‘I’m sorry,’ Lisa stuttered, wondering how it was that Grace always seemed to make her feel so clumsy.
‘Ignorance is hardly a sin, my dear.’ Grace paused for a moment to squeeze more lime on her papaya. ‘Than tells me you believed your father was dead.’
‘It’s what my mother told me,’ Lisa said.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’d disgraced her. Us. Or so she thought.’ Lisa drew in a deep breath. ‘He was court-martialled and sent to prison for a massacre of civilians in Aden.’ A slightly raised eyebrow was the only betrayal of Grace’s surprise. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘No.’ The faintest hint of a smile played about Grace’s mouth. ‘But, then, that’s hardly surprising.’
‘Why? Because you think he’d have been ashamed to?’
Grace evaded the question. ‘Are you ashamed of him?’
Lisa felt a flush rise on her cheeks. It was something she’d wondered herself many times. How could she answer Grace when she’d never found an answer for herself? ‘I don’t know,’ she said at length. ‘Maybe that’s why I’m here. To find out.’
Grace’s smile faded, and Lisa wondered if it was a flicker of pity she saw cross her eyes. ‘He does not give much away, your father,’ Grace said.
Lisa gazed at her speculatively along the length of the hang yao and wondered if she had ever seen such beauty. A beauty that could in one moment seem warm and enticing, and in another cold and dangerous. ‘What exactly is your relationship with my father?’ she asked.
Grace seemed to consider her answer carefully for some moments. Then, ‘We were lovers,’ she said simply.
Lisa felt the shock in her heart sting her face pink. Intimate. That was the word Grace had used in the car. She had not known him well, but intimately. Lovers. Of course. They had been lovers. This woman, a complete stranger to her, knew her father in ways that she never could. It seemed to explain all the ambiguities. And for a moment Lisa was almost jealous.
Grace sat up suddenly, pushing her tray aside. ‘A little coffee, I think. Then we should get you some clothes.’
Sweat glistened on the firm brown bodies in the steamy heat of the dyeing room. The dark-haired boys wore only gloves and sandals, and the flimsiest of shorts, as they worked with dexterous ease, apparently impervious to the heat, dipping the heavy skeins of silk into vats of hot dye. In the glow of the fires, the smoke and steam that permeated the claustrophobic darkness stung Lisa’s eyes and caught in her throat. Grace, standing at her side, gently holding her a little above the elbow, seemed oblivious. Lisa glanced at her and saw the gleam that lit her eyes as she ran them across the taut young muscles of the bare-chested boys.
‘How can they work in this atmosphere?’ Lisa said, almost choking as she spoke.
Grace replied distantly. ‘They’re used to it.’ Then she turned to Lisa and smiled. ‘You can get used to almost anything. Come. It’s time to choose.’ And she guided her back out into the comparative cool of the factory where women moved vast screens back and forth along three-hundred-metre lengths of undyed silk, printing repeated patterns of exotic jungle scenes. Earlier, Lisa and Grace had passed through large rooms resounding to the clatter of dozens of flying shuttle looms weaving great lengths of raw silk. Their guide had explained to Lisa that Thailand’s silk larvae spun unusually soft, thick fibres, and that the resultant fabric accepted dyes more readily than silk made elsewhere in the world. He was waiting for them as they climbed the steps to the factory showroom, where huge rolls of printed and dyed silks were stacked one upon the other.
A shrunken man with a bald, brown pate, he bowed and smiled. ‘Your friend enjoyed her tour, La Mère Grace?’
‘Did you?’ Grace turned to Lisa.
‘Very much,’ Lisa said. She laughed. ‘I feel like a child in Santa’s grotto.’
‘Then let me be your Father, or should I say Mother Christmas — although we are a week or so late.’ Grace’s smile seemed to conceal a greater amusement at the idea. She waved a hand expansively around the room. ‘You choose. But something fine, I think, and self-coloured, and dark to contrast the whiteness of your skin.’
Lisa finally chose a deep, lustrous crimson in a very fine fabric. Grace seemed pleased with her choice, running the material sensuously through her fingers. ‘Red for passion,’ she said. ‘Are you a passionate creature, Lisa?’
Their guide smiled.
Lisa flushed deeply. ‘I really don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘Red has always suited me.’
‘We’ll take five metres,’ Grace told their guide. ‘On my account, of course.’
‘Of course, La Mère Grace.’
In the car Lisa asked, ‘Why did he call you La Mère Grace?’
‘It is how I am known,’ Grace said. ‘My business name, if you like.’
‘What business is that?’
‘Oh, I have many business interests. Property, entertainment, clubs, restaurants.’
Lisa was intrigued. ‘And you run them yourself?’
‘Of course. You seem surprised.’
‘I’m sorry — I just thought—’
‘That there should be a man behind it?’
‘Isn’t there?’
‘My business interests were inherited from my mother. When I was forced to leave Cambodia, I re-established myself here. The women in my family have been very singular, Lisa. Men have their place, but not in our hearts or our lives. And certainly not in our business.’
‘What other place is there?’
Grace turned a smile of genuine amusement on the young girl beside her. ‘You really are very innocent, Lisa,’ she said. ‘In our beds, of course.’
The House of Choisy was in the Patpong 2 district, an upmarket boutique with the latest fashions from Paris, London and New York. A twittering middle-aged lady fussed and fluttered around Lisa for nearly fifteen minutes in the dressing room, taking every conceivable measurement. ‘Beautiful lady, beautiful lady,’ she kept saying. ‘I make you beautiful, beautiful dress.’ She thought, too, that the fabric Lisa had chosen was beautiful. Grace sat smoking and watching the proceedings with idle amusement.
They leafed through a well-thumbed brochure looking at hundreds of designs. Lisa was flustered and indecisive. ‘I’m spoiled for choice.’ She shrugged helplessly at Grace. In the end it was Grace who chose — a full-length, close-fitting dress, split to the knee at the left side, sleeveless and with a daringly plunging neckline. ‘Along traditional Thai lines,’ she said, and looked Lisa up and down. ‘With one or two concessions to the modern world. You will be stunning.’
Lisa was uncertain. ‘I’m not sure it’s really me.’
‘You mustn’t underestimate yourself,’ Grace said. ‘You have the looks. This will lend you the sophistication. A woman must make the most of herself.’
Grace also chose an off-the-peg short brocade jacket, subtly patterned in deep blue, violet and crimson, to go with the dress. The tailoress tucked and pinched at it when Lisa tried it on. ‘Need alteration,’ she said.
‘This is all going to cost a fortune,’ said Lisa, turning to admire the jacket in the mirror. She stopped to look ruefully at Grace. ‘I really can’t accept.’
‘It gives me pleasure,’ said Grace. ‘You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?’
Lisa shook her head in embarrassed resignation. ‘I really am very grateful.’
Grace turned to the tailoress. ‘You will have it ready by Saturday?’
‘Of course, La Mère Grace.’
‘Good.’ Grace turned a charming smile on Lisa. ‘Then Cinderella shall go to the ball.’