The Backpacking Bride (The Backpacking Housewife, Book 3) Page 21

  We have fifteen thousand dollars left and I thought it only fair that we split it equally.

  ‘Maya, I don’t want it. I don’t need it. It’s not mine and Jon wanted you to have it.’

  We ride to the port in a taxi in silence, each looking out of opposite windows.

  My thoughts are of guilt once again. I can see a reflection in the glass of the sad and pained expression on Henri’s face. It indicates that he still thinks me heartless and unrelenting. At the ferry port, we buy tickets and wait to board the ferry.

  We have tickets for the VIP lounge upstairs as Henri told me I’ll be far less likely to feel queasy and seasick while we’re moving if I can see the coastline clearly. I trust his judgement.

  We take large comfortable seats in the forward cabin and, as the boat begins to move away from the dock I assume Henri will be busy thinking about preparing for his race this afternoon. Instead he strikes up conversation again. He’s obviously still thinking about us. ‘Maya, do you think you might ever come back to Hong Kong?’

  I process his question while staring resolutely forward out of the window.

  ‘Do you think I need more Tai Chi lessons?’ I quip, trying to make light of things.

  A little voice inside is telling me to say yes but I’m not sure I should trust it.

  I feel Henri take my hand in his and give it a gentle and reassuring squeeze.

  I also feel his fingers brush against my engagement ring. I sense that me wearing Jon’s ring is making him feel uncomfortable since we’d been intimate. If so, then I’m also finding it difficult to reconcile the conflicting feelings I felt this morning while sliding it back on my finger.

  I’m also having difficulty convincing myself that what’s happened between us over the past two days, and especially last night, was only about casual sex and mutual satisfaction. In the absence of a serious reply, Henri leans in and speaks to me quietly.

  ‘Maya, I just want you to know that I’m not ready for this to be over between us. I get it. I do. You think I’m moving too fast. I’m sorry. I can slow things down. I don’t want to rush you or presume that you’ll ever get over Jon, or that you’ll ever come to terms with what happened on your wedding day. But, if you ever feel that you could put down that torch you are carrying for him and live with his memory rather than his ghost, then perhaps, if you can’t stay now, you’ll think about coming back. And we can find out if last night … and this something we have found together might lead to something more?’

  My heart is melting from the impact of his words but I remain staunchly silent.

  I don’t want to make Henri a promise I might not keep.

  Because I still have my pilgrimage for Jon to complete.

  Chapter 19

  Singapore

  At the airport, waiting at the gate for my Singapore flight, I check my phone once again, still holding out hope for a final farewell message from Henri. Something light-hearted to follow up on what had felt like an intense and awkward moment after we arrived back at Victoria Harbour from Macau. Just a few words, so I’d know he wasn’t still sulking or stinging over my adamant refusal to delay my departure from Singapore on Monday.

  I’ll admit that after I shot him down in flames and told him he was moving too fast, I’ve shed a tear over the thought of never seeing him again, but maybe our final hug and kiss and our emotional bids of farewell had been the end, as far as he was concerned.

  After what I said about him only being my connection to Jon, I can’t say I blame him.

  Should I prompt him by reaching out to him first?

  Should I send out a message, an olive branch of peace between us?

  I don’t. Instead I send a message to Pia to let her know I’m about to leave Hong Kong.

  In a message to my sister yesterday, I’d given her all the details about finding the house on Stubbs Road and I’d attached lots of photos that I’d taken both inside and outside in the garden. This morning, I see she’s replied with great enthusiasm and has asked lots of questions.

  I tap out my reply to her but decide to keep the details about Mr Lee’s offer to myself for the time being. Perhaps I feel it’s something best discussed face to face in Pia’s kitchen once I’m back, while I’m regaling and amusing her with all the finer details of my adventures.

  Not that I’ve actually received Mr Lee’s promised email and formal offer yet.

  This makes me rather suspect that he might have changed his mind about offering it to me in such haste, when there were sure to be other people far more suitable and deserving than myself, who want to live there. Besides, I’m inclined to suspect that if I did tell Pia about it now, she would jump on this as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and try to convince me to see the merits of ‘giving it a go’ and renting the old house for six months.

  When I’ve now decided the idea is totally unrealistic and completely outlandish.

  I mean, what would be the point, really?

  I also don’t feel ready to mention my trip to Macau with Henri.

  It’s not like I want to keep secrets from my sister. I just wouldn’t quite know where to begin or what to say to her about Henri and about the time we’ve spent together these past couple of days.

  With the benefit of some hindsight and a little distance – although it’s admittedly a complicated issue involving Jon, Post-it notes, gambling chips and lots of Champagne – our one-night stand now almost feels a little sordid.

  I feel sure that if I even so much as mention his name, Pia will somehow know I’ve slept with him, and I don’t want her knowing stuff that might make her worry or disapprove of me in any way. Pia and I are both water signs. She’s a Pisces and I’m a Scorpio. This means that I might believe I’m deep and unfathomable but she’s entirely capable of picking up on ‘vibes’ that she ‘feels in her water’. And, to be honest, right now, even I happen to think that my justification for sleeping with someone I’d only known for two days, when my poor darling fiancé is hardly cold in his grave, is a bit harsh and certainly bold, even for me.

  My phone pings and my heart leaps because I see it’s a message from Henri.

  Two simple French words:

  Bon voyage.

  I sigh with relief and quickly reply:

  Sail safe. I hope you win!

  I’m staring down at our messages with a lump in my throat when there’s another ping and I see this time it’s an email from Mr Lee. In it, he says he’s spoken to the legal person who deals with their property leases and he’s taken the liberty of explaining my special circumstances and my personal association with the house. And, therefore, they are delighted to formally offer me a ‘preferential person’ six-monthly renewable lease at $20,000 per calendar month.

  $20,000 a month!

  To accept the offer, I’d need to confirm my intentions by 10am on Monday morning.

  I’m reeling with astonishment at the astronomical rental figure.

  But, I suppose, I’m also feeling terribly relieved.

  Because it’s such a large and impossible amount of money, I can now finally stop imagining and doubting and defending myself and all my impossible dreams and mulling over the possibility of living, however temporarily, in this beautiful house in Hong Kong.

  It’s like a weight has actually been lifted from my shoulders.

  There’s no way I would consider or possibly afford to spend that kind of money on rent.

  Good grief! Over a period of six months that was $120,000!

  I could probably buy a small house in the UK for that kind of money.

  Right. Okay. Good. It’s time to stop thinking about it. It’s out of my hands.

  No more big decisions about staying or returning or coming and going.

  But, as I’m called to board my flight, I find I’m still thinking about it.

  And, I’m still reeling. I had, of course, realised that real estate was expensive in Hong Kong. I’d browsed estate agent shop windows and seen that rentals were hard to c
ome by and small apartments sold for millions. Single houses were an almost non-existent commodity here in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Particularly those with many rooms and an expanse of garden. I won’t deny that it had been a fine fantasy for a while.

  A few moments after take-off, my final impression of Hong Kong is a scene I know will be forever etched in my memory. As I look down through the aircraft window, the plane turns and banks low over the harbour, giving me a spectacular view of the causeway and the marina below. I can see the very place where Henri and his crew are doing their last-minute preparations for the race. There’s just two hours to go now before the Super Typhoon and all the other boats will sail away on their great adventure across the sea. I can clearly see all the big yachts with colourful bunting on their masts and their huge white sails all set and ready to go. I read Henri’s message again on my phone and my eyes linger on his words.

  I also cast my eyes once again over the email from Mr Lee.

  I decide that I really should reply to Mr Lee today now that my final decision has been made. Then he can offer the house to someone else this weekend rather than waiting until Monday.

  Someone with deeper pockets. It’s only fair.

  But in re-reading the amount of the monthly rental once again, I realise my foolish mistake.

  Mr Lee wasn’t talking about US Dollars at all.

  He was, in fact, referring to Hong Kong Dollars.

  My heart sinks and then it soars again because by my quick estimation, $20,000 Hong Kong Dollars roughly equates to $2,500 US. It’s still a lot of money but as a monthly rental in a big city it’s no longer impossible for me. I do the sums.

  Over six months that would equate to $15,000 US.

  Which is the exact amount of dollars I have on my person after the win in Macau.

  How crazy is that? Coincidence again? Cosmic ordering?

  I guess the universe really is trying to tell me something!

  I’m starting to sweat and tremble and I’m restless in my seat as my mind begins to whirl.

  I’m running through all the ‘what if’ possibilities and I find myself once again considering the serious possibility of taking on the house in Stubbs Road and the ramifications of me actually changing my mind and going to live in Hong Kong!

  I desperately need to speak with and consult my level-headed sister about this. Pia will be my sounding board. I can trust her opinion way more than I can trust my own.

  The one thing I do know for sure is that if I do decide to return to Hong Kong instead of taking my flight home to London, it won’t be because it means I would have Henri in my life. This would be about what’s best for my life and my future. I’ve only known Henri a couple of days and I’ve been dreaming of Hong Kong my whole life.

  And there’s no way I’ll rush into things with Henri while I’m still grieving for Jon. If Henri is destined to be part of my future when I’m ready to move on, it would just be a wonderful bonus.

  * * *

  Over the four-hour flight, I mull over the practicalities of a move to Hong Kong. I honestly can’t come up with anything that might stop me from staying for the six months allowed by my entry visa and, to be honest, I’m not looking any further than that just now. Six months would allow me to live my dream and to get a taste for an alternative lifestyle.

  Six months in Hong Kong might allow me to move on with life on my own terms.

  I turn my attention to our imminent landing at Changi Airport in Singapore, peering down at the sparkling Singapore River and all the iconic buildings of Marina Bay as the plane treats its passengers to a bird’s-eye view of the small, diamond-shaped island on the southern tip of the Malaysian Peninsular and the swish modern metropolis below.

  I’m not entirely sure what I’d expected to see here, in what was once a British trading post, but it certainly wasn’t all these super impressive, slick new buildings juxtaposed against the old architecture in the colonial district. It’s all so incredibly pretty.

  It’s late in the afternoon when I’m whisked away from the airport and through this lush tropical city in the cossetted luxury of yet another complimentary limousine. Sitting comfortably in the vast, soft leather backseat of the car, I keep my eyes fixed on the city sights.

  Jon had booked us a suite at his favourite place here: the famous Raffles Hotel.

  In anticipation of my stay, I’d already browsed the hotel’s website, and been impressed by its history and iconic status as well as the list of legendary and famous names who have stayed there, including countless writers, movie stars, and royalty. Named after the founder of Singapore, Sir Stamford Raffles, it’s reputed to be the oldest hotel in the whole of Asia and I was looking forward to the experience.

  Until I met Jon, I would never have imagined in my wildest dreams staying in such a magnificent place. Jon once described walking into Raffles Hotel as ‘like stepping back in time to a bygone age’.

  Jon had also told me how he’d often used Raffles Hotel and its famous sidekick, The Long Bar – where the Singapore Sling cocktail had first been invented – as the backdrop for all his business dealing back in those halcyon days when he had lived and worked in the city after leaving Hong Kong.

  As the car swept up to the magnificent building with its imposing façade, I hear Jon’s voice telling me that Somerset Maugham himself had once said that ‘Raffles stands for all the fables of the exotic east’ and he had often expressed a wish to one day return here. To share in the grandeur of it all once again with me by his side.

  I’ll admit, though, that since leaving India I haven’t felt Jon’s presence at my side so acutely.

  Jon had liked to look back and sentimentalise and to recall what he had called his ‘former glory days’ in Asia and that’s why, today at least, I must put all my distractions aside and complete my important mission. My pilgrimage in Jon’s honour and memory. Our honeymoon.

  As I climb out of the car to be escorted by a welcoming military-uniformed doorman inside the hotel via a red carpet, I brace myself to enter another unfamiliar world. One in which I’m yet to feel comfortable or confident because – aside from this crazy and unconventional mix of both basic and luxurious accommodations – whenever I’ve travelled before, whether for business or pleasure, I’ve stayed in a Travel Lodge or a Holiday Inn or somewhere with an average of three-stars for no other reason than it simply wouldn’t have occurred to me to do otherwise. But not Jon.

  Jon had led both a bohemian and a conventional life. He’d lived life alternately in the slow lane and in the fast lane. He’d enjoyed the company of artists, poets, and musicians and he’d also mixed in high circles with cultured people from around the world. And here was I getting a tiny taster – an amuse bouche – of the life he’d once lived. A window through which to peer at the life I might otherwise have experienced for the rest of my days had he lived.

  It was a bittersweet experience and there was certainly a cruel aspect to doing this alone.

  I was to stay at Raffles for two nights and I had lots of Post-it note instructions of sights to see in Singapore during that short time.

  Visit the Gardens by the Bay.

  View the harbour from Marina Bay.

  A stroll along the marina waterfront promenade.

  Shopping on Orchard Road and Chinatown’s street market.

  A boat ride down the Singapore River.

  There was so much to do in just a couple of days!

  * * *

  A short time later, in my beautiful suite, surrounded by blissfully serene surroundings, I want to wallow in the luxury of the space and the opulent silence for a while rather than go outside. So, I kick off my shoes, and I lie on the vast and ridiculously comfortable bed.

  I have so much to consider and to think about and this is a great place to contemplate, a calm and cossetted place to arrange all my errant thoughts. I need a plan, I need to focus on my life in the present rather than living a life in retrospect and, most of all, I need t
o be absolutely sure that whatever I decide to do next is right.

  Keen to speak with Pia, I try to call her but there’s no answer. I then realise it’s only nine o’clock in the morning in the UK and she’ll still be on the school run. I bide some time looking over Jon’s first Post-it note instruction and, with a growing thirst, I decide to stroll out from my room and along the arched outer terraced corridors, with their white painted walls and dark wood accents, to find The Long Bar in the ‘Cad’s Alley’ so I can try a Singapore Sling.

  On the wall adjacent to the entrance, there’s a poster in the Art Deco style telling the story of the Singapore Sling. How it was created by a sympathetic bartender to look exactly like an innocent fruit juice, at a time when women openly drinking alcohol in bars was frowned upon. The rest, as they say, is history.

  The bar had apparently been a meeting place for rubber and palm-oil plantation owners and their wives back in the 1900s. In the historic room, with its classic-movie ambiance, I sit on a stool at the bar and snack on monkey nuts from a hessian bag while enjoying my fruity drink from a long glass. The furniture is cane and rattan and there’s a welcome breeze from the gentle wafting palm-frond-shaped fans on the ceiling. I find the drink refreshing but a little too sweet for me, as it contains lots of pineapple juice. Everyone in the room also seems to be drinking Singapore Slings.

  When I’ve collected a small pile of empty peanut shells on the bar, the bartender asks me if I’d like him to clear them away for me. I’m just about to gather them up myself to save him the trouble, when he takes me by complete surprise and with a quick swipe with his hand, knocks them across the bar, straight onto the floor. It’s only then that I notice lots of other shells on the floor already. He enjoys my astonishment and points to a sign on the wall.

  Littering encouraged: feel free to brush your peanut shells onto the floor.

  Who knew? Apparently, it’s a very old colonial tradition.

  Refreshed and feeling deliciously mellow from my aperitif, I saunter back to my room.