Immigration hadn’t taken her passport. There was nothing wrong with her visa. The detention wasn’t real. Waves of revulsion rolled through her stomach. Bile rose in her throat. She doubled over to stop herself from vomiting. Aileen was at her side, handing her an icepack. She wrapped it around her hand. The cold gave her something to focus on.
“Darcy, are you all right?” It was Will. He needed to shut up, he’d said enough. “Darcy, talk to me.”
That was the last instruction Will Parker was ever going to give her. She turned towards him. “You bastard! You set me up.”
There was a red mark on his jaw where she’d hit him. But the intensity in his eyes was what arrested her. She read defiance and guilt and, underneath those emotions, the slow build of anger. She was not going to cry. He was not going to make her cry, or do anything ever again.
Peter was stalking about the room. “Will, are you all right?”
Will looked at him. “Get out.” His eyes found Aileen, “Both of you.”
Neither of them moved. Peter said, “I’m not going anywhere. We all need to calm down. Darcy, are you hurt?”
“Back off, Pete.”
“She just assaulted you.”
“I deserved it.”
“It’s assault.”
“She could probably have me for rape.”
“Fuck, Will. Shut up now. Not another word.”
“Pete, God help me, go now before I make you go. Aileen, get him out of here.”
Aileen handed Will a second icepack and took Peter’s arm. She tried to move him towards the door to the outer corridor.
The idea of being alone with Will Parker felt dangerous. He admitted to being an aggressive man and she’d just punched him. Darcy’s only safe ally was the lawyer who knew a thousand ways to make life hard for her.
“Peter stays,” she said, hardly recognising her own voice from the way it shook.
“Good decision,” Peter said. He gestured to the lounge setting. “Everyone sit.” He took one of the single chairs. “Aileen, sit with Darcy. Will, over there,” he pointed to the other single chair.
Will ignored him, threw the icepack on the desk, went to the window and stood facing the street, gripping the ledge, like a boxer going to his corner, waiting for the bell to ring to signal the next round.
Peter was saying her name. Since the pugilism they were back on first name basis. She tore her eyes away from the hard ridge of Will’s back where she knew the tattoo of Tara was inked.
“Darcy, flex your hand for me.” She did; her knuckles were numb from the ice or the impact, it didn’t much matter, but she could move her fingers.
“Darcy, look at me and tell me if Will…” Peter hesitated, “raped you?”
She looked to Will. She thought he might turn around, defend himself. He’d lied, he’d set her up, he’d betrayed her. It was entrapment, but it wasn’t rape, except of every one of her senses and her self-respect. Only his breathing suggested he was listening. He was otherwise still, like stone.
“No, everything we did was consensual,” she said, still watching Will’s back.
Peter’s exhale filled the room. He wasn’t going to have to defend his brother from a crime. He raised his voice, but didn’t bother looking at Will. “I assume you don’t want to discuss an assault charge.”
“You assume correctly.” Will’s voice was granite hard and tight as hate.
“Then I think we can deal with the matter in front of us like professionals.” Peter sat forward, adopting a more conversational posture as he outlined the legal position. He addressed Darcy, acting as though Will had no further business here.
“Obviously there will be no interview. Your prior relationship makes that untenable. Will Parker will undertake to keep the nature and detail of that relationship private and confidential. In addition, he will sever all contact with you both now and into the future. As you will agree to do with him. Furthermore, for your part, anything and everything you learned about Parker Enterprise’s CEO, or the business itself in the course of your association will be considered private and confidential. The loose term in your industry is off the record. I’m sure you’re aware of it. This speaks to public interest, slander, libel, defamation; basically, take your pick. Do you understand?”
Darcy was mute. Shock, confusion and fear stopped her vocal cords from sounding. She’d been personally fucked by Will and now she was being professionally fucked by him.
“She’s already agreed to keep everything off the record,” said Will, his voice sharp-edged with anger, making Darcy’s thigh muscles bunch. Three days ago, when she’d joked with her anonymous fellow detainee about the meaning of off the record, she’d had no idea it would be used against her so comprehensively.
Peter exhaled noisily and continued. “If in the course of your private or professional life you use any information about or obtained from Will Parker while in Pudong Airport or at the Peninsula Hotel, Parker Corporation will sue you, your editor, your managing editor and the publisher.”
Peter sat back in his chair. He crossed his legs nonchalantly as though he threatened to sue someone every Monday morning. “Do you understand me?”
Darcy understood Will Parker just killed her career.
If she did anything other than obey his officially binding off the record command, anything other than buckle to his legal might, she’d be unemployable.
She felt then the depth of Will’s duplicity and betrayal. This man, who’d promised he wouldn’t hurt her, had cut her off at the knees professionally.
She had no interview to take home and every incredible detail she’d learned about Will was barred from use unless she wanted to risk bringing legal hell down on the paper. Worse to even think about a defensive strategy with the paper’s lawyers; she’d have to discuss how she got the information, and there was no way to do that without admitting she’d sold herself to him.
She’d thought she was in control. Thought she’d made an educated choice and found Shangri-La. Instead she’d prostituted herself to the devil and walked headfirst into hell.
“To be wronged is nothing, unless you continue to remember it.” — Confucius
Standing on Lover’s Walk outside the offices of hell, watching the boat traffic on the Huangpu and the sun glint off the outrageously pink dome of the Pearl Tower, Darcy tried to still the shaking of her hands. She’d been gripping the metal railing but that hadn’t helped. She focused on the rhythm of breathing, the slow count of time, and made a conscious effort to feel calm.
The sun was high and mercilessly hot, it bounced off the pavement and stung her skin like the sight of her false lover had stung her heart. It burned like the thought of how he’d designed her downfall, planned her detention and every move she’d made since.
She’d joked she hated him and he’d answered, “Not yet.” He’d made her his plaything and she’d let him. Now the hatred was no joke.
She needed a plan; a way of getting back, of salvaging something from this trip. She simply could not go home without a story, and she couldn’t see any way she could safely use anything she knew about Will. The knowledge she had was too personal, too traceable to be randomly fed to another journalist to use.
Why had he told her the things he had? Tara, the shipping container, Miss Frederick, his dyslexia. He’d given her such deeply personal details, only to tear them away from her as though they were mere lint, insubstantial fluff. Why not just lie in the first place?
Darcy stood in the middle of the Bund in the stunning heat and tears streamed down her face. She’d never felt so foolish, so stupid, so vulnerable, and so alone. There was no one she could talk to about this who wouldn’t judge her the architect of her own defeat.
In a couple of hours she had to phone Gerry, report in, and she needed something to tell him. Telling him they’d cancelled last minute, telling him they’d tried to substitute Peter for Will, though the ostensible truth, was a sure ticket to a job on some beat she had no interest in. Gerry would wash his hands of her. The insinuation that Parker’s people had rejected her for the job would be too strong to avoid. She’d become exactly what Gerry always suspected she was. A writer more useful for her family name than her ability.
She could go above him and talk to Mark, but Mark would only tell her she’d better come home with something, and do her the credit of not finishing the thought till she sat in front of him with an empty steno pad and a sack full of regret.
She needed a plan. She also needed to get out of the sun before she melted.
Back at the Peninsula, she thought briefly about changing hotels for her last night, but it was already going to be tricky enough to fudge her expense report. She had no receipts for accommodation or food, other than her coffee at Starbucks, or even transport from the airport. If she simply changed rooms she could come up with some lie about being given free accommodation because of a stuff-up at the hotel.
She had to argue with the desk clerk to get her own room, and even then her butler was engaged to relocate her meagre luggage. While she was waiting for the room to be ready, the clerk offered her complimentary Chinese tea.
Complimentary like Will said the Palace Suite was. Another of his lies. He’d obviously paid for it. She sat in the lobby bar and sipped her tea. She was cooling down both physically and mentally, and she needed to so she could think, plan, save herself. She watched a hotel employee making a change to a signboard with the events of the day on it. He was adding the evening’s activities.
What if Will hadn’t lied about the room? Hotels gave away drinks, even food, to keep guests happy. But they seldom gave away rooms. They’d almost never give away their top suite. What if it was Parker who was holding an event at the hotel tonight and a complimentary suite was part of their package?
Judging by the events board there were three functions at the hotel tonight: an awards event for a global accounting firm, a networking cocktail party for the local motor industry and a gala dinner. What if the dinner was for Parker?
According to the concierge, the gala black tie event was for the Peony Society, so that shot that angle in the foot. Darcy was halfway back to her complimentary teapot before she thought to ask if the Peony Society had sponsors.
They did. She was back in business. And she knew how she was going to pad her expenses. She went shopping.
Four hours later and fifteen hundred dollars poorer, she was back at the hotel having bought the single most expensive garment she’d ever owned. It was silver grey silk, heavily beaded with a sweetheart neckline and tiny glittery straps. It fit like a second skin. She had new shoes and a small beaded purse with a wrist strap. She had an appointment at the hotel’s hairdressing salon. Tonight she was going out on the town without leaving the hotel.
Gerry had sworn like a sailor down the phone when she’d called in. His blue language must have lit up telephone exchanges right across the Pacific. He didn’t go so far as to say she was responsible for Parker pulling the interview, but he said her new plan was harebrained. Mark was more moderate, but he was equally sceptical, though they both agreed if she could pull it off, it would be a coup.
There was only the half mirror in the tiny bathroom so Darcy couldn’t see the full effect of the dress, but she’d never felt so glamorous, so unlike herself. The salon had given her smoky eyes and ruby lips and set her hair artfully with a single perfect pink peony.
She knew she looked good when the
Herald’s
wire service photographer, Robert Yee, gave her a very obvious once over when they met in the hotel bar.
They did that thing when two people who don’t know each other meet at an arranged time and place. That half hesitant, maybe, you must be, oh yes, skating glance, smile, hello thing. Except after the initial shifting eye contact, Robert’s gaze took a long time to make it to back to Darcy’s face. She should’ve been offended, but it was the confidence boost she needed.
“Robert Yee?” she said to what was almost the top of his head.
His eyes raked up her body and he wore a big goofy grin when he was finally eye to eye with her. He straightened what she guessed was a hastily hired bow tie. One hand shot out. “Darcy Campbell,” he said in a broad Australian accent. “They said formal, they didn’t say dream date.”
She shook his hand and gave him a half smile. This was no date. This was war.
For all his frivolous flirtation, Robert knew what he was doing. He’d been a stringer for the
Herald
in China for three years. His usual turf was natural disasters, cultural events and political intrigue, but subterfuge and gotcha weren’t outside his skill set.
The first hurdle was entering the grand ballroom for the Peony Society event. Without tickets, Darcy knew they’d have to tailgate through reception with a large enough crowd to hide them and then loiter about until only the seats of guests who’d failed to show up were still empty. They’d have to do all that and not look out of place, or in Darcy’s case, be discovered. There were three sets of eyes she’d have to avoid, assuming they let Will out for events like this. And if they didn’t, the battle was lost.
Choosing to meet Robert in the bar was the first element of the strategy. Darcy figured other guests would meet there too, providing the crowd they’d need to surf. She was right. They were able to attach themselves to a group of giggling girls in shiny dresses and gaudy fascinators, and their less obviously joyful cummerbunded boyfriends. Riding in the packed elevator to the grand ballroom, Darcy was uncomfortably aware her height and blonde hair made her a standout, and her inability to understand anything being said made her a liability.
Robert played his part well. Taking her arm, whispering in her ear. No one would know he was simply relaying directions or gossip about what was going on around them.
Ensconced in the group from the bar, they managed to glide past the official registration table, aided by the sheer mass of people arriving simultaneously.
Inside the ballroom, Robert snagged drinks and they stood in the shadows behind a huge pillar of flowering orchids trying to look like they belonged while the room filled up with ticketed guests and people found their tables.