Dugléré, moules marinière, and plenty of dishes I don’t recognise.
Susie pushed her way out from the bar to greet me with a soft kiss and another whiff of sandalwood perfume. She’s wearing a loose-fitting, printed silk frock that stops well above her knees and drapes over her bountiful breasts. Once again, she isn’t dressing to draw attention to her two greatest assets – but she is showing her long, shapely and deeply tanned legs, which I’d not noticed before.
“First things first Finn, let me introduce you to Michael Harrington-Browne. He’s our host.”
Susie turned to face a tall grey-haired man with a lived-in face and ruddy complexion. He’s handsome in an outdoor kind of way. You could imagine him in a bright red hunting jacket – these are curiously known as ‘pinks’ – sitting astride a large grey horse, enjoying a stirrup cup before setting off after a fox. The unspeakable chasing the inedible – according to my fellow Irishman, Oscar Wilde.
Michael Harrington-Browne has a strong, comfortable handshake, and he looked me in the eye. He’s straight forward, uncomplicated – says what he wants to and means what he says. I took to this man; he’s my kind of fellah.
The head waiter appeared at Michael Harrington-Browne’s shoulder. He was told to get us a table by the window, and to bring aperitifs and menus.
As we sat drinking our aperitifs my escort up from the porte cochère approached our table and spoke to Susie. She began to introduce me but was told that we’ve already met, although we haven’t exchanged names. He handed me a business card that reads: Ian Rylett, OBE, Director of Private Banking, Hongkong & Shanghai Banking Corporation, One Queen’s Road Central, Hong Kong .
Realising that I might not have a business card to return, Susie piped up on my behalf. “I’m designing a set of handsome cards for Finn…they’ll be ready in a couple of days.”
When Mister Rylett OBE returned to his own table I thanked Susie for her timely interjection. She explained the ritual of business card exchange in Asia, and most especially in Japan. She said it’s regarded an honour to be handed a card by a Japanese person, and an insult if you don’t offer one in return. I told her I might be moving into an office soon, and she agreed to produce business cards for me when I have the details.
We managed to sip a schooner of dry sherry before we had any food. Susie ordered sole on the bone, I had a plate of lamb’s liver, and we drank two bottles of Chilean wine with the meal. By the time we had a carafe of coffee – along with a large Armagnac each, compliments of Michael Harrington-Browne – I’d collected a pocketful of business cards and three invitations to boat parties for the coming weekend.
I have no intention of taking up these first offers of days out on a junk or a deep sea cruiser; going boating isn’t why I left everyone I know on the other side of the world. Apart from avoiding Interpol, the Swedish and Irish police, there’s only one reason for me being in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. I’m going to send enough heroin to Britain to turn on every junkie on the streets of London, Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and particularly Glasgow. I have a soft spot for the Welsh, and I don’t want that crap ending up in the arms of the Taffies. The Taffies are too good for that kind of shite. No, I don’t give a shite about the English or the Scots – certainly not the Glasgow Proddies – but I don’t want to harm the Welsh. They’re good people you see, good hearts.
Anyway, it’s obvious that Susie’s a people magnet, and well liked. Otherwise, there’s no way I would’ve gotten all the invitations. As expected, she attracts men, but she also draws women to her. Perhaps because she doesn’t flaunt her figure these women don’t feel threatened by her. Or is there more to it?
As we got up to leave, one thing struck me as strange.
Susie pushed her way out from the bar to greet me with a soft kiss and another whiff of sandalwood perfume. She’s wearing a loose-fitting, printed silk frock that stops well above her knees and drapes over her bountiful breasts. Once again, she isn’t dressing to draw attention to her two greatest assets – but she is showing her long, shapely and deeply tanned legs, which I’d not noticed before.
“First things first Finn, let me introduce you to Michael Harrington-Browne. He’s our host.”
Susie turned to face a tall grey-haired man with a lived-in face and ruddy complexion. He’s handsome in an outdoor kind of way. You could imagine him in a bright red hunting jacket – these are curiously known as ‘pinks’ – sitting astride a large grey horse, enjoying a stirrup cup before setting off after a fox. The unspeakable chasing the inedible – according to my fellow Irishman, Oscar Wilde.
Michael Harrington-Browne has a strong, comfortable handshake, and he looked me in the eye. He’s straight forward, uncomplicated – says what he wants to and means what he says. I took to this man; he’s my kind of fellah.
The head waiter appeared at Michael Harrington-Browne’s shoulder. He was told to get us a table by the window, and to bring aperitifs and menus.
As we sat drinking our aperitifs my escort up from the porte cochère approached our table and spoke to Susie. She began to introduce me but was told that we’ve already met, although we haven’t exchanged names. He handed me a business card that reads: Ian Rylett, OBE, Director of Private Banking, Hongkong & Shanghai Banking Corporation, One Queen’s Road Central, Hong Kong .
Realising that I might not have a business card to return, Susie piped up on my behalf. “I’m designing a set of handsome cards for Finn…they’ll be ready in a couple of days.”
When Mister Rylett OBE returned to his own table I thanked Susie for her timely interjection. She explained the ritual of business card exchange in Asia, and most especially in Japan. She said it’s regarded an honour to be handed a card by a Japanese person, and an insult if you don’t offer one in return. I told her I might be moving into an office soon, and she agreed to produce business cards for me when I have the details.
We managed to sip a schooner of dry sherry before we had any food. Susie ordered sole on the bone, I had a plate of lamb’s liver, and we drank two bottles of Chilean wine with the meal. By the time we had a carafe of coffee – along with a large Armagnac each, compliments of Michael Harrington-Browne – I’d collected a pocketful of business cards and three invitations to boat parties for the coming weekend.
I have no intention of taking up these first offers of days out on a junk or a deep sea cruiser; going boating isn’t why I left everyone I know on the other side of the world. Apart from avoiding Interpol, the Swedish and Irish police, there’s only one reason for me being in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. I’m going to send enough heroin to Britain to turn on every junkie on the streets of London, Manchester, Birmingham, Liverpool, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and particularly Glasgow. I have a soft spot for the Welsh, and I don’t want that crap ending up in the arms of the Taffies. The Taffies are too good for that kind of shite. No, I don’t give a shite about the English or the Scots – certainly not the Glasgow Proddies – but I don’t want to harm the Welsh. They’re good people you see, good hearts.
Anyway, it’s obvious that Susie’s a people magnet, and well liked. Otherwise, there’s no way I would’ve gotten all the invitations. As expected, she attracts men, but she also draws women to her. Perhaps because she doesn’t flaunt her figure these women don’t feel threatened by her. Or is there more to it?
As we got up to leave, one thing struck me as strange.
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