Kitchen Chinese (25 page)

I spend the next twenty minutes on my hands and knees, scouring the area for the minute plastic lens. Jeff remains frozen on the couch. “What if you can’t find it?” he cries. “My fans won’t recognize me if they see me in glasses!”

“The horror!” I tease. But he’s not amused.

I’m just about to give up when I see a tiny gleam of light on Jeff’s pants. “Oh, hold on! I think I’ve…got it!” I snatch the contact off his trousers, my fingers accidentally brushing against his crotch. “Oops, sorry.” I blush.

He ignores me. “Give it to me.” He holds his hand out. I deposit the lens onto his palm and he stalks into the bathroom.

Apparently, his amorous mood is over. I exhale quietly.

“What time is it?” he calls over the sound of running water.

“Six!”

“What?” He appears in the doorway, the contact lens now presumably firmly fixed in his eye. “I’m late!”

“I know! Julia and Andrew probably think I’ve been abducted. Don’t worry, I’ll call them right now.”

“No! I’m late to meet my producers for drinks!” He pads into the bathroom and turns on the shower full-blast. “Babe,” he calls, “do me a favor and bring me my dark jeans and Zegna shirt, okay?”

“You’re working tonight?” I try to inject some disappointment into my voice, just to be polite. Secretly, I’m thrilled to have Julia and Andrew to myself.

He sighs theatrically. “Don’t give me a hard time about this, babe. You know these HK producers could make my career. If we finish up early, I’ll meet you, Judy, and Alan out later, okay?” He nudges the bathroom door shut.

“It’s Julia and Andrew!” I call. But he doesn’t hear me beneath the beat of the Peninsula’s matte-finish shower column with six adjustable body sprays.

M
y ears pop as the elevator heads up and up and up twenty-eight floors to Felix, the restaurant at the top of the Peninsula Hotel. I step out into a gleaming white and pink space, walk
past a battery of sleek tables and chairs and up a Plexiglas staircase to the tiny bar. I’m looking for Jules and Andrew, but what I discover instead is the view from the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. The glittering city lights spread out before me, gleaming in the busy harbor; set against the tropical night sky, the city dazzles.

Half a vodka martini later I see them walking up the staircase, their familiar faces turned toward the windows, caught by the view. And then Julia spots me perched on my spindly bar stool and she rushes over to enfold me in a hug. For a moment the three of us stand there, our eyes alight in the soft Philippe Starck–designed glow, grinning like maniacs.

“Can you believe this?” squeals Julia. “We’re in
Hong Kong
!”

“I know!” I grin. “We just hopped from one island to another.”

More drinks arrive and more chips—not the ordinary potato variety, but exquisitely thin, crisp, light salty bites—and we sip and crunch and Julia tells me about Emily’s first sentence (“Want Camembert!”—that’s my girl!) and then she and I pretend to nod intelligently when Andrew launches into a description of his computer programming conference.

Is there any greater happiness than being reunited with your best friends? Possibly. But as we sit and talk and laugh, I start to feel more relaxed than I have in months. It’s just the three of us, the way it’s always been. And, in this moment, with the view sparkling outside, and an icy martini gleaming in front of me, surrounded on either side by the two people who know me best, it is enough.

S
o, what’s going with you and Jeff?” Julia asks again. She chases a wonton with her chopsticks. “I thought you weren’t interested in him.”

“I told you, we’re just friends.” I shrug. “Here, have some more Chinese broccoli.”

We’ve finally made our way into the steamy night, lurching through the narrow, neon-lit back streets of Kowloon to a cheap and cheerful noodle joint. But after three rounds of drinks, their curiosity has sharpened.

“I don’t get it. You’re just friends, but he showers you with stuffed animals and is springing for a suite at the Peninsula?” Julia wrinkles her brow.

“I downloaded some of his music from iTunes,” interjects Andrew. “It’s…catchy.”

“You don’t have to be polite.” I slurp up a long noodle. “I don’t think we’re exactly his demographic.”

“What’s going on? We want to meet him!” Julia waves her porcelain spoon emphatically.

“I told you. There’s nothing going on.” I busy myself trying to dehead a steamed shrimp with my chopsticks, but when I look up they’re still staring at me. “Except…well…he did try to pull some moves this afternoon…”

“What!” Julia gasps. “What happened?”

And so I tell them about the champagne, the iron grip handhold, my flailing ponytail, and Jeff’s lost contact lens.

“But, Iz, if you’re not interested”—Julia’s laughing so hard she has to stop to catch her breath—“why don’t you just tell him?”

“It’s different in China. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Causing someone to lose face is unforgivable,” I point out. “Besides, he likes me. And it’s refreshing to be liked…for once.”

They exchange a glance. “And what happened to the diplomat? Any news from the mysterious Charlie?” Julia leans her elbows on the table.

“I’ve run into him a few times since Thanksgiving, but he’s always too busy to chat. I’m starting to wonder if he’s avoiding me.”

“Or maybe,” Julia picks up her chopsticks, “he’s afraid to ask you out because he thinks you’re with Jeff.”

“Ha!” I snort. “I don’t think so.”

“Why?” she demands. “After the Marine Ball, it would be an easy assumption to make.”

“Let’s face it,” I sigh, “the best thing in my life is work. And even that’s not great.”

“I love your column on the different kinds of Chinese food,” says Andrew. “I never knew General Tso’s chicken didn’t even exist in China!”

“Are you holding out on me?” Julia looks surprised. “I haven’t seen those articles.”

“I Googled her,” explains Andrew. “It’s terrific stuff, really funny and personal. You should check it out.”

“So
that’s
what you do at work all day,” I tease.

Andrew laughs, but Julia’s thoughts are far away. “You should write a food column, Iz. About discovering China through its regional cuisines.”

“And how I gained twenty pounds in the process,” I quip.

“I’m serious,” she says. “One of my authors is an editor at
Cuisine
magazine. I can ask her to take a look if you want.”

“Oh, come on, Jules.” I balance my chopsticks on the edge of my bowl. “You and I both know how hard it is to get freelance work these days.” I start listing the reasons on my fingers. “I don’t have a platform. My only clips are about stuff like ‘One hundred Best Beauty Buys at Your Local Drugstore!’ I got
fired,
for crying out loud. I’m…nobody.”

“Iz, one…mishap…does not make you a nobody.”

“Okay, filled with ignominy, then.”

She crosses her arms. “You know, Isabelle,” she says, and there’s more than a hint of exasperation in her voice, “it’s not tempting fate to think big.”

“I know, but—”

“Just send me the articles and let me take a look, okay?”

“Sure,” I say, even though I know I won’t. In fact, I’ve never heard of a more ridiculous—not to mention potentially humiliating—idea in my life.

Later, alone in the suite at the Peninsula (I love saying that), I change into a pair of cool, cotton pajamas and eye the sitting room sofa, which housekeeping has turned into a bed with crisp sheets and a thick wool blanket. Should I sleep there? But Jeff did say he’d take the couch. Besides, he did ditch me this evening, not even bothering to check in by cell phone. I hesitate for only a second before moving to the bedroom and crawling into the downy bed, pulling up the fluffy covers and turning on the TV. Two hundred channels flip by before I settle on CNN. Propped up by a half-dozen pillows, I listen to the soothing American accents.

“And today in Beijing,” says the announcer. “The lead U.S. envoy to the Six Party Talks arrives for another session…” I move toward the screen to see a group of dark suited figures stride through a hotel lobby. Hey, that looks like the St. Regis! I peer more closely at the TV. And isn’t that…? Oh my God, it is! It’s Charlie! He’s walking with the delegation, his head bowed. He looks…well, he looks busy.

I stare at the screen. How could I have been so vain as to think Charlie might have been avoiding me? He’s not just busy, he’s actually saving the world
from nuclear disaster
. If the tense lines on his face are any indication, I’m pretty sure I’m the last person on his mind.

I switch off the TV and glance at my cell phone. It’s well after 2:00
A.M
. and I still haven’t heard from Jeff. Should I call him? But he’s probably well into a second or third bottle of Chivas by now. Instead, I turn off my phone and switch out the lights, be
fore closing the bedroom door and turning the key in the lock. In the dark, the buildings sparkle in the distance and I watch them, trying to stay awake for as long as the night’s three martinis will allow. I don’t know when I drift off, but when I wake to go to the bathroom, the digital clock glows 3:00
A.M
. and I am still alone.

The next morning, creamy light creeps into the room, edging me out of sleep. I stretch and shake my head against the merest suggestion of a hangover hiding behind my left eye.

After quickly showering, dressing, and using the Pen’s turbo hair dryer, I open my door and creep into the sitting room, which is dark, the blackout curtains pulled tight against the morning light. Perching on the edge of Jeff’s pull-out sofa, I hesitantly pat his shoulder. He groans and rolls onto his stomach. “What time is it?” His voice is muffled.

“I just wanted to tell you, I’m meeting Jules and Andrew in half an hour,” I whisper.

“Babe, I feel like shit.” I strain to hear him through the pillows.

“You poor thing. Are you hung over? Was it a late night?”

He winces. “Oh my God, those producer guys are crazy…We went to a club and they just kept ordering these bottles of Chivas…” He closes his eyes as if the memory overwhelms him. Though, knowing Jeff’s tolerance, it was probably just one glass of Chivas that did him in. “Babe, don’t go. Stay here and we can get room service!” His eyes still closed, he gropes blindly for my hand.

Whoops, I’m not falling for the iron handhold again. Swiftly, I stand to avoid contact. “Oh, that sounds really fun…but I really should meet up with my friends. They flew all this way to see me. Jules even took time off from work, and it’s her crazy season. She has five authors on the
New York Times
best-seller list right now!”

Jeff cracks open an eye. “What does she do again?”

“I told you, she’s a literary agent. You know, she represents authors and sells their books to publishing houses.”

“Hmm.” He struggles to sit up. “You know…I think maybe I’ll go with you.” He creakingly swings his boxer-clad form out of bed.

“What about your hangover?” I take a step back in surprise. Active suffering is most unlike Jeff. He’s been known to cancel a coffee date because of an overly strenuous gym workout.

“You don’t want me to go?”

“No! I mean, of course you can come. But we’ll be speaking English. They don’t speak Chinese.”

He hesitates, but then heads resolutely toward the bathroom. “I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes!”

At eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning, Maxim City Hall clatters with bustle. Families gather to gossip in loud voices, to sip tea, and nibble their way through the variety of small bites, treats that touch the heart, which is what “dim sum” means. Waitresses push heavy, hot carts, piled high with steaming bamboo baskets, throughout the dining room, noisily calling out their wares. The enormous room feels alive with a raucous, tea-charged, dumpling-fueled energy.

Jeff winces at the cacophony of voices, the rattle of dishes, the bright light streaming in the picture windows. But he follows me farther and farther inside the crowded room, my eyes scanning the crammed tables for Julia and Andrew. As it turns out, they are easy to find—their Caucasian features shine out like beacons.

Introductions fly around the table and we all sit down, peering at the contents of each cart as it whisks by.

“Li Jia told me about your work. It’s so fascinating.” Jeff flashes Julia one of his dazzling smiles. “Tell me, is your job anything like Carrie Bradshaw’s on
Sex and the City
?”

“Uh…not really.” Julia shoots me a look. “It’s a lot more boring than that, I’m afraid. I spend a lot of time reading bad book proposals.”

“I’ve been thinking about writing a book…” Jeff raises his eyebrows.

“A book?” I exclaim. “You’ve never mentioned that before—”

“Ooh!
Shagao! Chasiu bao!
” says Julia, waving at a passing waitress and holding up two fingers. “Sorry,” she says to him. “Didn’t want to let her to go by. I’m starving!”

The conversation falters as we nibble dainty dumplings filled with shrimp peeping pale and pink through their translucent wrappers. We dive into plates of soy-sauce-scented rice noodles, unwrap bamboo leaves to reveal triangles of sticky rice, sink our teeth into golden egg custard tarts and watch the pastry flake into our laps.

“The food here is amazing. So fresh!” says Julia, her voice soft with awe. “This is the best dim sum I’ve ever had. Ooh!” she exclaims, flagging down a passing cart. “Chicken feet!”

“What kind of gigs have you been playing in Beijing?” Andrew turns to Jeff, who’s become strangely silent. “You must have some interesting stories to share about life as a pop star,” he adds kindly.

“Exactly!” Jeff says eagerly. “That’s why I want to write this book. To inspire other young kids not to give up on their dreams.”

“How’d you get your first break? It must’ve been hard to get signed by a record label,” says Andrew.

“Oh, there’s not much of a story there.” Jeff pokes at a piece of shrimp. “My uncle is a music producer in Taiwan. But, you know, it’s so important to keep going, despite diversity.”

Andrew nods. “You must have had some rough times before you made it big.”