“Oh, I wasn’t aware.” Claire’s hand went unconsciously to her neck, where she usually dabbed it on.
“But it’s lovely that you wear it,” he said.
“You seem to know a lot about women’s scents.”
“I don’t.” He glanced over at her, his eyes dark. “I used to know someone who wore it.”
They rode in silence until they arrived at her building.
“You teach the girl,” he said as she was reaching for the door, his voice suddenly urgent.
“Yes, Locket,” she said, taken aback.
“Is she a good student? ” he asked. “Diligent? ”
“It’s hard to say,” she said. “Her parents don’t give her much of a reason to do anything so she doesn’t. Very typical at that age. Still, she’s a nice enough girl.”
He nodded, his face unreadable in the dark interior of the car.
“Well, thank you very much for the ride,” she said.
He nodded and drove off into the gathering dusk.
And then, a bun. A bun with sweetened chestnut paste. That was how they met again. She had been walking up Potter Street to where there was a bus stand, when it started to pour. The rain, big, startling plops of water, fell heavily and she was soaked through in a matter of seconds. Looking up at the sky, she saw it had turned a threatening gray. She ducked into a Chinese bakery to wait out the storm. Inside, she ordered a tea and a chestnut bun and, turning to sit at one of the small circular tables, spotted Will Truesdale, deliberately eating a red bean pastry, staring at her.
“Hullo,” she said. “Caught in the rain too? ”
“Would you like a seat? ”
She sat down. In the damp, he smelled like cigarettes and tea. A newspaper was spread in front of him, the crossword half-finished. A fan blew at the pages so they ruffled upward.
“It’s coming down like cats and dogs. And so sudden! ”
“So, how are you? ” he asked.
“Fine, thank you very much. Just coming from the Liggets’, where I’ve borrowed some patterns. Do you know Jasper and Helen? He’s in the police.”
“Ligget the bigot? ” He wrinkled his forehead.
She laughed, uncomfortable. His hand thrummed the table, though his body was in repose.
“Is that what you call him? ” she asked.
“Why not? ” he said.
He did the crossword as she ate her bun and sipped at her tea. She was aware of her mouth chewing, swallowing. She sat up straight in her chair.
He hummed a tune, looked up.
“ Hong Kong suits you,” he said.
She colored, started to say something about being impertinent but the words came out muddled.
“Don’t be coy,” he said. “I think…” he started, as if he were telling her life story. “I imagine you’ve always been pretty but you’ve never owned it, never used it to your advantage. You didn’t know what to do about it and your mother never helped you. Perhaps she was jealous, perhaps she too was pretty in her youth but is bitter that beauty is so transient.”
“I’m sure I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said.
“I’ve known girls like you for years. You come over from England and don’t know what to do with yourselves. You could be different. You should take the opportunity to become something else.”
She stared at him, then pushed the paper bun wrapper around on the table. It was slightly damp and stuck to the surface. She was aware of his gaze on her face.
“So,” he said. “You must be very uncomfortable. My home is just up the way if you want to change into some dry things.”
“I wouldn’t want to…”
“Do you want my jacket?” He looked at her so intently she felt undressed. Was there anything more intimate than really being seen? She looked away.
“No, I…”
“No bother at all,” he said quickly. “Come along.” And she did, pulled along helplessly by his suggestion.
They climbed the steps, now damp and glistening, the heat already beginning to evaporate the moisture. Her clothes clung to her, her blouse sodden and uncomfortable against her shoulder blades. In the quiet after the rain, she could hear his breathing, slow and regular. He used his cane with expertise, hoisting himself up the stairs, whistling slightly under his breath.
“In good weather, there’s a man who sells crickets made out of grass stalks here.” He gestured to a corner on the street. “I’ve bought dozens. They’re the most amazing things, but they crumble when they dry up, crumble into nothing.”
“Sounds lovely,” Claire said. “I’d like to see them.”
They got to his building, and walked up some grungy, industrial stairs. He stopped in front of a door.
“I never lock my door,” he said suddenly.
“I suppose it’s safe enough around these parts,” she said.
Inside, his flat was sparsely furnished. She could see only a sofa, a chair, and a table on bare floor. When they stepped in, he took off his soaking shoes.
“The boss says I can’t wear shoes in the house.”
Just then, a small, wiry woman of around forty came into the foyer. She was wearing the amah uniform of a black tunic over trousers.
“This is the boss, Ah Yik,” he said. “Ah Yik, this is Mrs. Pendleton.”
“So wet,” the little woman cried. “Big rain.”
“Yes,” Will said. “Big, big rain.” Then he spoke to her rapidly in Cantonese.
“Tea for missee? ” Ah Yik said.
“Yes, thank you,” he said.
The amah went into the kitchen.
They looked at each other, uncomfortable in their wet and rapidly cooling clothes.
“You are proficient in the local language,” she said, more as a statement than a question.
“I’ve been here more than a decade,” he said. “It would be a real embarrassment if I couldn’t meet them halfway, don’t you think?” He took a tea towel off the hook and rubbed at his head. “I imagine you’d like to dry off,” he said.
“Yes, please.”
She sat down as he left. There was something strange about the room, which she couldn’t place until she realized there was absolutely nothing decorative in the entire flat. There were no paintings, no vases, no bric-a-brac. It was austere to the point of monkishness.
Will came back with a towel and a simple pink cotton dress.
“Is this appropriate? ” he asked. “I’ve a few other things.”
“I don’t need to change,” she said. “I’ll just dry off and be on my way.”
“Oh, I think you should change,” he said. “It’ll be uncomfortable otherwise.”
“No, it’s quite all right.”
He started to leave the room.
“Fine,” she said. “Where should I…”
“Oh, anywhere,” he said. “Anywhere you won’t scandalize the boss, that is.”
“Of course.” She took the dress from him. “Looks around the right size.”
“And there’s a phone out here if you want to ring your husband and let him know where you are,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said. “Martin’s in Shanghai, actually.” And she went into the bathroom.
The bathroom was small but clean, with a frosted-glass window high above the toilet. It was the wavy, pebbled kind, with chicken wire running through it. Next to that, there was a small fan set into the wall with a pull string attached. It was humid, with the rain splattering outside, and the musty feel of a bathroom that hadn’t gotten quite aired out enough after baths. Next to the tub there was a low wooden stool with a porcelain basin on top. Claire leaned forward into the mirror. Her hair was mussed, fine blond strands awry, and her face was flushed, still, with the exertion of climbing up the hill. She looked surprisingly alive, her lips red and plump and wet, her skin glowing with the moisture. She undressed, dropping her soaked blouse to the floor, which sloped slightly to a drain in the middle. She toweled off and pulled the dress over her hips. It was snug, but manageable. Why did Will have a dress lying around? It was very good quality, with perfectly finished seams and careful needlework. She went out to where Will was sipping from a thermos of tea.