Of course she didn’t regret it, but the solemn way she said it was endearing. ‘How much?’ He did not care.
‘The same as last night?’ she said with an anxious little frown.
‘On a Sunday? Surely there’s a discount for a Sunday; no night-clubs do big business today.’
‘No,’ she said earnestly, ‘every weekend in Macao is high season. Monday to Thursday is low season, but Sunday is full price: I’m sorry, darling.’ It seemed she almost meant the endearment.
‘But the night-club won’t know – tell them you spent the day in bed with a headache.’
She said earnestly: ‘They know everything, and if I do not pay they will punish me.’ She widened her eyes, made a guttural noise and drew her finger across her throat.
Hargreave grinned. ‘And such a beautiful throat. Okay, but I haven’t got five hundred US on me.’
‘Credit-card!’ She scrambled up on to her knees and hugged his head against her glorious breasts. ‘I’m so happy!’ She reached for the bedside telephone, punched the buttons, and spoke rapidly in Russian.
They were lying squashed up together in the bubble-bath, drinking champagne sent up by room service, when there was a knock on the door. Hargreave heaved himself up and draped a towel around his waist.
A tall white man stood outside, smiling politely. He had slick black hair, was athletically built, and carried a briefcase. ‘My name is Vladimir. I have come about Olga, sir. I am the accountant.’ He walked in, opened his briefcase and pulled out a credit-card machine.
Accountant? Very fancy name for a pimp. He was the guy to talk to about discounts. ‘I get a different price on Sunday?’
‘Will Olga return to the club at seven o’clock?’
Oh, he wanted her tonight. ‘No.’
‘Then it is full price, sir.’ He ran the machine over the card, wrote ‘Goods’ on the slip, and gave it to Hargreave to sign. It was made out to Gorky Enterprises. ‘You are satisfied with Olga’s service, sir?’
‘Oh yes.’
Vladimir produced a visiting card, printed in English on one side, Chinese on the other: there was no address but it gave a Macao telephone number. ‘If you have any complaints, please call immediately. We have many girls, all very good, all speak English, sir.’
Lord, a thousand dollars. But Hargreave signed the slip without second thoughts.
‘Thank you,’ Vladimir said. ‘Have a nice day.’
It was a lovely day. Afterwards, when he was to look back, it seemed the happiest day of his life to date, the start of the happiest period of his life. After finishing the champagne in the bath – her happy, slippery nakedness all over him felt like love – they had a late breakfast on their balcony overlooking the waterfront and harbour, with another bottle of champagne, while downstairs the hotel’s casino hummed and tinkled.
‘So tell me about yourself, Olga.’
‘Where do you want me to begin?’ She grinned. ‘And what do you want me to leave out?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Not even about my profession?’ She added, with a twinkle in her lovely eyes, ‘You must not worry about Aids, you know. I always make love only with a condom. You were the first time I did not.’
He was thankful to hear that, though he had not thought about it since the sound of the church bells. ‘Why didn’t you?’
She clasped her hands under her chin. ‘Because … I wanted to do it like that. I wanted it to be natural. Because I like you. Because I was –’ she searched for the word – ‘reckless about you.’
He wanted to laugh, and squeezed her hand. ‘Yes, I also felt reckless. Because I like you too.’ He felt like a teenager.
‘Because you think I am sexy?’
‘Because you are very sexy, and very beautiful, and because you are a very nice person.’
‘How do you know? All I did was take your money and say let’s fuck, like a prostitute.’ She smiled: ‘Because you wanted me to be a nice person? Because you are unhappy with your wife?’
Her perspicacity surprised him. ‘How do you know I even have a wife?’
‘In my business you learn about people. You looked like a man who is not experienced in talking with prostitutes, you were very polite, so I thought you are probably a nice married man and such a man must be unhappy with his wife if he has followed me to my night-club when he should be at home with her.’ Before he could respond she added, ‘Is she nice, your wife?’
He was surprised that he wanted to talk to her about it: he had never confided in anyone except Jake McAdam, and for the last seven weeks he’d been too embarrassed about the shooting incident to show his face socially, yet here he was sitting over breakfast with a Russian prostitute and it felt as if he wanted to open his heart. But he only said:
‘Yes, she’s nice. However, she’s gone back to America now, we’re getting divorced.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She looked concerned. Then she snapped her fingers. ‘Of course! That scar on your chest – you said it was an accident. But she shot you, your wife! I read it in the newspaper.’
He was surprised and embarrassed. Even a Macao prostitute knew about his humiliation? ‘You read the Hong Kong newspapers?’
‘And your photograph, I recognize you now!’ She pointed a scarlet fingernail at him. ‘You told me you are a business man, but really you are a big lawyer!’ She swept both hands down over her golden locks. ‘That big English wig!’
Hargreave smiled wanly. ‘So you do read the papers.’
‘For my English. So,’ she smiled, ‘you are a lawyer. So your nice wife is asking for lots of nice money in her divorce?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And now you are spending so much money for me!’ She took both his hands across the table and sparkled mischievously: ‘So I will make it a very good day for you, don’t worry, darling! We will make love as much as you like. Any way you like! Tell me how you like to do it.’
Hargreave seemed to feel his loins turn over. He grinned.
‘Let’s check out of here and go to the Bella Mar Hotel, it’s more secluded. And I’d like you to go home and change into a daytime dress. Bring a bikini, they’ve got a nice pool at the Bella Mar. I’ll meet you there. Know where it is?’
‘Of course I know the Bella Mar.’
Of course she knew it – she was a Macao whore. But that did not trouble Hargreave – he was going to have a nice day for a change. A lovely day! Nor did it worry him that he might be recognized – in an appropriate dress Olga would be just another tourist. Nonetheless he checked the hotel register when he signed in and was relieved that all the guests were foreigners; nor was there anybody he knew in the bar or on the terrace.
The Bella Mar is a grand old Portuguese hotel on the knoll, overlooking the tree-lined esplanade and the Pearl River estuary. The floors are polished wood, the ceilings are high and a sweeping staircase leads up to airy, old-fashioned suites with ceiling fans. The blue swimming pool is on the terrace below the verandah.
Olga Romalova dived and swam the length underwater, her long blonde hair streaming silkily behind her. She broke surface at the shallow end, her hair plastered. ‘How much?’
‘Nine seconds. You’re improving.’
‘Once more.’