Free The Rose of Singapore by Peter Neville

one side. “Please, come in,” she said. And when he thanked her, she said, “Welcome to my home,” and ushered him into a small but surprisingly clean and tidy bed-sitting room. Obviously, the inside of the building is better maintained than the outside, thought Peter.
    â€œPlease, sit down. I will make tea,” Lai Ming was saying, a wisp of a smile hovering on her face.
    â€œThank you,” said Peter, sitting down upon a wicker chair, one of a matching pair at two sides of a small glass-topped wicker table. He was no longer nervous, just curious, so that when Lai Ming left him he looked at all that was around him. Dominating the room was a king-sized bed with two clean, very white sheets on it, the top one neatly turned back, and without a wrinkle to be seen on either. At the head of the bed, stretching its whole width, were two white pillows with the words ‘GOOD MORNING’ embroidered across each in pink and green silk; and in a corner of each pillow was embroidered a blue and yellow bird which resembled a swallow in flight. A glass-covered bedside table stood at the head of each side of the bed. And against the wall at the far side of the room was a large, crescent-shaped mirror overlooking a glass-topped dressing table on which lay an assortment of make-up paraphernalia. The only other piece of furniture in the room was a lacquered wardrobe with its door ajar, a Chinese calendar hanging on the inside of it. Peter could see many colourful articles of ladies clothing hanging from a rail inside the wardrobe, and many pairs of dainty shoes in two tidy rows covering its whole floor. All the furniture appeared to be fairly new and modern, and spotlessly clean floral-patterned linoleum covered the floor. I like it here, it’s cosy, Peter decided, already feeling at ease and completely at home.
    He heard water running and the clink of china coming from below as Lai Ming prepared tea in the downstairs kitchen. Also, he could hear Chinese voices, Chinese music, and the rattle of pots and pans, sounds filtering in through thin walls. It must be the neighbours, thought Peter. He could also hear the sounds of traffic passing along the street below, outside the bedroom’s one window. Peter picked up a Chinese magazine from the table and thumbed through it, looking at the pictures and studying the Chinese characters of which he recognized few. He looked up, relieved when Lai Ming returned to the room and came to where he sat. She was carrying a round wicker tray, which she placed near him, on the table. On it was a floral bone china teapot, matching teacups, a sugar bowl, a plate of assorted biscuits, dainty cloth napkins, and two silver teaspoons. Lai Ming smiled graciously at Peter. “You are my honoured guest,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I will pour you tea.”
    â€œThank you. But aren’t you having any?” enquired Peter.
    â€œI shall take tea with you after I have washed and changed,” replied Lai Ming.
    â€œThen I shall wait for you,” said Peter.
    â€œNo, please don’t. You must be thirsty,” she said, delicately pouring him tea from the pot. “Do you take sugar?” she asked. And when he replied,” Yes, one spoon,” she laughed and said, “Only little squares,” and she dropped a cube of sugar from a spoon into the tea. “Now I must wash. I will not take long,” she said. Peter did not notice the longing look in her eyes as she turned and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
    Moments later he heard the splashing of falling water coming from the bathroom, and he wondered how Lai Ming must look naked beneath the shower she was now taking. He wished he could take a peek at her. Smiling at his own mischievous thoughts, he wondered just how angry she would become if he went to her and asked could he share the shower with her. But only a few minutes elapsed before the sound of splashing water ceased, and he