The last two weeks have flown by with amazing speed. I feel like a prisoner on death row who is waiting for the executioner to turn up but who still hasn’t had time to actually get their head round the idea of what’s going to happen. I think that it’s only been in the last few days that I’ve really understood how Marie Antoinette must have felt as she waited for them to take her out to face the guillotine. Just for the record, it’s not very pleasant.
In the last week I’ve packed, boxed up all my belongings and even sublet my flat. From a formal point of view, I’m ready to leave, but psychologically I couldn’t be feeling less prepared.
My ‘brilliant’ plan to stay in London did not yield the desired results: John has completely closed himself off from me, hiding away and, on the rare occasions when I have been able to see him, my tears have not, unfortunately, managed to make him change his mind. Well, I knew it wasn’t going to be an easy mission.
And he’s not the only one: I have a very strong feeling that everyone in the office is trying to avoid me. The cowards!
Ironically, I’d invested my greatest hope in Mark Kim. I was actually convinced that he would rather gnaw off his own arm than take me to Seoul.
Part of me was certain that I would never really end up going. Despite everything, deep down inside I wasn’t worried. I was sure that something would happen to prevent it.
Unfortunately, events took an unexpected turn when, during a chance encounter in the elevator, Mark brought me up to date about the developments in the situation. True to our agreement, he had been trying to stir things up, but without results: it seemed that the company didn’t have the slightest intention of changing its mind about my transfer, despite complaints from both him and me. Coming out of the elevator he had told me, barely looking me in the face, “You must resign yourself to it, Miss Johnson, as I have. And I assure you that of the two of us, the one who must swallow the bitterest pill is me.”
You lousy worm, you never miss a chance to insult me.
After that for a few days I seriously thought about handing in my notice, but the truth is that I lacked the courage to do anything quite that drastic. And slowly, while my hope dried up like an autumn leaf, I had to face the inevitable and start packing my bags.
So now, here I am stuck in the car with my parents as we make our way to the airport as though I was setting of for a camping trip with the girl guides or something. My mother decided to accompany me with the excuse of seeing me off, but I have the sneaking suspicion that she doesn’t trust her daughter: not wholly unreasonably, she’s scared that I’ll try to do a runner at the last minute, and wants to be there to make sure I don’t. In any case, it is excruciatingly embarrassing to be chauffeured there by my mum and dad at my age. Even more so because the reason I’m leaving is my job!
At my age I should have some wonderful boyfriend by my side driving me to departures, or actually stopping me from leaving because he just can’t live without me lighting up his life. But, alas, of the famous Prince Charming there is no trace. Now that I think about it, there have only been toads who stayed toads even after I kissed them. A total waste of kisses.
I was really grateful to Jane for turning up at my house this morning before going to the office: her parting gift was a collection of all of Jane Austen’s novels. A really nice thought, as my friend knows how much I love Austen. She tried to reassure me and promised to send me an email every day to show her support. I know she’ll be keeping her fingers crossed for me. If only that was enough. I doubt that even Merlin the bloody wizard himself could invent a magic spell to enable me to survive Seoul.
Even my colleagues were really sweet yesterday – they’d organized a nice little farewell party to see me off, and it had given me the opportunity to learn first hand that farewell parties only cheer up the people who are staying, not the ones who are leaving.
Having to clear out my desk only increased my sense of unease. As I emptied the drawers, taking out my knick-knacks and putting my stuff into boxes, I had a weird feeling that all this was incredibly final, as though it were forever. The truth is that at this moment, twelve months really does seem like an eternity. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, I just can’t seem to convince myself that this year will pass quickly.
John hugged me for a long time in an attempt to reassure me, and told me that I was absolutely to call him every week. I just nodded disconsolately. I could hardly speak when the time came to actually leave.
Throughout this period, Mr Kim has had the good sense to keep out of the way. I haven’t spoken to him since that last meeting in the elevator, and he has only shown his face on our floor from time to time. Not that I’ve missed his wonderful conversational skills, mind you.
When my father’s car starts driving up the ramp of the airport car park, I’m still not totally prepared for this departure. My parents climb out of the car while I sit there, immobile, as though I’ve been nailed into the back seat. What I’d give to just put down roots right here in car park two instead of flying halfway round the world.
My mother gives me a dirty look that produces absolutely no effect, so she decides to go straight into action and flings open my door with decision, as though annoyed by my lack of enthusiasm.
“Good God, Maddison, do you want to get a move on? We’re going to be late!” she snaps at me in an agitated voice. What nonsense, we are extremely early, and certainly not because I wanted to be.
I can’t help sighing sulkily in irritation, but then I give up and decide to get out of the car.
Meanwhile my father has pulled my three suitcases out of the boot and is laboriously dragging them towards the entrance. Mum and I follow him straight to the check-in.
I know, taking three suitcases is not exactly travelling light, but I really couldn’t manage to squeeze all the things I needed to survive into anything smaller. I tried, believe me, but it was hopeless.
“Now make sure you stay in touch! And keep us informed about everything!” my mother is screeching. “I’m so happy for you! Back in my day this type of thing was just unimaginable… you certainly are the lucky one!” she repeats for the thousandth time. But for some reason, I don’t feel particularly blessed with good fortune. I’d be quite happy to swap places with her, if she was up for it – I’d do it in a heartbeat.
In the distance I can just make out the figure of Mark, who is leaning on the check-in counter waiting for me. The closer we get, the more clearly I can see that he’s frowning. If we really want to work together he’d better learn to get rid of the bloody miserable expression that appears on his face every time he sees me. Otherwise he’ll really start to offend me.
“Miss Johnson,” he greets me formally. “For a moment I feared that you might have been contemplating not turning up,” he adds, sounding serious.
He has no idea how close I was to actually doing just that. Or does he?
“I could never have let you leave on your own,” I answer him drily. He raises an eyebrow slightly, the way I saw him do on the day we met. Apparently he does it every time he’d like to give me an earful, but manages to restrain himself.
My mother’s expression makes no secret of how fascinated she is by him. It’s obvious that she’s quite taken with Mark – basically, in her eyes, he’s got it all anyway simply because he’s got a career. Not knowing what to say, my father – the wiser half of the couple – keeps out of the way.
It looks as though we’re done with the small talk, so I resign myself to digging my passport out of my handbag. The girl at the check-in desk stares with adoring eyes at my future boss as he hands her his passport. I hand her mine too, but for some reason I don’t seem to have quite the same effect upon her. Just as I suspected I wouldn’t.
“Would you like to sit together?” asks the girl on the counter efficiently.
“Yes,” replies Mark, before I can even enjoy the thought of being at the opposite end of the aircraft to him and his evil glares.
“Perfect. So if you could just give me the luggage you’ll be putting in the hold.”
Mark promptly does as she asks, placing his on the conveyor belt and my father comes over to give me a hand lifting mine on.
“You are traveling light, I see,” says Mark sarcastically, without removing his eyes from my huge suitcases.
“Haven’t you ever travelled with a woman before?” I reply in the same tone, not at all intimidated. “No girl in the world travels with less than three suitcases, especially if she’s been obliged to move halfway round the planet.”
“Oh, but these are only Maddison’s first lot of bags! As soon as she’s set up in Seoul, we’ll be sending over the rest,” says my mother, as though someone had requested her opinion. Why the hell did I think it would be a good idea to let her come here? I lift my eyes to the sky and try desperately not to lose my temper.
After getting the formalities out of the way, we take our tickets and set off towards the gate.
Before going through security, I say goodbye to my parents for one last time, and when I turn round at the x-ray machine, I see that my mother is still waving while my father is shooting me one last desperate look. I don’t know which of us is worse off, to be honest: after all, he will have to put up with my mother on his own. But then I haven’t really got anything to be smiling about myself either, as I’m about to set off for a continent where the only person I know is the opposite of sweetness and light.
I try to steel my nerve – after all, it’s not really that hard to make friends nowadays. I’m sure that Korea will be full of nice, easy going, fun people. Yes, I will admit that my hopes on that score did take a bit of a knock when I met Mr Kim, but never give up dreaming, as they say.
I slump into a chair before boarding, full of trepidation about what exactly I’m going to encounter all the way over there on the other side of the world. I must look really pitiful, given that Mark actually feels compelled to try and raise my spirits.
“Seeing as I’m going to be the only person you’ll know in Seoul, how about we try and get to know each other a bit better? I only had a quick peek at the file that the human resources department gave me about you, but I noticed that we are almost the same age,” he says, clearly striving to be affable.
I don’t buy it, though – he’ll have studied my file with maniacal attention in the hope of catching me out, I know he will.
“How old are you?” I ask, pretending to be interested.
“I’m thirty-three,” he replies without another word. Several awkward seconds of silence follow. At this rate, the conversation is not going to take off.
“The same age as Jesus was when he died,” I finally manage to say. Not exactly a brilliant joke, but for some reason the tension was getting so bad that I just had to break it somehow. Of course, that might not have been the ideal way. Why does stuff like that always end up coming out of my mouth? And why does he always seem to provoke me into saying inappropriate things?
I hold my breath while I wait for his reaction. Fortunately Mark laughs. Nice to know that the foot in my mouth has that effect upon him. I’m glad that I’m useful for something at least, I reflect with a little annoyance.
“I hope that doesn’t mean that you’re expecting to see me hanging from a cross before I get to thirty-four. That would only give me a few months left to live.”
I blink several times, incredulous at his answer. It would appear that after all, very deep down, Mark is also equipped with a rudimentary sense of humour. Well, who would have thought it?
The unexpected discovery makes me frown. At this point I would prefer him to be entirely lacking in human qualities.
“Of course not. It’s just that for some reason when I’m around you I seem to always come out with things that sound terrible. I’m usually a normal person, but you…” I don’t know how to explain how I’m feeling. “You really bring out a certain side of me…”
He does not seem too worried by my admission. “Does that mean that you will always be honest with me? And that you will always tell me what you think?” he asks. While he’s speaking, he looks at me with a strange expression that I cannot quite interpret. I’m not quite sure what response he’s expecting from me, or if there even is a right answer at all.
“Whatever it means, I’m completely unable to hide what I think from you,” I admit resignedly, “although at the moment I don’t really know you at all. I mean, apart from your name and nationality.”
Mark looks up at the ceiling and meditates upon my last sentence.
“We have a very long flight ahead of us. You can ask me anything that you’d like to know,” he says finally, before adding in a very professional voice a few seconds later, “I would like to get started as soon as possible on explaining the merger cases that we are following in Seoul right now and tell you about our team.”
Obviously I must have misunderstood. I wanted to ask him about more juicy, more personal stuff. What do I care about company business and the issues affecting the office? But Mark comes across as a very private person, and not at all the type to make an effort at this kind of thing.
Oh God, and what if the Koreans are all like him? With this smug air of superiority and communicating in monosyllables the whole time? For a moment I’m genuinely frightened. I don’t think I can hold out a whole year in the midst of people who only think about work.
My rising panic is calmed by the voice which invites us to board the aircraft. We wait patiently for our turn, surrounded by a lot of Koreans who are on their way home. I wish I were in their place.
Despite the fact that this flight is going to take several hours, the plane looks exactly like all the others – that is, narrow and claustrophobic. The space between one seat and the next looks particularly small to me, and I receive confirmation of this when, having found my seat, I try to sit down. I am about to complain about how cramped it is for my long legs when I realize that Mark is even taller than me and so will be even more uncomfortable. I know it’s not very nice of me to enjoy it, but the thought gives me a feeling of immense satisfaction. If this gentleman can stoically endure the discomfort, then I do not intend to show any weakness either.
My seat is next to the window, while his is on the aisle.
I admit it, perhaps this might be the ideal time to reveal to him that I am not particularly fond of flying. Phrased like that it actually doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Ok, I’m absolutely terrified of flying.
Absolutely. Terrified.
It’s a fear which is completely irrational, instinctive and primitive, and which drags me down into a black vortex of terror where I feel like I’m drowning.
But because I’m a modern, independent girl, I refuse to let it affect my life. In fact, I fly all the time for holidays and for work. It’s all fine until I set foot on the plane, because it’s only then that my fear starts to emerge really violently. Usually I go very pale, my palms start sweating, I feel dizzy and I start having trouble breathing. Once I even fainted. Okay, I admit it – more than once…
As we have the delight of twelve hours of flying ahead of us, it might be a good idea to warn my hapless companion about my panic attacks. I wouldn’t like him to get the wrong idea about me. Although, thinking about it, in all probability a panic attack is exactly what Mark would expect from somebody like me, and seeing as it’s his fault that I’m on this bloody plane anyway, maybe it would actually serve him right if I did throw up all over him. He should have worked out some way of allowing me to stay in London with my feet planted firmly on the ground.
A couple of years ago, Jane and I booked a dream holiday – a week in a great apartment in the Balearic islands. I was so sick during the flight there that it took me the whole week to get over it. Not counting the time it took me to get over the flight back. Moral of the story: I came back to the office more haggard and pale than I was before I left.
To tell the truth, I think that my fear has actually got worse: as time has passed, it’s grown from mild discomfort to irrational terror, and there’s not much you can do about it when you are overwhelmed by that type of panic.
While I fasten my seat belt – which is harder than you’d think when your hands are shaking – I try to tackle the subject.
“There’s something I want to tell you before we take off…” I whisper, leaning over towards Mark.
That wasn’t the right way to start – I said it in such a faint tone of voice that I’ve alarmed him. He raises those dark eyes of his from his seatbelt and gives me a serious look.
“Well, erm, it’s like this… I’m not a massive fan of flying,” I stammer. There, I’ve said it.
He hasn’t known me long, but I have to admit that he’s already pretty good at interpreting my words. In fact, he looks at me with the expression of someone who knows exactly what’s going on.
“Tell me, Maddison, exactly how sick are you going to be during the flight?” His question is less of a question and more of a command.
I blush under that intense gaze of his.
“I don’t exactly get sick – I just have these… these little panic attacks. During which I can’t breathe.”
Oh God, he’s going to think that I’m a total nutter. Or perhaps he already does? Never mind, I try and reassure myself. I wasn’t interested in getting into his good books in any case.
He continues to study me thoughtfully, never lowering his eyes. I would like to defuse the situation but don’t know how to, until suddenly I remember some tranquillizers that my mother put in my handbag for emergencies just such as this. Ultimately, it’s her fault that I’ve never managed to get over these bloody neuroses of mine – in fact, having a mother like her only makes them worse.
“Now that I think about it, I’d probably better take something to relax before we take off,” I say, and begin to rummage in my bag. It only took a few moments of that irritable stare of his to make me decide to do something, anything, to avoid looking like an idiot in front of him.
As expected, my pills are hidden away right down at the bottom, and I’m forced to practically empty it before I manage to find them. Packets of tissues (I honestly don’t remember packing this many, but a girl always needs tissues), various bits of make-up in case I stumble upon some blond Adonis during my trip (unlikely as it might be on a flight like this, which is heading for Korea and not for Sweden), and an infinite variety of miscellaneous objects emerge.
After much rummaging, the packet of pills is finally found in a little hidden pocket: on the box it says to take one tablet and not to exceed the recommended dosage. I opt for two. Whoever wrote the instructions couldn’t have known about my personal case history.
Mark has noticed the number of pills I’ve taken, as I can tell from his disapproving expression. But that’s nothing new, so I’m not going to let it get to me. I bet he holds the world record for the number of disapproving glares that a single human being has ever given. And that’s after only knowing him for a couple of weeks. By the end of this long Korean year he’ll probably be up for another entry in the Guinness Book of records.
As the plane begins to roll towards the runway for take off, I start to feel the effect of the pills: I’m much calmer, and my head feels light. I am almost oblivious to the plane’s initial jolts.
I try to stretch out my legs by extending them at an angle, but I end up kicking Mark’s ankle.
“Oops, sorry,” I say with a chuckle. I feel almost cheerful, even though I know I’ve got no reason to be. This doesn’t feel like tranquillizers, this feels like something quite different…
Little Lord Fauntleroy next to me is doing everything possible not to lose his cool, but it’s a tough inner struggle if the frown on his face is anything to go by. Seeing him so focused on remaining unruffled, I just can’t suppress a childish desire to make him lose his temper. You know, just for fun. I have many boring hours to look forward to with little prospect of alternative entertainment.
Inside my mind I start to develop a strategy: first of all I have to discover his weaknesses. Because even though he appears to have none, the man must be human underneath – he must have other faults apart from being so self-important.
“Tell me something about yourself,” I ask with feigned affability. “When we met, you said that you were American, but you seem to be totally Korean. And you live in Korea as well.”
Mark doesn’t appear to want to make conversation, though. He raises his eyes for a moment from the file he pulled out as soon as the plane started to move. He doesn’t seem too willing to put it down, and in the face of my question grips it even more firmly. Is it a kind of shield? Several moments of silence pass, which he uses to try and find a way of shutting me up. But he’s either short on ideas or has decided to venture into hitherto unexplored territory, because from his mouth come words that I would never have expected to hear.
“I was born in Chicago, where I lived for ten years. Then I moved to Korea with my parents, who have lived just outside Seoul since then. I came back to America to go to university and then I did my master’s there.”
“Where did you study?” I ask curiously. After all, you have to strike while the iron is hot.
“At Yale, and I did my master’s at Harvard,” he replies, without hiding his smugness. Great, a total swot. I should have known. It’s painful to admit it, but I’d gloat just as much if I was in his place, though.
“But then, after graduating, you came back to Korea…” I add, inviting him to continue. There’s still so much he has to tell me, surely he can’t think he’ll get off the hook with so little?
“Not right away, actually. I worked in America for a bit, and then the company asked me to go to Seoul: there aren’t that many American citizens who speak Korean, and they needed my help,” he explains.
“Wow, you’ve moved around a lot. That must have been really interesting,” I reply, genuinely impressed. Utmost respect for those who take these things seriously, even though I’m afraid I don’t fit into the category.
“It’s tiring,” he answers seriously. “It’s not easy being split between two countries.”
My gaze then falls on his hands. Until now I haven’t noticed that he was wearing any rings, but you never know with men.
“And are you married?” I ask. I realize that interrogating him like this might make it look as though I’m giving him the third degree, but really, what else can I do to get someone as buttoned up as him to open up a bit? If he’d just tell me everything of his own accord, I wouldn’t need to be questioning him, would I?
“No,” he replies drily, without saying any more, and then takes refuge behind his file again. I have the vaguest suspicion that I’ve touched a sore spot.
“And have you ever been?” I ask him, quite shamelessly. My tranquillizers must have melted my conversational inhibitions much more than I’d thought.
“No.”
Another curt answer. His tone is a warning. Too bad I was never very good at picking up on them.
“And why not?” I press him, as insistent as a hunting dog that has scented its prey.
He snorts, but lowers the sheaf of papers, and seems to be reflecting on what to say. This time he’s probably really going to invite me to mind my own business.
“And why aren’t you married?” he asks finally, in a voice that’s struggling to sound neutral but clearly hides some irritation.
A very effective defensive tactic – answering a question with another question.
“Because I’m always stuck in the office. Because I have never met a man who managed to convince me to consider spending the rest of my life with him. Because part of me doesn’t actually believe in just living together. And because nobody’s ever asked me,” I say, all in one breath.
Do these tranquillizers contain a truth drug or something?
“But anyway, we weren’t talking about me,” I remind him, smiling mischievously. “Not to mention that I’m five years younger than you and no British girl is thinking about marriage at my age.”
I see from his face that he is amazed. “In England a twenty-eight year old girl is considered of marriageable age. In Korea, she’s a hopeless case,” he answers. I’m speechless – how dare he?! Me, desperate?
Try not to get offended, I repeat to myself. But it’s hard…
“No sarcastic answer?” he asks, looking at me, clearly happy to have shut me up.
“I’m under the influence of narcotics, and apparently they are doing a pretty good job since I can’t quite manage to tell you to naff off,” I reply, after recovering my calm.
“Then maybe I should try this miracle pill myself,” he teases, almost smiling at me. It’s incredible, but when he does there’s a really delightful expression on his face – but it happens so rarely that it’s hard to notice.
“I’m not used to having this kind of relationship with my co-workers,” he says, suddenly changing the subject. “In Korea, professional relationships are much more formal. The hierarchy is very important in Asian countries. You and John were very open and honest with one another, right?” he asks.
“John knew everything about me – I even told him about my love life!” I reply sarcastically, and I notice that he stiffens instantly.
“And do you expect to have the same kind of relationship with me?” he asks, looking visibly worried.
At that point I smile, revealing that I’m teasing him.
“No, I don’t expect that,” I reassure him. “But John and I had a really good relationship, which isn’t that common in the workplace. I won’t pretend that I’m not going to miss him. And I did actually tell him about my boyfriends, but it was only a few isolated cases…”
I suddenly feel saddened by all this talk of my London life, so Mark decides to raise my spirits by picking up our conversation about marriage again.
“Anyway, I never got married because I work too much, I’ve never met a woman it was worth spending the rest of my life with, and no one has ever asked me either,” he concludes with a hint of a smile. I see that our exchange of views amuses him.
“And what do your family think?” I ask him.
“To be honest, they’d love to find me a wife. In Korea, it is traditional for families to organize blind dates for you, and my parents are dying from the desire to interfere in my life,” he admits.
I look at him in bewilderment. “Hang on, you’re saying that your mum finds you your girlfriend or boyfriend?” I ask, my mouth hanging wide open. In my case, my mother has already done enough damage and I’d like to avoid giving her the chance to carry out the coup de grâce. Not that the choices you’ve made yourself have been all that great, says a little voice in my head…
Mark is completely unaware of my thoughts. Luckily.
“At least you know in advance that, if there ever is a wedding, the marriage will be approved of by the family. I mean, it was them who introduced you…” he says.
“Are there really still parts of the world where arranged marriages are in fashion? And after all the battles we women have fought to be able to decide for ourselves?”
“But they’re not arranged marriages! Ok, the introduction is organized by your family, but the interference – if you want to call it that – finishes there. If you like the person, you can keep seeing them in the knowledge that you won’t have to fight to obtain the approval of your family,” he explains, without losing his patience. It is evident that the DNA flowing in his blood is mainly Korean.
“Of course – they chose them…” I point out.
“Who knows, they might have chosen wisely.”
“It wouldn’t work for me, the Western way’s much better: falling in love has to be romantic, not organized, otherwise where’s the fun?” I insist. How on earth could you go out with someone your grandma and mother have chosen for you? I shudder at the idea.
Mark laughs at my total lack of enthusiasm for arranged marriages. “Look, I feel exactly the same way as you do. I was just trying to explain some Korean traditions. I’m afraid I’ve lived too long in America to be able to put up with a certain way of doing things,” he concludes. He could have said so earlier, for a moment I was starting to worry that I was the only sane person around here.
“Your family must be very disappointed in you,” I tease him.
“Yes, they are…” he admits, “although mine isn’t exactly what you’d call a traditional Korean family.”
“Oh really?” I’d rather not appear so curious, but I just can’t help it.
“Yes, my paternal grandmother is American. So my dad is half Korean and half American.”
“It must be fun to come from a mixed race family. Unfortunately, I come from a very ordinary family.”
The only one with any pedigree worth speaking of is the cat.
“Well Korea is the place for you, then – you won’t feel so ordinary there,” he reassures me with a friendly voice. So when he wants to he is able to speak without sounding like a schoolmaster!
This almost pleasant exchange, however, is interrupted by the plane suddenly and abruptly shuddering. I might be sedated, but a hundred pills wouldn’t be enough to keep me calm in this type of turbulence. I stiffen instantly in my seat, clinging to it with growing panic.
“Why’s that, then?” I ask, trying to resume the conversation and well aware that my voice must sound a little shrill, now that the terror has returned with a vengeance. I’m starting to feel quite ill, and my head is spinning.
Mark looks at me worriedly and answers, perhaps to try and distract me.
“Because in Korea there are no blonde women with big green eyes who are nearly six feet tall…”
His voice sounds increasingly distant, I can only just hear it, and as I lose consciousness I can only reflect on his words and the fact that it’s not like him to say things like that – not even on his deathbed.
When I come to, I find that we are still on the plane and still in flight. The cabin is quiet and bathed in a soft light, and when I lean forward I find that most of the passengers are sleeping. At my side even Mark is doing the same: he is sitting in what appears to be a very uncomfortable position, which he must have adopted to try to leave me as much space as possible. The kindness of his gesture brings a smile to my face.
I notice that the hostess has put two pillows behind my head and laid a blanket over my legs. I appreciate the thought, as the air conditioning has become a bit much. Or at least I hope it was the hostess. I don’t want to end up with too many debts of gratitude towards the man sleeping beside me.
The good news is that the plane seems to have emerged from the turbulence, and there are none of the bumps that might trigger one of my panic attacks. I try as best I can to stretch and restore some sensation to my atrophied limbs.
Almost unwittingly my gaze falls again on my future boss. He’s a strange guy, this Mark Kim: he practically always behaves in this very stiff, formal way, because it’s obvious that he’s driven by a powerful sense of duty. He is a man who studied hard and who now works hard. You can see it in his face, and there’s proof of it every time he opens his mouth.
I try to use the time to observe his face. He has full lips, combined with the type of smooth, glowing skin that all women dream of having and that I personally consider absolutely wasted on a man. Especially one like him.
He said that his grandmother isn’t Korean – so maybe that’s why his eyes are almond shaped but large and expressive too. He has a straight, not very small nose, which makes him look determined. His eyelashes are long and very black. A cowlick falls on his face. I wonder why he wears his hair so long.
Trying to assume a more comfortable position, I end up bumping into his seat so much that not long afterwards he opens his eyes. Despite being half asleep, he still looks perfect – I, on the other hand, certainly look more than a little dishevelled.
“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I whisper so as not to disturb other sleeping passengers.
“No problem,” he replies in a whisper. He sits up in his seat and asks me “How are you feeling now?”
“As good as new. Unfortunately, I often get panic attacks like this when I fly. Maybe I should change tablets.”
“Yeah, that way you’ll be a zombie when you get to Seoul. Don’t even think about doing anything crazy while you’re in Korea. I’m responsible for you, and I absolutely don’t want to have you on my conscience,” he tells me, now that he is fully awake.
“Oh, rubbish – I’m responsible for myself, and no one has to look after me,” I answer crossly. No one’s ever taken care of me during all these years of professional independence, so I hope he’s not thinking of starting now?
“I’ll always feel guilty for dragging you away from your beloved homeland, so no funny business,” he says with a vaguely menacing undertone.
“Look, equal rights for women have been around for centuries now. I’m sure you wouldn’t be feeling so protective if it were a man sitting next to you,” I say sharply.
I’m not compromising on these issues – at the end of the day, I am my mother’s daughter, after all. All that brainwashing of hers must have had some effect on me.
“Maybe,” he admits, “but you’re a woman and I guess we’ll never know how things would have gone if you’d been a man.”
Neither of us seems willing to back down on the matter.
“Listen, you don’t need to give me special treatment just because I’m a woman,” I say firmly. “Behave just as you would with any of your male colleagues.”
He laughs. In fact, he laughs at me.
“So does that mean that when we get there you’ll handle your three suitcases by yourself?” he asks, emphasising the number.
“I can manage them perfectly well!” I reply in the same tone, attempting to mask a certain hesitation. If my father hadn’t undertaken to haul them all the way to the airport for me, I’d have collapsed after the first few steps. This morning, I could barely even lift one of them. They must weigh tons.
And he knows it. Oh yes, he knows it alright. He gives me a look and says no more, but is unable to hide a smile of derision.
“Ok. I’ll admit that I might need some help with the bags, but no more than any other colleague who is moving lock, stock and barrel to another continent.” It’s better to just admit it, because I’ll never manage to carry those suitcases, and something tells me that Mark would be quite willing to let me be crushed to death under their bloody weight.
Hearing this only makes his grin spread even further across his face.
“But that doesn’t mean anything. We London girls are used to looking after ourselves,” I feel compelled to point out. This is a fight that I’m not going to lose.
I see that I haven’t managed to convince him, though – there’s still a challenging gleam in his eyes. And if he doesn’t answer me directly it’s only because he knows that he’d just be wasting his breath.
All these years of women fighting for equality and then along comes this gentleman who thinks I need a nanny…
“Look, I’ve even been to self-defence classes,” I say determinedly and sounding not a little petulant.
He looks at me doubtfully. His refusal to talk is driving me crazy.
“What is it?” I ask angrily, trying to provoke some reaction.
“I’ll have you on the mat whenever I want,” he says sharply, after a moment of reflection. “Like most Koreans who practice taekwondo. It is the national sport.”
Who the hell does this windbag think he’s dealing with? “Well, that just means that I’ll sign up for a course of tae… won… dee, then!”
Ok, I don’t even know how to pronounce it, but it doesn’t matter. These sports are all the same: give your opponent a good old fashioned kick and Bob’s your uncle.
Mark is looking at me as if to say ‘try it and we’ll see’.
“It’s called taekwondo, and I would be happy to find you a gym that holds courses near to the office, if you like…”
His tone expresses all his doubts unequivocally. It’s obvious that he doesn’t think I’ll go through with it. Well, he’ll see who he’s dealing with!
*
The food on the plane is as poor as always, but at least it’s free. He just nibbles at his while I guzzle down everything. With the tip of his plastic fork he continues to shift those poor potatoes from one side of the tray to the other without ever actually deciding to eat one. God, they’re only potatoes, not bloody rat poison!
“Do you mind if I eat yours too, seeing as you obviously don’t want it?” I ask, pointing to his still half full tray. Yes, I know, it’s not good manners, but stress always makes me absolutely ravenous.
“Please, go ahead,” he says, looking at me curiously and passing me his tray. “But how do you manage to stay so thin if you always eat so much?” he asks impertinently.
I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or an insult. Not to mention that counting today he’s only seen me eat twice, the other time being at the Italian restaurant. Not exactly a reliable sample size to get a statistic from. Ok, maybe I did go a bit over the top with the pasta, but the events of the day called for a plate of exceptional proportions. Does he really think that only men are allowed to eat large portions or something? The mountain of carbohydrates I ate that day literally saved me from utter despair over having to move to bloody Korea.
In any case, didn’t his mother ever teach him that there are some things that you just don’t say to girls? And if he thinks he’s going to make me stop eating, he can bloody well think again – it would take a lot more than that to put a dent in my appetite.
“I have to feed myself up as much as possible, seeing as I’m staring at months of not eating anything decent in the face,” I tell him as I stick my fork into his piece of cheese. It doesn’t taste particularly good, but it is certainly better than what awaits me in the foreign land we’re headed for.
He smiles as though he has been illuminated by a realisation.
“I get it! You’re afraid of dying of hunger in Korea!” he exclaims, sounding amused.
And perhaps he’d also like to convince me that I’m worrying about nothing, hmm? If he only knew what Asian cuisine means for someone like me, who is miserable and hungry…
“A friend of mine told me about some fermented cabbage thing…” I mumble between mouthfuls of potatoes.
Mark looks at me for a moment, then bursts out laughing. It’s such spontaneous laughter that it leaves me speechless. He tries to stop himself, but he just isn’t able to.
“What’s so funny?” I ask petulantly after he’s finished laughing like a drain. “I just don’t like exotic cuisine – I’m not even mad about Japanese or Chinese food,” I explain. Unlike practically all other Londoners, I don’t even really know how to use a pair of chopsticks. I belong to that very small category of people who always ask for a fork, causing the waiter to raise his eyes to the heavens in despair.
It takes Mark quite a while to get back to being his serious self, and it’s obviously quite a struggle for him.
“I won’t tell you anything at all about Korean cooking, then. Let’s just say it will be a surprise,” he announces in an amused and enigmatic tone. He ought to pay me for all the amusement I seem to be providing him with.
All anybody does is promise me, or rather threaten me with, all these amazing new things I’m going to discover. But who decided that change is always for the better? As far as I’m concerned, change usually means the worst kind of misfortunes.
I sigh, trying to digest everything that’s happening to me while I aim to figure out for the thousandth time how on earth I’ve ended up on a direct flight to Korea. I had quite different plans for my life.
This is the fault of my bloody mother, who has always given me a hard time about all my relationships and has always insisted that I concentrate on my career. It’s all so unfair! Someone like Jane would have been brilliant at going to the other side of the planet, but not me.
The problem is that there’s never been anything I really wanted to do, and so, not knowing what I did want to do, I ended up following the route that others pointed out for me. I still don’t know if I actually enjoy my current job – I don’t know if I’d like to do something else and I don’t even know if I would be happier staying at home with a family to look after. I’m marooned in my uncertainties because, at the end of the day, I’m comfortable with things the way they are. If something goes wrong I can always dump the blame for it on somebody else, because after all, I was doing something that I’d never really totally invested myself in from day one. Maybe Jane is right when she says that I need a short, sharp shock. That I need some kind of earthquake in my life. Though maybe I’d be better off waiting until we get back down on the ground before going through any more turbulence…
I sit there pondering silently for the rest of the journey. Fortunately the remaining hours fly by quickly and without incident. When it’s time to land, I close my eyes and concentrate on my breathing, gripping my seat’s armrests. If I’m traveling with someone else, I tend to crush the hand of my unfortunate friend, but I have the impression that Mark wouldn’t be particularly overjoyed to sacrifice his mitt.
Once we’ve disembarked from the plane, we head off to retrieve our luggage. It’s terribly annoying to admit it, but that prissy young gentleman was right: for the first time ever I actually do feel as though I really stand out: I’m the only blonde in the middle of this ocean of people. Mark and I also stand out because of our height; even without heels, I’m much taller than most of the local men and women. I see some heads turning in our direction to get a better look at us – together we arouse some curiosity. It’s a feeling that’s entirely new, but not entirely unpleasant.
Apart from the faces, it feels pretty much like being in London: people rushing about all over the shop, teenagers dressed exactly like the ones back in England. It’s a good job I brought my All Stars, I see they’re all the rage here.
These little details reassure me. Maybe I do stand a change of being accepted by this new and completely unknown country. Maybe I’ll find a way not to feel like a fish out of water.
The signs bearing directions that tower above my head are written in both Korean and English, so getting about won’t be too complicated, as long as it’s the same when we get to the city.
Once we’ve got the paperwork out of the way, we hurry over to collect our bags. The very idea of it is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat, but in any case, I get one of those handy little luggage trolleys and start preparing myself psychologically for the task ahead. I really hope that my body can handle it, because I have every intention of showing Mr Kim what female independence actually means. I’m certainly not just going to stand there and wait for some nice gentleman to come and save me like a good little girl!
The conveyor belt – squeaky in every airport in the world except, apparently, Korea – starts moving at exactly the time indicated on the screen. After some unknown luggage, my first enormous bag appears in the distance. Taking a very deep breath, I leap to the offensive: with all the strength that I can muster, I manage to lift it from the carousel… but by God, it’s heavy! With a final swing of my hips I manage to get it into the air and swing it round, but I’m so wrapped up in my efforts that I don’t notice Mark, who has materialized at my side as if by magic, probably to give me a hand. The denouement is tragic: I lose control of my suitcase of mass destruction and end up dumping the enormous bag onto his left foot. The thud that follows doesn’t bode well.
A cry of both pain and amazement emerges immediately from Mark’s mouth. He opens his eyes wide and gives me a look of pure hatred.
Oops… Why do I never get anything right?
Once he’s checked that I haven’t actually managed to break his leg, a very disgruntled looking Mark stalks away from the baggage claim area, and my repeated apologies have no effect on his decision to abandon me to my fate. I’m almost tempted to beg him to come back, but his angry stride takes him through the sliding doors before I’m able to humiliate myself any further. Since I’m now alone, I have no choice other than to recover the other two suitcases by myself, and then head off towards the exit. I just hope he hasn’t left me here alone.
While waiting for me to emerge, Mark has had time to recover from his anger and, as impassive as ever, stands there waiting for me.
“The company has sent a car to pick us up,” he snaps, staring straight ahead.
Ok, maybe hoping that he had already forgotten everything was a bit optimistic. Men are all the same, they’ve got memories like elephants, always. You’d think I’d done it on purpose…
In any case, the news of the company car immediately fills me with optimism. And indeed a funny little man materializes beside us at the speed of light, gesturing to a large dark car parked a few metres ahead. Never ceasing to bow, he comes up and starts talking to Mark, who returns his bow, communicating what is probably some set of weird instructions.
It’s strange to witness a conversation from which you are totally cut off. It suddenly reveals your limits.
In any case, in a matter of seconds my bags are placed in the large car’s spacious boot. Talk about a fast and efficient worker.
Mark then holds out his own luggage, which is of much more limited dimensions, to the man, opens the rear door and prepares to climb inside.
“Are you staying here?” he asks sarcastically.
I don’t wait to be asked twice. With feline grace, I leap over to the other door, pull it open and jump inside the car. The driver climbs into his seat and sets off without waiting for any further instructions from us.
Meanwhile, the evening sun has started to set and the lights of the city are growing closer and closer. We drive alongside what appears to be a fairly wide river. I’m curious, and seeing as Mark does not seem eager to converse after the little incident earlier, I ask our driver for information.
“What’s the river called?” I ask in English, leaning forward and shouting the words. I’m hoping that he’s not totally unfamiliar with my language.
“That’s the Han River, which runs through Seoul,” the little man explains to me proudly, “it’s a good kilometre wide. Our city isn’t just full of skyscrapers, there are also a lot of parks, if you are interested in jogging to keep your marvellous figure,” he says affably. His accent is bad, but at least he’s friendly.
Hearing the man’s words, Mark looks at me sceptically. What is he implying with his doubtful expression?
“Thanks! I think I will take the opportunity to do a bit of healthy jogging, then,” I reply, taking the higher moral ground. Think whatever you want. In fact I’ve never run a single minute in my whole life, but it’s never too late to start! A new city, a new life, healthy habits. It might be a way to finally turn over a new leaf.
I still have my nose glued to the window when the car stops in front of a brand new building about fifteen stories tall. Without saying a word, Mark gets out, so, not knowing what else to do, I get out too.
The funny little man has already got to work and is quietly unloading our suitcases.
“Shall I help the young lady?” he asks. It is obvious that the question should have been addressed to me rather than mister adorable: and the answer would have been different.
“Don’t worry, just leave the suitcases in front of the elevator, we’ll do the rest. The lady gets offended if anyone tries to help her. Thank you so much.”
What a bastard!
The man does as he’s asked, bows again, says goodbye and gets back into the car. If he found Mark’s comments out of line, he certainly didn’t show it.
I follow my future boss, who walks into the building without waiting for me – and for fear of losing him, I even break into a trot. The atrium light blinds me as soon as I set foot inside. Never mind an entrance hall, this looks like an operating room with a pale marble polished floor and bizarre modern lamps hanging from the ceiling. Mark is waiting for the elevator to arrive.
I walk over and decide it’s time to find out more about my accommodation. “So, is this where I’m going to be living?” I ask him fearfully. He turns and looks at me blankly.
“This is where we are going to be living,” he corrects me. Still in that irritable tone of voice. I’m afraid that I have just learned the hard way that Mr Kim is not a man who forgives easily. I swear I didn’t mean to drop my suitcase on his foot, it was just an unfortunate accident. But I doubt very much he would believe that.
His statement about us living together sends a jolt of terror through me that I can’t entirely suppress. I try, but not very successfully.
“Each of us in our own apartment,” he adds, noticing my dismay. Well he might have said so right away instead of scaring me like that!
The doors open revealing an ultramodern and very spacious lift. When we get to the sixth floor, Mark strides out confidently. I drag out all my suitcases, one by one.
He approaches a grey door marked 6b, fiddles around with the lock and beckons me to follow him. Since it’s highly unlikely that anybody is going to steal my bags, I decide to leave them on the landing so as not to lose sight of Mark, and together we walk into a small apartment with a lovely marble hall.
“Koreans are in the habit of taking off their shoes so as not to get the house dirty. You ought to get some slippers for guests. It is essential for socialising: if you want to invite people in, remember that Koreans cannot survive without slippers. People expect to change their shoes as soon as they come into the house,” Mark explains. What a strange custom!
“But since it is my home I suppose I can also choose not to force people to take off their shoes…” I say.
I’m instantly given an incinerating glare. And we’re only talking about bloody slippers…
“You can choose to do whatever you like – but if you don’t want people to feel uncomfortable then I think it would be wise to adapt to local customs,” he warns.
For tonight I’d better not create any additional tension. After all, what are a pair of slippers next to the prospect of a little peace and quiet? And Mark looks like someone who’s spoiling for a fight.
My new apartment seems small, but a quick walk through it is enough to show me that it has all the necessary amenities: a small living room with a couch, a kitchen area with a tiny table, and, at the end, the master bedroom with en-suite bathroom. Luckily for me it seems that the Koreans have taken to using the Western kind of bed.
“So you don’t sleep on the floor, then…” I say jokingly.
“Not any more,” replies Mark, sounding like he almost thinks that it would be worth re-introducing the custom just for me, though.
A wave of tiredness comes over me suddenly, as the fatigue of the journey and change of time zone gain the upper hand. Even Mark must have noticed, because he walks towards the door.
“I’ll let you unpack and rest. I live just opposite, apartment 6a – if you have any emergencies, you know where to find me,” he tells me as he leaves.
A flash of panic. “What about the keys?” I exclaim, scrutinizing the mysterious lock that stands before me. There doesn’t seem to be anywhere to put a key.
“Oh yeah…” he mutters. “Electronic lock: enter the combination, and that’s it. Six digits, and the initial combination is always one, two, three, four, five, six. But it would be a good idea to change it. There are instructions on how to inside the house.”
I enter the combination and like magic the door opens in front of me. Why the Koreans have decided to do without keys remains a mystery to me, but not one that I consider it absolutely essential to crack this very minute. My exhaustion has now reached epic levels.
“Well, thank you for everything,” I say coldly. Though I’m not entirely sure how grateful I am for having been dragged to this place.
“Tomorrow is Sunday, so you’ll have time to sleep off the jet lag. See you.”
I watch him walk away, type in his own mysterious combination and enter his apartment.
Great – living so close together means he’ll be able to keep an eye on me, I reflect with dismay. It’s almost like living next door to your parents, or perhaps, in the case of Mark, it’s actually even worse. It’s like having an authoritarian father who imposes strict schedules and stands waiting at the door to tell you off if you’re a minute later than you should be.
I have just enough strength left to pull my toothbrush and my nightgown out of my suitcase. Better to sleep on it, as one of my favourite heroines would say – tomorrow is another day.