' when she'd apologized. And that had been before Susanna Baker-Leigh came floating up to them Oh, no. No way was Peter Benhurst going to be allowed to flit around in Margaret's head for another moment. This was a party, she reminded herself sternly. She had come to enjoy herself. The band took its place again, and Margaret spotted Linda on the dance floor, performing the energetic steps of one of Margaret's favourite golden-oldies. She caught Linda's eye, smiled and waved,

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and immediately felt better. She found herself another glass of wine, and when a tall young man named Phil, or maybe it was Bill, asked her to dance with him, Margaret accepted. By the time the party was over, Margaret had nearly forgotten about Peter Benhurst and his friend. Well, she did remember how attractive Peter had seemed, smiling down at her. Once or twice, as she was falling asleep that night, she wondered idly if she'd see him again during her holiday. Not that she cared, one way or the other.

She saw him again two days later. Or rather, he saw her. Margaret got off a bus outside the Kowloon ferry terminal, and just as she turned to walk to the docks Peter tapped her lightly on the shoulder. 'Hello there, Margaret Hamilton,' he said. Startled, Margaret wheeled around to face him. 'Oh, hello, Peter and Susanna,' she added quickly, for the girl was with him, clinging to his arm. 'Fancy meeting you here,' he quipped, smiling down at her with those disturbing eyes. 'Off to Kowloon, are you? We've just come from there. It's' 'It's crowded, and hot, and I'm gasping for a cup of tea,' Susanna interrupted impatiently. 'Come along, Peter.' To soften her brusqueness a little, Susanna treated Margaret to a brief smile.

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That morning Susanna was wearing a pair of white cotton shorts with a gaily-striped halter-neck top, an outfit which displayed her marvellous tan and her figure to maximum advantage. Margaret felt downright dowdy by comparison. Her glazed-cotton sundress, with its flounced, flowered border at the hem, was at least two years old. Teamed as it was with stout, sensible walking shoes, with street maps and bus timetables poking higgledy-piggledy from the top of her shoulder bag, Margaret thought she probably looked like a cartoon lady-tourist. 'Yes, well' she stammered. 'I'd best be off now.' 'Why?' Peter asked. 'If you're only going across to Kowloon, there's a ferry every five minutes or so. You could join us for' 'No, really I couldn't. I'm, er, eager to see as much as I possibly can today,' Margaret answered quickly. One glance at Susanna's stormcloud pout had left her in little doubt about exactly how welcome she'd be to join them for anything at all. She hurried off abruptly into the harbour crowd, paid her fare, and concentrated on the traffic in the bay anything at all to take her thoughts away from Peter Benhurst. But it wasn't twenty minutes later, in an open market on the Kowloon side, when she hesitated in front of a stall where an elderly Chinese woman was telling fortunes, using cards selected for her by a brightly-plumed bird in a bamboo cage. Margaret swallowed hard and stepped forward, and when the woman told her, in very halting English, to expect 'large happiness with good man, very dark, and many prosperous children,' Margaret blushed. The image of Peter Benhurst rushed back into her mind, and she paid the woman twice

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the sum requested. Only then (rather strangely, too, it seemed to her at the time) was she able to banish Peter firmly from her thoughts so she was free to concentrate on the colourful reality in which she found herself. There was one thing Ralph Nickleby had said over and over again about travelling, in the years he'd been talking 'shop' around the dinner table: the sure way to ruin a dream holiday was to cram it so full of famous fountains and quaint little villages, and 'must see, must do', that the visitor ends up with a packet of blurred snapshots of sights he never really saw properly, and sore feet into the bargain. Remembering that, Margaret had kept her sightseeing plans as flexible as possible, and it was just as well: the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong is enormous. Not only does it include the twin cities of Hong Kong and Kowloon, separated by the short ferry ride across Victoria Harbour which is a tourist attraction in itself, but it also includes the sprawling New Territories north of Kowloon farming country, where towns are few and far between, where country people in their flat straw hats walk behind the water buffalo which plough the rice fields. In addition there are the more than two hundred islands off the South China coast. Taken together, the New Territories and the islands cover an area which is more than ten times the size of the twin cities put together. No one could really take all that in properly in three weeks. Margaret was determined to see what little she could as thoroughly as possible, and to savour each new experience as it came. That clear, hot morning was the third of her holiday; she had decided to use the

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entire day to explore the countless, nameless little back streets of Kowloon. She smiled at fruit peelers who offered deft slices of bright, yellow pineapple from their lacquered stalls. She paused, wide-eyed and curious, outside snake shops though she declined to sample snakes' venom mixed with Chinese wine when it was offered to her against 'winter chill'. She stopped at several paper shops to buy gay, pretty lanterns in the shapes of butterflies (for longevity), and lobsters (for mirth), and strange household gods (for happiness), and others for no special reason that she knew of, except that they were lovely. And everywhere Margaret walked that day, she was accompanied by the increasingly familiar music of stall-holders' cries, and craftsmen's hammering, and the click-click-click of dice games an atmosphere she came to think of as the world's largest fun fair, and typically Chinese, and which she never afterwards forgot. By lunchtime, Margaret had wandered so far off the beaten track that she was obliged to point to the dishes she wanted to order. The grinning young Cantonese behind the food stall knew only the English word 'tasty' to describe the steamed vegetables and rice he offered, and Margaret had nothing more than the simple phrase do jye with which to thank him for it. Even so, that simple exchange boosted Margaret's confidence, and after lunch she wandered even further away from the broad main streets she knew would lead her to the harbour.

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By late afternoon, she hadn't a clue where she was. Worse than that, she approached four taxi drivers before at last she came to one who said 'Sure, lady, hop in!' when she asked him if he could speak English. Shortly afterwards she was wishing she'd taken her chances on foot. The drive through the tangle of tiny twisting streets was conducted at speed. That in itself was hair-raising, but it was made all the more so by the fact that the streets were packed at that hour with so much traffic (both motorized and human) that they made Oxford Street at Christmas seem like a deserted village. 'But finally,' she said, laughing as she told Ralph about it over dinner, 'the driver was whistled to a screeching halt by a policeman, though that didn't happen until we'd come into a main road ' 'Quite right, too!' Ralph interrupted, with all the pious indignation of a careful, British driver. 'Oh, but wait for it! This policeman was perched right at the top of a red and gilt pagoda, smack in the middle of a major intersection! I didn't understand what they said to each other, but at one point I was certain they were headed for a punch-up. They were shaking their fists and hollering, and all the while the rest of the traffic whizzed past like billy-ho in all directions. Anyway, I got back to the ferry in one piece, as you can see.' Ralph smiled fondly. Big as life! And I take it you're enjoying yourself.' Margaret nodded happily. 'What about you, though? I'll bet you haven't been free long enough to go swimming since we got here, much less to see anything of the sights. And so far I haven't so much as typed an envelope.'

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'Now, now,' Ralph said soothingly, 'remember what I told you before we came? Your job out here is to have yourself a good time. Why, I can already see the roses coming back into your cheeks. And besides,' he added, stabbing the air with his fork for emphasis, 'most of these talks are so confidential and top-secret and what-not that your presence would only arouse suspicion, even though you are my assistant. Top-level management-only sort of thing. Why, one Italian travel agent was politely requested to send his under-manager out of one session. So don't let it worry you, eh? Incidentally, I think you'll be surprised when you realize how much you'll learn from this trip that'll come in useful at the agency once we're home again.' Ralph insisted he was tired that evening, and no doubt he was. Nevertheless, Margaret insisted on dragging him out with her to the jumbled riot of colour and music of a night market. They didn't stay long, but at least Ralph entered very fully into the spirit of the thing: he bargained happily, half in English and half in gestures, for a delicately carved ivory rose which Margaret pronounced the perfect souvenir for Phyllis Gunter. When Margaret returned to her room that evening to hear the telephone ringing inside, there was no good reason why her heart started thumping wildly as she fumbled for her key, or why disappointment mixed with her relief when Linda Peterson's voice greeted her breathless 'Hello?' Linda had been in touch with her before, on the morning after the Chungking Towers party. She'd left a breezy note at the reception desk for Margaret, saying how much she'd enjoyed their evening together, and that she would ring later in the week.

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Margaret said hello again, deliberately injecting warmth into the word so that Linda wouldn't feel slighted, as though Margaret had hoped to hear from someone else. After all, whom else did Margaret-know in Hong Kong? If she had been half-wishing it might be Peter Benhurst well, that was out of the question, she told herself impatiently. She had never quite got round to telling him where she was staying, had she? And furthermore, even if she had, there was no reason for him to ring. None whatsoever. Meanwhile Linda was saying she was free the following day, all unaware of the turmoil in Margaret's head. Would Margaret like to spend the day with her? 'Oh! Why, yes, of course!' Margaret said almost at once, shaking herself back into the present. 'Except you'll probably laugh at some of the touristy things I've been up to since we last met. Not to mention the list I hope to work through before I leave.' 'No,' Linda said, laughing. 'Not at all. I adore sightseeing myself. Say, I'll tell you what let's go out to Lantau Island tomorrow. We can look at the golden statue of Buddha with the rest of the tourists, and afterwards we can have a picnic in the hills. It's lovely there, unspoiled. It'll make a nice change from all the bustle and bright lights around here.'

It did. Once they'd admired the temples, gaily painted and exotic with incense, and the great, golden Buddha, and the monks of Po-Lin Monastery in their saffron robes, there was little else to do but walk

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in the wild, rocky hills, and to share their lunch on Sunset Peak while they admired the superb view of Kowloon it offered them. 'You must love it, living here,' Margaret said almost wistfully, as they sat there together. Linda shrugged lightly. 'I've enjoyed it very much,' she answered quietly, 'and in some ways, yes, I have grown to love it the excitement, the constant contrast of east and west. But just now I'm counting the days until I go home, back to England. It won't be long now.' Linda smiled softly, and when she spoke again her face was radiant and her voice held unmistakable excitement. 'I'm engaged,' she confided, liking the sound of it. 'His name's Richard Naylor, and we've known each other nearly all our lives. Actually, I doubt if either of us has ever really been out with anybody else' Linda sighed, and shrugged again. 'My parents persuaded us to wait, although we've known for nearly two years now that we want to marry. They said we should put off any serious plans, at least long enough for Richard to finish law school and get himself established somewhere. When well, when I was offered this job in Hong Kong with Pan Orient' 'Your parents persuaded you to take it?' Margaret prompted quietly, sensing Linda's need to talk about it. 'Yes. Not that I regret it, not at all. In fact, I can quite see it now, how right they were. If anything, this separation's brought Richard and me even closer together. 'He's working now, in London. And by a handy coincidence, Pan Orient have offered me a job in London too. I won't bore you with

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the technical details of that, but it works out really well for Richard and me.' 'And your parents? Are they reconciled to the idea of you and Richard getting back together?' 'Oh, heavens, yes! It wasn't as though they didn't like him, or anything like that. They were just afraid we were rushing things a bit. Now that they realize we're perfectly serious they're pleased about it. We'll set a wedding date soon, probably for early May next year, and with their blessings. Oh Margaret,' she finished impulsively, her eyes shining. 'Say you'll be there!' Margaret laughed, delighted with Linda's obvious happiness, very pleased to be included in it. 'Of course I shall,' she promised gaily. I wouldn't miss it for the world!' After that, Linda turned the conversation round to Margaret. She listened very quietly while Margaret told her of the shock of her mother's sudden death, and the way her stepfather had pulled her out of the numb depression which had followed it; she even explained how her trip to Hong Kong had come about. 'And is there anyone special in your life?' Linda asked. 'Romantically, I mean' She clapped her hand across her mouth, embarrassed. 'Forgive my asking that! For a girl who plans to make a serious career in public relations, I do put my foot into it sometimes' 'No, no, don't worry,' Margaret reassured her, smiling. 'There isn't anybody, anyway. There never really has been. Not anyone I cared about the way you care for Richard' She allowed her sentence to

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trail off there, as the image of Peter Benhurst floated once more into her mind. She very nearly mentioned him to Linda, told her about the way they'd met at the party, how he had looked at her, and the possessive way Susanna Baker-Leigh had carted him off. But she changed her mind before she began. What would be the point? Peter Benhurst was a very unlikely candidate for a romance with Margaret, and no one knew that better than she did. It was high time she refused to allow him to wander in and out of her thoughts. Anyway, Linda had probably never met the man, nor was she likely to be very impressed with him if she had done. 'Oh, you know,' she finished vaguely, 'I've been out with the odd bloke to a disco, and to the films and parties and so on. But I don't think I've ever really been in love.' 'Never fear,' Linda warned her, mock-solemn. 'Your turn will come.'

Margaret had already told Ralph not to expect her to join him for dinner that evening, and as she and Linda prepared a simple meal in Linda's compact, comfortable flat, the two girls found they had a lot in common, a lot to talk about. By the time Margaret left, shortly after nine, she and Linda had made firm plans to meet again, convinced that they had begun a lasting friendship which would grow nicely after Linda came back to live in London. Linda offered her a lift home in her Mini, but when Margaret realized that her hotel was less than a mile from Linda's flat, and that she could walk most of the distance along the beach, she declined the offer. She was pleasantly tired, but she wanted to walk for a while.

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When she reached the shore, she eased off her shoes, delighted with the scene before her. The lights of the grand hotels along the Bay made a glowing pathway for her in the soft sand. She was within a few hundred yards of the Star of the Orient when she was nearly jolted out of her skin. 'Isn't it a small world, Margaret Hamilton?' asked a deep, teasing, masculine voice behind her. She turned to face Peter Benhurst and Susanna Baker-Leigh, and her first reaction was the dismayed realization that she had been caught out again. She had worn jeans to rugged Lantau Island. Jeans, and a halter top she'd picked up in the Portobello Road the previous summer for fifteen pence. Susanna Baker-Leigh was dressed in filmy white chiffon harem trousers and a wisp of a blouse which made her fragile figure seem almost insubstantial. She might have been floating a few inches above the gleaming beach. Oh, she was barefoot, just like Margaret. But Susanna's strappy evening sandals dangled gracefully from one hand, and they shone silver in the moonlight. 'Hello there,' this vision said indifferently to Margaret. 'Oh, hello, both of you. Nice evening!' Peter laughed softly at that, shaking his head as though something puzzled him. 'A very nice evening, I should say,' he murmured. 'Well, good night!' Margaret said, a trifle too loudly, painfully aware of the idiotic grin she wore as she hurried away from them. It wasn't until she had reached the safety of the beach entrance to the Star of the Orient that Margaret realized Peter had probably watched

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her straight-backed strides, that he'd doubtless seen where she was going when she walked away from him. Him and his constant companion! Still, there wasn't very much she could do about that. She could hardly avoid the beach which stretched so invitingly in front of her own hotel, not for the entire three weeks of her holiday, surely! It was sheer bliss to swim there after an exhausting day of sightseeing, or to stand quietly in the softness of night, gazing dreamily at the twinkling lights of a passing pleasure boat. And why on earth shouldn't she do these things? If she ran into the couple again, she could simply nod and smile and go her own way.

The following evening, when Peter Benhurst came up behind her on the beach and took her arm, Margaret did no such thing. She simply stared up into his face in astonishment. 'Where's Susanna?' she asked, before she could stop herself. In the shock of seeing him there beside her, and feeling the touch of his hand on her arm, the question came out on a hoarse croak. He grinned. 'Shall we go and look for her together?' he teased. 'Well, I only meant' 'Umm. If I bought you a drink, would you promise not to spill it all over me?' Margaret frowned angrily, and straightened away from his grip to look directly into his eyes. 'I think that joke is wearing rather thin, don't you?' she asked coolly. Quite suddenly, Peter's expression changed; he looked exactly like a small boy who's been caught out putting frogs in people's beds. 'I'm

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sorry,' he said, gazing at his shoes. 'I think you're perfectly right,' he added humbly. 'Let me put it politely, Margaret, Please may I buy you a drink?' Peter Benhurst was without a doubt a practised and accomplished flirt, and his about-face had instant effect. Once Margaret had put him firmly in his place, she felt sorry for the sharpish way she'd spoken to him. Or, if she hadn't exactly melted totally, she had certainly thawed a bit. 'Oh, it's all right! I didn't mean to sound so harsh.' 'I knew you didn't!' he crowed victoriously, all traces of little-boyscolded gone from his tone. Margaret frowned again, and turned to go. 'Oh, come on, Margaret Hamilton, this is silly!' he said quickly. He laughed down at her and took her arm again. 'We're wasting valuable drinking time!' The bar they walked to was just off the beach, festive with strings of multi-coloured fairy lights which framed the open terrace where they sat. Margaret was wearing a blue-green sarong dress that evening, not real silk though it may as well have been for the way it skimmed and revealed her slim curves. She had taken pains with her make-up too, almost as if she'd had a premonition of Peter Benhurst's sudden appearance on the beach, though she would have denied that, even to herself, if. anyone had suggested it to her. Over iced vermouth and lemon, Margaret relaxed very quickly in Peter's company. He listened so intently as she told him her first impressions of Hong Kong that before she realized quite what was

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happening, she had decided that he really was a whole lot nicer than she'd thought. 'How do you happen to be out here just now?' he asked. 'Well, officially I'm with the convention. But in fact, my dad brought me our here as a way of rewarding me for finishing at college. My mother died, you see, last Christmas' 'I am sorry,' he said quietly. 'Please, go on.' 'Well, that was very sudden, and afterwards I didn't see the point of going on with anything. The promise of this trip was a simple bribe, to get me going again. I've wanted to come to Hong Kong ever since I can remember, though I must admit I've done nothing at all in the way of work since I arrived. Too busy sightseeing.' Peter grinned at that. 'That's the way to do it! The trouble with me is that I've thought of nothing but the damned convention for months on end. As Managing Director of Pan Orient' 'You're not!' she breathed, utterly amazed. If Margaret had given the matter any thought at all, which she had not, she would have assumed the MD of Pan Orient to be a white-haired, elderly tycoon. 'Oh yes I am.' Peter sighed wearily, running one slim hand through his thick dark hair. 'Though I try very hard not to take it too seriously, and I am learning to leave it behind me once in a while. Like tonight, for example.' He changed the subject then, and for the rest of the evening the two of them talked about everything under the sun except Pan Orient and the convention.

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It was very late by the time Peter walked Margaret back to the Star of the Orient. As he took leave of her, he said, 'I'll see you soon, Margaret. At least, I hope so.' And she answered, 'Yes, I'd like that. Thanks for a wonderful time.' It was long after midnight before Margaret slept that night. She spent a couple of restless hours debating whether Peter Benhurst's parting speech had been made out of mere politeness, or whether she really would be seeing him again. Alone, just the two of them. And if so, how soon.

'Will Miss Margaret Hamilton please come to the desk in the reception area Miss Margaret Hamilton' 'I'm Margaret Hamilton,' she announced politely to the reception clerk, moments after she'd scraped back her chair in the coffee shop and come through into the lobby. 'Oh, good morning. There's a telephone call for you. We tried to put it through to your room, and when there was no reply the gentleman suggested we page you in the restaurant. You can take it over there. Booth number three, please. Oh, and Miss Hamilton, there's a note here for you as well.' Margaret accepted the plain white envelope on which her name had been scrawled in Ralph's familiar handwriting. She pocketed that,

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and then she walked to the row of carpeted glass boxes in which telephones and comfortable armchairs had been installed for the convenience of the hotel's guests. A gentleman, the smiling clerk had said. It could, of course, be Ralph, but that was unlikely. Margaret slowed her steps across the broad lobby to a casual saunter which belied the sudden, intense excitement she was feeling. 'Hello?' 'Hello, Margaret. I hope you slept well.' 'Peter?' 'Who else?' he answered, chuckling. For a fleeting instant, Margaret felt irritation prickle at the back of her throat at the arrogance of that; it helped to steady her voice. 'Good morning, Peter. I hope you slept well too,' she said briskly, ignoring his sarcasm. 'Thank you. I was wondering could you join me for dinner this evening? That is, if you haven't already made firm plans?' Margaret hesitated. She might have made plans, mightn't she? People did, all the time, even while they were on holiday. She decided to give Peter full marks for the courtesy of allowing for the possibility. 'Why yes, thank you. I'd like that very much,' she said. Margaret had lingered over a solitary late breakfast, and she had finished all but the last few sips of her second cup of tea before she'd been called to the phone. When the brief conversation was finished, she went directly back to her room.

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She waited until she got there, with the door firmly closed behind her, before she hugged herself with glee. Then she performed a few jigging dance steps to the tall wardrobe, flung open the doors, and began the serious decision-making process over what to wear that evening. She'd been wearing the orange linen on the night they met. And the sarong-type dress, which .had been bought to wear to a cousin's wedding reception the previous June, was what she'd had on when he took her for a drink. It wasn't that she had an exceptionally large wardrobe from which to choose, or that she never wore the same thing twice. Nor was she above haunting street markets for really cheap tops, or anything else she could find. But she did like nice clothes, and since she'd been working in the agency, she'd been able to indulge her fashionconsciousness even more fully than Ralph and her mother had indulged it for her while she was still at school. For the most part, though, she was fairly conservative in the way she dressed, and a lot of her purchases were made with the office in mind. What few outfits she owned for evening wear would take her, in their season, to almost any festive occasion. There was one outfit, however, which she had acquired for its sheer razzle-dazzle. It was what Margaret thought of as 'fun' fashion, the sort of thing she might just work up enough courage to wear to one of the more sophisticated London discotheques (though she hadn't, yet) but which no girl in her right mind could regard as an 'enduring classic'.

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She decided it was just the thing to wear for an evening out with Peter Benhurst. The satin trousers were toffee-apple red, as were the 'glass' slippers she had bought to go with them. The silk top, sprinkled with red sequins, was hot-pink; on a hanger it looked shapeless, and much too large for her. But when the long top was gathered at the bottom into a loose, careless knot on one hip, no girl with a figure like Margaret's needed to fear the competition, if glamour was at issue. And it seemed, judging by the way Susanna Baker-Leigh managed to out-sizzle everyone in sight, that it was.

It was nearly an hour before Margaret got round to reading the note Ralph had left for her at the desk. At first she stared numbly at the message, and then she shook her head. She sat down in an armchair by the French windows, and read it through again, brushing away a tear that threatened to blot the paper in her lap. One thing was certain. When Ralph set out to treat her to a dream holiday, he didn't go by halves. The note read:

Dear Margaret,

I was going to tell you about this at breakfast this morning, but it's as well to write it down. That way you can't argue me out of it, or even try. You may know already that Hong Kong is famous for the fact that people who come here can have clothes tailor-made to order,

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quickly and at knock-down prices. I decided months ago and budgeted accordingly, by the way -that no visit would be complete for a young lady unless she went home afterwards with some new gear, or whatever it is you call clothes these days. I want you to have at least one suit, a couple of daytime dresses, and something to wear when you go out in the evenings. But exactly what you order is up to you, love

The note went on to give her the address of Mr Li Hsu's shop in central Hong Kong (which had, Ralph added, been very highly recommended) and rough directions on how to get there. He added that he would try to 'pop into the coffee shop for a cuppa' around five, and he finished with a PS: 'Now do you know why I lied to you about the baggage allowance?' Beside that, he had drawn a rough sketch of a stout, middle-aged man, carrying two full armloads of cases. Margaret had suspected something of the kind before they left London, when Ralph went into a flap over the weight of the second of the two cases she had packed. She hadn't argued when he insisted she leave it more than half empty; she had simply accepted his statement that she'd soon fill it up with 'gimcracks and souvenirs' once she got to Hong Kong. She knew about the world-famous Chinese tailors of Hong Kong, but she hadn't mentioned them to Ralph: if he was planning a surprise of handmade clothes for her, she certainly didn't want to spoil his fun by guessing it in advance. The rest of that day was so full of tape measurements and hemlength discussions, and fabrics and colours and style choices, that

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Margaret had very little time in which to be jittery about seeing Peter Benhurst again not twenty-four hours after he'd left her in the Star of the Orient lobby the previous evening. She didn't forget about it, of course, though she did very nearly forget to mention her date to Ralph when they met for tea at five. She was far too busy thanking him for his generous surprise. 'I'm glad you're pleased,' he said happily. 'It seemed to me that visiting Hong Kong without buying a frock or two would be like going to Brighton and coming back without a stick of rock, if you see what I mean.' 'Sort of,' Margaret agreed doubtfully, stirring sugar into her tea, 'except I can't remember being quite so thrilled with boiled sweets as I am with Mr Li Hsu's handiwork!' Ralph chortled at that, smiling at a memory. 'Well, you were, lass. Take my word for that.' It wasn't until they'd nearly finished their tea, and Ralph had glanced at his watch and asked, 'Are you joining me tonight for dinner?' that she remembered. 'I I know it's the second evening in a row,' she began guiltily, 'but' 'But you've been invited out,' he finished for her matter-of-factly. 'Doesn't surprise me one bit. And it'll give me a chance for a swim and a light snack and another very welcome early night. You have a good time, you hear?'

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Even after she had showered and made up her face and brushed her hair into a dark, burnished cloud around her shoulders, Margaret had plenty of time left in which to dither about whether she really dared to wear the outfit she'd chosen that morning. But the longer she looked at her own reflection in the full-length mirror, the more she realized just how glamorous and confident the daring combination of red and pink and glitter made her feel, and how very flattering it was against her wealth of long dark hair. Linda rang just as Margaret was debating whether or not to wear diamante ear-rings. 'I know it's short notice,' Linda said, 'but if you're free this evening, I thought you might like to go out somewhere with me.' 'Any other time, Linda,' Margaret answered happily, smiling at the phone. 'But I've got a date tonight.' 'Ah ha! Anyone I know?' Linda teased. Margaret was about to say no, she didn't think so, but then she remembered about Peter being MD of Pan Orient. Linda worked for his company. She couldn't fail to know him, at least by sight. 'Actually, I'm sure you do,' Margaret answered. 'It's Peter Benhurst.' There was a momentary pause on the other end, caused apparently by Linda's sudden need to cough. 'Where did you meet him, Margaret?' she asked, when she had recovered. 'At the party. You weren't there at the time, but I managed to spill a glass of wine all down the sleeve of his dinner jacket. After that, I bumped into him a couple of times, and the result is he's asked me out to dinner.'

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'Oh, well, that's really nice!' Linda said, perhaps a shade too heartily. Peter and I will be working together in London, you know, though I don't suppose I mentioned that to you before. I didn't realize you'd met him' 'You mean he's going back to London too?' Margaret asked, trying hard to keep her voice as even and chatty as Linda's. 'Well, he'll have to, won't he? If we're going to work together?' Linda said, laughing. Margaret laughed back, grateful for the chance to cover her reaction. 'Hmm. Wish I'd thought of that!' The importance of Linda's news dawned on Margaret so suddenly that she felt her pulses racing. She felt sure Linda could hear the thudding of her heart through the telephone receiver. Why, she and Peter might go on seeing one another, perhaps might grow very fond of one another, perhaps 'Oh, nonsense!' Margaret said, to stop herself. Unfortunately she said it rather loudly, and Linda heard it too. 'Sorry?' Linda asked, startled. 'Oh! Nothing, Linda. I I didn't mean to say that to you. I've, urn, I've just smeared my nail varnish on the table top, that's all. I am sorry. Now, what were you saying? I'm sorry, I didn't hear you properly.' Linda had been saying that she'd got a letter from Richard that morning, and he missed her as much as she missed him, and there was a possibility that he might get a flat quite near Notting Hill Gate, and wasn't that where Margaret lived?

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Margaret was silent as Linda said all of it over again, and lots of other things besides, except when she made encouraging noises to indicate she was glad to listen (which she was) and that she was paying full attention to what Linda was telling her (which she was not). But Linda would have been the first person to understand and forgive that, had she realized a fraction of the turmoil in Margaret Hamilton's normally tranquil heart.

In the elegant, oak-panelled bar of the Cote d'Medici, several heads turned as Margaret Hamilton was escorted to a table. The men admired while the women appraised, and Peter Benhurst looked pleased. 'I wanted to show you off,' he confided as they sipped their drinks. 'It isn't every evening I get to be seen around town with a beautiful woman.' 'You exaggerate,' Margaret answered lightly, 'but thank you, kind sir.' Privately she was thinking that if anything, Peter was more than likely spoiled for choice when it came to women, beautiful or otherwise. One must not forget the cool, confident Miss BakerLeigh, who up till the previous evening had been very much in evidence by his side.

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The maitre d'hotel came through from the dining room just as they finished their sherries, offering a large, tasselled menu to Peter with a deft flourish and the suggestion of a bow. But Peter merely smiled at the man and shook his head. Moments later, he whisked Margaret out through the foyer and back into the street. 'Where are we going now?' she asked, laughing up at him. 'Ah! That would be telling,' he answered. Peter hailed a passing taxi, but Margaret was no wiser about their destination after he spoke to the driver. Once they were under way, Peter looked at Margaret, about to say something. When he saw her expression of wide-eyed astonishment, he laughed. 'What's the matter?' 'Well you spoke to the driver in what sounded like Chinese, and' 'And why not? Apart from the years I spent at school' in England, and occasional visits to my grandmother, this is my home town. I began learning Cantonese almost before I could speak English properly. It was something my parents were determined I should learn, particularly my father. He had nothing but contempt for the high-handedness of the worst of British colonial attitudes.' Margaret listened thoughtfully to that, her respect for him growing. It was one of her own regrets, that in all the years she'd wanted to visit Hong Kong, she'd barely managed to master a handful of polite phrases in the Cantonese dialect spoken there by most of the Chinese population. She said so to Peter.

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'Don't be so hard on yourself,' he answered. 'No Chinese dialect is easy to learn, and it certainly wouldn't be worth the effort for the occasional brief visit. I think you've done well to get as far as polite phrases.' She remembered then what Linda had said about Peter's plans to work in London. She very nearly .mentioned it, but she checked herself just in time. After all, she barely knew him! He was attractive, and he'd asked her out, but it wasn't the first time that had ever happened to her, and it undoubtedly wouldn't be the last. It wouldn't do at all to seem super-keen just because he'd shown an interest. The restaurant where they'd begun the evening was famed for its superb French food, the superior quality of its wine cellar, and the very high standard of service it offered to its well-heeled patrons. The destination of their short taxi ride away from it was a sharp contrast to all that. The driver pulled up beside a decaying wooden quay which jutted into the typhoon shelter at Causeway Bay. The sun was just setting, and one after another, lanterns winked and glowed from the swaying little boats which were moored there, chock-a-block in the water. 'I think,' Peter said as he helped Margaret out of the cab, 'you'll be a lot better off if you take your shoes off. If you don't mind, that is.' 'I don't mind in the least. But why?' 'You'll soon see,' he answered cryptically, and then he turned his full attention to a rapid-fire negotiation with the Chinese on the quay who appeared to be in charge of several empty boats.

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Dancing slippers are a distinct handicap when one is boarding a sampan. Margaret saw that, even before they scrambled into the one Peter hired for the evening. When he'd sorted out the bamboo oar he acquired with it, he sat down beside her on the crude, wooden bench in the aft of the tiny boat. 'I very nearly suggested eating at the Medici,' he said, grinning at her. 'But then it occurred to me that we could have a lot more fun if we came out here instead. Apart from anything else, the food is marvellous.' 'I've always wanted a go in a sampan,' Margaret answered happily. 'The only thing is' 'You don't mind, do you?' he asked anxiously. 'I mean, you do like Chinese food, don't you? You did mention something last night, about stopping at street stalls' 'Oh yes, I love it!' Margaret answered quickly. 'It's only well, where is the food?' Peter laughed aloud at that, clapping one hand to his forehead in a theatrical gesture of astonishment. 'You don't mean to tell me I've hit upon an adventure you haven't heard about!' He looked extremely pleased with himself. 'I have heard about floating restaurants' 'This is even more fun,' he announced with authority, gesturing round the inlet with a wide sweep of one arm. 'Quite a few of the boats you see around us are equipped as floating kitchens. We'll pick our first course from one of them, our second from another, and so on. We can sit back between courses and talk about what we'd like to eat

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next. And just over there,' he added, pointing off to the right, 'I spy a wine vendor. It won't do to share our first-ever dinner date without wine' The cellar of the Cote d'Medici would have yielded a first-rate claret, or perhaps a burgundy, to accompany whatever they ordered there for dinner. The food and wine would have been expensive, but it would have been superb. They would have dined in comfort, too, by candle-light, at a table which was covered by a snowy linen cloth, set with fine plate and old, polished silver. Instead, perched on the rough bench of a hired sampan, Margaret and Peter ate by the light of the moon, aided by the glowing lanterns which bobbed on the other boats. Peter rowed them from one vendor to the next, and they chose dishes for which even he didn't know the proper names, though that didn't mean the food was not utterly delicious. They washed it down with the good, strong Chinese rice wine Peter bought to go with the meal, and before an hour had passed, Margaret decided she was having a wonderful time. She had been expecting a formal evening; dinner in an elegant restaurant, with perhaps dancing to follow, an evening planned with the intention of impressing her with Peter's wealth and sophistication. But there he was in his shirt sleeves (he'd folded his dinner jacket on the bench of the sampan as a sort of cushion, as though it was an anorak), plying the simple bamboo oar like an expert. 'I'm not, really,' he insisted modestly. 'But I get by. You know, it's been a long time since I've had so much fun over dinner with a lovely woman'

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'Oh, come on,' Margaret chided gaily, 'it shouldn't be all that difficult for you. I'm sure you could find dozens of girls who'd love to come out with you!' 'You'd be amazed how many girls would be insulted if I brought them to a typhoon shelter and plunked them down in a leaky little boat to eat what they would regard as cheap, nasty foreign food,' he answered, suddenly quite serious. 'Insulted? But why? I'm here, and I'm certainly enjoying myself!' Peter was silent for a moment, studying her face in the semidarkness. 'So you are,' he mused softly, reaching out to trace the curve of her cheek with one slim finger, 'and I'm very glad of that. I'm sorry if I sounded bitter, but' 'But what?' she prompted. Peter shook his head dismissively, as though whatever he had been about to say wasn't important. But Margaret reached out to take his hand, and asked again. 'Only that there have been too many times when I wasn't at all sure whether it was me or the Pan Orient fortune which most fascinated some of the women I've been out with' 'I simply don't believe that!' Margaret interrupted, truly shocked. He shrugged. 'It's true. I'm worth a lot of money since my father died.' He sounded very bleak about it. 'And money can be very appealing to any number of women with an eye to the main chance. Meanwhile, most women of that type are out for what they can get in the way of bright lights and good times. My first lesson was the hardest, though,' he added abruptly. 'I learned it the year I finished at

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university. I' He stopped himself there, with an apologetic smile that seemed to Margaret so infinitely sad that she reached out again for his hand. 'Look, Margaret I don't want to bore you with my hard-luck story' 'I'm not bored,' she answered quietly. 'Please, go on.' 'Well, that summer I fell in love with an English girl who'd come out here to work for a year as a secretary. I was young then, very trusting. Diane loved me in return, I knew that because she said so, over and over again. She she made it abundantly clear Within a few months of meeting her I asked her to marry me, and a few months after that, we actually set a date. Oh, even in my innocence I knew that "happily-ever-after" was a lot to hope for, but I was convinced that if it had ever been possible for any couple, it certainly would be for us. I loved her very much' He faltered. 'What happened?' Margaret asked, very gently. 'Five weeks before the date we'd set for our wedding, Diane came to me and told me the truth. She wasn't in love with me, and she never had been. The entire time I'd known her, she'd been struggling with her conscience, she said. I had competition, it seemed. A penniless clerk in Southampton who couldn't offer her much except his love, and a council flat. But Diane loved him, and so she went back to him. I never saw her again.' 'That was terrible for you,' Margaret said simply. 'Yes, it was, rather. And for a long time afterwards, I thought I'd learned exactly how to deal with gold-digging women. If a woman was out for what she could get from me, then fair enough. I'd be out

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for what I could get from her. But I wasn't going to be fooled again. Not ever again like that' 'Is that why you brought me here tonight?' Margaret asked sadly. To see if I could pass your fortune-hunter-detection test?' 'Oh, good heavens, no!' he exclaimed. 'Please do credit me with some sense,' he added more quietly. 'Anyone can see you're nothing at all like that. It was just that when we were sitting in that stuffy bar at the Medici, it occurred to me you'd enjoy this kind of evening as much as I do. I've been wanting to ask you out,' he continued almost shyly, 'ever since the evening we first met, when' He caught himself in time, but Margaret laughed and recited the rest of it for him: 'When-I-ruined-your-jacket.' 'You said it!' he teased. 'You see, Margaret, these days I no longer bother to prove anything to myself or anybody else by seeing women I don't like. Until until very recently, that's left me fairly lonely. Apart from one or two good friends, I see very few women at all. You've met one of my friends, in fact. Susanna Baker-Leigh' Margaret caught her breath at the mention of the woman's name, very interested to hear what he would say about her. 'Y-yes?' 'I first met her a couple of years ago,' he went on, apparently unaware of Margaret's sudden intense interest, 'at a house-party my grandmother gave to celebrate one of my rare visits home to England. Poor Susanna had just recently lost her parents at the time, and though the tragedy left her very far from penniless, I suspect it made her very restless. She's been flitting around the world ever since. When she decided to come out here for several months, I offered her the use of my family home on Macau. You've probably

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seen Macau described in a guidebook as a gambler's paradise. But the really interesting thing about it is that it's a mixture of Chinese culture with the influence of the Portuguese who first settled the peninsula. If there's time, I'd love to take you there,' he mused. 'I think you'd like it. Anyway, Susanna doesn't. So I offered her a suite in one of our most "British" hotels, right in the heart of Hong Kong. She prefers it there, presumably because she can always get what she calk a decent cup of tea.' And because you're on Hong Kong most of the time, Margaret added silently. 'But there's nothing remotely romantic about my friendship with Susanna. Not on either side. Most of the time I'm afraid I bore her to tears with my endless shop-talk. She's a bit like a sister to me, really,' he finished easily. That's what you think! Margaret thought grimly, reflecting upon the innocence of even the most sophisticated men. But if her thoughts were betrayed by the expression on her face, Peter didn't appear to notice. He was busy just then, taking her into his arms with great careso as not to capsize the boat. And as he kissed her for the first time, with gentle, tender thoroughness, the spectre of Susanna BakerLeigh was very successfully banished from Margaret's thoughts

The days that followed were busy ones for Margaret, filled as they were with guided tours and long walks along the beach and dinners by candle-light for two: for as much time as he could possibly spare

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from the convention his company had organized, Peter Benhurst accompanied her almost everywhere she went. For the first several days, Margaret was able to tell herself that she and Peter were building nothing more than a friendship - though it was a job for her to ignore the trip-hammer action of her heart when he kissed her at the end of each evening, outside the lobby of the Star of the Orient. She was able to convince herself that the utter delight she felt every time she remembered what Linda had told her that Peter was coming to work in London was precisely the same in degree and in kind as the pleasure she felt because Linda was coming too. Two new friends, that was all. ' Margaret saw Ralph only once in that time, for a cup of tea late one afternoon; she quite forgot herself that day, in her relief when he told her he'd found good dinner companions among some of the other 'loners' who'd come to attend the convention. If Ralph suspected, as he might well have done, that she was involved in something more exciting than a new friendship, he permitted himself nothing more by way of comment than a cheerful, 'You're blooming, girl! And I'm glad to see it.' It took Susanna Baker-Leigh to bring Margaret very briskly back to earth. Margaret nearly collided with her as she came out of the tailor's shop one morning after a fitting. 'Hello, Susanna.' The full skirt of Susanna's powder-blue shirtwaist made her seem even more slender than she really was, and the colour of the dress emphasized the smoky grey of her eyes. For. a moment she simply stood there, looking beautiful.

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Then her lovely mouth curled into what was unmistakably a sneer, and her eyes narrowed. 'Well, well' she said slowly, appraising Margaret as though she were on offer in a jumble sale. 'If it isn't our little tripper. I'm
SO

pleased to hear you're making the most of your

cheap package holiday. They don't last for ever, you know.' With that, Susanna strode off, leaving Margaret to stare after her retreating form, blinking, and wishing with all her heart that she could have thought of some devastating reply. Her only consolation was the fact that Susanna hadn't caught her out yet again in her oldest, shabbiest clothes. Margaret had dressed with care that morning, in brushed denim jeans and a hand-embroidered cheesecloth top. There was no other consolation whatsoever. If Susanna's remarks had been intended to imply that Margaret was making a fool of herself over Peter Benhurst, then they had hit their target unerringly. She had known from the first, even if Peter did not, that Susanna Baker-Leigh was out to get him for herself. Doubtless he'd been conspicuous by his recent absence from the woman's life, and it probably hadn't been very difficult for Susanna to find out why: to find out that Peter had taken to spending every possible moment of his waking hours in the company of Margaret Hamilton. Given that information, Susanna was shrewd enough to realize that what was growing between Margaret and Peter was unlikely to be simple friendship, or anything remotely like it. Margaret was left face to face with the unvarnished truth about her own feelings for Peter Benhurst. She could remember well enough that from the evening they'd shared their first kiss, she had responded

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to him with increasing eagerness, with a passion that was rapidly threatening to overwhelm her; that when his arm had brushed innocently against her breast as he'd thrown his coat over her shoulders in the chill of evening, fire had raced through her body like liquid honey, and left her weak And she was forced to spend most of the rest of that day telling herself that her 'friendship' with Peter was developing too fast, that her feelings were growing so strong that they might well hurl her out of control, like a runaway train. She had allowed herself to become much too deeply attached to him, much too quickly. It could only end in emotional disaster. Her mind issued that solemn, sensible information, and her heart gaily rejected it.

By the time she had dressed for dinner that evening, Margaret had relaxed again into the simple joy of knowing she would see Peter again within the hour. Over dinner that night, Peter said lightly, 'I'll be in London in six months' time. Possibly even sooner' 'I'd heard that,' Margaret said hesitantly. 'You had?' Suddenly his voice was wary, guarded. 'From whom?' 'Why from Linda Peterson,' she answered slowly, a bit taken aback that he should sound upset about it. 'I met her on my first evening here, at the reception banquet. She was at our table as the Pan Orient representative. A few days later we went out to Lantau Island together, and she mentioned she'd been offered a London job

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with your company. And then she happened to ring me on the evening I went out with you the first time. When I told her I was going to dinner with Peter Benhurst, she told me you were going to London as well. Naturally, she didn't go into the business side of things with me at all. Just some of her personal reasons for being glad to be going home' 'Ah yes!' Peter supplied with a quick smile, relaxing again. 'Richard Naylor, I believe his name is. But what I was about to say, Margaret I've no intention of letting you go, now I've found you. I know it's far too early for us to make any grand promises, or any real plans, but you will go on seeing me, won't you? Once I come to England? I don't even know how long I'll be in London, but it'll be long enough, if if you're beginning to feel as I do' Margaret looked across at him, and in the light of the candle that flickered on the table between them her eyes caressed his in the only answer he needed. But suddenly Margaret remembered Susanna's spiteful little speech, outside Li Hsu's ship, and she straightened her shoulders. 'I'll be very honest with you, Peter. I don't think I'd have allowed myself to see you quite so often unless I'd known we might meet again in London, if if things worked out between us. Holiday romance for its own sake well, I've nothing against it for other people, but' 'That means you will go on seeing me?' he asked, his eyes dancing with amused tenderness at her little speech.

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Margaret lowered her gaze as she busied herself with her wine glass, twirling its delicate stem between two fingers. Oh yes,' she whispered softly. 'Yes it does' The moon that evening was a fat, buttery crescent in the deep blue of the night sky. the very stars seemed ranged around it with special care, as though some unseen hand had set out to provide a proper canopy for two people in the world beneath it who were rapidly falling in love. Peter and Margaret walked along the beach for hours, reluctant to part, and each kiss they shared seemed to set a firmer seal on the feelings which had flowered between them. And it was only after they agreed to meet at sunrise the following morning that they could bear to part at all.

'Oh, damn the bloody thing!' Susanna Baker-Leigh swore softly, under her breath, as one elegantly-manicured fingernail broke on the drawer handle of a metal filing cabinet. It was an hour or so past midnight. Susanna had pushed back her flowing silver-lame evening cape to reveal the mauve lace jumpsuit she was wearing beneath it. Or perhaps she had thrown back the cape to leave her arms free for the task at hand. She was not suitably dressed for the occasion.

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At the exact moment when Peter and Margaret parted in the lobby of the Star of the Orient after agreeing to .meet before dawn the following morning so that they could watch the sunrise together from Peter's motor launch Susanna entered the suite of offices on the tenth floor of that hotel which had been set aside as Pan Orient's convention headquarters. She seemed to be looking for something in the now-deserted area where the convention did its business during the working day. She appeared to be in rather a hurry to find it, too, whatever it was. She had been out to dinner earlier in the evening. For want of a better offer, she had accepted the invitation of a wealthy Brazilian banker she'd met at a party. After dinner, Senor Perez had suggested dancing, and after that, over Susanna's protests, a nightclub. The later it had got, the more restless she had become. Finally, at twelvethirty, Susanna had insisted on being taken back to her hotel. 'The night is young,' the portly gentleman had crooned mournfully into her unwilling ear. 'Oh no it's not!' she'd snapped as she jumped out of the taxi and hurried into the lobby of the Victoria. She had gone directly to her room, where several items lay in readiness on the bed: a pair of jeans, a jumper, a torch. But when she glanced at her wristwatch, she decided there wasn't time to change. She simply kicked off her dancing slippers, pulled on the pair of old white tennis shoes she'd set out, and grabbed the torch. Then she went out again, down the back stairs of the Victoria, and into the night. It was easy enough to get into the Star of the Orient without being seen, especially at that time of night. Susanna used the tradesmen's

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entrance. Gaining access to the tenth-floor convention suite was rather more of a challenge. Susanna met it with the liberal application of Hong Kong dollars to the palm of a willing porter, to whom she bade a whispered 'Hurry!' Even by the weak light of the torch, it didn't take her very long to orientate herself, once she got inside. The 'suite' was nothing more elaborate than a large ballroom which had been temporarily divided by partitions into dozens of small cubicles, arranged in rows up and down most of the length of the room. Each was furnished with a desk and a couple of straight chairs, and a quick look-in on each one confirmed that none contained anything more interesting than the overflowing ashtrays, crumpled paper plates and half-empty coffee cups of the previous day's business, evidence that the late-shift cleaners had not yet been round. She was quick to distinguish the large open area at the far end of the room. She hurried to it, and there her torch picked out the shadowy shape of a large desk and some chairs, and the dull sheen of a row of filing cabinets which stood against one wall. In her eagerness to open the top drawer of the first cabinet she tried, Susanna broke a fingernail, and swore. She swore again when she discovered that all the cabinets were quite securely locked. She stood back, heaved a deep sigh, and yawned. She flashed the torch around the area once again, as though for one last time, as though she'd all but given up. Nothing. Nothing save for the full wastebaskets stacked in a corner, topped up with that day's crumpled paper. Susanna shrugged heavily, and with a muttered 'What the hell!' she stooped to the distasteful business of sorting through the

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rubbish. As she did so, her torch played over the top of the desk. One single file lay open on its surface, a file which someone had forgotten to lock away. Surely it wouldn't be Susanna straightened up at once, grabbing- for that file as though it might fly to the ceiling if she didn't hurry. And when she'd trained the torch on the papers inside, she smiled to herself in the darkness of the cluttered office as though she'd just won the pools. She seemed to debate for a while whether or not to take the file with her. She picked it up and put it down again, reluctantly, several times. Finally she shook her head. 'Too risky,' she murmured softly to herself. 'It would be missed.' After one last, lingering examination of its contents, Susanna left the file the way she had found it, on the desk. She had barely made her way out of the suite when she heard the cleaners come clattering down the main corridor of the tenth floor, towards the convention suite. She daren't use the lift, for fear of being seen. That would have meant answering awkward questions, or at the very least it would have meant the application of still more Hong Kong dollars. She used the service stairs; by the time she slipped out of the Star of the Orient the way she had come in, she was exhausted. But it must have been worth it. Whatever she had found in that open file kept her smiling a radiant, triumphant, totally satisfied smile for a long, long time.

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The harbour was busy in the pre-dawn darkness. Groups of smoking, talking, laughing men were gathered on the docks, preparing their boats for the day's fishing. Lights winked from the bay as freighters and masted sailing junks glided smoothly towards the piers from the open water beyond. But within minutes of boarding the China Doll, Margaret and Peter had left the heaviest of the harbour traffic behind them. And half an hour later, when Peter cut the engine and anchored the launch off the dim shape of a sheer cliff, it seemed as though they had the entire South China Sea to themselves. The sky had lightened just enough by then for Margaret to be able to make out the majestic outline of Victoria Peak as it emerged from the mists, to the south. 'Where are we?' she asked. She and Peter were sitting side by side, on the mahogany deck, leaning against the two enormous beach pillows he had brought. 'Shh' he answered softly. Then he glanced at the sky and reached for her hand. Just watch.' He pointed to the east, out to sea. The two of them looked on, awed and silent, as a soft glow of golden light began to swell and spread on the horizon until it filled the whole of the eastern sky. And then, so suddenly that Margaret caught her breath, the sun appeared, shot straight into the sky, and it was morning. 'It's true,' Margaret breathed, 'that the dawn comes up like like thunder, out of China. Just the way it says in the song'

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Peter laughed at that. 'Unless my navigation's gone completely up the junction, we're southeast of China at this particular moment. Hardly in a position to watch the sun come up out of China. Though the part about the thunder yes, I suppose that's a very accurate way to describe it. I wanted you to see it with me.' 'It's beautiful!' 'And so are you.' Peter shifted slightly, tilted her chin in his hand, and kissed her. Not passionately, on her lips, but lightly, on the very tip of her nose. Then he rose to his feet and walked aft, to rummage in the large box he'd brought aboard with them. 'I just happen to have a flask of hot coffee in hers, if you'd care to join me.' He also happened to have fresh, crusty rolls and butter to go with the coffee, towels, sun hat? tanning lotion, and an elegant picnic lunch which featured pate, several sorts of European cheese, and wine. 'How did you manage all that?' Margaret asked, grinning up at him as he handed her a steaming cup of coffee. He shrugged. 'Whenever I'm in town, which is most of the time, I'm a privileged guest in one of my own hotels. All I've got to do is pick up a telephone and ring through to room service. Hey presto! My slightest wish is their command. Sometimes it frightens me.' The coffee was welcome in the slight chill of early morning, but even before they had emptied the flask between them the sun was high and hot, the day perfect. The water in which they were anchored was as clear and still as a forest pool, and the high, rocky cliffs that sheltered them formed a rough crescent, lacking only a roof to make the cove seem like a vast room.

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'You still haven't told me where we are,' Margaret pointed out lightly, not really caring, enchanted by the perfection of the day and the beauty of their surroundings. 'But wherever we are, we seem to have it all to ourselves.' Even when they had walked together along the midnight beaches of Hong Kong, they had occasionally met other couples who were walking there too. But that morning, with the China Doll anchored off the coast of an island too small to be found on any but the most detailed map, Margaret and Peter may as well have been the only couple in the world. 'I could show you exactly where we are on a navigational chart,' Peter answered just as lightly, but we do have it to ourselves, that much is certain. Why, we could probably stay here a week or even longer without seeing another living soul.' Margaret's mouth curved into a slow smile at that, and her eyes danced. She set her empty cup on the deck, and shifted round until she faced him. 'I see' 'Oh no, I didn't mean I' She stopped his protests by reaching out to touch his hair, to stroke it, and when her fingers found the nape of his neck his arms went round her and he pulled her close. His mouth found her slightlyparted lips, and they shared the careless oblivion of a long, burning, urgent kiss. At last it ended, though even when Peter was holding her at arm's length they were kissing still, with their eyes. A spell seemed to shimmer between them like a magnet, threatening to propel them into another embrace.

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'You do know where kisses like that could lead us?' Peter asked softly, his voice grave. 'Down the primrose path to the everlasting bonfire,' Margaret recited, teasing him. No, seriously, love. I didn't bring you out here to seduce you,' he insisted quietly. Once again the slow, languorous smile curved Margaret's mouth. 'Here we are at the threshold of the twenty-first century, and you make me sound like an Edwardian spinster, tempting a fate worse than death!' He smiled at that, and then he laughed. 'You're more of a tease than any spinster I've ever come across before. As for the fate worse than death well, I didn't mean to sound so solemn, but this has gone so very quickly' 'How long is it supposed to take, to fall in love?' Peter considered that for a long moment before he answered. 'It's come to that hasn't it?' he asked finally, wonderingly. 'Oh yes,' she answered softly. 'At least, it has for me. I've never felt this way before, never. And now I'm leaving in less than a week, I' 'I know my love.' Peter said the phrase 'my love' as though he was testing it, as though he wanted to know how it felt to say it out loud. 'But before we realize it, we'll be together again. And we can write to one another, and I can telephone you, just to make sure you don't forget me'

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'But all the same, I'll be in London, and you'll be here,' Margaret said forlornly, anguished, her voice threatening to break. Her eyes filled, and one enormous tear slid slowly down her cheek. Peter took her into his arms again, kissed the tear away, and said 'Shh shh' as he cradled her against his chest. After a while he held her at arm's length and began to speak to her. But Margaret shuddered violently as he released her from the embrace; she reached out then and caught his hands, guided them until they cupped her breasts. 'No!' he cried hoarsely, the single syllable ragged, as though it had torn itself unwillingly from his throat. 'Why not?' Margaret teased in a husky whisper, emboldened by the slow, thudding drumbeat of desire she had felt at the touch of his hands on her body. 'There's no one to see us, you said so yourself' Peter rose to his feet in one lithe motion, reached out one hand to help her up; he held her close as he found the zip fastening of her flimsy cotton sundress. He eased its straps down over her shoulders and finally the dress fell, forgotten, and Margaret stepped out of it. All the while he undressed himself, he caressed her slender nakedness with dark eyes that were pools of tenderness, smoky with desire. When they came together again, they were lost in the rapture of another long, passionate kiss. Then he was kissing her closed eyelids, her throat, her shoulders, and finally her breasts, and at last they lay together on the polished deck beneath the brilliant morning sky.

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Margaret moaned softly, pleading with him to hurry, to make her truly his. 'I wouldn't dream of doing that,' he whispered into her hair. 'There's plenty of time, remember? And a spinster lady deserves very careful attention' 'As does the gentleman she loves,' she whispered back languidly, laughing softly. Even as he traced the delicate curve of leg and hip and tender mounds of breasts, first with his hands and then with his lips, Margaret reached out to touch him as well, to caress the strong muscles of his shoulders, and the smooth, lean contours of his back. Unhurried, tender, he touched her again and again and again, until her aching need to be joined with him mounted to an urgency she had never dreamed of, until she could bear it no longer. Eternity seemed to pass for her until they became one, and then they moved together until they reached the top of a spiral of light which seemed to spin them into dizzying infinity. Then they were still. 'Swim with me?' he asked tenderly, after a while. 'Oh, but I didn't bring a' She had been about to say bathing suit, and that made them giggle together, conspirators who shared a delicious secret. Moments later they were in the water, splashing around like children, carefree and innocent and laughing. But then their bodies touched, and their game intensified as they touched again and again, suspended in the sweet, new knowledge of their love.

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Neither of them spoke as they climbed back into the boat. They simply lay together on the smooth deck and kissed with unashamed hunger. Their bodies touched again, but the sea no longer separated them in its cool depths. There was nothing between them but fire as their bodies joined again; it was as though they shared one soaring, beating heart. Peter smiled lazily as he looked down at her afterwards, brushing one wet, curling tendril of hair out of her eyes. 'I didn't intend that to happen,' he said simply. 'But it was wonderful,' she answered, smiling up at him through halfclosed, love-filled eyes. 'Yes,' he agreed softly, 'that it was. But now, you see, you shall never, ever be free of me' 'That's wonderful as well,' she said. It was more than that, and Margaret knew it even at the time. That whole long morning was engraved on her heart as surely as if it had been burned there. Years later, she would still remember the taste of pate-flavoured kisses, and the way Peter looked at her, and the label on the bottle of wine they shared with lunch. Too soon, Peter was steering a course through the sparkling sea, and the China Doll was taking them back to Hong Kong Island, back to the world of people who were no part of the universe which belonged just to the two of them, and no one else. And finally, reluctantly, they parted in the lobby of the Star of the Orient.

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'I shall miss you terribly when you go back to London,' Peter said sombrely. 'Ah, but I haven't gone yet!' she insisted bravely, gaily. 'And meanwhile, of course, we have tonight' Margaret slept that afternoon. When she awoke, she remembered, and a flush began to rise from her slim throat. But then she smiled softly to herself, and after that she threw back the covers and got out of bed. Long shadows fell across the room from the open windows of the balcony. She would just have time, if she hurried, to have a quick cup of tea with Ralph before she dressed for her dinner date with Peter. She climbed into a pair of jeans and pulled a top over her head, gave her tangled hair a quick brush, and raced downstairs. Ralph was there in the coffee shop, surrounded by loose papers, looking so weary that Margaret felt an immediate pang of guilt for her neglect of him. 'Hello, love!' he said cheerfully. 'Hi, Ralph. Sorry I haven't been around much lately' 'It's OK, lass, don't worry over it! I shan't bore you with the details, but it looks as though I'm set fair to realize a fine old profit out of this lark, sooner or later. Why, if things work out, the trip'll pay for itself. You going out tonight, love?' 'You you wouldn't mind, would you?' Ralph didn't mind in the least. He was exhausted, and besides, he hadn't seen Margaret looking so happy since well, come to that,

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he couldn't remember a time when she'd looked as happy as she did that afternoon

'Hello there, stranger!' Susanna said, when she and Peter nearly collided on the pavement outside the Star of the Orient. 'Why, Susanna! Hi!' Susanna had been watching for him to emerge that afternoon -from a discreet distance. She knew where he had spent the morning, too. Or more accurately, she'd been able to winkle out enough information from here and there to know he'd taken the China Doll out to sea, and that the Hamilton girl had been aboard as well. No doubt he had just made another date with the dowdy little bitch. God, he looked so happy! Lord only knew what the two of them had got up to in that boat of his! Susanna had dressed carefully for her accidental meeting with Peter, all in white. She looked so well in white, everybody said so. It underlined her cool, blonde good looks. It never hurt to look good. Even more critical, though, was that she should get maximum mileage out of telling him what she knew what she'd taken the trouble to find out. And of course she'd have to make the whole thing sound as casual as humanly possible. He might have known about it all along. If that were the case, it would never do to appear to be trying to stir up trouble for dear, sweet little Margaret Hamilton

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'Still hard at work on your convention?' she asked brightly. That was as good a way as any to open, she had decided. Peter had talked of nothing else in the days no, weeks before it started. Lord, men could be boring about their business plans! Still sometimes it paid to listen. 'Oh yes, I suppose I am,' Peter replied easily. 'Sure. Though now it's nearly winding-up time, the thing seems to be running itself.' 'That's good news,' Susanna answered happily, smiling up at him. 'Oh, and Peter' Here she paused for just a fraction of a second before she delivered the crucial bit of that carefully planned conversation the snippet of information that represented Susanna's only chance.

Margaret was pleased with the things she'd ordered from Li Hsu, but most especially with the dress he'd made for evening wear. It was waiting for her in her room that afternoon, wrapped in a tidy parcel with the other things. Li Hsu had called it a changsung: deceptively demure, with its prim Mandarin collar buttoned high on the neck, in the catalogue it appeared to be a straight tube of heavy silk which barely skimmed the delicately-boned figure of the Chinese girl who posed in it; one side-seam was split thigh-high to allow a generous, tantalizing glimpse of slender leg. 'This is the traditional Chinese design,' the tailor had explained, 'which fits, as I believe you say, where it touches. For ladies with more, ah, Western figures,' he added discreetly, measuring

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Margaret's with a practised eye, 'I often modify this basic design to great advantage. It then becomes a fitted garment, very flattering.' It certainly was. The emerald green silk followed every line of Margaret's body, emphasizing her high, firm breasts, her neat waist and slim hips. With her dark hair piled high on her head, and eye make-up applied with skilful restraint, Margaret was a knockout, and she knew it. It still seemed almost dreamlike to her, that she and Peter had gone so far in love so very quickly, but then she would remember how simple it had been, really. She loved him, and he loved her. She kept remembering the scene on the boat that morning, when they'd become lovers, and every time she thought of that her mouth curved once more into a slow, extraordinary, wondering smile. She had set out deliberately to look her best for him that evening, and she knew she had succeeded. Even so, she felt a flutter of nervousness as she stepped out of the lift into the lobby. She saw Peter before he saw her, and she stood quite still for a moment, admiring the fine set of his head on his broad shoulders. Then she walked quickly to his side and touched his arm; she waited for his appreciative glance, his answering smile. It didn't come. Instead, Peter stared into her eyes with a look which seemed to contain nothing more than cool appraisal. 'Hello, Margaret,' he said at last. 'Hello yourself,' she teased. She grinned up at him, but when he didn't smile back she frowned, perplexed. 'What is it, love? Don't you feel well?'

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Peter shrugged, muttering something in reply which she couldn't quite catch. 'Well,' she persisted, 'did you manage to get the tickets for tomorrow evening?' That was sure to lift Peter out of his mood. He adored Chinese opera, and he was certain Margaret was going to like it too. He had said he was going to try for tickets to one of his favourites. But the reminder did not succeed in raising Peter's spirits. He sighed wearily, and shook his head. 'We can't talk here,' he said dully. 'Come on, let's have a drink.' He led the way across the wide lobby to the hotel bar, and Margaret followed, her mind spinning crazily with all sorts of explanations for Peter's behaviour, none of which made any sense at all. The bar was deserted except for the barman; by the time they were seated, and Peter had asked her what she wanted to drink, Margaret had regained some semblance of having her wits about her. She waved his question aside impatiently. 'It doesn't matter, love! First of all, I'd like to know what the devil's bothering you. This is' 'You may as well have a drink,' he interrupted. 'Keep me company. For the first time in a long while, I think I need one.' Margaret glanced up at him quickly, at the handsome face clouded now with what could it be? He looked as though he'd lost his best friend. 'Yes, all right,' she answered quietly. 'A sherry, please.' They sat in silence for as long as it took Peter to finish his drink. 'Ready for another?' He'd bought what appeared to be double measures, and Margaret had barely begun to sip hers. It was all she could do to restrain herself

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from standing up and shaking him by the shoulders until he told her what was wrong. But something stopped her doing that. It felt somehow as though if she tried it, or anything at all to break down his stubborn wall of silence, Peter might simply rise and walk out of the bar, leaving her there for as long as she chose to remain, alone with the mystery. Instead, Margaret steeled herself to patience. 'No, thank you,' she said mildly, 'but you go ahead.' 'Thank you. I will.' Peter was on his third drink when Margaret's patience snapped. 'Please, Peter, talk to me! I can't bear much more of this' 'Very well. I find I find I won't be able to see you for several days. Possibly longer,' he added, staring down into his drink. 'Oh, darling! No wonder you're in such a grim frame of mind! That's terrible news! It'll mean I won't see you again before I have to leave for England' 'That shouldn't worry you unduly,' he muttered. 'What?' Margaret's eyes were wide and shocked in her ashen face. 'What did you say?' she repeated, whispering. 'Oh, come now, Margaret. Surely there's no need for high drama. It's just that I well, that I have to get away, to think, to try to see things clearly, now the situation's changed. I' 'Peter,' Margaret interrupted firmly, will you please, please tell me what's come over you all of a sudden? I have no idea what you're talking about, or'

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'It's a bit late in the day for you to play the injured innocent, I should say.' 'Innocent of what?' Margaret demanded, her voice rising dangerously on the last word as though she was very close to hysteria. The barman did his best to ignore them, turning his back to polish glass after sparkling glass with intense concentration. Peter looked into Margaret's eyes, and for a fleeting moment she could read his pain. But then he laughed shortly to himself, and took another long swallow of the drink in front of him. Margaret began to weep, heedless of what her tears would do to the eye make-up she'd applied so carefully, or what the barman would think of her. Peter sat unmoved, toying with his drink as he watched her. 'I can't think what you hope to accomplish with that little trick' 'Right!' Margaret shot back, stung into anger. 'Then why don't you explain yourself? When you left me here this afternoon, everything was fine It was more than fine. You you and I we' Margaret began to stammer, very nearly breaking down again in tears, and for the space of a heartbeat Peter's stony expression seemed to soften as he looked at her. But then he frowned again, and his next words were crisp and clear, and very cold. 'That was before I knew you had come here with Ralph Nickleby,' he said. He pronounced Ralph's name with slow, deliberate care, watching Margaret's face.

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She looked back at him blankly, more bewildered than ever when he added, 'You know, of course, what that means. It's perfectly obvious.' Margaret frowned at him, and shook her head. 'Not to me.' She cleared her throat. 'You knew that I'd come here with my dad. I told you that the night you took me for a drink, the night we met on the beach' 'Yes, you did. But you were careful, weren't you, not to mention his name? Or the name of his agency in London? Or the fact that he's actually your stepfather, which is the only reasonable explanation for the fact that you don't share the same surname' 'I wasn't careful, Peter! It simply didn't come up in conversation. It was you who was so determined not to talk about business, or the convention. Anyway, what of it?' 'In fact,' Peter continued bitterly, ignoring her question, 'if it hadn't been for a chance remark Susanna made when I ran into her this afternoon, about seeing you and Ralph together at the reception banquet, I would never had made the connection until it was far too late.' 'Too late for what?' Margaret cried, exasperated. To uncover your crude little attempt to drum up business for your stepfather, of course! Don't try to pretend you didn't know he's been negotiating with me since the day the convention started!' 'But I didn't!'

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'I think you did,' he answered coldly. 'I looked you up in the registration records, and there you were: 'Margaret Hamilton, Administrative Assistant, Travel Unlimited, London' 'What of it? Look, Peter, I've told you why Ralph decided to bring me here in the first place. Why, I haven't so much as typed an envelope since the day we arrived. I know nothing of Ralph's negotiations out here, and that's the simple truth. Incidentally, I find it highly improbable that he's negotiating for a tie-in with Pan Orient. I mean, Hong Kong's not exactly the most accessible holiday paradise for the clients we serve from London. Nor is it cheap for them to come here, by any stretch of the imagination, so' So, indeed,' he interrupted smoothly. 'No doubt you also know that the British don't own Hong Kong. We merely lease it from the Chinese, and no one can be certain they'll renew that lease when it expires. Which explains why Pan Orient are shortly to establish a European subsidiary chain to serve the common market countries. The consequent tie-in with Travel Unlimited, if successfully negotiated, will be more than profitable. I'm sure I needn't spell it out for you.' Margaret stared across at him, numbly trying to sort out the whole scrambled mess in her mind, slowly registering all the clues she might have picked up to suspect something of Pan Orient's plans: Linda's announcement that she'd been offered a job in London with the company, Peter's saying he was coming to England too, Ralph's glee over whatever successful deal he'd managed to accomplish in the course of the convention

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But even if she had known how to put all that together, she still wouldn't have linked Pan Orient with Travel Unlimited! Yet yet Peter was clearly willing to assume that she had known, all along; that she had tried to use the information. And there was no doubt in her mind that Susanna had done her best to make sure of that. She had seen him first, after all. And the woman was sure to be aware of Peter's fear of being used for his money, his power. Moreover, Susanna had left no illusions in Margaret's mind that she would get him back, if she possibly could. And now it seemed Susanna had convinced Peter that Margaret was nothing but an ambitious little schemer. Oh no, it couldn't be! How could he believe that of her? 'You decided that I knew about your dealings with Ralph?' Margaret began slowly. 'That I pretended to fall in love with you, just to to boost Ralph's chances of a profitable contract?' 'What else could I assume?' he asked tersely. 'Oh, for God's sake, Peter, see sense! I'm not stupid! Even if I had hatched some fiendish little plot to lure you into dealing with Ralph, it wouldn't have been awfully bright of me, now would it? I mean, you'd have met him sooner or later, wouldn't you? With me, I mean' 'That's the part that hurts more than anything,' he answered quietly, real anguish in his voice. The thought that you would have introduced me to the man, all fluttering eyelashes and girlish innocence, realizing I'd known him all along. By the way, you needn't worry about the business side of things. I like Ralph, and I respect him. I feel absolutely sure he knows nothing of the plans you

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may have had. I shall be very careful not to let any of this affect our dealings, you have my word on that. I can't help supposing, though, that after a certain number of intimate dinners and moonlit walks, and sessions like the one we shared this morning you assumed I'd be too helplessly in love with you to object to anything you wanted me to do. I can't help wondering how soon you would have dropped me, after after contracts had changed hands.' 'How dare you!' Margaret slapped him. Just once, across the face, as hard as she could. She took several deep breaths before she spoke again, and when she did her voice was low with barely controlled fury. 'I'll tell you something, Peter Benhurst. You're a bitter, twisted man. And I'll tell you something else. If I were you, I wouldn't trust that that Baker-Leigh woman as far as I could throw' 'Stop right there!' he hurled back. 'If it hadn't been for Susanna, I'd have been a very lonely man when all this came out. She's a good friend, and I'll not have' 'You'll do as you bloody well please! Meanwhile, I think you'll live to regret this conversation and your monstrous assumptions! When that happens, I'll thank you not to come to me with your apologies, your, your' 'Don't worry about it!' 'I won't! But if I live for ever, I will never, ever have anything further to do with you, and that's a promise! Now, if you'll excuse me ' 'Certainly,' he muttered, as he rose abruptly from his chair; he bowed to her with sarcastic formality as she gathered up her evening bag.

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Margaret left the bar with quick, even steps, her head held proudly high, without once looking back. Her anger protected her from thinking of the man she'd left behind, slumped in his chair with his head in his hands, or of the barman who recognized him instantly when he finally approached the table. 'May I get you something else, Mr Benhurst?' the young man enquired politely. Peter looked up, blinking. 'What? Oh, sorry, ah yes, please. Just bring the bottle, would you? Put it on my account.' 'Of course, sir,' and it was done. Peter sat there for a long time. Even after the bar began to fill up with the hotel guests who were its pre-dinner trade, he didn't move except to fill his glass, and raise it to his lips. He was trying to think clearly, and it wasn't getting easier. He kept replaying that conversation with Susanna, over and over again. She had struck a note of sisterly interest when she asked, almost as an afterthought, 'Oh, and Peter, are you still seeing Ralph Nickleby's daughter?' He looked blank for a moment. Then he had frowned slightly, and finally his face had cleared. 'So far as I know, Ralph hasn't got one.' 'Oh well, stepdaughter, then,' Susanna conceded easily. You know. Margaret. Margaret Hamilton. I'm sure I saw them together at the reception banquet. Surely you knew that, Peter' Susanna looked puzzled. 'About their being related, I mean' He couldn't remember what, if anything, he'd said to that. Only that it had come as an awful shock.

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Peter sat like that in the Star of the Orient bar until the thoroughly embarrassed bartender was forced to tell him it was time for the bar to close.

Susanna Baker-Leigh paced back and forth in her luxurious suite at the Victoria, glancing from time to time at her white-gold dress watch. She had made no plans for the evening. Nevertheless, she had dressed with care. One could always say, 'Oh dear, I was just going out! Never mind, I can cancel that,' to explain why one happened to be wearing a light blue velvet evening skirt, and a sequinned blouse of quite astonishing dcolletage. Not that it would occur to Peter Benhurst to wonder how one had achieved such effortless glamour on such short notice, if he rang. Peter, like any other man, could be persuaded to see what any clever, patient woman wanted him to see no more, and no less. Occasionally Susanna glared at the silent telephone beside her bed, and crossed her fingers. Peter could be such a bore at times. He had gone on and on and on, in dry detail, about the various deals he was planning to negotiate, with Schneider from Germany, and Petroni from Rome, and somebody called Nichols, or Nicholson, or Nicholsomething, from London. She had remembered the name when she saw it written down, though, and that had been the main thing. 'They'll all be here, for the convention,' he had said.

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It was an effort, at the time, to smile with what passed for genuine interest, to say enthusiastically, That's marvellous, Peter! Why, just think! By the time you establish in London, you'll have masses of contacts!' 'That's right, Susanna. Oh, it's grand to be able to really talk to a woman for once Hmm. That hadn't stopped him dropping her, the moment that Hamilton bitch had come tripping out, with her chain-store finery and her big, innocent, googly eyes. And at first it had seemed quite hopeless, trying to connect what she could remember about Peter's everlasting convention with the name Margaret Hamilton. He'd never mentioned a Hamilton, Susanna was sure. But in the end, when he'd begun spending every waking minute in the girl's company, it seemed urgently necessary to do something. And then, fortunately, there was Peter's famous horror of being used. He'd had far too much of that in his life, poor thing. He was always on about it Oh damn it! Was he going to ring? At last, it seemed that he was not. Susanna sent down to room service for dinner on a tray. She picked at the food without much interest, leafing idly through a magazine she didn't really read. Eventually she sighed, undressed, and went to bed.

By that time, of course, Margaret had long since made her way back to her room at the Star of the Orient. The first thing she did when she got there was to take her hairbrush from the dressing table, and to

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hurl it away from her with great force, so that it bounced across the floor. That seemed to help a little. It released a bit of Margaret's pent-up fury. But even before the unoffending brush had come to rest against the opposite wall, the protective shell of Margaret's anger had burst, leaving her convulsed with helpless, gulping sobs. It took a while for that to pass. When it did, Margaret was left shaking helplessly, shivering with the enormity of what had passed between herself and Peter, downstairs in the bar. Inconveniently, she remembered that she was in love with him, so very much in love with him. He was in love with her, too, she was sure of it. Why, just that morning they had 'Stop it!' she told herself loudly. But she could not. It kept coming back to her, washing over her in great, terribly painful waves the delicate, startled wonder she had felt, spinning higher and higher with him into the hoc, sweet glory of the morning. And now? Now it was as though the world had collapsed into brittle, jagged fragments at her feet, as though the lovely bubble of a daydream had shattered, plunging her to earth with bone-breaking speed. The pain was unbearable, and yet she knew she had to bear it. She felt an overwhelming need to talk with someone; to ask some cooler, wiser person than herself to explain to her exactly what had happened, in simple words which she might understand. And then, if it was possible, her pain went much, much deeper; Margaret was weeping once more for her mother. Dorothy would have held her, rocked her, listened to the whole sorry little tale, not

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even flinching (though Margaret did, remembering) when it came to the part about making love with him, committing herself much too fully, much too soon and how cheap and tawdry and ashamed she felt about it now. Dorothy would have said something funny, probably, something to make her laugh. And then she would have applied her patience and her love to Margaret's wounded pride, her dumb confusion, and it would have eased the pain. But Dorothy was gone, and there was no one. Well, there was Ralph, wasn't there? Room 411. She told herself that she must warn him, tell him as much of the truth as was absolutely necessary, or at least as much as would affect him. It was all very well to gallop headlong into a sordid holiday romance that came to grief; it was quite another matter to be accused of meddling in Ralph's business. Margaret walked stiffly to the bed, sat down on the very edge of it and reached for the telephone receiver. She fumbled for the 4, but before she had released her index finger to allow the first revolution of the dial, she paused. Was it necessary? Or even wise? Oh yes, Peter had accused her of plotting with insane complexity to pretend to be in love so as to ensure Ralph a profitable contract. It was becoming difficult to remember exactly what Peter had said about that. It had been terribly involved, what she was supposed to know. But he'd added that he wouldn't allow his suspicions to cloud his business dealings with Ralph in any way. Peter had said that, hadn't he? Yes, he had. Definitely. It wasn't much to salvage, but it was something.

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Ralph was tired and preoccupied. Telling him part of the story would simply confuse him. And telling him all of it, even if he pretended fondly not to be shocked, would distress him terribly. The trip had been expensive, and its chief object where Margaret was concerned had been to cheer her up, to bring her out of herself. If Ralph found out how badly it had backfired, it would spoil all the pleasure he had gained from being able to give it in the first place. That would be terribly selfish. Margaret cradled the telephone reluctantly, feeling very much alone in the gathering darkness. But suddenly she picked up the receiver again, and this time she didn't hesitate as she dialled. 'Linda?' 'Oh, hello, Margaret! Nice to hear you. Listen, you're just in time to hear the happy news. Richard writes that he's definitely found a flat, and that he's even signed the lease. What's more, they told me today at work I'll be leaving for home even sooner than I'd hoped. Oh, I'm beside myself! I'm so happy' Linda stopped, mid-flow, when she became aware of the muffled sound of weeping. 'Margaret?' she asked quickly. 'Something's wrong at your end, isn't it?' Margaret controlled her tears with an effort, at least enough to be able to speak intelligibly into the phone. You m-might say that, Linda. Oh, II want to die!'

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'Hey, love, shh' Linda soothed softly. 'Look, why don't you come over here? Right now. We'll talk about it, and it might help. It's Peter, isn't it?'

Linda opened the door to her even before Margaret knocked. She bundled her unceremoniously into the most comfortable chair in the sitting room and shoved a steaming mug of tea into her hands before either of them spoke. 'Now then,' Linda said with brisk practicality, 'you'd better tell me all about it.' It took a while to do that, but Margaret finally got it all said. Linda sat quietly, content to make encouraging noises when they seemed appropriate, and to take Margaret's hand when tears got the better of her friend. 'It happened so fast, Linda! I should know better, you realize that? It isn't as though I don't know the dangers of the common or garden holiday romance. I saw it in the office nearly every week last summer, in fact, when some gormless little tripper would come into the agency with her second degree sunburn and her guilty conscience, moaning about her heartbreaking fortnight in

Torremolinos. And to think I was convinced I was in love with Peter, and he with me, to the point of well' 'To the point of making love with him?' Linda supplied gently. Margaret nodded, unable to answer through the tears which engulfed her once again. It was then that Linda fortified her friend's tea with brandy, which she insisted Margaret drink.

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'It's not the end of the world, Margaret. That you made love with him, I mean,' Linda said. 'Maybe not for you and Richard, but Oh, I'm sorry! All I really meant was' 'I think I know what you meant. And you're right. I feel more secure, now we've sorted ourselves out with wedding plans and all the rest of it. But I'll be honest with you, Margaret. You can't always know in advance how things are going to work out. The first time well, the first time Richard and I made love, we didn't have all the official business sorted out, not by a long way. It happens all the time, love, whether people admit it or not. And quite honestly, though this probably isn't the ideal time to say so, I'd say you may be well out of any serious commitment to Peter Benhurst. Oh, he's attractive, even I can see that. And he's fine to work for. But I'd be willing to bet he'll be hell on wheels as a lifetime partner. He's arrogant, for one thing, and prickly. And he's so determined never to be hurt again, he can't even see the simplest truths' 'Which are?' Margaret asked, looking up, dazed and swollen-eyed, yet desperate to know the answers, the simplest truths. Linda took a deep breath. 'Well, for a start, the truth about that horrid Baker-Leigh woman' 'Susanna?' 'Yes. Though round the office she's referred to as the Baker Baggage.' Margaret giggled, and Linda smiled. 'Honestly!' Linda went on. 'Or sometimes as Madame Susanna. She's a poisonous bitch, and you can count on the fact that whatever "chance remark" she made to Peter this afternoon was loaded with enough venom to

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blacken a saint. She's so determined to get her hooks into Peter Benhurst it's legendary. She wasn't here when I first came out to Hong Kong, but her very first act when she did arrive was to come sailing into Pan Orient's executive offices to case the joint. Her second act was to try to get me sacked' 'But that was silly!' 'That didn't stop her. Susanna told Peter I'd been "insufferably rude" to her.' 'What happened then?' Nothing. Except I cornered her in the Ladies that very day' 'You did?' 'Yup.' 'And then what?' Linda grinned wickedly, and chuckled with glee at the memory. I shoved Richard's photograph under her nose, and I told her plainly that any interest I have in Peter is strictly professional. I added for good measure that I do my job well enough to earn a fair amount of responsibility. I told her it was going to take a lot more than a lady with time on her hands and a possessive streak to get me out of Pan Orient.' 'You didn't!' Margaret breathed, forgetting her own troubles for a moment. 'I certainly did! It worked, too. But I can imagine how she must be feeling about you! Why, even at the office Peter's been acting like a moonstruck kid the last couple of weeks Oh, Margaret, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have said that!'

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Even without Linda's unfortunate slip there would probably have been more tears. There was more brandy too, though Linda had to say firmly that it was for medicinal purposes to persuade Margaret to drink enough of it to blur the edges. 'I'm sorry,' Linda said again. 'I was just trying to give you some idea of how hard Susanna would be willing to work to find any little scrap of information about you which might plant doubts in Peter's mind. I wouldn't be surprised if she did some rather fancy homework to get at it, too' 'What do you mean?' 'I'm not really sure myself,' Linda said slowly. 'It's just that she's so determined. You know I said about her trying to get me the sack? Well, there was another case where she actually succeeded. The girl was a telephonist' 'And Susanna got her the sack?' 'It was only a piece of office gossip at the time, and you know how the grapevine works. I wouldn't like to have to prove it, but I shouldn't be surprised if Susanna had a lot to do with it. The girl involved was incredibly beautiful' 'And Peter liked her?' 'I'm fairly certain he never even noticed her existence. That was the frightening part of it.' 'Then why . . ?' 'There is no reason, Margaret, that's the point! As far as I can tell, Susanna doesn't even seem to like Peter all that much. Oh, I've seen them at parties, and she does cling to him like a barnacle, but I've

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overheard her being unkind to him more than once. And it isn't that she's after him for his money, either. Rumour has it she's very well off in her own right, thank you very much. For whatever reason, though,- she hangs in there, chasing after him for dear life. And he seems absolutely convinced she's a good friend who has his best interests at heart.' Linda sighed. 'Anyway, let's not talk about her any more.' But Margaret could not stop thinking about the events of that crammed, confusing, heartbreaking day. Even when she'd consumed a fair portion of Linda's brandy, and was drifting off to sleep at last on Linda's comfortable sofa, Margaret's mind was racing, and Susanna's image came back to haunt her uneasy dreams. In the morning, Linda tiptoed considerately around the flat, trying not to wake her. But Margaret was awake already and when Linda realized that, she brought her a mug of tea in bed. Linda Peterson was an asset to Pan Orient. She was thoroughly professional, knowledgeable, and extremely conscientious about doing her job. But that did not prevent her ringing through to her office that morning, pleading a diplomatic cold, thereby freeing herself for the whole of that gloriously sunny day so she could spend it with her friend. 'Now get a move on, love,' Linda nagged cheerfully. 'If we're going to play at being lady tourists, we'd better get started!' That day was crammed so full of landmarks and tourist traps and museums that Margaret had very little time to think, which was precisely the object of Linda's exercise.

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Margaret marvelled afterwards that never once did they venture anywhere near a spot which caused her pain, a place she had seen before with Peter. Long afterwards, she mentioned that to Linda. 'It was easy,' Linda insisted modestly. 'Don't you remember? I announced where we were going every time, before we got there. And before we started out, I watched your face.'

10

'I like your new suit,' Linda said to Margaret, who was wearing it that evening. 'I like it so much I mentioned it in my latest letter to my parents. They already know that the bad news about my coming home to work is that I won't have anything suitable to wear through a London winter. Dad may suggest I have a suit made for myself while I'm still out here, as a birthday present or something. I'll have to wait and see.' Ralph sighed indulgently, and whistled softly at the ceiling. 'You know,' he mused, 'a daughter is a very mysterious creature. No matter how hard you try to keep her dressed, she never seems to have a thing to wear.' Linda looked at Margaret, and they both laughed. 'Oh, come now, Ralph,' Margaret chided gaily, 'it's not so bad as all that!'

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'Hmm' he answered thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling as he refilled their wine glasses. Margaret's hand-made clothes were no more to her by then than bits of cloth; Linda was in a position to know that very well. She also knew that Margaret would never betray that to Ralph, and that to speak of the lovely things he had bought for Margaret would please him. She had invited them to dinner in her flat on their last evening in Hong Kong. Margaret mentioned the invitation at breakfast that morning, when she met Ralph in the coffee shop. He started to object, saying, 'But what about that fellow you were ' He managed to muffle the rest of it by clinking his teacup noisily against its saucer, and Margaret came swiftly to his rescue. 'Oh, him!' she said, lightly and dismissively. 'He was just somebody I met at a party. Nice enough, I suppose, but nothing serious.' She shrugged. 'I've been spending most of my time with Linda lately, when she's free,' she added, marvelling at how very easy it was to lie. The last part was true enough at least. Margaret had been spending a lot of time with Linda, all the time Linda could decently spare from showing up in her office to earn her salary. There had been exactly three days stretching between Margaret's terrible scene with Peter, and her scheduled flight back to London. Three days didn't seem so very many, but if Margaret had been left on her own to fill them she would have been in hell, and Linda knew it.

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The weather continued marvellous, each dazzling day if anything more perfect than the one which had gone before it, a superb tribute to the honesty of all the travel brochures ever printed about Hong Kong in October. But those days were a mockery of Margaret's mood, which swung wildly between the gnawing ache of Peter's abrupt absence from her life, and a stony, unforgiving anger with him. He had said he loved her, but he had so easily mistrusted her. In any frame of mind, Margaret's future seemed to her like one long, bleak, empty tunnel of loneliness. The days were bad enough, though she could get through them somehow; when she wasn't out with Linda she read, or wrote postcards to friends in London though she'd be there before they got them or she busied herself with packing to go home. Even that was astonishingly painful, especially when she came to fold the beautiful changsung she had worn for Peter on that dreadful evening. She was sure she could never bring herself to wear it ever again. Nevertheless, she wrapped it carefully in tissue, and folded it into a case. The evenings were worst of all. It was then that the entire world seemed to go two by two, arm in arm in couples, and there was nothing left for Margaret but regret, and grey despair. She felt ashamed then to think that she had ever laughed at the dull-eyed spinsters she had sent off on long, intensely boring cruises they insisted they could afford. 'Why not a couple of weeks in Bridlington instead?' she had cajoled brightly, more than once.

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'Oh no, dear! It's all to do with meeting someone, isn't it?' the ladies would confide, all of them using more or less the same words to describe Mr Right, and explain how that sort of person was bound to be found, sooner or later, 'abroad'. Linda understood most of what was passing through Margaret's mind without having to be told, and through it all she did her very best to offer the most sensible and sensitive advice she could. It had not been easy. It was soon enough complicated by the fact that almost every time Margaret walked into the lobby of the Star of the Orient, beginning with the morning after she had spent the night in Linda's flat, there was a message waiting for her at the reception desk. The first of these had been attached to a most impressive spray of long-stemmed roses; it read simply, 'Sorry, Peter. Please ring.' God, how she'd been tempted to do just that! But even before she'd carried the lovely flowers to her room, Margaret had changed her mind. But why?' Linda pleaded, when they met an hour later. 'Oh, I know that I was making noises last night about how you're well out of it and so on, but that was only to try to calm you down at the time. Why not ring him, for heaven's sake? Find out what he has to say? Surely he wouldn't be sending roses if he hadn't been thinking hard.' 'Never!' Margaret snapped. 'I told him so last night, Linda. The point is, he did say all those terrible things. And if he really cared for me, he'd never have given Susanna's insinuations a second thought!' Linda sighed, and changed the subject. She suggested they see a film together that evening, a comedy she chose deliberately for its lighthearted fun. When it was finished, Margaret decided to go back to

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the Star of the Orient. 'You're very welcome to come to the flat instead,' Linda offered gently. 'Are you sure you'll be all right?' Positive,' Margaret answered, with a firm bravery she didn't feel. 'I should have breakfast with Ralph tomorrow morning anyway, and besides, I'm far too tired to think. And Linda, thanks for everything' Margaret went directly to her room, stopping just long enough to collect three bits of paper on which the reception clerk had noted, on three separate occasions, that 'A gentleman rang to speak with you, Miss Hamilton. You were out, and he left no message.' Margaret went straight to bed, after she'd ripped the messages into meticulously tiny pieces which she threw into the bin. For good measure, she threw the flowers after them. She was sure sleep would come, if only she did that first. But several hours passed, and she was still wide awake. So, sighing heavily, Margaret climbed out of bed. And though she knew it was the worst thing she could choose to do, nothing short of a particularly cruel form of self-torture, she dressed hurriedly and went out again, to walk along the beach. It was very late. Mercifully, the moon was down, and it was dark. That did not prevent each step she took along the silken sand being sharply painful, bringing back memories of other nights, when she'd strolled through the same star-strewn darkness hand in hand with Peter. Nights when they'd lingered, looking out to sea, sharing kisses Perhaps she was being stupid, stupid and childishly stubborn, in refusing to talk with him before she had to leave. Margaret wavered

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as she allowed a shaft of hope to fill her heart. Perhaps they'd both been hasty, said things they hadn't really meant. People did that, sometimes. Maybe after all they could find their way back together again. Perhaps He spoke twice before she answered. 'I said good evening, Margaret. Perhaps you didn't hear.' 'Oh!' She looked up, badly startled, and at first she thought her tired mind imagined it, that Peter and Susanna were standing there in front of her, side by side. But when Susanna said, 'Hello there, Margaret. Fancy meeting you here,' as she tightened her grip on Peter's arm, Margaret knew with a sickening pounding in her head that it was no dream. 'Good evening, Peter, and Susanna,' she murmured politely, thinking wildly that a similar meeting had begun the whole painful thing, and not three weeks ago. It took every ounce of self-control she could muster not to reach out like a savage, to wipe the simpering, triumphant smile off Susanna's face with one resounding slap. Instead, she squared her shoulders and looked directly into Peter's face, taking in Susanna's elegant bikini and her careful make-up in one swift sidelong glance, without allowing a flicker of what she was feeling to show through. 'I tried to ring you, Margaret,' Peter said gravely, 'several times, in fact. But you were out' 'Yes, so I was,' she cut in evenly. Out with friends, just as you are now.' Margaret paused a moment to be sure that had sunk in, and then she added, 'It's so very late, I'm sure you'll both excuse me.'

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Peter murmured something in answer, to that, some resigned acknowledgement that he had no choice but to excuse her, but Margaret barely heard him. She had turned away by then, and it required all her concentration to walk with slow, deliberate steps along the beach in the direction from which she had come, back to the hotel. Linda didn't seem to mind being awakened by her ringing telephone in the middle of the night, not when she realized it was Margaret, incoherent with grief. When she was finally calm enough to take it in, Linda said slowly, 'Now, Margaret, simply do as I say. When we ring off, dial room service. Ask them to bring you a double brandy, do you hear me? Sleep will help, I swear it will. We can talk the whole thing through tomorrow, all right?' And when Margaret had promised, still sobbing, to obey the instruction, Linda had issued her dinner invitation. 'And tomorrow night,' she added firmly, 'you'll take a sleeping tablet with you when you and Ralph go back to the hotel. You'll swallow it too, before you get into bed. No one can know at this stage how things will work out or not between you and Peter. And I still think there could be any number of reasonable explanations why Susanna was with him tonight on the beach. Lord knows the woman's persistent enough! But there's one thing I'm sure of: I'm determined to get you home in one piece if it's the last thing I do!'

Through it all, Ralph remained serenely unaware that things were not exactly as they should be.

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Margaret ordered and drank the brandy, and fell into an uneasy sleep; by morning, though every muscle in her exhausted body ached, she was able to act her way through breakfast as though she hadn't a care in the world. Linda says she's longing to cook a meal for someone, she confided gaily, stirring her tea. 'She claims you and I will be perfect victims for her attempts to get back into practice with plain English cookery. Especially you,' she finished slyly, winking at him. 'Ah, well now,' Ralph said, 'that's an offer I wouldn't dream of turning down. Nice though it is, this Chinese food does get a bit fancy as a steady diet. I'd love to come along. What should we bring? White wine, or red?' Linda wasn't really out of practice, or at least she didn't seem to be. The prime rib of beef was delicious, crusty on the outside and rosy in the middle, and the potatoes she had roasted around it were brown and perfect. 'Actually, I cheated,' Linda admitted modestly, 'by using one of the thingummies Mum sent me from Sainsbury's. It's called a Roastabag, or something like that.' Linda got quite a bit of conversational mileage out of explaining Roastabags to Margaret. She dragged out every other homely topic she could think of, too; how she'd made the feather-light Yorkshire puddings, the method she'd used to glaze the carrots, and exactly how much sherry she'd put into the tipsy trifle she served for pudding. 'This Naylor fellow's a lucky man,' Ralph observed appreciatively over coffee. 'Though it's only fair to add that Margaret knows her

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way around a kitchen, too. When she decides to settle down, he'll be a lucky bloke and all' Margaret and Linda exchanged a quick look at that, Linda telegraphing 'Strength!' and Margaret acknowledging it gratefully. 'Oh, Ralph,' she exclaimed, laughing, 'don't be silly. I shan't be settling down for a long time to come!' If ever, she thought grimly even as she smiled. I'd have to be out of my mind to dare so much hurt, ever again. And to think she'd been on the point of believing Peter when he'd offered an apology with those flowers! God, it hadn't taken him very long to seek solace in the super-willing arms of that smirking BakerLeigh woman! He hadn't even waited until Margaret left for London. Oh no, she'd been right to tell him they were finished! It took an effort of will to force her attention back to the conversation at the table, the painless, easy, ordinary small talk which Linda kept going so valiantly. It was late by the time Ralph and Margaret left, and the following morning was far too busy to allow Margaret any time to think. She was calm enough when Linda chauffeured them to Kai Tak airport, with thoughts of toothbrushes and passports chasing each other through her mind. It hit her with force, though, shortly after take-off, the question which had been nagging at her even after she'd dutifully swallowed the tablet Linda had pressed into her hand the previous evening. It wasn't exactly a question. It was more nearly a cameo of a scene which had burned itself into Margaret's mind. A scene in which Peter walked with Susanna Baker-Leigh along an endless silvery beach,

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hand in hand with her, laughing softly. That was the first part. The scene shifted after that, until Margaret could see Peter and Susanna on the deck of the China Doll entwined in one another's arms After that, it ended. Except that it projected itself endlessly on the screen of Margaret's mind, over and over again until she thought she would scream, or die. She did neither. She had got this far, with Linda's help, carrying the burden of her broken heart. She would accomplish the rest once she was safely home again in her room, in her job, the ordinary round of days, and Ralph would never be the wiser. It was simple enough; a matter of living through one dreary day at a time. They showed a film on the flight back to England; Margaret was grateful for the darkened cabin that went with it. Ralph slept through most of it, and when he awoke to see that Margaret's eyes were full of tears he was alarmed at first. But then he realized what was on the programme, and he relaxed into his seat, shaking his head fondly over the sentimentality of women. They were showing Love Story

11

'Looks as if we're home again for sure,' Ralph said cheerfully as they walked out of the terminal. It was Sunday, it was late, and it was raining. The tarmac of the airport carpark glistened beneath artificial light as they walked to Phyllis's car. 'Never mind. Wouldn't be London without a drop or two of rain.'

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'It sounds very much as though you're glad to be back,' Phyllis said. 'Didn't you enjoy Hong Kong?' 'Oh, yes I did, what I saw of it. Which wasn't much, admittedly, apart from the inside of a boardroom. Still, it was worth it. Now it can be told, incidentally, at least among friends. I managed to have one or two very successful meetings with young Benhurst while we were out there. He's the one who runs the show at Pan Orient. They're planning to open up shop here early in the spring, and we rate to benefit from that; we'll probably be offered a tie-in with their continental hotel chain, somewhere along the line.' Phyllis shook her head, smiling as she unlocked the boot of her mini so that Ralph could stow the luggage. 'Typical Ralph,' she muttered. 'Business, business, and more business. But what about you, Margaret? I trust you managed to have a bit of fun while you were away, without troubling yourself overmuch with young Benhurst and his hotel empire. You've got a wonderful tan, I'll say that much.' Margaret had shuddered at the first mention of Peter's name, and when Phyllis mentioned him again she cringed inwardly, though she covered her reaction by pretending to rummage in her shoulder bag. She even managed to smile convincingly when she raised her head to meet Phyllis's grin. 'Oh yes! Yes, indeed I did. It was really marvellous. Everything I expected, and then some' She could say that again, Margaret reflected grimly, and no doubt she would have to, over and over again. It wasn't every day a girl was treated to the dream holiday of a lifetime. Everyone she knew in London would admire her tan, her hand-made clothes, her snapshots.

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They would ask her if she had used the few words of Chinese she knew, and what she had thought of 'authentic' Chinese food. Someone might even ask her if she'd met any interesting guys while she was out there. Well, she'd just have to learn to smile sweetly and lie in her teeth, that was all. There were few friends she considered close enough to be burdened with the whole dreary story. In fact, if it hadn't been for the brutal shock of the way she'd parted with Peter, Margaret probably wouldn't have confided so fully in Linda Peterson. For the moment, at least, Margaret was left alone to gaze out at the shabby London suburbs, duller than ever in the gloom of rapidlygathering dusk, as Phyllis drove them into town. Ralph was interested only in Phyllis's answers to his cross-questioning about what had happened in his absence. 'We didn't go into bankruptcy,' Phyllis reassured him wryly, 'though there were one or two difficult moments; colourful to say the least' 'What happened?' Ralph asked anxiously, instantly attentive. Phyllis laughed. 'Calm down, Ralph, I'm only teasing! If I remember rightly, the very worst thing that happened was that a pair of newlyweds found themselves stranded in Sheerness on their wedding night when the only steamer doing the cross-channel night run went into drydock for repair.' 'That's something new?' Ralph snorted. 'The damned boat's been in service since the last world war!'

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'Yes, Ralph,' Phyllis answered patiently. 'You know that, and I know it, but try explaining it to two kids who've made up their mind to celebrate their great occasion on the cheap and cheerful. Anyway, they had to wait until the following morning to cross on their continental honeymoon, and being out of season, the only bed and breakfast they could find was owned by a woman who might have stepped into a comic pantomime without:, much as changing her apron.' 'What was wrong with her?' Ralph asked. 'Oh, you know. The smell of cabbage in the corridors, and fifty thousand rules and regulations posted in the entrance, in her own cramped and spidery handwriting. You can't blame the couple for being offended when she insisted on seeing their lines before she agreed to rent them a double room' 'And they expected us to refund the price of it, when they got back,' Ralph finished for her. Phyllis smiled at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. 'It did seem to work out cheaper than to have them carrying on at the top of their voices in front of a queue of would-be customers.' 'Quite right,' Ralph agreed, relaxing against the back seat. It went on like that, all of it shop-talk, and for once Margaret was grateful for its endless drone. It left her free to think her own thoughts, which were not pleasant. But in some curious way, she was grateful that she had come home to London at its worst. The rain and gloom and the sight of shivering pedestrians scuttling along the streets in search of light and warmth was a sudden contrast to the

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relentless glory of the climate she'd left behind her in Hong Kong. London seemed a fit place that evening for someone whose heart felt like a limp, faded teacloth. London was grim, and that was fine with Margaret. So was she. And then, at last, they were home. 'Come in for coffee?' Margaret offered when Phyllis pulled up in front of the house. 'Thanks. But just one cup,' Phyllis answered. 'I left my old man pottering about in the kitchen, and I never know what to expect when I do that. He does so love to mess about with every pot and pan in the place. Incidentally, you're very welcome to come to us for supper if you like. It'll be pot-luck, nothing fancy, but we'd love to have you.' To Margaret's intense relief, Ralph declined for them both. She liked Bill Gunter, she always had done. But Bill would undoubtedly have lavished most of his attention on Margaret that evening, and he loved teasing her. Besides, he could be almost irritatingly cheerful at times.

Cheer was absent from Margaret's heart for all the long days and weeks of that grey, wet, endless London autumn, though of course Ralph never knew that, nor did anyone else. She even began to take a kind of grim satisfaction in her ability to smile convincingly as she told people that yes, indeed, her three weeks in Hong Kong had been one gay, mad, merry round of fun. It was far less satisfying when she woke up sobbing from a dream, tears already soaking her pillow, so vivid had been the taste of Peter's kiss, the strong, gentle touch of his hand.

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Margaret knew from experience that time would heal the worst of grief, if enough time passed. Even the terrible depression which followed her mother's death had lessened finally, with time and effort. But the harsh finality of death made it necessary for a loved one's survivors to come to terms with it, to allow time to dull the keen edges of loss. Her grief over losing Peter was different from that. He was very much alive, and that meant there was hope for them, didn't it? Apparently, it did not. For many, many weeks Margaret jumped, electrified, every time the phone went, and she pounced eagerly on the post as it came thudding through their letter box before she left for work each morning. But there was no word, no sign, nothing. Linda wrote to her, and Margaret answered, and each was careful in her letters to avoid any mention of Peter's name. From Peter himself, there was nothing at all. Why should there be? At last, with the greatest effort of will she had yet been forced to in her life, Margaret faced the truth. What she and Peter had shared was nothing more than a casual holiday fling. She had been a willing no, an eager partner in the love-making which had come far too soon in their relationship. Why, she had all but seduced the man. He had said, hadn't he, 'I didn't mean this to happen'? It had happened, however. And it was that brief, intense morning of physical joy in his embrace which had made their abrupt parting doubly painful for her. For her to attempt to contact him was utterly out of the question. That would only cheapen her further. He'd been with Susanna the last time she'd ever seen him; no doubt he was with her still. Remembering that, Margaret recalled Susanna's simpering smile of victory when they'd met, that moonless night on the beach,

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and she felt one stiffening urge of fury at the pair of them: Susanna and Peter deserved each other, and she would leave them to it. She was damned if she was going to allow a couple of weeks of reckless infatuation to sour her life! There was plenty of work for Margaret, at least; plenty to learn from Phyllis. And when Phyllis announced, on Guy Fawkes' Day, that she planned to leave the agency shortly after Christmas, Margaret's work pace quickened. 'You know what I've always told you, Ralph,' Phyllis reminded him with brisk cheer when she broke the news. 'When my Bill retires, I always said, I'll be off out like a shot to join him. Life's far too short for me to put work first, and anyway, Bill and I've looked forward to this for years, saved our money towards it too. What would you say to booking us on to a flight to Venice early in January?' If Ralph was shaken by this news, he did his heroic best to hide it. He rang through to the junior he'd left in charge of the Fulham branch to say he was closing down half an hour early at Oxford Street. Then he bundled Margaret and Phyllis off to the Royal Engineer around the corner, to stand Phyllis a celebratory drink. 'To the happy days ahead of you!' Ralph toasted. 'Lord knows you've earned it. And besides, if I am losing the most capable charge-hand it's ever been my pleasure to work with, at least I'm gaining a couple of new customers. Or at least, I hope you'll book through us' 'You never thought we wouldn't.' Phyllis gasped, open-mouthed, sincerely shocked. 'Well no. But to make sure of your custom for the first trip at least, I'm going to make it your leaving gift'

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Margaret was busier with every day that brought Christmas nearer. Once Phyllis left, there'd be no one to turn to with a snarled airline schedule or a botched hotel reservation or the inevitable chaos of a train strike except Ralph, and he'd have his hands quite full enough without that. 'You'll make mistakes, Margaret, of course you will. We all do,' Phyllis counselled calmly. 'When it happens, apologize, and try to make it good. The important thing to remember is that Ralph's chief business asset has always been his good reputation, and he's built on that by keeping clients satisfied over the years. Never forget that, and you'll be just fine.' Christmas came and went so quickly that Margaret nearly missed it, though it would be more accurate to say she wished she could. It was the anniversary of Dorothy's death, or nearly so, and it was tinged with so much sadness, for Ralph as well as for herself, that its celebration was inevitably bound up with the lingering traces of their grief. 'I suppose we should do something special on the day,' Ralph said. 'Have dinner out somewhere the way we used to do, you know?' He didn't add, 'Unlike last year, when your mother worked so hard to make the thing so festive.' He didn't have to say it. Neither of them had forgotten Dorothy, or what they had lost. Somehow it seemed essential, though, to make some kind of effort. Ralph and Margaret exchanged gifts over tea on Christmas morning, and later they went out to eat a turkey dinner they didn't really want, quietly remembering that Dorothy wasn't sitting there with them,

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telling Ralph to forget his paunch for once and order a double portion of brandy butter to go with his steamed pudding. After Christmas, and especially after Phyllis and Bill Gunter's excited departure on the first leg of what they referred to as their 'grand tour', Margaret's daily life settled down into a new and very different pattern. She worked with Ralph, rather than for him, and her confidence in what she was doing increased daily. Her childish dream of joining him in the agency had come true after all, and she was glad. It was her social life that was Margaret's only major stumbling block to a happy life. She forced herself to go out in the evenings, much as she had done after Dorothy's death, and for much the same reason: to please Ralph. And then, in the middle of January, she met Tim Dowson. 'Do you like pizza?' he asked her, the day he came into the Oxford Street branch to book his holiday. 'Why yes. Yes, I do,' Margaret answered, smiling, a bit taken aback by the unexpectedness of the invitation; really, it had only been a question, but she felt certain an invitation would follow, and it did. 'Well then, there's nothing to stop us sharing one for lunch, is there? It is about that time' Tim was two years older then Margaret. He was fair, as fair as Peter had been dark. And while Peter had been sure of himself to the point of arrogance, Tim was rather shy.

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'It took me quite a while to develop that breezy air of confidence,' he said. 'That would-be devil-may-care tone of voice I used when I asked you out to lunch.' Margaret laughed with him, feeling relaxed in a man's company for the first time inwell, for the first time since the previous October, actually. She'd accepted several dates since then, invitations from guys she'd met through friends, or at parties. But nearly every one of them had been so disappointing that she'd politely refused to go when they rang to ask her out again. Tim was different. Tim was good company, and she liked him. Margaret didn't stop just then to reflect that she compared Tim with Peter constantly, that almost every gesture and mannerism of Tim's was something she ticked off automatically against her memories of Peter Benhurst. It would have discouraged Margaret terribly to realize it that Peter lived, and vividly, in one carefully-shuttered chamber of her heart. She would have told herself it was high time she cleared that space for someone else. She knew deep within herself that she would never really be able to forget Peter until she'd found someone to take his place. She really tried, with Tim. He liked sentimental films, and so did she; they shared the same tastes in lots of things, in music, and in books, and in the places they meant to visit. And when Margaret introduced him to Chinese food, one Saturday evening when they ventured into Soho, Tim became an enthusiastic convert. 'You've done the impossible!' he said, delighted. 'What's that?' Margaret asked.

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'You've weaned me away from my perpetual diet of hamburgers and pizza,' he answered, sampling another of the fragrant dishes she'd ordered for them both. There was only one problem. When Tim kissed her, Margaret felt nothing. Nothing except dismay that she couldn't seem to bring herself to fancy him. 'It isn't something you switch on and off, Linda pointed out patiently over lunch one day early in February, several weeks after she'd flown back to London to take up her new job. 'But he's so nice, Linda. So right in every way' 'Hmm. That's not got anything at all to do with it,' Linda commented drily. 'But Richard's nice, and you fancy him,' Margaret pleaded wistfully. Linda nodded, drawing patterns on the tablecloth with the edge of her teaspoon. 'Yes, I know, but that was luck as much as anything else. It always is.' Nevertheless, it was true. Richard Naylor was a tall, kind, slowmoving man with a shock of sandy hair and eyes of quite astonishing green. And it was perfectly obvious that he felt as much for Linda as she did for him. The flat he had rented for them to share after their marriage in a few months' time was a lucky find as well. It was really the first floor of what once had been an Edwardian townhouse, somewhat arbitrarily partitioned into kitchen, bath, bedroom, and a sitting room overlooking a cul-de-sac lined with trees. But it was airy and spacious, and just right for two.

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Until her marriage, which was planned for a Saturday morning early in May, Linda's official residence in London was a bedsitting room several blocks away from the flat, though Richard had already installed himself there, and was using most of his free time to decorate the place. But Linda had confided to Margaret that she didn't spend much time in her own place. 'Only when my mum comes down to see me,' she had said. And who could blame her? Margaret had seen Linda and Richard together several times since Linda's return to England, and the longer she knew them the more certain she became that they were right together, that their marriage would be happy. 'I am lucky,' Linda said thoughtfully, 'and I know it. And I realize it wasn't easy for you, what happened out in Hong Kong. But look, love, what you're trying to do is wrong. You can't force yourself into feeling attracted to Tim or anybody else, and why try? There's plenty of time, plenty of other guys floating around. Meanwhile, since Tim's such a nice guy, why not simply be honest with him?' 'Honest?' Once again, it seemed to Margaret that Linda could see her more clearly than she could see herself. 'Yes. If you're honest, you'll see that you're still more than a little bit wrapped up in your memories of Peter. You do realize that, don't you?' Margaret sighed. 'Is it really so obvious?' Linda smiled across at her in quick sympathy. 'I know you're doing your best,' she said kindly. 'Just don't try so hard. You'll never find a

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new love while you're so hell-bent on looking for one. I know it's trite to say it, but it's true. Margaret and Tim had made a date to meet that evening, to see a comedy in the West End and to share supper afterwards. She told him, over the coffee. 'It isn't fair on you, Tim'. For me to go on trying to pretend I'm getting involved well, romantically when I'm still trying to get over someone else' Tim's chief reaction to that was relief. 'I wondered if there wasn't something like that going on,' he said quietly, 'and I'm glad you've told me. It doesn't stop us being friends, though, does it?' It didn't. The friendship with Tim continued to thrive, and though they saw rather less of one another after that, when they did meet Margaret was able to enjoy his company without having to feel guilty about it. But her honesty left Margaret very firmly back at square one, a member of one of the largest social clubs in the world: she was one of the thousands of young, attractive, unattached women who lived and worked in London while they waited for the right man to come along. Margaret's work was important to her, and it filled her days with challenge and variety. In that she was very lucky. There were more than enough people who came into the agency with their visions of the southern coast of Spain, or northern France, or a stand-by flight to Boston more than enough people who sought Margaret's patient, increasingly skilled advice to ensure that the dream would come true.

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In the evenings there was Ralph to look after, to cook for, to sit with watching television. And Margaret had lots of friends, Tim among them. And now she had Linda again, and through her, Richard. She was busy, busy and popular and increasingly valuable to Ralph at the agency. And if ever she faltered, wondering if that was all there was ever going to be to her life, Linda was there to reassure her, to remind her that sooner or later life would turn a corner, because life always did. At the beginning of March Richard was away for several days, chosen by a senior partner in the law firm he had joined to go to Newcastle to negotiate an industrial dispute for a client. 'Anyone for non-stop girl talk?' Linda asked when she invited Margaret to join her for dinner, the first night he was away. They cooked together that evening in Richard's flat, a wildly experimental meal of Chinese dishes for which they shared a passion. It was a great success, and to make it seem even closer to the real thing Margaret brought a bottle of rice wine to drink with it. She considered buying chopsticks from a shop she knew in Queensway, but in the end she decided Linda would undoubtedly have several pairs. She was right; Linda did, as well as china soup spoons with which they ate the clear, delicious broth which was their first course. 'A rather convincing imitation of the McCoy, no?' Linda said when they'd finished eating. 'Yes,' Margaret answered, smiling. But abruptly, her smile faded. A clear and painful picture had floated into her mind just then, the memory of the first time Peter had taken her to dinner to the

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floating kitchens of the typhoon shelter at Causeway Bay, in a hired sampan. 'What is it, love?' Linda asked. Margaret began to cry. 'Oh, Linda, it's no use,' she stammered. 'I have to ask you, really I do. I simply have to know. About Peter where he is, what he's d-doing' Linda shook her head firmly. 'Let's not talk about him, Margaret, please. It won't do any good. You know it's over, and you've simply got to come to terms with that. It's been a long time' 'How can you be so sure it's over?' Margaret blazed angrily. 'You don't know what a man might be thinking and feeling just because you happen to work for him Oh, I'm sorry, Linda, I didn't mean it to come out like that' 'It's OK,' Linda said quietly, patting Margaret's hand. She rose from the table and began to stack the dinner things on to a large tray; she carried it through into the kitchen, and busied herself there for several minutes before she came back again. When she did she sat down at the table, and poured out more wine for each of them. 'I'm sorry too,' Linda said softly. 'It's not my place to play God, or even to give lectures. It's only that the longer you allow yourself to dwell on Peter Benhurst, the longer it's going to take for the hurt to heal completely. You can see that, can't you?' 'Yes, but I keep thinking of the way he tried to reach me after that quarrel. The roses he sent, and all those telephone messages. I was a fool not to ring him back, Linda, not to give him a chance to explain, or apologize . Looking back'

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'Don't look back,' Linda insisted quickly. 'But maybe, Linda, just maybe' 'No.' 'Why not, Linda? How can you be so sure?' Linda took a deep breath, and a sip of her wine, before she answered. 'He's engaged, Margaret. I was gong to wait as long as I possibly could before I told you. I'm sorry' 'To Susanna?' Linda didn't answer. She simply reached out for Margaret's hand, held it very tightly, and nodded.

12

Spring dragged its heels that year. The snow which had seemed so right on Christmas Eve, smooth and crisp and even round the carollers who sang so sweetly in the London streets, had become a menace long before it buried the first brave crocuses in the London parks. 'Any place that's warm and sunny, please,' became a chant among the clientele of Travel Unlimited, as business boomed. Everyone who could beg, borrow or steal the time and money to leave that world of ice and slush and hazardous driving, if only for a long weekend, was determined to do so, and as soon as possible.

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It wasn't always possible. Margaret learned a lot, then; more than she wished to know about certain things. Like the way a train could be slowed or stopped altogether when points froze on the line over which it ran, and the missed connections that resulted; or how the oil and water in the hydraulic system of a plane could freeze solid in arctic weather conditions, rendering the plane quite unable to carry its passengers off to Minorca or the Canaries. 'Icing on the wing?' she asked, bewildered, the first time she heard the phrase from a ground-crew controller at Heathrow, over the telephone. 'You don't mean frosting, do you, sir?' she ventured timidly, feeling remarkably stupid. The harassed man at the other end hadn't stopped working all that day, and he was very tired, but he laughed so long and hard at that that he nearly choked. When he finally recovered, he said, 'Oh, darling, you've made my day! No, not frosting, though I wish it was' He stopped there to laugh again. 'It's ice, dear. Ordinary ice, like the kind you keep in the top of your fridge at home. Except it's all over the wings of a big, shiny Boeing just at the moment, and every man jack of the happy trippers in Gate 7 boarding area is going to have to wait at least four hours before we can ship 'em off to the Med. We thought we'd better let the travel agents know about it, because you're more than likely to get your share of comeback later on. We're doing all we can, of course.' When Ralph heard about that conversation, he teased Margaret unmercifully; she was certain she'd never live it down. It was useful, though, to have a funny story to tell on themselves when they were

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soothing the ruffled, disappointed, delayed, and inconvenienced customers. There were plenty of them, too. Even when Ralph or Margaret finally managed to get them out of London and into some sundrenched haven or another, it was frequently even more daunting to get them back again. More than once, a flight which had been scheduled to land at Gatwick or Heathrow had been forced to set down at Luton, or, on one very fraught occasion, at Birmingham, and the hasty, last-minute arrangements by the airlines to lay on coaches to bring passengers back to where they should have been didn't always work out as smoothly as they'd been meant to. Margaret got plenty of practice in saying, 'We're so very sorry Yes, it must have been awful for you Oh my, yes, it really was terrible' And once, when one of their particularly valued clients found himself stranded in Glasgow for fourteen hours when he had intended to toast himself in Greece, Ralph deputized Margaret to take the man out to lunch, on the firm, the day after he came storming into the Oxford Street branch to pound the counter top and terrify poor Helen Taylor, the girl on reception. 'Spare no expense, Margaret,' Ralph told her. 'Dave's a silly old codger, and I did warn him. Nevertheless, he's a regular, has been for yonks. Flirt with him a little. Oh, and I happen to know he's got a weakness for port, and you'd better make sure it's a vintage port at that. I've already fixed up the matter of the bill, so there'll be no awkward moments at the end of lunch'

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It had to be springtime sooner or later, and finally it was. Hyacinths made their cautious appearance, the pavements dried, the sun shone, and everyone at Travel Unlimited sighed deeply with relief. Linda was full of her wedding plans by then, pleased with the dress she'd chosen with her mother's help, thrilled with the progress Richard had made with decorating the flat, already making lists of what they'd need to order for the reception they were planning to hold there. 'We finally managed to convince my mum that we're determined to get married in London, that we don't want fourteen bridesmaids and a flower girl, and that I really don't want the flowing white with veil bit, but absolutely not. Actually, I think Dad's more than a little bit relieved, seeing as how the whole shebang's going to be simple enough to keep him well away from his bank manager's inner sanctum on account of it.' That was early in April, on a Saturday morning when Richard had to work. Linda invited Margaret specially to the flat in his absence so that she could show off the pale peach linen dress she and her mother had chosen for her to be married in. She had found a marvellously romantic picture hat to go with it, and patent leather shoes. The outfit was simplicity itself, but the lines of the dress flattered Linda's good figure, and the colour suited her well. 'You're going to be lovely!' Margaret said happily when Linda modelled if for her. 'Have you decided yet how much time you're taking off from work?' 'Oh, just a week. We're using the money we might have spent on a honeymoon to paint the kitchen and buy a washing-up machine. I

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know it sounds a bit dull, but it's quite exciting enough becoming Mrs Richard Naylor at long last. And anyway, Richard can't get away at all until late summer, and I had all that time in Hong Kong' Linda stopped there guiltily, gulping at her blunder. Several weeks had passed since the evening she'd told Margaret of Peter Benhurst's engagement to Susanna Baker-Leigh, a time in which Linda had been very careful to avoid mentioning Hong Kong, or her work in Peter's firm, or anything at all which would remind Margaret of the news. 'I'm sorry,' Linda said contritely, 'I didn't mean' 'Oh for heaven's sake, Linda, don't worry about it,' Margaret interrupted in a breezy tone. 'You can't walk on eggs for ever and ever if we're going to be friends, can you? You think I haven't noticed that while I've been boring you silly about my work, you haven't mentioned yours once? Honestly. I've thought about everything you said when you told me, and you're absolutely right. It's time I got over him, and that's all there is to it. Why, I wouldn't have him back now if he came giftwrapped! On good days, I can even feel a sort of fiendish glee that they're together. I keep telling myself they deserve each other.' Those were brave words, and if Margaret didn't really mean them in her heart of hearts, it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. She was prepared at least to behave as though she meant them, that was the main thing. It would have to do. Linda respected that. She steered the conversation well away from Peter Benhurst, and she was careful not to mention him again.

Ralph did, though.

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He had spent that Saturday working, and the first thing he did when he came rushing into the house at half past six was to grin broadly at Margaret and insist she suspend supper preparations while he ceremoniously poured out measures of sherry for both of them. 'Close your eyes and hold out your hands,' he said, when they'd clinked glasses. 'But what' 'No buts, lass! Do as I ask, please.' Margaret laughed, set her glass down on the kitchen table, and obeyed him. Ralph balanced something on her outstretched palms with reverent care. 'What is it?' 'Open your eyes and look, girl!' Margaret saw that she was holding several sheets of stiff paper which had been bound along one side to keep them together. 'I still don't know what it is,' she said, shaking her head. 'Some sort of contract?' Right in one!' Ralph answered, beaming. Just a little matter of all that work in Hong Kong about to pay off at last!' Ralph took the papers back, riffled through them impatiently until he found the last page. Peter Benhurst's flowing signature appeared at the bottom of that, and beneath it was typed, On behalf of Transcontinental Inns, a subsidiary company of Pan Orient Hotels Ltd.' 'Now do you see?' Ralph asked. 'Skipping all the wheretofores and whatnots for the moment, what it means is that we agree to send them customers, and they agree to send us a percentage of their profits!'

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'Why that's marvellous, Ralph. Oh, congratulations!' Margaret hugged him, and kissed his cheek. 'Well done!' Ralph would never know how pleased she was for him. Pleased, and relieved. It had been niggling away at the back of her mind all these months, how the rupture between herself and Peter because of the way he'd chosen to react to the news that she was Ralph Nickleby's stepdaughter might tip the balance after all, that it might mean Ralph's losing a very lucrative slice of business. But it had not, just as Peter had promised it would not. And at last, Margaret could relax. She could dismiss that worry from her mind just as she had dismissed Peter Benhurst's memory from her heart, and that was very good news indeed. 'Oh, and there's more,' Ralph said suddenly. 'I nearly forgot. We've been invited to a party to celebrate the launching of Benhurst's new company. Not just an ordinary party, mind you. I'll have you know it's to be very swish, the kind of thing that lasts all weekend, a real chance to swan it with the nobs. It's to be held in Richmond. Look, I've got the invitation somewhere' Ralph rummaged through the post he'd brought home from the agency, and at last he found it. Ralph Nickleby and Margaret Hamilton were cordially invited to the home of Mrs Evelyn Markham on the third Friday in April, to stay until the Sunday evening. The invitation was handwritten, on Mrs Markham's creamy, crested personal stationery. The informality was deceptive. There was to be tennis, for which one would be expected to dress appropriately, and on the Saturday evening there was to be a black-tie dinner, with dancing to follow.

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'Best bib and tucker required, of course,' Ralph chortled, reading it again over Margaret's shoulder. 'Who's Evelyn Markham?' 'It says there, somewhere near the end. See, there it is, third line from the bottom. She's young Benhurst's grandmother, on his mother's side. Shouldn't be surprised if she's the one with all the readies that financed the whole shooting match to start with.' Margaret shook her head as she handed the invitation back to him. 'I can't possibly go, Ralph,' she said quietly. 'You've got to be joking!' he answered, looking shocked and mystified all at once. What could possibly keep you away? If it's a new dress or two that's worrying you, don't think of it. You can have as much new' 'It isn't that.' 'Well, what is it, then? It isn't the argy and the bargy you're worried about, is it? You know which fork to use and that, as well as the next one. And so do I, when I put my mind to it. We're just as good as they are, and we'll hold our own too, don't you worry.' 'It isn't that either, Ralph.' 'Well, what is it then? Why can't you go?' 'I've got a date that weekend,' she answered promptly, searching wildly through her mind for details to invent, anything convincing enough to guarantee that she wouldn't have to go with Ralph to Evelyn Markham's party. 'Someone you haven't met yet,' she went on, marvelling how easy it was to make things up out of whole cloth to fool people, even

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someone as dear and close to her as Ralph. 'He's wonderful,' she gushed, gathering momentum as she went along. 'He's a friend of Richard Naylor's, er, a solicitor! A young one! Tall, dark, and handsome. Oh, and such a good dancer, Ralph, really! His name's Frank. Frank Tate,' she added, grateful for the bag of sugar she'd left standing on the shelf above the sink. She very nearly said his name was Frank Tate & Lyle, but managed to catch herself in time. 'It's very early days, Ralph. You can understand that I can't just cancel dates left and right. It might put him off, mightn't it?' She smiled disarmingly and crossed her fingers behind her back, waiting for Ralph's reaction. 'Well,' he said thoughtfully, scratching his head. 'I'm not so sure. On the other hand, perhaps you oughtn't let him see how keen you really are, love. You know, there's a lot to be said for the odd touch of being hard to get' Margaret shook her head vigorously. 'Oh no, not this time, really not! I couldn't risk it, honestly!' 'If you're that serious, I guess that's that. You don't mind if I go by myself, do you?' 'Not at all! Why, I'd be furious with you if you stayed away.' 'That's settled, then. I'll go on my own. Now, what do you say to a posh nosh in a restaurant?' 'Tonight?' 'Yes, tonight. Right now. Unless you're going out with Frank, of course,' he added.

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'No, er, not tonight. He's out of town this weekend. On business. But I've already started dinner' 'Come on, love, we have to celebrate this! Won't it keep until tomorrow, what you're cooking?' It would, and it did, and off they went. The meal was worth every penny of the extravagant price Ralph paid for it, too, or at least it was for him. He seemed to be having a wonderful time. Margaret did her best, but she learned the bitter truth behind an old saying that evening, the one that goes, 'Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive.' The words sang insanely through her head when Ralph began asking more about Frank Tate, and suggesting he'd like to meet him soon, and generally making all the right fatherly noises about the new boyfriend. She also decided that she understood how people managed what she'd always thought of as the difficult feat of writing books: they simply sat behind their typewriters and made up people for themselves, until the people on the paper in front of them seemed as real as the next-door neighbours. Before the pudding was brought, Frank Tare had been supplied with parents who lived in Kent, two brothers and a sister, an interest in astrology, and a deep-throated laugh which made him quite the most attractive man Margaret had ever met. But at least she'd found a way of getting out of having to face Peter and Susanna, of having to go through the motions of pretending she'd never met them before. Even if she could have managed to carry it off successfully, with some measure of dignity, Margaret felt certain that Susanna would have found some way to let everybody

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know that Peter and Margaret had met before. Susanna would do that in a way that was as embarrassing as possible for Margaret, too. Margaret was sure of it. As things were, it was bad enough. Susanna would probably manage to drop at least one remark about Margaret, and in Ralph's hearing. Though if Peter heard it, he at least could be relied upon to shut the woman up before she said too much. But Susanna was the sort of woman who wasn't likely to be content with a simple victory. She would have to rub it in and crow over it, and as painfully as possible for her opponent. 'But there's nothing much I can do about that,' Margaret sighed to Linda when they met, several days later. 'The thing is, how can I dispose of Frank Tate? Ralph keeps on wanting to meet him.' 'Simple,' Linda answered. 'You have a quarrel with Frank. You won't want to talk about it, of course, and Ralph will respect that. But, alas, you won't be seeing Frank any more. That has to happen after Ralph comes back from Mrs Markham's party, naturally.' 'Hey thanks. Why didn't I think of that?' Linda shrugged. 'That's what friends are for,' she said.

Margaret walked Ralph to his car at seven o'clock on the Friday evening he was due to appear at Mrs Markham's dinner table. 'I still wish you were coming too,' he said wistfully. 'Sure you won't .change your mind?' Margaret shook her head and smiled at him. Far too late for that. But look, you'd better get moving if you don't want to walk in in the

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middle of the first course. Me too. Why, I haven't even bathed yet' A reference to her fictitious date with the nonexistent Frank. The house seemed to echo with emptiness when Margaret walked back into it. She closed the front door, and walked slowly through into the sitting room. She stood there for a while, gazing listlessly at the familiar furniture as though she was seeing it for the first time, yet not really seeing it at all, wondering why on earth she hadn't made some sort of plans for the evening, and for the Saturday evening to follow. Oh, she could ring around among her friends. Even at such late notice she would probably find someone who was free to share a meal with her, or who would feel like seeing a film or something. But it simply wasn't worth the effort. Margaret sighed, and kicked her shoes off. She walked to the television and switched it on. Two middle-aged ladies and a young man were arguing passionately about something or other, interrupting one another constantly. They were seated at a table, and one of the ladies was wearing an elaborate hat. Margaret switched off the set and left them to it, walked through into the kitchen to see what there was to eat. There was quite a lot, including the contents of the well-stocked freezer that hummed quietly to itself in one corner. Ralph had bought it to make life easier for them, after Dorothy died. 'You're going to be out at work all day, and so am I,' he had said at the time, with down-to-earth practicality. 'So it's to be even shares on the housework and cooking from now on.' 'Why Ralph,' Margaret had teased. 'I never knew you were a champion of Women's Lib!'

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'Humpf. Nothing to do with it. It's simple logic, isn't it? Your mother always claimed she didn't want too many gadgets. Said she enjoyed the housewifely role. But things're different now, aren't they? We'll manage between us as fairly as possible, though I'm not much cop at cookery' Margaret was, though, and she enjoyed it. So she did most of the cooking. Ralph did other chores, and before long father and daughter had worked things out very comfortably between them, and Ralph had never yet failed to do his fair share. The freezer was an asset. Margaret kept it stocked by indulging in periodic bouts of bulk cooking; she could produce dinner for twelve at two hours' notice. If she cared to look, she could have found a very appetizing snack meal for one person, too, carefully sealed and labelled. She stared at the freezer for a while, listening to the sound it made. She hummed back at it absent-mindedly as she took down the egg pan and splashed some water into it. Boiled eggs and toast soldiers and the new whodunnit she had bought earlier in the day, that would do nicely. She brought eggs, toast and paperback book to the table; she would read while she was eating. One can do so when one has opted for an evening of solitude. But several minutes passed before Margaret realized that although she was staring fixedly at the printed words on page one of the book, she wasn't really taking them in. Her eggs were probably stone cold, too; she hadn't touched them. She hadn't really wanted them. She pushed them away. Unfortunately, there seemed to be a video tape recording in Margaret's head, accompanied by a soundtrack which matched it. It

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began with the afternoon she had first wandered out into the twisting maze of Chinese streets, to take in the swirls of colour and movement all around her. Next, so real it seemed she might reach out to touch it, she could see the sleeve of the velvet dinner jacket Peter had worn at the party, the sleeve she'd stained with wine. It went on like that with brutal clarity, scene by scene by scene relentlessly, missing nothing out, produced and directed by Margaret, complete with X certificate, right through until the whole glorious dream had come crashing down on her head. She rose abruptly from the table. It wouldn't do. What else had she expected, though? She knew where Ralph had gone, that he'd be spending the entire weekend in Peter Benhurst's company, as his guest. She should at least have had the common sense to make some plans for herself, anything at all which might have helped to take her mind off the past. It had been seven months, give or take a week, since she and Peter had parted. And yet the whole interlude could bounce along through her memory in full technicolour, as though it had happened yesterday. How much longer was it going to take for her to come to her senses, once and for all? Margaret was saved from having to answer that for the moment. The telephone rang. It was Tim, enquiring with casual, friendly cheer if she'd care to come out with him for a drink. 'That would be lovely!' she answered promptly. Margaret didn't add that she had never been more grateful for an invitation in her life.

13

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'How was it?' Margaret asked brightly, pecking Ralph's cheek with an affectionate kiss. 'Oh, well, you simply won't believe the goings-on, and that's straight! It was exciting, though, no one could deny it.' 'Why? What happened?' Ralph rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and chuckled to himself. 'Game on, love,' he said finally, remembering she was there, 'let's go through into the kitchen. I'll tell you all about it over a sherry.' When Ralph had poured their drinks, he sat down at the table with a little sigh of contentment, and loosened his tie. 'It was all to do with young Benhurst's lady friend, you see,' he began. 'Susanna Baker-Leigh, as she called herself. Pretty little thing, I'll give her that. Oh, but hard as nails, Margaret, I could see that from the start. Anyway,' he continued calmly, with maddening slowness, 'I could tell from the raised eyebrows and long silences that Mrs Markham didn't think much of her either' Really?' Margaret interrupted evenly. Why, Linda mentioned something just the other day about Mr Benhurst's being engaged to marry someone called Susanna. I should think his family will jolly well have to get used' Ralph hooted with laughter, nearly choking on a mouthful of sherry. 'Good God, girl, you don't know what you're saying! There'll be no wedding there, not after what happened Saturday evening!'

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'But Linda said 'Linda wasn't there this weekend, was she?' Ralph asked, exasperated. 'Now, how can I tell you what happened if you will keep interrupting?' Margaret murmured sorry' in a convincingly apologetic little voice, and smiled across at him sheepishly. She had interrupted deliberately, to make it seem as though her interest in Peter Benhurst's wedding plans was as casual and off-hand as her interest in anything else which might have taken place at that weekend party. It was a delaying tactic, too, a way of giving herself some time to catch her breath. Ralph's reply to her carefully-rehearsed 'How was it?' was the very last thing she had expected him to say. And her curiosity had been quickened with a jolt so fierce and sudden it astonished her. What was it to her, after all, that there would be no wedding? Once Ralph had Margaret's undivided attention, he seemed content to take his time over whatever it was he had to tell her. Silently, she willed him to get on with it, but he sat there quite oblivious of her impatience, glad to be home, sipping his drink at leisure. 'First of all,' he said finally, 'you've got to imagine the scene' He stopped there, to chuckle at the memory, and Margaret stifled a groan. She fought the brief temptation to shake him by the shoulders until he came out with the story, whatever it was. Instead, she merely nodded. He'd tell all, but at his own pace. She'd simply have to wait for it. There we were, ten of us in all, sitting round a ruddy great table in a dining room that was big enough to accommodate a flaming

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battleship, with room round the edges. The lot of us were in full evening dress, and we all had three sorts of wine glass in front of us, and at least that many forks, and to serve up the grub they'd got these two young ladies in black dresses. You know, with frilly little hats and white aprons. Very grand. So anyway, just as the waitresses brought us the plates of smoked salmon and brown bread we were meant to be getting on with' Ralph paused there, perhaps for dramatic effect. 'Yes?' Margaret prompted breathlessly. He shook his head, and grinned. 'You won't believe it, Margaret. I swear to you, you won't believe it.' 'Well?' 'Just then the butler came into the room, coughing and clearing his throat and hemming and hawing. He went right up to Mrs Markham and stood in front of her for a bit like some sort of stuffed dummy' 'And then what?' 'Hang about, I'm coming to that. Then he stiffened up as though he'd left a hanger in his jacket, and said, "There's a person to see you, Madam. He claims it's urgent." So Mrs Markham said, "Very good, Clive. Who is it, please?" She was cool as they come. Classy dame, that Evelyn Markham. Then the butler says, "The name is George Baker, and he insists you are expecting him." Well now, Clive looked like he doubted that very much, but Mrs Markham didn't turn a hair. Just at that point I happened to glance at this lady friend of Peter's that's Benhurst's name, by the way and I tell you, Margaret, she looked as though she was about to faint dead away.

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Then I looked at Mrs Markham again, and the smile on her face was positively angelic. She looked at the girl' 'Susanna?' Margaret whispered. 'Susanna, my foot! That turned out to be as phoney as her doublebarrelled surname, as it happens. But I'm getting ahead of the story. Where was I? Oh yes. And then the butler left the room, and a few minutes later he came back again, followed by this guy who looked like he was about to sell Mrs Markham a hot watch. You know the type blue suit with built-up shoulders, light green shirt, shockingpink tie, and dark glasses. George Baker, see? Susie Baker's husband' 'Husband? You mean Susanna's?' Margaret's voice was a croak. 'Yep. And there was Mrs Markham, greeting this apparition like an honoured guest. Invited him to explain to the assembled company exactly why he had come, and so forth, which he proceeded to do. It turned out that little Susie performed a vanishing act nearly two years ago, and that George has been trying to find her ever since. Said he'd come to fetch her home to Ealing Broadway where she belongs, as his lawful wedded wife' 'I don't believe it!' Ralph looked smug. 'I told you you wouldn't!' he crowed. 'Anyway, little Susie was careful to leave her ever-loving husband more or less broke, taking with her all the very considerable amount he'd just won in a long shot at the betting shop. She turned up in very different circles as Susanna Baker-Leigh, a few months later.'

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'But how did he manage to find her? And why just then, in the middle of a formal dinner party?' 'Oh, but it wasn't George who found her, Margaret. It was Evelyn Markham who found George! That was the best part. Susie came back to England when Benhurst did, you see, about six or seven weeks ago. .Ever since, she's been Mrs Markham's houseguest. Mrs M.'s a crafty old doll for all her money and all her class. She made a little speech when George had finished, and she didn't mince her words, either. She told us she'd been suspicious of the girl from the very first, and that she'd become determined not to see Susie married to her grandson. Well, the rest of us had seen enough in one weekend to know why, or near enough. Susie behaved like the Queen of Sheba from the start. And into the bargain she spent Friday evening and all day Saturday flirting with the men and putting the ladies' noses out of joint. Oh, you'd have had to be there to know what I mean' Margaret knew, all right, though she merely nodded as though Ralph's assessment of Susie's character would have to be taken on faith. 'So the only thing Mrs Markham did was to ring her solicitors. She asked them to have a few private enquiries made, to find out exactly who Susanna was and where she'd come from. And they said, "Leave it with us," and sure enough they came up with a husband, and a Mexican divorce that isn't valid, and George Baker himself on the very weekend of the party. They rang through, apparently, to say that George Baker had been notified that his wife had been found, and so forth. Mrs Markham said she told them to give George her

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address, and to tell him that Saturday evening would be the very best time to come along to Richmond to collect his wife.' 'Good lord!' 'Yes, well, I expect she figured that George deserved an audience. And it did provide the maximum of splash and dash for Susanna's hopes, of course. Really showed her up in her true colours, you see. I gather she'd given Mrs M. plenty of stick by then.' Well what was Susanna Susie doing while all that was going on? Surely she didn't sit there smiling politely through?' 'Oh, my goodness, no, she certainly didn't! Why, she started shouting and screaming and clinging on to Peter for dear life, moaning about how she could get a proper British divorce and how much she truly laved him and all the rest of it. I'll tell you, I've heard of gold-diggers in my time, but that girl takes the biscuit! When no one appeared to be taking any notice of the goings-on, Susie really went bananas. That's when she started cursing like a fishwife Lordy, and after all her la-de-dah' Ralph shook his head and laughed to himself, thinking back on the scene. 'In the end, Mrs Markham asked George to remove Susie from the premises. But she wouldn't go, so Clive was instructed to ring the cops. I felt sorry for George, actually. He seemed so determined to have his wife back, in spite of everything ' 'What was Peter's Mr Benhurst's reaction to all of this?' 'That was odd too, really,' Ralph mused thoughtfully. 'Why?' It was hard to keep that question casual. Margaret's heart was thudding so loudly she felt sure Ralph must be able to hear it.

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'Oh, because his first reaction was to laugh along with all the rest of us. We couldn't help it, lass. It was funny. But he wasn't behaving at all like a man who's just lost the love of the girl he was about to marry or anything like it. He went around smiling all day today, come to think about it By the way, he asked after you at lunch this afternoon. Said he'd like to see you. He also mentioned you'd met in Hong Kong, at one of the parties.' 'Really?' Margaret put on a puzzled look, and pretended to try to remember. 'That's odd. I don't remember him. What does he look like?' Ralph smiled. 'I don't think I'd know how to describe him, but offhand well, he's tall, dark-haired, and I think you might even say he's good-looking.' Ralph gave Margaret a long, shrewd look, a look she met successfully by keeping her expression wide-eyed, innocent, and blank. 'Oh, Ralph, you know that my holiday out there was jam-packed with parties. Remember? Why, I met dozens of people, and I really can't remember him. I'm sure he's very nice, though' That sufficed. 'You did have a good time, didn't you, love?' Ralph said fondly. Out every night, seeing the sights, and so on. Speaking of which, how did things go with you and Frank this weekend?' Margaret studied her sherry glass for a moment while she hunted through her mind for the best answer to that. 'Not too well, actually,' she said finally, inspired at last. 'We, er, well, we had a falling out, you see. I'm not planning to see him any more'

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But you were so fond' 'Ralph, could we please just not talk about Frank now?' she pleaded, doing a fair-to-middling imitation of a young woman whose heart has recently been bent, if not actually broken. Ralph reached out clumsily to pat her hand. 'What can I say, lass? There's more fish in the sea than ever came out of it, that's for sure, though it's probably not much comfort to you just now. Here, let me pour you another drink' Margaret accepted it, and then the conversation turned to other things. Ralph pleaded exhaustion after supper and took the Sunday papers to his room, leaving Margaret to wrestle with all the considerable conflict in her heart. She had been right about Susanna all along, and so had Linda. What had she said to Peter, the night they parted? Yes, that was it. She'd said, 'If I were you, I wouldn't trust that Baker-Leigh woman as far as I could throw her.' Or at least, that's what she'd started to say. He'd interrupted to describe Susanna as a 'good friend'. Huh! Some friend. And then what? Margaret sighed. Then she had told him he'd live to regret their quarrel, but that he wasn't to come to her with his apologies, and he'd said not to worry about it, and that had been the end or nearly Afterwards there'd been the roses, and the telephone messages she'd torn up, and after that the real end had come, when she'd run into Peter and Susanna on the beach. Well, she wouldn't have him back now if he came gift-wrapped.

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'I mean that, too,' she assured Linda shakily, when she rang her on that Sunday evening. 'Margaret' 'Yes?' 'He hasn't, er, actually tried to get in touch with you, has he? Recently, I mean, like today?' 'We-ll, no 'Then perhaps you won't have to worry about it. Why not cross bridges as and when you come to them? Unless, of course, you're thinking of ringing him' 'Linda!' Margaret said, shocked. 'Haven't you been listening?' 'Yes, I have,' Linda answered crisply, 'to these many moons. It wouldn't surprise me a bit if you did ring him, nor would it shock me unduly to hear you'd got back together after all.' 'Shall we change the subject?' Margaret asked, somewhat grimly. They rang off a few minutes later, and a few minutes after that, while Margaret was trying to concentrate on a documentary film on the wildlife of Kenya, the telephone rang. It could have been anyone. It could have been Linda ringing back, or Ralph's insurance agent, or one of the secretaries from the agency; it might have been Tim, or any one of dozens of people Ralph and Margaret knew between them. But Margaret took the telephone off its hook without bothering to find out who it was, and after a few seconds she replaced the receiver in the cradle.

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When it rang again, half an hour later, she did the same thing. And then, before it could ring again, Margaret raced upstairs to her bedroom and came down again with a pillow from her bed which she used to bury the phone so that even if it rang again she wouldn't have to answer it, and nor would its wretched ringing disturb Ralph. At nine o'clock, Margaret rang Linda again. 'I'm sorry for snapping at you,' Margaret said, and Linda sighed and said it was OK, she understood, and that friendship wasn't friendship without its ups and downs. 'You didn't try to ring me after our last conversation, did you?' Margaret asked, and held her breath while she waited for the answer. 'No. I was going to ring you at work tomorrow. Why?' 'Oh, because the telephone's rung twice within the last half hour or so, and I wondered who it was.' 'There is one excellent way of finding out,' Linda pointed out. 'You simply lift up the receiver, and say hello. Perhaps you should have done that, Margaret?' 'I didn't want to.' 'Hmm'

14

'Travel Unlimited, good morning.' 'Margaret?'

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'Yes, this is Margaret Hamilton speaking' She stopped when she recognized Peter Benhurst's voice. 'The receiver felt icy in her hand, and her heart was beating so wildly it was all she could do to keep from dropping the telephone. 'I tried ringing you at home yesterday evening,' he said quickly, almost as though he was afraid she would hang up on him. 'I realize it's very short notice, but Margaret, would you have lunch with me?' So it had been Peter trying to ring last night! Margaret took a deep breath, summoned every shred of dignity she could muster while she willed her heart to be indifferent to his deep, familiar voice. 'I'm afraid that's out of the question,' she said coolly. 'Well then, dinner?' 'No, thank you. Actually, Peter, I really don't feel we've anything at all to say to one another after all this time, so' 'Margaret?' 'Yes?' 'I think we do. Among other things, I'd like to say I'm sorry' 'It isn't necessary,' she said briskly. 'Now, if you'll excuse me, I've a call on another line.' 'I suppose I'll have to,' he said glumly. There was a click, and he was gone. Fortunately there was another call coming in just then. Having to answer it, having to concentrate on the problem of the client at the other end, gave Margaret a few minutes in which to steady herself. Normally Helen Taylor would have taken the call, as well as the one

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from Peter. But Helen had gone out for an hour to run errands. That left only Margaret to sit in the reception area, to greet people and to man the telephones. Ralph had been careful to keep Travel Unlimited's staff small. 'Small, friendly, and efficient,' he always said. Phyllis Gunter had worked with Ralph for years, and after Phyllis left there had been Margaret. She and Ralph were interchangeable between the Oxford Street and Fulham branches, and to assist them there were only two others, one in each branch: Helen in Oxford Street, and in Fulham, Louise Alsham. 'If we get too big, we'll be top-heavy,' Ralph had said. 'The best way to run an agency like this one is to find a couple of really good people and pay them well, treat them well, and hope they'll stay a long time.' His system did seem to work nicely. But on that particular Monday morning Margaret wished with all her heart that there was a third hand in the office, or that she had gone out to run the errands, leaving Helen to take incoming telephone calls. Never mind, she told herself impatiently. She had handled it well enough. She had made it perfectly clear that it was far too late for her to have anything at all to say to Peter, or for him to have anything to say to her. He wouldn't ring again. She was wrong about that. Peter rang the following day, in the afternoon. 'What shall I tell him?' Helen asked doubtfully. She was a cheerful, easy-going girl, a year or two younger than Margaret. Helen had been with Travel Unlimited for nearly a year, and she was popular

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with the clients. But she hated telling lies, even the diplomatic, necessary sort. 'Oh, just tell him I'm busy with a client, or that I've gone out for the day. Anything at all that sounds polite and convincing, and final. I simply won't speak to him.' Helen looked at her shrewdly for a moment, and then she grinned. 'Like that, is it? OK, love, I'll get rid of him for you.' That was the best way to put it, Margaret thought: get rid of him. The man had been willing to believe the worst of her, and he was such a poor judge of character that he had trusted Susanna -Susie Baker, with her phoney jet-set airs and graces. He'd implied that Margaret's brief, magical time with him had been an act, a deliberate attempt to get business for Ralph's agency It was far too painful to think about. It was difficult to think of anything else. Margaret's heart felt like a heavy stone lodged in her breast, and in her least guarded moments she was forced to admit to herself that she was no nearer forgetting the taste of Peter's kisses than she'd been on the day she left Hong Kong all those months before. But there was nothing for it but to keep those feelings locked away so tightly they could never run away with her again. Margaret had allowed that to happen once, and once had been quite sufficiently painful to teach her a hard lesson. 'He and I have nothing further to say to one another,' Margaret said to Linda, when they met for lunch on Wednesday. Linda's wedding was nearly upon them, scheduled for Saturday morning. They were talking about the glasses Linda had hired for the reception, and the champagne Richard had ordered to fill them, and

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the flowers. But abruptly, needing to talk about it, Margaret blurted out the fact that Peter had tried to ring her, several times. 'You're sure you don't want to talk with him?' Linda asked doubtfully. 'Oh yes, very sure!' 'I think you're making a mistake. You never did give him a chance to apologize, you know, and from what you cold me at the time, you both said things you regretted later' So? He was back with that awful Baker woman before I'd even left for home!' Linda shrugged. 'But before that, he'd sent flowers to you ' 'He could afford them!' 'Well, but money isn't everything.' 'It is to him! He' 'Oh, don't be silly, Margaret! Just listen for a minute. He sent you flowers, and he followed them up with phone messages, and none of it worked. It's understandable he needed some consolation, some friend to talk with, just as you did. For all you know, he was just as broken up about losing you as you were about losing him' 'I wasn't!' 'Oh, come on, Margaret. You're not talking with Ralph now, love, you're talking to me, remember? Think of all that good brandy you got through!' Margaret smiled ruefully. 'Point taken. But I'm over it now, that's the main thing.'

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Linda simply snorted at that, and made a wry face across the table. 'Well, I am! And anyway, if Peter was so broken-hearted, how do you explain his engagement to marry little Susie?' 'I don't,' Linda answered bluntly. But knowing what we all know about her now, I'd say he would have needed an armed guard to keep her at bay. And you had refused to speak with him. He might have proposed to her on the rebound. It wouldn't be the first time that's ever happened. After all, he did consider her a good friend. If I were you, I'd think it through very carefully before you drive him away again, perhaps to yet another variation of Susan Baker' 'That's just it, Linda! If I did start seeing him again, how could I ever really be sure there wouldn't be another Susan lurking in the background, just waiting for her chance to pounce?' 'Oh, good grief, Margaret! How can anyone ever really be sure of anything? I do think it's safe to give Peter credit for having some sense. I mean, it does sound as though he cares for you, doesn't it? He's a proud man, you know, very sure of himself most of the time. For him to persist in trying to reach out to you well, it says a lot.' 'Not to me,' Margaret insisted crisply. 'He's he's not coming to the wedding, is he?' Linda sighed deeply, and rummaged in her handbag for mirror and lipstick. Finally she shook her head. 'No. There'll be just you and Ralph and my parents and Richard's. And Richard and me, of course.' Saturday morning was perfect for a wedding. Cottonwool clouds hung innocently in the clear blue sky, and the gentlest of breezes

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ruffled the daffodils outside the register office where Linda and Richard were married. Margaret wore a navy-blue suit, understated and very simple, and she looked lovely. But Linda was so radiant in her peach-coloured bridal dress and Margaret felt a lump rise in her throat as she witnessed her friend's signature, when she signed 'Linda Peterson' for the last time. Afterwards they all went trooping back to Linda and Richard's flat. Richard's mother and Linda's dad took it in turn to snap photographs of the newlyweds as they were toasted by the bridal party. Before long, though, the sitting room was crowded almost to capacity with smiling, chattering friends who had come to wish the couple well. When Margaret noticed, that Richard's supply of champagne glasses was running low, she walked through into the kitchen in search of more. There were several dozen there, arranged in neat rows on the counter top. Margaret found a tray, loaded it carefully, and turned to carry it through to the buffet table. When she found herself face to face with Peter Benhurst, she nearly dropped the tray. 'Good morning, Margaret,' he said softly. 'Oh! G-good morning! You will excuse me, won't you? They're waiting for these,' she said as evenly as she could, trying to push past him. He didn't move. There was only one exit from the kitchen. Short of successful persuasion or brute force, there was no possibility of escaping him. 'Please let me pass,' she said tersely.

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Peter shook his head as he prised the full tray from Margaret's rightly clenched fingers, just in time to rescue several fragile goblets from sliding to the floor. He placed it carefully on the counter top, and then he put his hands on Margaret's shoulders and looked down at her bent head. 'We have to talk,' he said. 'Linda promised me you wouldn't be here' 'No, she didn't. She merely said I wouldn't be at the wedding, remember? This is the reception' Linda's mother came bustling into the kitchen just then, a round, brown-eyed lady who looked more or less the way Linda would look, given twenty years or so. She was saying, 'Now lass, what have you done with those glasses?' but she stopped mid-sentence when she noticed the ashen pallor of Margaret's face. With a murmured 'sorry', Mrs Peterson picked up the tray of glasses from the counter top and left the kitchen as quickly as she could. 'Shall we go?' Peter said quietly to Margaret when they were alone again. 'Go?' Margaret looked up then, directly into his eyes. She had forgotten how blue they were, how full of tenderness they could be. The longing she felt to reach out and touch him startled her; it was belied by her next words. 'No! We've nothing' 'Haven't we?' he interrupted softly. He raised one quizzical eyebrow and smiled down at her. 'Let's find that out over a quiet drink, shall we? Unless of course you'd rather raise a scene out there,' he added, gesturing towards the sitting room.

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'You wouldn't dare!' she breathed, her heart racing. 'That -that's blackmail!' Peter shrugged, unconcerned. 'All's fair,' he said mildly as he took her arm. His grip was gentle, but very firm. 'Now do remember to smile as we walk through, darling. It wouldn't do at all to upset Linda's day' They didn't. Ralph may have thought it rather odd to see Peter Benhurst in the act of frog-marching Margaret out of Linda's flat. But if he did, he never said so; Ralph was for ever after slightly bewildered about the finer points of the matter, come to that. But that is quite another story. Linda saw them too. She caught Margaret's eye just as she and Peter reached the door. Linda winked; she could have sworn Margaret winked back, though she was never absolutely sure of that, and Margaret denied it staunchly, later on. The most important thing was that Peter got Margaret out of the flat, and down the stairs, and into his car. Neither of them spoke as he drove to the most scenic spot he could think of, at the very top of Richmond Hill. The gentle slopes of the valley below were dotted with patches of bright flowers, and the gaily-budding trees of spring, beneath a serene and perfect canopy of blue. 'This view is rather special,' he explained happily as he parked the car. 'Guaranteed to put ladies into an appropriate frame of mind.' 'F-for what, exactly?' Margaret enquired, trying hard to keep her tone even.

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'Why, for reconciliations! And look,' he added, taking her hand in his, 'there's a pub across the road. Shall we have a drink before we reconcile, or afterwards?'