Jean Luc Bisson, a French polo player, had found a Chinese girl. She was sassy, sexy. Spiky hair and spiky heels, skinny in black jeans and black silk camisole.
A hot breeze soughed over from the South China Sea, fluttering the advertising banners for Patek Philippe and Louis Vuitton, and tousling Jean Luc’s hair. It was the People’s Republic of China, but it could have been a humid version of Hurlingham near London, or maybe the Hamptons. Designer sun dresses and hats, flags of all nations, the smell of ponies. Most of all the turbo-charged testosterone of eight whole teams of polo players. Super-rich men, young women and lean men in tight white jeans. The atmosphere crackled with sexuality.
Three quarters of a bottle of Mumm champagne and two hours of weapons-grade flirtation with the Chinese girl had left Jean Luc thinking of only one thing. When she offered to entertain him in her apartment in Shanghai for the weekend, Jean Luc hadn’t bothered to weigh his options. He summoned a car and they drove off, to censorious glances in the mirror from the driver.
Ying Ning gave directions in Chinese, of course. They arrived at Hongqiao airport in Shanghai.
‘You must give the driver four hundred kwai,’ she told him sexily. Stroked his bicep under his pink polo shirt for good measure.
Jean Luc was confused, but gave her the money. It didn’t seem bad. About forty euros. Then watched in frustration as she stepped out.
‘Where you going?’ he asked.
‘Sichuan!’ she shouted over her shoulder and walked off into the terminal.