Exciting Times(7)

‘There’s a routine,’ he said. ‘Every few days, she calls on my lunch break.’

‘What time is that in England?’

‘Six a.m., but she’s up. She gardens.’

‘What about your dad?’

‘Hadn’t I told you? He’s here.’

‘In Hong Kong?’

‘He’s a history lecturer at HKU. They divorced when I was ten.’

This had only emerged four months into our acquaintance. I wondered what other information he’d been squirrelling away, and – God loves a trier – if some of it mightn’t be spousal.

‘How often do you see your dad?’ I said.

‘A few times a year. When we manage.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Three MTR stops away.’

‘And you see him a few times a year.’

‘Yes, when we manage.’

The English were strange.

Possibly to make fun of me in some obscure way, Julian remembered my parents’ names and used them often. ‘Have you spoken to Peggy recently?’ he’d say, or: ‘How’s Joe?’ His were called Miles and Florence. I found the comparison illuminating, but he didn’t. For Brits, class was like humility: you only had it as long as you denied it.

On the escalator down the next morning I pictured his childhood home in Cambridgeshire. Tall, I thought, and empty: houses were like their owners. (I felt cruel, then decided he’d laugh. This reminded me that nothing I said could hurt him.) Although I was not someone Julian would bring to meet Florence, I imagined her having me for dinner, just the two of us. I’d mispronounce ‘gnocchi’ and she’d avoid saying it all evening so as not to embarrass me. I would meet her eye and think: in this way I could strip you of every word you know. I’d take them like truffles and you’d say, ‘Help yourself,’ and then I’d take those too and you’d be speechless.

On the journey back up Mid-Levels that evening, I decided it would be very complimentary indeed if Julian were married and not wearing his ring. If he’d worn one, I probably would have taken it to mean he saw me as ambitious.

*

Whenever Julian was abroad, I went drinking with the other teachers. The first time I was invited, Ollie from Melbourne asked: ‘TST or LKF?’ then clarified – Tsim Sha Tsui, Lan Kwai Fong, the nightlife districts – as though this were, including the pre-school curriculum, the most obvious thing he’d explained all day. The bars were unlicensed speakeasies, dark and awkwardly spacious, or else rooftops with lights gleaming beyond. During these outings I felt I had hitherto woefully misdirected my energies in attempting to cultivate a personality. If you didn’t have one then that left more room for everyone else’s.

‘Are you seeing someone?’ said Briony from Leeds.

‘Maybe,’ I said, four cocktails in.

‘Put it another way, are you looking?’

‘Maybe.’

Then Madison from Texas pulled me into a conversation with two men. Her preferred swain told her she had tits he’d do coke off. There were, as a rule, three sorts of man in TST and LKF: tech, corporate, rugby wolfpack. Madison’s pair placed themselves squarely in tech by saying they felt superior to men who wore suits. I felt you could achieve this distinction more efficiently by not having any job. Madison’s also-ran touched my arm. I flinched, and he asked if I liked girls. I wanted to say: my chief sexual preference is that I don’t like you.

I went to the bathroom and rang Julian. I said: ‘Do you do coke?’

‘What?’

‘I’ve heard all bankers do coke.’

*

I’d read that the art critic John Ruskin had been disgusted by an unspecified aspect of his wife’s body on their wedding night, which made me realise I’d always had that exact fear about anyone seeing me naked. Julian said kind things about my appearance and all I could say was ‘Thanks’, wishing to be cordial without implying I agreed. I’d feel his arms, wonder a) why I was a cold and ungrateful person and b) if anyone would ever love me; know the answers were a) I’d decided to be and b) no; and eventually say, ‘I like your arms.’

You could go manless entirely, and I saw a great deal of elegance in that approach, but enough people felt otherwise that I thought it best to have one. You had to pretend to feel sad if you’d been single too long. I hated doing that because there were other things I was actually sad about.

As with not having any man, I felt not having any sex was the decorous option – but if you were going to have it, you should have it with someone who retained a degree of objectivity. And I had to have it. Otherwise I’d never stop thinking. We both preferred me on top and I wondered if that said anything about our dynamic. I felt all your copulative leanings were meant to reveal something deep about you, and if they didn’t you had an uncompelling mind.

He wasn’t affectionate in bed, but he let me perch my arms on his chest.

‘What if I were your age?’ I said.

He asked what I meant.

‘Would you still be interested in me if I were the same person but your age?’

‘How old do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, no more conscious of statistics relating to average age of first marriage than any other individual would be. ‘Thirty?’