The Year of Dangerous Loving. John Davis Gordon

the delightfully important business of getting to know each other. When they were full of good food and wine and sun she said, ‘Let’s go and make love,’ and as she walked across the terrace he could feel all eyes on her, he could almost hear the men sighing, and he was immensely proud of her. It did not feel as if she was bought and paid for; it felt as if she was really his.

      Later, lying spent on the bed in each other’s arms, in the quietness of afterlove, she said: ‘Are you worried that one of your friends will see you, with a prostitute?’

      No, he just felt happy. ‘Nobody is likely to know anything about you, and even if they did, so what? This is the Far East, not Whitehall in London; we’re not very judgemental out here. Anyway, don’t talk of yourself like that.’

      She was silent a moment: ‘You are right. With you I am not really a prostitute. Because I want to be with you. I am sorry you must pay for today – if it was up to me you would not pay. And tomorrow,’ she squeezed him, ‘you will not pay, tomorrow I will not be a prostitute.’

      ‘You don’t feel like one now.’

      She feigned indignation. ‘You mean I am not expert?’

      ‘Oh, you are.’

      ‘You don’t want your money back?’

      ‘Not so far.’

      ‘Okay.’ She snuggled against his shoulder and smiled. ‘I don’t feel like a prostitute either, with you. I feel I am your girl.’ She sighed. ‘Wouldn’t it be lovely to go away on a real holiday together, so I really was your girl, not the slightest bit a prostitute? Stay on a beach with palm trees and blue sea and tropical fish. I have never seen a beach like that, except in pictures. Macao’s sea is so brown, from the river. And we could live in a hut and swim all day, with snorkels, looking at the tropical fish. And maybe rent a little sailboat.’

      It was a pretty thought. ‘We can do that. I can take some leave.’

      ‘No,’ she sighed, ‘Vladimir has our passports, in case we run away. I cannot even go to Hong Kong for a day because it says on my Macao identity card I am a “dancer”. The Hong Kong immigration people know what that means. I tried one day and they sent me hack. “You are a prostitute,” they said, “we do not allow you people in here!”’

      Hargreave snorted. What hypocrisy – Hong Kong was full of prostitutes, the girlie-bars of Wanchai and Tsimshatsui were world-renowned tourist spots. ‘What did you say?’

      ‘I made a fuss. I said: “I am a dancer, sir! What dance do you want me to do? The rumba, the samba, the tango, rock-’n’-roll? Come out of your silly box and I will dance with you!” But they sent me back on the next ferry. I was so cross – and embarrassed. But maybe I can visit Hong Kong now because when my work-permit was extended they gave me a new identity card which says I am a singer.’

      Hargreave smiled. ‘Can you really sing?’

      ‘Yes, not bad. Every night at the Tranquillity I sing some songs, with the band. Western songs.’

      Hargreave looked at her. She had told him the first night he met her that she was a singer but he hadn’t believed her. But if it really was true, this put a rather different complexion on their relationship. ‘And what does it say on your passport?’

      ‘Singer.’

      Hargreave grinned. ‘So that’s what you are – a professional night-club entertainer, not a prostitute!’

      She smiled. ‘Okay, that’s me from now on. A famous Russian singer, like Madonna.’

      ‘Right, that’s what we’ll tell my friends. Do the other Russian girls at the Tranquillity sing too?’

      ‘No, I am the only one with a good voice. But I’m not very good, darling. But,’ she added, ‘I can also play the guitar.’

      ‘What songs do you sing with the guitar?’

      ‘I can only do about twenty-five well – Western love songs. The manager likes me to do it, if I am not busy when the other singers are resting.’

      ‘And does he pay you to sing?’

      ‘Oh yes. Fifty patacas a song. Sometimes more if the people clap loudly.’

      ‘Well, then, you’re a paid professional entertainer! Can you really do all those dances?’

      ‘Yes. The KGB taught me at my training school, so I could dance with all the foreign diplomats and steal their silly secrets. Even Scottish reels I can do, with swords on the floor. And American square-dancing, and the can-can, even belly-dancing. Next time I will show you, I will bring some music and my belly-dancing stuff. Even the ruby for my navel.’

      Oh yes, he would love to see her do all that. And he was impressed by her accomplishments. She said: ‘Are you a good dancer, darling?’

      The foxtrot and the waltz were about Hargreave’s speed. ‘Liz did try to teach me the tango. But she gave up.’

      ‘I will teach you to tango, darling, it is my favourite dance – so dramatic. I have all the music, on my cassettes, I will bring them next time. Would you like to go dancing tonight, I’ll start teaching you?’

      Hargreave wanted to do whatever she wanted. ‘Only trouble is I don’t want to get out of this bed. And I don’t want you to put clothes on.’

      ‘But I better get dressed for dinner, darling, in case we meet somebody you know!’

      That Saturday night they did meet somebody Hargreave knew. They were sitting at the bar off the reception hall, having a drink before dinner, when Jake McAdam and Max Popodopolous came in with Judge Peterson. The judge slapped him on the back in passing.

      ‘Hullo, Dave!’ Hargreave said. ‘Hullo, Jake, Max!’

      They waved and went on their way. They all glanced at Olga appreciatively. They sat down at a corner table overlooking the terrace.

      ‘Does it matter?’ Olga asked.

      ‘No.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, you’re a professional singer, remember?’

      ‘But will they guess what I really am?’

      They might guess but he didn’t give a damn: how were they to know she wasn’t a legitimate night-club singer? He almost believed it himself now. It was possible one of them had been to the Tranquillity and remembered her – she wasn’t easily forgettable – but what the hell, they were all his friends.

      ‘No, they won’t guess.’

      ‘The fattish, Portuguese-looking one, I’ve seen him at the Tranquillity.’

      Yes, Max was a bit of a bon vivant who let his hair down occasionally in questionable night-clubs. Hargreave said: ‘He’s one of my closest friends, in fact he’s my personal lawyer, he won’t talk – or care. I’d like you to meet him, and Jake McAdam, too, the tall one.’ In fact he’d like her to meet all his friends; he wanted to say, ‘This is my girl Olga Romalova, she’s a night-club singer, maybe she used to be on the game but not any more, take her or leave her but she’s my girl.’ He said: ‘Jake, he’s got a tragic story. He fell in love with a smashing American girl about ten years ago, a newspaper reporter from New York who came out here to write a story about Hong Kong corruption. She was killed in a typhoon.’

      ‘Oh. What a sad story.’

      And there was an even sadder story that he couldn’t tell her because of the Official Secrets Act. Long before the American girl, Jake had fallen in love with a Chinese Communist schoolmistress, and that had also ended in tragedy because Jake had been a senior policeman in Special Branch.

      Olga said: ‘And now, is he married?’

      ‘Used to be. Twice, to the same woman. But it ended in divorce both times.’ He nodded over his shoulder. ‘And the other one, Dave, he’s a judge, also divorced. We stick together, us bachelors. Go to