The Noble Path: A relentless standalone thriller from the #1 bestseller Peter May (intellectual books to read .txt) 📖

‘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.’

Back in the car Lisa asked, ‘What ball?’

Grace laughed. ‘Not exactly a ball, Lisa. A dinner at one of my clubs. There will be some very influential guests. I hope you will be able to come.’

Lisa was still flushed with the unaccustomed pleasure of her purchases. Her earlier ambivalence towards Grace had mellowed and, although still uncertain about this bewildering and contradictory woman, she felt somehow closer to her now, knowing that she and her father had been lovers. Being close to her was like being close to her father. She took Grace’s hand, feeling genuine affection, and squeezed it. ‘I hope so, too,’ she said.

*

The south-facing windows along one wall of the dining room were closed against the heat and brightness of the midday sun. But large French windows at one end opened out onto a shaded area of the lush green tropical garden that grew wild behind the high walls that surrounded Grace’s villa. The rumble of traffic from the road seemed distant and unreal, like a dream on waking. The hum of insects, and the squawking of tropical birds among the luxuriant greenery of the trees, was the only real intrusion on the peaceful semi-darkness of the room.

Lisa sat alone at the long dining table, drinking strong black coffee under the gentle cooling downdraught of the fan overhead. The girl who had served them lunch had cleared the table, and Grace had left the room a few moments earlier to take a phone call. Lisa could hear the soft murmur of her voice somewhere deep in the house. She drained her cup and got up and walked slowly to the open French windows to stand framed in the doorway, smelling the damp, sweet fragrances of the fleshy-leaved tropical plants and flowers. The garden was a profusion of wild growth, a lotus pool choked with leaves, fruit trees untended, papaya, mango, the fruit of countless seasons rotting in the dark damp soil.

Over lunch, Grace had seemed distracted. She was quiet for a very long time before suddenly looking up and asking Lisa if she was still a virgin. Lisa had, again, flushed deeply. It was something she had never discussed with anyone. Even her mother. Anything to do with sex had been a subject of great embarrassment in her house. It had come from her mother and transmitted itself to Lisa. She had known nothing about the periods that would afflict her in adolescence until the first blood ran from between her legs at school. Then she had panicked, locking herself in the toilets and weeping hysterically in the certain knowledge that she was dying. The brutal truth had been conveyed to her by an unsympathetic form mistress who had sent her home with an angry note for her mother. Lisa’s mother had, in turn, been angry, masking her embarrassment by accusing Lisa of stupidity, as though somehow the child should have known without having to be told. In the years that followed, it had only ever been referred to in the house as the curse.

Sex was something she had learned about from giggled tales told by fellow schoolgirls, vulgar jokes provoking raucous laughter. For a long time Lisa had laughed too, without fully understanding why. In retrospect she had often wondered how many of her friends had been equally mystified. True knowledge seemed to rest in the hands of just a fortunate few. She could smile now at her ignorance, but the fear of the unknown, the sense of taboo, had never