Opening your eyes and not having the faintest idea of where you are is not, in my opinion, the ideal way to start the day. It takes me at least five minutes to remember everything that’s happened in the previous hours, where I am and what I’m doing in this completely unknown bedroom. Change always makes me panic, so it’s no wonder that waking up like this scares me. My heart only goes back to beating at a normal pace after a series of long, deep breaths.
In London, the first thing I did after waking up was drink a couple of litres of coffee. Here in Seoul I’m not even really sure that there’ll be any food to find in my new home.
I gather my strength and drag myself over to the small refrigerator in the kitchen that I saw last night. Before opening it, though, I rummage through the kitchen cupboards: if only there was some caffeine hidden somewhere… Whatever happens, I’ve decided that today I will do my best to be brave and will settle for whatever I can get.
My investigation doesn’t produce the expected results, though. The refrigerator is actually filled with water and juices, but there is no trace in the cupboards of milk or coffee. My mother has very distant French ancestry (for her, having a half French great-grandmother means being half French) and at home we’ve always drunk excellent coffee – if I remember, I think that it was the Italians who invented real coffee, but you try telling my mother that she’s wrong about something of which she is convinced.
My need for coffee is strong enough to spur me to action, so I pull out of my open suitcase a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt, put my old blue All Stars and get ready to go out, desperate for a proper European breakfast. It’s not an ideal situation: I don’t know the area, I still have to change my pounds into the local currency of won, and today is Sunday. Hmm, I’d better take my credit cards too. Provided I don’t get lost first, I should have no problems with those.
A fleeting glance at my watch, set on the plane to the local time zone, tells me that it’s nine o’clock in the morning. For a moment I am almost tempted to ring Mark’s bell and ask him. He doesn’t look like the type to waste time sleeping, even when he’s on holiday, and at this time of day he’s likely to have been up for a while. Or I might just summon up all my courage and go out alone to explore this gigantic city of ten million inhabitants – but what if I get lost and end up in a neighbourhood where no one speaks English?
Still torn by doubt, I leave the apartment and walk over to the grey door marked 6a. To ring or not to ring? What a dilemma…
Although Mark is the only person I know in this bloody place, he’s so rude that I’m afraid to get the day off to a bad start by knocking on his door. It’s one thing to be forced to work with him, quite another to choose to have him standing there right in front of my eyes. I’d probably have more luck if I started ringing random doorbells in the building. But then, turning round to look at the landing, I realize that apart from our two apartments there are no others. Well, how’s that for bad luck?
I am still absorbed in my thoughts and have not decided whether to ring or not when Mark’s voice suddenly makes me jump with fright. I turn round guiltily and find him standing on the stairs behind me.
“Good morning, Maddison, do you need anything?”
His stern, very formal voice sends a shiver through me. And not one of pleasure. The decision not to knock on his door would clearly have been the right one. Good to know, for next time.
Wow! Mark is dressed for jogging and is still red in the face from the exertion. It unnerves me to see him looking so perfect and without a hair out of place at this time of the morning. This ‘born ready’ thing of his really gets on my nerves, especially because it reminds me that I never am.
“Good morning,” I mumble in embarrassment. I feel like a thief who has been caught in the act.
“Did you need something?” he asks in that superior tone that I already know very well, with the addition of a pinch of undisguised forbearance that suits him perfectly.
“Actually I wanted to ask where I can find a place to have a good western breakfast. I’m suffering from coffee withdrawal,” I reply, trying to justify my presence.
He comes to the door and I move aside to let him pass. “I can’t think of anywhere. Seoul is full of coffee houses, but they all open around noon,” he answers, whilst gesturing with his hand for me to get out of the way so he can open the door. What’s he scared of, that I’m going to see his combination?
Theatrically, Mark is still waiting for a moment before giving me the coup de grâce. “Koreans eat savoury food for breakfast – rice and kimchi, usually. I thought you would have found that out for yourself…”
I know that anyone else in my position would have done everything possible to find out all there was to know about the country they were being transferred to, but the truth is that I was afraid – in a total blue funk about finding out things that might have demotivated me even more. And apparently, I wasn’t far from the mark.
“Ah…” slips from my lips. That’s it, the KO. Game, set and match to Mark Kim – who likes to win easy. And there’s that bloody fermented cabbage again!
Even Mr Cheerful here, when he finally decides to raise his eyes to look at me, seems shocked to see how crestfallen I am. I see him contemplating what to do.
“Come on – I drink coffee too and I know what it means not to be able to get your hands on any,” he says finally, inviting me into his apartment – his Bluebeard’s cave. “I’ll make a sacrifice and share my daily ration of caffeine with you.”
I get the feeling that he’s trying to crack a joke, but I wouldn’t bet on it.
Anyway, given how hard he obviously found it to invite me in, it would be really rude to refuse, so without waiting for him to ask twice I go inside. I’m curious, I’ll admit.
The first thing I notice is that his apartment is at least twice the size of mine, with an imposing and well equipped kitchen. It has a shiny glass table that could seat ten people perfectly comfortably, although I imagine he has never actually invited anyone in, so as to avoid guests leaving footprints on the floor. It is all so perfect that I doubt it has ever been touched by a human being. The picture is rounded off by a sofa in very light beige, all in very good taste, which must have cost him a small fortune. Unless the company paid… It’s one of those sofas upon which you’d never dream of having dinner while watching television – you’d be so scared of ruining it that you’d end up sitting on the floor.
I’ve always thought that decor says a lot about a person, and this apartment only confirms my suspicions about its tenant, in the event of further proof being necessary.
Mark pulls out two white cups from a cupboard, hands me a giant jar of Nescafe extra strong and points to the kettle.
“Koreans drink a very questionable type of coffee. I call it brown water. That’s why instant seems wiser: it’s not the greatest, but at least the concentration of caffeine is authentic. Listen, I need to take a shower after my run, do you think you can make the coffee in the meantime?” he asks.
Good God, who does he think he’s dealing with?! It’s only instant coffee!
“Sure. Go ahead,” I say quietly. How hard can it be to boil water?
He thinks for a second, then leaves silently. So all I have to do now is work out how to operate the kettle, which at first glance doesn’t look particularly intuitive. Too many buttons for a contraption that in theory is only supposed to do one thing.
My personal war against certain infernal so-called ‘hi-tech’ gadgets has been going on for some time, and my past battles haven’t had encouraging results. If it didn’t mean having to justify myself to Mark, I think I’d probably start looking for a normal pan to put on the hob. But in this kitchen there is no hob – there’s a range straight out of a James Bond movie. I should have guessed: even more buttons, even more strange symbols. Now that I think about it, the kettle actually looks easier to operate…
After a good five minutes pressing all the buttons either individually or in dangerous combinations, the light finally comes on! The noise reassures me that the machine is starting to heat the water, and fortunately it’s extremely fast: I’m just victoriously filling the two cups with steaming liquid when Mark returns.
He’s either very fast at showering or, more probably, does not trust me and had his shower at turbo speed out of fear that I might burn his house down. Typical male behaviour.
He’s wearing a pair of faded jeans that fit perfectly and a blue shirt with the collar turned up. Vanity or just natural elegance? Seeing him walking about barefoot makes the scene look almost homely.
Mark is still holding his towel, using it to dab at the unruly hair which falls across his forehead. As he comes closer I get a waft of a lovely male shower foam.
“I’ll tell you where you can get instant coffee that’s worthy of the name. But you’ll have to do without fresh milk: it’s hard to get because we don’t use it much here. But there is powdered milk. Pretty atrocious, if you ask me,” he informs me, leaning on the kitchen counter.
“I have trouble digesting regular milk, I usually drink lactose-free. Do you think there’s any chance of getting any?”
Mark looks at me incredulously. “I think I can categorically exclude that.”
From a shelf he pulls out a small sugar bowl that reminds me of my mother’s Chinese one. It looks old and not an object that someone like him would choose. Almost out of place with everything else. Then he opens another cupboard and a giant pack of melba toast and a jar of blackberry jam appear. “No butter, of course. Where there’s no milk, there’s no butter. Not to mention that it would be terrible for your figure,” he adds.
I must have gradually got used to him and to his digs because I’m not particularly surprised by this statement. After all, it’s just the latest in a long line of them.
The smell of the coffee is so good that it makes me feel as though I can put up with anything – even his unkind statements about my figure. Which, incidentally, is very good. My secret is to alternate periods of ongoing diets with periods of stuffing my face. Exactly what every doctor who knows his stuff would recommend. Who has the perseverance to eat healthily all the time, come on?
And so, standing in his kitchen, we eat the melba toast and enjoy the coffee in silence, each lost in our own thoughts and too embarrassed to make small talk.
“Do you go jogging?” he asks suddenly.
If he’s trying to find common ground, he’s made a big mistake: The only sport I like is the one I watch on TV. More precisely, I like the princess costumes the skaters wear.
“No, I don’t like running for the sake of it,” I tell him.
“So what do you like then?” he asks, looking at me doubtfully.
“In the morning, sleeping in,” I say, in confirmation of his suspicion. It is clear that he had expected a similar response. His smirk is living proof of it. “But sometimes I might go running. If it’s not too cold… or… or too hot… And if it’s not raining. In short, if the conditions are… are optimal,” I stammer. I don’t know what other rubbish to make up, but at the sight of his disapproving expression I just can’t keep my mouth shut.
Mark looks at me sceptically. “All right, I’ll knock on your door when the weather conditions are ‘optimal’. You might be lucky, September’s the ideal month for people who like jogging.”
It sounds like a threat.
Let him just try to get me out of bed – I’m known for my foul mood when I’m woken up too early.
“Why not, after all it can’t hurt me, can it?” I answer with a smile that says he can forget making me go running.
Desperate to change the subject, I turn to rinse my cup, but with a firm grip he blocks my hand before I can turn on the water. “Leave it, there’s a dishwasher. I’ll put everything in there.”
We stand there frozen in that position for just a moment too long: me clutching my cup, he in turn holding my wrist. I swallow, trying to look away from his hand.
“A dishwasher for someone who lives alone? What a waste of water and energy,” I tease him in the hope of breaking the strange atmosphere.
My plan proves successful because Mark lets go instantly.
“Actually, it’s been proven that you waste a lot more water when you wash the dishes the old fashioned way. There’s nothing worse than letting the water run in the sink.”
Apparently he always has to have the last word, not to mention that he seems to think he’s some kind of ultimate bearer of all truths, from economics to environmental engineering. I’m almost tempted to reply in kind when I remember that:
a) he did offer me coffee and melba toast
b) from tomorrow he will be my boss and there is no need to further worsen relations, which are already pretty tense.
I therefore place the cup on the side and watch him put it inside his super hi-tech dishwasher. It would take me a month just to turn the bloody thing on.
“Thank you for breakfast. Can I ask you one last favour? Can you tell me how to get to the nearest supermarket?”
Mark gives me the necessary information, but in the end he asks, “Do you want me to take you there?”
It’s obvious that he’s not over the moon about the idea, but feels compelled to ask.
“Thanks, but there’s no need,” I answer quickly. No way am I going to the supermarket with him – I’m sure he’d disapprove of all my purchases!
He immediately gets the message, pulls his head back between his shoulders and replies, “Ok, then.”
Wow, talk about persistence…
“Thank you for breakfast,” I repeat as I begin my escape.
“It was the least I could do, given the circumstances,” he feels compelled to say, as though justifying having provided me with coffee. Clearly, he doesn’t want me getting too used to his ‘kindness’.
Before the situation can become even more embarrassing I escape across the hall and take refuge inside my small apartment.
The morning flies by and I spend it busily unpacking: the main problem is that I have too many clothes and too few closets, and I’m scared that stuffing everything that I dragged from England into them is really going to be a big job. After about two hours of hard work I decided to throw in the towel. It’s time to leave the apartment: sooner or later I have to face the city.
Will our heroine will be able to complete today’s mission of going shopping, I wonder?
Once outside, the weather surprises me: the air is warm but not humid and the timid sunshine immediately puts me in a good mood. I still remember Mark’s description of the place: Seoul is a huge conurbation that houses ten million people in its urban area alone and is divided into twenty-five vast districts called gu. In turn, the gu are divided into more than five hundred districts called dong, divided into numerous tong and even more countless ban. I have just realized that Koreans love to do everything in little pieces, and are completely devoid of imagination: in fact, even the name Seoul derives from archaic Korean and means ‘capital’.
To complicate my life, they’ve seen fit to house me in the district with the most unpronounceable name of all: Yeongdeungpogu. I’ve got it written down on a piece of paper that I must never lose – I don’t want to run the risk of not being able to get home. Our dong is called Mullae, and we are right on the border with the dong of Yeouido. According to Mark, this wonderful neighbourhood is considered the financial heart of the city – it’s near the river and has a large city park within walking distance. What more could you want more from life? Well, a Starbucks wouldn’t be bad, for a start.
*
I walk calmly along the streets, which are almost deserted, probably because it’s Sunday. Everybody I encounter turns to look at me: I suppose being a blonde girl might be an attraction in this city. A bit like being a B-list celebrity.
The Korean girls I see are lovely – tiny and slim, with their hair shiny and black, or just slightly lightened. However, I don’t find the boys particularly attractive: they’re a bit short and skinny for my taste. As I watch the people pass by I realize that Mark must feel like a fish out of water in this city.
I manage to reach the supermarket safely and am confident that I know how to make my way back. Full of new-found energy, I grab a bright green basket and set off to explore the maze of shelves in front of me. After trawling up and down the aisles for a bit, I find my longed for extra strong instant coffee and decide to buy some biscuits, honey and apricot jam, too.
With these stockpiled, I should be able to survive for a while without being obliged to beg Mark for anything.
With my anxiety finally gone, I start to look around at the thousand oddities in the supermarket: tofu in all its possible forms (incidentally, I hate tofu, which has no taste but still manages to stink), some strange meat that I can barely recognize and a whole shelf of what I guess is kimchi, cooked in every possible way and with all kinds of weird things in it. I pick a jar at random and try to work out the list of ingredients, but of course it’s all in Korean. I am undecided whether to try this fearsome national dish or simply declare defeat from the outset. I’m not averse to new foods per se, but this red jar is not at all inviting. It’s really time that I ran some risks, though, despite being famous for not doing! That has to change eventually, right? Which means that this is a good occasion for it – the kimchi will be a rite of passage: it will be a kind of link between my past life and the future.
I feel very proud of myself when I put the doubtful-looking jar into my basket along with all my other purchases. The queue at the till is short but interesting, and, as usual, all eyes are focused on me. The lady in front of me, who might be about the same age as my grandmother, looks at me and smiles without hiding her curiosity. Not knowing what else to do, I reciprocate the smile.
When my turn finally comes, I can finally stop smiling like an idiot. I empty out my basket and watch the clerk scan my precious purchases one by one. When she’s done, a rather high figure lights up the till display. For a moment I panic, but then I remember the absurd exchange rate in this country. At the sight of my slight hesitation, the cashier decides to say something – in Korean, of course. Not only do I not understand it, I don’t even have the faintest idea of how much I am spending, so without further ado, I hopefully offer her my credit card.
The girl turns it over in her hands, inserts it into the machine, then gives it back to me with an uncomfortable expression. “No chip,” she says sadly, indicating that it doesn’t work in her machine.
“Magnetic strip?” I suggest, pointing to the black stripe on the back of my credit card.
“It does not work…” she responds, mildly resentfully, in basic English. “De-magnetized.”
What now? It is true that in England all the cards now have the chip and the magnetic stripes have been dead for years, but how on earth can a country that should be absolutely at the cutting edge not have a bloody microchip reader? Yes, I might have de-magnetized my card, but who hasn’t done that?
“Cash?” I say to the cashier, pulling out British banknotes from my wallet. The polite smile of a moment before dies upon her lips.
I have the impression that we have reached a stalemate. The queue behind me starts to rumble politely. While I’m trying to evaporate in embarrassment, two ladies behind me seem to be comparing notes on how to find a solution to my dilemma.
Thank God I didn’t let Mark come with me! If he’d witnessed the scene I would have definitely had to put up with at least a couple of hours’ worth of being lectured about it.
As though mysteriously summoned, the imposing figure of my boss unexpectedly materializes at the crime scene. What the hell is he doing here?
Without batting an eyelid, and as though invested with a divine mission, he makes his way through the people to reach the checkout. I stand there watching while he discusses my situation with the cashier. After managing to get a laugh from the girl, he hands her his credit card with chip and brand new magnetic stripe, so polished that it practically shines. Either he only got it the day before yesterday or he never buys anything.
“Are you trying to rob the supermarket, Maddison?” he asks sarcastically, finally deciding to talk to me while we’re waiting for the transaction to go through. Once my shopping has been paid for he does the same with his own, careful to humbly apologize to the queue behind us.
Ok, maybe I should have accepted his help this morning and not ventured out alone in a strange city, but that smarmy little professor expression that appears on his face every time he looks at me had prevailed over my rationality.
“No, I was just trying to learn how to take care of myself. Tomorrow I’ll change some money and pay you back what I owe you,” I say. “Thanks for your help.”
Meanwhile the cashier returns his card and gives him a receipt without ceasing to smile. She looks enchanted.
Hoping to break the spell and sneak out, I pick up my bags, determined not to allow him to help me with them. He’s done enough for today.
Mark – who, to be fair, has made no sign of offering to help me carry the bags – picks up his own and follows me out.
“Tell me, were you following me?” I ask him suddenly, thinking about how unlikely his appearance was.
“God, Maddison, this is a supermarket and I was just doing the shopping! Which, thanks to helping you, I didn’t manage to finish… I heard a lady talking about a blonde girl at the checkout, and I immediately realized she must be talking about you,” he replies with a chuckle. But I don’t fall for it: it is obvious that he was following me.
“Now do you understand why I didn’t want to let you go out alone on your first day? Will you admit that I was right?”
He seems to have been born to tell people off – he should make a career out of it.
“You weren’t right, I just happened to be very unlucky. And anyway, I’d have managed even if you hadn’t turned up!” I retort. I don’t know how, but somehow I would have.
“Sure – you’d have come home empty handed and tomorrow you’d have scrounged breakfast again,” he responds, equally sharply.
“Rather than have breakfast with you twice in a row, I’d stay at home all morning nursing an empty stomach,” I answer, lifting my chin.
“Maybe, but that’s not what happened this morning…” He looks almost amused, happy to be able to find fault with me.
“Listen, this morning I didn’t even know where I was! Have a bit of pity for someone who isn’t used to jet lag. I know that to you citizens of the world it might seem strange, but some of us just aren’t used to travelling…” I mumble.
At the sight of my discontent Mark breaks out in a cheeky grin. I’m not entirely sure I want to know what’s on his mind right now, so I try to change the subject.
“Anyway, aren’t you ashamed of taking advantage of the girls you meet?” I ask him.
“What do you mean?” he asks, pretending not to understand.
“I mean, appearing, jumping the queue to help me, batting your eyelids and making the poor girl on the till fall at your feet. You did it at the airport too.”
I see him laughing. “Well you do it with men as well,” he points out.
“I absolutely do not.” I don’t need to resort to certain tricks, I have no idea what he’s trying to insinuate.
“You mean you really don’t realize that you do it? That you don’t just bat your eyelids, that you even flip your hair and cross your legs?”
I look puzzled. Unless he’s just entirely making it up, I don’t think I had ever realized, no.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” says Mark, “it’s perfectly normal to use your appearance to cut through red tape. You women have been doing it for centuries, are you saying that in the name of equality men shouldn’t?”
“Look, you can do whatever you want, just be honest about it.”
In the meantime, we’ve reached our apartments. I’m about to cross the threshold of mine when Mark stops me.
“I’ll see you here tomorrow morning at seven thirty. I prefer to get to the office early.”
Not that it surprises me. I feel like answering that I like my sleep, but I suspect that I’ve expressed the amount of opinions I’m allowed to in one day, so my only answer is a disconsolate nod.
Just to avoid being late, this morning my alarm clock started screeching at six o’clock. I had a refreshing shower, inaugurated my new ritual of having a Korean breakfast and tried somehow to sort out my hair until the sight of the not-so-great result made me decide to leave it loose. As for clothes, I chose something classic for my first day of work: a black suit with a fitted jacket and beautiful snow-white shirt, black high heels and a pair of elegant pearl earrings. Criticism-proof.
I check myself out in the mirror for the thousandth time: I look very professional, I’m almost satisfied.
In reality, I’m terrified – my hands are sweating and my stomach aches. It feels like I’m back at school. In fact now I’ll have to not only work for Mark, who won’t miss a trick, but I’ll also be responsible for managing three people. My own team.
That was a surprise that I only found out about when we boarded the plane. John had wisely avoided telling me while there was still time for me to do a runner. Mark told me about it between one bout of nausea and the next.
Any other person would be jumping for joy in my place, but not me. I don’t think I’m up to the job, I don’t feel prepared to lead a group of people. Let’s be frank, I find it pretty bloody hard even to lead myself, not to mention that I have always been part of a team and have always made sure that I didn’t stand out. Better a bit of prudent, unobtrusive mediocrity.
I’ve been like that since nursery school, and I don’t know what ended up going so wrong lately that I’ve actually been chosen to be someone else’s boss. It had always been a winning strategy. Really, how on earth can someone who has enough trouble managing their own responsibilities lead and motivate others?
Mark hasn’t hidden from me that managing a group consisting of two men and a woman might entail a few problems: although evolving, Korea can still be quite a sexist place sometimes, and the idea of a female boss might conceivably get on some people’s nerves.
In a sense, I’ve been sent here in an attempt to change the climate of not exactly sexual equality that reigns in the South Korean headquarters. It appears that some of the female staff have complained that they feel marginalized by their colleagues.
The only thing about which John might actually be right is that this type of challenge doesn’t worry me at all. I’m not some diehard feminist who needs to assert her position all the time, as I’ve seen some colleagues I’ve worked with do, but neither do I turn into a trembling wreck in front of male colleagues.
At exactly seven twenty-seven I knock on Mark’s door to let him know that I can be very punctual, if I want to be. The problem is that I don’t usually want to be…
He opens up instantly, ready to go. I don’t want to say that it’s annoying to find him so full of beans, but catching him unprepared just once would have given me some satisfaction. He is wearing a grey suit with a white shirt and a blue tie. He’s gone for a classic look, too.
“Good morning.”
He greets me with an emotionless voice.
“Good morning. Did you have a nice breakfast without me this morning?” I ask, trying to mask my tension at the challenge I face today with a joke.
“Excellent, thank you.”
I didn’t expect quite such conviction. What does he mean, that life would be better if I wasn’t around?
I decide to ignore it – I have to stay calm and focused. Distractions are not permitted!
We walk to the subway station, which is right next to our building. This morning the city seems much busier than yesterday: there are people running in all directions, just like in London.
Mark gets a subway map and explains how it works, how to buy a weekly ticket and where to change my money.
“The office is only two stops away, so you could easily walk it, but I’d like you to learn how to take the subway on your own. There are nine numbered lines, identified by a number and by a specific colour. Our stop is called Sin-gil, and from here you can either take the number one line – the blue one – or the number five – the purple one,” he explains, pointing to a spot on the giant map.
“Why two similar colours?” I ask worriedly. “I’m bound to get them totally mixed up.”
Mark stares at me in disbelief. “No you’re not. You can just read the numbers: line one and line five. And don’t pretend it’s difficult, London has a much more complicated system.”
Well, if someone had asked me what I expected from Asia I would have certainly answered: order and calm. But it seems that calmness isn’t the order of the day in the subway stations: the people don’t just push, they push hard.
“Why are they all pushing?” I raise my voice so that Mark can hear me, before being dragged along by the human wave into the carriage.
“Oh, come on, stop complaining,” he says calmly, “They push in London too.”
Maybe, but this is a personal record for number of pushes received.
The cleanliness of the subway cars leaves me speechless. Finally, at least one point in favour of my move! I almost want to smile.
Once again, we receive a lot of curious glances on the subway. Perhaps because we look like a couple of giants?
“Tell me something,” I ask, “why are you so tall?”
“In my family we are all pretty tall,” he replies.
“So you will need to find an equally tall wife to hand down the characteristic to future generations.”
“I’d be satisfied just to find a girl that I like,” he says thoughtfully. “I’d happily overlook everything: height, race, hair colour…”
“You’re hard to please, huh?” I tease him. “Just list me the characteristics that you look for in a woman and I’ll point out all the suitable girls I come across.”
He looks at me with suspicion and distrust.
“Look, I’m great at matchmaking,” I say.
“So how come you haven’t ‘matchmade’ yourself, then?” he asks.
Straight to the point, as usual.
“What’s that got to do with it? It’s impossible to be objective when it comes to yourself!”
For a moment he seems surprised by how sensible my answer is.
“I am surprised to have to admit that you’re probably right.”
The second stop is ours, so we get off the train and soon afterwards are walking through the sunny streets.
“This is the island of Yeouido,” he tells me as we walk towards the office.
“An island?” I exclaim in amazement. Did I miss something?
“Close your mouth before the flies get in there. Yes, Maddison, it’s an island, and it is the financial heart of the city. The name means literally ‘you can do whatever you want’. Once this land was considered useless and was used for keeping sheep and geese.”
“And now you keep skyscrapers, I see,” I say, scanning the area.
“Maybe it would have been better if we’d carried on keeping…” he says – sheepishly.
“Your words, not mine,” I say, throwing up my hands.
We stop in front of a very modern, tall building and I follow Mark up the stairs and into the lobby. At reception sit four perfectly groomed Korean ladies with elegant hair and dark blue suits. As soon as they see us they prostrate themselves in half bows and greet us – or rather, as soon as they see Mark, who doesn’t even seem to notice the hungry looks they give him. The girl nearest the lift, especially, tries in vain to catch his eye. I can’t say how tall they are, since they are all sitting down, but she has a very pretty face. If I was Mark, I’d definitely think about it.
In fact, I find that most Korean girls are rather pleasant looking. They are almost all very slim, with long shiny hair, small noses and perfect cheekbones.
The elevator that we take ‘speaks’ – too bad it only speaks Korean.
“It is for the blind. It just repeats the floor number. Don’t panic,” says Mark at the sight of my bewildered expression.
Koreans must all be early risers, because despite it not yet being eight o’clock, the elevator is already full of people. Luckily nobody here pushes. The curious glances at me are, instead, a constant. The division offices of M & A are on the twentieth floor, and once out of the elevator we face a series of access turnstiles. What’s more, all the doors in here can only be opened with your badge, and there is no way to sneak in. Koreans seem to be more obsessed with security than Londoners, which is saying something. The office is in fact a large open space, with a few individual offices reserved for the division heads.
Including Mark.
My new boss walks me over to my desk, and I realize that he’ll be able to keep a close eye on me through the windows of his cave. No distractions for me: all he’ll have to do is raise his eyes and he’ll be able to read what’s on my monitor. And I’m sure he will, often.
I must find a way to guarantee myself a bit of privacy. At the other end of Mark’s room, I’ve spotted a plant, and I think it might serve the purpose. But I’d better not do anything today – much wiser to wait for the boss to relax before you strike. Years and years of experience have made me very good at pretending to work.
“Your desk, your computer, your badge,” Mark tells me, “and soon you’ll meet your team too.”
He stops and studies me curiously. He must have realized that I’m thinking about something, but doesn’t know quite what. Good job too.
Looking up I see a girl, as petite and slim as all the others I have encountered in these two days, appear from the lift. As soon as she sees us, she approaches timidly.
“Hello, I’m Park Seung Hee,” she says with a bow. She then holds out a small bony hand which I grasp firmly. These women give new meaning to the word ‘trim’.
“Maddison Johnson, but you can call me Maddy,” I answer. “You must forgive me, but which is your given name and which is your family surname?” I ask.
“Park is the family name and Seung Hee is the given name. In Korea we always have two names, and when we introduce ourselves we always say our family name first,” she explains patiently. With me, she’ll need to be.
“Then why is Mark, just Mark?” I ask curiously.
Seung Hee smiles at me. “Actually, Mr Kim is American and therefore doesn’t have a Korean name.”
Ahhh, in the office he’s Mr Kim. He’s obviously into hierarchies!
Before long, the other members of my team appear. It is exciting to think that these people are ‘mine’.
Lee Dong Woo is a skinny guy with glasses and a serious, determined expression. He looks like a real nerd – I should keep him in mind for any complicated number crunching that comes up.
Yoo Chul Ju seems very open and cheerful, and has a big smile on his face.
Despite them being so different, I sense instantly that they all have a lot of respect for one another.
An Australian guy named Thomas Grant, who has nothing to do with the team, also turns up and introduces himself. He has a thick Australian accent, and, to judge from the first impression, seems very friendly. Finally, someone who actually seems happy to have me here.
Before long the office is full. I shake a lot more hands, almost all of which belong to a series of Koreans whose names I can’t help forgetting as soon as I’m introduced to the next one.
The head of the consulting office is a friendly American named Andrew Torton with gorgeous blonde hair and bright blue eyes, if you know what I mean, as well as a physique that hints at a past playing American football, with sculpted muscles only partly hidden by formal clothing. Andrew gives me the impression of being a happy-go-lucky type: he’s straightforward and offers to show me round if I need a hand in Seoul.
Thanking them all, I take refuge at my desk, exhausted by so many introductions. I need a coffee, but I don’t think we’ve got a coffee machine. The best I can hope for is some of that horrid green tea.
“You ok?” asks Mark, peering around the door of his office.
I jump in my chair.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I answer, not sounding too convinced. My words seem to reassure him, though, because he returns immediately to his desk and carries on reading.
Whatever the cost, I have to find a way to prevent him being able to see my desk. It’ll give me a heart attack if I don’t, not to mention that his presence will stop me from reading my horoscope, which is absolutely essential for me! It’s a sacred rite – I can’t start the working week without knowing what awaits me. And I have a sneaking suspicion that Mark is no lover of star signs…
“Mark, can I ask you something?” I say a few minutes later, appearing at his office door. I must sound incongruously friendly, because he looks at me suspiciously in silence, waiting to know what it is I want.
“Can I take that plant you’ve got in your office? The tall one with big leaves?” I ask, pointing to the large pot to his right.
“You want my ficus?” he asks in astonishment. “What for?”
I knew it – I should have waited at least a day before trying to steal his pot plant.
“To put next to my desk. You know, I need contact with something… er, green. Err, I mean, something natural,” I stammer. Why am I such a bad liar? I used to be so much better. I’m out of shape, I need to practice more.
“You didn’t have any plants on your desk in London,” he points out – so now he’s the only man with a photographic memory that I’ve ever met? How the hell did he remember that?
I smile innocently and a bit sadly. I’ve practiced this expression a thousand times in front of the mirror, I can’t fail. And in fact, it seems to work even now.
“If you insist …” he answers, doubtful but resigned. I decide to take that as a definite ‘yes’, so I dart into his room with a feline leap and drag the big ficus in front of the window so as to obstruct the view. Seung Hee watches me in shock. I bet she’s never seen anyone with such brass face before. But basically, that’s my mission: to bring a breath of fresh air to this stuffy place.
“Make sure nothing happens to that ficus! It was a gift from my grandma!” thunders Mark from inside his office as he watches me drag the big plant off without lifting a finger to help me.
Yeah, right – like I’m going to fall for the story of it being a gift from his grandmother… What a pathetic excuse.
But what if it’s true?
For a moment, I’m tempted to tell him that all the plants that have ever come into contact with me have lived short lives – very short lives. Having green fingers certainly isn’t one of my qualities. However, given his sullen expression I decide it’s probably better not to tell him that.
He’ll find out sooner or later anyway. When the ficus kicks the bucket.