Kitchen Chinese Read Online Free PDF Page A

shrill bleat to guide me. Just as I’m about to retreat to my room and jam three pillows over my head, I spot the phone lying underneath a marble-topped gilt side table and pounce on it.
    “Hello?”
    But it’s only the dial tone, and even it sounds different here, hollow in its high-pitched drone.
    I hang up and totter back to my cozy, soft bed. The light streaming through the windows suggests that the day is notyoung, but I don’t stop to look at the clock. Right now I feel the same passion for sleep that I once felt for the Barney’s end-of-the-year shoe clearance: I need as much as possible, damn the consequences.
    I collapse into bed, fluff my pillows and pull the down-filled duvet up to my chin. Claire’s sheets are so soft, I think as I drift away. They must be 800-count Egyptian cotton. I am just about to sink into blissful unconsciousness when the phone starts ringing again.
    This time I get it after only five rings. “Hello?” I say, and then because, after all, I am in China, I attempt a greeting in Mandarin. “Wei?”
    “Hold the line for Claire Lee, please,” says a cool voice. I wait. And wait. And wait.
    Perhaps my jet-lagged brain misunderstood. “Hello?” I say experimentally, but only a series of clicks answers me.
    I’m about to hang up and crawl back to bed when Claire’s honeyed tones come floating over the line. “Isabelle? I’m so sorry to keep you waiting, darling.”
    “Hi.” My voice emerges in a croak.
    “Oh, did I wake you? You weren’t still sleeping, were you? It’s two o’clock!”
    “Sleeping? At this hour? Oh no, no, no. I’ve been up for ages.” My laugh sounds like a gurgle.
    “Oh good. Because I meant to phone earlier, but today has been insane. Listen, I ran into a friend at that party last night…”
    I try to focus but my brain refuses to absorb any information. If I closed my eyes, would I be able to sleep standing up like a horse?
    “…and he really wants to meet you,” Claire concludes. “Isn’t that great?”
    “What?”
    “Ed Watson. At the expat magazine. Is expecting your phone call. Honestly, Iz, haven’t you been listening?”
    Expat magazine? A dart of alarm shoots through the fog of jet lag. Is that all she thinks I can do? I try to keep the irritation from my voice. “Claire, I’m not sure if an expat magazine is really the right fit for me. I mean, I worked at one of New York’s biggest women’s magazines…” Why does she always underestimate me?
    “Oooh,” she squeals. “Sophia! I didn’t know you were in town! Hold on a sec, okay? I’m just getting off the phone.”
    “Hello?”
    “Iz? I have to run. Ed’s card is on the kitchen counter. Just tell him you’re my sister.”
    “Will you be home later tonight?” I ask, my voice more hopeful than I intend.
    “Ohhhh, I’m sorry, darling…I have to work late and then I’m supposed to go to this dinner party. I’d bring you but it’s going to be horribly boring. All legal mumbo jumbo…” Her voice trails off. “But maybe I could get out of it.”
    “No, no. I’m fine.” I struggle to sound confident. “Don’t worry about me.”
    “Well, if you’re sure…”
    “Definitely. I should try to get over my jet lag anyway.”
    “Well that probably makes sense.” Is that relief I hear in her voice? “I’ll talk to you soon then, yes? Big kiss. Mwah. Byeeeee!”
    She hangs up leaving me staring blankly at the phone. I didn’t expect Claire to spend all her spare time with me but I’m a little surprised that she’s so, well, social. Back in New York, the only dinner parties she attended were at the office—late night deli sandwiches while preparing for a trial. And what’s up with heraccent? It seems to have evolved from mid-Atlantic to British. Darling? Big kiss?
    Something else is different too…something more intangible than the red highlights in her dark hair and new wardrobe of sleek outfits. It’s almost as if she’s…hip. Yet how could that be