Dont point at the moon, p.8
Don't Point at the Moon, page 8
“I wouldn’t exactly call myself a connoisseur, but I know what I like.”
“What about the wine you’re drinking right now.“
“This? Italian red. Montepulciano D’Abruzzo. Dry and quite young, a recent vintage.”
“Wow. Spot on. I’m impressed.”
“You shouldn’t be. I often come to this bar and Montepulciano D’Abruzzo is the only house red they serve by the glass. And always a recent vintage. You don’t have to be a connoisseur to know that, just familiar with the bar’s drinks menu. Or as your friend, Devon, might say, there’s more than one way to skin a banana.”
Tommy laughed again, a sound Mitchell was beginning to enjoy.
“You know, Devon might have a habit of mixing up sayings—”
“Malaphors, I believe they’re called. A blend of aphorisms and malapropisms.”
“If you say so. But first of all, you should know that he is the nicest, kindest guy I know, with not a bad bone in his body, and, secondly, I am fairly sure that sometimes when you think he’s mixing them up, he actually knows exactly what he’s saying.”
“I look forward to hearing more on Sunday morning at six during our first official date.”
Tommy merely groaned. “Hell, what have I let myself in for?”
Chapter Six
Robbed of Sunday sleep again and running late, Tommy rounded the corner to the Central ferry concourse skirting Victoria Harbour and stumbled to a halt. He slid his limited-edition Ray-Bans down his nose to witness a group of jolly-looking people togged out in a mishmash of unflattering fluorescent hiking gear. Instead of doing the sensible thing of spinning on his limited-edition Nike heels and heading back home, he huffed out an irritated sigh, fixed the sunglasses back in place and forged onwards. Bright colours and cheerfulness ought to be banned on Sunday mornings. Or at least minimised until the serving of brunch cocktails. But a deal was a deal. After several scans of the crowd, he finally spotted Mitchell in a dark brown top and tan shorts, standing out like a millionaire’s shortbread in a sea of Smarties.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” said Mitchell, daring to grin at his approach.
“Don’t speak to me.”
“Not a morning person?”
“Not a Sunday morning person. There’s a difference.”
“Here.” Mitchell reached to the ground, where a cardboard coffee cup sat. “Devon said you might need one of these to improve your mood.”
“Latte?”
“With a double shot.”
“You are marginally forgiven,” said Tommy, taking the cup and attempting a smile. “Where is Devon?”
“He went on ahead in Oscar’s car. Some of the hikers are getting to the starting point under their own steam. Oscar wanted to be there to meet and greet.”
“Of course he did.”
“People are boarding the bus. We should go.”
“Sit next to me. And let me take the window seat. I don’t want some jovial rando talking my arse off on the way. I will have my earbuds screwed in tight, my playlist on max and my sunglasses fixed in place, doing my best to catch up on sleep.”
“This is going to be fun.”
Once they settled on the coach and had rumbled some way along the expressway, Tommy pushed his sunglasses onto his head and removed one of the earbuds. Next to him, Mitchell had his hands folded in his lap, eyes shut as though in meditation. When Tommy nudged him gently on his shoulder, Mitchell’s eyes popped open and he turned his head to Tommy.
“I apologise for being a grinch,” said Tommy. “I promise I’m not always like this. But this is the second successive Sunday morning sleep-in I’ve been denied. My mood will have improved considerably by lunchtime. And thank you again for the coffee.”
“No need to apologise. This is all excellent fodder for my Tommy Chow character file. You know? For your sister’s wedding.”
Tommy groaned and lowered his sunglasses. “We really are doing this, aren’t we?”
“As instructed.”
By the time the bus dropped them off at Pak Tam Chung, the start of the trail, Tommy felt infinitely better. Oscar met them at the bus door, recording people’s names as they stepped off. His smile broadened when he saw Tommy standing behind Mitchell. Devon must have said something.
“Where’s Devon?” asked Mitchell. Tommy had been about to ask the same question.
“He said he was going to join us for the walk,” added Tommy.
“Did he?” said Oscar, shrugging while he looked down at his clipboard. “Sorry, he volunteered to accompany the other novice hikers. They wanted to get a head start and not be responsible for holding up the rest of us at the end of the hike.”
Tommy’s heart sank. Although he had agreed to accompany Mitchell, he’d counted on having Devon as a buffer to chat with in case the conversation with Mitchell became stilted. Strangely enough, Mitchell appeared equally crestfallen. Maybe he’d hoped for the same thing. Just as Tommy was about to break the awkwardness by asking Mitchell about the route, Oscar called the crowd together.
“It’s going to be another hot one. Don’t push yourselves—this is not a race—and please make sure you stay hydrated. I find it’s best to sip fluids continuously. On the route, there are a few places with potable water outlets to top up your bottles. Can I also ask you to take a few small plastic sacks with you, to place your litter in and pick up any items you find along the way. You can tie them up and dump them into the public bins lining the trail.”
Tommy almost rolled his eyes at Mitchell. Oscar never seemed to be off duty. But he noticed Mitchell nodding in agreement.
The first part of the trek entailed walking up a gently sloping road. In silence, they trailed the chatter of other hikers who had set a pleasant pace. Once again, they had lucked out on a cloudless day, which at that early hour was comfortably cool. Surrounded by the soft chirping of woodland birds, a gentle breeze and the absence of traffic sounds, everything conspired to improve Tommy’s mood.
At one point, when they drew level with a group of stragglers, he chatted to them in Cantonese for a while. Unsurprisingly for his fellow Hongkongers, their main topic of conversation was about the food they planned to eat when they reached the famous seafood restaurant a short bus ride from the finishing line. He laughed along with them before realising Mitchell strolled beside him, not understanding a word. After a quick introduction, everyone transitioned to English, and they continued chatting, this time including Mitchell.
As they made their way towards the High Island Reservoir, the largest in the territory according to Mitchell, trying his best to contribute, and with the sparkling blue ocean of the South China Sea on their right, they gradually peeled away again, both relaxing and opening up. Tommy found he enjoyed listening to Mitchell even though they were polar opposites.
In the spirit of getting to know each other and helping pass the time, Tommy suggested they play a question game, five quick-fire personal questions posed by each of them that both had to answer. And as he had come up with the idea, he insisted on being the first to pose questions. Mitchell nodded, correctly judging that doing otherwise would be pointless.
“Let’s start easy. Favourite colour?”
Mitchell took time to answer, as though afraid of answering incorrectly. Even when there was no right or wrong answer. Tommy noticed him staring at the cloudless sky then at the other hikers.
“Blue.”
“What shade of blue? Azure, cyan, cobalt, teal?”
“What shade of blue is the jacket the woman in front is wearing, the one with the orange baseball cap? I’m no good with hues.”
“Royal blue. Conservative but predictable, I suppose.”
“Why? What’s your favourite?”
“Hot pink, of course.”
“Of course.” Tommy noticed Mitchell shaking his head but smirking.
“Best female singer of the noughties?”
“Adele,” said Mitchell.
“Adele?” said Tommy, stumbling on the path. “Seriously? Out of all the fabulous new millennial divas, you pick Adele?”
“Yours?”
“Beyoncé.”
“You do know she’s older than Adele, don’t you?”
“Mitchell, she is a goddess. That girl not only sings and dances, but has acted. Did you not see Dream Girls? She’s the whole package. More than. Untouchable. Preferred cocktail?”
“I don’t drink much, and then only wine. But if I had to choose I’d go with gin and tonic.”
Tommy mimed a yawn.
“Mine’s Moscow Mule,” said Tommy. “The local convenience store used to stock small bottles and cans of ready cocktails, most of them sugary sweet and disgusting, all except Moscow Mule in a blue and silver can, which was sublime. But they seem to have phased them out. Sorry. Off topic. Favourite animated movie of all time?”
“Toy Story.”
“Mine too. Which one?”
“All of them.”
“You have to pick one, Mitchell.”
“Why?”
“Because the question is which movie, not which movie franchise.”
“All right then. Three.”
“Wrong. Four transcends them all.” Mitchell huffed aloud, but Tommy noticed him smiling fully this time, clearly enjoying the repartee. “Okay. Last question. What’s your preference. Top, bottom, verse or side?”
Mitchell quietened then, and Tommy thought he might have overstepped. Before he could ask a different question, Mitchell answered.
“No preference, really. Versatile, I suppose.”
“I see.”
“What about you?”
“Whatever gets me laid.”
“Heavens. Such high principles.”
“We did agree to honesty. But that’s my last question. So today’s your lucky day. You get to ask five burning questions of yours truly. No holds barred.”
Scents of salt and seaweed mixed with a faint undercurrent of diesel wafted off the sea. Neither pleasant nor unpleasant. Mitchell cleared his throat before beginning his own mini-interrogation.
“Favourite Asian movie with a gay theme?”
“Easy. The Iron Ladies. Thai movie. Matchless.” Devon had put him onto the classic, which had become a firm favourite.
“Oh. I haven’t seen that one.”
“Really? About a Thai men’s volleyball team that includes gay and transgender athletes? Based on a true story? Fabulous.”
“Never seen it, but it’s now on my watchlist. Mine’s Happy Together.”
“Hmm. So dark and gritty and disjointed.”
“That’s what makes it a classic. Most attractive Hong Kong male actor?”
“Chen Hing Wah.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“Edison Chen?”
“Ah, him. Personally, I prefer Tony Leung.”
“Of course you do. He’s a bit old, though, isn’t he?”
“But still hot. Preferred men’s scent?”
“Anything by Tom Ford,” said Tommy. “And in case you’re ever thinking of buying me a present, the most expensive will do. Yours?”
“Armani.”
Tommy nodded. He had noticed the classic scent on Mitchell when they’d met for drinks, a more traditional cologne but one that suited him perfectly.
“How about best cuisine in the world?”
“Italian.”
“Italian?” This time, Mitchell stopped walking and stared open-mouthed at Tommy. “You live in China. How can you possibly choose spaghetti over noodles?”
“Is this about me, or not?”
“Of course.”
“Well then,” said Tommy, pouting. “Besides, spaghetti is just noodles stolen from the Chinese by the Italians, put in different packaging and given a new name. What about you?”
“Sichuan. Or is it Szechuan? I’m never sure which is the correct pronunciation. But I especially love Dan Dan Noodles. My go-to comfort food. As long as they’re not too heavy-handed on the chilli oil.”
“Noted. Last question.”
Tommy noticed Mitchell tapping a forefinger on his lower lip.
“Okay. This might be a little tougher. Favourite author of classic English literature?”
“I need time to think. You go first,” said Tommy.
“Well, for me, it would have to be a toss-up between Charles Dickens and Thomas Hardy. I love the realism of the era that both depict in their works, almost like an historical account of the time, but each using very different styles. Let’s go with Dickens. What about you? Thought of anyone yet?”
“JK Rowling.”
“J—?” began Mitchell, turning to stare incredulously to Tommy.
“What?” said Tommy, meeting his gaze. “What?”
“Nothing,” said Mitchell, grinning smugly.
Tommy had begun to enjoy this fun side of Mitchell almost as much as he liked walking behind him, watching as he climbed steps in his tight tan shorts, the muscles of his backside and hairy thighs straining the stretch cotton fabric. Not that Mitchell was at all his type.
With the fun questioning over, Tommy suggested they share more mundane facts about each other. Mitchell talked about his family, comprising one sister and an estranged mother. Mitchell’s father had died of a sudden stroke two days after Mitchell’s eighth birthday. When his mother had crumpled under the pressure of loss and responsibility, his father’s parents—his grandparents—had stepped up and raised him and his sister. Today his mother lived with her boyfriend in Croydon, a racist and homophobic coach driver who only ever left the flat to go to work. At her insistence, he never visited her at home when he returned to the UK. Instead, she would meet him for the occasional coffee in town. As for Mitchell’s love life, he’d only ever had one serious boyfriend in college, but refused to go into any detail. Tommy half suspected the ex had dumped him, which explained why Mitchell had ended up halfway across the world in Hong Kong.
When Tommy’s turn came, he silently thanked his loving and tolerant family. He felt almost guilty telling Mitchell how normal they were—his mother a housewife, his father an accountant, his sister a shop owner. Mitchell seemed more concerned about who he needed to impress at the rehearsal dinner if he was going to convince them that the confirmed bachelor, Tommy Chow, finally had a boyfriend. His sister Sammi sat at the top of that list—Tommy had already decided against telling her about their arrangement—but then, of course, there were his grandparents. Mitchell listened attentively when Tommy told the story of how his grandmother on his father’s side had been born in Taiwan back when the island was still under fifty years of Japanese rule and how his grandfather had escaped from Northern Guangdong to Hong Kong as a young man during the famine that ravaged China in the late nineteen fifties. By the end of the retelling, Tommy felt a new pride in his ancestors’ struggles, something he often took for granted, and looked forward to Mitchell meeting them.
“Tell me about this best man, Alec,” asked Mitchell, who appeared to have been emboldened by their exchange.
“He’s a demigod.”
“Yes, but what kind of things does he like? I think we’ve established you have the hots for him and his mere presence does a number on your libido. My question is about Alec the person. What other things do you know about him? Or are you planning to stand in his presence again, gawking like a goldfish and drooling onto his lapel? How did that work out for you last time?”
Tommy stopped walking and glared at Mitchell.
“Rude!”
“I’m trying to help. How much do you actually know about him?”
Mitchell had a point. Tommy recalled a conversation with Daley about how Alec had planned to set up an extreme sports travel company straight from college.
“He has a sister. Or maybe two? His family are definitely Australian, but I’m sure he told me they come from Newcastle. That’s in England, isn’t it?”
“There are lots of Newcastles around the world. Canada, the US, Jamaica, Barbados and Australia. I imagine he meant the Australian Newcastle in New South Wales. Supposed to be beautiful. Around a hundred miles north of Sydney, I believe.”
“Oh, yes. That would make sense. He does have a great tan.”
Mitchell turned to Tommy with an expression of disbelief.
“You don’t seem to know much about him. Is he actually gay? Or are you hoping he finds you so irresistible that he decides to jump—”
“Stop already. He’s gay. Or possibly homoflexible. Daley told us he’d been popular with girls in college but secretly dated a guy, a jock on the soccer team. So yes, I am fairly sure he bats for our team. But I’m not sure how out he is, if you know what I mean? And at college he talked about starting his own specialist travel company.”
“And did he?”
“No idea.”
“Then it seems you have some homework to do.”
“Are you suggesting I cyberstalk him?”
“No, I’m suggesting you phone Daley. Far more efficient and less creepy. And they’re best friends, aren’t they?”
“Good point. And Daley owes me.”
“What for? Marrying your sister?”
“Finding a plus-one to bring to his wedding,” said Tommy with a smirk.
“Finding a plus-one to dump at his wedding, I think you mean.”
Tommy chuckled again. They settled into a peaceful stroll and this time the silence felt companionable rather than awkward. Tommy noticed signs popping up announcing the imminent end of the first section of the walk.
“How about you?” asked Mitchell, after a considerable pause. “Any long-term relationships I should know about?”
“Define long-term?”
“A year. Maybe two or more.”
“I think the longest I’ve been with anybody is two months.”
“Not something I would publicise, if I were you. Anyone the family got to meet?”
Something in Mitchell’s words niggled at Tommy.
“No. Look, I’ve been told I’m picky. Overly picky, if you know what I mean?” Tommy realised his tone had begun to sound defensive. “But nobody has held my attention longer than a couple of dates. We’ve normally run out of things to say to each other by then. That doesn’t make me a flake.”
