The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) (11 page)

We come to rest a little way up the road. I swear I see the driver take a swig out of a bottle in his bag. It looks a hundred proof.

‘All right me lover?’ Brent grins, like he’s waiting for our exclamations of praise for planning this adventure just for us.

‘I think so.’ Aside from my fingertips, which are knuckle-deep in the seat back, there doesn’t appear to be any damage.

Stuart twists around to address Stacy, who’s wedged between me and the window. ‘You all right?’

She’s hyperventilating.

‘Hoo. Hoo, yeah. I’m okay, hoo.’ Women in labor sound less distressed. ‘Isn’t there another way to get to the monastery?’

‘Brent?’

‘Sure, we could have taken the gondola.’

There’s a gondola? As in a nice, slow, safe, not-driven-by-maniac mode of transport? ‘Is there a stop close by?’

‘Nah, it’s back where we got the bus.’

‘Stace,’ I say. ‘Do you want to lie down for a minute?’

‘Okay.’ Docile as a lamb, she lays her head in my lap. Now I know she’s not all right. Stacy’s not the type to show weakness.

‘Here, buckle up.’ I don’t want my best friend bouncing around like popcorn in the pan when we start moving again.

‘How can you not be scared?’ I ask Brent, who looks like he’s about to have a quick nap. I’m really warming to him. He’s remarkably easy-going, and reminds me a little of my housemate, Adam, from London. Adam is the kind of big, cuddly man who women want to be friends with, the type who suffers under the curse of the nice-guy syndrome. Always a best friend, never a lover. Brent has the advantage of a runner’s build (which would be yum if it wasn’t covered in ginger fur), but his happy, open face tells you that he is nice-guy afflicted. He wouldn’t be bad-looking if he didn’t have quite so much forehead, but Mother Nature can be cruel. His eyes are a pretty light blue but his face is a little too delicate for a man. It’s his pointy nose and very archy eyebrows. Plus, his accent makes him sound simple. As endearing as this is in a friend, few women want to hear it when being smutty-talked in bed. His brother, sharer of chromosomes, is identically challenged. They’re only differentiated by their bellies; Stuart has one and Brent doesn’t.

‘Nah, I’m not frightened. I have faith that I’m not going to die on a back road in Hong Kong. So I don’t worry about things like that.’ He shrugs.

‘You’re a fatalist then? You believe there’s a time and place, and you’re not going to go before your number is called?’ I’d love to have that kind of faith. Being a lapsed Protestant and a devout worrier, there’s no chance.

‘And that’s the truth,’ he states with a nod.

Their accents will take getting used to. And they keep calling us lover, which I assume is just a figure of speech in the West Country, not a declaration of intent. ‘What makes you think your ticket’s not going to be punched on the ride back?’ I ask.

His smile briefly falters. ‘Well, I just don’t. It doesn’t do any good to worry, does it? Might as well live your life as you’d like to. Otherwise you’re just biding time.’

‘Like reading magazines in the waiting room,’ I propose.

‘That’s right. I’d rather just turn up when my appointment is called.’

The driver’s unusual application of brakes makes Stacy bolt upright. ‘Are we there?’ She’s much more chipper with the risk of suicidal plunge behind us.

‘It seems so.’ Seven thousand stairs meander to the top of the hill. They have painful journey written all over them.

‘Do we have to climb all the way up?’ I ask. ‘I can see it fine from here. Big Buddha, very nice. I’ll get a photo.’ In the dim distance, practically ringed with clouds, Buddha sits smugly watching tourists hyperventilate towards him.

‘Come on, Hannah, don’t be lazy,’ Stuart cajoles as we leave the bus. ‘Think how lovely it’ll be when we get up there.’

Lazy? I’m not lazy. It’s hot. Stairs and I are not firm friends. We’ve almost died once already. I don’t want to add stroke risk to my day. ‘Sure, okay, let’s go.’ I’m hardly going to let our new best friends think I’m lazy, am I? Besides, I can tell these are men who believe that rubbish about the journey being part of the adventure. Stuart is clearly the leader among the twins, although he’s more a benevolent dictator than a Chairman Mao. He was probably born first and his two-minutes-younger brother lives happily under his regime. I know exactly how Brent feels. After all, I’ve gladly followed Stacy’s lead most of my life. It’s comforting to have someone you trust take control. She’s already staked her friendship claim on Stuart, having planted that flag firmly between his eyes on the day they met in the office. It is fun having them to play with. And they’ve worked here since graduation, Stuart in business and Brent in architecture. So we’ve got real, live, know-their-suey-from-their-wonton tour guides.

Twenty minutes of breathlessness later, I’ve proven to myself that a giant Buddha close up is just a more in-focus giant Buddha.

‘Isn’t that a nice view?’ Brent enquires. After a climb that would give Edmund Hillary a nosebleed, he isn’t even winded. I guess the fact that Hong Kong is the world’s most humid StairMaster keeps one in shape. It really is remarkable how tenacious those first colonizers were. I’d have taken one look at the steep mountainsides and set sail for Bali.

‘Yep,’ I manage between breaths. The twelve-foot high bronze attendants surrounding the big man are very pretty too, each kneeling, serenely offering up a gift of some kind. I admit they’re almost worth the deodorant lapse. Quietly I count the statues, savoring the few local words I’ve learned. ‘
Yut
,
yee
,
sam
,
say
, erm…’

‘
Mmm
,’ Brent says. ‘That’s the word for five, not erm. And
luckh
! Have you been learning Cantonese?’

‘Oh, just a few phrases. I figured it’s the polite thing to do.’

‘Go on then, can you keep counting?’

‘
Yut
,
yee
,
sam
,
say, mmm, look, chut, bot.
oh damn, I know it..
. Sep, gau!’
I announce triumphantly as a few people turn to acknowledge my efforts.

‘Oh no, Hannah, that’s not what you mean! Oh me lover. Oh dear.’ He laughs. ‘Nine, is
gow
, not,’ he lowers his voice. ‘
Gau
. Ten is
sup
, not
sep
. Maybe it’s best not trying to say nine anymore. If you have to, just say it in English.’

‘What did I say?’

‘Wet cock.’

‘Oh Jesus.’

‘It’s not your fault. It’s a very tonal language. You have made my day though!’

No wonder those girls are giggling behind their hands. Apologetically I smile, sending them into another fit. ‘Moving swiftly on, please,’ I say as seriously as possible. ‘Do you do a lot of these excursions?’

‘Nah, just when new people come to town. We tend to stay in Central and drink instead.’

‘Good, then we can be friends.’

‘Not a fan of nature? I’d never have guessed.’

Given that we’ll never have first-hand exposure to one another’s reproductive systems, there’s no reason to lie. ‘You’d never think it to look at me.’ I gesture to my inappropriate dress. ‘But I’m not really a nature girl. I’m not crazy about hills either.’

‘You’ve moved to the wrong city! Though everyone takes the escalator so we don’t much notice. Your new flat will be on Robinson Road, right? Then it won’t be too bad for you. Speaking of your flat, Stacy says you’re moving at the weekend. Stuart and I could help you move if you like. We’re just up the road.’

After Stacy’s co-workers warned her that it was impossible to find a decent apartment, I didn’t have high hopes. So possibly our standards are lower than the norm – we weren’t competing for a family apartment, or one with a pool, concierge or underground garage, and we didn’t mind living in a building older than last season’s shoes. We chose our new place in an afternoon. It’s close to the corporate apartment so we could relocate using a wheelbarrow. ‘Thanks, that’s really nice, though it’s not far, and it’s furnished so we’re just moving our clothes.’

‘But we’d love the company, thanks!’ Stacy interjects as she approaches, glowing with fitness. ‘And we’ll cook you dinner. It’ll be fun! Han, you two should have a look inside the Buddha – it’s very cool.’ She’s been milling around for a while already, having virtually jogged up. I don’t know how she does it. Actually, I do.

Stacy is a gym bunny. She’s signed up with the meat market gym near her office, and she’s sure that my life won’t be complete until I’m spinning with her in a room full of Lycra-clad hard-bodies. I’d like to think I’ll hold out, wearing my squishy belly with pride, but I know I’ll join. At the moment I risk being mistaken for a walrus and rolled into the harbor.

‘Can we please take the gondola back?’ I plead as we start our descent. ‘Not that the bus ride wasn’t exciting and all.’

‘I second Hannah’s suggestion,’ Stuart says. ‘All those in favor?’

‘Aye!’ It’s unanimous. We’ll live to play another day.

Chapter 7.

I was right, the move was easy. It wasn’t quite wheelbarrow-easy, but nobody strained any muscles and we did try to cook for Stuart and Brent as promised. Our efforts ended with pizza delivery, but the thought was appreciated. And thanks to an unexpected flash of negotiating brilliance I’ve staked my claim on all of the closets outside Stacy’s bedroom. So I’m justified in expanding my wardrobe.

That’s why I’m now being felt up by an old Chinese man. In fairness he’s groping me in a professional capacity. Mr. Chan is a tailor. I’m hoping he’s the tailor that I’ll fondly refer to as the genius who makes all my clothes, the man who perks me up, reigns me in and fills me out all with a wave of his magic needle.

He’s certainly not shy about wielding his tape measure. Technically he’s measuring my inseam. I’ve had less intimate dates.

‘You stand.’

I am standing. Am I meant to stand somewhere else? Or stand still? Or simply to keep standing?

‘You stand!’ He says again before disappearing through a tatty curtain into the back. I don’t want to cast aspersions here, but a torn curtain in a tailor’s shop is like a closet organizer with mismatched hangers at home. You have to wonder how seriously to take the advice you’re paying for.

I’ve harbored this dream of handmade clothes since my first grown-up job, in PR. Landing it was pure luck, and a fair amount of pure Jose Cuervo. My friend had introduced me to her boss in a bar and around last call he offered to let me work for him. Despite these questionable circumstances, he had no ulterior motives. He was far too enamored with himself to bother admiring anyone else. As a result, his favorite conversations revolved around him, and he loved telling anyone who commented on his suits that he’d had them made in Hong Kong. Being twenty-one and not the worldliest of girls, I didn’t recognize the pretension in that oft-repeated statement. I recognized the possibility. It became my dream. And now Mr. Chan is about to make it my reality.

‘You pay,’ barks the sprightly sewing angel.

‘Okay… How much?’ We haven’t discussed these details. Once I finally found the shop and asked if Mr. Chan makes ladies’ clothes (‘Yes, very nice clothes. You want?’), before you can say Balenciaga his assistant had unfurled dozens of bolts of sumptuous cloth. I was mesmerized by the colors, the impossible delicacy of the fabric. He had me at the first shantung silk. The whole shop is lined with shelves, each filled with vertical bolts of cloth arranged by material and color. The stalwart summer wools look serious and masculine, while patterned cottons and silks are a visual feast. It’s quite beautiful in its chaos.

‘Very good price for you.’ He punches some numbers on his calculator and formally slides it towards me. There’s a nine in his proposed price. I will not say
gau
, I will not say
gau
. He’ll think I have Tourette’s. Am I supposed to accept his offer? Or punch a number back? It does look like a very good price. That’s probably because we’re sweating in a condemned rabbit warren of rooms up a million flights of stairs on a rundown street off Nathan Road in Kowloon. There’d be another zero if we were in the air-conditioned splendor of the malls on Hong Kong side.

‘That’s fine,’ I say. His lightning quick smile tells me he expected some haggling. Hello beanstalk? This is Jack again.

‘When do I come for the fitting?’

‘Two weeks. Very busy.’

‘Great, I’ll come at lunchtime again, okay?’

‘No, too busy at lunchtime. Important clients. You come at three.’

‘Sure thing, Mr. Chan. I work on Kowloon side. Not too far.’ By not too far I mean quite far. I’m not sure how I’ll get here and back to the office without raising an eyebrow. But he has important clients. That must mean he’s good, right? I’d hate for my dream of a lifetime supply of Chanel-lite couture to be crushed.

It’s not like I can wear anything from the Aladdin’s cave of samples at work. Clothing, clothing, everywhere, and not a frock to steal. It’s because my size eight frame is too big. All the women in the office except Mrs. Reese are Chinese. On a good day I feel like Gulliver. On bad days I am Shrek. And it’s not just the office freebies making me feel ungainly. The shops too only stock little-lady sizes. I nearly danced with excitement the first (only) time I went into Prada, but aside from the key rings, nothing fit.