The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) (23 page)

It’s not every Friday night that a girl gets to snub her boss
and
a table full of important clients. So it must be my unlucky night. I don’t know how tardiness is viewed in Hong Kong but judging by their looks I’m guessing that when it’s combined with my favorite clubbing outfit, it’s not favorable.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late,’ I say again to Josh. ‘I thought we were meeting at eight-thirty.’ Because that’s what Missus Reese told me. I don’t even have a jacket to put over my shoulders. I feel like a Christmas ornament.

‘I’m glad nothing happened to you, I was getting worried when you didn’t answer your phone.’

I note that he hasn’t said ‘that’s okay’. Because clearly it isn’t. Everyone smiles as we are introduced, but I know I’ve screwed up.

When Josh asked me to this dinner, he went to great lengths to emphasize that it was an important one. Twice a year he hosts his best suppliers by flying them to Hong Kong to wine and dine. And dance. Or so I was told. To be specific, Missus Reese explained that these were hospitality events and that the men invited (because there are only men around the table with me now) see the trip as one almighty boondoggle. I was led to believe that dinner was merely a vehicle to line the stomach before we hit the town for a night of dancing and debauchery. Hence my outfit.

But we’re in a very staid, very Chinese, very covered-up restaurant. Nobody looks like they’re going dancing. Some don’t even look like they walked in here without assistance. The few women at other tables are all wearing suits or dresses with demure jackets. Hermès scarves protect necklines. No knees dare show themselves. And then there’s me. Pewter sequined tank top with contrasting black strappy bra that stubbornly makes an appearance every time I lean forward. Black skinny jeans and my favorite taxi shoes – five-inch platforms that make my toes go numb but are so worth it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper again to Josh, unhelpfully punctuating my apology by flashing my bra.

That work permit isn’t getting any more likely.

At least the waiters quickly descend to fill the awkward silence with dumplings. Thanks to Stacy, now I know, mostly, how to eat. I don’t stick my chopsticks in my rice (it means death) or cross them (bad luck), never take the last morsel, or eat the last bit on my plate (sorry Mom, I know, all the starving people in China… well, it’s their rule so I follow it), and always use serving chopsticks instead of my own when taking more. Her bank signed her up for a cultural course, so she doesn’t mortally offend anyone accidentally. In her line of work, mortal offence should only be done on purpose.

Over the delicious dumplings I watch Josh working the table, trying to make amends for me. Like those buskers who spin plates on sticks, he manages to keep everyone chatting. Some people have such a knack for putting others at ease and making them think they’re the center of attention. It comes so naturally to him that he probably doesn’t even know he does it… which makes me realize that I’ve been stupid. And paranoid. He’s just a nice man.
That’s
why he bought me the ugly shoe key chain, and invited Stacy and me on the boat. I couldn’t be fuller of myself. Not everyone wants to sleep with me.

Josh’s attention turns to me while I’m chasing a dumpling around my plate. ‘A lot of our buying choices were down to Hannah this year, gentlemen. She’s got quite a knack for spotting future trends. She nailed the restraint that women are showing in their fashion decisions. We’ve had record orders from the shops for next season.’ I blush at his compliment.

‘Yes, we were very happy with your orders from us,’ says the man across the table. ‘Tell me, Hannah, what’s in store for the future then? What will women want after the next season?’

Suddenly the table is quiet, waiting for me to answer. How am I supposed to know? I can’t say the same thing I said to Josh about next season. But I’d better say something. ‘Well. Erm.’ Think, think. What have I seen lately? Only too-tiny clothes that I can’t wear, which is no help. And it’s not like Mr. Chan has come through for me. Gosh, it’s been a long time since I’ve had anything new to wear. Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. I think Chloe is the answer.

‘Well, I have this friend,’ I start, wondering myself where it’s going. ‘She’s a little scatty, and often buys the same thing twice by accident. Which I guess is a vote of confidence for the item of clothing, right, if it appeals so much even after you’ve bought it? Anyway, we were talking the other day – she lives in London, where I lived last year. That’s how we met. We were talking and she mentioned that she was taking some things back to the stores for refunds. Finally! I’ve been telling her to do this for ages. She needs to go through her closets at least once a month and look for duplicates. You’d be surprised how many she has. We, her friends, have benefitted from her forgetfulness since she gives the extras away, but she’s not made of money. She’s a recruiter. Well, Josh, you remember, I told you about her when you asked about next year’s trend. Jeez, here she is again. Maybe she’s my muse… Anyway, the point is that she should be returning these things instead to get the refund. Some are quite expensive. So I was happy when she told me she’d taken a bunch of stuff back. But the clerks wouldn’t give her a refund, only credit. When I was in London I used to return things for her – it’s easier for an American I think. We’re not afraid to argue. But Chloe could only spend the credit in the store, and she had to find things that she liked, but hadn’t bought before. As I said, this isn’t always easy. To minimize the risk, she went to the one section where she shops less often: lingerie. She bought the loveliest under things, and she said she felt indulgent but a little guilty. Then she said, “But nobody can see them so they’re my little secret.” It seems to me that that’s how women are starting to feel – like we’re in this recession and opulence is frowned on, but we still love beautiful things. So we’ll look for opulence that’s a bit hidden. It might be fantastic underwear, or a beautiful flash of colored lining in a jacket, a purse with a gorgeous pattern inside or unbelievably soft leather on our shoes.’

Not
hai
, do not say
soft leather on our vaginas
to the clients.

‘We want opulence, we just don’t want everyone to be able to see it.’

The whole table has either gone to sleep or didn’t understand a word I just said. Great, Hannah, babbling to a table full of Chinese men whose first language isn’t English. Well done.

‘That’s very interesting,’ says the man to my right. I gather that he’s the most senior of the exporters. I gather this because the fish head is pointed at him. Dead animal heads may not be your usual sign of respect in the West. It certainly wasn’t the case in
The Godfather
. But in China the guest of honor gets to stare his dinner in the face.

Suddenly everyone at the table is nodding and smiling. Josh grins at me. ‘See? I told you she knows trends. Excellent, Hannah. We know what we’ll be looking for from our friends next season, don’t we?’

I am glowing with pride. I did it. I really did it, didn’t I? I’ve impressed my boss and made an important contribution to our business. That means my pitch last month wasn’t a fluke. It was no lucky guess that won us record business (record business!). Maybe I really am cut out for this job. It wasn’t just wishful thinking that made me apply to thirty-eight exporters in the hope of being given a chance. I really
can
do this! Take that, Missus Reese, you old crone. I will not let you win.

‘Thank you, Josh, for giving me a chance,’ I murmur.

‘No, thank you, Hannah, for finding us.’

I can’t wait to tell Sam about my triumph at dinner when he arrives the next morning. We’re walking hand in hand, ducking down narrow passages, through a Hong Kong that is no longer shiny glass and exhaust fumes.

‘So then I said, “We want opulence, we just don’t want everyone to be able to see it.”’

He stops walking so he can hold my face, look into my eyes and kiss me. ‘That’s wonderful, Hannah, I am so proud of you. I’ve always known you’d do well… Do you remember when you got mad at me for saying you were better than your job at M&G? I was right. You’ve got the ability to go very far. You’re talented in fashion, Han. I know I’ve made fun of it in the past, but that’s just because I’m a man. I don’t want you to think I’m making fun of you. Because I think you are remarkable.’

Oh, am I now? If I’m so remarkable, why is he fine about us seeing other people? I kiss him back, still wondering.

I know he suggested the walk to try to make everything seem as normal as possible but the fact remains, it’s not normal. Not when I had to kiss him good morning at the airport early this morning, instead of just rolling over. Even so, my heart skips every time he looks at me. I love being with him. No matter what the circumstances, I am in love with him. Heaven help me.

Tiny shrines dot the pavement. Some look like upended shoeboxes painted red, gaily decorated with gold Chinese characters and ribbons. Others are more firmly built into the shop’s outer wall, filled with little statues and plates of food. Most have incense sticks that perfume the air.

We turn down another alley, now aware that it’s a game of how-lost-can-we-get. All along the street are little shop-front temples, like garages, with wide roll-up doors. This is a locals’ street, nothing in English and no white faces.

We hover uncertainly outside one, peering into its dim interior. Eventually the old woman near the entrance smiles toothlessly and beckons us inside. It’s close and warm, the summer’s humidity mingling with smoke wafting from large incense coils that hang overhead, waiting to drop live ash on the faithful. Sam squeezes my hand as we stare into a murky glass display case filled with hundreds of small statues. It’s tatty and intriguing and wonderful. Being with Sam is wonderful.

A little further along, another alley drops us in the middle of a street market. Unlike London, where markets usually means fashion, bric-a-brac or East End traders selling fruit and veg, this market stocks fresh food. I wouldn’t mind if we were talking about plums or tomatoes. These aren’t plums or tomatoes. Hanging from hooks in the oppressive heat is an array of animal carcasses. They remind me of an exhibition I once saw, of skinned animals and humans in surprisingly lifelike poses. Those hanging here in the heat aren’t meant to be anatomy lessons, they’re meant to be dinner. ‘Is that…? It’s a tail!’ I gasp. ‘A skinned tail. What animal do you think it came from?’

‘Ox,’ Sam says definitively.

‘Oh? Do you see a lot of those in Wyoming to be such an expert?’

‘Oxtail, Han, as in soup?’

‘Oh. I thought that was just an expression. That’s actually an ox’s tail in my soup?’ I’ll stick to chicken noodle.

Further into the market is the seafood aisle. There’s not a fish finger in sight (or a freezer, for that matter). Instead, there are whole fish in red plastic bowls. They’re not on ice, they’re in water… ‘They aren’t alive, are they?’ I ask Sam, who’s staring as uncertainly as I am.

‘No. At least, not most of them. They are fresh though, aren’t they? In some parts of China they eat live fish. You know, while they’re alive. Japan too, I think.’

‘I feel a bit ill just thinking about it.’

‘Do you want to go?’ He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. It’s such a comforting gesture.

‘Yes please. I don’t see myself shopping for meat here. This is all a little too close to nature for me. How about if we go to Stanley? Josh suggested it when we were on the junk a few weeks ago. He mentioned it again last night when I said you were coming. Hopefully by the time we get there, the memory will wear off enough to be hungry for lunch.’ Knowing my stomach, I’m sure it will.

An hour later, we’re on a London double-decker bus, which shouldn’t be driven around Piccadilly too fast, let alone down Hong Kong’s narrow mountain roads. We’ve just passed a point at the top of the mountain pass, where, looking down the rollercoaster drop ahead, I was tempted to raise my arms and scream. I don’t, but that’s only because I’ve got Sam’s hand in a death grip and I’m not letting go until our starters are served in the restaurant. He looks like he might take a nap. ‘Does nothing faze you?’ If I didn’t know his anti-drug views I’d suspect he was stoned.

‘Your boss was right. This is a great view – look at that!’ He cranes his neck to look down the side of the bus, and down the side of the mountain.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t do this when you first arrived,’ I say, realizing immediately that this sounds accusatory.

‘Pete and I planned to go once but were out too late the night before. I’m glad I waited.’ He smiles and kisses me while I wonder who else was on his late-night jolly. Li Ming?

What is wrong with me? Maybe I have a medical condition that prevents me from enjoying myself with Sam. It shouldn’t be this way, should it? It’s supposed to be easy, at least at the beginning. We’re still in the honeymoon stage. So why do I feel like we’re heading for divorce? Stacy says I should just relax. That advice is about as easy to take in this situation as it is when spoken by your gynecologist in the exam room.

I need to talk to Sam about us. I want to know what he’s thinking. But I’m afraid to know what he’s thinking. But it’s better to know. If it’s bad then we can deal with it. And if it’s good there’s no reason for me to feel so angsty. But what if it’s bad and we can’t deal with it? I don’t want to break up. I want to go back to the way things were before. But I can’t find the rewind button.

‘Do you want to check out the market first?’ he asks as we gratefully leave the bus in one piece.

‘Will it have tails?’

‘I can’t make any promises but I don’t think so.’

We enter the market, really just a tangle of narrow streets lined with stalls. There are no tails, only cheap clothes. I deal with cheap clothes every day. It’s about as exotic as Walmart. Overhead, tarpaulins stretch between the buildings in an attempt to keep out the sun. Deeper into the market we see a random selection of gaily painted paper lanterns, figurines, dazzling arrays of lighters, dolls, beach balls and more cheap clothes. ‘Lunch?’ Sam asks as we turn a corner into a seemingly identical aisle.