‘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.
And then this morning:
Hi, wondering if you got my text? Han, please, I’d love to talk. Is that at all possible? Any sign will do. :-)
What if he still believes he’s made a huge mistake, and that he loves me? The fact remains that words are cheap. How will I ever know what he’s really feeling, and why? But am I really strong enough not to entertain the possibility of another chance? That’s the hope I’ve been clinging to all this time. It’s what my heart wants. But my head says it’s a self-betrayal to let him back in after standing up for what I deserve in a relationship. And what if I let him back in, and he changes his mind once he’s got me hooked? Head or heart. Heart or head. Head, head (shut up heart) … head. My fingers move before I can change my mind. Edit, select text… delete. And again. In dubious tribute to the late Amy Winehouse, I say, ‘No, no, no.’
I don’t know what I’d have done without Stacy. Every day she calls and texts while we’re at work. Every evening she makes herself available as my sounding-board-cum-entertainer. It’s getting better. The longer I can go without tears the more certain I am that I was right to stand up for myself. I was right to take control of my relationship. I can look back
now and see that when ‘we’ decided we could see other people (did we really decide that? My memory plays tricks), I got angsty. As if some low-grade annoyance moved in, always there. I ignored it for the most part but it played on my mind, nevertheless. And now that angst is gone, poof, blown away by our final conversation. Equilibrium is returning, slowly. I can look ahead now and feel, if not joy, then at least not angst. The sadness is still there, and probably will be for a long time. But I’m more peaceful now, more me. I know the joy will come.
‘It fits,’ declares Mr. Chan, nodding in satisfaction as we stand in his sweltering workshop. Yes, it’s in small moments like this that normalcy returns. Even better, joy returns.
After the better part of a year, I’m wearing my handmade dress, grinning at my reflection. The deep blue shantung silk drapes perfectly, molding to my body in all the right places. It feels lovely. I feel lovely. ‘Thank you, Mr. Chan, it’s beautiful. They’re all beautiful.’
‘Good. Take off now. You sweaty.’ Mr. Chan must certainly think I have a glandular problem. Every time I arrive for our appointment I look like I’ve just finished a half marathon. I will never get used to wading through this 95°F humidity soup. But at least now I’ll get to sweat in handmade clothes.
‘Thanks again, Mr. Chan. I’m going to tell everyone about you!’
‘You are welcome,’ he says solemnly. ‘You fit nicely now,’ he says as he hands over my credit card receipt.
He’s right, I think, smiling as I hurry back to the office, I do indeed fit nicely now.
Josh is due back later this afternoon but Mrs. Reese trains her beady eye on me as I float back to my desk. She makes a show of consulting the old-fashioned gold watch she keeps pinned upside down on her jacket. I don’t care. Not even her disapproval can dent my mood today. Winnie, I instant message, come over when you get a minute, I’ve got something to show you!
She’s at my desk in fifteen seconds, clearly as loath to work today as I am. ‘Show me!’
‘My clothes finally fit!’ I unfurl them from the gym bag. The silks whisper against each other, forming a rainbow of jewel tones across my desktop. ‘I’ve got two suits too, but look, they’ve got these great linings, and the pattern is subtle but makes them very funky, don’t you think? I’ll mainly wear the dresses to work, or out, though. I love them!’
‘They’re beautiful, Hannah, well done,’ she says, expertly eyeing their design. Winnie knows quality when she sees it. ‘It took a long time to get it right, but it was worth it, wasn’t it? Now you’ve got the patterns. You’ve got it sussed. We should go out tonight to celebrate.’
‘Absolutely, great idea. I’ll call Stacy and see if she can join us.’
‘Hannah,’ Mrs. Reese announces, suddenly appearing by my desk. I hate when she does that. ‘These gentlemen would like a word with you.’
‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Winnie says, frowning at the Chinese men standing patiently beside Mrs. Reese.
‘You may be more comfortable in Josh’s office,’ she says. ‘He’s not due back for another hour.’ With a smile she walks away.
‘Uh, hello, I’m Hannah Cumming. I’m sorry, did we have an appointment today? If you’ll come this way, we can use Josh’s office.’ I’m sure my diary was clear. I checked when I made Mr. Chan’s appointment. Plus, no client has ever had a meeting with me. That’s the kind of thing I’d remember.
As we settle ourselves at the little round table in the office, both men take out business cards, formally presenting them to me. Dizzily I read them. Immigration Department. ‘Miss Cumming, we are here to discuss your working in Hong Kong,’ Man One says pleasantly.
I’m not fooled by his smile. ‘Of course,’ I say, trying to keep the panic from my voice. ‘How can I help you?’ I wonder if they’ll let me get my things on the way to the airport. I remember the story my Aussie housemates told back in London, about their friend who got caught without a visa. It didn’t sound like Immigration wasted any time getting him on a flight back to South Africa. I might not even be able to tell Stacy what happened. She’ll think I’ve been kidnapped.
‘We will also want to talk to Mr. Josh Bolton,’ Man Two explains. ‘We are interested to know about your work situation. You are employed by Mr. Bolton?’
It’s a trick question. Saying yes gets me deported and Josh probably fined or even thrown in jail. Saying no is an outright lie, and given that we’re here, at my place of employment, it’s one I’m unlikely to get away with.
‘I’m so sorry, how rude of me. May I get you some tea?’ I stand up, startling them. They both smile their acquiescence.
On shaking legs I make my way to Winnie’s desk. ‘Winnie,’ I whisper. ‘They’re from Immigration. What am I going to do? I’ve stalled them, said I’d make tea.’ I could make a run for it but in these shoes I wouldn’t get very far. Foiled by footwear.
‘What do you mean, what are you going to do? Hannah, don’t you have a work permit to be here?’
‘Winnie, now is not the time to judge me. No, I don’t. Josh hired me without one. I’m going to be deported, aren’t I?’
‘Let me think. Take your time with the tea. Good thinking, by the way. Chinese are too polite to refuse tea. I’ll call Josh right now and get him back here.’ Her eyes are wide as she shakes her head. ‘Oh Hannah, this is terrible. But stay calm and stall them. Josh will know what to do.’ She doesn’t look too sure.
Stay calm and stall, she says. Easier said than done. Oh god, oh god, oh god, I’m going to be deported! That might even involve being arrested. Am I about to do time in a Chinese prison? My mind flashes to Midnight Express, which my sister made me watch years ago. It was dire, and that was just a film. I don’t even know a lawyer, or whether I get to make a phone call. Should I call Stacy? I can’t. I left my phone at my desk. Which they can plainly see from Josh’s office. I don’t even know her number by heart. I don’t know anyone’s number, come to think of it. I make a terribly inept fugitive. My hands shake as I boil the kettle and find matching teacups. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone now. Taking a raggedy deep breath, I steel myself for the performance of a lifetime.
‘Here we go,’ I say smoothly as I set the tray before my inquisitors. ‘I quite like it strong, I hope that’s okay.’
‘Thank you, Ms. Cumming,’ Man One says. ‘Now, would you mind–’
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you. If you’d just–’
‘Sugar for you, sir?’ I smile at Man Two, who nods. ‘One or two?’
‘Just one. Ms.–’
‘Milk for you both? Would you prefer full-fat? I can just go get–’
‘No thank you, really, this is fine. Thank you. Ms. Cumming, we’ve been alerted that there may be some, irregularity, in your work situation. At the Immigration Department we take all such notices seriously, and we’re here today to resolve these questions. So could you please tell us: does Mr. Bolton currently employ you?’
‘Well yes, he does. Clearly.’
‘And when did your employment begin?’
‘Oh goodness, I don’t have that date to hand.’
‘Approximately. Please.’
‘Well, it’s not very clear you see. I’m sorry, I probably sound obstructive, it’s just that the date of my actual employment, if by employment you mean paid work, isn’t very clear.’ I wonder how many ways I can repeat this sentence before they start shouting. ‘I’d better explain. You see, I came from London, where I was employed. Not by Josh, Mr. Bolton, though. I didn’t know him in London, although his family is from the UK. Well, of course there are lots of British families here. His grandfather started the business. But you probably know that already. Josh was born and raised here but he went to school in the UK. That was in Cambridge, before I was there. In London, I mean. Do you need those dates?’ They shake their heads.
‘Because I remember those clearly. I arrived on January 2nd, I flew overnight on New Year’s Day. Not the best idea given my hangover. Anyway, as I me
ntioned, I was employed in London, though not in fashion. I worked as an events planner, so it was completely unrelated.’ Probably best not to mention that I wasn’t on Immigration’s books there either. ‘It was all right but I’ve always believed that fashion was my natural calling. And there were some issues at the end with my job in London, well, I needn’t bore you with those. Unless you’re interested?’
They shake their heads again. ‘Ms. Cumming, if we could just–’
‘Right, stick to the relevant facts, of course. Where was I? Oh right, my job in London.’ Man Two stifles a sigh. ‘So I was an events planner, and before that I worked in PR, but as I said I had this dream of working in fashion. I can’t think now why I didn’t pursue that earlier, like, when I was in London.’ I shrug. ‘Circumstances often stop one, I guess. Besides, it’s sort of a pipe dream, isn’t it? Lots of people would love to do it, and that’s what makes it so hard to get into. Well, then I decided to visit here. And Hong Kong is a fashion capital. Any place that produces Vivienne Tam has to be cutting edge, right? Ha ha, you don’t look like you know who Vivienne Tam is... East meets West? No? Well, anyway she’s an icon in the fashion world… Where was I? Oh right, a job in fashion. Well you know, my mother said I didn’t stand a chance, what with no background in the industry, and not even a related degree. But I was just looking for a chance to learn something about the industry, so I persevered, and I did my homework. Of course nobody, anywhere in the world, would hire me without experience. So I got in touch with some of the exporters and offered to help out on an, uh, informal basis, just to learn the ropes. I figured it wouldn’t cost them anything and I’d get to learn about the business and, well, it seemed like a good idea.’ I’m really warming to my theme now. ‘Naturally, most of the exporters ignored me. I guess they get that kind of offer all the time. There must be thousands of people trying to break into the business, so I understand completely. More tea? Oh dear, it’s too stewed now, I’m so sorry. Won’t be a moment, I’ll make a fresh pot.’
The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) Page 22
