The Hong Kong Convention Centre, which the hotel information pack told me had been built to celebrate the handover of Hong Kong from the British to the Chinese, protruded out into the harbour, its sail-like roof reminding me very much of the Sydney Opera House.
Just what kind of celebration they’d had in there I didn’t know. But as I gazed at the huge windows which stretched up to the ceiling at least ten metres above my head, and the expanse of building stretching out in front of me, I figured that they should have been able to invite most of the Hong Kong population.
My assumption that the gift trade show would be the only thing on at the convention centre was obviously way off and I paused in front of a board listing the huge number of events taking place that day. After figuring out where I had to go, I followed the signs and pushed the pram onto one of the many escalators and along the length of one of the floors. Stopping on the way, I gazed out of the windows across the choppy harbour towards the buildings of Kowloon, which were only just visible through a soupy kind of mist, which I hoped was fog but suspected was actually smog.
A huge plastic banner stretched over a double doorway proclaimed the ‘10th Gift Trade Show’. Debbie had already paid the registration fee, and after stopping at the registration booth to pick up my ‘Debbie Campbell’ name tag, I pushed Sarah towards the entrance. As I walked through the doors I stopped dead in my tracks. The flow of people entering the room parted around me and continued on, leaving us in the middle of a moving sea of people.
I hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t acres of booths crammed with samples of merchandise. From where I stood I could see displays of everything from gift boxes to porcelain figurines, and the rows of plywood stalls continued both to my left and right as far as I could see. The noise echoing through the room wasn’t the cacophony that accompanied all the retail markets I’d been to, but was a businesslike hum which rose to the ceiling high above, as vendors and potential purchasers discussed pricing, dimensions and shipping.
What was I doing here, I wondered suddenly. These people were traders who bought and sold products for a living. I was a mother who had pipedreams of making money some other way than by sitting in an office for forty hours a week. The obstacles of sourcing a product and shipping it to Australia, which had seemed manageable in my lounge room, now looked insurmountable.
Conscious that I was standing in the main thoroughfare, I pushed Sarah towards the edge of the room and stood with my back to the wall, surveying the people striding purposefully past me. All my excitement at being in a new city had vanished and I wished fervently that it was me in Sydney with chickenpox and Debbie standing here. At the thought of Debbie, though, I felt a surge of confidence. She was one of these people and she believed we could make a success of this deal. I’d come halfway around the world to find what we wanted, and standing meekly in a corner wasn’t going to achieve anything.
Debbie had marked the trade show map, sent with the registration details, with the location of the vendors who sold the covers we were interested in. Orienting myself, I turned left and then headed down the third row on the right. Sarah and I attracted a lot of curious looks, but I concentrated on looking at the stalls we were passing, determined to look confident even if I didn’t feel it.
It quickly became obvious that the vendors were arranged into groups of related products. I passed a series of stalls that held stickers of all sizes and types, which appeared to be designed to cheaply brand products. Following on from them were stalls displaying piles of boxed stationery. Towards the end of the aisle I spotted what I’d been looking for – silk-covered books of all shapes and sizes. Taking a deep breath I headed to the stall closest to me.
An hour later I reached the last stall to hear the same thing the other seven vendors had said to me. Yes, they would love to manufacture four thousand books for the lady with the lovely little boy. But the suggestion that they could be finished and ready for shipping to Australia in six weeks was absolutely hilarious.
Even my desperate suggestion that maybe we could discuss a fee for a rush order proved useless. It seemed that Thai silk books were in huge demand and producing anything this side of Christmas would be impossible. The feeling in the pit of my stomach which had started when the first vendor laughed at my proposed timetable had become progressively heavier. By the time I heard the note of incredulity in the voice of the man in the last stall as he explained my proposal in Thai to his colleague, I felt physically sick.
Sarah had mercifully slept through the whole process but was beginning to stir, and as I looked at my watch I realised she was overdue for a feed.
Focusing on the problem of where to feed Sarah allowed me to concentrate on something other than my sense of failure. Somehow I didn’t think that the hall was likely to have any parents’ rooms so I headed back to the entrance, figuring that I’d find somewhere outside to feed Sarah and call Debbie.
The aisle I’d come down was quite busy and I decided to go back up the next one. Definitely the lacquer aisle, I thought, as I walked along, spotting plates, drink coasters, platters and boxes in varying vivid colours. About to turn the corner and head back out the door, an object on the stall to my left caught my attention. Heading over to it, I saw that it was a book cover, made of two thin lacquer pieces held together by a brass hinge.
The man standing next to the stall smiled at me as I picked the cover up and turned it over in my hands. It was fabulous. The one I held was a vivid green, but judging by the colours of the other objects on display, a cherry red, shimmering blue and silver and gold were also options. Somehow the silk-covered books had never seemed entirely right to me. I’d always been concerned that the corners would rub off and the silk wouldn’t stand the test of time. But these would look the same in thirty years as they did now, and the unusual nature of the hard covers and wonderful colours would give our books the distinctive look we’d been after.
Reining in my enthusiasm I told myself that timing was sure to still be a problem and that the price was likely to be way too high to make it worthwhile.
‘Hello, my name’s Sophie Anderson,’ I introduced myself to the young salesman.
‘Hello,’ he replied in a gentle voice, handing me his business card. ‘Please call me Kim. Do you like the book covers?’
‘I love them,’ I replied frankly. ‘My business partner and I–’
He glanced at Sarah and raised his eyebrows.
I smiled before continuing. ‘My business partner and I are interested in buying about four thousand covers like this. Could you give me some idea of your pricing?’
At the mention of the price my heart leapt. With shipping and other costs we would be able to land the books in Australia for about four dollars each. That was slightly more than what we had budgeted for, but not significantly so. I’d have to talk to Debbie, but it was definitely an option.
‘Would there be any possibility of you producing the order within six weeks?’ I asked, holding my breath as I waited for the answer.
Kim didn’t reply immediately but frowned and turned to pick up a book that was sitting beside him. Leafing through the book he scribbled some numbers on a piece of paper, stared at them for a few seconds and then looked up.
‘Yes, madam, we could do that.’
With great effort I retained my poker face, knowing enough about business negotiations to realise that showing my delight would not help me secure a good deal. Debbie had spoken to me sternly about the things I had to investigate before I placed an order with anyone. Resisting the temptation to throw myself at Kim’s feet and ask him to make me four thousand book covers as quickly as he could, I visualised the list Debbie had given me.
‘Where is your factory, Kim?’
‘In Vietnam, madam.’
I paused to interject, ‘Kim, please call me Sophie.’
‘Yes, madam,’ he replied, smiling as he realised what he’d said. ‘My family has a small lacquer factory outside Hanoi,’ he continued. ‘For years my father has had a shop in the city where he sells our products. However, I believe we should be selling to people outside Vietnam, and after many months I convinced him that I should attend this trade fair and talk to people who wish to sell lacquerware in their countries.’
The serious young man in front of me had as much at stake as I did, I realised. A trip to Hong Kong must represent a fortune for a family with a small business in Vietnam and I couldn’t imagine his father letting him attend another such gathering if he wasn’t successful at this one.
‘Can you tell me about your business and your products, Kim?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps you would like to sit down and have a cup of coffee, mad – Sophie?’
Suddenly I remembered that Sarah needed feeding. ‘That would be lovely, but first I need to feed my baby. I’ll come back as soon as I’ve finished.’
‘Please feel free to feed her here,’ Kim said. Seeing my obvious reluctance he continued, ‘My wife and I have three children.’
Well, I thought, I’d fed Sarah in bars and restaurants all over Sydney, why not add a stall at a trade show in Hong Kong?
Kim pulled out a chair and as I took Sarah out of her pram and positioned her on my lap, he busied himself with something under a shelf behind me. After a couple of minutes I could smell the aroma of strong coffee drifting towards me. Kim looked around and smiled mischievously.
‘We aren’t supposed to have a stove here, but a friend who had been to Hong Kong years ago told me that the coffee here is terrible,’ he said, looking genuinely pained. ‘So I brought a small burner and can make my own.’
By the time the coffee was ready, I had finished feeding Sarah and put her back in her pram.
Pouring two cups of coffee from the stovetop percolator, Kim pulled a can of condensed milk off another shelf and held it over the top of each cup for several seconds.
‘You have had Vietnamese coffee?’ he asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ I replied as he handed a cup to me.
The idea of an inch of condensed milk sitting at the bottom of my coffee cup sounded very odd. For the sake of politeness, though, I took a sip and was surprised by the lovely bitter coffee taste, which was followed by the separate taste of the buttery, sweet condensed milk.
‘This is delicious, Kim,’ I exclaimed.
‘Thank you,’ he smiled happily, handing me a spoon, which he explained I needed in order to be able to eat the condensed milk as well as drink the coffee.
For the next forty-five minutes we discussed Kim’s set-up, products and capacity and he showed me photos of the factory and their shop, as well as several of his wife and children. At the end of the time I felt convinced that Kim’s family had a small but well-established business, and we had discussed practical issues such as payment and shipping.
With Debbie’s instructions ringing in my ears, I left Kim and spoke to the other dealers at the surrounding stalls. Only a few of them had the lacquer book covers and while their pricing was similar to Kim’s, none of them gave me the same feeling of confidence. Figuring that I had done my homework well and that I couldn’t go any further before speaking to Debbie, I headed back to the hotel with a bundle of samples under my arm.
Blessing the whim that had made me throw my black cocktail dress into the suitcase, I pulled it over my head, trying not to dislodge the rollers I’d put in twenty minutes before. The phenomenal humidity of the last couple of days had caused my hair to stick flat against my head, but to my great surprise the hotel’s housekeeping department had been able to produce some big rollers, which I hoped would give it some semblance of body.
Debbie and I had talked for about half an hour after I’d arrived back at the hotel and she was enthusiastic about the change of product, although she was reserving judgment until she saw the covers. She had never trusted my taste since the time in the early eighties when I had worn a fluorescent ‘Wake me up before you go-go’ shirt. We’d agreed that I would speak to Kim the next day and tell him that we were very interested and I would contact him once I was back in Australia.
Stuffing my feet into the white hotel slippers, which were about five sizes too big, I walked back to the bed where Sarah was lying.
‘Right, young lady, time for you to slip into something fabulous,’ I said brightly, feeling happy about the prospect of a night out.
Pulling Sarah’s shirt over her head, I froze when I saw that her stomach was covered in pink dots.
Debbie’s doctor had said there was a chance Sarah could have picked up chickenpox from her, but I’d thought the symptoms would have shown up by now and so had assumed she was safe.
I felt a sudden stab of panic. Chickenpox in a small baby could be serious and I’d have been worried enough at home, let alone in the middle of Hong Kong. Where on earth would I find a doctor or a hospital here, I wondered frantically.
Taking a grip on myself I tried to think rationally. Suddenly I remembered that I was staying in a five-star hotel. Picking up the phone, I dialled reception. ‘My baby is sick, I think she has chickenpox,’ I managed in a shaking voice. ‘Can you help me find a doctor?’
‘Of course,’ the receptionist answered smoothly. ‘I’ll call our doctor and have him come up to your room immediately.’
Replacing the receiver, I felt slightly calmer. At least I didn’t have to traipse around the streets of Hong Kong with a feverish baby, trying to find medical attention.
I stripped off Sarah’s clothes and examined the rest of her body for spots, but didn’t find any. I put my hand on her forehead as I’d seen Karen doing with her children. Was she hot? I suddenly had no idea what her forehead normally felt like.
The doorbell rang and I looked at my watch with a start, realising that it was seven o’clock and David must have arrived to pick us up. I crossed the room, but stopped suddenly with my hand on the doorknob as I remembered I still had my rollers in. Pulling them out with both hands, I threw them over the other side of the bed and opened the door.
David was standing there looking incredibly sophisticated in a black single-breasted suit and dark grey shirt.
‘Hi . . .’ He trailed off as he registered my very unready state. ‘Am I a little early?’
Shaking my head I said, ‘No, David. I’m really sorry, please come in.’
He stood awkwardly next to the bed, obviously noticing that Sarah was in a similar state of readiness to her mother.
‘Sarah has spots all over her stomach. I think she must have picked up Debbie’s chickenpox.’ My voice wobbled as I finished speaking and I bit my lip fiercely, determined not to cry.
David seemed to realise that too much sympathy would bring floods of tears and, no doubt thinking of the damage I could wreak on the front of his suit, he became suddenly businesslike. ‘Have you called a doctor?’ he asked.
I nodded. ‘They’re sending someone up straightaway.’
As I finished speaking, the doorbell rang and I opened it to see a slight Chinese man carrying a doctor’s bag.
‘Good evening, Ms Anderson, I’m Dr Chen. Your baby is sick?’
‘Yes, I think she has chickenpox. A friend of mine in Australia has it and Sarah must have caught it from her.’ I stood back and gestured towards Sarah on the bed.
‘Okay, let’s have a look.’ Placing his bag on the bed beside Sarah, he looked down at her. As he did, Sarah suddenly started crying.
Without even touching Sarah, the doctor turned back to me. ‘That’s not chickenpox, Ms Anderson. Your daughter just has a heat rash.’
I looked at him blankly.
‘I’ll check her anyway,’ he said. ‘But I think she’s fine.’
After listening to her chest and looking in her ears and mouth, the doctor pronounced her perfectly healthy and left, leaving me with a still-crying Sarah and feeling incredibly stupid.
‘Sorry, David, you must think I’m totally neurotic,’ I muttered, looking over at him.
‘Not at all,’ he answered with a smile. ‘Chickenpox sounded like a perfectly reasonable diagnosis to me.’
Relief that there was nothing wrong with Sarah hit me, and as her crying subsided I felt my tension levels drop.
‘I guess we need to get moving then,’ I said.
I fished around in my suitcase for clothes for Sarah. The case was overflowing and I discreetly buried some dirty underwear that had been hanging over the side. Despite the fact that each item of Sarah’s clothing took up about a tenth of the space of mine, her wardrobe and assorted bits and pieces took up three-quarters of the suitcase. I had no idea how I had managed to fill a case before I had her.
Laying Sarah on the bed, I pulled a singlet over her head. It seemed to me that singlet manufacturers deliberately made the head hole about three sizes too small. I had distinct memories of having my nose and ears squashed against my head when my father put my singlets on and had thought it was his technique that was lacking until I found myself doing the same thing to Sarah.
The singlet safely on, I pushed Sarah’s arms and legs into the outfit and did up the zip which ran down the front.
David looked on with great interest. ‘Aren’t you worried that you’re going to snap off a couple of fingers or toes when you do that?’
‘Somehow it doesn’t seem to happen,’ I answered. ‘Trust me, that was a gentle exercise. Sarah lets me know if it becomes too brutal.’
‘You seem to be very good at all this baby stuff,’ David said.
‘It’s amazing how quickly it all becomes normal,’ I replied. ‘Before Sarah was born I struggled out of bed at seven-thirty each morning and needed two coffees before I could even start to think about the day ahead. I’d hardly ever held a baby, let alone changed a nappy or dressed one. Now nine in the morning seems like lunchtime and it feels as though I’ve been feeding and looking after a baby for years.’
‘Would you mind if I held her?’
‘Of course not.’ I handed Sarah across to him.
‘Hang on, not so fast,’ he stuttered. ‘I need some instructions about how I should do it first.’
‘Her neck’s strong so you don’t need to worry about holding that,’ I replied, smothering a smile. ‘Here, sit down, put your arms together and just rest her in the crook of your arm.’ I pulled his arms into place and laid Sarah on top of them.
David sat bolt upright, looking down at her as though she might explode any second.
‘Relax, she won’t bite you,’ I laughed.
Gingerly David moved around so that he was in a more comfortable position and moved Sarah so that she was facing his chest. Lucky girl, I thought.
Sarah started squirming and began crying again. Suddenly I thought about the process of getting her to the other hotel and settling her with the baby-sitter. The prospect of things going smoothly, and getting to dinner without David wishing he’d never suggested it, seemed very remote. There was no other option, though, and I moved around the room, quickly throwing things into a bag.
David seemed to have sensed my thoughts. ‘Look, Sophie, is this all a bit hard?’
My heart sank. We hadn’t even got out of the hotel room and already he was sick to death of my dramas. ‘No, no, It’ll be fine,’ I said with an optimism I didn’t feel.
‘Maybe it would be easier if we took a raincheck on dinner and did it when we were home in Sydney,’ he suggested.
‘That’s probably a good idea,’ I answered, trying not to show my disappointment.
‘Or what about having dinner in the room?’ he continued. ‘You could put Sarah to bed and we can have a drink and order in some room service.’
‘That sounds great,’ I replied with relief. The prospect of having David’s company without having to deal with the whole Sarah factor sounded like the perfect scenario.
‘All right, can I use your phone for a second?’
I nodded and heard him cancelling our dinner reservations and the babysitter.
As if Sarah felt me relax, she stopped crying and yawned. I took her into the walk-in dressing room where I’d had the hotel staff set up the cot, and laid her down. After kissing her goodnight, I pulled the door shut behind me and walked back into the bedroom. To my surprise there was silence – she’d gone straight to sleep.
David was sitting at the desk poring over the room service menu. He looked up and smiled.
Suddenly I realised I was still wearing the hotel slippers. Looking down at myself, I grimaced. ‘I’m not sure what the room service dress code is. Do you think I’m appropriately attired?’ I stuck one hip out in a model’s pose.
‘Hmmm,’ he considered, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me. ‘I’d say that’s just about spot on. I particularly like the two rollers on top of your head. I’ve heard that’s what everyone is wearing in Paris this season.’
My hands flew to my head and I realised in horror that I’d missed two of the rollers when I’d pulled them out earlier. About to apologise, I started laughing and threw the rollers onto the desk. ‘Anything else I should know about?’ I asked.
‘Nope, everything else is perfect,’ David replied seriously, looking at me intently.
Unsure of how to respond, I broke his gaze and moved behind him to look at the menu. ‘Wow, the food sounds great,’ I said. ‘After a steady diet of noodles the last two days, that rack of lamb looks very appealing.’
‘Rack of lamb, it is.’ David picked up the phone and ordered the food and a bottle of wine.
‘Would you like something to drink while we’re waiting?’ I asked as he put the phone down.
‘A beer would be terrific,’ he replied.
I pulled two beers out of the bar fridge and poured them into glasses. We moved the chairs up to the window and sipped our drinks, looking down over the bright lights on the other side of the harbour and chatting easily. The time passed quickly and I was surprised when I heard the doorbell ring.
Obviously I’d never stayed at the right hotels before. Until now my room service experiences had always meant a lukewarm meal delivered on a tray, but as I watched, the waiter wheeled in a narrow table covered in a crisp white cloth with a rose in a crystal vase on top.
Briskly the waiter flipped up and secured the edges of the table and produced two fabulous-looking meals from what must have been a hot box under-neath. After showing the wine to David, he pulled the top off, poured some for him to taste and then filled two glasses.
David whisked the bill in its black leather cover off the trolley, wrote in his own room number and signed it, despite my protests.
With a small bow the waiter was gone and we were alone.
‘To Hong Kong,’ David said, holding out his glass. Smiling, I touched my glass to his and then took a sip before tucking into my dinner, which tasted as good as it looked.
‘How’s Debbie’s chickenpox?’ David asked, unable to keep the smirk off his face.
‘She’s spotty, itchy and miserable,’ I smiled. ‘I’m actually quite glad I’m on the other side of the world. Debbie’s one of the world’s worst patients.’
David’s reference to Debbie gave me the opportunity I’d been looking for since I’d allowed myself to believe that maybe his interest in me was not just a business one. ‘David, Debbie mentioned to me that you had been living with someone for a few years,’ I began awkwardly.
‘When I met Debbie I was,’ David replied easily. ‘But Angela and I decided that we were together more out of habit than anything else and that our relationship wasn’t making either of us happy. So we broke up a couple of months ago. Unfortunately, though, we work together, which means we still see each other every day. I wish we could just move on and be friends but it’s not that easy when you’ve been together for five years.’
‘Relationships certainly aren’t simple, are they?’ I mused, regretting the trite words as soon as they were out of my mouth. God, I thought, next thing I knew I’d be telling him life wasn’t meant to be easy.
‘What about Sarah’s father?’ David asked.
‘Kind of similar, I guess. Max was transferred to the States and it brought things to a head. It had got to the point where I wanted some kind of commitment from him which he didn’t want to give.
‘Not marriage or anything,’ I continued hurriedly, concerned that David would think I was sizing him up for a walk down the aisle. ‘Just some kind of feeling that we could plan past the next dinner party.’
Deciding that was enough sharing of past relationship sagas, I tried to think of a way to change the topic. Determined not to talk about Sarah, I searched my memory for some item of current affairs. As I did, I realised that I hadn’t read a newspaper for at least a fortnight and that for all I knew world war three could have broken out.
‘So do you play any sport?’ I asked, cursing myself as I heard how awkward I sounded.
‘Yes, and my hobbies are stamp collecting and horse riding,’ David replied.
We both burst out laughing and, ice broken, talked comfortably for the rest of the meal. Once we’d finished, I picked up the phone to order some coffee, which arrived quickly. After the waiter had left, taking our dinner table with him, we settled back into the lounge chairs.
‘Before the airport was moved, you used to be able to watch the planes landing and taking off over there every few seconds,’ David said, pointing across the harbour.
‘You seem to know Hong Kong well,’ I said.
‘Pretty well,’ he replied. ‘I come here a few times a year.’
He looked out across the harbour again.
‘Look,’ he said, standing up. ‘You can actually see Felix at the top of the Peninsula.’
I stood up to see where he was pointing. ‘Yes, I can see it,’ I lied, too aware of David’s proximity to concentrate on picking one brightly lit building out from the hundreds lining the opposite shore.
Feeling David’s eyes on me, I turned my head to look at him. He reached out a hand and threaded it into my hair then pulled me towards him, touching his lips gently against mine. But as much as my body wanted to be carried away on a wave of passion, my mind wouldn’t let it. Debbie’s taunts about my not wanting even to think about sex for months after Sarah was born echoed in my ears. Competing for attention was my worry about whether, three months post birth, my body was in a satisfactory state for viewing by anyone else.
Pulling back, I looked at David. ‘I really . . .’ I began.
‘Sophie,’ he interrupted, ‘I think you’re beautiful and it doesn’t bother me in the slightest that you have a baby. Just relax, would you?’
Flattery has always been one of my weaknesses. While I was under no illusions that I really was beautiful, if David wanted to tell me I was, then he was a friend for life. At the sound of the compliment my sensible mind threw in the towel and surrendered to my lustful body and I let David lead me towards the bed, with only a vague wish that I’d bothered to read the ‘Sex after Baby’ chapter in my book, which I’d dismissed with a snort at the time.
When Sarah’s cry woke me hours later I automatically went to sit up. Usually I could make it into her room without opening my eyes. However, this time there was a weight across my chest, which my forever-damaged abdominal muscles were unable to shift. Lying back down I opened my eyes and looked sideways at the arm flung across my chest and the unfamiliar body lying beside me.
The events of several hours ago flooded back; but, oblivious to the fact that I was engaging in a pleasant reverie, Sarah continued yelling. Realising that being woken to the sound of a screaming baby might be slightly more than David was prepared for at this stage, I carefully lifted his arm off my chest and eased my feet onto the floor before slipping into the dressing room to feed Sarah.
Sitting in the dark, I ran the evening over in my mind, unable to believe that it had happened and that I’d actually slept with David only the third time I’d met him. To my surprise, I realised I didn’t have any regrets. It had been a long time since Max and I had split up and, despite the horror stories I’d heard, the sex had been great, regardless of whether or not anything came of it. After feeding Sarah I slipped back between the sheets, enjoying the feeling of having someone else in bed with me.
It was David’s voice, not Sarah’s crying, that woke me for the second time. He was standing over the bed fully dressed, looking down at me. Damn, I thought. I knew I should have turned off the bedside lamp while we were having sex.
‘Sophie, it’s seven o’clock. I’ve got a flight to Beijing in two hours. I’m really sorry but I’ve got to leave.’
I sat up with the sheet clutched to my chest feeling ridiculously self-conscious. My clothes were scattered on the other side of the room and I had no intention of collecting them while David was watching. I had learnt from bitter experience that, while it always looks effortless in the movies, wrapping a bed sheet around you is best left to the experts. On my one and only attempt, I’d spent a couple of minutes dragging the sheet out from under the mattress and then found myself suddenly naked when the corner caught on the foot of the bed.
Seeing my predicament, David passed me one of the white hotel robes hanging in the cupboard. I quickly slipped it on and stood up.
We spoke at the same moment.
‘David, I . . .’
‘I had a good . . . ’
I smiled and gestured for him to go on.
‘I really do have to go, but I’d like to see you again . . . Can I call you?’
‘That would be great,’ I said, trying not to look as pleased by his words as I felt. David hesitated and then stepped over and deposited a stiff kiss on my cheek. Turning quickly, he walked to the door and I tried desperately to think what Debbie would say in this situation. However, before I could come up with anything, he was gone.