And the Bride Wore Red

‘And you think the heart doesn’t?’ she retorted with a touch of indignation. ‘We’re not all as lucky as Meihui.’

‘Or Norah.’

‘I’d hardly call her lucky.’

‘I would,’ he said at once. ‘The man she loved died, but he didn’t betray her. That makes her luckier than many women, and men too, who live for years with the shadows of failed love, bad memories, regrets. Or the others, who never dared risk love at all and have only thoughts of what might have been if only they’d had a little more courage.’

‘That sounds very fine,’ she said. ‘But the fact is that most people are unlucky in love. Is there really much to choose between taking the risk and regretting it, and deciding not to take it at all?’

‘And regretting that?’

‘And living free,’ she said defiantly. ‘Free of regrets, free of pain—’

‘Free of joy, free of the sense that life is worth living or ever has been?’ he interrupted her firmly. ‘Being free of pain can come at a heavy price.’

How had they strayed into this argument? she wondered. And why? The conversation was becoming dangerous, and she acted instinctively to get back into control.

‘I see Wei coming towards us,’ she said brightly.

If he noticed her abrupt change of subject he didn’t say so. Instead he turned sardonic eyes on his cousin, who bustled forward eagerly, his gaze darting between the two of them.

‘We’d like some fruit, please,’ Lang said firmly. ‘And then, vanish!’

Wei gave him a hurt look and departed with dignity. Lang ground his teeth.

‘Sometimes I think I should have stayed well clear of my family,’ he said.

Fruit was served, then tea, and then it was time for the entertainment. Two girls identically dressed in white-embroidered satin glided in. One, holding a small lute, seated herself, ready to play. The other stood beside her.

The lights dimmed except for the one on the performers. The first notes came from the lute and the singer began to make a soft crooning noise, full of a poignancy that was like joy and sadness combined. As Olivia listened an aching feeling came over her, as though the music had sprung all the locks by which she protected herself, leaving her open and defenceless as she had sworn never to be again.

The girl was singing in a soft voice:

‘The trees were white with blossom.

We walked together beneath the falling petals.

But that is past and you are gone.

The trees do not blossom this year.

Aaaii-eeeii!’

That was how it had been; the trees hadn’t blossomed this year and she knew they never would again. Andy had been an abject lesson in the need to stay detached. In future no man would hurt her like that because she wouldn’t let it happen.

‘The bridge still leads across the river,

Where we walked together.

But when I look down into the water,

Your face is not beside me.

Never again…’

Never again, she thought, not here or anywhere. She closed her eyes for a moment. But suddenly she opened them again, alerted by a touch on her cheek.

‘Don’t cry,’ Lang said.

‘I’m not crying,’ she insisted.

For answer he showed her his fingertips, wet with her tears.

‘Don’t weep for him,’ he said softly.

It would have been useless to utter another denial when he hadn’t believed the first.

‘I get sentimental sometimes.’ She tried to laugh it away. ‘But I’m really over him.’

In the dim light she could see Lang shake his head, smiling ruefully.

‘Perhaps you belong together after all,’ he said. Suddenly he reached into his pocket, took out his mobile phone and pushed it towards her, then he leaned close to murmur into her ear without disturbing the singer.

‘Call him. Say that your quarrel was a mistake, and you love him still. Go on. Do it now.’

The dramatic gesture astonished and intrigued her. With a gasp of edgy laughter, she pushed the phone back to him.

‘Why are you laughing?’ he demanded.

‘I was just picturing his face if he answered the phone and found himself talking to me. There was no quarrel. He left me for someone else. She had a lot of money, so he obviously did the right thing. I believe they’re very happy. She bought him a posh car for a wedding present.’

‘And that makes it the right thing?’ he enquired.

‘Of course.’

‘So if a millionaire proposed you’d accept at once?’

‘No way! He’d have to be a billionaire at least.’

‘I see.’ The words were grave but his lips were slightly quirked, as if he were asking who she thought she was fooling.

But he said nothing more. The music had ended. The singer bowed to the heartfelt applause and embarked on another song, slightly more cheerful. Lang turned his head towards the little stage, but reached back across the table to take hold of Olivia’s hand, and kept it.

She found that her nostalgic sadness had vanished, overtaken by a subtle pleasure that seemed to infuse the whole evening. Everything was a part of it, including the man sitting opposite her, looking away, giving Olivia the chance to study him unobserved.

She could appreciate him like this. His regular features were enough to make him good-looking, but they also had a mobility that was constantly intriguing. His eyes could be bland and conventional, or wickedly knowing in a way that gave him a disconcerting charm. She wondered if there was anyone he regretted from his own past. A warm-natured man in his thirties, with a deep belief in the value of romantic love, had surely not reached this point without some sadness along the road.

She began to muse on the subject, wondering if there was a way to question him without revealing too much interest. There wasn’t, of course, and an alarm bell sounded in her head. This was just the kind of atmosphere she’d learned to fear—seductive, romantic, lulling her senses and her mind in dangerous harmony.