Chapter 6
6
TUESDAY, 1 JULY, 2025 – HONG KONG
Moira
Thirty-four years after leaving Hong Kong, Moira was back, and she already had one crucial question. How, in the name of the bushy coiffure, had she managed to forget the humidity here? Was it like pregnancy? The minute it was over, you forgot the woes and that’s why you did it all over again? Because yes, just like that day back in 1990, Moira knew that the second she stepped outside, her hair was going to frizz to the size of a beach ball.
Only this time, she couldn’t care less, because… she was here again. She was different. The times were different. The government of the island was different, now that it had reverted to Chinese rule. Even the airport was different – she’d flown into Chek Lap Kok, the modern airport in the New Territories that had replaced the hair-raising descent over Victoria Harbour to touch down at Kai Tak. However, as she looked out of the car window at the packed streets of Wanchai, nothing obviously different was sticking out. Still the crowded pavements. The eclectic, haphazard mix of old and new, of traditional and modern, of Chinese and European influences. Excitement was swirling in her gut, like a tumble dryer on high speed. She was here. And she felt just as thrilled as she’d been over three decades ago.
Her plan had been to just jump in a taxi at the airport, but when she’d come through the arrivals terminal, there had been a capped gentleman there holding a sign with her name on it. It was the second surprise of the last twenty-four hours. The first was when she’d got to Glasgow Airport and was informed that she’d been upgraded to business class for both the flight to Heathrow and then the onward journey to Hong Kong. At first, she’d thought it was a mistake, but then the realisation had dawned. It wasn’t a random stroke of luck. Thirteen and a half hours of airborne luxury with a seat that slid down to a flat bed, allowing her to kick off her sparkly sandals and put her feet up, while watching four movies, reading fifty pages of an old Judith Krantz bonkbuster, and eating meals with real cutlery, all thanks to one very special person.
Now, as her car edged through the packed afternoon traffic, she took out her mobile and pressed her most frequently used number. Ollie answered on the first ring.
‘Hey, Ma, arrived safely?’ She’d known he would pick up. It would be around 10p.m. on his first night back in LA, so he’d probably be in his apartment on Sunset Boulevard. She could picture him on the sofa, the lights of Los Angeles twinkling in his floor to ceiling windows.
‘Arrived safely, son,’ she replied, her smile automatic. ‘However, there seemed to have been a couple of mistakes along the way.’
‘Oh, really? What’s that then?’
She could hear the amusement in his voice.
‘Well, first of all,’ she went on, ‘Some mysterious benefactor upgraded my flight from economy to business class.’
‘Wow, that was a lucky break,’ he piped up, still going with it.
‘And then someone appears to have very kindly ordered me a chauffeur driven ride in a swanky car from the airport to my hotel.’
‘Someone is clearly trying to make you feel loved and appreciated, Ma. I’d definitely hang on to that person. Must be a really nice guy.’
That made her chortle and drop the game. ‘Ollie Chiles, what have I told you?’ She was trying and failing to sound stern. ‘I don’t want you buying me things. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of my own life, thank you very much.’ She’d told him that a hundred times over the years. When he’d first made it big and started banking huge pay cheques, he’d offered to buy her a house back in Glasgow and make her financially comfortable for the rest of her life, but she’d refused.
‘But Ma, you supported me my whole life. It’s my turn,’ he’d argued.
‘No, it isn’t, and I don’t want to hear that again from you. As long as I’m capable of earning a living, I’ll make my own money. And if I’m not, I’ve told Jacinta to sell my worldly goods on eBay. My Tom Jones album collection will make enough to keep us in prosecco for a while.’ She was joking, but the point was made. He’d never offered her charity again. Her new job at the Academy came with a good salary, but no more than she’d earn anywhere else, given her talent and experience.
That’s why, since she’d returned from her life at sea, he’d taken to doing little sneaky things like this. Upgrades on flights. Expensive Christmas presents. Trips with him to Los Angeles, or wherever he was filming. It was never his success that made her swell with pride – it was the fact that she’d raised a genuinely good man, who’d somehow managed to remain grounded despite the whole fame and fortune thing, and who was happy to spend time hanging out with her. As a mum, she couldn’t ask for anything more.
‘Message received, Ma. But do me a favour – if there’s a slight change in your hotel room, don’t make a fuss. Like I said, you deserve it.’
‘Oh, dear God. Ollie, if you’ve changed me to a flash, expensive room, I’ll be mortified. I won’t be able to put my Primark pyjamas in the laundry. And I’ll need to put my posh voice on the whole time I’m there.’
That made him laugh. ‘Yeah, well, it’ll be worth it. Have you heard from your old friends yet? Are they going to make it?’
‘Not a word.’ She tried to ignore the sucker punch of disappointment that answer caused. No response from either Carina or Lisa. She understood. Thirty-odd years was a long time to try to maintain a friendship without seeing each other, but she thought they’d done a decent job of it. Birthday and Christmas cards every year. An occasional letter or postcards from their travels. She’d once suggested one of those Zoom calls, but Lisa had put the kibosh on that one, saying that she wasn’t one for modern technology and she had no interest in learning. Moira hadn’t been offended. Lisa had always been the maverick in their group, and she couldn’t imagine that had changed in the last three and a half decades.
She held onto the door handle, as the car took a sharp turn into a street she recognised only too well. The Harbour Lights Hotel was only a few minutes away now. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to overthink it or let it spoil the trip. If they show up, I’ll be delighted, but if not, I’m perfectly happy to go down memory lane on my own.’ That was true but she didn’t add that this next week was so much more than that. It was the end of a chapter, one of grafting to earn a living, working away from home, being told where to be and what to do every day and the start of a new one, back in Glasgow, in a job she was going to love, with so much more freedom to dictate her own life and make her own choices. She just hoped that being here with the ghost of twenty-three-year-old Moira, would inspire her to start writing the story of what came next. Remind her what made her happy. Help her to find joy in her newfound freedom. Oh, welp, she was sounding like one of those navel-gazing self help audio books that Jacinta listened to in the sauna. They were always banging on about finding purpose and fulfilment and inner joy. Moira would settle for some outer joy and a half-baked plan to get her mojo back.
‘Anyway, son, that’s me at the hotel, so I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow and thanks again for the lovely surprises. You made a knackered old boot very happy.’
They exchanged goodbyes and she hung up just in time to see the hotel come into view. The Harbour Lights Hotel – the same one where they’d sang for their supper six nights a week back in 1990, during one of the very best times of her life. Sure, she’d been skint, sleep deprived and living in a hovel, but none of that had mattered. She’d made friends that she dearly hoped would show up today. She’d laughed until her cheeks hurt and partied until she couldn’t feel her feet. She’d made great decisions and reckless ones. She’d been young and vibrant, her joints hadn’t ached after dancing all night and she didn’t need specs to read a menu. She’d even fallen in love. She’d broken someone’s heart. And her own. Back then, she’d been convinced that it was only the start of a glamorous, illustrious life. And if anyone were to ask twenty-three-year-old Moira how her dream life would look, she’d say that she would be swept off her feet, marry someone wonderful and live a life of comfortable wealth, while treading the boards of London’s West End and New York’s Broadway.
If she’d have known what was ahead of her, would she have left? Barely two years later, her dreams had been abandoned and she was dealing with an unplanned pregnancy. Then came single parenthood. Living with her ailing parents for over a decade. A life of graft, and financial struggle, supporting her son, and her mum and dad until they passed. Nope, not the future she’d expected back then.
But… this was her reset. And she was going to make the most of every second, even if she had to do it alone.
The car drew to a halt under the porte-cochère outside the hotel entrance and the driver immediately jumped out to get her suitcases, while a bellman from the hotel rushed forward with a luggage cart. ‘Good afternoon,’ he greeted her. ‘Welcome to the Harbour Lights Hotel and Spa. If you’d like to proceed directly to reception, I’ll bring your luggage up to your room.’
Moira had a fleeting thought that when she’d bought her suitcases in the Argos sale, she hadn’t envisaged them being carted around a five-star hotel. Maybe she should have gone with something a little classier than screaming pink, with large purple pansies imprinted on the front. Not exactly Louis Vuitton.
Moira fished in her purse for two hundred-dollar bills and tucked the tip into the driver’s hand, re-running the maths of the currency exchange rate in her head several times to make sure that she didn’t make a mistake. No, she was fine. Two hundred HK dollars was definitely around twenty quid. Higher than the tip she’d give a taxi driver at home, but less than the average punter probably tipped in a place like this.
Another surge of excitement gripped her as she walked along the carpet to a huge glass door that was opened by a uniformed doorman. ‘Good afternoon, and welcome…’ He went on, repeating the same message as the lovely chap who was currently loading Argos’ finest luggage onto his cart.
The lobby and reception area looked the same, yet different. The desks were in the same place, the glass lifts at the back of the atrium were still taking guests up and down, and the coffee bar was still there, over in the corner. But that was where the familiarity ended. The whole area had undergone a stunning makeover: the shiny tile floors replaced by marble, the brown walls now a contemporary mix of granite and wood accents. Gone were the old wooden reception desks, and in their place, a row of gleaming stone podiums, each of them with a uniformed member of staff behind them. There was no queue, so Moira walked towards the first receptionist who made eye contact. ‘Hello, I’d like to check in, please. Moira Chiles. You should have my reservation.’ Yep, the posh voice was on. She couldn’t help herself. Ollie would be teasing her mercilessly if he were here, because she was all too aware that her posh voice was a startling cross between the late, great Dame Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey and Princess Anne.
‘Certainly, Ms Chiles. Can I have your passport, please?’
She handed it over, and watched as he began tapping away, before raising his gaze.
‘Ms Chiles, you’ve been upgraded to the penthouse suite.’
Her face went straight to flushed. The accent was going to have to stay on all week. That son of hers was going to get another stern talking to. And maybe a big hug too.
The receptionist finished the check-in, then slid her passport back to her, then followed it with a room key that looked like a gold credit card. ‘Ms Chiles, your penthouse is on the eighteenth floor, and if you wouldn’t mind having a seat for a moment, I’ll call our Guest Services Manager, who will show you to your room and explain the features of your suite.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Princess Anne replied, with a grateful nod. She was about to step away when she paused.
‘I don’t suppose there have been any messages left for me? There’s a possibility that a couple of friends will join me.’
He checked his screen again. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Okay, thank you.’ Dame Maggie Smith this time.
She hadn’t even turned away from the desk when she heard a voice behind her.
‘I think perhaps that message you’re looking for might be from me?’
Moira spun around and threw open her arms, as she recognised the very genuine, dulcet tones of the poshest pal she’d ever known.