a dim bulb.’ Her face lights up. ‘Here he is!’ She leaps off the stool and rushes over to give her father a kiss. Will had expected a big, confident man with the aura of power. Instead, Mr Liang is small and diffident, with an ill-cut suit and an air of sweetness. He seems to be overwhelmed by the vitality of his daughter. He lets Trudy wash over him, like a force of nature, much as everyone else in Hong Kong does, Will thinks. The head waiter seats them with much hovering and solicitous hand-waving, which neither Trudy nor her father seems to notice. They speak to each other in Cantonese, which makes her seem like a different person entirely.
Their food is brought to them, as if preordained. ‘Should we order?’ he ventures, and their faces are astonished.
‘You only eat certain dishes here,’ they say.
Trudy calls for champagne. ‘This is a momentous occasion,’ she declares. ‘My father’s not met many of my beaux. You’re over the first hurdle.’
Wan Kee Liang does not ask Will about his life or his work. Instead, they exchange pleasantries, talk about the horse races and the war. When Trudy excuses herself to go to the powder room, her father motions for Will to come closer.
‘You are not a rich man,’ he says.
‘Not like you, but I do all right.’ How odd to assume.
‘Trudy is very spoiled girl, and want many things.’ The man’s face betrays nothing.
‘Yes,’ Will says.
‘Not good for woman to pay for anything.’
Trudy’s father hands him an envelope. ‘Here is money for you to take Trudy out. Will cover expenses for a long time. Not good for Trudy to be paying all time.’
Will is taken aback. ‘I can’t take that,’ he says. ‘I’ve never let Trudy pay for a meal.’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ the man waves his hand. ‘Good for your relationship.’
Will refuses and puts the envelope on the table, where it sits until they see Trudy approaching. Trudy’s father puts it back in his suit jacket. ‘Not meant to be insult,’ he says. ‘I want best for Trudy. So best for her means best for you. This means little to me, but might make difference for you two.’
‘I appreciate the thought,’ Will says. ‘But I can’t.’ He lets it go at that.
The next week, Will receives letters in the post from restaurants and clubs around town informing him that his accounts have been opened and are ready for use. One has scribbled a note in the margin, ‘Just come in. You won’t even need to sign. We look forward to seeing you.’ The tone: apologetic to a good customer, but deferring to the wishes of their best.
He is a little irritated, but not so much, more bemused than anything. He puts the letters in a drawer. He supposes, to Wan Kee Liang, that everyone looks like a pauper, hoping for handouts. The Chinese are wise, he thinks. Or maybe it’s just Trudy’s family.
Trudy loves the Parisian Grill, is great friends with the owner, a Greek married to a local Portuguese who sees no irony in the fact that he serves the froggiest of foods. She refuses absolutely to go to a Chinese restaurant with Will, will only go when with Chinese people who, she says, are the only ones who appreciate the food the way it should be.
The Greek who runs the Parisian Grill, his name is now Henri, changed from God knows what, loves Trudy, views her as a daughter, and his wife, Elsbieta, treats her like a sister. She goes there for first drinks almost every night, often ends evenings there as well. Henri and Elsbieta are polite to him, but with a certain reserve. He thinks they have seen too many of Trudy’s beaux. He wants to protest that he is the one in danger, protest over the red vinyl banquettes, the smoky white candles burned down to smudgy lumps, but he never does.
They meet everyone at the Parisian Grill. It is the sort of place one goes to when one is new in town or old, or bored. Hong Kong is small, and eventually, everyone ends up there. One night, they have drinks at the bar with a group of visiting Americans and are invited to dinner with them.
Trudy tells their new friends that she loves Americans, their open-handed extravagance, their loud talk and braying confidence. When someone brings up the war, she pretends not to hear, instead going on about the qualities she feels all Americans have. They have a sense of the world being incomparably large, she says and that they are able to … not colonize, but spread through all countries, spending their money like water, without guilt or too much self-consciousness. She loves that. The men are tall and rangy, with long faces and quick decisions, and the women leave them be, isn’t that wonderful?, because they’re so busy with their own committees and plans. They invite all and sundry to their events, and they serve marvellous items like potato salads and ham and cheese sandwiches. And, unless there is a very special type of Englishman present (she tips her head towards Will), they tend to diminish the other men in the room. It’s very odd, but she’s seen it. Haven’t you noticed that? If she had it all to do over again, she says to the dinner-table, she would come back as an American. Lacking that possibility, she’ll marry one. Or maybe just move there, if someone objects to her marrying an American – said with eyes cast down demurely as a joke.
Will thinks back to when she complained that Americans were tiresomely earnest, and just smiles. She has free will, he says simply. He would never do anything to stop her from doing what she wants. The Americans applaud. An enlightened man, says a woman with red lips and an orange dress.
Life is easy. At the office, he is expected in at nine thirty, then a two-hour lunch is not uncommon, and they knock off at five for drinks. He can go out every night, play all weekend, do whatever he wants. Trudy’s friends move to London and want someone responsible to take care of their flat, so Will moves to May Road and pays the ludicrous rent of two hundred Hong Kong dollars, and this only after much wrangling to persuade Sudie and Frank Chen to take anything at all. They all go out for dinner, and it’s very civilized.
‘You’re doing us a favour!’ they cry, as they pour more champagne.
‘You really are, Will,’ Trudy says. ‘No one in all Hong Kong would agree to do anything so nice for the Chens, you know. They’ve awful reputations around here – that’s why they’re leaving.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Will says. ‘I have to pay something.’
‘We’ll talk about it later,’ the Chens say, but they never do. Instead they drink four splits of champagne and end up going to the beach at midnight to hunt for crabs by candlelight.
May Road is different from Happy Valley, his old neighbourhood. Filled with expatriates and their servants, it is a bourgeois suburb of England, or how he’d always imagined one to be. Children walk obediently next to their amahs, matrons climb into the backs of their chauffeured cars; it’s much quieter than the chattering bustle of his old haunt. He misses Happy Valley, the vitality of it, the loud, rude locals, the lively shops.
But then there is Trudy. Trudy has a large place not five minutes from him. He walks the winding road to her flat every day, having picked up fresh clothes after work.
‘Isn’t this nice?’ she says, lavishing him with kisses at the door. ‘Isn’t it delicious that you’re so close and not in that dreadful Happy Valley? I do think the only time I’d go
