Free Fishing for Tigers by Emily Maguire

he’s not trying to do anything. Maybe he really does think this is paradise.’
    â€˜And what do you think now you’ve had some time here? Forget politics. How do you like Vietnam?’
    He shrugged one shoulder and began to rub at a cloudy patch on his glass. ‘It’s good. Weird. Sensory overload, like you said. I haven’t got my bearings yet, I guess. It’s cool when Dad’s not at work and he can take me around on his bike, but the rest of the time, I’ve just been wandering. Oh, and—’ He held both hands in the air as though about to lead a cheer. ‘Yesterday, just after Dad left for work, I was mooching about the house and the doorbell rang. Guess who?’
    â€˜I can’t.’
    Cal slammed his hands on to the tabletop. The glasses jumped and Mrs Ly frowned.
    â€˜,’ Cal said, as though he’d been saying it all his life, and Mrs Ly beamed. ‘Oops,’ he said to me and smoothed his palms over the tabletop. ‘Well, anyway, it was Collins.’
    â€˜Henry’s friend?’
    â€˜Yeah. He had a day off and had been to the gym on some street I’d never heard of and he thought he remembered Dad saying we lived in this complex and – well, you get the idea. He asked me out for coffee.’
    â€˜No!’
    â€˜I swear. Stood there with his gym bag and wet hair and asked me out. I mean, I know I’m hot and all, but that’s just . . . Anyway, I said I couldn’t, that I had plans, and he said something about calling in again soon. I wish I’d just told him I’m not gay, but it seemed rude somehow. So now I have to make sure I’m out of the house whenever Dad’s not home just in case Collins drops in again.’
    â€˜God. Are you really worried? I mean, do you feel unsafe? Because I’m sure your dad—’
    â€˜No. Don’t . . .’ Cal rubbed his neck. ‘This sounds stupid, but I didn’t tell Dad. I don’t want him to know. He might be weird about it. He might . . . I don’t know what, but I don’t want to have the conversation. I’d rather deal with it myself.’
    It sounded unconvincing, suspicious even. The logic of the preemptive, self-protective liar. I had an urge to grab his hands and squeeze them tight, to tell him I understood perfectly. I’d hidden things from Glen all the time. Innocent, ordinary things – a neighbour popping over to borrow a screwdriver, a workmate asking for a lift home – because there was no way of knowing how he’d react.
    â€˜Fair enough,’ I said. ‘But, listen, if he keeps hassling you, let me know. I’ll sort him out, right?’ I tried for reassuring eye-contact, but Cal’s gaze was focused on the tabletop. He was clearly sorry he’d told me at all. ‘In any case,’ I said, as brightly as I could manage, ‘it shouldn’t be a hardship to be out and about in Hanoi in autumn. If I was you, I’d head to the backpacker district. Find some playmates your own age to go exploring with.’
    â€˜That’s where I was headed.’ He grinned. ‘Before you grabbed me off the street.’
    â€˜Oh. Well. Don’t let me hold you up.’
    He looked at me like I was a cool stream. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘I’m good here.’

    There’s a moment I remember from my first week in Hanoi. It was the fourth or fifth day and I had spent the morning on the back of a real estate agent’s motorcycle going from gorgeous executive apartment to barely habitable rooms and back again with not a single middle-of-the-market, affordable flat or house in between. Matthew had told me I could trust this agent not to rip me off, but I was beginning to worry that this incessant back and forth from luxury to squalor was a strategy, the object being to make me feel so hopeless about my quest that I would happily overpay for the first realistic option