The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) (5 page)

Yes you are. Except for the training and the medical degree. ‘Mmm. How long have you been… practicing?’ Am I supposed to call her Doctor Rachel?

‘Six weeks.’

‘I see. Well it sounds like you’ve got a long career ahead of you then.’

‘It’s not a career, it’s a calling,’ she says, suddenly taking a turn for the serious. ‘I’ve had jobs before, lots of them. After university I was a barista, although I don’t like to define myself by my career, you know? I wasn’t
a barista
. I worked
as
a barista. There’s a difference. Then I worked in Lane Crawford… it’s a department store,’ she adds, seeing my confusion. ‘I wanted to help people there, but you’d be surprised how few women want honest advice when clothes don’t suit them.’ Her already wide eyes are positively fish-like with the shock that a woman might not appreciate unsolicited advice about the size of her ass. Imagine. ‘Then I worked for a bank. I’ll never do that again. It was way too much pressure.’

‘What did you do there?’ I’ve burned off a layer of taste buds in my haste to finish this coffee and make my escape. And she was right; the cakes are much too wholesome, though the cafe’s tables are full. It must be the place for ladies who lunch, this jumble of bars, restaurants and cafes running along the escalator.

My body may be hostage to this hippy but my mind can come and go as it pleases. I watch the world’s longest outdoor escalator running alongside the cafe. It may sound like an epic indulgence, until you see the hills here. What they spent on mechanics they more than saved in coronary unit hospital costs. And it’s as functional as it is curious. It runs up the hills or down, depending on the time of day, between Central and the Mid-levels in a series of moving stairs and sidewalks. Every so often a narrow street bisects the system, where little red and white taxis hopefully cruise for fares. Stairs run alongside the escalator for those who’d like a calf workout, or find themselves needing to go up, or down, when the escalator is running the other way. The moving sidewalk is on the less steep bottom bit, which makes even me feel lazy, and the whole thing is covered on top, but open to the elements on the sides. It’s probably a real treat in cyclone season. It’s wedged tightly between multiple-story buildings on either side, but these aren’t the shiny glass high-rises like those in Central’s business district, or the Mid-levels’ swank and towering apartment blocks. They look like they were built in the fifties or sixties, concrete, painted at one time in pinks, creams and yellows, up to about ten stories high, and they’ve been adapted to their occupiers’ uses in a staggering array of inventiveness. Air conditioners, antennae, washing lines and all manner of signs, neon and otherwise, grow from their sides. The many balconies are variously used for storage, drying laundry, and as gardens, smoker’s areas, workshops and informal room extensions. On the escalator I get to watch an ever-changing tableau of Hong Kong life. It’s light and airy to ride, but a bit dark and claustrophobic here in its shadow.

Rock-talking Rachel is still going on about the evils of bank employment. ‘I worked in reception,’ she says. ‘It was grueling. I never had a minute to myself. The staff, the bankers, they were all rude. Like it was my fault when they forgot their passes. And the visitors were totally unappreciative. I was at rock bottom. And then I met Neil.’

‘Who’s Neil?’ Why isn’t she sipping her tea? It’s like she
wants
this conversation to continue. Clearly we can’t be friends. The giggles alone would force me to strangle her.

‘He’s my guru. He showed me the path to enlightenment. I’ll be eternally grateful to him. Eternally. In all my lives. So now I can help people forever. It’s so liberating to recognize your calling and know exactly what you’re meant to do with your life. Like Mother Teresa,’ she says earnestly, her fish-eyes popping again. ‘You could use a session, you know. Your aura’s very dirty.’

‘My aura is fine, thanks.’

‘No it’s not. It’s awfully dark blue.’

‘Is that bad?’

‘It’s a bit muddy.’

‘Thanks anyway. Listen, Rachel, I’ve got to run to lunch now. I’ve got a reservation. Nice to meet you, and good luck with the apartment. Who knows, maybe we’ll see each other again. If the cosmos wants it…
M goi,
and
baaibaai
,’ I say, carefully trying out my very first polite Cantonese phrases in public. I resist the urge to flash her the peace sign as I bolt for the exit.

‘You’re welcome and,’ she says, waving
baaibaai
. ‘Bye!’

Half an hour later in the restaurant I’m still contemplating that weird experience. I’m all for alternative medicine, but I don’t see myself getting my aura vacuumed by the crystal whisperer. Especially when I’ve had eyebrow shaping that’s lasted longer than she’s been playing psychic geologist. And a guru called Neil? He’s not even authentic enough to have a proper swami name. That’s Marketing 101, Neil.

Goodness, listen to me, talking like I’m afraid they’ll knock my chi off-kilter. Do I believe in all that? I guess I do, at least a bit. There’s definitely good and bad energy. Haven’t we all gravitated towards some people and been repelled by others? My muddy aura is definitely putting the waiters off in the restaurant. They’re avoiding me like I’m that uncle at the family picnic who always wants a hug. Every time I catch someone’s eye and smile to get his attention, he smiles back. Then he walks away. It’s getting ridiculous. The other patrons are being served. I want dim sum, not a bone marrow donation.

‘Excuse me. I’m ready to order.’ The waiter, smiling, approaches. He looks confused, gently snatching what looks like a survey from the table’s corner. ‘No order?’

‘Yes, order.’

He’s scanning the paper. ‘No order.’

I knew it. I’ve missed lunch. ‘Can’t I order?’

‘Yes, order.’ He sets the survey on the table.

‘Thanks. Can I have a menu?’

‘Menu.’ He’s pointing to the survey. It’s not a survey. It’s the menu, with some words in English, written on a wonkily photocopied sheet of paper. ‘Hmm, do the pork buns have scallions in them?’ He doesn’t answer. ‘Okay. I’ll have those, and the… are these prawns big or small? Could the chef…? No, okay, then these please, and this one and, is this the chicken…?’ I really want to know if they are the little steamed chicken and prawn dumplings like I get in New York, but given that the waiter isn’t even pretending to smile any more, I won’t continue my line of questioning. ‘And this one, please.’

‘You write.’ He’s gesturing at the paper again.

‘I write what?’

‘Write order.’ He hands me a pen.

He has completely missed the point of
being
a waiter. ‘Is that too much food?’ I ask as I tick the boxes.

He smiles and walks away to ignore his other customers.

How can I get a job like that? I could learn to speak Chinese menu, couldn’t I? No, of course I couldn’t. I couldn’t even speak English in London.

I have applied for loads of jobs online though. It’s not nearly as much fun as shopping for a new dress or a handbag. And there’s a big difference between browsing and buying in online recruitment. It’s not like that Mulberry bag will say, ‘Thank you for your interest. We’ve had many applicants and have found the shoulder we were looking for. Good luck in your search for the perfect spring accessory.’

In a way I envy Rachel. She might be clinically insane but she’s found her dream job. I have a dream; I just don’t have the job. Not to put too many eggs in one basket, but if I’m not hired tomorrow I’m out of options. Done, finito, kaput, doomed to live under the Star Ferry pier with the water rats. I just hope they don’t get a whiff of desperation when I arrive. I’ll be sure not to cling to the boss’s leg or intimate that I’d be very grateful for the job, wink, wink. I simply need to gloss over the work permit issue. Just for a few weeks till I prove that I’m made to be a buyer’s assistant’s assistant’s assistant. Maybe I’ll take a page out of my waiter’s service manual. I’ll smile sincerely and walk away when the subject comes up.

The waiter sets my lunch before me, neatly stacked in covered steamers to maximize that whatever-could-be-under-this-lid quiver of excitement. They’re pork buns! Just like the ones Stacy and I get in New York when we’re really hung-over but eschew McDonald’s because it’s a fat day. This is quite a moment for me. It’s the first time I’ve ordered a dish here that I’d meant to. And the second and third dishes are recognizable too!

The only problem is getting them into my mouth. Perhaps I rushed the decision to move to a country without forks. I’d feel less self-conscious if I weren’t the only Westerner in here. The Chinese at the tables, and serving, and clearing aren’t hiding the fact that they’re staring at me. So no pressure.

Poking the dumpling sends it skidding across my plate, triggering a Rachel-worthy giggle attack at the thought of flipping it into the lap of the diner beside me. Now I see why everyone is eating straight from the bamboo steamers. Traction. Even experts take shortcuts. Good. While stabbing the morsel through the middle and levering it into my mouth may not win me any technical awards, at this point it’s any fork in a storm.

‘Bdllling!’

I loved that sound before I taught my mother to send texts. Naively I thought giving her the means to send these supposedly unobtrusive messages would limit the number of middle-of-the-night phone calls. I was wrong. It’s now 4 a.m. at home and I expect there’ll be a message on my machine when I check it later. Mom simply views texting as an extra weapon in her arsenal.

Hannah, do you wantto come home for your bdat? Well pay and you shouldn’t be alonee
.

Nice try, Mom, but I won’t be alonee. I’ll be with Sam. And Stacy. Besides, she must know I wouldn’t willingly let her wear me down in person.

Mom isn’t happy with my move. She doesn’t mean to sound judgmental, and I do appreciate her genuine concern. After my rather out-of-the-blue move from Connecticut to London last year, this relocation probably has a whiff of déjà vu about it. But she should know me well enough to understand that it’s no use trying to bully me into returning home. It’s not just that I’m stubborn. She’s fighting against an inviolable mother-daughter dynamic, a formula that has held true through the ages:

N
_(T+12)
=-L+S
²

where a mother’s nagging across time zones is responsible for her daughter’s unwillingness to listen, plus her exponential capacity for spiteful digging in of heels. It doesn’t take Pythagoras to work that one out.

Thanks, so thoughtful!
I text.
But Sam will celebrate with me. Having lunch now so can’t text longer. x

Turning to my lunch, I find a gelatinous mass of meat beneath the last steamer. I’ve seen more appetizing biology experiments. I definitely wouldn’t have pointed it out to the waiter and said, ‘Mmm, mmm, I’ll have some of that, please.’ Nevertheless, it must be the chicken. I take a bite.

It’s vile. I can’t spit it out. After that durian fruit incident in Bangkok, when I heaved it up on the street in front of Sam and the woman who’d offered it to me, I don’t exactly have a reputation in Asia as a cultural ambassador. Luckily, as it’s covered in such a thick layer of fat, it slides down rather easily in one piece. Check, please.

The waiter is much quicker with the bill than he was with my order. But there’s no fortune cookie. How is that possible when we’re
in China
? I look forward to these petrified portents of the future. Not that I believe in them. Completely. It’s just that I got one in Chinatown right after I told Sam I’d move here. It said:
Following your heart will pay off in the near future
. I love that it endorsed my decision. It’s safely folded in my wallet, and I’d like another choice-confirming cookie.

What I really want, of course, is Sam. I miss him so much that it actually, physically hurts. I find myself feeling short of breath, panicky when I think about him. When I think about his absence. I know he’s coming back soon, but still I miss him with a visceral gut-wrenching sense of loss. This can’t healthy, being so in love. It’s madness, just like the poets have always claimed. It does feel like madness. How is that possible? Surely we haven’t known each other long enough. How can I know he’s the one so certainly? I don’t know. I just do. I’m feeling it, not thinking it. I’ve certainly never felt this way before. He’s The One. I know it as surely as I know I’d never eat that chicken dish again.

He picks up on the third ring. ‘Hannah, hi! How are you, darlin’?’

My belly flips upon hearing his voice. To the wider world I’m sure he’s no Barry White, but Sam could read fungicide application instructions to me and I’d melt. ‘I’m great, so glad to talk to you! I just finished eating dim sum, and now I’m walking back to the apartment. I viewed an apartment earlier. You’re not going to believe this. They’re trying to sell the laundry room as a second bedroom! What are you doing now?’

‘Hah, you’ve seen the maid’s quarters then. They’re shocking, aren’t they? Pete and I saw a few of those when we were searching. It’s appalling. Definitely not suitable for you and Stacy! … I’m glad you called, Han. It’s always a nice surprise at work.’

‘Oh, do you have to go?’

‘No, that’s okay sweetheart. I can use the break.’ I can picture him as he blows out his cheeks, wiping sweat from his brow after a grueling day being an economist. ‘I planned to call you later, but tell me about your day now. Li Ming just went to get us some early dinner – it’s gonna be another late night here.’

‘… Oh, well I don’t want to keep you from… anything,’ says I, suddenly struck by an insidious jealousy-inspired martyrdom. ‘I’m sure Li Ming will want you, so I should let you go.’ I don’t know why, when I’m a perfectly intelligent woman, I feel so insecure when it comes to this man. Surely when you’re in love with someone you’re supposed to feel more secure, not less.

‘No, Han! I can talk. Tell me more about your day. There’s nothing interesting to report from here. Where are you now?’