“There’s something different about you. Are you sure?” she asked.
“Positive, but reluctantly.”
More had arrived at the party, for when we returned to the house, the house and upper part of the garden was full of people. There seemed to be more young women than I recalled; many wearing provocative clothing. Some were already in the large kidney shaped pool, and men were casting off their clothes and leaping in after them.
Kristi held my arm tightly as we sat on a swing seat on the veranda.
“Can I ask you some journalist type questions, just to pass the time?” I asked.
“Of course, like?”
I then ran through what I believed a fashion journalist would ask. How she got into the business, where she figured she was going, what were the tough parts, and the best parts, what advice would she give other aspiring models, which fashion houses were the best to work for and as much about herself as I could think of questions. I even took some notes.
The time passed delightfully, as we moved onto other subjects and so I forgot about my notes. We laughed a lot together, as we both had the same cynical sense of humour. I enjoyed her company so much that I almost reconsidered her invitation. A waiter refreshed our glasses regularly, and although I was on orange juice, I noted she was drinking wine and was becoming just a little drunk.
A shadow loomed over us. I looked up, fearing the presence of Malcolm Mombossu.
It was Harvey and he was grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Hi Harry,” I said.
Harvey looked at my companion and I swear his jaw dropped, just for a moment.
“Oh, Harry, meet Kristi Katonay. Kristi, this is Harry, and I’m sorry, I forgot your last name?” I said, slightly mischievously, for I guessed that Harvey had too.
“Harry, um, Jenner, it’s a pleasure,” Harvey said, grasping Kristi’s hand in his enormous one.
“You’re American,” she said, grinning with obvious pleasure.
“Huh? Yeah, I guess so, why?”
“I like America,” she said, drawing another grin from the large Marine.
“That’s good,” he said, glancing at me.
“Did all the photographs come out, or were there some missing?” I asked.
He frowned, but then his brow cleared as he worked out what I meant.
“No, none missing. My editor was very pleased with the quality and quantity of the work,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so pleased. That’s a weight off my mind, I can tell you.”
I saw that Mombossu was looking our way, so I turned to Kristi.
“Harry was showing me the gardens earlier; they are truly lovely, have you seen them?” I asked.
“Not really, but..”
“Then, Harry, why don’t you take Kristi and show her the walk through life? There’s someone I just have to talk to,” I said.
Giving them little choice, I arose of the seat and left them alone. Kristi watched me go, but as she saw Mombossu approaching, she all but grabbed Harvey and virtually dragged him into the garden.
On passing me, Mombossu barely glanced at me, as he was transfixed on Kristi as she disappeared with the big black American. He turned to an aide and muttered something in a language that I didn’t understand. I took the moment to observe the man whose face had given me troubled dreams for the last few months.
He was smaller and older than I remembered at the airport when I’d punched him. His dark curly hair was greying slightly at his temples, while his face seemed drawn and there were lines around his eyes. Power brought its own headaches, I thought. Somehow, my mind had built him up into someone much bigger. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t dangerous, but one’s mind does weird things when under stress.
“Excuse me, aren’t you President Mombossu?” I asked, in my most outrageous Canadian accent.
He turned towards me, irritation poorly concealed on his face. He looked me up and down, lingering over long on my chest, I thought. His expression changed and he showed me all his white teeth in a smile that almost lit up the room. I dearly wanted to smack him, but resisted the urge.
“I am, and you are?”
“Julianna Blanchard, I’m a Canadian journalist.”
At the word journalist, his eyes hardened, so I laughed.
“I’m a fashion journalist, but I just wanted to make sure I had the right name to the right face. I’ve never seen a real life president this close before,” I said, trying to sound like a gushy female.
I then followed up with how he was enjoying his visit to Vietnam and a couple of innocuous questions that he parried and found an excuse to leave me alone. I watched him follow the path into the garden that Harry and Kristi had taken. I hoped I’d given then enough of a head start so they could avoid any embarrassing confrontation.
It then dawned on me that I’d handed Harvey a girl who’d expressed a sexual interest in me. I swiped a passing glass of wine from a waiter’s tray and took a long mouthful as I went into the garden and stood in the cool evening air.
Was I mad?
This was the first sexual encounter that I’d been offered in a long time, and I’d blown it!
What was I thinking?
“Ah, if it isn’t the Canadian art expert. All alone, my dear?” said a drawly and slightly inebriated voice. I turned to see Charles Lumsden looking at me with a silly smile on his face.
“Not for long, I fear,” I said.
He grinned at me and reached out to take my arm. His grip was more firm than his languid appearance would credit him.
“Let me show you the garden,” he said.
“Thanks, but I’ve seen all I want to see.”
“I’ve a mind to show you a lot more than you’ve bargained for,” he said, leaning closer to me. “A lot more.”
“Do you like pain, Mr Lumsden?” I asked.
“I beg your pardon?” he asked, blinking through his confusion.
“If you don’t take your hand off me, you’ll understand what pain is very soon,” I said.
He just grinned and me, applying more pressure to my arm.
I shrugged, stepped in close to him, so he was off balance and brought my knee up into his unprotected groin as hard as I could, while twisting his fingers against the natural turn and dislocated his thumb.
He went pale and opened his mouth, but no sound came forth as he sank down onto his knees with his useless thumb thrust under his armpit. I walked past him back into the living room and then into what could only be a large dining room. I stood there a moment, letting my anger subside and waited for the reaction.
“Hi there, little lady, you seem lost in thought?”
The voice brought me out of my reverie. Turning towards it I found myself looking up into a pair of amazing blue eyes.
Their owner was deeply tanned and, if the accent was anything to go by, an Australian or New Zealander. Dressed in a dark grey suit that seemed almost the uniform of the day, but his face betrayed his affinity to the outdoors and not an office.
I guessed he was in the thirty to forty bracket, with very short fair hair and eyebrows bleached blond by the sun. He had a ready smile and seemed very relaxed.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” I asked, forgetting completely what he’d said to me.
“You were miles away, so I hoped you’d come back and take me there as well,” he said with a grin.
I smiled in spite of myself.
“Carl Bannerman, from New Zealand, and you?”
“Julianna Blanchard, Canadian,” I said.
“With that accent, I’d have been lost completely. I take it you’re French Canadian?”
“Yes, does it show?”
“Just a tad,” he said, grinning. “You don’t look like the usual sort that Pho’ gathers around him, what brings you here?”
“I’m a journalist covering the recent fashion show, and you?”
“I’m a geologist with a research team from Wellington. The Vietnamese government is desperate to find oil, so we’re seeing if we can oblige.”