chapter 7 - Private Lives

Our last day on Chinese soil and I'm embarrassed to admit I'm kind of looking forward to leaving. Travelling in China, on our own and not on some tour, is hard work. We’re used to the heat and humidity now, but the climate still tires us. And this whole thing with Hamish. Soon enough he will be leaving and then I will really be alone. I feel sapped of energy.

Tonight we are treating ourselves to a stay at the Peace Hotel, famous for having accommodated Noel Coward while he wrote “Private Lives”.
I feel out of sorts and on the way up to our room I look at Hamish and without thinking say, “When we get to Hong Kong, why don’t you cut your hair? It’s too shaggy.”

He ruffled his unruly mop. “I kind of like it like this.”

“Well I think it looks juvenile.”

He looked at me surprised. Which is how I feel too. God, I sound like my mother! Why am I saying this stuff?

Our hotel room is shabby, with a soft bed and dirty walls, looking just like any Western styled hotel or motel in any small town in any country. But to our eyes it seems opulent. There is a real bathroom all to ourselves! Warm water! A reading lamp that works! A TV with an English speaking news station! Our own key! Soap! A window!

We can lie around naked and talk freely to each other and I try to make myself enjoy it. We had a lukewarm bath, made love because we could, and lay on the bed, occasionally saying “Do you remember?” Or “What about that day?”, remembering all the things we’ve seen in the last few weeks. I wanted only to smile at the memories added to our relationship but my mind instead goes to the image of Hamish going away and what that would mean. Our conversation ran out after an hour or so and I lay back on the bed, feeling the hot air settle on my skin and looking at the peeling ceiling.

I persuaded him to go dancing downstairs in the evening. I have been wanting to escape curious eyes for weeks but now desire to get among other people. After all we've done we can only talk for an hour? That's not good! The room held a tired band playing tunes that sounded as dusty and worn as the furniture. Several men came up to ask Hamish if they could ask me to dance, which he found vastly amusing. After dancing they would grab my hand and rush me back to our table, thanking both Hamish and me for the pleasure. All very courteous.

After an hour of me dancing and him drinking beer after beer he asked me to put him out of his misery and let him go to bed. I felt put out - he hadn't danced wiht me himself once! I just silently got up and led the way back to the room. Almost everything he does now makes me feel a bit resentful.

Even though they are worn and shabby the bed sheets are clean and its a treat to lie on clean sheets again. Hamish has told me I clutch at the sheets and pull them tightly to my chest, not letting go for anything. I guess I’m still not totally used to sharing my bed. Maybe it's a sign not to.