Page 3 of Don't Point at the Moon

“No,” said Mitchell firmly. “No, get Zane to email them to me. And tell him to let me know if he has any food allergies, dislikes or other quirks. Broadband is fibre and second to none here, so you can put his mind at rest there. And I want a list of the top five things he wants to do while he’s over—”

“I don’t think he knows enough about Hong Kong—”

“Then tell him to start researching. He’s going to need those skills for uni. If he has a checklist, he can tick things off while he’s here.”

Right then, another caller’s name popped up on his screen, one he had been expecting earlier.

“Thank you, Mitch,” said Ellie. “Rob will be relieved—”

“Sorry, Ellie. Can we pick this up on Sunday? I’ve got my boss on the other line.”

“Bugger off, then. I’ll book his flights. Speak Sunday.”

Mitchell thumbed the incoming call.

“Mitchell. Where are you?” came the irritated voice of his boss, Pauline Ng.

“In a taxi. Heading to a friend’s place for a family gathering. I tried to find you on my way out, but your secretary said you were busy.”

“I was. I am,” said Pauline, as dismissively as ever. “I wanted to speak to you privately.”

“Do you want me to head back in?”

“No, no. There’s no need. Do you have time to talk now?”

“Fire away.”

* * * *

Half an hour later, holding a glass of red wine, Mitchell glowered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Beth and Kate’s lavish eighteenth-floor Repulse Bay apartment. The whole southwestern end housed a wall of enormous windowpanes. That evening they framed a spectacular fiery sunset across the South China Sea. At any other time, the sight might have lifted his spirits.

He should have ignored Pauline’s call. Then again, she was like a terrier and would have kept ringing until he’d answered. Why did she always choose to confide unwelcome news late in the day? And just before a weekend or a public holiday? Whycould she not let him enjoy his day off? Plans to close down their office in Hong Kong and relocate all departmental functions to Singapore or London told on Tuesday evening would still be the same gut-wrenching news come Thursday morning.

He knew why. Pauline wanted him to start getting his head around logistics and planning what would happen without being distracted by day-to-day work. Was it her fault if the strictly confidential news ruined his day off?

Her special initiative was going to be horrendous. There would be multiple redundancies. Statutory severance payouts bordered on pitiful, and unless the organisation matched the more generous British redundancy calculations—which was unlikely—many good local people would have a paltry handout and no livelihood. In the weeks and months following the end of the pandemic, they had reduced headcount by around five per cent. But in all his years in Hong Kong, working for the same bank, something felt different about this, brutal and final—and personal.

“What do you think, Mitchell, darling? About Colton Underwood? Mark says he should have stayed in the closet,” said Harold, wrenching him away from his thoughts. Of all the group, sixty-eight-year-old Harold could read Mitchell’s mood better than anyone, and honestly, he was grateful for the distraction.

“I don’t know who that is,” said Mitchell, half-heartedly but truthfully. “Is he Carrie Underwood’s brother?”

He had not meant the remark to be funny but chuckled along with the men standing around him, whose earnestness had dissolved into mirth.

“Darling,” said Harold, shaking his head. “You are very close to losing your membership—”

“Be nice, Harold,” said Mark. “At least he knows who Carrie Underwood is. Surely that has to count for something.”

“I suppose we should allow some slack. He is a banker, after all,” said Harold.

Harold Choi had been Mitchell’s best friend for over eight years. Now confined to a motorised wheelchair due to a rare spinal tumour, he stayed as active as his condition allowed. Always escorted by his long-term partner, William, he provided a voice of reason and sound advice in Mitchell’s life. Long before the illness, Harold had worked tirelessly and sold his Hong Kong property business for a premium. With too much time on his hands and reduced mobility, he knew everything about the global entertainment industry but rarely paid any attention to the finer points of his friends’ lives.

“I’m a human resources manager for Charteris Bank.”

“Hiring and firing?” asked a grinning Mark—a simplistic view of his work but one that felt entirely accurate that particular evening. “Or are you a jack of all trades?”

Canadian Mark Doolen was the youngest and newest group member. He sported the kind of clean-cut and wholesome handsomeness characterised by young disciples of the Church of Latter-Day Saints. Mark had been in Hong Kong less time than any of them, and his introduction to the region had been a stint at a lacklustre quarantine hotel at the tail end of the pandemic pantomime. They had met only once before. Mitchell liked him and felt a mutual connection, more of respect than attraction. He sensed Mark was attracted to a particular type, a specific group into which none of their crowd fell.

“Jack of all trades,” muttered William, stationed behind Harold’s chair. “Master of none.”

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