The White Amah (19 page)

‘Get out of my way, you stupid bitch. I won’t forget this. I’ll make sure he fires you.’

Rubiah glared malevolently at her lover’s frightened secretary and burst into the boardroom with the unhappy secretary in her wake, just as Joseph Ling raised his glass of Chivas Regal Royal Salute to toast the chief. The tribal elder had just agreed to sell eighty hectares of rainforest to the Baram Hardwood Timber Company at well below its true value and without going through an intermediary. There was no need for Joe to bribe greedy politicians who could sign away the natives’ land with the stroke of a pen. As expected, the deal was struck on his terms. After all, the destruction of a rebellious village was still fresh in the headman’s mind.

The entire village had been caught up in the preparations for the wedding. The resonant sound of brass gongs and the thud of drums had echoed across the pineapple plantation, drowning out the squeals of the fatted pig the excited children were poking with sharpened sticks. When the groom and his family arrived the tormented beast would be butchered outside the longhouse, in front of the bride’s door.

The bride’s mother was putting the finishing touches to the feast when she heard a lorry coming up the jungle track. She
frowned. The guests were early and there was still much to do. Laughing happily, the children abandoned their victim and, anticipating lollies, raced off to welcome the guests from the groom’s longhouse. Without warning armed men had erupted from the vehicle, shooting their rifles wildly, trampling the bridal feast spread out on mats in front of each longhouse door and driving the frightened families into the jungle. The men’s orders were to burn down the longhouse, but the gasoline-fed flames spread to the adjacent jungle.

The fire burned for three days and destroyed all the valuable old-growth forest the villagers had refused to sell. Along with the precious timber, thirty-three lives were lost, including that of the teenage bride who’d run barefoot into the jungle to escape the men intent on raping every girl they could catch. It was an open secret that the arsonists worked for Joseph Ling.

‘Rubiah, I’m so glad you could make it after all,’ Joseph said silkily, his arm heavy on her shoulders, his eyes steely as he propelled her into the room. ‘That will be all,’ he said, dismissing his secretary.

He smiled at the chief. ‘I’d like to introduce you to Rubiah, my second wife. Her family has a longhouse on the upper Pangup, close to the Indonesian border.’ He pressed his unwelcome visitor down into a rosewood chair with a grip of iron. ‘As you can see, I chose my beloved second wife from your people and she has taught me to value the Dayak culture. I invited you here today to meet her so you can understand why I’m so interested in forming partnerships with the indigenous tribes.’ His fingernails dug brutally into the flesh of Rubiah’s upper arm, a warning not to countermand his words and not to cause a scene.

Rubiah put on an amazing performance and the old chief never guessed that she hadn’t been invited to the meeting. You have to hand it to her, Joe thought as she flattered the tribal elder, winning him over completely. As it happened, her unexpected arrival had been a masterstroke, more effective than a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch, but it could have turned out differently, and he seethed inwardly while he smiled effusively at his wilful mistress and his gullible guest.

It was late when the contract was finally signed and the driver had taken the befuddled chief back to his hotel. Tipsy, Joe and Rubiah retired to the small company apartment he used when he worked late.

‘What’s got you so riled up?’ he snarled as he took off his jacket and began to unbutton his shirt. ‘You nearly queered my deal.’

‘I’ve just found out you’re going to England without me, what do you expect?’ she spat.

Joe couldn’t believe she’d found out about the trip so soon. He’d only confirmed the arrangements with Xiang that morning. He didn’t know that Mei Li had phoned Rubiah as soon as she’d heard that she was to accompany the family to England, ignorant of the storm she’d stirred up. Rubiah had stewed over the news all morning and had worked herself into a rage. I hate the bastard, she thought. I wish he were dead. He always said she was the one he loved yet she would be the only one left behind. Even that useless Mei Li got to go. When Mei Li told her, she had been too angry to cry. By the time she had marched into Joseph’s office she’d been totally out of control. With difficulty, she’d kept her temper in check in front of the chieftain, but now her anger came back, twice as strong.

‘When the hell were you going to tell me?’ She let fly at him with sharp red talons.

‘You shouldn’t have done that,’ Joe said, looking at the droplets beading on his shoulder. He slapped her with the palm of his hand, hard enough to leave an imprint on her cheek. He meant to let her off easily, but she flew straight back at him and grabbed him by the throat. He prised her fingers from his neck, captured both hands and pinned her down on the bed. She spat and scratched in her fury. He released her, only to tear his belt out of his trousers and wind it round his hand.

‘No, Joe!’ she screamed.

Later, he raised his head to look at her. Why did the grasping bitch have such power over him? It wasn’t just her pretty face and lush body that stirred his desire; it was the odd combination of violence and vulnerability, naivety and depravity that intrigued and bound him to her as tightly as a wedding band. Rubiah turned away, embarrassed that he knew she’d felt desire mingled with the pain. They lay beside each other on the bare boards, spent by the fury of their passion.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Rubiah finally. “I don’t know what gets into me. You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone to your office. But you’re all I have, and sometimes … I feel like I mean nothing to you.’

‘I look after you, don’t I?’

‘Leave Xiang.’

‘Xiang’s my wife,’ Joe said impatiently.

Rubiah searched his face. There was no indecision, only steely resolve. ‘I want to go to England with you.’

‘We’d have to travel separately and stay in different hotels, and I wouldn’t be with you for most of the time.’

‘Just as long as we can be together sometimes.’

‘Come to bed.’ Joe was watching her, his eyes like slits of granite, his lips compressed into a hard straight line.

As she struggled to remove the wooden beads she always wore they got caught up in her hair. We’ll be here all night at this rate, he thought, and he grabbed hold and yanked them free, pulling out a hank of her long flowing hair.

‘Owww, you just about scalped me.’

‘Be nice to me, babe, and I’ll get you something nicer to wear than this old thing.’ With a snort of derision he dropped the sacred Dayak icon on the floor.

T
UFF ANSWERED THE DOOR IN UNDERWEAR
from her newly released Bondage range, clutching a Bloody Mary. She seemed tipsy, and the young reporter from
Vanity Fair
raised her eyebrows at her colleague as they followed the stumbling rock queen through the magnificent great hall and into the baroque courtyard. The photographer was impressed by the setup. He thought the courtyard wouldn’t have looked out of place in a palazzo in Rome and immediately started to snap establishment shots of the Olympic-sized pool and formal gardens.

‘Floyd, bring us another jug and some more glasses, and don’t forget the Tabasco sauce this time,’ snapped Tuff.

A powerfully built youth in a fluorescent green g-string and cut-off T-shirt who was diffidently vacuuming the pool obediently loped off to the house. The young female reporter tried not to gape.

‘Buns of steel,’ commented Tuff with a knowing smile.

‘This is all so grand and opulent. Quite a change from your tour of Somalia.’

‘The plight of children in that war-ravaged country keeps me awake at night, but I was willing to put up with hardship and danger for their sake. It was very hard for me to leave them behind, but I couldn’t adopt them all.’ Inexplicably, Tuff had turned down the first child her agent had shown her, an enchanting baby girl, in favour of twin brothers Hari and Rashni. ‘I’ve
connected with them,’ she had told her astounded agent, who thought the little girl was more appealing than the unremarkable, gangly boys. ‘I feel I can do more to help the others with my Tuff on Poverty world tour.’

‘Over two-point-five billion people watched your television special
Tuff Love
,’ said the journalist. ‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Awed. It’s been quite a journey.’ Where’s Floyd got to, Tuff wondered idly as she adroitly fielded the reporter’s questions.

‘It’s quite a change from rock icon to crusader for children’s rights.’

‘Not really. Who wouldn’t be concerned about starving children? As an idol to millions of people all over the world, I’m fortunate to be in a position to use my celebrity to publicise their plight.’ Tuff swirled the melting ice cubes in her empty glass and looked around for the tardy pool boy. It wasn’t fair that a superstar like her couldn’t get decent help.

‘You seem so different in the special from the rebellious chick that shocked the establishment when you burst on the scene seventeen years ago.’

‘Times change, and I’ve changed and grown with them, obviously. I’m a still a wild, aggressive rock chick when I’m performing, but at heart I’m a soft sell, especially when it comes to babies and children. Excuse me.’ She picked up her mobile phone.

The reporter got up politely and walked over to talk to the photographer, then returned to the table after Tuff had put the phone down.

‘That was a reporter from the
Sun
asking me if I’d like to comment on Josh Chadwick’s knighthood.’

‘And?’

‘I told him I was so delighted. Sir Josh, da bomb!’ she said, hamming it up to hide her bitterness from the reporter.

‘Weren’t you a member of his group Speed in the early days?’ The reporter was grateful to have been given an opportunity to direct the conversation to the rivalry between the country’s two greatest male and female performers. Neither of them had ever been drawn into revealing the facts behind the feud and it would be a real coup for her if she could get Tuff to open up.

‘Only briefly. He’s a great artist and I couldn’t be more pleased that he’s been honoured in this way. How much longer is this going to take?’ She tapped her fingers on the glass table impatiently and looked at her watch. ‘Cartier,’ she said, catching the reporter’s envious look. ‘My agent has prepared this release. It’s got all the dates and venues for the Tuff on Poverty concerts.’ She stood up to indicate the interview was at an end.

‘My colleague would like to get some photographs of you with your two adopted children,’ the reporter responded, realising Tuff was not going to be drawn into talking about her relationship with ‘the nice guy of rock’. Josh Chadwick was the nation’s favourite musician, and the sobriquet, first used by a reporter from
Rolling Stone,
had entered into the British public’s collective consciousness.

‘They’re both at boarding school. Naturally I’d like nothing more than have them live here with me all the time, but it just doesn’t work with me being on tour for most of the year.’ She shrugged. ‘There are some pics of me with Hari and Rashni in the press kit, but I think my fans would rather see me in my new lingerie line. Don’t you agree? I’ll just go and round up the hired help. It can’t hurt to have some eye candy in the pictures.’

She really is incredible, thought the reporter as the muscled beauty, looking erotic in a black leather steel-boned corset and thigh-high, metal-studded suede boots, posed beside the pool with a near-naked trio of brooding male models that doubled as her handymen.

Stupid cow, thought Tuff after they’d left. She had no liking for the media and thought of them as ravaging jackals waiting to pounce if ever she let down her guard.

It had been seventeen years since Tom and Willie had taken the Kongs’ money and run out on her without any explanation. She had loved Tom. When she realised she’d been used something had died inside her, and she resolved never to let anyone get close to her again. Salvation had come in the form of the elderly chief executive of a minor British recording company who discovered her singing at a sleazy nightclub in Miri. He bought her a ticket to London, put her up in his apartment, paid for a sexy new wardrobe and helped launch her career, even coming up with the name that defined her image. She moved out of the randy old goat’s bed when her very first single went platinum, signing a contract with his biggest rival.