Only then did I catch a glimpse of John, the Customs Officer. The sight made me suddenly feel itchy in the boob department, so surreptitiously I scratched it, wondering whether the sound made anyone take off their headphones.
“Miss Blanchard, I am having a small dinner party at my home, would you care to join us?” Pho’ was staring at me with a small smile playing across his lips.
I glanced at the other women, but their expressions were unreadable.
“That’s very generous of you, Mr Pho’, I would, but as a single Canadian girl, I’m not sure whether it’s entirely proper.”
He laughed, making me feel embarrassed.
“Oh, Miss Blanchard, I do like you, you are so, so, not Vietnamese! May I call you Julianna?”
Dumbly, I simply nodded.
“Please, Julianna, do not read anything untoward in my invitation. There will be some of my friends and business acquaintances present, along with their wives, so believe me; your virtue will not be threatened in any way.”
Feeling faintly foolish, I smiled and accepted his invitation.
“Good, I will send a car for you at seven.”
He was gone, followed by his entourage. I hung about with some of the other journalists, taking some photographs of those models and designers that remained, but essentially the show was over. As everyone drifted out, I made for the lobby.
A hand caught me by the arm, so I spun around.
It was Huynh.
“I hoped to catch you,” he said.
“Oh?” I wasn’t that pleased to be close to him, as I didn’t trust him at all.
“Do you want to come out to dinner?”
“I’m sorry, but I’ve been invited to dinner with Mr Pho’. Some other time, perhaps?”
“You go to Mr Pho’s house?” He seemed surprised.
“I guess so; he just said he’d send a car at seven. I have to go and get ready, as it’s gone five already.”
“You will like his house, it is very fine,” he told me.
“You’ve been there?”
“Several times. I occasionally do some work for him.”
“As a policeman, how come?”
He seemed suddenly embarrassed, and grinned. He looked much younger immediately.
“No, not as a policeman, more like a business arrangement. It helps me pay the bills.”
As I looked into his eyes, something unsaid passed between us. It was as if he now knew that I knew he was corrupt. He tried to laugh it off and changed the subject by asking me out for lunch on the following day.
“I’m sorry, I have some work to do for the paper, so I’m not sure if I can spare the time,” I said.
He looked at me, nodding slightly. The silence was painful, and yet it was a crucial moment. I sensed he realised that whatever attraction we’d had was now gone, and he’d lost me. I smiled.
“Look, you’ve been a great guide, but I have a different life to get back to,” I said.
He nodded. “Can I call you?”
“If you want.”
“Have a nice dinner. I’ll see you,” he said, shaking my hand in an oddly formal gesture.
I turned and made for the elevator.
Chapter Nine.
Pho’s house was very much as I remembered, except the last time I’d seen it, it was in semi darkness and the wail of sirens had been somewhat distracting.
The car had been on time, and I was almost ready.
First, I’d had a few minutes with John and Trevor (call me Trev) in their room. They were pleased with their equipment, and yes, the scratching had caused Trevor to pull off the headset. As for getting an invitation to Pho’s home, they were ecstatic. They let me go and get ready; telling me to replace the microphone once I’d had my shower.
From my somewhat limited wardrobe, I selected an evening dress that I’d acquired on one of my shopping forays during my ‘training’ period. I’d been particularly self-conscious at the time, but now appreciated why it had been as expensive as it was. In black, with a silver thread woven through to give it a shimmer, it was long, figure hugging and very flattering. Considering I was rather broad across the shoulders (for some reason), it was strategically cut to disguise this, and showed off my cleavage without being too obvious.
With the microphone still in place, a silk wrap across my shoulders and clutching a small evening bag, I arrived in Rho’s limousine in some style.
“Just get as many introductions as possible, as we want to know who he associates with. Then you’re done, with our grateful thanks,” said John before I left.
The house and garden was a riot of light and noise, very different to my last visit. I was tempted to go and retrieve the stones as soon as I could, but wisely decided to take things carefully. Cu`ong Pho’ met me on the front veranda, introducing me to a pretty little woman wearing traditional dress, as his wife. She spoke little English, and disappeared shortly after the introduction. I noted that it was an international occasion, with many foreigners present, including many whites and some Africans.
I walked into the spacious main hall, where a waiter offered me a tray with several different drinks in crystal glasses.
“Do you have any beer?” I asked in English, stressing the Canadian accent.
“’fraid not, miss.”
Shrugging I took a long stemmed glass containing what I hoped was white wine. It was, and a very fine Chardonnay if I wasn’t mistaken. Three or four men approached me and introduced themselves, but seemed to take fright when I mentioned that I was a journalist. I decided to see what else the house offered.
As I turned, I almost dropped it, for there, not ten feet from me was Charles Lumsden, the hand-wringer from the British Embassy, who’d managed to do so little for me when I’d been arrested and incarcerated. He was talking to an oriental man dressed in an army uniform. Lumsden looked even more insipid than he had when he visited me in prison. I know he worked for the Diplomatic Corps, but whoever thought he’d be any good needed his or her head examined. His father had probably gone to school with the Ambassador. Steeling myself I approached and pretended to admire a traditional painting on the wall close to where Lumsden stood. The soldier moved off and the tall Englishman saw me and made some pseudo-intellectual remark about the painting.
“It's quite pretty,” I said. “But not really to my taste.”
“And what is to your taste?” he asked.
“Oh, I'm not sure, but I think I like my paintings to reflect reality and not the imagination of some tortured soul.”
This made Lumsden chuckle.
“You're American?” he asked.
“You must be Dutch?” I countered, making him frown, for he knew his highly cultured Old-Etonian accent was English to the point of silliness.
“Good God no, I'm British,” he said, sounding hurt.
“And I'm Canadian, but in geographical terms, I was closer. You must be Charles Lumsden?”
Shaken slightly by being wrong-footed, he nodded.
“And you? He asked.
“I'm not,” I said, turning away.
I walked away from him into the enormous and ostentatious living room. I stared for a moment at the crystal chandeliers and brace of old masters prominently displayed along one wall. I wasn’t an art expert, but I believed the other paintings were all genuine modern pieces, all worth five or six figures.
“Penny for them?” said a deep voice in my left ear. The voice was hauntingly familiar, so I turned towards it, with my heart racing.
I was very good, as I didn’t react much.
I laughed.
That’s all, just a polite and very relieved laugh.
“Hi, I was just admiring the paintings,” I said, not wanting to risk saying anything more.
Harvey looked very dapper in his tux. He’d lost some weight since I’d last seen him, meaning he was just as hard, just a trifle leaner. He was staring at me with a curious expression on his face, as if he couldn’t quite decide if he knew me or not. He hadn’t seen me since my alterations, and so I wondered just how much Maryanne had told him. I decided, in the interests of safety, and because I had Australian eavesdroppers, to play this as if he’d never met me. I suppose this was true, as he had never met the me he now met.