It’s Friday in Bordeaux.
I’m dressing,
he’s making flat whites,
getting the family ready to look at more houses.
Petra is in Porto.
So it’s Padme, the middle one,
the little one,
him and me.
Padme refuses to get out of bed.
First I try,
I send him,
she refuses and pulls a guilt trip.
Not interested, not awake.
She stays home.
It’s just me, him, and the little one in the car.
He has his Mac in his lap again.
Our tech team made a major upgrade.
He's testing,
he's texting with a dev in Frankfurt.
I drive us to Gradignan.
The first viewing, great location near a forest,
outside looks like a designer house,
massive tall side-to-side sliding glass doors.
Inside requires gutting and a rebuild.
I walk away.
The agent talks too much.
I let my husband buffer the avalanche of overselling.
I say: “Thank you for your time.” Fist bump.
I say to him: “Get in the car.”
While driving away I say:
“Don’t waste any more time.
The owners are in Cloud Koo Koo land.
The agent knows,
that’s why he won’t stop talking about the glass-fronted façade.”
At the next house another estate agent says:
“I thought I’d show you this area,
I’ve been showing another couple from Hong Kong houses nearby.”
“They have a daughter going to IS33.”
I say to him:
“She’s good,
where shall we go for lunch?”
Our little one shouts from the back seat:
“Ramen, I want ramen, I want sushi, I want ramen.”
I say:
“Quiet!”
He says:
“I can’t find anything on the fork.
I found us a Japanese place near the school.”
I say:
“I’m not convinced.
We can try it.”
He says:
“There’s also bibimbap if you want, a small Korean place with four tables.”
Our little one shouts from the back seat:
“Bibimbap, yes, I want bibimbap.”
He says loudly,
“Quiet! I’m talking.”
I say:
“I’m not convinced,
we can try the Japanese place.”
I type Little Tokyo into the navi,
we get there in two minutes.
Crappy boring cars parked in front of a warehouse.
A weathered sign: “Little Tokyo”.
From the outside it looks sad, industrial.
I say:
“We’re here, I’m not convinced, can I park here?
Let’s just try it.”
Inside:
wooden floors solid,
planks thick,
pavilions of wood,
tables, wood, long, low, tall, square.
Long cotton kites suspended between the pavilions, koi printed in red, white and blue.
Bookshelves. Books.
A man dozing in a rattan chair.
Japanese women running it.
I speak to the owner in my school-level Japanese.
She switches to perfect English.
Asks me where we are from.
I say: “Hong Kong.”
She says:
“Oh, we have lots of customers from Hong Kong.
There is quite a large diaspora in Arcachon.
They come here to eat.”
“We don’t do table service.
You order as you enter.”
I order.
Cold chicken ramen,
grilled salmon fillets on rice,
salmon chirashi sushi.
She tells us
where to sit,
where to pick up your meal,
where to get hot water for tea,
where to get chopsticks, spoons and cutlery,
where and how to clear our tray.
I say to him:
“This is good.”
“I'll sit with Pheby, you get the trays and cutlery.”
We eat.
We share.
I get us:
Lemon mint dessert for him.
Matcha tiramisu for me.
I look around.
Tables are filling fast.
There is a queue at the door.
I take photos and send them to the family WhatsApp group:
“We found this awesome authentic Japanese restaurant run by Japanese people (also the chef) in Gradignan. You missed lunch here, Mei.”
I say to him:
“This is my favourite restaurant in Bordeaux so far.”
He says:
“That’s two.
Authentic Phở in Ginko,
home-cooked Japanese in Gradignan.
Chinese is next.”
We sit longer than planned.
I drive.
Back to the late 60s house we saw last week.
This time,
him, camera,
floor plans.
He is looking.
Piping, ducting, joinery, tiling, electrical switches and boards, smiling.
In the garden I’m with Alexandra the agent.
She is showing me what extension we could build and where.
My little one shouts: “I need to pee.”
I call over to him:
“Take Pheby to pee.”
He says: “Yes, ma’am,”
like a good husband.
I drive us into Gradignan Centre Ville.
Pheby scooters in front of the church.
He watches her.
I step inside a property agent.
He makes AOP for dinner,
brings it to me on my sofa.
Spaghetti, two twists of his cooking fork,
resting centred in a large china serving bowl from Portugal,
topped with escargot and parsley.
Same for Pheby except no snails, no parsley.
I keep repeating,
“What a treat, how creative.”
I reset the kitchen and let him eat,
him still standing at the stove.
Next morning, late.
He is in the shower.
I walk in:
“You did not wake me.”
He says:
“Of course not.”
I sit to pee.
He gets out of the shower.
He says:
“About the prefab construction I showed you last night,”
I say:
“I was shocked. It is soo expensive.”
He is watching me.
Fitting wide soft black straps over my shoulders,
cradling my reclaimed territory in generous cups,
adjusting cleavage.
My thighs,
my bum,
my mound,
still waxed,
still trimmed,
still manicured.
He says:
“Yes, because that includes plumbing, bathrooms, kitchen shit.
The extension you want only needs electricity and aircon.”
I put on my printed paisley cotton dress over my head,
spaghetti straps disappearing over my bra straps.
When he finishes drying himself with his white cotton hotel towel, I see the tattoo down his spine.
Me, standing nude.
Breasts bare.
A Chinese serpent wrapped around my body.
Our first two daughters sitting at my feet.
I say:
“Turn on the towel heater.”
“What about my Balinese outdoor bathroom?”
He says:
“You can still have that.
We can pick up the plumbing from the sink and shower in the pool house.
You’re not going poo there, are you?”
As I step into my cork sandals I say:
“But a wood structure, will it look good?”
By the time I walk into the kitchen it’s just past noon.
I cook all afternoon.
Quiche,
his mother’s potato salad with a twist,
sweated onions, caramelised, smooth and sweet.
Padme and I groom Bali and Symi, our water dogs.
I distribute cut apples, rock melon, carrots around my household.
Padded bra black, cotton dress printed paisley, spaghetti straps.
He reheats his coffee in the microwave.
I think I hear him say:
“Gorgeous”
as he turns and walks back to his office.
By the time it is time for bed,
we’ve been to Ikea and Leroy Merlin,
me still half naked in Birkenstocks,
he’s bought a hose,
he’s cleaned the pool,
he’s made pizza with the ingredients I placed for him.
He checks out my bum.
I say: “Have you thought how you are going to convince me to go for this house?”
He says:
“No, I have not.
Just keep looking until you choose
the home you want.”
I walk into the bedroom smiling.
I say:
“I’m going to bed.
I placed my box of Tempos on your bedside table.”
I leave him to his pizza and his wine.
