Page 68 of Don't Point at the Moon

“When we left for the hospital, he was still fast asleep in our spare room.”

“Who?”

“Zane.”

“Wait. What? Zane spent the night at Harold’s place?”

“Yes. And, technically, the property belongs to me.”

“Why was he at yours?” he asked.

“Another of Harold’s grand ideas,” said William, smiling sadly. “Mainly because of you and Tommy. When your nephew came to bid us goodnight at the bar, he asked if we’d seen you. Earlier that evening, as Harold was backing his wheelchair out of the disability toilet, he saw you and Tommy in the passage behind the bar getting intimate—although I think Harold used a more vulgar expression. Tommy slipped out the back way and I remembered seeing you head quickly out the front, avoiding people. Harold, of course, put two and two together. Zane was overjoyed when we told him. Honestly, ever since that dreadfulRepulse Bay cocktail party, Harold has been obsessed about hooking the two of you up. Cajoling Kate and Devon into finding a way to bring you both to the beach clean-up and using Zane to get you onto the junk trip. He and Devon were trying to figure out how to force you to the MacLehose hike together, but by some miracle or another you managed to arrange that yourselves. Anyway, being who he is, Harold offered Zane a bed for the night once he’d finished with his friends, to give you two time to finish what you needed to do, so to speak. We left him fast asleep in our spare room when Harold and I packed a bag and took a cab to the hospital this morning.”

“He’s not answering any of my calls,” said Mitchell, dumbfounded.

“Ah, that might be my fault. I do apologise. I should have messaged you, but I have been somewhat distracted this morning. When your nephew turned up last night, he said his phone had run out of juice and asked for a charger. I was half asleep and plugged the device into our study charger down the hall. Said I would wake him at seven the next morning. Would you like to come back and check if he’s still there?”

“Do you mind?”

“Oh, please,” said William, stepping into the road to hail a red taxi. “I need something to keep me from going insane. If I were a braver sort, I might even agree to ride pillion on that monstrosity. Let’s go find that errant nephew of yours. I’ll meet you there.”

Mitchell fired a quick message off to Tommy before trailing the taxi back to William and Harold’s apartment. He had been there a few times over the years for dinner parties. An older property, like the one Mitchell rented, their building had the addition of an ancient elevator with a criss-cross metal barrier. The tenth-floor apartment had three bedrooms and a panoramic view of the harbour from the living room. They, too,had renovated and decorated exquisitely. Mitchell had always assumed, incorrectly as it turned out, that Harold had bought the property with the proceeds of the sale of his business.

“I never correct guests when they assume the flat belongs to Harold.” As the elevator rose, a ride Mitchell had assumed they would take in silence, William began speaking. “To be honest, I think of the flat as belonging to us both. But the truth is Harold helped me sell the place my father left me when he passed. That’s how we met. Then he arranged all the renovations. He has a keen eye for detail. Although the bricks and mortar are legally mine, the property has Harold’s elegance and style stamped all over it.”

William’s voice trailed off. Mitchell didn’t know what to say, so he placed a comforting hand on his shoulder and gave a squeeze. The gesture felt strange and awkward. Mitchell could not remember having touched the man before, even to shake his hand. William turned towards him and smiled sadly.

“Everything is meaningless without him.”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine, William. He’s in the best place now, in professional hands.”

“I keep telling myself that. I just hope we’re both right.”

Inside the apartment, William pointed down the hallway to the end bedroom. Mitchell opened the door to the darkened room and flicked on the light.

“Wassup?” came the shocked voice of a bleary-eyed Zane, sitting up and shading his eyes with a hand.

“Nothing much, chum.”

Mitchell strode over to the window and pulled open the curtains, letting sunlight join the assault on Zane’s vision.

“Except the plane you’re flying back to London in,” said Mitchell, before peering down at his watch, “is leaving Hong Kong in around two and a half hours’ time.”

Chapter Eighteen

Tommy’s teaching colleagues from overseas invariably remarked about the number of public holidays Hong Kong citizens enjoyed, the region commemorating Chinese and English celebrations. On the first day of July, a public holiday called the Hong Kong Establishment Day to celebrate the return of Hong Kong to China, Tommy and his friends had created a tradition of meeting for a Handover Day lunch. Some laughingly referred to the event as Hangover Day on the rare occasion the holiday fell on a Monday and leisurely celebrations took place the day before, often dragging on late into the evening.

That particular Monday’s Establishment Day, just over a week since Zane had been the last passenger herded onto the plane for his flight home, Tommy met Mitchell for his image transformation beneath the Times Square clock in Causeway Bay. As Hong Kong malls went, this popular one would do nicely to shop for Mitchell’s wedding clothes. Once they had those sorted, hopefully before one o’clock, they would meet Oscar, Devon and a couple of their friends for lunch on the tenth floor. For the afternoon, Tommy had already planned out the places to take his makeover subject.

In preparation, Tommy had sent Magenta, his hairdresser, phone photos of Mitchell and emphasised his friend’s somewhat conservative nature. Magenta, in turn, had sent back shots of a series of model and celebrity hairstyles, ranging from outrageous and clearly unacceptable to short, clipped and even shaven. Tommy had vouched for something in between thatwould push Mitchell’s boundaries but not freak him out. And, of course, no colouring—as instructed. He hadn’t told Mitchell yet that the day would conclude with a full grooming, including a wet shave, eyebrow waxing, a mani-pedicure, and culminate in a ninety-minute shoulder, back and foot massage.

Mitchell seemed tired and subdued when they met—like a lamb to the slaughter, perhaps? Tommy hoped not. He suspected Mitchell’s working week had not been kind. The last time they had been together, Tommy had spent much of his Sunday helping find Mitchell’s nephew. Tommy wondered if their time together had made Mitchell feel obligated, because he had made no bones about Tommy’s plan to reinvent him.

Zane crashing at Harold’s place still made little sense, but Tommy hadn’t pushed for an explanation. With William’s help, Mitchell had managed to get Zane to the airport just in time for his flight. Zane had texted Tommy the moment he’d landed at Heathrow, thanking him for his friendship, making clear his intention to return at the earliest possible opportunity and asking Tommy to look out for Mitchell—as if he needed looking after.

“Once we’ve picked out the right suit,” said Tommy on the long escalator leading up into the mall. “I am convinced everything else will fall into place. If we had enough time, I’d take you to see my tailor in Tsim Sha Tsui. But he’d need at least a week for fittings and adjustments. And, more importantly, we’d need to have a style in mind and I have no idea what suits you best. At this boutique we can pick out a selection in your size and get you to try them on.”

Before he’d moved back to Canada, a friend of Tommy’s had worked at one of the men’s designer fashion stores. They specialised in off-the-peg branded clothing and Tommy still had a discount card. Tommy tried to read Mitchell’s expression ashe pulled one suit after another from racks, but Mitchell seemed distracted that morning.

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