Smoke
Christina Holbrook
“Don’t go.”
Simon and Julia lay beside each other in bed, in a hotel in Kowloon. In the dark, the room seemed suspended in the night sky; the windows sweeping from floor to ceiling were an inconsequential barrier to the luminous harbor below. Across this waterway, resplendent for centuries with ships from every corner of the world, Hong Kong’s Peak rose, glittering.
She hated this time, just before Simon left to go home to his wife. But she kept up the pretense that she could handle it—that it was better this way. Simon’s ardent and clandestine attention wrapped around her like a velvet robe and made her feel singled-out and desired. Her own brief marriage, before it had finally wrenched and twisted apart, had battered her self-confidence, leaving her bruised with loss. And Simon’s marriage was obviously a sham, she had concluded, or why else would he be lying in bed with her?
They’d spent the evening at his club outside the city, swimming in the glowing night-lit pool, teasing each other underwater. Seated beside her at dinner, Simon had kissed her openly, passionately, while his hands had caressed her face and the curve of her neck, and slid down towards her breasts. She’d laughed with giddy, nervous pleasure at his indiscretion, while shrewd waiters looked away and other guests in the hushed and elegant dining room glanced at them, speculating.
Now, Simon rested on his elbow, and smiled at her. With his finger, he traced the frown on her lips. Ignoring Julia’s wistful entreaty to stay, he asked, “Did I ever tell you the story of how my grandmother committed murder?”
Simon Chao was the CEO and publisher of the Swan Magazine Group in Hong Kong, a privately held company run by the Chao family. Six months earlier the Swan Group had hired Julia, a young, blonde, ex-pat recently moved from Chicago, to sell advertising space to other gwai-lo—white westerners making the lucrative marketing decisions at American and European-based companies in Hong Kong.
They had hit it off at once. Julia could tell that her relaxed, open manner attracted Simon and allowed him to step out from behind the wall of formality around being the boss. And she didn’t hide her admiration for Simon’s business acumen. Tall and athletic, with polished prep school English, Simon charmed female customers into seeing things his way. And with difficult male customers, he backed them into a corner of inexorable defeat, using his understanding of their weaknesses to his advantage.
Simon invariably prevailed in negotiations, and without ever raising his voice. That subtle use of power excited Julia. She worked hard to impress her boss, and after four months of focused effort, she surpassed her sales target for the entire year.
Perhaps because she was an outsider—or maybe because, now that she had demonstrated her worth, he respected her as a professional—Simon began to confide in her. He complained about the burden of responsibility he felt to the family business.
His father still puttered around the office, holding the title of Chairman of the Board. “Don’t let Dad fool you. He looks like a harmless old man, but he still disrespects me by challenging every single decision I make!” Simon’s vehemence surprised Julia. Actually, it made her feel sorry for him, despite his wealth and important position.
One night, Simon and Julia were the last two to leave the office on Queen’s Road, Central. She often worked late to avoid returning to her small flat, with its low ceilings, miserly windows and the unfamiliar cooking smells coming from next door. Standing beside each other in the steel-and-mirrored elevator, Simon turned to Julia, his expression intense and questioning. “I wish I could be like you, Julia—free!” Then, to her astonishment, he kissed her. “You’re like sunshine, Julia!” he exclaimed. “You’re like fresh air to me in this stale, tiresome place!” Her better judgement deserted her, and she gave in, unresisting, to his embrace.
In their five-star hotel room, Simon eased back against the pillows. “It was in the 1920s,” he continued. She curled towards him beneath the silken sheets as if everything were okay, and rested her head on his shoulder.
But everything was not okay. Simon was speaking to her as if she were a child—as if he were telling her a bedtime story before he tucked her in and left her. It was becoming harder for Julia to ignore, as the weeks, then months went by, the growing awareness that being with Simon hurt more than it felt good.
“My grandparents were taking a rare holiday at the beach, with the children,” he said. “At some point my grandmother got up to use the toilet. Suddenly, my grandfather heard screams. He ran to see what was happening and came upon my grandmother being attacked by a young thug.
“My grandfather fought the attacker but the guy had a knife and, in the struggle, my grandfather was stabbed and killed. My grandmother cried for help and a group of villagers rushed to the scene, drawn by all the commotion.
“In the middle of that chaos, the thug took off—but the villagers chased after him. Eventually, they caught up with him and drove him up into a tree. They circled around so there was no way he could escape.
“The villagers kept that young man trapped up in the tree until my grandmother arrived, screaming hysterically and smeared with my grandfather’s blood.
“‘What should we do with him?’ they shouted to her. ‘Should we kill him, or let him go?’”
“‘Burn him!’ she howled.
“So, the villagers piled dry grass and straw around the tree as the man begged and screamed for mercy. They ignored his pleas, set the grass on fire, and burned him to death. My grandmother and the villagers stood vigil until there was nothing left but the skeleton of a tree, wreathed in choking gray smoke that filled their eyes and mouths and clung to their clothes.”
Simon regarded Julia coolly.
“Why are you telling me this?” She sat up in bed now, stiff and straight. The gruesome, tragic story had made her feel nauseous. This was not how she had expected their romantic evening to end.
Without responding to her question, Simon rose out of bed to dress. He moved through the room as gracefully as a cat, his body smooth and golden. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning—why did he even bother going home?
Anger flared in Julia, and she shocked both herself and Simon by bursting out: “I admire your grandmother! She loved your grandfather so passionately that she let those villagers set his killer on fire!” How unlike you, Simon! Julia wanted him to hear. You’re too cowardly to do anything more than go home to your frigid marriage!
“Yes, my grandmother acted out of passion,” Simon said finally, sitting on a low ottoman opposite the bed and slipping on his Gucci loafers. “And she regretted that decision as long as she lived. After all, my grandfather was dead. But now, until her dying day, she would hear that young man screaming in agony as he was burned alive.”
He paused, holding her gaze. “Too much passion,” he spoke each word with care, “only leads to regret.”
In the morning, at work, Julia did a double-take passing Simon’s office: his face, she saw, was streaked with red scratches. She overheard him explain to his assistant that his wife’s temperamental pet Bichon Frisé had lashed out as he’d tried to cuddle the ill-natured little dog.
But later, when Simon asked Julia to come into his office, under the pretense of reviewing an advertising deal, he ended the conversation by touching the inflamed claw marks on his cheek. “My wife,” he said in a low voice, “she has begun to object to my evening activities.”
Simon’s wife had appeared in the office on several occasions, sweeping in imperiously in elaborate designer outfits, a Prada bag slung across her arm. Beautiful as a model, Julia had to admit, yet radiating dissatisfaction and resentment. This woman is the cause of Simon’s unhappiness, Julia had assumed.
The possibility that it might have been the other way around never occurred to her.
“We live separate lives,” Simon began, “but …” He let the statement hang, as if she would, of course, come to the appropriate conclusion.
Simon was dumping her. In a flash she understood. Of course—that had been the point of his story in the early hours of the morning. How naïve she had been! Stupid. Tears filled her eyes before she could turn away from him.
“Why don’t you come with us, Jules? Get out of the office and have some fun for a change.” Ewan from the magazine’s design department was inviting her to join him and some of his office mates for drinks. His crooked smile and tough-guy skinhead appearance disguised the fact that Ewan was bashful and kind, a man who would go out of his way to show you how to get to the subway after your first day at work. Which was how she and Ewan had first met.
Now at the noisy, beer-drenched karaoke bar in Lan Kwai Fong, Julia sank back into the booth, surrounded by Ewan’s hodge-podge of friends. She settled into a warm, comfortable beer-buzz, and into the unexpected relief of having nothing to prove.
Several pints in, Ewan got up to sing—shout—“I Can’t Get No Satisfaction!” on the karaoke stage. Sloshed, but not to be outdone by Ewan’s boldness, Julia marched to the front of the bar and responded by taking a stand for American schmaltz with an off-key rendition of “You Light Up My Life.” Julia’s new gang of friends—Chinese co-workers and ex-pat misfits like herself—clapped and whistled appreciatively above the noise of the crowded room.
At the end of the evening Julia and Ewan staggered out of the bar, arm in arm, drunk and laughing uproariously at each other’s stupid jokes.
After that night, Julia no longer lingered around the Swan Group offices in case Simon happened to be working late and happened to change his mind and decide they could sneak out together for a few hours. In fact, sometimes she left early now, with Ewan. Then she’d find out the next day, from Simon’s assistant, that her boss had come round looking for her.
The knowledge that Simon had sought her out, unsuccessfully, gave Julia some small, retaliatory satisfaction. She didn’t worry about her job security. After all, she had just landed another big account—a lucrative three-year contract with Fresh Face Cosmetics—thanks to a fortuitous run-in at the karaoke bar.
On a Saturday morning as Julia finished her sales report for the week, Ewan turned up outside her cubicle holding a small plate with a fat slice of cake on it. “It’s someone’s birthday in our department, so …” He set down the plate with the creamy, sugary confection on her desk, accompanied by a plastic fork.
Simon appeared beside them, squash racket resting on his shoulder, clearly on his way out for the weekend. Before Julia had a chance to introduce the two men, Simon confronted Ewan, “Are you one of our employees?”
“Yes, sir. In Graphic Design.”
Simon’s cold glance slid from Ewan to Julia and back again, and just before turning away in the direction of the elevators, he remarked—with unmistakable sarcasm—“Are we paying our workers now to distribute cake?”
Julia watched as Simon strolled towards the door. Her own hurt at the indifference he now showed her dismayed Julia as much as his rudeness. Why? Why was it still so painful to see him walk away from her?
“A real wanker, the boss,” Ewan remarked cheerfully. He helped himself to a big, messy forkful of her cake. “You should try some of this.”
Simon called Julia at home one evening.
“Simon? Is everything okay?” He had never done this before, calling her at her flat. But then, why would he have, when previously she had always made herself so easily available at work?
“Congratulations on winning the Fresh Face account. I’m very pleased with you. I also wanted to say that I … miss … our conversations. Don’t you, Julia? I made a dinner reservation for us at the club tonight. To celebrate. With a bottle of Cristal.”
The hot intensity of Simon’s voice, and the assumption that she would acquiesce to his desire, nearly cornered Julia into saying “yes.” She hesitated. The vision of Simon leading her to a table at his club, a table that he had selected especially for the two of them, beckoned to Julia. How good it would feel to have Simon’s hand pressed against the small of her back, even if that seductive gesture only created the illusion that she had a place in his world.
The threads of a life—a life that belonged to her, a life that Julia was just beginning to weave together—tugged at her. And for reasons she would puzzle over later—Spite? Self-preservation? The uncomplicated pleasure of an evening in her tiny flat that finally felt like home?—she said, “I can’t, Simon. I’m busy tonight, but … hello? Simon?”
Silence blistered on the other end of the line for several long seconds. Then Julia heard the phone hang up with a “click.”
“Leave the door open,” Simon instructed Julia, when he called her into his office the next day. Before she could even sit down, he informed her that she was being fired.
Julia stood frozen, dumbfounded by his impassive expression. How dare he! She knew that she was good at her job. She had made his company a lot of money. He had to consider that, didn’t he? Without taking her eyes from his face, she reached back and shoved the glass door shut, in defiance of his orders.
“Is this to punish me,” she demanded, “because I wouldn’t have dinner with you?!” She was beyond caring whether others could hear her—whether she—or he—might lose face. Simon glared at her without speaking, his features ignited with anger. He scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.” The two stared at each other for a long time, until Julia, cheeks burning, had to concede. She looked away and out the window, towards the harbor. “Why, then?” Her voice waivered.
Had Julia believed she could strike a business deal with love? Offering just a part-time, after-hours exposure of her heart, that would somehow leave her less vulnerable to hurt and loneliness? That she could sidestep the unpredictability of Simon’s emotions and demands, his own conflicted longings?
As Simon got up and came out from behind the expanse of his desk, Julia noticed a framed photograph of his grandmother—both murderer and denouncer of passion—sitting on the table behind his chair. So: Grandmother was watching him.
Once he had told her he wanted to be free. Could she blame Simon for discovering that for him, there was too much to lose? Family and business, the glamour and safety of his ivory tower life.
Simon walked towards her. The heat of his body reached her, though he stopped short as if in reproach—as if there might have been some way that Julia could have prevented both Simon’s desire for her and its unfortunate outcome.
Hands resting inside the pockets of his linen trousers, Simon kept his distance as he and Julia stood facing each other. The silence, thick and heavy, encircled them like smoke.
There was nothing Julia wanted to take with her, so she rode the elevator down to the lobby empty-handed. Out in Hong Kong harbor, red-sailed Chinese junks crisscrossed the water among the huge container ships; the Star ferry chugged purposefully towards Kowloon and splendid, stately yachts cruised to beaches and the outer islands. Each vessel setting its own course. Julia strode across the vast marble reception gallery. The magisterial sliding glass doors parted for her as she stepped outside to face the raucous, liberating clamor of the city.
Christina Holbrook
“Don’t go.”
Simon and Julia lay beside each other in bed, in a hotel in Kowloon. In the dark, the room seemed suspended in the night sky; the windows sweeping from floor to ceiling were an inconsequential barrier to the luminous harbor below. Across this waterway, resplendent for centuries with ships from every corner of the world, Hong Kong’s Peak rose, glittering.
She hated this time, just before Simon left to go home to his wife. But she kept up the pretense that she could handle it—that it was better this way. Simon’s ardent and clandestine attention wrapped around her like a velvet robe and made her feel singled-out and desired. Her own brief marriage, before it had finally wrenched and twisted apart, had battered her self-confidence, leaving her bruised with loss. And Simon’s marriage was obviously a sham, she had concluded, or why else would he be lying in bed with her?
They’d spent the evening at his club outside the city, swimming in the glowing night-lit pool, teasing each other underwater. Seated beside her at dinner, Simon had kissed her openly, passionately, while his hands had caressed her face and the curve of her neck, and slid down towards her breasts. She’d laughed with giddy, nervous pleasure at his indiscretion, while shrewd waiters looked away and other guests in the hushed and elegant dining room glanced at them, speculating.
Now, Simon rested on his elbow, and smiled at her. With his finger, he traced the frown on her lips. Ignoring Julia’s wistful entreaty to stay, he asked, “Did I ever tell you the story of how my grandmother committed murder?”
Simon Chao was the CEO and publisher of the Swan Magazine Group in Hong Kong, a privately held company run by the Chao family. Six months earlier the Swan Group had hired Julia, a young, blonde, ex-pat recently moved from Chicago, to sell advertising space to other gwai-lo—white westerners making the lucrative marketing decisions at American and European-based companies in Hong Kong.
They had hit it off at once. Julia could tell that her relaxed, open manner attracted Simon and allowed him to step out from behind the wall of formality around being the boss. And she didn’t hide her admiration for Simon’s business acumen. Tall and athletic, with polished prep school English, Simon charmed female customers into seeing things his way. And with difficult male customers, he backed them into a corner of inexorable defeat, using his understanding of their weaknesses to his advantage.
Simon invariably prevailed in negotiations, and without ever raising his voice. That subtle use of power excited Julia. She worked hard to impress her boss, and after four months of focused effort, she surpassed her sales target for the entire year.
Perhaps because she was an outsider—or maybe because, now that she had demonstrated her worth, he respected her as a professional—Simon began to confide in her. He complained about the burden of responsibility he felt to the family business.
His father still puttered around the office, holding the title of Chairman of the Board. “Don’t let Dad fool you. He looks like a harmless old man, but he still disrespects me by challenging every single decision I make!” Simon’s vehemence surprised Julia. Actually, it made her feel sorry for him, despite his wealth and important position.
One night, Simon and Julia were the last two to leave the office on Queen’s Road, Central. She often worked late to avoid returning to her small flat, with its low ceilings, miserly windows and the unfamiliar cooking smells coming from next door. Standing beside each other in the steel-and-mirrored elevator, Simon turned to Julia, his expression intense and questioning. “I wish I could be like you, Julia—free!” Then, to her astonishment, he kissed her. “You’re like sunshine, Julia!” he exclaimed. “You’re like fresh air to me in this stale, tiresome place!” Her better judgement deserted her, and she gave in, unresisting, to his embrace.
In their five-star hotel room, Simon eased back against the pillows. “It was in the 1920s,” he continued. She curled towards him beneath the silken sheets as if everything were okay, and rested her head on his shoulder.
But everything was not okay. Simon was speaking to her as if she were a child—as if he were telling her a bedtime story before he tucked her in and left her. It was becoming harder for Julia to ignore, as the weeks, then months went by, the growing awareness that being with Simon hurt more than it felt good.
“My grandparents were taking a rare holiday at the beach, with the children,” he said. “At some point my grandmother got up to use the toilet. Suddenly, my grandfather heard screams. He ran to see what was happening and came upon my grandmother being attacked by a young thug.
“My grandfather fought the attacker but the guy had a knife and, in the struggle, my grandfather was stabbed and killed. My grandmother cried for help and a group of villagers rushed to the scene, drawn by all the commotion.
“In the middle of that chaos, the thug took off—but the villagers chased after him. Eventually, they caught up with him and drove him up into a tree. They circled around so there was no way he could escape.
“The villagers kept that young man trapped up in the tree until my grandmother arrived, screaming hysterically and smeared with my grandfather’s blood.
“‘What should we do with him?’ they shouted to her. ‘Should we kill him, or let him go?’”
“‘Burn him!’ she howled.
“So, the villagers piled dry grass and straw around the tree as the man begged and screamed for mercy. They ignored his pleas, set the grass on fire, and burned him to death. My grandmother and the villagers stood vigil until there was nothing left but the skeleton of a tree, wreathed in choking gray smoke that filled their eyes and mouths and clung to their clothes.”
Simon regarded Julia coolly.
“Why are you telling me this?” She sat up in bed now, stiff and straight. The gruesome, tragic story had made her feel nauseous. This was not how she had expected their romantic evening to end.
Without responding to her question, Simon rose out of bed to dress. He moved through the room as gracefully as a cat, his body smooth and golden. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning—why did he even bother going home?
Anger flared in Julia, and she shocked both herself and Simon by bursting out: “I admire your grandmother! She loved your grandfather so passionately that she let those villagers set his killer on fire!” How unlike you, Simon! Julia wanted him to hear. You’re too cowardly to do anything more than go home to your frigid marriage!
“Yes, my grandmother acted out of passion,” Simon said finally, sitting on a low ottoman opposite the bed and slipping on his Gucci loafers. “And she regretted that decision as long as she lived. After all, my grandfather was dead. But now, until her dying day, she would hear that young man screaming in agony as he was burned alive.”
He paused, holding her gaze. “Too much passion,” he spoke each word with care, “only leads to regret.”
In the morning, at work, Julia did a double-take passing Simon’s office: his face, she saw, was streaked with red scratches. She overheard him explain to his assistant that his wife’s temperamental pet Bichon Frisé had lashed out as he’d tried to cuddle the ill-natured little dog.
But later, when Simon asked Julia to come into his office, under the pretense of reviewing an advertising deal, he ended the conversation by touching the inflamed claw marks on his cheek. “My wife,” he said in a low voice, “she has begun to object to my evening activities.”
Simon’s wife had appeared in the office on several occasions, sweeping in imperiously in elaborate designer outfits, a Prada bag slung across her arm. Beautiful as a model, Julia had to admit, yet radiating dissatisfaction and resentment. This woman is the cause of Simon’s unhappiness, Julia had assumed.
The possibility that it might have been the other way around never occurred to her.
“We live separate lives,” Simon began, “but …” He let the statement hang, as if she would, of course, come to the appropriate conclusion.
Simon was dumping her. In a flash she understood. Of course—that had been the point of his story in the early hours of the morning. How naïve she had been! Stupid. Tears filled her eyes before she could turn away from him.
“Why don’t you come with us, Jules? Get out of the office and have some fun for a change.” Ewan from the magazine’s design department was inviting her to join him and some of his office mates for drinks. His crooked smile and tough-guy skinhead appearance disguised the fact that Ewan was bashful and kind, a man who would go out of his way to show you how to get to the subway after your first day at work. Which was how she and Ewan had first met.
Now at the noisy, beer-drenched karaoke bar in Lan Kwai Fong, Julia sank back into the booth, surrounded by Ewan’s hodge-podge of friends. She settled into a warm, comfortable beer-buzz, and into the unexpected relief of having nothing to prove.
Several pints in, Ewan got up to sing—shout—“I Can’t Get No Satisfaction!” on the karaoke stage. Sloshed, but not to be outdone by Ewan’s boldness, Julia marched to the front of the bar and responded by taking a stand for American schmaltz with an off-key rendition of “You Light Up My Life.” Julia’s new gang of friends—Chinese co-workers and ex-pat misfits like herself—clapped and whistled appreciatively above the noise of the crowded room.
At the end of the evening Julia and Ewan staggered out of the bar, arm in arm, drunk and laughing uproariously at each other’s stupid jokes.
After that night, Julia no longer lingered around the Swan Group offices in case Simon happened to be working late and happened to change his mind and decide they could sneak out together for a few hours. In fact, sometimes she left early now, with Ewan. Then she’d find out the next day, from Simon’s assistant, that her boss had come round looking for her.
The knowledge that Simon had sought her out, unsuccessfully, gave Julia some small, retaliatory satisfaction. She didn’t worry about her job security. After all, she had just landed another big account—a lucrative three-year contract with Fresh Face Cosmetics—thanks to a fortuitous run-in at the karaoke bar.
On a Saturday morning as Julia finished her sales report for the week, Ewan turned up outside her cubicle holding a small plate with a fat slice of cake on it. “It’s someone’s birthday in our department, so …” He set down the plate with the creamy, sugary confection on her desk, accompanied by a plastic fork.
Simon appeared beside them, squash racket resting on his shoulder, clearly on his way out for the weekend. Before Julia had a chance to introduce the two men, Simon confronted Ewan, “Are you one of our employees?”
“Yes, sir. In Graphic Design.”
Simon’s cold glance slid from Ewan to Julia and back again, and just before turning away in the direction of the elevators, he remarked—with unmistakable sarcasm—“Are we paying our workers now to distribute cake?”
Julia watched as Simon strolled towards the door. Her own hurt at the indifference he now showed her dismayed Julia as much as his rudeness. Why? Why was it still so painful to see him walk away from her?
“A real wanker, the boss,” Ewan remarked cheerfully. He helped himself to a big, messy forkful of her cake. “You should try some of this.”
Simon called Julia at home one evening.
“Simon? Is everything okay?” He had never done this before, calling her at her flat. But then, why would he have, when previously she had always made herself so easily available at work?
“Congratulations on winning the Fresh Face account. I’m very pleased with you. I also wanted to say that I … miss … our conversations. Don’t you, Julia? I made a dinner reservation for us at the club tonight. To celebrate. With a bottle of Cristal.”
The hot intensity of Simon’s voice, and the assumption that she would acquiesce to his desire, nearly cornered Julia into saying “yes.” She hesitated. The vision of Simon leading her to a table at his club, a table that he had selected especially for the two of them, beckoned to Julia. How good it would feel to have Simon’s hand pressed against the small of her back, even if that seductive gesture only created the illusion that she had a place in his world.
The threads of a life—a life that belonged to her, a life that Julia was just beginning to weave together—tugged at her. And for reasons she would puzzle over later—Spite? Self-preservation? The uncomplicated pleasure of an evening in her tiny flat that finally felt like home?—she said, “I can’t, Simon. I’m busy tonight, but … hello? Simon?”
Silence blistered on the other end of the line for several long seconds. Then Julia heard the phone hang up with a “click.”
“Leave the door open,” Simon instructed Julia, when he called her into his office the next day. Before she could even sit down, he informed her that she was being fired.
Julia stood frozen, dumbfounded by his impassive expression. How dare he! She knew that she was good at her job. She had made his company a lot of money. He had to consider that, didn’t he? Without taking her eyes from his face, she reached back and shoved the glass door shut, in defiance of his orders.
“Is this to punish me,” she demanded, “because I wouldn’t have dinner with you?!” She was beyond caring whether others could hear her—whether she—or he—might lose face. Simon glared at her without speaking, his features ignited with anger. He scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself.” The two stared at each other for a long time, until Julia, cheeks burning, had to concede. She looked away and out the window, towards the harbor. “Why, then?” Her voice waivered.
Had Julia believed she could strike a business deal with love? Offering just a part-time, after-hours exposure of her heart, that would somehow leave her less vulnerable to hurt and loneliness? That she could sidestep the unpredictability of Simon’s emotions and demands, his own conflicted longings?
As Simon got up and came out from behind the expanse of his desk, Julia noticed a framed photograph of his grandmother—both murderer and denouncer of passion—sitting on the table behind his chair. So: Grandmother was watching him.
Once he had told her he wanted to be free. Could she blame Simon for discovering that for him, there was too much to lose? Family and business, the glamour and safety of his ivory tower life.
Simon walked towards her. The heat of his body reached her, though he stopped short as if in reproach—as if there might have been some way that Julia could have prevented both Simon’s desire for her and its unfortunate outcome.
Hands resting inside the pockets of his linen trousers, Simon kept his distance as he and Julia stood facing each other. The silence, thick and heavy, encircled them like smoke.
There was nothing Julia wanted to take with her, so she rode the elevator down to the lobby empty-handed. Out in Hong Kong harbor, red-sailed Chinese junks crisscrossed the water among the huge container ships; the Star ferry chugged purposefully towards Kowloon and splendid, stately yachts cruised to beaches and the outer islands. Each vessel setting its own course. Julia strode across the vast marble reception gallery. The magisterial sliding glass doors parted for her as she stepped outside to face the raucous, liberating clamor of the city.
