The hotel was one of the best on the island. It was a glittering testament to modern architecture, stretching forty floors high and with stunning views over the harbour to Kowloon. I couldn’t believe my luck. What was a girl like me doing in a place like this?
As I unpacked, I wondered what the guys would have made of this. Nick Russo would be oblivious, as he’d be too busy looking for a beach to sunbathe, Joe would have dragged me off to the nearest dodgy bar to learn to talk dirty in Cantonese. Doug would have set up a car dealership on the first available plot and blown his savings in five minutes on luxury saloons. Tom, oh God, it still hurt to think about him, Tom would have taken me to a rooftop and danced with me in the moonlight.
And Phil? I’d have had the best time with Phil. I wished he were with me. We’d have hit the nearest bar, drunk cocktails until dawn, laughed until we ached, met loads of new people and then danced the tango all the way home.
That reminded me – I had promised to call him the moment I arrived to let him know that I was okay. I rummaged in my bag for my electronic organiser. It was my most essential piece of technology, a little digital contact book that stored the phone numbers and addresses for everyone I knew. Shit, where was it? I couldn’t have lost it – I’d just mastered how to work the damn thing. I’d bought it at Heathrow on my way to Shanghai, forgot all about it, then found it again when I was packing up to leave. I’d spent the next day transferring all my contacts from my old Filofax – the same Filofax that I then shredded because I didn’t have room for it in my case. My whole life was in that little black machine. I turned everything inside out to no avail.
Fuck, fuck, fuck. It was gone. I had no way of getting in touch with him. When he moved out of my room, he’d moved to another expat’s flat in Shanghai, but I couldn’t remember the number or the address. Not that the address would have been any use, as Shanghai didn’t exactly have an efficient directory enquiries service. In fact, it didn’t even have a directory enquiry service. Bugger it. I’d just have to go back on my first leave and track him down. Meantime, there was no point worrying about it because there was nothing I could do.
I spotted a letter on the dressing table with my name on the front. My heart leapt – it must be a message from Phil and if there was a God, it would have his phone number on it. I ripped it open. Leapt heart returned to original position. It wasn’t from Phil. It was a letter from my new boss, an Australian called Peter Flynn, requesting an audience at nine o’clock the following morning for an ‘induction’ meeting.
I decided to go on a reconnaissance mission to my new club, ‘Asia’. I dressed in what I hoped was still a trendy outfit – black mini dress with a gold zip going from breast to thigh, black stilettos, and hair piled high on top of my head in a messy bun. I consulted the mirror but had no idea whether I looked good or not. It was so long since I’d been out somewhere trendy and glam that I didn’t know what was in and what was out.
I made my way to the basement, the strains of B52’s ‘Love Shack’ guiding me in like a heat-seeking missile. At the door, the bouncers eyed me suspiciously. Was it the dress? Had the zip burst to reveal my wobbly bits to the world? I looked around, but the general public weren’t panicking and fleeing for the exits in distress. No, the zip must still be in one piece.
‘Can I help you?’ one of the bouncers enquired.
I gave him the two second top-to-toe inspection. 6’2” tall. Hair, the colour of Dairy Milk, crew-cut. Brown eyes with eyelashes that you could stir tea with. Square jawline. Sun-tanned. White teeth, crowned and straight. Nose that had been broken. At least twice. Broad shoulders. Defined pecs. Washboard abs that I couldn’t see, but I just knew they were there. Slim hips. This guy was an ‘after’ picture for a health food supplement advert. Could he help me? Let me count the ways.
I showed him my room key. ‘I’m a guest in the hotel.’
He scrutinised it and hesitantly waved me in. What was his problem? Why was he looking at me as if I’d stolen the key and was entering under false pretences? I swept by, hoping that I looked aloof and superior, but probably just managing grumpy and irritated.
I ordered a gin and tonic and stood at the bar scanning the room. It was a huge square, with only pillars punctuating its vastness. The capacity was about three hundred people. In the centre was the dance floor, surrounded by chrome railings separating it from the raised seating areas. On three sides of it were rows of ‘poser pod’ tall tables, each with six bar stools around them. On the fourth side was the slumber area: leather sofas and padded stools with low glass tables. The bar stretched along the wall to the left of the door, providing both direct and waitress service. This was a massive step up in the glamour and style stakes from the club in Shanghai.
The joint was jumping. The clientele were obviously Hong Kong’s beautiful people. Most of the guys were in suits (Boss and Armani), walking with limps due to the weight of their Tag Heuer watches and concentrating furiously on their bottles of
