$Expat Wives

By Ulrica Marshall

Take an English woman: throw in a busy banker husband and a couple of kids. Decant them to an exotic location; take Tokyo, for example - the city of vice. Add plenty of cash, a host of social lubricants, culture shock and a few partners in crime. Pepper with innuendos, indiscretions and the unfathomable. Shake well and serve chilled over cubes of Japanese culture.
$ Expat Wives explores one woman’s experience of living in a foreign and, at times, hostile environment, where marriages are tested and lives are forever altered in a melting pot of wealth, alienation and temptation.
Moving to a different country may sound like a fairytale come true – but is it? Could you do it? Would your relationship survive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ulrica Marshall
• Release date: Dec 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466107762

Ulrica Marshall

Born in Sweden, Ulrica Marshall is a UK-qualified and published journalist living in Japan with her family since 2006. She has written for the Financial Times, International Financing Review and several of the main English-language magazines in Tokyo. $Expat Wives is her first novel.

Book preview

Acknowledgements

This book is dedicated to all of us who at times feel like a fish out of water, be it in our hometowns or in a far-flung corner of the world.

Thank you to my superb agent, Lorella Belli, my beautiful daughters and mostly my loving husband for believing in me.

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$Expat Wives

by Ulrica Marshall

Copyright 2011 Ulrica Marshall

Published by Absolute Gould on Smashwords

This book is available in print at most on line retailers

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

1. Feeling Good

2. Another cup of coffee

3. Turning Japanese

4. I’m gonna tear your playhouse down

5. The female of the species

6. My Bonnie Lies over the Ocean

7. (I’ve had) The time of my life

8. Black Coffee

9. We might as well be strangers

10. Africa

11. In da Club

12. Season of the Witch

13. You’ll always find your way back home

14. Together in Electric Dreams

15. Who let the dogs out?

16. Acronym Love

17. Invisible

18. Voices

19. If U seek Amy

20. People are strange

21. Harajuku Girls

22. La Isla Bonita

23. Summer Lovin’

24. Big in Japan

25. Road to Nowhere

26. Uninvited

27. Let me entertain you

28. Easy lover

29. Guilt

30. Love Shack

31. Secretary

32. I kissed a girl

33. Your biggest mistake

34. My lover’s gone

35. Hit the Road Jack

36. Total eclipse of the heart

37. Leaving on a jet plane

38. Sober

39. Sorry seems to be the hardest word

40. Nothing compares 2 U

41. Against all odds

42. The long way home

43. Epilogue

About the Author

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1 Feeling Good

Tokyo, February 2007

My story begins in Starbucks; Where else could it start? I’m not even on the company payroll, though I seem to have spent enough money to buy a small African nation on the customised beverages from Seattle.

Any expat wife will tell you that Starbucks is a ‘holy’ sanctuary in a world of foreignness: A bit of normality where staff – regardless of location - will honour an order for a ‘dry double tall non-fat cappuccino’ without batting an eyelash.

Hi, I’m Bonnie, I begin to the sizeable gathering of parents – or mums to be precise – at this ‘informal’ Parent Teacher Association coffee morning.

Hi Bonnie, the gathering responds in zombie-esque monotone. Even after the multitude of presentations in my former professional life, this crowd is clearly a hard nut to crack; my most disarming smile falling on blind eyes.

I’m Benjamin’s and Becca’s mum, I continue with fake gusto. Benjamin is in Grade 2 and Becca’s in Kindergarten – she has just turned six and is really excited about starting elementary school next term! My husband…David…works for United Bank, doing something or other that I can never get my head around, which is why we’re here in Tokyo. His job, I mean, not my head… What else can I tell you? We are new to the school – just got our shipment of furniture a couple of weeks ago, so we don’t have to sleep on a blow-up mattress on the floor anymore… The President of the PTA, Heidi, a somewhat stern-looking German lady, is starting to look at her watch, and I’m not slow to catch her cue.

Anyway, it’s lovely to meet you all and I hope I can contribute to the PTA. I used to work in PR, so if we need to deal with any adverse press – kids getting caught stealing, doing crack or something - I’m your man! Or woman…maybe… I tail off, my attempt at a joke having driven straight into a brick wall. (Perhaps they don’t do humour?) With the proverbial tail between my legs, I slink down on to my chair, as the lady next to me is already busy introducing herself.

David’s three-year contract here in Tokyo meant that this was the kind of thing I would be spending my life doing, in the near term at least. Oh, mercy! My happy-go-lucky feeling from waking up to a crisp, sunny day is about to fizzle, when one of the mums opposite catches my eye. She winks at me in the kind of conspiratory way that suggests two things: a. I’m a friend and b. Hang in there. I smile back at the blonde, her hair tied back in a ponytail, dressed in yoga pants and a fleece: Standard mummy gear, but at this moment I am ready to marry her or at least sign over my inheritance in gratitude.

Hi, I’m Amy – most of you know me from last term. I have two boys at the school – Alex in grade 3 and Oscar in grade 1. My youngest, Lizzie, is in nursery. We’ve been here since September and come from London, my new friend explains to the group as I try my utmost to remember all the new names and faces. It’s like Blind Date, and I really need Graham with a few reminders right now.

Heidi then takes charge of the meeting; it appears that there is an extremely important issue on the agenda for today: pizza. Just how important would only become apparent about two hours later when this ‘hot’ topic was still under heated discussion, while our collective coffees had all gone distinctly cold. The discussion broadly centered on whether the weekly pizza lunch – Domino’s finest cheese and tomato pizza, full of flavour yet devoid of any other redeeming features – should be served on paper plates, napkins, proper plates or plastic plates. It is clearly a discussion to rival finding a solution for world peace or whether Britain should join the Euro. Everyone wanted their tuppence worth of time on this one; I could detail the deliberations, but have decided to be merciful and leave them out.

My new friend, Amy, and I keep exchanging glances, yawns and ultimately gestures towards our empty cups. Yes please, another coffee to recover from this one was definitely on the cards once our PTA ordeal was over.

I couldn’t tell you if the world’s parent associations are all the same, or if this one was specific to Tokyo, where, quite frankly, expat mums have an inordinate amount of time on their hands. Few are able to or want to work while on the expat trail and many are looking for ways to fill the long days when hubby’s at the office and children at school.

Is it always like that? I ask when Amy and I finally collapse into a couple of armchairs at another café, having made a brisk exit at the end of the official coffee morning.

It’s pure gold, isn’t it? Amy laughs. You couldn’t make it up if you tried. My husband, Matt, finds the whole thing hilarious... calls Heidi and her PTA chums the Witches of Eastwick! They’re pretty harmless, though. And that wasn’t even a formal meeting – we hold those once per month, usually at someone’s house. Just don’t forget to bring home-baked goodies, or woe on you! Amy jokes, but I sense there is truth in her message.

Oh yikes, I don’t bake! Last time I made some biscuits, David said they tasted like a leather belt…

Ooh, I would have smacked him! Amy giggles.

Smacking someone who knows what leather belts taste like has to be counterproductive! I suggest and we both laugh. I’m giddy at the prospect of having made a new friend; one who seemed to be much like me.

"Has anyone ever told you, you look just like Kate Beckinsale? That actress off Underworld?" Amy asks me suddenly, with a chuckle as if at her own silliness.

Really? That is so sweet of you! Actually, some mornings I reckon I look more like Quasimodo’s older sister…with warts…on a bad hair day. We both laugh at the thought.

Don’t we all! Amy agrees, though I find it hard to believe with her fair features.

Other times, and with a lashing of cosmetic assistance, David says I look ‘bloody hot’, which sounds more like a vampire’s wet dream than a compliment, don’t you think?

Amy giggles and nods. We both drink from our coffees; this being the second double shot latte for each of us, I am starting to feel that slightly jittery energy seep into my bloodstream: Like a little rush of speed.

So…Bonnie, right? My new friend double-checks before continuing. Why did you come here, to Tokyo?

Like I said, David’s job… I start, but she silences me with a little wave of her hand. "Yes, but what made you want to come here? You must have agreed, right?"

Dutiful wife! Actually, I’ve wanted to live abroad for as long as I can remember, but believe me – Japan was not my first choice…

And I begin to tell Amy that despite my initial reticence at moving to Tokyo – a city I had never even considered – I had been treading on little fluffy clouds of omochi (rice paste, as glutinous as it sounds – each year many Japanese citizens choke to death on the stuff) since arriving. It was an undiscovered nirvana, where winter days were clear and crisp, the streets were cleaner than Martha Stewart’s house, and everyone polite to a fault.

It was a breath of fresh air after the many years in London, a city that seems to reside under a permanent grey rain cloud, much like Eyore. Though this fits the national mood of apathetic melancholy, which is standard armour to survive in a dirty and dangerous metropolis, where ‘how do you do?’ has been superseded by ‘hand it over’.

And then there was the social scene: David and I had all the restaurants and bars in the Tokyo Luxe Guide ticked off within a matter of weeks as we were settling into our new expat life. My party frock outing count was off the charts and I actually ‘had to’ shop for more little black, red, and purple dresses to wear during our little soirees together. Sadly, this ‘honeymoon period’ didn’t last long and United Bank soon won our tug of war over my husband.

But having just graduated from being a mum of small children to a mum of school-age children, I discovered a new sense of freedom, which I thought I had lost around the same time as my obstetrician stitched me up after my first Caesarean – all those years ago.

"I still remember it as sharply as the stainless steel scalpel. The first cut is the deepest, was our music of choice during the 30 minute procedure to airlift Benjamin out of the comfort of the womb..."

Oh no! Amy laughs in mock horror, temporarily breaking my ‘life-til-now’ monologue.

It was David’s idea. Hi-bloody-larious. Just goes to show, you should never leave a man in charge of the important stuff. On the other hand, the Cartier love bangle with diamonds as a gift for carrying his child was my idea. And some new diamond earrings when Becca was born, which coincidentally was accompanied by Chopin, after I sacked David as delivery room DJ, I tell her, while suddenly wondering if the respective music choices have shaped the little characters that our children have taken on.

Benjamin is full of energy, loud and wild: into everything and anything. If you looked up ‘boy’ in an encyclopaedia, there would no doubt be a picture of him. Of course, moving around has been tough on him; he was heartbroken when we left London and he had to say goodbye to his friends. Not that he would admit it. I just knew and it tore away at me. He was quiet a lot; which as you will derive from my description of him, is totally out of character. Two months on, and both little Benjy and I are sleeping far easier as he is gaining confidence and friends in equal measure.

Becca, on the other hand, is this bundle of zen-like calm with the soul of a wise old man. Even as a baby she had more personality than many adults I have come across. Those deep hazel eyes absorbed everything that was going on and before long she would be able to accurately copy movements, gestures and – when she started talking – words. David calls her his ‘little Einstein,’ which she loves as she is a fan of the Little Einsteins’ show on TV, humming the tunes of Bach and Grieg. She is fully intent on being an astronaut when she grows up and sometimes demands to know what I want to be when I grow up, which is disconcerting.

As Amy and I bid each other farewell, I suddenly have a déjà-vu: of white lilies at a church altar of some kind: Of Amy kneeling before it. Too much coffee, I conclude, shaking off the feeling as I kiss her cheek.

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2 Another cup of coffee

Tokyo, April 2009

Pick a time; pick a place. Where did it all start to derail? As I sit alone at the little round table outside the American café, nursing my second cup of coffee, it seems clear to me that my story had to start in Starbucks that day when I first met Amy – nearly two years ago.

David always takes great glee in telling anyone who will listen that his wife ‘lives in Starbucks’. This is only partially true. We live in Tokyo as expatriates, an imposing word when unabbreviated, and one that is broadly defined as withdrawing oneself from residence in or allegiance to one’s native country, a second definition is; to banish or exile. None is particularly positive, yet a not-insignificant portion of the world’s professional workforce belong to this transient tribe.

It wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time, not so long ago, I was merely a ‘patriate.’ Or should that be patriot? And does that suggest that expatriates cannot be patriotic?

Let me paint you a little picture of my life up to that point, and maybe shed some light on my obsession with coffee in the process.

So, who am I? More to the point: what is the purpose of this…confessional? It’s been a hell of a long time since my last confession, despite my catholic parentage, but there is no question that I have sinned.

Having let my religion lapse a little over the years (can’t tell my cathedrals from my churches; and is the pope, in fact, catholic?), I have instead lived by my own version of the 10 commandments, which go more or less like this:

Thou shalt always look after number one (that’s me, for clarification...) ‘cause you can’t expect others to.

Thou shalt smile – even if it makes thee look like a fool. Too few people engage in this ancient practice, which brightens everyone’s day – one exception to the rule; crazy men on the metro need not apply.

Thou shalt only eat food that you really like – if it’s going to end up on my hips I would need to feel lurve for the curve – and I would much rather grapple with love handles made of foie gras than a fry-up.

Thou shalt be nice(ish) – what comes around goes around. This one sits well with my newly-acquired Buddhist knowledge.

Thou shalt not spend hours obsessing over occasional spots, wrinkles or muffin tops. No one else will – not over yours in any case.

Thou shalt exercise or thee becometh a grumpy cow (this one interrelates with numbers 4 and 5).

Thou shalt look after your friends and family, because moments with them are precious and fleeting. I should know.

Thou shalt not commit a crime (stripes were never my strong suit – and I really couldn’t be someone’s ‘bitch’). Speeding, j-walking and the odd tax dodge exempted.

Thou shalt not commit adultery – married men, even engaged ones, are off-limits. This one relates back to number 4.

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s Prada dress, Laboutin shoes or Fendi bag. Just get your own…

These simple rules have served me well over the years; until I stooped. We’re all sinners, the bible would have us believe, but trust me when I say that I win this competition: hands down.

Well, I will let you be the judge.

And judging I need: A man has died: A friend’s heart has been shattered into tiny fragments: A family broken, and oh so many laws have been transgressed – moral and legal. When you stand at an intersection, like I do now, you can run or you can try to make sense of it all. So here I am trying for the more mature route. Besides, running has never been my forte – despite commandment number 6.

I guess this is as good a time as any to bring you up to speed, if any of my ramblings are going to make any sense. I am, of course, genetically programmed to keep pace with the twists and turns of my inner monologue, but then I have known ‘me’ for 35 years, or 29 depending on who’s asking.

People are so ageist these days. It’s just a number right? And with all the little fillers, injections and chemical peels available in this day and age, we can all have eternal youth, with a portrait neatly tucked away in the attic. Maybe we should just accept that there are no numbers after 29, as I recently explained to a quizzing, little person, otherwise known as Becca.

So here goes: my name is Bonnie Marianne Winter. In many ways, I am your average British female, if there is such a thing: auburn hair, freckles on a pale skin, which needs factor 75 in the summer sun or I resemble a squashed raspberry. I am average in height, though blessed with a small frame, which makes shopping in Japan a whole lot easier - but more expensive. For many the words expat wife and shopping are synonymous: our raison d’être, if you will. I buy, therefore I am. It’s what we’re reduced to.

You should by now have gleaned that I am married to David, a fellow Brit: An upstanding man of the community by anyone’s standards - loyal, dependable, though perhaps a little socially awkward. He’s dynamite in the boardroom, but when it comes to the champagne and canapé hour, he will be the first person heading for the door. Apart from the time we met, that is.

Bonnie Barber, I said stretching out my right hand to the tall handsome man waiting for us at the Purple Bar in the Sanderson Hotel in London.

Yes, David, this is the…erm, colleague at Abraham Consulting I wanted you to meet. She’s a bit of a hot shot in the company. Rising fast! If you know what I mean… Lukas, the other half of ‘us’ prattled on to the man who was now smiling at me, and taking my hand, holding it for longer than was necessary or appropriate in modern-day etiquette.

Working for a City financial PR firm, my boss, Lukas, was courting United Bank, where David was Vice President, to advise on their planned US expansion. With a deal within grasp, I was practically wheeled in for cocktails as a sweetener of sorts.

So, Bonnie. Do all the ladies dress in Alaïa back at the office? He asked cheekily, If so, I really must change jobs. He added, we both laughed, while Lukas practically wailed in delight. The ice – had there ever been any – was well a truly broken.

Lukas had, in fact, insisted I change into a sexy little black number with strappy D&G shoes to add to the overall ‘honey trap’ as he charmingly chose to call it. The red Chanel lipstick in ‘Passion’ also enhanced my otherwise modest curriculum vitae no end; expulsion from boarding schools and a 2:2 from a Polytechnic did not make for high-flying management material.

Since you’re the maverick at Abrahams, perhaps you can explain to me exactly why United Bank should mandate your agency to represent us? David mumbled close to my ear and patted the chair next to him, indicating this was my seat. Lukas was left on the far side, but did not seem to mind the slight.

Apple Martinis all around, love! He chanted at the waitress who looked way to cool to be called ‘love’, but obediently magiced up the first round in record time, much as she did the second, the third and the tenth…

The fact that my actual rank was ‘secretary’ rather than ‘associate’, ‘vice president’ or company ‘maverick’ did not transpire until the ink on the contract was dry and we were all on our second round of Alka Seltzers the morning after.

And what neither my conniving boss nor David had bargained for was that six months and a whirlwind romance later, I would become Mrs David Oscar Winter. How to classify whirlwind? A procession of restaurants, romantic dates in chic European cities and checking in and out of so many hotel rooms my head would spin, I guess qualifies in my mind at least. David might as well have been taking pages straight out of the Bonnie Book of Betrothal; the whole ‘presents from Tiffany’s, dinners at Les Deux Tours and Business Class all the way’ thing caught me hook, line and sinker. It was what I had always dreamt of: to be taken care of properly; to hand over the reins to the messy world of utility bills and red bank statements; to feel cocooned in a safe and luxurious wrapper of a world. The kind of things modern woman is not even allowed dream of, let alone speak of, without being deemed pre-historic.

The 4-carat rock presented to me in a small red and gilt-edged box over dinner in Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant in Royal Hospital Road formed an absolute and full stop to my single life. Good riddance, frankly. One night stands and meaningless flings filled me with remorse. I craved the safety and maturity David offered; I respected him as a man, a fellow human being and as my husband, as idealistic as that may sound. I was so proud to become Mrs Winter – not least because it reminded me of my favourite novel of all time: Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca.

What more can I tell you about David? Gerard Butler would without a shadow of a doubt play him in the film of his life: he has just the right combination of beau laid, as the French so accurately put it. A real man: None of this new age lark, like sharing of dinner bills, opening your own doors, couples discount to the knitting class.

And he believed in me. Little ol’ me. With his encouragement (and, admittedly, the signing of his bank’s account to our PR firm), I moved from PA to AD (associate director) in a few short months. No one was more surprised than me to discover that I actually had a knack for the business; press releases practically wrote themselves; marketing campaigns with flare became my forte and even client presentations were doable (albeit with a swift gin or two, beforehand, to steady my nerves). Oprah Winfrey was my heroine and ambition a surprising bed partner. It was a fun and not unglamorous game while it lasted.

The wedding day itself was a fine affair of Vera Wang, Veuve Clicquot and the most adorable little Theo Fennell keepsakes for the guests. To say that it was the best day of my life is a cliché, but it is also true. I recall the day itself in glimpses, like a flickering projector movie in black and white; the pews covered in Lily of the Valley; the smiling faces all around me; the tears wanting to well up in my eyes and fighting to keep them from ruining my immaculate bridal make-up.

Are you ready? Aunt Linda asked me as we waited outside the gates to the church before the music started.

I am, I pronounced in much the same manner I would later say; I do. And an usher swung the door open on the congregation that were all standing, waiting for the ‘beautiful’ bride: a joyous occasion with so much goodwill floating around you could solve Middle East Peace Process if only you could bottle it.

I remember how Aunt Linda squeezed my arm as we walked up the aisle together; and finally my beautiful David standing tall and proud in front of the priest, his eyes saying everything Bach’s Air on a G String (who knew they had G strings back in those days...?) and the occasion itself would not allow.

In no time, the priest declared: You may kiss the bride to the cheer and standing ovation of the crowd. If you could press the freeze button right there, at that pinnacle and just live in that very moment, would it not be bliss? Inevitably, the day progressed and my internal cinematography flipped to the wedding party, where David’s mother, Dorothy, sidled up to me in a more quiet moment.

Bonnie, dear. You are so very young and life has just begun for you. You must be patient and remember that husbands are like fires. They go out when unattended. Happiness is what you have when looking back on a life well-lived, so live it well – forget about the small things and remember what’s important… Then she kissed me on the cheek and trotted off, with the hat slightly off kilter, which made me wonder if she’d been hitting the Veuve too hard. Dorothy was usually all sweetness and light, in an upper middle class kind of way. Husbands are like fires?

My whole life until that day had been a preparation for this event: Very stylish and very lavish, but then David had waited 35 years for the day. And as Dorothy had accurately ascertained, I was a young bride at 23. Many of my peers still harboured lofty ideas of making it on their own before settling down. Many of these same women remain single to this day, having fallen foul of ‘have it all’ impossibility we seem to face these days. In truth, it is far easier to solve the chicken and egg conundrum than to decide whether husband and family come before or after career.

David is my safe harbour and I have loved him since that faithful night of endless Apple Martinis at the Sanderson; which is why we had been together for 10 years shortly after arriving in Tokyo.

But it’s not been all gourmet dinners and shopping at Harvey Nichols – or Mitsukoshi since arriving in Tokyo. We have produced two fine specimens in our time together. Little Benjamin came