‘How do you know he wants to meet me?’
That was easy. Stuart loved Chinese girls. It was a real thing with him. His interest in one woman in particular, at his office, bordered on obsession for nearly a year. But she was a bitch, and it was clear to everyone but Stuart that she was just using him. He finally tired of her hot and cold running interest and, surprise, surprise, when he no longer jumped to attention she showed her true colors. Stuart deserved much better. I just knew he’d love Winnie, who wasn’t only Chinese; she was nice and smart, fun and pretty. ‘He’s single, looking to meet someone, and he likes Chinese girls.’
She nodded. ‘Yellow fever. It’s like an epidemic here. All right, I’ll meet him. As long as there’s no expectation. I don’t want him to feel obliged to take me out if he doesn’t like me. And I don’t want to feel pressured either. He may be just as you describe, but if I don’t think he’s cute, I won’t want to go out with him. I’m very picky about white guys.’
‘Well, you can judge his looks tonight without him even knowing. You know I’m meeting Brent, right? You could come with me to the station and then you’ll know what Stuart looks like. They’re identical. It’s like free samples. Try before you buy.’
We were both excited by the time we got to the MTR station to meet Brent. And when I saw him as I imagined Winnie must have done, my belly did a little somersault. She’d definitely like Stuart. She gave me the tiniest nod that told me so when we parted.
Funny how a person looks different as you get to know them. I definitely hadn’t thought Brent was cute in the early days, but that all started to change as we became friends. And then, one night, everything changed for good.
I was so relieved that our friendship had survived. If we hadn’t talked about it, it may not have. That was Brent’s idea. He was more grown-up than I was. In light of recent developments I suspected he wanted to talk about it again. I didn’t have long to wait for my suspicions to be confirmed.
‘Have you thought more about Sam’s proposal?’ He asked, handing me a glass of wine as we jostled for space amid the after-work crowd. I was lucky not to have to work the kind of hours that most Hong Kongers did. Stacy, Stuart and the rest of the bankers, lawyers and consultants were usually desk-bound till nine or ten, and even architects like Brent had a hard time escaping before seven. Being anomalies among our friends, Winnie and I regularly went out for a pre-after-work drink before meeting those with more demanding jobs.
The top of the Mandarin Oriental was one of Brent’s favorite bars, though it was a bit pricey for the likes of this fashion exporter’s assistant. Winnie’s hole-in-the-wall kitschy dives better suited our pockets, but I liked to pretend the Mandarin was my usual milieu, taking in the jaw-dropping views with a feigned air of nonchalance. In reality I wanted to jump up and down on the taupe-cushioned window seats yelling ‘Do-you-see-that-Do-you-see-that-Do-you-see-that?’
‘Prospective proposal,’ I reminded him. ‘We had a great time last night.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ He smiled with his usual friendliness.
‘Well, yes, of course I’ve thought about it. There’s no reason not to be thrilled, is there?’
‘And are you? Thrilled?’
I nodded. Robustly, in case he was in any doubt.
‘A hundred per cent?’
I knew he and Stacy talked behind my back! ‘As thrilled as I can be. It’s a big step. That’s what’s got me jittery.’ I wished I knew married people who weren’t my family, so I could ask them (obviously I couldn’t let that cat out of the bag). I was sure everyone felt the same trepidation when it came time to tie the knot. They’d tell me that it was perfectly normal.
I loved Sam more than anyone I’d ever known. The last few months back together with him had nearly wiped away all the angst I’d felt before. I didn’t tell Brent that, though, given the circumstances. That would be mean.
‘Are you sure that’s the only reason for your hesitation? It’s not because you have doubts?’ He looked away. ‘Han, try to forget what happened between us for a minute. I’m your friend. I want what’s best for you. Tell me, as your friend, what’s wrong, what you’re thinking.’
But I couldn’t forget what happened. I was starting to suspect that it was tied up in my feelings about marrying Sam. I could brush off Brent’s question (and I did) and carry on our easy, fun, relaxed, just-two-friends-out-for-dinner evening. But I couldn’t forget about that night.
Only three months had passed, not nearly long enough for events to recede into memory and make for a jolly, guilt-free remember-the-time-we moment. We’d been friends. Platonic friends. That was all. Except that at some point that night, then we weren’t. And try as I might to convince myself that nothing had changed, it wasn’t true. My feelings had changed.
I’d had no inkling beforehand that we’d cross a line that night, but I knew exactly when it happened. Brent had been talking about how his university girlfriend dumped him on graduation night. Such a wave of empathetic anger had welled up in me that it literally pushed the air from my lungs. I felt ill thinking about his hurt. What a cast-iron bitch. Obviously, she didn’t realize what she had in Brent. When I said so to him, he got bashful, refusing to accept the compliment. But it was more than a compliment. I meant it wholeheartedly. I was surprised by how much I meant it.
Later, we’d danced while a Chinese Elvis crooned in a cheesy bar in Lan Kwai Fong, still very much friends, but with something extra between us. We’d laughed, and danced and, during slow songs, settled in to the lovely feeling of being in each other’s arms.
Then I started thinking about Sam. That should have thrown cold water over whatever I was feeling. Instead, it stoked the flames. I wasn’t yet going back out with him. I was free to do whatever I wanted. And I wanted to stay in Brent’s arms. I realized I wanted to stay there till morning.
His look had told me he felt the same way. When our lips met, it was comfortable. I was surprised by how easy it was, and how nice it felt. We didn’t discuss going back to his flat. We didn’t need to. We spent the night together, exploring each other with the wonder of new discovery. We didn’t have sex, much as we both wanted to. It seemed a step too far, too fast, despite a year-long friendship. We were in uncharted waters. There was only so much rocking our newly built boat could handle.
Even though Sam and I had only just started talking again at the time, we were reconciling, rebuilding. There was every chance we’d eventually get back together. Yet I hadn’t felt guilty because of Sam. I’d felt guilty because of Brent. What if I hurt my friend?
I gathered my clothes while he slept, and would have slipped out had it not been for my shoe. He woke as I was flailing under the bed to get it. ‘Hannah? Where are you going?’
‘Me?’ As if there was someone else under the bed. ‘Oh, just home.’
‘Come back to bed. It’s early.’
‘No, no, thanks. I’d better get home. Stacy and I have to clean the flat.’
‘You mean our friend Stacy? The one who won’t get up till noon?’ I nodded. ‘Han, come here. Is there something you’d like to talk about?’
‘Absolutely not. Nothing at all I’d like to talk about.’
‘All right. Then I’ll do the talking.’ And he did. He told me how he felt, how he’d felt for a while. He’d never let on, never given me any clue. He hadn’t wanted to muddy the waters, he said. And he didn’t want to start. He understood about Sam, knew we were likely to get back together. He said then, and repeated many times since, that if I wanted to go back out with Sam, he was going to stand behind me. A hundred per cent. He sounded so reasonable. He was so reasonable. There was no pressure on me, on our friendship, either that morning or since. He was amazing. I felt safe with him.
That was the only night we were together. It was months ago. Water under the bridge, a done deed. Only… if it really was in the past, why was I feeling like this? Like I might be making a mistake with Sam.
♫ On the Fourt
h day of Christmas my fortune gave to me…
champagne for two
the good friend
two second thoughts
and a ticket home to see my family ♪
It was nearly 5 p.m. when Sam buzzed the office intercom, surprising me as much as Mrs. Reese. She showed her usual delight at the intrusion. ‘Hannah, someone is here to see you. If you’re going to leave early, or conduct non-work business at this time of day, I suggest you let Josh know.’
‘Oh, no need, Mrs. Reese. I’m sure you’ll tell him all about it in your daily report.’
Things had not improved lately between us. Now that she was back in the office, after her enforced post-Immigration incident holiday, you’d think she’d never jeopardized her boss’s livelihood at all. She was exactly as domineering, cold and unpleasant as she’d ever been. Her malevolent form glowered over everything, a poltergeist in tweed. During my first few weeks working, I chalked up her attitude to the fact that she’d been Josh’s dad’s secretary. She started with the company around the time that woolly mammoths went extinct. Spending one’s entire career at a company did come with a certain level of entitlement. And when I found out that she used to, ehem, file old Mr. Bolton’s personal accounts on a regular basis, her behavior made all the more sense. Winnie told me that it was an open secret, and accepted within the Bolton family, so nobody crossed the old witch. That made for a rather dysfunctional, pseudo-mother-son relationship between Josh and Mrs. Reese, but it seemed to work for them.
I threw myself on Sam at the doorway. ‘Sweets! What are you doing here?’
‘I wanted to surprise you, take you out for drinks and dinner tonight. I thought we could go somewhere outside, since it’s not too cold, before it gets dark. I hope that’s okay.’
He didn’t really need to ask, given that I was clinging to him like a chimp. Besides, Josh wouldn’t stand in the way of romance. Mrs. Reese would beat it over the head and lock it in the closet, but not Josh.
As we walked to the MTR to take the underground back to Central, I contemplated Sam’s surprise appearance. Six months earlier he wouldn’t have done that. Things had shifted seismically.
When we first got together in London we were pretty even in the I’m-crazy-about-you stakes. In fact, Sam liked me first, so I probably had the slight advantage. We were mostly even, though, and I was nuts about him. Embarrassingly nuts. Stacy threatened to have me committed. I didn’t care. I was in love. L-O-V-E. What incredible days. If you’d swore blind on your mother’s life that there was a person on the planet more in love than me, I wouldn’t have believed you. It wasn’t possible. And I was smug about it, if only in my head. I constantly spotted couples and thought, ‘You’re not as in love as I am. And you’re not as in love. And you’re not even half as in love.’ I was insufferably in love.
I quickly realized, though, that I was the only one with no doubts about my move to Hong Kong. It wasn’t the move, per se, that had Stacy and my family calling daily with words of warning. Their feminist panties were in a twist because I’d moved there for Sam. He’d just finished his PhD and landed a job advising governments about economic policy. No matter that I had zero job prospects in London, or that I’d just proved that I could make a life for myself in a strange city. Nobody thought I should move. Because it was for a man.
But if the tables were turned, and the woman had the dream job, wouldn’t it be okay for the man who was in love with her to move? Exactly. Double standards.
It wasn’t that I wasn’t scared. I just wasn’t scared about the move. When you hand your heart to someone, you’ve got to hope they won’t drop it or crush it or kick it into the long grass. It was unsettling to have to trust another person with my feelings. I’d never done that before. Yet I had no doubts about Sam. Even now, I couldn’t describe them as doubts. Just a funny feeling. One that needed to be resolved before we got on that plane.
‘Champagne?’ Sam suggested. ‘To celebrate.’
‘What are we celebrating?’ My favorite bar, where only good things ever happened, buzzed as usual. Sandwiched in on all sides by skyscrapers, it was an oasis. Fairy lights wound their way through the mango trees overhead, illuminating the rattan and cushioned chairs. Giant red beanbags tempted stylish derrières. I’d made that mistake once. It was impossible to get out of one without looking like a buffalo escaping quicksand. Fear of needing rescue from their graceless clutches meant I only admired them from afar.
He handed me a chilled glass, effervescent with France’s finest. ‘To us.’ We clinked. ‘Hannah, these last few months have been really incredible. I’ve never had a relationship like ours. I’ve never known a woman like you. And it’s just over a week till we go home to see your parents. You know what that means.’ He smiled. ‘I have a question.’
Oh my god. He was going to do it. Here, in my favorite bar. Now. My heart began to pound, a smile frozen on my face. Well, it’s what I wanted, wasn’t it, the goal of Operation Proposal? I wanted to know for sure what my reaction would be when he asked to put that ring on my finger… ugh. I already had a ring on that finger. Stupid finger. Stupid, stupid ring. Obviously I couldn’t wrench it off with him staring at me. ‘Yes?’ I squeaked.
‘We’d better get our Christmas gifts soon. It’ll be so much better to get things here, don’t you think? More interesting and much more thoughtful than going to the mall like everyone else. What do you think your parents might like from me? I can pick up a few things this weekend.’
That was his question?! In such a romantic, champagne-fuelled setting, he wanted to discuss my father’s shirt size? ‘I don’t know. I’m sure they’ll like anything you’d like to get them.’ He had presents on his mind, not proposals. I felt so discouraged. My expectation had overinflated. Now the balloon was empty.
Hold on. Didn’t that mean I was anticipating his proposal in a positive way? Otherwise I’d be relieved that he hadn’t asked me. That was a step forward, I told myself. It was a sign that I’d say yes.
I didn’t believe me. I knew myself too well. No matter what the outcome, I found anticipation unbearable. Growing up, my mother’s ‘wait-till-your-father-gets-home’ threat was always worse than the spanking that followed. The relief I felt when I thought Sam was about to pop the question didn’t mean anything. Until he actually asked, I didn’t know what I was going to say.
‘What would you like for Christmas?’ He nuzzled my neck as we sat close on the sofa, the chill in the December air giving us the perfect excuse to snuggle. Not that we needed excuses. Just thinking about kissing him pushed my thoughts into Rated X territory. Acting on those thoughts often made me light-headed, and not just because we kissed for long minutes without coming up for air. He was perfect in so many ways.
Well, perfect, except for the part about dating that other woman. The memory-wiping exercises (mostly putting my fingers in my ears and shouting la la la la la) hadn’t worked. The only way I was going to exorcise those demons was to confront them.
My demon-slaying didn’t mean rehashing the whole thing with Sam, though. We’d done nothing but talk about it when I agreed to speak to him again. As one might expect, it was a rather big impediment to our reconciliation. I certainly didn’t make things easy for him. Why should I? It still hurt to think about the last year.
I had no way to know when I landed in Bangkok for our pre-moving holiday that only one of us would actually arrive in Hong Kong at the end of the trip. He didn’t find out about the work assignment in Vietnam until just before I left London, and since I might have led him to believe I wasn’t moving just to be with him, I couldn’t really blame him for not telling me till we were together in Bangkok. Besides, we didn’t expect him to be in Vietnam for that long. That’s the problem with being an economist who advises governments. Governments can be uncooperative about their employees’ love lives. I was admirably understanding, about the move at least.
I admit that my teeny, tiny, hardly even worth mentioning jealous streak might have
played a part in the tension that built up between Sam and me. And I might have become a tad paranoid about his boss. Which was perfectly understandable. Sam was living with her (admittedly in a four-bedroom corporate flat with two other colleagues), and not coming home every weekend.
Eventually, I snapped. But I truly didn’t mean to say we should see other people. It just popped out during an argument, which we’d been having more often. Typically, Sam was reasonable even in the face of my banshee ranting. We parted that weekend on good terms. Nothing had really changed. We were still going out. We just had different ideas about what ‘seeing other people’ meant.
Obviously, it meant don’t you dare see other people. But Sam didn’t get that memo.
He didn’t tell me about her. His friend Pete did, and my world crashed down around me. My boyfriend, the love of my life, Sam, The One, had gone out with another woman. It didn’t matter that technically he didn’t break any rules. He broke my heart.
To say he was blindsided when I broke up with him was an understatement. She was just a diversion, he said, just a date, no big deal, nothing important. I was the one that he loved. I’d been the one, he reminded me, who said we should see other people. I didn’t need the reminder. I felt bad enough as it was.
I didn’t talk to him for months. It took every ounce of willpower, and Stacy’s intervention, but I stayed resolutely silent. Impervious to his texts. My inner goddess had been unleashed. She kept me strong. And I healed. But the scar was still there. Nails might be pulled out of a board, but the holes remain. I wasn’t sure they’d ever be fully filled. I played my imaginary film reel over and over. Sam and her, in bed together. Him, smiling into her eyes, as he had mine. Stroking her stomach, as he had mine. Sending shivers down her spine, as he had mine. Kissing her harder and more urgently, as he’d done with me. Exciting her, as he’d done with me. Maybe feeling with her what he’d felt with me. Maybe feeling for her what he’d felt for me. It made my stomach churn to think about it. But I couldn’t stop. Even now, months after we’d got back together. It was nothing, he’d said. Just sex. Just once. There were no feelings involved. He said it so often that I believed him. Shocked into realization, he told me he loved me as I broke up with him. And I knew how much he regretted hurting me. I accepted that he’d done nothing wrong, technically, according to the letter of the law, if not the spirit. I believed in second chances. I’d made my peace, and forgiven. But how was I ever going to forget?
The Expat Diaries: Twelve Days to Christmas (Single in the City Book 3) Page 3
