THEY WENT in her car, the immaculate white Saab, leaving his dusty, untidy Triumph at her house.
‘You can drive if you like,’ she said.
So he was driving when they arrived in the parking space in front of the restaurant. Two men and two women were getting out of a car. They were in evening dress and were in a party mood, laughing and giggling. They saw Sandilands. ‘Hello, Andrew,’ cried one of the women, a Mrs Williams. Then she became aware that his companion was not Jean Hislop. She was shocked into silence as she stared at Leila. So were her companions. It wasn’t so much that Leila was in Jean’s place, as that she was the notorious Leftie and daughter of the demagogue Dr Abad. It was also because she was so stunningly beautiful and so self-confident. A coloured woman as beautiful and elegant as she ought, in the presence of whites, to be humble, or, if that was asking too much, to be at least diffident. Instead of which this woman was holding her head high and smiling at them, as if her smiles were as good as their smiles, though none of them was smiling. One of the men, John Williams, was heard to mutter, ‘Good God!’ and he didn’t mean it as an oath.
Sandilands swithered about introducing Leila to them and decided not to. He took her arm and went with her through the door and up the stairs to the restaurant.
The quartet followed them, but not closely.
The Gardenia was sumptuous. It would not have been out of place in a fashionable part of Paris. Its patrons, especially the expatriates, joked about its extortionate prices but were really proud of being able to afford them. It was thickly carpeted, air-conditioned, and luxuriant with plants. On the walls were paintings of Savu scenes.
The waitresses were little Malay girls, in native dress. The one who led Sandilands and Leila to their table smiled at the latter. It was a shy but grateful salute to her countrywoman, who outshone all the white women.
Those white women were not smiling. Those who knew who she was whispered the information to those who didn’t. All of them were displeased by her intrusion; not because she seemed to have supplanted their friend Jean Hislop – they did not think of that immediately – but because she was a native and coloured and therefore automatically inferior. That she was said to be a relative of the Sultan made no difference. Indeed, in spite of his immense wealth, he too was inferior, though of course if they were ever invited to his palace they would bow and curtsey, as they would do in Buckingham Palace.
Then those women, and their men, turned to the matter of the intruder’s escort. ‘It is Andrew Sandilands,’ a man’s voice was heard to say. Incredulity did not quite smother the envy.
They began to conjecture as to why Sandilands was with her and not with his usual companion, Jean Hislop.
‘I suppose you know them all?’ asked Leila, coolly.
‘Most of them. Now what would you like to drink?’
‘A glass of water, please.’
He had forgotten she did not drink alcohol. There were many things about her that he had yet to learn.
‘You drink whatever you like,’ she said.
He ordered a whisky. He must not, so soon anyway, let her change him, even for the better.
They were approached by a man Sandilands sometimes played golf with. Bill Nelson sold expensive cars to the Sultan and the Sultan’s rich relatives: his commissions were very lucrative. His wife was in England, seeing to the education of their teenage children. He drank too much. He lived with a native woman whom he called his amah but who was really his mistress. She was a quiet dignified woman with too broad a nose and a fondness for gaudy jewellery. He never took her out or introduced her to his friends. One or two of those friends had written to his wife, telling of his adultery. It was believed that she had written back, sarcastically thanking the sneaks and saying she didn’t give a damn who Bill slept with, so long as he kept increasing her allowance. It was suspected that she too might be having an affair.
He patted Sandilands on the shoulder. ‘How are things, old man?’
‘Fine, Bill.’
He leered at Leila. ‘So you’re the fabulous Madam Azaharri? Those that said you were the most beautiful woman in Savu weren’t lying. I’m Bill Nelson. I play golf a lot with this big bugger and I always lose.’
He held out his hand and Leila took it.
‘Don’t worry about this po-faced lot,’ he said. ‘Live your own life is what I say. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Good for you. Do you happen to play golf yourself?’
‘I did once, in Malaya, years ago.’
‘Good. Get this character to have you made a member. There’s a big flame-of-the-forest tree that’s the glory of our course. Isn’t it, Andrew? Well, here’s a lady who’d outshine it.’
At last she got her hand back. ‘Thank you, Mr Nelson.’
‘Bill. Please call me Bill.’
He then staggered off to rejoin his friends.
Sandilands briefly gave an account of him.
She smiled. ‘Would you, Andrew, if we were separated for a long time, find another woman?’
He was glad that his whisky arrived then. Not only did it save him having to answer, he also needed it.