Four
1992 Singapore
Stewart Campbell shuffled through the committee welcoming line, past an array of flowers that were shaped more like the traditional, Western funeral wreaths than celebratory or welcoming arrangements, and entered the Grand Hyatt’s Sir Stamford Room function venue on the first floor. He accepted a cocktail from one of the many waiters weaving through the assembly, smiled, acknowledged a number of associates and friends, then eased his way through the sea of locally tailored, black-tie dinner jackets and cocktail dresses to join a group of Asian engineers he had met earlier that day.
A banner dominating one wall welcomed delegates to the 14th South East Asian Mining Conference, the elegant setting and surrounds standing in contradiction to the theme-decorated ballroom, the three meter, black and white photographs depicting mining scenes on the opposing wall in brutal contrast to the original designer’s perception, of a fine-dining venue.
Campbell leaned closer to the young woman offering an opinion as to why Singapore had achieved recognition as the only, real safe-banking haven in Asia, the crowded room’s chatter reaching deafening levels with inhibition-reduced, alcohol levels loosening tongues and raising self-import. Waiters glided past carrying silver hors d’oeuvres trays laden with smoked salmon coq au vin, pickled quail eggs dotted with neon-green Tobilko caviar, butterfly prawns, and miniature spring rolls, the guests washing these down with generous swills of Clos des Goisses champagne with little, if any understanding of the gift offered by the preciously-nurtured grape. Campbell continued to listen, politely, to the soft-spoken Singaporean delegate as she struggled to be heard above the competing rabble.
‘…and, added to which, the incredible inflow of funds from Indonesia contributed greatly to Singapore’s prosperity,’ she paused, losing the opportunity to another and more verbose government type, whose dominance over the conversation had already driven others away.
‘In my opinion, …’ the bureaucrat started. Campbell, feigning having caught the attention of a familiar face across the room, used this pretext as an excuse to move away. He edged his way through the gathering, now determined to touch base with a number of colleagues then escape to a lesser-congested environment. He squeezed through the throng towards a more subdued group, the noise level abating considerably as he distanced himself from the bar service area.
A hand touched the small of his back and he turned, the tall and long-waisted woman confronting him so breathtakingly beautiful that, for an uncomfortable moment, Stewart Campbell was struck speechless.
‘Mister Campbell?’ Stewart’s surprise turned to acute embarrassment when his tongue failed to respond, so stunned was he with the stunningly, graceful creature standing before him. ‘I’m Sharon Ducay. You are Stewart Campbell?’ the woman challenged, the suggestion of her beguiling perfume momentarily confusing Campbell even further.
‘Yes.’ He managed an awkward smile then, near apoplectic when a guest behind stepped back inadvertently nudging him forward, causing Campbell to spill his cocktail onto the Filipino beauty’s full-length, pink, beaded cocktail dress.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry!’ he exclaimed, weakly, the damp patch spreading down the woman’s front from breast to thigh. For a moment he imagined her eyes on fire, the ever-so-brief flash of anger evident, before misinterpreted dismay transposed to grievous surprise.
‘ Mister Campbell!’ Sharon Ducay raised her hands, palms opened as if in religious gesture, first looking down at her stained, Javier Larrainzar gown, then up into his eyes as if he had committed the most heinous of crimes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Campbell offered, lamely, conscious of having attracted the attention of other guests in close proximity, ‘but I was bumped.’ And to substantiate his claim, Stewart turned and glared at the responsible but inebriated guest alongside, hoping to apportion blame. Then, ‘I’m deeply embarrassed,’ he offered, truly distressed at his clumsiness, even though responsibility for the accident lay elsewhere.
Sharon Ducay accepted a napkin from a concerned waiter. She dabbed directly below her breasts in what Campbell’s mind were translated as soft, sensuous movements.
‘I’ll have to go and change,’ she said. Campbell, detecting no trace of malice in her voice, moved to make amends.
‘Please accept my apology?’ he asked, determined not to let her go, or at least accompany her if she were to leave. ‘I’m normally not this clumsy.’ She was obviously Asian – possibly Indonesian; perhaps from northern Sulawesi, he guessed. ‘Maaf saya,’ he apologized in Bahasa Indonesia hoping this would resolve his predicament. Not many expatriates spoke the language with any fluency, and Campbell was prepared for the challenge.
‘I am not Indonesian,’ she responded, obviously offended by the suggestion.
‘Ouch! Sorry.’ Campbell was now floundering, desperate to recover lost ground. ‘It’s just that I don’t often meet many beautiful women outside of my own domain.’ Then a thought struck home. ‘You know my name?’
Sharon Ducay flashed a well-practised smile. ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘and before you ask, I am from Manila.’
Campbell remained confused. ‘I know we haven’t met before – I would definitely have remembered.’ His confidence returning, Campbell indicated her soiled dress. ‘It’s hardly obvious now,’ he suggested.
Without looking down Sharon placed one hand on her abdomen.
‘It’s still wet,’ she replied, matter-of-factly.
‘Do you still wish to change?’
‘Yes,’ she said, looking towards the exit, preparing to leave. ‘Will you accompany me?’ Before Campbell could respond, she raised her hand and took his forearm, then turned towards the exit and steered the way.
****
‘Help yourself to the bar,’ Sharon glided through the Regency Club suite, disrobing as she disappeared from view, her guest catching a brief glimpse of her curvaceous lines. Campbell’s room was in the other wing overlooking the swimming pool, the disparity between the accommodations significant. The Hyatt’s ‘hotel within a hotel’ concept for its more prominent guests providing lavish furnishings and butler service was a luxury he had yet to afford.
‘Can I pour you something?’ he called, his offer drawing a silent response. Campbell checked the chilled wines and selected a pinot noir Chardonnay, opening the bottle and pouring two glasses just as Sharon reappeared, dressed in slacks. She accepted the Hungarian cased, crystal flute, sipped lightly, nodded her approval, then moved towards the heavily draped windows and opened the curtains to peer outside.
It was early October, yet Christmas fervor had arrived in earnest, with Singaporean traders already dressing Orchard Road’s towering hotels with an elaborate display of Christmas lights, and New Year greetings. Campbell remained standing at a respectable distance admiring Sharon’s figure as she stood framed by the window, the suite’s soft lighting, enhancing her features. She turned, the hand holding her wine resting in the palm of the other, and smiled.
‘I observed you at the opening ceremony,’ she said, her voice carrying a huskiness not evident before. Campbell was surprised that he could have missed her, even amongst the other four hundred delegates.
‘Obviously, I was preoccupied
