Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (29 page)

“Oh, sure.” Phoebe shrugged, opening her wallet and producing the stolen ID card. She handed it over without even glancing at it, as if it were the most boring object in the world. “As you can see, I’m much more attractive in real life.”

The woman took the card from Phoebe before walking over to the photocopying machine in the corridor. She laughed and said, “Everyone is much more attractive in real life.” She took a while to figure out which buttons to press, and finally, while the copies were being printed out, she looked up at a calendar pinned to the wall in front of her. It had a photo of a snowy valley, the hills covered in frosted pine trees. “In fact, everything is better in real life. Reality is beautiful; imagination is dangerous—it’ll let you down if you’re not careful.”

Phoebe did not answer. She looked at the sheets of paper sliding out of the photocopier into the tray. Xu Chunyan, twenty-two years of age, slim-jawed, dreamy, full of hope. The machine fell silent and the woman looked at the copy of the ID card. “Yes, you do look better in real life!”

They walked back out into the black-marbled reception area and paused in front of the exit. The music was still playing in the empty
space—flowing water and birds in a bamboo forest—anticipating the many customers who would soon be walking through the doors. But for now they were the only two people there.

“Can you come on Saturday morning, please? My PA will be here to give you some basic training. I like my people to work to certain uniform standards throughout my companies. She’ll also sort out paperwork and finances. We haven’t got the accounts a hundred percent ready, so when you come we will give you your first month’s salary in cash. Is that okay? My PA will work everything out with you. Hey, we haven’t even discussed salary. But let me assure you, we will pay more than most of our competitors.”

“For me, financial remuneration is not as important as job satisfaction,” Phoebe said. She was amazed by how much of her books she had absorbed.

“Great. I have to rush now. I don’t know how often I will be able to come here, but I will get reports of your progress from my PA.” She reached into her pocket for her cardholder and handed Phoebe her name card as she left. Her name was written in Chinese on one side and English on the other. She did not have an elegant Western-sounding name like Landy or Wena or Apple or Bambi, just a transliteration of her Chinese name.
LEONG YINGHUI
. It was boring but inspired confidence, Phoebe thought. Knowing the woman’s name made her feel safe, though she could not explain why. It was an unremarkable name but it suited the woman so well; she wasn’t pretending or trying to be anyone else. Phoebe wanted to work for this woman; she would work hard and do her best. She felt a seed of unease remembering the face of the girl on the ID card, the face that was hers now, yet she found she was quickly able to suppress those anxieties with the sheer force of her mental strength.
You must overturn all your old beliefs in order to succeed in life
. All she had to do was to concentrate on the glorious future ahead of her and none of her lies would ever matter again.

“Phoebe Xu Chunyan, see you again. Good luck. I think you will be a success with us. I hope so.” She switched the lights and the music off, then held the door open for Phoebe before locking it behind her. A car pulled up alongside the pavement, a large silver Toyota. Leong Yinghui got into the car; she was already checking her BlackBerry and did not look up as the car pulled away, leaving Phoebe standing alone.

The rain had dampened everything, and the fallen leaves were a thick slippery carpet that made the ground beneath Phoebe’s feet feel uncertain, as if she were moving in a world of no fixed place. When she was working in Guangdong, drifting from one temporary job to another together with millions of other migrant workers, people used to call her kind of existence “a floating life.” For so long, that was how she lived, in a floating world in which everyone longed for something more stable, in which every minute of her day was spent waiting for real life to happen, a life that would make it possible to have a home and a family. She had spent so long in that situation that even now she found it hard to lose this feeling of transience, the sense that nothing would last. But she knew that she was leaving that floating world behind, finally, and that from now on her life would become firm and rooted in the concrete foundations of this city.

Her feet had become wet from walking in the rain and kicking through the leaves, and when she looked down she could see where the moisture had seeped through the toes of her shoes, staining them a dark red, almost black, like blood. That’s what happens when you buy cheap goods, Phoebe thought; fake leather looks great until you use it in demanding situations, and then it shows its true colors and lets you down. This was the last pair of fake-leather shoes she would ever buy in her life, she thought, because in three days’ time she would have the normal salary of a normal working person in Shanghai. She would be able to buy clothes from the big Japanese chain stores and eat in restaurants in the new shopping malls all over the city, where the floors were clean and there were no bad smells from the open drains.

The rain was falling heavily now, the drops tapping noisily on the hood of her coat. The air smelled of moss and smoke. She stopped walking and, turning around, raised her hand. There was a taxi approaching, and it stopped as it reached her. When she opened the door and got in, the driver simply waited to be told where to go, as he would with anyone else in the world. He did not look at her shoes or criticize her dress; he only glanced at her briefly in the rearview mirror, repeated the destination, and nodded his head. He did not know it was the first time she had ever taken a taxi in Shanghai; he simply assumed she was just like everyone else.

She did not take the taxi home; she asked instead to be taken to People’s Square. She joined the queue at a famous
xiaolongbao
store that she
had heard of, the long line of people trailing halfway down Zhenghe Lu. She stood patiently in the rain, the hood of her coat pulled loosely over her head. When it was her turn, she bought the best crabmeat dumplings, and then she took another taxi home.

“Waaaaaaahhh,”
Yanyan cried when Phoebe showed her the dumplings. “
Toooo
good!” Phoebe ate two and left the rest for Yanyan. They were delicious, the best food she had ever tasted in her whole life, so rich in flavor that they made her realize how colorless her life had become, so empty of perfume and complexity. Only two mouthfuls, two morsels of food, made her whole body yearn for more. But she didn’t mind leaving the rest for Yanyan, because in just three days’ time she could afford to eat them whenever she wanted. She would have more. And more and more.

IN THE WEEKS THAT
followed, Phoebe made sure she seized every opportunity to present her most outstanding qualities, such as her willingness to learn and absorb new ideas, as well as her capacity for hard work over long hours. Even when she felt herself coming down with the winter flu that was afflicting everyone in the city, she pretended that nothing was wrong, for she did not want to risk taking one day off work. She feared being replaced, even temporarily. She needed to grasp each chance that came her way and treat every day as a new challenge.

She took bookings by phone, speaking with the utmost courtesy, even subservience, to the female clients, and allowing just the smallest amount of flirtatiousness to enter her voice if ever she spoke to a man. She did so by nature nowadays, occasionally catching herself if she went too far. She was nice to men not because she had to be but because she wanted to be. She was glad she no longer had to tell men any lies or flatter them outrageously. If she laughed with them or cajoled them into taking the most expensive massages, it was because she genuinely wanted them to enjoy the best experience possible.
Give yourself entirely to your work, and in return your work will treat you with respect
. She remembered everything she had read from her books, and now it was paying off.

For the first two weeks, the manager apologized for not having yet hired a second receptionist to relieve Phoebe’s workload, and even Boss Leong rang several times to apologize for the difficulty they were having in
finding a suitable colleague for Phoebe. “It’s no hardship at all,” Phoebe replied brightly, “I can manage everything. Please, take your time. Even if you don’t want to hire anyone, it’s fine with me. Actually, I think that one receptionist is sufficient.”

“We don’t want to be exploitative,” Boss Leong said. “While we look for someone, we will pay you double overtime—in recognition of your hard work.”

On three separate occasions, young women came in off the street seeking work as a receptionist or administrator. She recognized the look they wore—hungry, hard-eyed, desperate. They had decent qualifications and could easily have done the work Phoebe was doing. Each time, she apologized for the lack of work. “But if you let me have your résumé, I will contact you if there is a vacancy. Could you, um, please leave now? Sorry, but our exclusive clients don’t like seeing random people like you wandering in here.”

Twelve hours a day, seven days a week, Phoebe answered the telephone, greeted people at the door, organized the schedule, served lemongrass tea to waiting clients, and made sure that the masseuses and beauticians maintained a harmonious existence. She gave the masseuses a daily lecture on the importance of professionalism and propriety, especially when dealing with male clients and even more so with Japanese and Western clients, who might have preconceptions of the services on offer. Once, she saw that an American client had discreetly given his phone number to his masseuse as he paid the bill. The next morning, at the daily staff gathering, she took great pleasure in announcing that the girl would be fired for being in breach of basic rules, and it should serve as an example to everyone else. Everyone said, “Phoebe is so professional; she is just like the manager here. Surely she will soon be on a manager’s salary.”

Her new workplace also made it possible for her impeccable personal grooming to shine as brightly as her impressive work ethic. The spa’s uniform suited her; it was a slim black tunic made of raw silk, cut in the Southeast Asian manner that fit snugly around her waist and flared out over her hips. On the advice of Boss Leong’s PA, who also acted as the manager of operations, Phoebe changed her hairstyle, piling it up in a big bun in imitation of Singapore air hostesses. Sometimes she would catch sight of herself in the mirrored wall that lined one side of the reception
area and be amazed that the person in the reflection was Phoebe Chen Aiping. Lit by soft spotlights and candles, she looked as if she had been born into this elegant world. She did not look the tiniest bit out of place.

When the manager arranged for a photographer to shoot images of the spa and of the personnel, Phoebe persuaded him to take a few photos of her dressed in her uniform. His results overjoyed Phoebe. The moment the photographer sent her the portraits, she placed them on her profile page on the various dating websites she belonged to, replacing the ones Yanyan had recently taken of her standing on the banks of Suzhou Creek, which now looked amateurish—her smile was too forced, her provocative outfits too lavish for the humble setting of the public riverbank. The images that represented her now were classy and romantic, and it was just a matter of time before she found the right kind of man.

With the long hours she was spending at work, Phoebe was no longer able to spend so much time on the Internet, and, besides, real life, as Boss Leong had said, was so much more fascinating. But the problem with real life was that it did not offer opportunities to meet real-life men. Every day there would be men in the spa, and often they would be rich, good-looking men. But Phoebe demanded professionalism from all her staff, and she knew that the best way to achieve the desired results was to lead by example. (On the way to work every day, she read her books, which taught her many instructive tips. For example, she should perform duties way above her position, in order to gain promotion more quickly:
Behave as if you are the boss, and soon you will be the boss
.) Therefore, she forbade herself any form of intimate involvement with her clients, even though, after less than two months, there were already regular clients who came back time after time because they were drawn to Phoebe’s charming manner and the excellent personal service she provided. For example, there was the man who came to pick up his wife after her weekly massage, who always made sure he came a few minutes early so that he could sit and watch Phoebe. Even though he pretended to read a magazine, she knew that he was appreciating her elegant movements and petite figure, which were accentuated by her slim-fitting black dress. She granted him a small, courteous smile only as she brought him a cup of tea. She did not wish to encourage him further.

Then there was the Taiwanese man who came twice a week, once for a Balinese seaweed-wrap massage, the other for a Shanghainese pedicure.
Phoebe had seen on his form that he was only twenty-six, yet he dressed in immaculate designer clothing and always engaged her in lively, amusing chats, often making daring jokes. He had a smooth, clear complexion, and Phoebe had to admit that the moment he walked in the door she felt happy and thought, This man would make a wonderful husband. One day he came in with another man who looked just like him, a local boy who laughed and joked in Shanghainese with the manicurist who had treated his friend. As he did so, he traced his fingers over the outlines of the Taiwanese boy’s hands, which were smooth and waxy and glowing after his manicure. Phoebe looked away as she handed them the credit-card machine; she did not want to look at them touching each other. “Phoebe fancies a gay guy,” the other girls teased later. “His boyfriend is more feminine than you!”

In a city of 20 million people, it was impossible to meet men—all the girls at the spa agreed. They came from all over China, they were all here to make money and find a partner, but they were beginning to realize it was hopeless. All they could do was concentrate on their work and send money home so their parents could build a nice house in their village that would attract a nice boy; then they would go home and marry him, a slow-witted son of a farmer who had never ventured outside their province, maybe had never even gone to the provincial capital. And the girls, they would give up their dream of getting married to a successful doctor or banker. Their adventure would last a few years, and then, when they gotten too old, they would just go home. “Going out”: That was something that belonged to their youth, a scary, thrilling ride that began in their late teens and lasted into their twenties; but they did not want to be thirty-five and unmarried, alone, childless. They looked at all these well-educated women in Shanghai who dressed well and had good jobs but were still single, unwanted—
remaindered
. What use was that? They had made a bit of money, their parents had a fridge and color TV, there was enough money for an extension in the house, and they could even afford to hire help during the harvest season. Soon they would go home, to Anhui or Hunan or Sichuan or the frozen Northeast. They had gone out, but soon they would go home.