Free The Expat Diaries: Misfortune Cookie (Single in the City Book 2) by Michele Gorman Page A

comforting to know I’m not the only one who puts her size sixes squarely in her mouth. ‘Do you want to get in the shower first or should I?’
    ‘You can go first. I’m going to have some more toast. Aren’t you going to eat that? I’ll have it.’ Happily she slides another piece on to her plate, pads to the kitchenette (technically she could simply stretch out an arm) to pop two more slices into the toaster. Sumo wrestlers have daintier appetites. ‘We can walk down to Central together,’ she murmurs through her buttery breakfast.
     
    ‘Are you nervous?’ she asks an hour later as we shuffle to the escalator with the rest of Hong Kong to begin our morning commute.
    ‘About the job?’ I say. ‘You know, I thought I would be but I’m just excited. I’m nervous about getting there though. I hope I don’t get lost.’
    ‘You got there for the interview,’ she points out.
    ‘Stace, that was a fluke. You know what my sense of direction is like.’ Columbus aimed for India and found the Bahamas. I wouldn’t have made it out of port.
    ‘True,’ she admits. ‘Do you want me to walk you to the station and make sure you get on the right train?’
    I’m touched that she’d do this for me, if a little embarrassed that she feels she needs to. ‘No, that’s okay. I’ll have to learn to do it on my own at some– Wow, look at that!’
    The escalator is heaving, exactly like London’s Underground at rush hour, except we’re hovering above street level. ‘Do we just get on?’ People are streaming onto the stairs at the platform. Some have their noses buried in books or newspapers, their feet carrying them on auto-pilot to the office. I’ve always marveled at commuters able to walk while reading. I’d concuss myself on a lamppost.
    ‘Dunno, I don’t see any turnstiles, do you? Is it free?’
    ‘I think so. The underground isn’t, but the escalator should be, don’t you think?’ It’s not like the escalator has drivers to pay. On the other hand, the people who built it might want their investment back. I did notice last week that there’s something called an MTR Fare Saver machine on the platforms. Unfortunately the instructions are all in Chinese. For all I know it’s dispensing daily astrological forecasts. If I get caught by the transport police, that’s exactly the argument I’ll use. ‘I don’t know, Stace. I guess we just get on. Ready? … Uh…’ The commuters are reluctant to let us join them. ‘Maybe we’re supposed to barge in. ’Scuse me, pardon me.’ I grab Stacy’s hand and we make a jump for it. We will not fall at the first hurdle less than ten minutes into our morning commute. Especially not when, for me, this is a long-distance race. Stacy’s office is just five minutes from the escalator in Central. Mine is deep in the New Territories, across the harbor and far away from Hong Kong side. Working for a family-run exporter will mean regular top-ups to my travel card, and probably my patience. It can’t be more frustrating than London though, where a power walker can beat your bus to work.
    Hong Kong’s traffic looks little better but after only forty minutes and two wrong turns I’ve found my way back to the office that has hired me. Call me Magellan.
    ‘Hello?’ I shout above the traffic into the call box outside. ‘This is Hannah, I’m here to see Josh. I’m starting work today.’ The door buzzes briefly. Too briefly. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t quite… Can you buzz again? Please?’ My competence must really be shining through.
    ‘ Nee how ,’ I greet Mrs. Reese, the receptionist, when I finally get up the stairs to the top floor.
    ‘Hello,’ she says back, refusing to humor my scant Cantonese. She seems quite sour and bears an uncanny resemblance to Margaret Thatcher. That lacquered hair could survive a jet engine at full throttle, and her aqua blue skirt suit, complete with brooch, buttoned-up blouse and black pumps tell me she’s not one to blow with the