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

by Michele Gorman

  ‘Your desk is here.’ He points to the cubicle near the door. ‘Mrs. Reese will get you anything you need. Once you’re settled in, come into my office and I’ll give you the lay of the land.’

  Mrs. Reese stands beside my desk, ready for orientation. ‘This way please,’ she orders. ‘I presume you’ve worked in an office before, and therefore you know how they function. You will know that without clear rules, an office cannot operate efficiently. I run an efficient office. This way.’ She gestures to a doorway off the main corridor. ‘This is the kitchen. Coffee, tea and sugar are here. Filters are here, cutlery here. Milk is, obviously, in the fridge. That is where it must stay. In the fridge. Is that clear? It cannot be left out or it will go off,’ she explains. ‘This is the tropics. You may have been lax about hygiene back in London, but here it cannot be.’

  She points to a sticky pad. ‘When things run low, please write them here so that we can replace them. Don’t wait until they are gone. Now, in here–’ She stops, waiting for me to catch up with her at the other doorway leading off the kitchen. ‘You’ll find the printer. It is also a photocopier, but it’s to be used for business purposes only. If you need personal photocopies, please use one of the many print shops. The same goes for printing documents. This is the fax machine. You don’t need to worry about that. It’s used by the sales staff. Here is the stationery cupboard. Please feel free to take what you need but don’t hoard stationery in your desk. I ask that people take only what they need, otherwise we appear to run out when in fact employees are simply hoarding. It’s customary to take lunch between one and two but it’s not a hard and fast rule, so you may go at any time. It’s best, though, to keep a consistent lunch schedule so whatever time you choose, please take lunch at that time only. Food must under no circumstances be brought into the office. That includes cereal and other breakfast items. It encourages roaches. I will not have roaches.’

  They wouldn’t dare come here, I think as I follow her back to my desk, clutching two pens and wondering if I’m being decadent. ‘Josh will see you now,’ she announces, depositing me at his door.

  ‘Did you find everything all right?’ he asks, as if I’ve just completed a tour of the Pentagon. Believe me, it’s not the Pentagon. The office was a surprise when I came for the interview. I expected a modern glass skyscraper, the kind with efficient elevators whooshing between deep-pile carpeted floors. I expected stick insects in couture living out a Chinese version of The Devil Wears Prada. I expected someone obsessing over Miranda Priest-Li’s green tea. Instead, it’s grimy outside with narrow cracked linoleum stairs leading to the industrial steel entrance door. Inside is chaotic. Despite Mrs. Reese’s obvious love of organization, prisons after riot have been more orderly. Wires hang from the walls and computer cables crisscross the floors. The offices are overcrowded with ancient, steel, olive green desks, swing-arm lamps clamped to each in an attempt to offset the flickering overhead strip lighting. Half-crushed cardboard boxes are piled beside the desks. It looks like a fashionista has detonated on the site. I wonder whether the employees get to use all the wallets, bags, scarves and shoes that have rained down into piles on the desks and floor. ‘Mrs. Reese showed me around, thanks,’ I tell Josh. ‘And thanks again so much for this chance. You won’t be sorry.’

  ‘Why would I think I’d be sorry?’ His quizzical look tells me that most employees don’t start their careers by promising not to screw up. My party-planning scars are clearly not quite healed.

  ‘You shouldn’t. I’m sorry. It’s just that after my last boss, I’m… Never mind. You shouldn’t.’ What a stellar impression I’m making. Maybe I’ll round off the morning by telling him I don’t steal too often.

  ‘I understand. Hannah, you strike me as very capable, and your ability to deal with the difficulties of your last job… your last two jobs, actually, are part of the reason I hired you. Things don’t always run smoothly here. We’re a small operation–’

  ‘Bdllling!’

  ‘Would you like to get that?’ Josh asks patiently. ‘No, no, feel free.’

  ‘I’m really sorry! It’s just a text.’

  God luck on your first dat. If it doesnt work out you can always come home.xx

  What a heartfelt vote of confidence, Mom, thanks. ‘I’m so sorry, it’s on silent now. You were saying?’

  ‘So, we’re small. Profitable but small. Everyone has to pitch in to get the work done. We’re very much a team, and a bit like a family. I mentioned that my grandfather started the company. Well, Mrs. Reese was with us when my father first took over. She’s seen me in nappies… as a child, of course.’

  My sycophantic guffaw takes us both by surprise. ‘Sorry, go on, Josh.’

  ‘A few of the others have been here for decades.’ He sighs. ‘In a way I’d like some new blood. It’s easy to get stuck in our own ways when we’re surrounded by the same people year after year. But the industry is changing quickly. That’s why I created this position a few years ago. So I’m looking to you to be my right-hand woman.’

  ‘Sure thing. I’m yer woman… You said you created the job a couple years ago. Who had the job before me?’ I don’t like to tempt fate by discussing the recently departed, but hopefully she’s gone on to a better place. Maybe to the big luxury house in the sky (top floor of Louis Vuitton).

  His smile flickers. ‘Oh, that was Sandra. She was with us for just a few months actually. Very nice woman. We had to let her go because there were some irregularities. But never mind, you’re here now, and I know you’ll be great.’

  ‘Thanks, Josh. One question.’ Now that I’m officially hired I’m justified in asking. ‘What’ll I be doing exactly?’ We were having such a nice chat during my interview that it seemed churlish to talk nitty-gritty job details. ‘I know I’m your assistant, but what does that actually mean?’

  ‘Ha, good question. In fact, I’ve got a project for you to start off with. Given your obvious flair for fashion, I dare say you’ll enjoy it. That’s very nice by the way.’ He brandishes his hand like a game show host. ‘Nice nod to the designers.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s mostly Cos and H&M, but Miu Miu inspired.’ My ensemble is possibly over the top given the rather down-market surroundings, but I wanted to make an impact. Nothing says capable like a royal blue silk tank dress and camel platform shoe boots. Stacy was right. The ballerina flats were perfect for the interview but I don’t want anyone wrongly assuming I won’t appreciate any sky-high samples they’d care to throw my way. The office is a long walk from the MTR station and my feet may bleed by lunchtime, but I’ll look good as I mince on my shredded stumps.

  ‘You’ve got an eye, as I thought. Excellent. So this will be easy for you. We have around forty shops that we buy for. They vary from very low end to high street. And we’ve got a couple hundred suppliers in China that we buy from. Our job is to identify the clothes our shops will want to stock each season, from the suppliers that provide the best options in terms of quality and price. Easy. Here.’ He pushes a foot-high pile of magazines across his desk. ‘These are some of the product line catalogues we’re buying from for the autumn/winter collection. There are several online as well. Come, I’ll set you up with access to our database. You can see what orders each shop has placed in the past, and how many pieces they normally take in an order. I want you to choose pieces for the shops. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds like I’ve died and gone to heaven! When can I start?’

  He chuckles. ‘I like your enthusiasm. I’ll be doing the same thing of course, but I want you to start getting used to the process.’

  A young Chinese woman knocks tentatively on the doorframe.

  ‘Ah Winnie, come in. Hannah, this is Winnie, our head of sales. Winnie, Hannah, my new assistant.’

  We’re all smiles as we shake hands. She’s a Chinese poppet in Prada, mid-twenties I’d guess, so she must be a sales prodigy to be the head already.

  ‘Winnie’s going to show you around the sales side. It won�
�t take long. As you saw on your way through, we’re a cozy group.’

  Sure enough it takes only a few minutes to see the entire sales operation. Unsurprising for a women’s fashion exporter, the staff is mostly female. ‘Have you worked here long, Winnie?’

  ‘Fourteen years,’ she says, smiling.

  ‘Fourteen! Did you start as a child?’

  ‘I’m thirty-seven. You white people! You can never tell how old we are.’ She chuckles.

  ‘… Can you tell how old we are?’

  ‘No, you all look the same to me. Want to have lunch later?’

  ‘I’d love to, thanks.’ I can tell from her lopsided grin that she’s got a wicked sense of humor. Either that or she’s incredibly comfortable about being a racist. And it doesn’t matter that most of the clothes in the catalogues are flammable imitations of next season’s designer catwalks, or that I don’t have any real power until Josh relinquishes the controls and lets me fly solo. I can’t believe they’re going to pay me to buy stuff from fashion catalogues with other people’s money!

  After work, Stacy and I clink glasses in the bar we’ve chosen to celebrate our first day. ‘It’s truly a dream come true,’ I tell her. ‘I’m so excited!’ My squealing is drowned out by the hundred other after-work revelers spilling on to the street.

  Stacy, scanning the crowd, says, ‘It’s a little different from home, huh?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Our hometown has just a handful of bars. There’s little room for maneuver should one occasionally suffer from wine-induced indiscretions. Hong Kong’s bars are plentiful across the city, high atop office buildings, malls and trendy hotels and low, here in Lan Kwai Fong. It reminds me of Soho in London’s West End, except that here, a wet T-shirt contest could break out any minute. Picture American Spring Break circa 1995 (judging by the music) where the students dress as office workers, get blind drunk, sing in the streets and try to shag everyone in sight. Mating rituals are unfolding all around us with varying degrees of success. The women are preened, laughing in groups of two and three and throwing come-hither looks at the men. Stacy’s going to be just fine here. ‘Tell me about your office, Stace. Were they as bad as you feared?’

  ‘Definitely some eggheads, but I guess that’s normal considering how much time we spend building models.’ I know she means computer models but when she says this I always imagine her gluing wings to balsa wood airplanes. ‘There were a couple cool people. I guess it was silly to be worried that I wouldn’t like them. An English guy called Stuart showed me around at lunchtime today. He’s fun, and really nice. I can already tell we’ll be friends… No,’ she says, seeing my face. ‘I’m definitely not interested in that way. There is one hottie though,’ she says lasciviously. ‘I haven’t officially met him yet, but there’s much to admire from afar.’

  ‘Stacy, no, you can’t. Remember what happened with William.’ When I mentioned that Stacy’s love interests have been rather fleeting, I wasn’t including William in that definition. He was her kryptonite. She was miserable working with him, every day hoping for a glimmer of interest, each day disappointed. He lives on in best friend lore now as a cautionary tale, The Hopeless Crush.

  ‘I know, I won’t through that again. You won’t either, right? Promise me you won’t fall for your boss this time.’

  She makes it sound like I’ve slept with all my former managers. It was just the one, really. ‘No way–’ My phone is chirping. ‘Excuse me just a sec. I– I should take this… Hi Chloe! It was great, thanks. Yep. I’m going to love it. He’s the best boss! Guess what I get to do? Only choose next season’s fashions. I know. I know. I–’

  Stacy is trying to bore a hole through my forehead with her stare. ‘Uh, I’m with Stacy celebrating. Can I give you a call when I get home? I can call your landline, will you be in? Oh. Well where are they? No, if they’re lost then I guess you wouldn’t. Do you have to change the locks then? Okay, I’ll call your mobile. Oh. Well then charge it. Where’s your charger? Maybe in one of your bags? Then I’ll call you tomorrow at work, okay? Thanks, see you, bye, bye.’ I swear that girl is so forgetful she could literally misplace her virginity. ‘Sorry, Stace, what was I saying?’

  ‘You were promising not to sleep with your boss, before Chloe interrupted us,’ she says pointedly. She’s never liked Chloe, and at this point probably never will. I assumed that because I love Stacy, and I love Chloe, that Stacy would love Chloe. But affection can’t be transferred between friends like inky hand stamps. If only it had been as easy as licking them both and rubbing them together. I wish Stacy would get over this jealous little snit she’s nurturing. We’re twenty-seven, not seven. Chloe is all the way back in London and Stacy lives here with me. She should be a graceful winner (yes, I’m calling myself a prize). But she won’t even admit she has a problem with Chloe, let alone acknowledge that she shouldn’t.

  ‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m definitely not going to sleep with Josh. First of all, he has absolutely no interest in me. Second, he’s kind of funny looking. Definitely not attractive.’

  ‘How funny looking?’

  ‘Well, he’s skinny, and tall, and pale. His face is sort of drawn, and all weather-beaten, and oddly wrinkly. He must have spent too much time in the sun. He looks like he’s in his late thirties.’

  ‘Does he have good teeth?’ Graced with a blinding grin, Stacy’s got a dental obsession.

  ‘Uh, yes, his smile is nice. Very open. Dimples too, between the wrinkles.’

  ‘He sounds sexy.’

  ‘Actually, I was being kind. He’s really nice, but definitely rather ugly.’

  ‘Ooh, he’s sexy-ugly then. You know what I mean, like Billy Bob Thornton or Steve Buscemi. Not conventionally handsome but with that je ne sais quoi.’

  ‘Billy Bob Thornton is je ne sais gross.’

  ‘I’d sleep with him,’ she says through a wicked grin.

  ‘You have odd tastes. No, Josh isn’t sexy. Just funny looking. And his hair. Well. It’s mad. It’s too long and it sticks up in all directions, straight off the top of his head. He must use gel. You know how I feel about gel on a man. And he dresses like a nineteenth-century dandy. He actually wore a cravat today. Anyway, it’s a moot point. He could be the best-looking man in the world but I’m in love with Sam. I can’t even imagine looking at someone else.’

  ‘Really? Not even him?’ She gestures to a group of young men eyeing her up like she’s the last pudding on the fat farm buffet.

  ‘They’re interested in you, Stace, not me. Oh look, one’s breaking away from the pack. He’s coming over. Bold move.’ He has the swagger of the smug, which reminds me of something Laughing Gas Rachel told me. She said the women here aren’t backwards about being forward. She made it sound like they’re not above hog-tying a man and dragging him back to their place. I object to this, not because it’s unladylike, but because it artificially inflates a man’s ego. A guy with a dinky winky is king among the eunuchs. Meanwhile we fight each other for the pleasure of mediocrity. It’s unfair.

  ‘Hello ladies. Having a good evening?’ he says, staring at Stacy.

  ‘Great, thanks,’ she says. ‘I’m catching up with my friend. It’s been a long day. Enjoy your night!’ Somehow she manages to sound dismissive and friendly at the same time. She’s a master. I always overshoot the mark when I try the same thing. Either the guy latches on like a tick or runs away to tell his friends about the bitch he just met. Candy-coated rejection is a real balancing act.

  ‘Stace,’ I say when he’s left. ‘He was cute. Didn’t you want to talk to him?’

  ‘Nah, there’s plenty of time for that. I’m here with you. We’re celebrating. That’s more important.’

  This is a True Friend. Capital T capital F. She’d never leave me alone on my first night to go to The Peak with her boyfriend. I wonder if I’ll feel guilty about that for the rest of our lives. Knowing me, it’s possible. After all, I did just treat us to a guilt-induced foot massage. ‘How do your feet feel?’ I ask her. It wasn
’t the pampering experience I was expecting. It’s a bit hard to relax with a four-and-a-half-foot harridan of Hulk-like strength working her knuckles into the tender parts of your feet in an effort to draw blood. Every time I grimaced, she chuckled, gripped harder and stabbed again with her steely digits.

  ‘Like I’ve run a marathon,’ she admits, wincing.

  ‘Maybe it gets better once you get used to it.’ I did notice the man next to me sleeping while the masseuse did her best to break his toes.

  ‘They say that about a lot of things. Like anal sex, or a bikini wax,’ she muses.

  ‘Did you get a bikini wax?!’ As best friends of course we’ve shared our views about anything going up the back stairs, but we’ve been daring each other to get bikini waxes for years. We’ve been put off at the thought of having our pubic hair torn out by a stranger earning minimum wage.

  ‘Only for the last two months!’ She snorts, looking like she’s just confessed to a secret, torrid and very satisfying affair.

  ‘Get outta here! Did it–’ I lower my voice. Stacy won’t thank me for discussing her lady parts in front of Hong Kong’s eligibles. ‘Did it hurt?’

  ‘Not as much as you’d think, actually. And it was incredibly fast.’

  ‘Ninja waxer.’

  ‘Exactly. Another drink?’

  I love this. We’re back to normal. This is what I hoped for when Stacy said she’d move. I just have to figure out how to add Sam into the mix without spoiling the batch.

  Chapter 6.

  The phone line sounds like I’ve accidentally dialed 1956. ‘You mean you’re finished in two weeks?’ My heart’s doing the samba. In fourteen days Sam will come home to start our life together properly.