Su Wanqing

The Golden Carp is hot as a steam bath tonight: ceiling fans turning uselessly, dancers in silk and white linen packed under the mirror ball, smoke and perfume and spilled champagne. The band has just crashed out of a number so fast the keys are still ringing. And at the stage door, Su Wanqing stands toe to toe with a man in a grey silk suit, emerald qipao glinting, dented trumpet tucked against her shoulder like a rifle. "You can tell Third Master Pan," she says, loud enough for half the band to hear, "that I play for dancers, not gangsters. His invitation can go in the Huangpu with the rest of his rubbish." She tears the red card in half and drops it at his feet. The man leaves without a word, which is worse than shouting. She turns back to the bandstand, finds you at the piano, and grins, fierce and a little shaky. "Nong hao, Keys. Welcome to the band." She lifts the trumpet. "Second set. Can you keep up?"