Mr Wong Goes West by Nury Vittachi Page A

that could have caused such a response? ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’
    Joyce stared around her, an insane grin on her lips. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘You just screamed?’
    ‘Oh, that. I was just—I was just happy. I can’t
believe
we’re staying here. This is
so
amazing. I only ever get to stay in YMCAs or with mates if I come somewhere expensive like Hong Kong. But this—this must be the sheeshiest hotel in the place.’
    Wong tried to give Manks a knowing look, as if to say:
See what I have to put up with?
    ‘Well, if there’s no problem…er…let’s check in shall we?’
    Joyce squealled again (a little less dramatically) when she saw the luxurious black marble check-in desk and staff wearing black silk uniforms with gold trimmings.
    Manks’s expression became anxious, probably anticipating the shriek of excitement that would erupt from her on catching sight of their, no doubt to them, extravagantly appointed rooms.
    The royal public relations officer was forty-six, suave, and impeccably well-dressed in a Gieves & Hawkes suit. He was handsome, despite an overlarge forehead and thinning straw-coloured hair, and he had a warm smile and engaging manner. He had met them at the airport with an exaggerated Ian Fleming Englishness, which may or may not have been ironic: ‘The name’s Manks. Robbie Manks.’ He’d quickly explained that he was not officially retained by the royal family, but had his own PR company, which did a lot of work for thembecause of its reputation for quality, efficiency and discretion—the three things the royals sought above all else. Some of the stories he told Wong and Joyce during the taxi ride from the airport to the hotel suggested that his past twenty years had been professionally rather challenging, as it had more or less coincided with a long period of loss of face for the British monarchy. (He referred to them as ‘The Family’ with something in his tone of voice assigning capital initials to the phrase.) Manks clearly loathed the British press, whom he blamed for the majority of the problems. He saw the journalistic profession as a group of low scum desperate to sell newspapers and make a quid at the expense of ruining people’s lives and damaging the dignity of ‘the world’s finest monarchical institution’. But he stressed that The Family had a good friend in him, and his inventive programs had been a key element in their success in managing to hold on to much of their personal popularity through these difficult times. But he did admit that one of his previous innovative ventures for The Family—to get a phrenologist to look at their head shapes and make recommendations—had been only a partial success. (Wong was wise enough to interpret this carefully chosen phrase as an admission that it had been a total disaster.) But his latest venture, to get the palaces feng-shuied,
vaastued,
dowsed and exorcised, was sure to be an even bigger success.
    ‘You will get a
vaastu
man?’ Wong asked.
    ‘If I can find one who speaks good English. Still looking, I’m afraid.’
    Joyce interrupted: ‘There’s a good one we know in Singapore. We’ll give you his number. I’m sure he could jump on a plane and catch up with us.’
    The geomancer noticed that Manks had a habit of popping white tablets into his mouth. At first, he had thought they weresweets, but when Manks failed to offer them around, Wong realised that they must be something medicinal. Spying on the small circular package in which they were contained, he realised that they were tablets of homeopathic remedy of some kind.
    The roads were wide and clear for most of the journey and they had travelled from airport to hotel in little more than forty minutes. Five minutes after checking in, the three of them were up on the eleventh floor, inspecting the rooms they had been assigned. As expected, Joyce had squealled at the opulence of her room, and then yelped again on peering into the marble and glass