Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (21 page)

He kept glancing back from the counter and smiling shyly at her, and the moment she smiled back he turned away. It was because he was intimidated by her sophistication, Phoebe thought. Maybe she should not have dressed in this high-glamour way. She began to feel guilty for planning to use him for financial gain; perhaps he did not deserve that. But he was a man, he liked her, she could sense her power over him—he was ideal. She should not let the opportunity slip. Maybe he could even become a boyfriend. Who knew?

He returned with their drinks, a small coffee for her, a pot of Longjing for himself.

“Oh, sorry,” Phoebe said, “let me move my handbag.” She shifted the bag slightly to make space for the drinks but did not move it off the table.

“That’s a very stylish bag,” he said, his gaze resting on it.

“What? Oh, hmm.” Phoebe did not want to acknowledge his remark too much; she wanted to show that such a luxury-brand bag was not a big
deal in her life. But her ploy had worked. The 1,000-
kuai
investment, the careful selection of the brand—it had all been worth it.

“LV is so popular in China these days,” he said, “even though it is so expensive. You must have a very good job.”

“I could do better, but it’s fine for now; it pays the bills. Everything in Shanghai costs so much lately,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “Tell me, what do you think of the new fiscal measures introduced by the government to cool down the overheated property market? I’ve been looking to buy a new place, but apartment prices are just crazy right now.” She had paid special attention to the duller parts of the newspaper, committing to memory such expressions as “fiscal measures” and “overheated property market.”

“You sound knowledgeable about property—don’t tell me you’re one of those rich speculators!” As he spoke, she could tell that he was impressed by her chic demeanor. He would look at her but would not dare to hold her gaze for too long. Although he was careful not to show it, she could also tell that he was still a little intimidated, because he would occasionally look at her legs and the skin around her breastbone, which she had left exposed to the November chill. But, above all, his nervy glances kept returning to her handbag, which was still sitting on the table between them. She began to feel sorry for this man; he was so easily browbeaten and beguiled by her feminine allure that for a moment she wondered if she should soften her approach to him. But then she thought, No, this is what it means to be a modern woman in Shanghai. He was a Functional Man: His purpose was to be dominated by women like her.
Honey, if you don’t take advantage of men from time to time, you can bet your bottom dollar they’ll soon take advantage of you
.

“Of course I’m not a property tycoon,” Phoebe said. “My parents are quite generous—they allow me to live with them—but I would like more independence.”

“If I were you,” the Functional Man said, “I wouldn’t bother to buy a place now. You’re still so young. In a few years, property prices will hit rock bottom. Why? Think about it: I am thirty-four years old. When my parents die, I am going to inherit their apartment. My wife … well, I’m not married yet, but when I do get married, my wife will also inherit an apartment from her parents. That means when we die, our child will inherit two apartments. If our child gets married, his wife will also inherit two
apartments. So if the one-child policy continues, everyone is going to have four apartments: Who’s going to want all of these places? You’ll be able to buy them for nothing!”

Phoebe was impressed by his logic—she would never have been able to think like this. He truly was a man of practical thinking! She said, “That’s very interesting. What else do you think?”

They talked about all sorts of things—the Functional Man really knew how to speak. She was pleased with the way the date was going, because she knew that he was enamored of her (
when men talk a lot, it’s a sign that they’ve let their guard down—you’ve got them!
). However, she was careful to remain aloof, leaning back in her seat and giving him cool looks to demonstrate her superiority and desirability.

“I’m sorry, I think I’m boring you,” he said after a while.

“No, why do you say that?”

“No reason. You seem a bit fidgety, that’s all. Do you need to go to the restroom?”

“No, I don’t. But I would like another drink. Maybe some tea. Wait a second, I’ll get this round.”

“Out of the question; a man cannot let a beautiful young woman pay for anything.” He reached inside his jacket, and Phoebe could not help that her eyes were drawn to the spot where his wallet lay.

“Hey, big brother, this is the modern world, you know.”
Do little things for a man when he least expects it, and you will soon reap the rewards
. As she reached for her handbag, she felt the tinkling laugh rise up in her throat again. She unzipped her bag and reached inside it for her wallet made of glossy red leather with a gold buckle that was bound to attract his attention. She went to the counter, ordered their drinks, and waited patiently in the queue to collect them. She decided to maintain her cool superiority, so she did not turn around to look at him; she did not want him to think that she was anxious to get back to him or that she was fascinated by him. She wanted to remain unattainable, just as her self-help books said she should. Everything she had learned from them so far was serving her well. She stood upright—as straight as she could, given her high heels—and she made sure she pulled her shoulder blades back so that they squeezed together. He would be excited by the sight of this, for sure he would be. The warm air from the heater vent blew softly on her bare shoulders and swept around her neck, and the tight dress she was wearing clung to her buttocks;
when she shifted her position to collect the tray from across the counter, she could feel the fabric stretch around her hips, the seams cutting gently into her flesh.

As she turned to make her way back to their seats, she was disoriented by a group of high school kids wandering past, and for a moment she could not locate her table. She looked for the Functional Man, the shape of his functional body, but could not see it. Then she saw, clearly, the table at which they had been sitting, tucked in the corner next to the newspaper rack. The magazine she had been reading earlier lay on the brown armchair she had occupied, just as she had left it when she got up to buy the drinks, but there was no one at the table. As she wandered over, she hoped that she was making a mistake, that this was not in fact the table she had been at, that she would suddenly hear the Functional Man’s voice calling out to her from another spot in the room, saying,
Ei
, you silly girl, it’s over here, or, Little miss, I’ve moved to a better spot. But even as she thought these hopeful thoughts, she knew it was no use; she knew what had happened.

She stared at the table. Her handbag was gone. She looked around, but she knew she would not see the man. She had been wrong about him. He had not been functional after all.

As she sat pretending to drink her scalding hot tea, she kept her eyes down, averting her gaze from the people in the café. She was sure they were still looking at her, and she felt humiliated by their stares. They were all thinking, That stupid girl, she was so foolish. Abandoned by a man, and robbed too.

Phoebe Chen Aiping, do not let this city crush you down
.

She lifted her eyes, challenging all the people in the world to look at her—she wanted to confront them and scream at them. But no one was watching her. A mother and her daughter were sitting across from her, the small child playing with a handheld video device. Some boys were laughing and showing one another photos they had taken on their mobile phones. A young white man with his hair in short twisty dreadlocks was reading a Chinese newspaper. A businessman was talking loudly to himself, both hands moving angrily, jerking as if he were trying to throw something across the room. It took Phoebe a while to realize that he was not mad, that he had a wire dangling from his ear and was talking to someone on the phone.

As Phoebe walked out onto the streets, she thought about the things in her handbag—the money she had hidden in the inner lining, the makeup she had bought at great expense, her mobile phone, full of the names and numbers of friends she had made since coming to China, people who could help her. They were all gone now, vanished in the encroaching Shanghai winter.

She wrapped her coat around her, felt how cheap and thin it was. What could she expect? It was a low-quality fake, just like her. She had not noticed how lousy it was before, because her body was warmed by optimism, because her life was about to change. Now, she thought, maybe it never will. As she wandered aimlessly through the streets, she felt her shoulders hunch and tense against the cold. The fallen leaves of the plane trees lay thickly on the ground and crackled sharply as she walked on them, and whenever there was a gust of wind, the leaves would swirl around her feet, encircling her ankles.

She stopped outside a shopwindow and stared at her reflection. She looked red-cheeked and sad. Her hair had fallen flat across her forehead, and there were tears in her eyes. It was because of the cold bitter wind, she thought, not because she was crying. No, it was not because she was crying. It had begun to rain, a fine misty drizzle that made the air look gray and the shapes of the buildings vague, as if viewed through a veil. She could feel the moisture gathering on her head, her hair clinging to her face—it felt so damp and sticky and cold.

As she shuffled closer to the shop to take shelter from the rain, she noticed that it had a curious awning made of wood, and when she looked up she saw that it was in the shape of the roof of a village hut, something rustic from Southeast Asia. It was similar to the roofs of the houses on the edge of the jungle from her childhood. The sign on the door was very small, very classy and discreet. It read,
APSARA THAI
spa. Inside, she could see walls lined with smooth dark timber and floors of expensive black marble. There was a bamboo cabinet with glass bottles displayed like artwork next to a counter made from gray stone. It was not the sort place for people like her, Phoebe thought, but all the same, she found herself walking through the door. She clutched at her purse; it was all that she had now. The money in it was not very much, just enough to pay her share of the rent for this month and buy food for her and Yanyan—not proper food but instant noodles and maybe some skewers or
xiaolongbao
or
noodles from the stalls around Qipu Lu. Just once in her life, she would like to enjoy what other people had, Phoebe thought. Just once, she would like to experience life as a person of comfort and wealth, a happy person. And then she would never wish for anything again; she would become a poor person forever. She would accept it. After all, it was her destiny in life to be poor, as it was other people’s destiny to be rich. It had always been this way; she’d been foolish to think she could change her fate.

She sat on a bench covered in fine silk, worrying that her damp coat would soil the beautiful cloth. There was no one around, and the place was in semidarkness. There were glass jars with unlit candles everywhere, and the air-conditioning was so silent you could not hear it. She heard music, stringed instruments and flutes whose notes were familiar to her ears. Flowing water. Sounds from her childhood. She opened her purse and counted the notes in it. What would Yanyan say if she saw Phoebe right now, about to spend all this money on a manicure, money they could use to buy food and warm clothes for the winter? The cold wind was already sweeping through the windows of their little room now; they could feel winter descending on them. In the mornings when they woke up, they would remain in bed, their bodies stiff and painful after a freezing night. They’d said that they would save money to buy a small heater or more thick blankets so at least they wouldn’t be cold at night, but they never seemed to have enough spare cash. Soon, Phoebe had promised, very soon.

Just once. She wanted just once to know what it felt like to be rich, just for one hour.

But she closed her wallet, feeling the buckle clasp firmly shut, and tucked it back into her coat pocket. Then she bowed her head and rested there for a few moments, while she gathered enough strength to go back out into the cold.

M
ORNING: THE DISTANT NOISES OF CONSTRUCTION WORK; THE
rhythmic pounding of pile drivers that seemed to travel up through the soil, into the fabric of the building, underpinning the growing hum of traffic; the beeping of scooters; the sounds of buses squealing to a halt. Afternoon: children’s after-school laughter echoing in the hallways and stairwell, and rising from the streets below. Dinnertime: the lively clang of steel on steel; the rushing fizz of hot oil; the scraping of plastic stools on bare floors; the ceramic clink of plates and bowls being laid out; the sound of happy families. Evening: off-key karaoke singing; the tangle of voices making it impossible to identify the tunes of the songs.