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

by Michele Gorman

  ‘No. I didn’t expect you to sit in your apartment waiting for me to arrive. It just hit me that I wasn’t part of that time. I was part of your life in London. I guess I felt a little excluded all of a sudden, which is ridiculous because I wasn’t even here. Don’t listen to me, I’m babbling.’

  ‘I do listen to you, Han. If something’s bothering you then we should talk about it. Hmm?’ His thumb gently strokes my hand.

  ‘No, it’s nothing.’

  I’m sabotaging this perfect day with inane conjecture. What do I expect him to do, invite me into his time machine so we can spend those first two months in each other’s pockets? These imagined wounds are self-inflicted. Snap out of it, Hannah.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here now,’ I finally say. We’re walking alongside a tall stone wall leading to an imposing red and gold gate. As far as temples go, it’s impressive. I had a look at the Man Mo Temple back in Central when I first arrived, but it’s rather puny in comparison. Plus the lit incense hanging from the ceiling is a downright hazard. Health and safety would disapprove of dropping incendiaries on tourists.

  A lone fortune teller is sitting beside the gate. ‘Should we go to him?’ I ask, a little nervous that he’ll shut up shop for an early dinner and take my fortune with him.

  ‘Nah.’ He shrugs. ‘There must be others. What if there are better ones?’

  This strikes me as a typically male approach to choice. As women we’re prepared to make a decision without exploring every last option. Which is why we’re able to choose a mate without wondering if there might not be a better one out there. ‘Okay,’ I say, by which I mean, ‘If we miss the fortune telling I will hold a grudge for the rest of my life.’ Just so we’re clear.

  The stone wall hides a golden-roofed temple, ornately carved and painted red, green and gold, merry with hanging paper lanterns. It’s thick with swirling incense smoke and mingling worshippers, walking, standing, kneeling, bowing or prostrate in the stone courtyard. It’s much noisier than one would expect for a place of worship. I’m used to churches, where a whisper can send you straight to hell. We wander through the complex, careful not to step on the faithful.

  Off to one side, nestled amidst the skyscrapers and grumbling traffic, is a garden. A very peaceful garden with koi ponds and bridges. ‘Let’s look,’ Sam says. He really does seize the moment. I know it’s a small thing, but so important to me. He’s my ideal partner in crime. On a little arched bridge we stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the fish execute their hypnotic water dance. ‘It’s so peaceful.’

  I mean this whole thing. The feeling is almost overwhelming, waves of the gentlest calming I’ve ever known, of complete peace, like being stroked until you’re just about to fall asleep, floating in that limbo between slumber and consciousness.

  ‘Bdllling!’

  ‘Is that your phone?’ He asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you want to get it?’

  ‘It’s just a text.’ I sigh. ‘From my mother.’

  Hannah, are you with Sam? plese invite him home for 4th July.. Your father wants to bbq

  As if Dad needs an excuse to char meat in the back yard. She’s getting desperate now.

  Thx Mom, that’s v patriotic but I don’t think we can make it. Maybe for Secretary’s Day.

  ‘My mom says to say hello,’ I fib, pressing the send button. ‘So what do you think, shall we find our fortunes?’

  It takes less than five minutes to circumnavigate the grounds and see that there aren’t any fortune tellers here. Maybe they’ve gone on strike. That man by the gate may have been the only scab to cross the picket line. I don’t want to encourage strike-breaking, but I want my fortune told. Just as I’m about to suggest finding him, Sam spots a narrow lane alongside the temple building. That has to be it. Fortune tellers’ alley. Little pink papers, fluttering in the breeze, are stapled to boards lining the walls. They’re covered in red Chinese characters. This is definitely the right place. ‘We’d like our fortunes read, please,’ I tell the lithe young woman tending the boards.

  ‘Number?’ She asks.

  ‘Sam, what number do you want?’ I’ve always been partial to eleven. It was my soccer number, though I only played for a week before realizing that a) I have virtually no foot-to-eye coordination and b) sweating in a field wasn’t as much fun as, say, anything else I could think of. They let me keep the shirt though.

  The woman looks confused when I tell her this. ‘Get number, in temple,’ she says, clearly thrilled at having tourists riding roughshod over her ancient customs.

  But there wasn’t any place in the temple to get a number. The vendors are all out here. The temple was filled with people waving incense, and praying, and… Wait a minute… ‘I know, Sam.’

  There’s a small open area neatly laid with straw mats where people are making an awful racket, shaking cans full of tongue depressors. I’m not sure how, but that must be where we get our numbers. We follow the small crowd up the broad stone steps, shedding our shoes as the others do. Ladies behind the can-laden tables offer them in exchange for a few Hong Kong dollars. Tentatively we join the devotees. What are we getting ourselves into? I feel like a fraud, kneeling at this shrine, shaking my sticks and trying to keep nervous giggles from erupting into full-scale mania.

  Sam’s wrestling with his own it’s-inappropriate-therefore-I-must-do-it giggle fit. At least if we’re destined for Taoist hell we’ll be together. A young man notices our inexperience (read: agnostic disrespect for their age-old religion) and suggests, ‘Think about your questions, and shake until one falls out.’

  Oh, I see. I did wonder what kind of sign we were waiting for. The sticks are numbered. It takes a bit of technique but eventually they start creeping forward. Within minutes we’ve got our numbers. Suddenly I’m nervous. What if the fortune teller says something terrible? Will I really not believe him?

  As we return to the alley, a young man is watching our progress. The minute we pay the woman, who hands us our fortunes, he appears at our side. ‘I’ll take you to my master now,’ he says, greedily eyeing the pink papers.

  I imagine a wizened old man with a long beard and Chairman Mao pajamas. I had a Chinese friend in school called Amy whose mother consulted her fortune teller before making any decision. Amy was embarrassed by her family’s traditions, but maybe there’s peace of mind in trusting your decisions to someone else. I’ll judge after I hear what he says.

  The young man leads us into a low corridor lined with stalls, brightly lit with ugly yellow fluorescent overhead strips. Wooden stools line our path, waiting to receive the faithful’s bottoms. In one of the stalls sits a forty-something-year-old man behind a metal desk. His face is bathed in the glow of his computer screen. He looks like an IT programmer.

  ‘You sit,’ the man says, holding out his hand as his minion melts away. Eventually, from his pointed look rather than any polite request, I gather he wants my paper. ‘What’s your question?’ he demands, scrutinizing the pink slip.

  Well, I want to snap, you’re the soothsayer. You tell me what my question is. Of course I don’t. I sit silently, having not prepared for this exam, until he prompts, ‘Work, family, relationship?’

  ‘Relationship.’

  He stares at the paper, making some notes on it, then says, ‘Relationship okay. Marriage no. Marriage not happy. You make unhappy. Yes.’ He sits back, like Yoda in a polyester suit, pleased with his proclamation.

  Thank you. So, just to be clear, I’m not the marrying kind and will someday make a man very unhappy indeed. Forgive me if I’m not prepared to believe a man who may have been surfing porn when we interrupted.

  It’s Sam’s turn. ‘Relationship,’ he says in a show of solidarity.

  The fortune teller sighs, considering the paper. ‘You don’t pay attention,’ he says. ‘You need to pay more attention in relationship. And you work too much. Too much time working. This is bad. Yes.’

  ‘Great, thanks very much,’ Sam says. ‘Er,
is that all?’

  Having dispensed his cosmic insight, the master gruffly waves us away.

  That was about as satisfying as a fat-free muffin. I suppose it is the end of the day. We probably got the last stale fortunes. That makes us 0 for 2 on the soothsaying front. At least the company is excellent. Otherwise this whole day would have been a washout. ‘What do you want to do now?’ I ask as we emerge from the building.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a few hours before we have to meet everyone for dinner. I know what I’d like to do.’ He grins. ‘Shall we go back to my apartment? We could have a nap or, whatever we want…’

  He’s reading my mind. His bed is calling, and not for its restive powers. I’d love to skip the team bonding dinner and stay under the duvet till Sunday with my boyfriend, but he’s really excited for me to meet everyone. I’m sure it’ll be fun. Maybe not as much fun as the next few hours, but fun all the same.

  Chapter 9.

  I couldn’t be having less fun in a dentist’s chair getting a root canal. At least then I’d be numb with Novocain. Yet here I am, unmedicated, except for the better part of a bottle of wine, sitting beside Sam at a table of strangers, fielding condescending questions from his supposedly fabulous friend Pete. I’m sure Sam would jump to my defense but he hasn’t got eyes in the back of his head. Which he would need to see me, since I’ve been staring at his shoulder blades for nearly an hour. His front is solidly engaged with Li Ming, whose conversation must be the most scintillating in the room.

  It’s not unlike a frequent nightmare I have, where I’m desperately trying to get someone’s attention. It’s always for a really good reason too, like their hair is on fire or they’re about to walk off a cliff. No matter what I do I remain invisible, and the horror unfolds despite my best efforts.

  I’ve gone twice to the loo for pep talks with myself. I haven’t been as persuasive as I’d hoped. I should just leave. Drop by the table, breezily tell Sam I’m going, and walk out. Every minute I stay just deepens the snub.

  I’ve pored over every minute of this farce, trying to see if I’m somehow overreacting. Unfortunately, Stacy has already left, and isn’t answering her phone, which makes my analysis a bit lopsided. Wait till she hears what she’s missed.

  Sam and I arrived at the big, busy restaurant just as Stacy did. He suggested I include her tonight, which struck me as typically thoughtful if a little naïve. She’s been dying to get another crack at him since I foiled her attack at the monastery. Now I wonder if he didn’t risk her presence just so I’d have a friend close by when he ignored me. She was only able to stay for drinks and starters before going to meet Stuart. Now I wish I’d left with her, but things hadn’t yet skidded downhill. In fact, we had a promising start, and much as I hate to admit this, Li Ming is friendly, and seems nice and fun. She’s also plain, not the Lucy Liu of my nightmares. Her face is rather round and she doesn’t wear much make-up. Still, she’s a pixie. Not a beauty, no, but fragile and innocent. There’s no reason to think she’s a threat now that I’ve seen her. And yet her lack of obvious beauty makes her all the more worrying somehow. For she certainly has Sam’s attention.

  As for Pete, I don’t understand what Sam sees in him. Though I do see what women see in him, at least at first glance. He’s gorgeous – tall, broad and smoldering. It’s a shame that his personality is so unattractive.

  In all the months that I’ve heard about him, it never occurred to me that he’d act like this. Clearly he suffers from schizophrenia, since he was charm personified to Stacy before being a dick to me. His looks must let him get away with a lot. Highlights of his delightfulness so far include his implication that I’ve latched on to Sam like some bloated tick (‘Your devotion is commendable but then, who wouldn’t do everything they could to keep hold of Sam?’) and a lecture on the exploitation of fashion (‘It’s unconscionable to warp consumers’ minds with the bullshit that they should pay more for a pair of shoes than the child who made them gets in a year’).

  Sam’s other colleagues aren’t awful. They’re just economists who like to backpack, wear hemp shoes and lament the ‘bigger issues’ in life. My concern about cashmere versus merino for winter doesn’t qualify as one of these.

  ‘Hannah, are you planning any travel?’ Li Ming asks me over Sam’s shoulder.

  ‘… Yes, in fact, I’m… going to Phuket in a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You are?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Yep. Stacy and I are going for my birthday weekend. Didn’t I tell you that?’ Of course I didn’t tell him. I’ve just made it up. The surprise on his face says it’s not a bad thing to push him off balance a bit.

  ‘Maybe you did,’ he says. ‘That’ll be fun.’

  ‘It’ll be great. Stuart and Brent might go too.’ Why am I doing this? ‘Actually, it was their idea. They want to take us away. To introduce us to Asia. And celebrate my birthday.’ There. Now Sam is paying attention. ‘I may have to take a few days off, but it’ll be worth it. It’s not every day a girl gets whisked off for such a fabulous holiday, is it?’ I smile sweetly at Sam, who now looks much more sober than he did a minute ago.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he says, sounding a bit deflated.

  ‘Well, that sounds very nice, Hannah.’ Li Ming grins. ‘I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time. We’ve only managed to get to the beach once so far. Your trip will be much nicer.’

  My stomach heaves at this news. ‘The beach? Which beach did you go to?’ My voice doesn’t crack at the question, unlike my confidence. Please let him say he didn’t go. Or that he went but Li Ming didn’t. Or that the beach is actually a library in central Ho Chi Minh City.

  ‘Uh, what was it called again?’ my boyfriend asks his boss for confirmation of their love nest rendezvous destination.

  ‘Ha, your memory really is terrible Sam. You booked it for us! Mui Ne Bay. You should take Hannah there. She’d love it. Hannah, maybe you’ll visit us soon?’

  Us? Yes, that’s a great idea. Take me to your secret little lover’s beach. I feel sick, and it’s not just because I ate too many thousand-year eggs at dinner.

  ‘Yeah, Hannah, that’s a point. Why haven’t you visited Sam yet?’ Pete lobs his grenade into this already uncomfortable foxhole.

  ‘Well, Pete, I haven’t been invited.’ Surely if he’s Sam’s best friend, he’d know that.

  ‘What?’ Sam interjects. ‘Yes you have, Han!’

  ‘You haven’t invited me.’

  ‘I have. I always tell you that you’re welcome to come.’

  ‘That’s not the same thing as being invited.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘No, it isn’t! An invitation involves extending a specific request for your presence, not just a vague, “It’ll be cool if you wanted to”’

  ‘I’m sorry, Han. Would you like to come to Ho Chi Minh in two weeks for the weekend?’ He’s grinning in that way that usually melts me.

  ‘Yes, that’d be nice, thank you,’ I say petulantly.

  ‘Wait, you can’t, can you?’ objects Pete. ‘You’re going to Thailand in two weeks. I’m sure you could visit Sam any other weekend though. Any weekend that Sam’s free.’

  Sam shoots his friend a menacing look. Finally, he’s noticed the animosity. ‘Oh right. I guess not then. Sorry Sam, maybe another weekend. I’m pretty tired. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go.’ I get up on shaky legs. It may be a late exit, but better late than never. ‘Goodnight everybody, and thanks.’

  Sam follows me out. ‘Hannah, what’s wrong? Are you okay?’

  Does he really have to ask? God, men can be thick sometimes. ‘I’m fine. I just thought I’d leave you to your friends. Since you obviously want to spend time with them.’

  ‘Well, yes I do. But I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I thought we’d all have dinner. Han, have I done something wrong? I feel like you’re mad at me, but I don’t know why. You’re saying you’re fine but clearly you’re not.’

  ‘Well, how would you feel if my
friends were rude to you? Pete was awful and you didn’t even notice.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Pete. He’s not usually like that. He shouldn’t have been rude. His issue is with me, not you. He should apologize.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is that you ignored me all night, and left me alone with a bunch of strangers.’

  ‘I didn’t leave you alone! I’ve been right beside you the whole night. Honestly, Han, I think you’re overreacting.’

  There’s no surer way to make me see red than to tell me I’m overreacting. Of course I’m overreacting! Unlike most men, who are emotionally constipated, I have feelings. I’m not going to swallow my hurt. I’m going to make sure there’s collateral damage.

  ‘Overreacting? Let’s see. You’re home for forty-eight hours and decide to spend an entire evening with the same people you see every day. You invite me along, then spend the whole time ignoring me to talk to your boss. And you accuse me of overreacting because I’m upset about that.’ I’m shaking. I think it’s anger, but there may be some fear that this conversation isn’t going to end well. That’s possibly because instead of looking abjectly contrite, Sam’s face is set in a rather less accommodating manner.

  ‘Hannah. I arranged this dinner for you so that you could meet the people you’re so curious about. You said last night that it’d be fun, and when I suggested you invite Stacy you sounded like you were really looking forward to it. If you didn’t want to go then you should have just said so, instead of pretending you did. It’s not fair to be mad when you didn’t tell me what you were really thinking.’

  So shoot me for not wanting him to think his idea sucked. Doesn’t everybody do this, glossing over little aggravations so as not to make the other person feel bad? Maybe this was bigger than a niggle, but surely my fib is justified given that Sam’s only here for two days. Besides I didn’t know my boyfriend was going to spend the evening with his back to me, did I? ‘Sam, that’s not fair. I didn’t know I didn’t want to be there until you started ignoring me.’