Hell, I’m grumpy. Undefeated though, I shower, throw on a red shift dress, and head down to ‘Asia’. It would be too good to be true if Sam was still standing on the door and I found him with no searching whatsoever.
Indeed. Too good to be true. ‘Asia’ was gone and in its place was an incredibly chic seafood restaurant that, according to the menu, charged the price of a Mini Metro for something that was swimming in the ocean just a few days before.
Dejected, I decide to have a long bath and an early night. The world will be a sunnier place in the morning.
I’m wide awake at 4 a.m.. Obviously, I left my body clock somewhere over the ocean. I’ve counted sheep, recited the alphabet backwards and counted to ten thousand, all to no avail. I consider calling the manager, but I don’t think talking to insomniac guests is in the Guest Services Directory.
I give up and call Jess from my bedside phone. She’s back in London and going to work again, opting for public denial and hoping the whole scandal will fade sometime soon.
‘How’s things with Basil?’
‘He’s in therapy and publicly blaming the stress of work for his episode of diminished responsibility. His wife kicked him out and she was last seen dancing in Stringfellows with a French rugby player. I’m still playing hard to get. Let him grovel.’
‘Why don’t you come over here and join me? I could do with some company.’
‘Thanks, Carly, but I’ve taken enough time off lately, what with fleeing the country. They’re docking my wages for that already.’
‘Docking your wages! They should have been paying you a bonus for shagging Basil. It wasn’t in your contract.’
‘I’ll contact the government with your suggestion,’ she jokes. ‘Anyway, I’ve had no luck yet finding Tom. I traced his friends in Canada, but they told me that he’d returned to Ireland. I think I’m going to have to call in Interpol.’
Given her connections, that wasn’t completely outlandish, so I hoped she was joking.
‘Thanks, Jess. You’ll get your reward for all this eventually. I’ll leave you my engagement rings in my will.’
‘You gave them all back.’
‘Ah, yep, I did. Will you settle for my shoe collection and custody of my goldfish?’
‘It’s a deal.’
Despite our exchange making me smile, I hang up feeling more than a little dejected. So far, Mission Manhunt sucks. I‘ve met four of my potential partners and so far there’s been one with no sexual chemistry, one is gay, one is a twisted cheat and the other is a lovely pal who’s happily married. Maybe my claims of joining a nunnery weren’t too far-fetched. Two more disappointments and I’d happily volunteer to be Sister Carly.
After four more sleepless hours, I searched for the old address book I’d bought years ago to replace the personal organiser I lost last time I was here. I found Sam’s home number and called it. Disconnected. The way my luck is going, he’s probably back in London, living round the corner from my old flat, and in a polygamous relationship with half the street. Nothing would surprise me.
Next, I try all the martial arts academies listed in the book. Nope, no Sam Morton.
I throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and decide to try his old apartment. Maybe he’s still there and has just changed his number.
I take the MTR to Causeway Bay. When I alight, I’m astounded by the changes. In front of me is a huge new shopping mall called Times Square. For a few moments I’m torn between looking for Sam or wandering round the designer shops. My credit cards start to tremble in my bag.
Stay focused.
I put my head down and charge past the mall. Get thee behind me, Satan.
As I turn into Sam’s street, I spot a familiar face having an afternoon siesta. Huey, one of the lovely old guys who lived under the flyover, is still there. Good grief, he must be about 106.
He smiles as I approach. Either he recognises me or I look like a sure thing for a couple of dollars.
‘Huey, lay ho ma?’ I greet him with the only Cantonese I can remember.
His eyes light up and I know for sure he remembers me. He starts speaking rapidly and I look around in panic. I don’t understand a word. I spot a jewellery shop across the road and dash over. Inside, I enlist the services of an assistant and drag him over to Huey’s penthouse. Huey eyes him with suspicion and clams up.
‘Please ask him if he remembers Sam, the Englishman who used to live in that building,’ I ask, pointing to Sam’s block.
He chatters to Huey and my hopes rise as Huey nods his head.
‘Ask him if he still lives there.’
Another Cantonese monologue, but this time my elevator of optimism crashes back to the ground floor as Huey shakes his head. He still hasn’t uttered a sound to the stranger.
‘Ask him if he knows where he lives now.’
This time, Huey responds by shrugging his shoulders. This isn’t going well. I ask the shop assistant to say ‘Thanks’, and turn to walk away. I haven’t got more than ten feet when Huey shouts something.
‘What did he say?’ I ask the jeweller, who is now thoroughly fed up with this game and just wants to get back to his shop.
‘He says that for fifty dollars he can tell you how to find the man you’re looking for.’
I’m aghast. ‘That’s extortion! Shame on you, Huey.’ But my money is already out of my purse and in his hand.
He talks to the translating gem dealer.
‘He says that he still comes here every Friday evening to bring him beer.’
Friday! That’s tonight.
‘What time?’ I realise that of course Huey doesn’t wear a watch. ‘Early evening. Or late?”
More chat.
‘Early. Before the sun goes down. Just after rush hour.’
It’s all I can do not to punch the air. Instead, I thank them both
