Love's Sacrifice (The Billionaire Banker 5)

‘Do have a seat,’ she invites and points to a chair at one end of the table. The table is large enough to seat six. Helena then takes her place at the head of the table.

The Thai waitress pushes the chair in as I sit down, and whipping a napkin open, lays it expertly across my lap.

As the waitress does the same with Helena I look nervously at the utensils around me. Why on earth did I imagine that this was meant to be a casual tea, some finger sandwiches, warm scones and a few slices of cake?

‘Well, this is nice,’ I say. My voice sounds higher than normal.

‘Yes, quite. I thought we should get to know one another,’ Helena tells me. Her voice is soft and friendly, far more so than yesterday. ‘I want to know all about you and how you met Blake.’

Oh no, you don’t, I think, but I smile politely. ‘We met through a mutual acquaintance.’

‘Ah, of course. Who was it?’

‘Rupert Lothian.’

She tries to frown, but the Botox stands in the way. ‘Never heard of him. Who is he?’

‘I…er…worked for him.’

She looks at me. ‘That’s nice.’ There is an expression in her eyes that makes me suspect she knows exactly who Rupert is, and exactly how I met Blake.

She picks up a small white jar that is near her right hand. I notice that I, too, have a similar jar to my right hand. Mine contains milk. I watch her pour the milk in her jar into what I had assumed was a fingerbowl. She fills it to one-third and looks at me. Her expression is almost quizzical. She smiles, as if she can’t understand why I am not doing the same.

I smile back, and, quickly lifting my jar, copy her. I cannot imagine how the milk will be used. Perhaps we will be dipping something into it.

When I look at her again, she is still smiling, but her smile is cold and hard. You are not one of us, no matter what you do, wear, et cetera—we will sniff you out, her eyes tell me. She bends and puts the bowl of milk on the floor. Straightening and meeting my eyes, hers shining with malice, she calls out, ‘Constable, here, boy. Milk.’

Fiery heat rushes up my neck and cheeks. For a second, I am frozen with horror at the vindictiveness with which she has deliberately tricked me. Blake was right. I should never have tried to be accepted by her. And then I straighten my shoulders and smile, the kind of smile I never thought I would be able to accomplish. Coldly. Their kind of smile. Something changes in her eyes. How quick she is to recognize a worthy opponent.

Constable, a small, white handbag dog, is noisily lapping up the milk. For a little while there is only the sound it makes and the low hum of the air conditioning.

Then, I reach for a tiny morsel of food. It is round and blue. I do not recognize it, and I do not care. I pick it up with my fingers and daintily pop it into my mouth. Beyond the first impression of it being warm and soft with some sweet filling, I do not register anything else. Chewing steadily, I meet Helena’s eyes, and hers are surprised and slightly horrified by my uncouth manners. Oh, but, I’m not finished yet, Helena. I turn to the woman in the starched outfit standing by the sideboard.

‘Oh, hello,’ I say cheerfully. ‘What’s your name?’

Her dark, almond eyes widen with surprise, perhaps even alarm. No doubt they teach her what they used to tell the African American slaves— A room with you in it must seem empty.

‘My name is Somchai,’ she says, bowing her head deferentially. Her voice is barely a whisper.

‘Come and try this, Somchai. I’d like you to taste it and tell me what is in it,’ I invite expansively.

She looks confused and shoots a worried glance at Helena.

‘Oh! Don’t worry about Helena. She won’t mind,’ I dismiss airily. ‘I’m sure she wants to know what she is eating too.’

Somchai comes forward timidly. ‘I don’t need to taste. I can tell you what all the different dishes are.’

‘Oh, that will be nice. Do, please.’

‘What you have just eaten is a coconut hotcake. It is like a mini pancake with different sweet fillings.’ She points to the dish not with her forefinger but with her hand made into a small fist and the thumb jutting out to form a polite pointer. ‘And this one here is fried shrimp with glutinous rice. This one is taro root mixed with flour and turned into balls. That over there is called golden threads. They are strings of egg yolk quickly, quickly boiled in sugar syrup. Next to it is grass jelly. That one there is money bags: crispy, deep fried pastry purses filled with minced pork, dried shrimp and corn wrapped in cha phlu leaves.’

I nod as if I am fascinated by her descriptions while she works her way down the table and starts on the covered dishes warming on the sideboard. Rice field crab cakes served with green papaya salad, salt beef dumplings, fermented pork neck sausages with ginger, tiny banana leaf cups filled with ant and chicken eggs, grilled cuttlefish stuffed inside jackfruit, and yuck… Fried silk worm pupae.

‘Wow! What a feast,’ I cry, my voice unnaturally shrill and bright. ‘There is too much here for two. Would you like to join us, Somchai?’ Without giving her the chance to answer, I instruct genially. ‘Come on. Pull up a chair beside me.’

Helena gasps, which gladdens my heart no end, but poor Somchai suddenly looks terrified. A small animal getting crushed in the middle of two fighting elephants.

She shakes her head slightly. ‘Thank you very much. It is too kind of you, but I have already eaten.’

I take pity on her. ‘Oh, that’s a shame. Never mind then. Maybe next time.’

Somchai shoots another nervous glance at Helena.

And Helena takes that opportunity to take control of the situation. ‘That will be all. You can go now,’ she dismisses coldly.

I turn to look at her. Her mouth is a thin, disapproving line.

Somchai bows from the neck first in Helena’s direction and then in mine. Then she scuttles away as quickly as she can, never to be seen again. As soon as the door closes, Helena looks at me.

‘Are you quite finished?’ she seethes quietly.

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ I say, and sweep upward regally.

‘Sit down, Lana,’ Helena grates. ‘You’ve made your point. There is no point in carrying on with this childishness.’

It occurs to me that she started it, but I obey. She is right. Some kind of truce needs to be declared.

‘How do you have your tea?’

Now that Somchai has been dismissed, I realize that we are going to have to serve ourselves if we are going to eat and drink. I stand, and picking up the teapot, take it over to her. Carefully, I fill her tea cup while she steadfastly keeps her eyes on the tea pouring into her cup. I can smell her hairspray.