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gassy bubbles in her mouth. Mr Chen looked at her expectantly.

      ‘The Communists are a great threat,’ she said. This is what she had heard again and again at gatherings.

      Mr Chen laughed. ‘Of course! And what will you and Melody do about them?’

      ‘Shut up, darling. Don’t tease,’ said his wife. She took a sip of her drink. Mr Chen was watching her. ‘What’s that you’re drinking, love?’

      ‘A little cocktail,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a long day.’ She sounded defensive.

      There was a pause.

      ‘Locket is a good student,’ Claire said, ‘but she needs to practise more.’

      ‘It’s not her fault,’ Mrs Chen said breezily. ‘I’m not here to oversee her practice enough.’

      Mr Chen laughed. ‘Oh, she’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she knows what she’s doing.’

      Claire nodded. Parents were all the same. When she had children, she would be sure not to indulge them. She set her drink down. ‘I should be going,’ she said. ‘It’s harder to get a seat on the bus after five.’

      ‘Are you sure?’ Mrs Chen said. ‘Pai was getting us some biscuits.’

      ‘Oh, no, thank you,’ she demurred. ‘I really should be leaving.’

      ‘We’ll have Truesdale drive you home,’ Mr Chen offered.

      ‘Oh, no,’ Claire said. ‘I couldn’t put you out.’

      ‘Do you know him?’ Mr Chen asked. ‘He’s English.’

      ‘I haven’t had the pleasure,’ Claire said.

      ‘Hong Kong is very small,’ Mr Chen said. ‘It’s tiresome that way.’

      ‘It’s no trouble at all for Truesdale,’ Mrs Chen said. ‘He’ll be going home anyway. Where do you live?’

      ‘Happy Valley,’ answered Claire, feeling put on the spot.

      ‘Oh, that’s near where he lives!’ Mrs Chen cried, delighted at the coincidence. ‘So, it’s settled.’ She called for Pai in Cantonese and told her to call the driver.

      ‘Chinese is such an intriguing language,’ Claire said. ‘I hope to pick some up during our time here.’

      Mr Chen raised an eyebrow. ‘Cantonese,’ he said, ‘is very difficult. There are some nine different tones for one sound. It’s much more difficult than English. I picked up rudimentary English in a year, but I’m sure I wouldn’t have been able to learn Cantonese or Mandarin or Shanghainese in twice that.’

      ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘one always hopes.’

      Pai walked in and spoke. Mrs Chen nodded. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, ‘but the driver seems to have left already.’

      ‘I’ll catch the bus,’ Claire said.

      Mr Chen stood up as she picked up her bag. ‘It was very nice to meet you,’ he said.

      ‘And you,’ she said, and walked out, feeling their eyes on her back.

      

      When she got home, Martin was already there. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You’re late today.’ He was in a vest and his weekend trousers, which were stained and shiny at the knees. He had a drink in his hand.

      She took off her jacket and put on a pot of water to boil. ‘I was at the Chens’ house today,’ she said. ‘Locket’s parents asked me to stay for a drink.’

      ‘Victor Chen, is it?’ he asked, impressed. ‘He’s rather a big deal here.’

      ‘I gathered,’ she said. ‘He was quite something. Not at all like a Chinaman.’

      ‘You shouldn’t use that word, Claire,’ Martin said. ‘It’s very old-fashioned and a bit insulting.’

      Claire coloured. ‘I’ve just never …’ She trailed off. ‘I’ve never seen Chinese people like the Chens.’

      ‘You are in Hong Kong,’ Martin said, not unkindly. ‘There are all types of Chinese.’

      ‘Where is the amah?’ she asked, wanting to change the subject.

      Yu Ling came from the back when Claire called. ‘Can you help with dinner?’ Claire said. ‘I bought some meat at the market.’

      Yu Ling looked at her impassively. She had a way of making Claire feel uncomfortable, but she couldn’t bring herself to sack her. She wondered how the other wives did it – they appeared to handle their servants with an easy aplomb that seemed unfamiliar and unattainable to Claire. Some even joked with them and treated them like family members, but she’d heard that was more the American influence. Her friend Cecilia had her amah brush her hair for her before she went to bed, while she sat at her dressing-table and put on cold cream.

      Claire handed Yu Ling the meat she had bought on the way home. Then she went to lie down on the bed with a cold compress over her eyes. How had she got here, to this small flat on the other side of the world? She remembered her quiet childhood in Croydon, an only child sitting at her mother’s side while she mended clothes, listening to her talk. Her mother had been bitter at what life had given her, a hand-to-mouth existence, especially after the war, and her father drank too much, perhaps because of it. Claire had never imagined life being much more than that. But marrying Martin had changed it all.

      But this was the thing: she herself had changed in Hong Kong. Something about the tropical climate had ripened her appearance, brought everything into harmony. Where the other English women looked as if they were about to wilt in the heat, she thrived, like a hothouse flower. Her hair had lightened in the tropical sun until it was veritably gold. She perspired lightly so that her skin looked dewy, not drenched. She had lost weight so that her body was compact, and her eyes sparkled, cornflower blue. Martin had remarked on it, how the heat seemed to suit her. When she was at the Gripps or at a dinner party, she saw that men looked at her longer than necessary, came over to talk to her, let their hands linger on her back. She was learning how to speak to people at parties, order in a restaurant with confidence. She felt as if she were finally becoming a woman, not the girl she had been when she had left England. She felt as if she were a woman coming into her own.

      And then the next week, after Locket’s lesson, the porcelain rabbit had fallen into her handbag.

      

      The week after, the phone rang and Locket leaped up to answer it, eager for any excuse to stop mangling the prelude she had been playing, and while she had been chattering away to a schoolmate, Claire saw a silk scarf lying on a chair. It was a beautiful, printed scarf, the kind women tied around their necks. She put it into her bag. A wonderful sense of calm came over her. And when Locket returned, with only a mumbled, ‘Sorry, Mrs Pendleton,’ Claire smiled instead of giving the little girl a piece of her mind.

      When she got home, she went into the bedroom, locked the door and pulled out the scarf. It was an Hermès scarf, from Paris, and had pictures of zebras and lions in vivid oranges and browns. She practised tying it around her neck, and over her head, like an adventurous heiress on safari. She felt very glamorous.

      The next month, after a conversation in which Mrs Chen told her she sent all her fine washing to Singapore because ‘the girls here don’t know how to do it properly and, of course, that means I have to have triple the amount of linens, what a bother’, Claire found herself walking out with two of those wonderful Irish napkins in her skirt pocket. She had Yu Ling handwash and iron them so that she and Martin could use them with dinner.

      She pocketed three French cloisonné turtles after Locket had abruptly gone to the bathroom – as if the child couldn’t take care of nature’s business before Claire arrived! A pair of sterling silver salt and pepper shakers found their way into her bag as she was passing through the dining room, and an exquisite Murano perfume

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