A Girl Like You (28 page)
Authors: Gemma Burgess
‘Your skin is very dry,’ comments the beauty therapist.
‘I’ve been sick,’ I say apologetically.
‘Bad condition. Pores enlarged. Wrinkles too deep.’
I’m only fucking 28, I want to say. But instead I smile hopefully. ‘Can you fix me?’
After the manicure-pedicure fiasco (apparently my toe-claws were unacceptable), the waxing humiliation (I think I know the Thai for ‘forests of Borneo’ now) and the body scrub meltdown (it hurt! I kept making little shrieking noises), I am becoming accustomed to short Chinese women making tsk-tsk-tsk sounds when they look at me.
But I’m so relaxed that I don’t mind what anyone says.
In fact, I’ve had one of the best days in recent memory: first, the calming flâneuring and people-watching, then a life-changing hour talking to Katherine and Ronan (I’ll tell you all about that later), then I went shopping on my one-beer-buzz on the way back to the hotel and fell asleep for an hour. I woke feeling better than I have in weeks, did my first nimble-footed-mountain-goat leap in months and at 4 pm headed to the hotel spa, where I am now. I’ve nearly finished my two-hour pampering session. All that’s left is my hot stone massage.
Robert left a message on the hotel phone telling me he’d be back at 8 pm. I hope he wants to go out for dinner. I do. I feel so rejuvenated by the day’s events. I smile thinking about them.
‘No smiling!’ snaps the woman.
‘Sorry!’ I exclaim, and start to giggle, and after a disapproving pause, she joins in.
After my facial, I get a hot stone massage. I drop off to sleep at one point, then wake myself up snoring and drooling lightly. God, the poor masseur. She finishes with a scalp massage that makes me feel awake and energised again, and I shuffle back to my hotel room in my robe and slippers feeling better than I have in a week. (It’s probably not the kind of garb the Mandarin Oriental really approves of for its public areas, but to hell with it.)
Back in the room, I wash my hair, blow-dry it with the pleasingly powerful hotel hairdryer, and dress in a short, sleeveless white dress that I bought today, plus my favourite green high heels. I take a long time to apply my make-up, just for the sheer pleasure of being able to look like something other than a scab for the first time in days. Smokey grey eye shadow and lots of mascara, some careful blush, bronzer and illuminator to fake better health . . . I also bought a little gold clutch today, so I put my lip gloss and credit cards in that.
I look at myself in the mirror with satisfaction. I feel like me again.
I stride over to the mini-bar – these being stride-enforcing heels – and open it up. Wild Turkey! How Thelma and Louise of me.
I mix it with a Coca-Cola, then lie back on the bed and start watching a Cantonese soap opera. You can actually tell what’s going on with these soap operas by the body language. An older lady with drawn-on eyebrows – a sort of Chinese Joan Collins – is trying to split up a younger couple. The guy is either her lover or her son, it’s hard to tell. I have a flashback to Dottie for a second. How devastating to find your best friend and your husband together. No wonder Dave wanted to do anything to protect her. I just wish that ‘anything’ hadn’t included ‘fucking with me’.
I hear a scratching at the door and the card-lock buzzes.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ calls Robert, walking in to the room. He’s wearing a dark grey suit and looking, I suddenly think, absurdly fucking good. It’s so nice to have him here.
‘Sharp suit,’ I comment from my vantage point on the bed.
‘This old thing?’
‘Can we go out to dinner, please? I want to see Hong Kong at night from somewhere other than this room.’
Robert frowns at me. ‘Sure you’re up to it?’
‘I feel great. And I had a nap this afternoon! I’m good as new.’
The Peak Tram is an old-fashioned trolley car that travels almost horizontally up and down the biggest hill on Hong Kong Island. It’s a clear night and the view is incredible: hundreds of buildings and thousands of twinkling lights stretching all along Hong Kong Island, and across the Harbour in Kowloon. One skyscraper looks like an enormous nose-trimmer, another like a Toblerone bar. The 80-plus storey buildings continue as we climb the hill. I can see into apartments, I can even see people watching TV and eating dinner with their families. It’s surreally cheering.
The sky still isn’t properly dark, though it’s 8.30 pm; it’s that same sort of purplish-grey that I noticed from the hotel room every night. I realise now that it’s the lights from the city reflecting off the clouds. It probably never gets really dark.
It only takes about 10 minutes to reach the top. Towards the end, when it’s really steep, my stomach flips, reminding me of the feeling I had when Dave first kissed me. Perhaps that spark was just fear, I think to myself, and grin slightly.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ says Robert.
‘Yes,’ I say. And it’s true. I am. I feel calm and happy.
We’re eating at a place called Pearl on the Peak, and the main reason we’re here, I see immediately, is the floor-to-ceiling windows with views over the whole of Hong Kong and Kowloon. It’s incredible, like looking onto another universe. Robert has reserved the front window table. We sit down and start looking through the menu.
‘This is the kind of menu I call Fun With Food,’ I comment. ‘Shavings and oils and
veloutés
, oh my.’
‘I know. Have you been to L’Atelier du Joel Robuchon? We should go, it completely freaks your tongue out, in a good way. Oh, and St John Bread And Wine. Nose to tail eating . . . Seriously amazing meals. As long as you don’t think too much about the fact that you’re eating, like, a deep fried pig’s head.’
‘I could handle that. My dad used to make us eat raw fish eyes when we were little.’
Robert looks horrified. ‘What!’
‘I know. He thought it was funny. He’d bet us that if he ate it, we had to. Then he’d eat it. So . . .’
‘So? So nothing! So you say, no thank you, Daddy, I have to go and practise my viola now!’
I laugh so hard at this that nearby diners look around.
We order, and when the waiter has poured our wine, I hold up my glass.
‘Thank you again for finding me and looking after me. You’re the best friend a girl could have. Even better than a dog.’
‘Abby, stop saying thank you. I’m here for work, anyway. It’s no big deal.’
‘You need to learn how to accept a compliment.’
We smile at each other for a second. I’ve got used to Robert’s unwavering eye contact. In fact, tonight I’m finding it very hard to look away. It’s kind of soothing.
‘So, I have some news,’ I say. I’ve been waiting to share this, but needed a drink in my hand to really do it justice. It’s that kind of news. ‘I met some people today who are making a documentary on the luxury industry and the recession. One of those bigger budget, movie-style documentaries, you know, like Michael Moore’s films? And we talked for an hour and—’ I beam at him, and the words tumble out in a rush – ‘They want to meet when we’re back in London and I think they’re going to offer me a job because they said “we need you on this project, you’re perfect for this, let us talk to our backers and we’ll come back to you”.’
‘Holy shit!’ says Robert. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yep. They said I’d told them more in an hour than their team of researchers back in London had in two months. Then they asked if I’d ever considered leaving banking and I said every single fucking day of my life.’
‘That’s so perfect!’ He leans over and clinks his glass against mine. ‘Here’s to you, you little research geek!’
‘To me!’
‘You must have really impressed them.’
‘Well, I’m quite an impressive person,’ I say. Robert arches an eyebrow and I grin cheerily at him. ‘I know the luxury industry inside and out. I’m a natural choice for the subject. But also . . . I love research. I love discovering things . . . No matter what the subject, I think maybe it could be something I’d be good at . . . um, I don’t mean to sound arrogant about it.’
‘You don’t. It’s refreshing to see you so enthusiastic about your career.’ I make a face. ‘Career isn’t a dirty word, sweetpea. And I think you’d be brilliant at it too. Surely it’ll be a salary drop though?’
‘I don’t care. I’ve got some savings, not quite enough for a deposit on a house if I had to—’ I pause. Shit, I’m talking about putting a deposit on a house? How unlike me. ‘Money isn’t that . . . it’s just not everything to me. I’ll still earn a decent salary . . .’ I pause, slightly embarrassed to have talked about myself so much. ‘So, how was your day?’
‘Good. I’m looking into a deal that my company wants to get involved in. But I don’t think it’s quite right.’ He frowns and shakes his head. ‘Ah, it’s boring.’
‘Tell me, damn you,’ I say.
‘Well. We think a Chinese company is going to buy us out. We don’t want them to. So I’ve been talking to another company instead. It’s all very cloak and dagger.’ He pauses. ‘As cloak and dagger as my job gets, anyway.’
‘God, you’re right. That
is
boring.’
‘Really? OK then, tell me more about resea—’ Robert closes his eyes and pretends to snore.
‘I hope my stomach is up to this,’ I say, as our first courses arrive: plates of mixed crostini heaped with exotic rich toppings like wild boar.
‘Are you feeling OK?’
I grin at him, chewing happily. ‘Food is good.’
‘God, you’re deep.
Food is good
.’ I snort with laughter, and he grins at me. ‘The first time I came to Hong Kong, Louisa joined me and I brought her to eat here. She hated the menu and made us get a taxi back to the hotel so she could get a burger and chips.’ He shakes his head. ‘What a pain in the arse.’
I almost choke on my bread roll. ‘You think she’s a pain in the arse now?’
‘I always did,’ says Robert in surprise. ‘The problem with Louisa – and Dave, really – is that they’re absurdly likeable, even when they’re being absolute bastards. That sort of charisma, well, it’s addictive to be around.’
I nod. I bet I don’t have that kind of charisma.
‘The good news is that you can become immune to it,’ he says, leaning in to me conspiratorially.
‘But you’re not immune to it,’ I comment, smearing more butter on the roll. This is the best butter I’ve ever eaten. ‘You’re still in love with her.’
‘I most certainly am not.’
‘But you got drunk when you saw her at that party back in September . . . you go quiet whenever her name is mentioned, and, um—’
I’m desperately trying to think of reasons that I’m so sure he’s not over Louisa. I just am, that’s why.
‘I got drunk that night because she tried to come on to me when her husband was talking to someone else, and it was the only way I could get her to stay away,’ he says. My jaw drops in shock. ‘I go quiet whenever her name is mentioned because my mother always told me if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.’
‘But you’re commitment-phobic . . . and a slut!’ I exclaim. Robert shouts with laughter. ‘You say the nicest things. Maybe I just haven’t met the right girl yet . . . but I like sex.’
‘Poor Robert. Looking for Miss Right.’
We eat in silence for a few seconds. I’m trying not to show how stunned I am.
‘Can I ask you something?’
I look up in consternation. ‘What?’
‘New Year’s Eve,’ he says in a low voice.
‘Oh.’ I don’t know what to say. I was hoping he wouldn’t bring that up. ‘That.’
‘I’m glad . . . that we’re fine about it now,’ he says, watching me carefully. ‘We were pretty hammered.’
‘We were indeed,’ I nod. For the first time in weeks I let myself remember our kiss, the feeling of his arms wrapped tight around me in the corner of the hot, noisy Portobello Star, and feel my face go red.
But I don’t know what else to say, and thankfully, the waiter comes to top up our wine.
‘Tell me about Cyrano de Bergerac, then,’ he says, changing the subject. ‘You told me I was like him.’
‘Not exactly,’ I say, laughing. ‘It’s a French play, I studied it . . . It’s about a man with a huge nose who was sure this beautiful woman, Roxane, could never love him because of it, so he helped the handsome but stupid Christian de Neuvillette woo her, by telling him what to say. Like you helped me woo those guys at speed dating.’
‘We “wooed” them?’
I grin and raise my hands to the ceiling. ‘Woo-woo.’
‘Wait. Are you saying I have a huge nose?’
Robert turns to show me his profile and I pretend to study it. Actually, his nose is perfect. Very strong but perfectly proportioned to his face. But I’m not going to tell him that.
‘It’s passable,’ I say.
‘I’ve been meaning to rent that Cyrano film. Or at least
Roxanne
, the Steve Martin version.’
‘That film is brilliant! I love Steve Martin.’
‘Have you seen – ah, what’s it called, hang on—’
‘
The Man With Two Brains
?
The Three Amigos
?
Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
? I’ve seen them all.’
It’s halfway through our second course that it hits me that I’m laughing more with Robert than I ever did with Dave. We’ve been telling stories about our first day at school (I was the only child in my class who could already read, write and do additions and subtractions as I’d forced my dad to teach me; Robert cried the whole time for his mummy and had to sit on his teacher’s lap all day – ‘I still get emotional when I smell Chanel No. 19.’). Then we talked about books, and travel, and a thousand other things that somehow, we never covered in all those lazy weekends and easy evenings we spent together.
It’s so effortless to be with him, compared to the pressure of pre-rehearsed quick-pat statements I had with Dave. The thought crosses my mind: this is the best date I’ve ever been on.
And I drop my fork.
‘Everything alright? Do you feel ill?’ says Robert.
Pause. I glance up at him and smile self-consciously, feeling my face tingling. I bet I’m blushing. ‘Totally fine.’
I’m arguing furiously with myself: this isn’t a date, this isn’t a date . . . Oh God, I hope he can’t mind read me . . .
‘So, tell me more about your day. Do you like Hong Kong?’
‘I love it,’ I say, happy to be distracted from my brain. ‘I flâneured around, you know. Walked without a destination. Explored without a purpose. It’s the first time I’ve had a day with no to-do list in . . . I don’t know how long. It was kind of a revelation, actually. Stimulating and yet . . .’ I search for the right word. ‘Peaceful.’ I pause. ‘That probably makes no sense.’
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ says Robert. ‘I was stranded in Rome because of a BA strike once. I had two full days and absolutely nothing to do. I walked around noticing things I’d never noticed on previous trips, ate four-course meals all alone . . .’ he pauses. ‘I’ve been to Rome a couple of times before and since, but that’s the trip I really remember.’
‘We run around too much. In London, I mean. It’s too hectic. We never do . . . nothing.’
‘That’s the way life is though. No matter where you live. But perhaps we should turn our phones off and – what was the word? –
flâneur
more often than we do.’
‘I wonder if it’s possible to
flâneur
with someone else. Or if true solitude is the only way to be that reflective.’
‘I think it depends who you’re with. Remember that day you and I walked to Regent’s Park?’
I nod.
‘I saw things that day that I’ve never noticed before or since. How the trees were planted to give the park space and balance. How there are always clusters of people and pockets of beautiful empty park. And I clearly remember one little boy who fell over and was crying hysterically, isn’t that weird?’ he pauses. ‘I wonder where he is now.’
‘Probably reading
The Very Hungry Caterpillar
.’
He glances at me and grins. ‘Hopefully.’
‘I loved that day too. It was very relaxing.’
‘It was,’ he agrees, and glances up at the same second that I remember his little temper tantrum that day. ‘Until I flipped out, obviously.’
‘Ah, yes, lashy,’ I say, grinning. Robert looks deep into my eyes and grins and for a second, the expression on his face changes into something more intense . . . I look away quickly. Shit.
When we finish dinner, Robert asks for the bill, and despite my protestations, won’t let me pay. Just like a date, I find myself thinking. Oh God, this is just like a date.
We get a taxi down the Peak – cue: lots of highly winding roads that cause us both to skittle back and forth across the back seat into each other, though I’m trying my hardest to hang on to the door so I don’t land on top of him – and end up back at the Mandarin Oriental.
‘Let’s have a quiet drink here,’ he says. ‘If you saw Lan Kwai Fong at night, you’d never want to go to bed.’
The sophisticated, understated M Bar is on the top floor of the hotel. There is a sprinkling of people at tables around the bar, polished types who have that international-rich-interesting persona down pat. We sit at a low table in the far corner with views over the Harbour.
‘Hong Kong is so beautiful,’ I say, turning to Robert. ‘No one ever says how beautiful it is.’
‘I know,’ he smiles at me. Our eyes lock, and I feel myself flushing again. I look away and pick up the drinks menu.
‘I’ll have an Old Fashioned,’ I say quickly.
‘Whisky, very healing for the stomach,’ he comments.
We sit in silence for a few more minutes, gazing at the view. The silence isn’t awkward, however, it’s just so peaceful. Our drinks arrive. Robert raises his glass.
‘To you. And to your brilliant new career.’
We clink glasses. I have found a brilliant new career, I think happily to myself. I know it’s right for me. I am sure I can do it. I even think that maybe I’ll be good at it. I can finally leave banking, finally stop pretending to be someone I’m not. Even if the job doesn’t work out, if the producer Katherine didn’t mean what she said, I am still going to pursue this as a career.