Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to all of us who at times feel like a fish out of water, be it in our hometowns or in a far-flung corner of the world.
Thank you to my superb agent, Lorella Belli, my beautiful daughters and mostly my loving husband for believing in me.
~~~~
$Expat Wives
by Ulrica Marshall
Copyright 2011 Ulrica Marshall
Published by Absolute Gould on Smashwords
This book is available in print at most on line retailers
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Table of Contents
4. I’m gonna tear your playhouse down
6. My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean
7. (I’ve had) The time of my life
9. We might as well be strangers
13. You’ll always find your way back home
14. Together in Electric Dreams
36. Total eclipse of the heart
39. Sorry seems to be the hardest word
~~~~
1 Feeling Good
Tokyo,
February 2007
My story begins in Starbucks; Where else could it start? I’m not even on the company payroll, though I seem to have spent enough money to buy a small African nation on the customised beverages from Seattle.
Any expat wife will tell you that Starbucks is a ‘holy’ sanctuary in a world of foreignness: A bit of normality where staff – regardless of location - will honour an order for a ‘dry double tall non-fat cappuccino’ without batting an eyelash.
“Hi, I’m Bonnie,” I begin to the sizeable gathering of parents – or mums to be precise – at this ‘informal’ Parent Teacher Association coffee morning.
“Hi Bonnie,” the gathering responds in zombie-esque monotone. Even after the multitude of presentations in my former professional life, this crowd is clearly a hard nut to crack; my most disarming smile falling on blind eyes.
“I’m Benjamin’s and Becca’s mum,” I continue with fake gusto. “Benjamin is in Grade 2 and Becca’s in Kindergarten – she has just turned six and is really excited about starting elementary school next term! My husband…David…works for United Bank, doing something or other that I can never get my head around, which is why we’re here in Tokyo. His job, I mean, not my head… What else can I tell you? We are new to the school – just got our shipment of furniture a couple of weeks ago, so we don’t have to sleep on a blow-up mattress on the floor anymore…” The President of the PTA, Heidi, a somewhat stern-looking German lady, is starting to look at her watch, and I’m not slow to catch her cue.
“Anyway, it’s lovely to meet you all and I hope I can contribute to the PTA. I used to work in PR, so if we need to deal with any adverse press – kids getting caught stealing, doing crack or something - I’m your man! Or woman…maybe…” I tail off, my attempt at a joke having driven straight into a brick wall. (Perhaps they don’t do humour?) With the proverbial tail between my legs, I slink down on to my chair, as the lady next to me is already busy introducing herself.
David’s three-year contract here in Tokyo meant that this was the kind of thing I would be spending my life doing, in the near term at least. Oh, mercy! My happy-go-lucky feeling from waking up to a crisp, sunny day is about to fizzle, when one of the mums opposite catches my eye. She winks at me in the kind of conspiratory way that suggests two things: a. I’m a friend and b. Hang in there. I smile back at the blonde, her hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed in yoga pants and a fleece: Standard mummy gear, but at this moment I am ready to marry her or at least sign over my inheritance in gratitude.
“Hi, I’m Amy – most of you know me from last term. I have two boys at the school – Alex in grade 3 and Oscar in grade 1. My youngest, Lizzie, is in nursery. We’ve been here since September and come from London,” my new friend explains to the group as I try my utmost to remember all the new names and faces. It’s like Blind Date, and I really need Graham with a few reminders right now.
Heidi then takes charge of the meeting; it appears that there is an extremely important issue on the agenda for today: pizza. Just how important would only become apparent about two hours later when this ‘hot’ topic was still under heated discussion, while our collective coffees had all gone distinctly cold. The discussion broadly centered on whether the weekly pizza lunch – Domino’s finest cheese and tomato pizza, full of flavour yet devoid of any other redeeming features – should be served on paper plates, napkins, proper plates or plastic plates. It is clearly a discussion to rival finding a solution for world peace or whether Britain should join the Euro. Everyone wanted their tuppence worth of time on this one; I could detail the deliberations, but have decided to be merciful and leave them out.
My new friend, Amy, and I keep exchanging glances, yawns and ultimately gestures towards our empty cups. Yes please, another coffee to recover from this one was definitely on the cards once our PTA ordeal was over.
I couldn’t tell you if the world’s parent associations are all the same, or if this one was specific to Tokyo, where, quite frankly, expat mums have an inordinate amount of time on their hands. Few are able to or want to work while on the expat trail and many are looking for ways to fill the long days when hubby’s at the office and children at school.
“Is it always like that?” I ask when Amy and I finally collapse into a couple of armchairs at another café, having made a brisk exit at the end of the official coffee morning.
“It’s pure gold, isn’t it?” Amy laughs. “You couldn’t make it up if you tried. My husband, Matt, finds the whole thing hilarious... calls Heidi and her PTA chums the Witches of Eastwick! They’re pretty harmless, though. And that wasn’t even a formal meeting – we hold those once per month, usually at someone’s house. Just don’t forget to bring home-baked goodies, or woe on you!” Amy jokes, but I sense there is truth in her message.
“Oh yikes, I don’t bake! Last time I made some biscuits, David said they tasted like a leather belt…”
“Ooh, I would have smacked him!” Amy giggles.
“Smacking someone who knows what leather belts taste like has to be counterproductive!” I suggest and we both laugh. I’m giddy at the prospect of having made a new friend; one who seemed to be much like me.
“Has anyone ever told you, you look just like Kate Beckinsale? That actress off Underworld?” Amy asks me suddenly, with a chuckle as if at her own silliness.
“Really? That is so sweet of you! Actually, some mornings I reckon I look more like Quasimodo’s older sister…with warts…on a bad hair day.” We both laugh at the thought.
“Don’t we all!” Amy agrees, though I find it hard to believe with her fair features.
“Other times, and with a lashing of cosmetic assistance, David says I look ‘bloody hot’, which sounds more like a vampire’s wet dream than a compliment, don’t you think?”
Amy giggles and nods. We both drink from our coffees; this being the second double shot latte for each of us, I am starting to feel that slightly jittery energy seep into my bloodstream: Like a little rush of speed.
“So…Bonnie, right?” My new friend double-checks before continuing. “Why did you come here, to Tokyo?”
“Like I said, David’s job…” I start, but she silences me with a little wave of her hand. “Yes, but what made you want to come here? You must have agreed, right?”
“Dutiful wife! Actually, I’ve wanted to live abroad for as long as I can remember, but believe me – Japan was not my first choice…”
And I begin to tell Amy that despite my initial reticence at moving to Tokyo – a city I had never even considered – I had been treading on little fluffy clouds of omochi (rice paste, as glutinous as it sounds – each year many Japanese citizens choke to death on the stuff) since arriving. It was an undiscovered nirvana, where winter days were clear and crisp, the streets were cleaner than Martha Stewart’s house, and everyone polite to a fault.
It was a breath of fresh air after the many years in London, a city that seems to reside under a permanent grey rain cloud, much like Eyore. Though this fits the national mood of apathetic melancholy, which is standard armour to survive in a dirty and dangerous metropolis, where ‘how do you do?’ has been superseded by ‘hand it over’.
And then there was the social scene: David and I had all the restaurants and bars in the Tokyo Luxe Guide ticked off within a matter of weeks as we were settling into our new expat life. My party frock outing count was off the charts and I actually ‘had to’ shop for more little black, red, and purple dresses to wear during our little soirees together. Sadly, this ‘honeymoon period’ didn’t last long and United Bank soon won our tug of war over my husband.
But having just graduated from being a mum of small children to a mum of school-age children, I discovered a new sense of freedom, which I thought I had lost around the same time as my obstetrician stitched me up after my first Caesarean – all those years ago.
“I still remember it as sharply as the stainless steel scalpel. The first cut is the deepest, was our music of choice during the 30 minute procedure to airlift Benjamin out of the comfort of the womb...”
“Oh no!” Amy laughs in mock horror, temporarily breaking my ‘life-til-now’ monologue.
“It was David’s idea. Hi-bloody-larious. Just goes to show, you should never leave a man in charge of the important stuff. On the other hand, the Cartier love bangle with diamonds as a gift for carrying his child was my idea. And some new diamond earrings when Becca was born, which coincidentally was accompanied by Chopin, after I sacked David as delivery room DJ,” I tell her, while suddenly wondering if the respective music choices have shaped the little characters that our children have taken on.
Benjamin is full of energy, loud and wild: into everything and anything. If you looked up ‘boy’ in an encyclopaedia, there would no doubt be a picture of him. Of course, moving around has been tough on him; he was heartbroken when we left London and he had to say goodbye to his friends. Not that he would admit it. I just knew and it tore away at me. He was quiet a lot; which as you will derive from my description of him, is totally out of character. Two months on, and both little Benjy and I are sleeping far easier as he is gaining confidence and friends in equal measure.
Becca, on the other hand, is this bundle of zen-like calm with the soul of a wise old man. Even as a baby she had more personality than many adults I have come across. Those deep hazel eyes absorbed everything that was going on and before long she would be able to accurately copy movements, gestures and – when she started talking – words. David calls her his ‘little Einstein,’ which she loves as she is a fan of the Little Einsteins’ show on TV, humming the tunes of Bach and Grieg. She is fully intent on being an astronaut when she grows up and sometimes demands to know what I want to be when I grow up, which is disconcerting.
As Amy and I bid each other farewell, I suddenly have a déjà-vu: of white lilies at a church altar of some kind: Of Amy bending kneeling before it. Too much coffee, I conclude, shaking off the feeling as I kiss her cheek.
~~~~
2 Another cup of coffee
Tokyo, April 2009
Pick a time; pick a place. Where did it all start to derail? As I sit alone at the little round table outside the American café, nursing my second cup of coffee, it seems clear to me that my story had to start in Starbucks that day when I first met Amy – nearly two years ago.
David always takes great glee in telling anyone who will listen that his wife ‘lives in Starbucks’. This is only partially true. We live in Tokyo as expatriates, an imposing word when unabbreviated, and one that is broadly defined as withdrawing oneself from residence in or allegiance to one’s native country, a second definition is; to banish or exile. None is particularly positive, yet a not-insignificant portion of the world’s professional workforce belong to this transient tribe.
It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was merely a ‘patriate.’ Or should that be patriot? And does that suggest that expatriates cannot be patriotic?
Let me paint you a little picture of my life up to that point, and maybe shed some light on my obsession with coffee in the process.
So, who am I? More to the point: what is the purpose of this…confessional? It’s been a hell of a long time since my last confession, despite my catholic parentage, but there is no question that I have sinned.
Having let my religion lapse a little over the years (can’t tell my cathedrals from my churches; and is the pope, in fact, catholic?), I have instead lived by my own version of the 10 commandments, which go more or less like this:
Thou shalt always look after number one (that’s me, for clarification...) ‘cause you can’t expect others to.
Thou shalt smile – even if it makes thee look like a fool. Too few people engage in this ancient practice, which brightens everyone’s day – one exception to the rule; crazy men on the metro need not apply.
Thou shalt only eat food that you really like – if it’s going to end up on my hips I would need to feel lurve for the curve – and I would much rather grapple with love handles made of foie gras than a fry-up.
Thou shalt be nice(ish) – what comes around goes around. This one sits well with my newly-acquired Buddhist knowledge.
Thou shalt not spend hours obsessing over occasional spots, wrinkles or muffin tops. No one else will – not over yours in any case.
Thou shalt exercise or thee becometh a grumpy cow (this one interrelates with numbers 4 and 5).
Thou shalt look after your friends and family, because moments with them are precious and fleeting. I should know.
Thou shalt not commit a crime (stripes were never my strong suit – and I really couldn’t be someone’s ‘bitch’). Speeding, j-walking and the odd tax dodge exempted.
Thou shalt not commit adultery – married men, even engaged ones, are off-limits. This one relates back to number 4.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s Prada dress, Laboutin shoes or Fendi bag. Just get your own…
These simple rules have served me well over the years; until I stooped. We’re all sinners, the bible would have us believe, but trust me when I say that I win this competition: hands down.
Well, I will let you be the judge.
And judging I need: A man has died: A friend’s heart has been shattered into tiny fragments: A family broken, and oh so many laws have been transgressed – moral and legal. When you stand at an intersection, like I do now, you can run or you can try to make sense of it all. So here I am trying for the more mature route. Besides, running has never been my forte – despite commandment number 6.
I guess this is as good a time as any to bring you up to speed, if any of my ramblings are going to make any sense. I am, of course, genetically programmed to keep pace with the twists and turns of my inner monologue, but then I have known ‘me’ for 35 years, or 29 depending on who’s asking.
People are so ageist these days. It’s just a number right? And with all the little fillers, injections and chemical peels available in this day and age, we can all have eternal youth, with a portrait neatly tucked away in the attic. Maybe we should just accept that there are no numbers after 29, as I recently explained to a quizzing, little person, otherwise known as Becca.
So here goes: my name is Bonnie Marianne Winter. In many ways, I am your average British female, if there is such a thing: auburn hair, freckles on a pale skin, which needs factor 75 in the summer sun or I resemble a squashed raspberry. I am average in height, though blessed with a small frame, which makes shopping in Japan a whole lot easier - but more expensive. For many the words expat wife and shopping are synonymous: our raison d’être, if you will. I buy, therefore I am. It’s what we’re reduced to.
You should by now have gleaned that I am married to David, a fellow Brit: An upstanding man of the community by anyone’s standards - loyal, dependable, though perhaps a little socially awkward. He’s dynamite in the boardroom, but when it comes to the champagne and canapé hour, he will be the first person heading for the door. Apart from the time we met, that is.
“Bonnie Barber,” I said stretching out my right hand to the tall handsome man waiting for us at the Purple Bar in the Sanderson Hotel in London.
“Yes, David, this is the…erm, colleague at Abraham Consulting I wanted you to meet. She’s a bit of a hot shot in the company. Rising fast! If you know what I mean…” Lukas, the other half of ‘us’ prattled on to the man who was now smiling at me, and taking my hand, holding it for longer than was necessary or appropriate in modern-day etiquette.
Working for a City financial PR firm, my boss, Lukas, was courting United Bank, where David was Vice President, to advise on their planned US expansion. With a deal within grasp, I was practically wheeled in for cocktails as a sweetener of sorts.
“So, Bonnie. Do all the ladies dress in Alaïa back at the office?” He asked cheekily, “If so, I really must change jobs.” He added, we both laughed, while Lukas practically wailed in delight. The ice – had there ever been any – was well a truly broken.
Lukas had, in fact, insisted I change into a sexy little black number with strappy D&G shoes to add to the overall ‘honey trap’ as he charmingly chose to call it. The red Chanel lipstick in ‘Passion’ also enhanced my otherwise modest curriculum vitae no end; expulsion from boarding schools and a 2:2 from a Polytechnic did not make for high-flying management material.
“Since you’re the maverick at Abrahams, perhaps you can explain to me exactly why United Bank should mandate your agency to represent us?” David mumbled close to my ear and patted the chair next to him, indicating this was my seat. Lukas was left on the far side, but did not seem to mind the slight.
“Apple Martinis all around, love!” He chanted at the waitress who looked way to cool to be called ‘love’, but obediently magiced up the first round in record time, much as she did the second, the third and the tenth…
The fact that my actual rank was ‘secretary’ rather than ‘associate’, ‘vice president’ or company ‘maverick’ did not transpire until the ink on the contract was dry and we were all on our second round of Alka Seltzers the morning after.
And what neither my conniving boss nor David had bargained for was that six months and a whirlwind romance later, I would become Mrs David Oscar Winter. How to classify whirlwind? A procession of restaurants, romantic dates in chic European cities and checking in and out of so many hotel rooms my head would spin, I guess qualifies in my mind at least. David might as well have been taking pages straight out of the Bonnie Book of Betrothal; the whole ‘presents from Tiffany’s, dinners at Les Deux Tours and Business Class all the way’ thing caught me hook, line and sinker. It was what I had always dreamt of: to be taken care of properly; to hand over the reins to the messy world of utility bills and red bank statements; to feel cocooned in a safe and luxurious wrapper of a world. The kind of things modern woman is not even allowed dream of, let alone speak of, without being deemed pre-historic.
The 4-carat rock presented to me in a small red and gilt-edged box over dinner in Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant in Royal Hospital Road formed an absolute and full stop to my single life. Good riddance, frankly. One night stands and meaningless flings filled me with remorse. I craved the safety and maturity David offered; I respected him as a man, a fellow human being and as my husband, as idealistic as that may sound. I was so proud to become Mrs Winter – not least because it reminded me of my favourite novel of all time: Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.
What more can I tell you about David? Gerard Butler would without a shadow of a doubt play him in the film of his life: he has just the right combination of beau laid, as the French so accurately put it. A real man: None of this new age lark, like sharing of dinner bills, opening your own doors, couples discount to the knitting class.
And he believed in me. Little ol’ me. With his encouragement (and, admittedly, the signing of his bank’s account to our PR firm), I moved from PA to AD (associate director) in a few short months. No one was more surprised than me to discover that I actually had a knack for the business; press releases practically wrote themselves; marketing campaigns with flare became my forte and even client presentations were doable (albeit with a swift gin or two, beforehand, to steady my nerves). Oprah Winfrey was my heroin and ambition a surprising bed partner. It was a fun and not unglamorous game while it lasted.
The wedding day itself was a fine affair of Vera Wang, Veuve Clicquot and the most adorable little Theo Fennell keepsakes for the guests. To say that it was the best day of my life is a cliché, but it is also true. I recall the day itself in glimpses, like a flickering projector movie in black and white; the pews covered in Lily of the Valley; the smiling faces all around me; the tears wanting to well up in my eyes and fighting to keep them from ruining my immaculate bridal make-up.
“Are you ready?” Aunt Linda asked me as we waited outside the gates to the church before the music started.
“I am,” I pronounced in much the same manner I would later say; “I do”. And an usher swung the door open on the congregation that were all standing, waiting for the ‘beautiful’ bride: a joyous occasion with so much goodwill floating around you could solve Middle East Peace Process if only you could bottle it.
I remember how Aunt Linda squeezed my arm as we walked up the aisle together; and finally my beautiful David standing tall and proud in front of the priest, his eyes saying everything Bach’s Air on a G String (who knew they had G strings back in those days...?) and the occasion itself would not allow.
In no time, the priest declared: “ You may kiss the bride” to the cheer and standing ovation of the crowd. If you could press the freeze button right there, at that pinnacle and just live in that very moment, would it not be bliss? Inevitably, the day progressed and my internal cinematography flipped to the wedding party, where David’s mother, Dorothy, sidled up to me in a more quiet moment.
“Bonnie, dear. You are so very young and life has just begun for you. You must be patient and remember that husbands are like fires. They go out when unattended. Happiness is what you have when looking back on a life well-lived, so live it well – forget about the small things and remember what’s important…” Then she kissed me on the cheek and trotted off, with the hat slightly off kilter, which made me wonder if she’d been hitting the Veuve too hard. Dorothy was usually all sweetness and light, in an upper middle class kind of way. Husbands are like fires?
My whole life until that day had been a preparation for this event: Very stylish and very lavish, but then David had waited 35 years for the day. And as Dorothy had accurately ascertained, I was a young bride at 23. Many of my peers still harboured lofty ideas of making it on their own before settling down. Many of these same women remain single to this day, having fallen foul of ‘have it all’ impossibility we seem to face these days. In truth, it is far easier to solve the chicken and egg conundrum than to decide whether husband and family come before or after career.
David is my safe harbour and I have loved him since that faithful night of endless Apple Martinis at the Sanderson; which is why we had been together for 10 years shortly after arriving in Tokyo.
But it’s not been all gourmet dinners and shopping at Harvey Nichols – or Mitsukoshi since arriving in Tokyo. We have produced two fine specimens in our time together. Little Benjamin came first - two years into our nuptials, then Rebecca (told you I loved that book), or Becca as we call her, two years later. It was a veritable production line, with Benjamin only 15 months old by the time Becca was conceived. But believe me, this factory is now boarded up and closed for new business. If David wants another child, he’ll have to settle for a dog.
Pregnancy was never fun, not that it’s generally advertised as such, but I’d expected some of the blooming and contentedness that most impregnated women drone on about.
“Pregnancy suits you, Bonnie!” My friend Rachel would say, looking longingly at my growing midriff hump.
“Sure, if you think an inverted dromedary is a good look this season.” I would snort in reply.
First of all, it seriously impacted on my lifestyle; shopping was useless – even shoes were impossible to buy as my feet were constantly swollen and there are only so many handbags one person can have – unless your name is Victoria or Paris, of course.
Clothes, for obvious reasons, were off my shopping radar for some time. As were all the good cheeses, wines, and Parma ham. Nor did the pregnancy sit well with my hitherto flourishing career at Abraham’s PR firm. There’s nothing like a baby bump to stifle conversation in a male-dominated meeting; you are immediately excluded as unreliable (all those obstetrician appointments), flaky (raging hormones) and short-termist (maternity leave looming on the corporate calendar in big red letters).
I would reassure Lukas that I would be back at my desk within ‘weeks, maybe even days’ and would farm out the wee baba to some conveniently located nursery. And I actually believed what I was telling him myself; eight months pregnant I finally took a day off work to trawl through the few nurseries that accepted such little munchkins and honestly thought I would be ready to hand over my flesh and blood to complete strangers day in and day out. Mother Nature was, no doubt, in stitches over this.
Since the moment baby number one, Benjamin, saw the light of day, so did I about my notions of leaving him behind to climb the career ladder a little further. These little beings were ‘mini-mes’ to dress as I saw fit, cuddle at will and generally solved the ‘unconditional love’ enigma that besets most of us parents when they are born.
By the time the subject of returning to work aired in the Winter household, so did the little blue cross heralding the advent of Becca. And by the time she was on her feet, we were starting to pack our bags for Tokyo. Perhaps I should have refused to go. Or perhaps it was the journey I had to go through to find the depths of my personality and depravity.
As I said, you be the judge.
~~~~
3 Turning Japanese
Tokyo,
February 2007
Once the moving dust had settled and most of our boxes had been unpacked, the excitement of the new took over. A change really is as good as a rest and I realise now that I must have grown, if not tired then, blasé about London over the years and despite Tokyo not being at the top of my list of places to live in or even visit, it was fun. Having mastered the imperative taxi words for left (hidari), right (migi) and straight on (masugo), I felt on top of my game and fully versant in the complexities of my new language and culture: I had what I needed, I confidently congratulated myself.
It was those early first weeks, when everyone is a potential new BFF and everyone seems to go out of their way to make you feel at home and welcome. A Japanese colleague of David invited the whole family to his home to this end and we, delightedly, accepted. Tragically for us and despite my original enthusiasm, the day turned out to be a crash (and burn) course in Japanese culture.
“I don’t want to go!” Benjamin protests as we’re preparing to leave our new Moto Azabu home. I forgot to mention that my enthusiasm had in no shape or form infected my children.
“Benjamin, honestly – it will be fun! They have a son, too!” I counter cheerily in an: ‘are we all having fun yet’ manner.
“He’s only five!” My very mature son argues, with neither he nor Becca making any effort to put their coats on to leave. And we’re already late.
So I do what any mother would under those circumstances: I bribe them. With promises of chocolate and a new Nintendo DS game, we finally head out of the building and hail a taxi. This was in the days before we’d bought our beloved Cayenne and had to rely on capital’s vast network of cabs.
“Bonnie!” David reprimands me as I yet again forget to let the taxi door open itself and yank it open to the driver’s obvious distress.
“Gomenasai!” I say, directing this apology to the driver with accompanying bowing of the head – something you end up doing very soon on arrival in Japan.
Half an hour later and 40 minutes after the time David had agreed with his colleague, we’re still in the taxi: And not due to any heavy traffic, either.
“David, darling, are you sure we’re going the right way?” I say as non-accusingly as I can. I am a sea of diplomacy, since I can see my husband getting more and more tense; an issue not alleviated by the children fussing wildly and playing with the window controls – again to the driver’s distress.
“How am I supposed to know? The man put the address in the Satellite Navigation, so unless they made a programming error…Kaito-san said it was 15 minutes.”
“Okay, just checking…Becca! Feet off the seat, please.” The pristine white back seat cover is looking less so by the minute.
Thankfully, the driver pulls up by a small house in a very suburban setting a few minutes later and before the seat cover is entirely charcoal coloured. No comment is passed on the hefty fee clocked up on the meter, but it is clear that this is already turning into an expensive lunch. Little did we know…
“Ah! 15 minutes by express train…Very slow on road.” Kaito explains as he opens the front door, with a slightly pained expression on his face, which is only marginally changed to ‘startled’ when I lean forward for my normal air-kiss, which meets his formal bow awkwardly. We later learn that the fine lunch his wife has spent all morning preparing is now over-cooked, due to our poor timekeeping: More ‘gomenasais’ all around.
Becca and Benjamin, who are delighted to see that our hosts have a small poodle to play with, rush straight past Kaito, chasing the poor creature down a narrow corridor.
“Slow down! No running indoors,” I reprimand them when I see Kaito’s wife’s equally pained expression as they rush past, and follow this up with another ‘gomenasai’ for good measure when I see no improvement in her demeanour.
“Shoes,” Kaito points out on her behalf as she speaks as little English as I do Japanese. “Please. We have slippers.” He adds, indicating a neat row of grey textile slip-ons.
“Oh!” I blurt out in embarrassment and look down at my very clean, rarely worn outside, Jimmy Choo sling-backs. Surely, he didn’t mean I should take my shoes off, too…? I’m sure my pedicure was overdue… David takes the lead and summons Becca and Benjamin back to the tiled area by the front door and takes off his own loafers to reveal an imperfect sock with a hole in one letting the big toe do its own game if peek-a-boo. He seems not to be bothered by this and helps the children remove their shoes.
I, too, take my shoes off, reluctantly, waiting for the interjection that ‘no, no, it was fine for me to keep my, clearly, very clean shoes on’, which never comes. I decline the offer of the grey slippers. There’s a limit. My DVF wrap dress is already impaired by the absence of shoes, I wasn’t about to ruin the look entirely by turning into Big Foot.
And if our gaffes had stopped there, the day, and our pride, may still have been salvageable. Alas, this was not to be.
“David, darling, I think now would be a good time to give them the wine and chocolates we brought,” I nudge him quietly while our hosts are both in the kitchen, presumably trying to rescue the overcooked food.
“I thought you had it?” David snipes back and we both look at eachother in horror. One thing we had been pre-warned about was the importance of gifts here in Japan. While the value and the gift itself were less important, presentation had to be perfect with bows and ribbons aplenty. Coming to someone’s house without a gift was the epitome of rudeness, thus our reaction at our mistake.
“Oh my God! What can we give them? Maybe I can take off my diamond earrings and wrap them up in my Missoni scarf as a present? Maybe they didn’t notice them when I came in…” I try, desperately.
“Or why don’t we just wrap up Becca and give her away while you’re at it,” David mocks. And we both laugh nervously, in the way you do sometimes when the situation is bad and there’s no solution.
At that point Kaito comes back into the room and offers us some tea, which we gratefully accept. A peace pipe would also have been welcome. Becca and Benjamin come sauntering back into the room, with Ichiro, the five-year old boy, and the poodle, hot on their heels.
Kaito offers them a drink from the tray, too, which they both take with an excellent attempt at ‘arigato.’ The next second our visit nosedives again, as a gush of tea catapults out of Becca’s mouth, the Jet d’Eau in Geneva has nothing on her.
“Yuck! Mummy; it’s tea!” She shrieks and it was at that time that I learned how hellishly difficult it is to get green tea stains out of a cream carpet. Take my advice and don’t try it at home. The damn patch just seemed to spread the more I rubbed it with a cloth I took from Kaito’s wife, insisting that I should clean up my own mess. No doubt, she’s more experienced with green tea stains, and she is again observing me with this pained expression, which now seems a permanent feature on her face. I feel like writing gomenasai on a piece of paper and taping it to my forehead. Is there no end to this day?
All things considered, we would probably have done ourselves a favour if we’d called it a day there and then, and headed home to lick our wounds. Like good little soldiers, however, we push on, into unchartered territories and further casualties of war...
The only seemingly redeeming feature of the day appeared to be that little Ichiro had taken a shine to Becca and Benjamin, who in turn had taken a shine to the boy’s poodle (who’s name totally escaped us, but the kids seemed happy to make do with the term ‘doggy’). Ichiro, being an adorable and ridiculously well behaved only child, attended an international school, which must be costing Kaito a small fortune, since United’s local contract hires did not benefit from paid schooling. It was expected that they should be attending the free state schools, which are reputedly excellent.
Sitting down to lunch, after much and more ado, we were all relieved to find that the menu was suitably familiar to us western heathens. To start with there was a beautiful platter of all kinds of sushi and sashimi, with some gyoza dumplings for the children. To make conversation, as was sorely lacking at our language- challenged gathering, I compliment Kaito’s wife on the beautiful and bountiful display of fish.
“I haven’t tried this one before,” I add, reaching across to the platter, expertly held chopsticks at the ready and pick up a particularly interesting looking piece. With the first bite, my error was immediately obvious, even if I had missed my hosts’ baffled reaction.
“That is decoration,” Kaito explains quietly as I crunch my way through the object that remains unidentifiable.
“Hmmm…Delicious…” I was finally able to mumble, inwardly asking my digestive system and colon for forgiveness. This one would probably emerge with a colonic some time in the distant future. David was going faintly pink and seemed to have developed a cough, which I hoped only I could identify as stifled chortles. So much for sympathy.
The kids were tucking in merrily to their dumplings with appreciative ‘mmms’ every now and then. The men then started chatting about the office, leaving me smiling at Kaito’s wife – the only form of communication available to me. The person who said that 90 percent of communication is non-verbal should have taken my seat at that time; I would have knocked the figure back by several percentiles. We were struggling.
She smiles back, which I hope indicates that we’re now forgiven for our gaffs even if we undoubtedly remain the worst guests they’ve ever had. She picks up a piece of tuna – or maguro – sashimi from the platter and indicates for me to help myself to more. But discovering a hitherto abandoned cup of warm sake by my plate, I plump for this option, instead, lift the cup in her direction and toast her with a jolly: “Chin, chin!” as we Brits tend to…
Big mistake.
Kaito’s wife suddenly chokes on the piece of sashimi, goes slightly blue in her immaculately groomed face and points with not a small degree of panic at her throat. Kaito leaps to her rescue and slaps her fiercely on the back, but when his wife makes no sound and is evidently in greater distress, he hoists her up (which is easy – since she must weigh about nothing, even with the sashimi on board). He cups a fist below her ribs and gives her torso an almighty squeeze, with an accompanying sound effect of: “Arghhh!”
As if by magic, the piece of sashimi reappears and crosses half the table in an impressive arch before coming to rest back on the platter. Becca, Benjamin and little Ichiro applaud and everyone collapses back on to their chairs in relief.
“Daddy?” Ichiro pipes up in English after a minute or so of complete silence. “Why did the lady say penis?” he enquires innocently and had I been nibbling on a piece of sashimi, it would surely have been my turn... Turns out ‘chin, chin’ is the Japanese slang translation. Becca and Benjamin look at me like two big question marks as I smile apologetically and shrug my shoulders.
“Who would have known?” I mumble, though by now I really just want to go home and cry. This day cannot get any worse. I nearly killed the hostess. Kaito and his wife disappear into the kitchen, and promptly decline our offers of help, which we are sort of grateful for. We need time to regroup in our camp, as presumably they do in the kitchen, where I am in no doubt they are wondering what kind of lunatics they’ve invited into their home.
“I’m so sorry!” I whisper to David. “Can we just go now? I can’t bear it any more…”
“It’s not your fault.” David counters magnanimously. “But we can’t go now, that would be really rude. Just try not to…do anything or…say anything,” he continues, making me doubt his first assertion. Dinner parties with landed gentry would have been far easier to navigate. Give me a 20-course dinner with matching cutlery any day – but this… I pray silently to the God I so rarely solicit. ‘Please, please, just let me get through this day…”
Kaito and his wife, who has regained some colour in her cheeks after her fling with mortality, return to the dining room with a big pot, which turns out to be rice (nice and safe, can’t go wrong with that) and vegetable and prawn tempura. This time I sit quietly, arms tucked in by my side and just smile and nod – something that I would learn to perfect over the years of dining with the Japanese.
You’ll be glad to know that the main course passes without incident. We count four adults, three children and one dog at the start of the course, and remain so by the end. As usual, children’s eyes are somewhat bigger than their stomachs and they help themselves to more rice than they are able to finish. Both of them rub their stomachs contentedly after the meal and stick the chopsticks in the remaining rice, like a decorative flower arrangement: A culinary ikebana. No one comments, but the way Kaito’s eyes widen suggests to me that this was not an ideal positioning.
Unsurprisingly, our hosts do not object when we suddenly notice how late it is getting, make our apologies and take our leave. Only little Ichiro, which incidentally means ‘first born son’, is sad to see the back of us. He tugs at his father’s shirt when we’re almost out of earshot, and I can hear him say: “Daddy, can I have a playdate with them again? They’re so much fun! The boy says it’s called willy!”
“Benjamin!” I hiss as we walk towards the taxi that awaits us.
“What?! No one says penis,” he protests and I’m too tired and shell-shocked to argue. When I finally get home, David and I finish a bottle of Merlot from Washington State in about ten minutes flat. We both agree that my assumption that adequate taxi directions maketh for adequate Japanese is somewhat misguided, and we decide to brush up on our customs and etiquette.
Taking a gulp of the merlot, I start by Googling ‘chopstick etiquette’ to find the following passage:
“Chopsticks should not be left standing vertically in a bowl of rice or other food. Any stick-like object pointed upward resembles the incense sticks that some Asians use as offerings to deceased family members.”
~~~~
4 I’m gonna tear your playhouse down
England,
childhood years
Dolls are big business in Japan. And they are not just for kids – bizarrely, more dolls are actually destined for the ‘grown-up’ market than your typical toy store. They have been used in religious and ceremonial purposes since around 1,000 A.D; after which they have evolved into a mishmash of origami-style paper dolls, which are dished out to the bride and groom at weddings for good fortune, to fully-fledged sex dolls, with titillating names like Real Doll or Candy Girl, and they cost a small fortune. But then, some of these lonely-heart-companions are even afforded a proper Buddhist funeral if and when her ‘lover’ finally gets hitched to a more ‘live’ version. Some men, of course, never graduate from the inanimate.
Even though they are a far cry from the Barbies and Kens I used to play with in yesteryear, this intense doll idolisation reminds me of the games I used to play with my friend Caroline, or Caro as I called her, in the corner of my childhood bedroom, where a vast wooden doll’s house would hold our attention for hours on end. Barbie paraphernalia actually occupied about half of my bedroom, which in itself was not an immodest size, with enough accessories, clothes and gadgets to give Hamley’s a run for its money.
In the glaring absence of a sibling to annoy the hell out of, Caro was my makeshift sister when growing up in the leafy suburbia of Cobham. My parents and I had just made the leap of fortune to this relative paradise from downtown Croydon, which was not a desirable address to the Sloan Rangers that ruled the streets in our new town.
The year was 1981, and Lady Di was setting the style in her pearl necklaces, twin set and sapphire engagement ring; love was ‘tainted’; neon ra-ra skirts were all the rage; and an actor even became the unlikely President over the pond in the US of A. No wonder our Barbie games had plenty of fodder.
Caro – a name that suitably means expensive in Spanish – was a class act even at the tender age of eight; she exemplified good breeding and privilege in a way that Blair Waldorf could only aspire to. For some curious reason, she, too, saw a twin soul in me; even with my dubious heritage and off-track style, and took me under her fluffily down-feathered wing.
“Look darling!” She whispered in my ear, as we were lining up to run up to the hockey field on one of my first days at the new – and intimidating – school. “We really must do something about your…erm…appearance if you want to fit in here. No offence!”
“My what?” I hissed, completely disregarding her last two words. How dare she?
“Sschh!” She hushed me as Mr Peacock, the P.E. teacher, came striding down the line to identify the source of the disturbance. We both smiled sweetly as he passed, barking gruff instructions about lack of order and impending punishment.
“Don’t you shush me!” I blurted out more loudly than I had intended after Mr Peacock was a little further down the line, and the corridor filled with silence – apart from the audible deep inhalations from some of the girls.
“Right!” Boomed Mr Peacock strutting back with hands defiantly on his hips and a grim look on his moustached face, à la Tom Selleck in Magnum. “Miss Barber and Miss Landsdowne! You are both in detention. One hour after school: In the library. And, he leant forward so his face was barely an inch from mine, so I could smell the latent lager on his breath and his distinct body odour. This was the era before the ‘metrosexual man’, remember, and stink was still deemed ‘manly’. In any case, I leant back as far as I could without tipping over, stuttering;
“Sorry, Sir. Won’t happen again, Sir.”
“Too bloody right it won’t or you’ll have a meeting with my fist,” Mr Peacock muttered and returned to the front of the line, while a few of the girls giggled nervously.
“Should have hushed when I told you, Missy!” Caro laughed behind me and I turned back to my new adversary with what I hoped would be a look of thunder and doom – one that you come to perfect in schools in certain parts of Croydon: It’s all about survival of the fiercest.
“Oh, don’t be such a wet blanket!” My adversary, curiously, giggled at me. Not the desired effect at all. After that, Mr Peacock led us out to the field, ending our showdown, much to the other girls’ clear disappointment. There really was little more entertaining than a scrap.
During the lunch break, Caro again cornered me, sitting down opposite my place in the canteen. Her plate was filled with corn on the cob, salad and a few vegetables, making me feel a little guilty about my choice of sausage roll and chips.
“I want to help you, don’t you see? I know we’ll be jolly good friends…” Her smile was annoyingly disarming and my anger ebbed away faster than the sea at Mont St Michel, leaving me wanting to get to know this pretty, but strange girl a little better. Sometimes I struggle to remember exactly what she looked like; I know her hair was brown, her eyes blue and she smelled of Miss Dior, a scent that forever belongs to her.
“What’s wrong with my…appearance,” I prompted, deflated but still not prepared to let the offending comment slide.
“We’ve all got our uniforms – mine’s no different from yours!” I added demonstratively - and truthfully, stamping my foot for effect, though since we were seated she didn’t notice. The same navy skirt and white shirt; the same school-emblem tie - it wasn’t as if one came from Dior and the other from the bargain bucket in Woolworth’s.
“Oh, gosh! It’s not that… It’s the little details that matter, don’t you see? Look at your shoes…” she said pointing at my tatty black penny loafers and then to her own pristine, patent Mary Janes.
“And the hair” she continued, as I felt smaller and smaller, even though I towered above her by at least an inch. Indeed, hers was tied with a neat navy blue satin ribbon much like Sandy’s in Grease, while mine had been hastily assembled with an ordinary rubber band that would hurt like hell and take a good ten strands of hair with it when it finally came off at bath time.
Caro became my mentor and surrogate twin. And she was right; before the week was out, we were already the best of friends. She taught me that looks may not be everything, but it’s not far from it.
Children are great copycats and, before long, I not only looked like her, but talked like her and used the exact same mannerism. We were delighted – or at least I was - when people became momentarily confused about who was who, but since we missed the biological bond this confusion never lasted long. And, do all best friends cut their fingers a little to become ‘blood brothers,’ swearing eternal loyalty – or was it just us? But then these were the days when AIDS was an unknown acronym and only meant something when following the words ‘kitchen’ or ‘sex’.
It may have been her doll-like appearance that still makes me think of her every time I see a cutesy female Japanese Manga (cartoons – again, more for adults than kids) character. Or it could be the way we would immerse and lose ourselves in a make-believe world where Barbie was queen, Ken was King and our Skippers were princesses who ruled from the comfort of the Barbie bathroom; complete with pump action Jacuzzi; and the Barbie camper van, where the royal dog, Benji, liked to hang out.
Unbeknown to our parents, these dolls also played out our first sexual experiences – or at least our guesstimates of what this would be like - no mean feat given the imprecise anatomy of Ken and the physically impossible one of Barbie.
Of course, we had code words for the dirty deeds themselves, since we didn’t want to get caught in flagrante toy-wise and, frankly, we were too embarrassed to say the actual words out loud, or knew the exact configuration, in any case. Come to think of it, my ability to discuss sex hasn’t improved much since: must be that Catholic upbringing, where sex is a sin and immaculate conception, the ideal we should all strive for. Unfortunately, God has not obliged us in this department for rather a long time now.
Once Barbie and Ken’s experiments became a little too tame for us, we threw boys into the mix for good measure: At a safe distance most of the time, of course.
“Gosh, isn’t he just dreamy!” Caro mused one Saturday at the local shopping centre, as our mutual object of desire; a young lad called Mark, strutted past.
“Looks just like John Taylor!” I sighed, citing my favourite band member of Duran Duran.
“Promise me one thing, sister dearest,” Caro said gravely. “Blood is thicker than water. We must never let a boy – however hunky - come between us. So say after me,” she continued still serious as cancer, placing her right hand over her heart and her adolescent breast. I copied her, but failed to mimic her austere look.
“I solemnly swear…” she started.
“I solemnly swear…” I repeated.
“…never to quibble over a worthless boy…”
“…never to squabble, sorry, quibble, over a worthless boy…”
“…but will remain true to my soul sister.” She concluded, with a determined nod then removing her hand and waited for me to finish my vow.
“But will remain true to my soul sister.”
The point to this little promenade down memory lane is that it all ended rather suddenly and I still wonder what happened to my twin. Sometimes, I think she is out there in the world feeling my feelings and reading my thoughts – like we used to, but I am nothing if not a realist. People meet; they make a connection for a brief moment, before they carry on their arbitrary journey that is life. Nothing is permanent, as Caro proved when she upped and left unceremoniously, about six years after our run-in at the hockey game.
“My darling, we’re leaving. I just wanted to let you know…” she told me over the phone and completely out of the blue one otherwise fine day.
“You what?!” I blurted out inelegantly, forgetting the many hours of Caro’s finishing school, which I had so diligently sat through and passed with flying colours.
“Yes, it is rather sudden, isn’t it? But don’t worry darling – I shall no doubt bump into you at the top of the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building in just a few short years – it’s de rigueur these days, n’est ce pas?” Caro trilled as if we were planning a tea party, rather than the death of our friendship.
“Anyway, you have Mark to keep you company, now, don’t you? Imagine you won’t miss me one incy, wincy, tiny bit,” she continued in a light tone, but managed to hit a bulls-eye with her apparently casual comment about Mark: The boy I had vowed to avoid, but had one way or other become my boyfriend.
“Of course, I will miss you! You’re my best friend! My soul sister… Where are you going, anyway?” I stammered, as silent tears flowed down my cheeks, dripping onto the large beige receiver and onto the coiled cable that I was nervously twiddling between my thumb and index finger. I couldn’t move, held in the incapacitating vice grip of chilly adrenaline coursing silently through my body.
“Oh, didn’t I say? How silly of me! La France, of course, ma chère! Mes parents have been posted to gay Paris! Isn’t it simply fantastique?! You must come and see me one day, bien sur! I will post you our new address as soon as I can, darling...” Caro’s voice verged on falsetto, the only hint that she wasn’t quite as jolly about the departure as she made out to be, or that she was not as mortally wounded as only a young teenage girl can be. The next moment, I could hear her mother calling her in the distance, though I couldn’t make out what she was saying.
“Ever so sorry, darling, but I have to go now! Bisous!” Caro hung up the phone leaving me with the receiver in the lap until my mother found me there much later.
‘Bisous’ was the last word I would hear from my twin. She never wrote to tell me of her new address in gay Paris and we have yet to meet up at the top of the Eiffel Tower, or the Empire State Building for that matter. If I remember correctly, I never again played with dolls; at least not the inanimate kind. A couple of years later I was abandoned again – by my mother and father – cementing my certitude that life is uncertain and the people in it more so. In the end, our playhouses are frail and temporary structures that invariably fail the test of time.