Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (49 page)

That night, after a long shower, Gary gets into bed. For the first time in weeks, he feels ready for sleep. He is not fidgety or anxious as he usually is. He has sung ten good songs to a small, appreciative audience and had a proper dinner for the first time in months. Just out of habit, he takes a quick look at his computer screen before turning out the light. In the MSN chat box, he sees Phoebe’s name and photo. It is nearly two o’clock in the morning. He hesitates for a moment before typing:

hi

Hi

Are you okay?

Yes, you?

Gary stops. There is something strange about her responses—they are delayed, much slower than they usually are. He realizes that she must be chatting to someone else at the same time, for she seems preoccupied.

Where have you been? I was … worried

Work is very busy

But you surely don’t work until after midnight? Why didn’t you log on at all?

I went out

Every night?

En.

Whom with?

Friends

Which friends?

People you don’t know. Why all these strange questions?

They’re not strange. I was just worried because I stayed up every night looking for you and you did not come online

Don’t u have a life? Why do u stay up all night waiting for me? This is not a good situation

So you have a boyfriend now?

None of your business. Anyway, can we change the subject? You are really giving me a bad mood

Okay
.

She tells him about work, the same stories about the same girls with the same problems. But he is not in the right mood to listen to these stories. After two weeks’ absence, she should not be recounting boring stories about her colleagues. They should be talking about serious, life-changing aspects of their days. He should be telling her about the gig he just did. Maybe it is because he has waited so long to tell her such important things about himself that he now feels frustrated—he is not sure why, but something does not feel right in his head tonight; he has never felt like this with Phoebe before. He thinks about all the pieces of his life that he has assembled, ready to show her, but now they seem superfluous, for she is not interested in him. She talks and talks, and his only response is the occasional
En
, but still she does not sense that he is distracted and that maybe he doesn’t want to hear about these banal details. Usually she is quick to pick up on his moods, sensing when he is depressed or anxious or joyful, but tonight she does not seem to care. All that matters to her are these boring tales about her workplace, which he has heard many times before.

Sorry
, he says suddenly, interrupting her.
I have something to tell you
.

There is a slight hesitation before she replies:

What is it? It sounds like bad news
.

No, it’s a good thing. Happy news
.

But all at once he does not feel happy. All the optimism and excitement he previously felt is gone. Bottling up the news that he was so eager to release has enervated him, and now he is feeling deflated.

So … tell me, what is it?

It is as if she, too, is not very interested in what he has to tell her. But he knows that if he does not go ahead and reveal himself to her, his life will remain the same forever, unchanging in its loneliness. The timing does not feel right now, but perhaps it never will. He says:

I want to send you a photo of myself
.

Ha-ha-ha
. Ei,
you scared me for a moment. I thought you were going to say you had a life-threatening disease like pancreatic cancer or AIDS
.

No, I just want to send you some photos of myself, so that you know who I
am.

I told you, I don’t care who you are in real life. If you are an African man hoping to bamboozle me out of all my money, I don’t care. If you are a Muslim man with four wives, I don’t care. If you are a high-ranking Party official, I don’t care. Even if you are Wen Jiabao, I don’t care. All that matters is that you are nice to me
.

I want you to know me. I know so much about you, and I want us to be equal
.

You don’t have to, really
.

I want to. I need to. I want to share myself with someone. Please
.

Okay, sure
.

He sends her a picture of himself—a publicity shot from last year, in which he is dressed casually, posing in a lush tropical garden in Singapore. It is a high-quality professional photograph that takes a long time for her computer to download.

HA-HA. That is funny!

Why?

Because I told you recently that I used to like Gary, so you sent me a photo of him! Ha-ha. Wah, I am relieved! I was so nervous—for a moment, I thought you were actually going to send me a photo of yourself! You naughty devil! I should have known you were just going to play a practical joke on me as usual. This is why I like you so much … you really know how to make me laugh and cheer me up when I am depressed
.

But that is me
.

HA-HA-HA-HA

No, seriously, I am Gary
.

You are so funny! Really. I appreciate the joke a lot. It’s been a hard few days for me, and I need to laugh a bit
.

I can send you another photo to prove it. Wait a second
.

Ei
 … I just can’t stop laughing
.

He looks through the images he has prepared, trying to locate a photo of himself in an informal setting—an arty black-and-white shot of himself and Elva Hsiao at a recording session in the studio, where they are
looking at the score sheet of the duet they recorded together in 2008. He is wearing a wool beanie and looks as if he has just tumbled out of bed, but in fact the photo was professionally styled and printed in an avant-garde magazine some time before.

Wow, where did you find this cool photo? I thought the song Gary did with Elva was nice, but their voices didn’t go together. What do you think?

He hesitates for a moment: Instinct and habit make him want to refer to Gary in the third person, but he stops himself, remembering his task at hand.

It was a difficult record to make; we were under a lot of pressure. Our record companies forced us to do the duet because we looked good together. And also because of the gossip going around at the time …

HA-HA-HA. Really, you are too good! Wah, you have hidden talents; you can even imitate Gary. What gossip—do you mean all the gay gossip? Everyone knows they did not go out together. She was just a front for him—a publicity stunt. All these celebrities—you never know who is benefiting from who. Everything is about advertising. Their whole lives are a fake
.

Yes, I know. That is why you need to know who I am, so I can stop pretending
.

Okay, okay, you have impressed me. It’s a great joke. Ha-ha, really
.

So you believe me?

Yes, yes, I believe you, Mr. Gary
.

Great
.

Hang on, I have to get a tissue, I was crying with laughter. Okay, now tell me, what have you been up to today? How was work?

I had a performance a couple of weeks ago, really depressing. Wanted to tell you about it but you didn’t come online at all. That’s why I’ve been down. Because I wanted to tell you what my work is—all the lousy little concerts I have to do these days. But now my luck is changing, I think. I’ve been offered the chance to sing my own songs, the ones you’ve been encouraging me to write … some important guy asked me to sing at the big Sichuan earthquake charity concert that’s coming up soon
.

Okay, you can stop the joke now, it’s not funny anymore
.

But I AM Gary. I can prove it to you. What do you want as proof?

Okay, okay, really, that’s too much now
.

But I swear to you on my ancestors’ graves, I am Gary. What more do you want? You want to go on Skype so you can see me on cam? Yes, let’s do that!

No—what are you, some kind of pervert??

Please, give me a chance to prove to you who I am. I am really Gary
.

Stop it now, please. Anyway, if you are Gary, you wouldn’t be interested in me, because everyone knows he is gay
.

Don’t go. I want you to stay and see me. I need you to know me
.

You are frightening me
.

Wait one second, I beg you. I can tell you something no one knows about me, not even my agent. On my left inner thigh I have a scar in the shape of a star. I got it because I fell onto a sharp spike while I was trying to climb a fence to pick some fruit in someone’s garden. I had to walk home such a long way. I was only six or seven years old, and when I got home I fainted, and when my mother came home she thought I was dead. No one knows this, only me, my mother … and now you
.

I think … you are a weirdo. I am going to log off now
.

WAIT!

Quickly, he sends her the last photo, which he has saved as undeniable proof of his identity: the one he took of himself on his mobile phone, alone at the seaside in Ibiza, the blue-gold dawn in the background.

Okay, this is too scary now. How did you get this picture?

I took it myself, on my phone
.

No, you must have stolen it. You are sick. I should report you to the police. You disgust me
.

Really, I am telling you the truth
.

Goodbye, you FREAK
.

He tries to send her messages, but none of them go through. She has blocked all online messages from him. He sends emails every day, begging her to forgive him, but after a week he knows that she is no longer even reading these messages and that she has probably changed her email and MSN accounts, making it impossible for him ever to contact her again.

L
ATER THAT WEEK, YINGHUI PAID HER SHARE OF THE MONEY INTO
the bank account of the joint-venture company that she had set up with Walter. They were, so far, the only two signatories to the account and its only directors, a cozy intimacy she was beginning to enjoy. There was a compactness and solidity to the pairing that felt safe to her, and she began to wonder if it might be possible for them to proceed and complete the project without anyone else—just the two of them. Although she knew it was impossible—a project this size would very soon require additional directors to look after other growing facets of the business—she felt that if she could at least push ahead with a few ideas and establish several key aspects of the development, such as the precise use of the building (what percentage of it would be community-based, artistic, charitable, commercial, et cetera?) as well as the raising of further financing in the near future, she would cement her position at the head of the deal. Whoever else came on board subsequently would assume a position secondary to hers, even though on paper they might all be codirectors. By then, she would already be more than just the right-hand woman of the tycoon Walter; she would be his equal, the two of them acknowledged as the pioneering visionaries of the project.

On the day she paid in the money, she stayed up late into the night writing a report entitled “Next Steps: The Way Forward”—best to be
direct—outlining what she thought should be done in the coming weeks in order to drive the project forward. She emailed it to Walter immediately, together with a note informing him that she had paid in her share of the capital as a sign of her commitment to their joint venture and that she sincerely believed that they ought to capitalize on the momentum they had built thus far to speed up proceedings.

It did occur to her that the tone of both her paper and her email was a touch too businesslike, ignoring the personal rapport they had established, a connection that seemed to have been strengthening more quickly than their actual working relationship. This troubled Yinghui, for she realized that she was less skilled at navigating the murky waters of courtship than she had thought—it had been so long since her last romantic voyage, after all, and, contrary to what her girlfriends said, it was not like riding a bicycle: One
did
forget. She did not enjoy the sensation of not being in control; the symptoms of her lack of authority over the situation were irrational flashes of jealousy and suspicion—the feeling that she was walking on a slope of loose rocks that were ready to give way at any moment. So she decided to fall back onto more familiar territory—the dealings of business, where she was in total command.

Walter did not reply to her email all day; it was only after lunch the following day—a whole thirty hours after she’d sent him her thoughts on the way forward—that he replied with an email that read:
Noted. Thanks
. She tried to read between the lines, attempting to get a sense of the message he was conveying to her, for surely this meant more than two scant words, which in themselves signified little. It came across as a snub, a rapid shrinking of interest or a sharp change in direction. She read her paper again, looking out for anything she might have said to offend him, but could find nothing. Immediately, she picked up the phone and rang him: It was better to clear the air than to harbor minor grievances, she thought. That was something she had learned after many years in business—if something bothers you, simply challenge it, and you will see that the solution is much simpler than you might have thought. But his phone was switched off, and even though she left a message, it was not until much later that evening that he rang back. He was ringing from Beijing, he said, from a cab; she was relieved to know that his silence had been due to several hours in an airplane.