The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) (28 page)

‘Can I call you later to make sure you’re okay?’

‘No, it’s best if you don’t.’

With nothing left to say, without a kiss or a hug goodbye, I leave him sitting on the low wall. As I walk back through the bird garden, attracting curious stares from the men, I find my phone in my bag. ‘Stacy? I need you.’

‘Hang in there, Han, I’m leaving the apartment right now. Where are you?’

It was a slow journey back to our apartment, what with me sobbing into Stacy’s shoulder every five yards. Now I know why nineteenth-century heroines took to their beds when they got bad news. How I’d love to take a sabbatical to wallow in heartbreak. But no, we are twenty-first-century women. We can juggle all the balls, even when one of them is a razor-studded orb of poo. And I suppose it might be a tad unhealthy to let a break-up give me bedsores. Stacy certainly thinks so. She’s been merciless in her attempt to get me over this Sam-sized bump in the road. I appreciate her monumental efforts, though they seem to mainly involve grooming. She’s had me cut and colored, and plucked, but I drew the line at a bikini wax. The irony of adding insult to injury was too much to bear. I have, however, acquiesced to a pedicure, which Stacy insists will be relaxing. I’m sure it would be, if not for my deep-seated aversion to emery boards. I think she’s tired of hearing me repeat the Sam conversation and figures I’ll keep quiet if I’m clenching my teeth in fear.

We’ve found a place near the escalators, pushing a nondescript buzzer that unlocked a steel-reinforced door. Black leather loungers ring the bare-walled, strip-lit room where half a dozen Chinese technicians fondle their clients’ feet. It’s the chicken assembly line of foot care. The women confer briefly among themselves to decide who’s going to work on Stacy and me. Five minutes later my feet are soaking in hot water and the woman in front of me is sharpening her tools on a leather strap. Or it seems that way.

She starts gently with some sort of scissors, which don’t hurt, though I’m flinching as if slapped each time the blade touches my skin. I can see her patience wearing thin. By the time she graduates to a file that’s used to shave down lopsided doors, I’m shooting her pointed looks that say, ‘I will not hesitate to knock your teeth out if you hurt me.’ Through the miracle of non-verbal communication, she understands perfectly, and stops grinding away quite so enthusiastically.

Meanwhile Stacy is chatting away like she’s not losing important bits of her foot. ‘If it’s not raining let’s go to The Backyard tonight,’ she says. ‘We’ll sip cocktails, show off our feet and soak up the atmosphere.’

What she means is that I’ll be distracted from thoughts of Sam. Any relief is welcome, and I do love The Backyard, but comfy rattan sofas amidst Mong Kok’s skyscrapers aren’t going to make me forget what I’ve done. I vacillate between certainty that it was the right thing and certainty that it was the painful thing. Neither assures me it was the best thing.

My mind constantly flicks to Sam, where he is and what (who) he’s doing. Did he wait until he got back to Ho Chi Minh to call Svetlana, or was he on his mobile to her as he left the bird market? It’s none of my business. I broke up with him. Of course, I’m desperate to know. 

When the technician drags an emery board across my big toenail, I squeal to tell her how much I’m enjoying the experience. She stops abruptly.

‘Please,’ I gasp. ‘No emery board.’

‘Just a little?’ She asks.

Not unless you want to go to the hospital. ‘No, none. Please.’

‘You not let me work!’ she cries, like Picasso being relieved of his brushes. She’s jealously eyeing Stacy’s feet, being whittled away, no doubt wishing she’d made a different choice of customer. To prove her mettle, she chooses a gleaming instrument and begins running it across the bottom of my foot. Bits of foot flake off on to the towel.

‘What’s that?’ I cry.

‘It’s a razor,’ says Stacy. ‘She’s shaving the calluses off your foot.’

‘But don’t I need those?’

‘For what?’

I’m not sure, but I’ve got to think that if my body sees fit to make a callus, there must be a good reason.

‘Trust her, Hannah, she knows what she’s doing. Just try to enjoy it. This is supposed to be taking your mind of things.’

It is. Now I’m obsessing about physical rather than emotional scarring. Job done, thanks, Stace. 

Of course, falling out of love isn’t as easy as slicing off a callus. If it were, then women the world over would have perfect feet and intact self-esteem. More than two weeks after my talk with Sam and my feet and nerves remain in tatters. Unfortunately I have to rely on both today.

‘My god, this is huge!’ I exclaim to Josh. Exhibition stalls stuffed with clothes run off into the distance of the huge AsiaWorld-Expo building. ‘How many manufacturers are here?’

‘It seems to be all of them, doesn’t it? But it’s only a fraction of those that are actually in China. Lots of the hopeful newcomers come to these shows for exposure to the exporters. It’s a beauty parade of sorts, with each firm showcasing their best work. We get to wander around and be made a fuss over. Watch carefully and you can see them puckering up. Your bottom is about to be kissed.’ He reddens as he says this, probably aware that mentioning an employee’s bottom could be misinterpreted. I’ve never told him the details about my old boss, Mark. If I had, he’d probably be less afraid to offend me.

I sigh. ‘I could use some adoration at the moment.’

‘Stacy told me about you and Sam. I’m sorry, Hannah, that’s a very hard thing to have to go through. But for what it’s worth, you probably did the right thing.’

‘Thanks, Josh. It doesn’t feel very right at the moment… Are you and Stacy in touch?’ I had no idea. But then again she could have set her hair on fire lately and I probably wouldn’t have noticed. Yet another downside to heartbreak: you turn into a crappy friend.

‘Yes, we chat occasionally,’ he says shyly. ‘She’s a very nice woman, and interesting, but then you know that already, don’t you?’

‘Are you… an item, Josh?’ I tease, hoping I’m not overstepping my bounds. I’ll get all the details from Stacy when I get home, but that’s
hours
from now.

‘Has she not mentioned anything?’ He looks disappointed. ‘We went for drinks on Monday. I assumed she’d have told you. That’s not a problem, is it?’

‘Oh no, not at all! I think you’re great, and she’s great, so it’d be… great if you liked each other.’

‘Well, it is still early days, just one date, but I’d like to see her again.’

‘Great,’ I contribute lamely as we stare at each other in this suddenly awkward silence. ‘So, uh, what would you like me to do today? How can I help?’

Pleased to be off the
great
subject of his love life, he says, ‘Generally at these things I try to get round to as many stands as I can, taking notes on any that look promising. Why don’t I start at that end and you start at this, and we’ll see what we come up with? Let’s meet at the front, where the bar is, at noon?’

‘Sounds good. I’ll listen for the gun.’ I smile. The noonday gun is an institution here. Each day the artillery gun booms over Causeway Bay. ‘I’ll check my phone too.’ Because modern technology also has its place.

I feel self-conscious as I enter the manufacturers’ stands. I know I’ve got the right to be here – I’m
supposed
to be fondling these frocks – but sometimes it still feels unreal. I’m an exporter’s assistant! This makes me smile every time I think it. What a long way I’ve come, from Felicity’s reign of terror to Josh’s tutelage. It’s amazing, really, to be here today. Oh I say, that
is
a nice jacket! The vendor smiles broadly as I take it from its rail for a better look. Yes, it’s quality all right. Taking a card from his table I make a note of the exhibition number, and wonder briefly if they sell their wares to overly enthusiastic exporter’s assistants.

The morning slides by while I peruse the stalls, but my head is killing me by the time the gun signals my return to the bar to meet Josh. ‘Well? How’d it go then?’ He asks. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes please, a coke. I found a few things, and wrote down the stall numbers. Here are their cards.’

‘Tell me then,’ he says, handing me my drink. ‘What did you look for when you were assessing the clothes?’

‘Well, honestly, Josh, I’m a sucker for looks. So that’s what always attracts me. My mom called me a magpie when I was a kid because I always went for shiny things – wrapping paper, women’s rings, anything sparkly caught my eye. Which of course meant that sparkle won out over quality, and I’d be the first to think a piece of tin foil was valuable. That made leftovers priceless in our house! But when I started buying my own clothes I learned the hard way that all that glitters is not gold. I bought trendy and cheap, and my clothes fell apart. Which was really gutting because that meant my favorite clothes disintegrated. I once had a military jacket that I literally wore to threadbare rags. It was only because I hated to lose my favorite clothes that I started to watch for certain things. Because I realized that lots of designers copy each other, with varying quality. I started looking at things like seams. Obviously the fabric’s got to be cut on the grain and anything with a pattern has to be sewn straight, so the patterns match up. Even then, you’d be amazed how shoddy some jackets are on the inside. I’ve passed over so many beautiful jackets because their linings weren’t sewn properly. If the seams aren’t straight, which you can plainly see, they probably haven’t taken much care with the parts of the jacket you can’t see. And the lining’s got to be thick enough because places like shoulders get a workout, especially if you go dancing, and you don’t want the fabric to give way. I hate those Frankenstein scars at the seams. Better to give up the jacket before you buy it than have it fall apart a month later. Also, in things like leather bags I always look for the edges to be sealed. Those raw edges are a dead giveaway. And I once had a teal handbag that rubbed all over my white jeans… It was a disaster. Yes, I know, white jeans, ugh, but I meant the handbag! So now, unless I know the designer already I always do the rub test on handbags. The clerks think I’m insane but I scrub them with a white hankie. If even a smidge of color comes off I walk away. Things like buttons are too obvious to mention, right? I always check those. You may say that a loose button can always be sewn on but to me it’s a sign. Today a loose button, tomorrow your trouser seam rips open to show everyone you’re wearing your thong. I say no thanks.’

Josh is shaking his head.

‘Sorry, was I rambling?’

‘Yes, but I’m used to it now. I know I’ll never get a short answer from you when it comes to fashion but, amazingly, your stories do always come around to their points eventually. And you’re right, once again. The other things I look for are colors that don’t blend very well – say there’s a red top with ochre trim, and the trim is just a little too bright. That says to me that the designer had the right idea but the fabric that the manufacturer sourced was poorly dyed, so it may run when it’s cleaned. And you mentioned buttons. I also always try the zip. It should move smoothly. I know you can rub it with a pencil to loosen it up, but I don’t want our customers to have to. Thank you, Hannah.’ He clinks my glass with his. ‘Shall we have a good look at the ones we’ve chosen? I think we may find a few new manufacturers to work with today.’

Surely my grin can be seen from space. As Rachel, that flaky rock whisperer, might have said, my career is clearly on the ascendant even if my love life is in retrograde.

Chapter 17.

Even I’m tired of hearing me obsess now. It’s been more than a month. Is getting over someone really just a war of attrition? Do we bore everyone within earshot and then turn the tedium on ourselves until sanity makes us move on? Because I’m at risk of OCD, so often have I read his text. 

I know you said not to get in touch but I hope you’re good. I’m back in Hong Kong. Hannah, pls let me know you’re okay. OK? :-)

It came a week ago today, in that in-between time between teeth brushing and bed. I heard the bdllling, told myself it was Mom, or Chloe. Because they’re the only ones who text me now. Even so, every text makes me jump, and wonder. I’ve started playing a little game with myself. When I hear the chime, my heart quickens, prompting a stern talking-to. It’s not him, I tell myself. You were strong. You told him what you want, and what you don’t. He’s out of your life. It’s not his text. I’ve been very persuasive, in the text charade if not the amount of headspace he still occupies. I’d almost convinced myself that what I was saying was true. Then, it
was
him. Asking for… what? A way to assuage his guilt, perhaps? Maybe another chance? Or, as the text says, simply to know that I’m okay.

It’s incredible that I get bored of the newspaper by the time I finish the front page, yet I can spend hours reading into a single sentence when it’s from him. It isn’t just the reading into, of course. It’s the entire line of thinking that goes along with every possible interpretation. It goes something like this, accompanied by a healthy dose of self-righteousness. Say it
is
an innocent question born of his concern for me. Then shouldn’t he have shown such concern when deciding to have a relationship with another woman? Surely it would have been more courteous not to hurt me in the first place. And what if he’s texting in the hope that my answer will let him sleep at night? Well, my brain thinks huffily, see first response.