“Something with little Locket? A situation with the Steinway?” he asked, not really interested.

“Something like that,” she said. Suddenly, she was afraid of what Will would do if he found out what Victor Chen had said to her. Or maybe she was afraid of what he would not do.

“Let’s go back to my place,” he said lazily, turning away, sure she would follow. And her insides folded, like always, as she did exactly that.

The sound of water splashing, Will humming a song in the tub, the door slightly ajar, a humid milky-sweet fragrance escaping the bathroom. Claire sat at his desk, heart pounding. She opened the drawer to his desk quietly. A bank book. She opened it-a modest balance. Some letters, tied together with red postal string, with names and addresses she did not recognize. London postmarks, scribbly writing. Some stamps, a pen, a book of matches from the Gripps. And then, a photograph. Four people, in evening dress, laughing, with cigarettes and drinks in hand, at a party: a picture of privilege. Will, Melody Chen, and another man and woman, both Asian or Eurasian, Will the only European. The woman who was not Melody (Trudy?) was very striking; she dominated the photograph, although she was slight, in a slim, short dress, with her vivid face and short, simple hair that somehow emphasized her femininity. It was hard to tell who was with whom; they all were linked together familiarly. Claire traced Will’s face with her finger. He looked so boyish, so innocent, his face all smooth cheek and bright eyes above his dinner jacket, bow tie loosened and hanging.

Will came into the room, wrapped in a towel, rubbing his head with another. He stopped when he saw her in front of the open drawer.

“What are you doing rummaging through my things?” he said.

She couldn’t read his tone. She decided to be unapologetic.

“What’s this?” She held up the photograph.

“A picture,” he said.

“I can see that. It’s of you and Melody and some other people.”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“Did you used to see her socially? Who are the others?” She tried hard to make her tone conversational.

“Sometimes, Claire, you can be so provincial.” He let out an exasperated whistle. “But yes, I’ll say it for you. I used to see Melody at parties, not just in the backseat of the car I drive.”

“But it’s so strange,” Claire said. “What happened?”

“Do you feel my fall in social status? Does it bother you?” he said. He was mocking her, mean.

“I just want to know about you!” she cried. “Why must you make everything so ugly?”

“There’s a lot there, Claire,” he said. “You don’t want to know.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Claire,” he said. “Just stick to pilfering from the Chens and leave the larger stuff be.”

She felt immolated from within. Her face stung with a blush that rose so quickly she felt almost faint. She hadn’t been sure he had known. She had stopped the stealing long ago but he knew how to turn the knife. She slapped him, hard. He didn’t move. As she got her clothes on and left, he stood still, watching her. The silence between them was so long it waxed and waned in its intensity, and then felt ridiculous. The other questions-Who is the other woman? Why does Victor Chen care?-so big she could not bring herself to ask them. She closed the door behind her quietly. Slamming it would have seemed childish. She hated him, did she not?

On the street, she didn’t know where to go. She hailed a taxi to go into town. It was still bright daylight, and in Central, everyone seemed to have a purpose to their walk. She got out on Queen’s Road and wandered among the frame shops and jewelry stores. She stopped in front of a window. The display glittered out at her, necklaces and rings and bracelets, even a small diamond tiara. The Chinese were quite showy with their jewels. In the reflection from the glass, her face floated in front of her, an Englishwoman, attractive but wan. Someone whose lover had just been cruel, someone who didn’t know what to do about it. She tried to position her face so that a diamond necklace would be reflected around her neck. She crouched, to make it the right height.

Then she stood up, straightened her blouse, and walked to the Star Ferry, where she would wait for the bus that would take her home to Martin.

May 20, 1953

WHEN CLAIRE WENT to the Chens’ the next Thursday, she noted a driver sleeping on a bench in the garden, newspaper over his head, the maids chattering gaily as they washed the windows, and breathed a sigh of relief that Victor Chen was apparently not at home.

“Missee all right? Fall down!” the maid who had answered the door asked.

“Yes, thank you very much.” She noticed for the first time how this servant had a generous face, with bright, wide eyes and a pleasant mouth. “It’s very kind of you to ask.”

The woman smiled uncertainly and led her to the piano room, where Locket was waiting.

“I heard you had an accident last week, Mrs. Pendleton. Are you all right?” Locket was leaning over a tray of biscuits, crumbling one into her mouth. “Would you like some lemonade?”

“That’s very kind of you, Locket. I am feeling much better, thank you.” The little girl was finally learning some manners, she thought.

“Mummy said you must be expecting!” Locket giggled. “And Daddy laughed and laughed.”

Claire’s back stiffened.

“Locket, have you practiced?” she said, with frost in her voice.

Locket looked up, startled at the sudden change.

“I had a rehearsal on Monday for The Mikado…” she started.

“Never mind,” Claire said. “Let’s just begin.”

After the lesson, Melody Chen came by the room and asked Claire to stay for a cup of tea to talk about Locket’s progress. She walked Claire to the living room and excused herself to go see about the maids.

The Chens had a mantel full of photographs, in silver frames. Very English, Claire had thought when she first saw them, except the photographs were filled with Orientals. She got up to look at them more closely. Mostly Victor and Melody, with various family members and older people, a few of Locket by herself, and then a woman, in a swimsuit at the beach, holding a cigarette and sticking her tongue out at the camera. It looked like a picture out of a fashion magazine, and as Claire peered closer she got a shock as she realized it was the same woman in the photograph with Will and Melody at his house. She was Eurasian, whippet-thin, very glamorous, with a flowered bathing cap. Her face stuck out, angular and attractive.

“That’s my cousin Trudy,” said Melody, coming up from behind with a small glass of water.

“She’s very beautiful,” said Claire, careful not to sound too eager.

“Not beautiful,” Melody said immediately. “Not beautiful. She was half-Portuguese, so Eurasian, you know, and the Europeans always found her attractive. But Chinese don’t like half-breeds, really.” Claire noted the casual slur, was surprised by it. Melody was usually so refined.

“But everyone, absolutely everyone, noticed her. She was very famous in Hong Kong during her day. Some might say infamous. She brought her terrier to a dinner party once as her companion. Had him in a bow tie. She sat him at a seat and everything, until he urinated on it. Livy Wong was livid!”

“Well, she looks like she knows how to have a good time.”

“Yes, I always think that if she were still around, she’d be the first woman in the colony to wear a bikini, and she’d wear it to a picnic at the governor’s house or something wildly inappropriate like that. She was that type of girl. Scandalous, but she got away with it usually. Fearless.”

“Is she not?” Claire asked delicately. “Around anymore, I mean.”