Читать книгу: «The Little Teashop in Tokyo»

To Nick, Ellie and Matt, who thankfully are all brilliant at fending for themselves.

Chapter 1
Haneda International Airport, Tokyo

‘Blend in, Fiona, blend in,’ she told herself, the mantra an old and familiar one, while rubbing the back of one calf with her leg like an awkward stork and tugging at the tail of her long blonde plait. Which was totally ridiculous when she was surrounded by teeny tiny women scurrying about like super busy ants. Next to the petite, fey females with their delicate features and thick, lustrous, glossy hair, she felt like a woolly mammoth that had somehow lumbered onto a Paris catwalk. For a horrible moment it was like being back at school, surrounded by the cool girls and their scornful dismissal.

She sucked in what was supposed to be a calming breath but instead sounded more like a tortured wheeze. All around her people were being met, their names held up on little signs by slender men in immaculate suits. She was starting to remember what it was like never to be picked in PE, the duffer that no one wanted on their team.

Trying not to look as anxious as she felt, she peered again at the white signs, praying she’d spot her name. Her ears were ringing with that big-airport echo and her spine tingled with an increasing sense of dislocation. The flight had landed an hour ago, her baggage disgorged with what she’d already realised was Japanese optimum efficiency and here she was still waiting. It was tempting to check the document stuffed in her bag with all the details but doing that, again, would feel too needy and nervous. Trust the piece of paper and the promises made therein, Fiona, she told herself. She was here. She was bold. It was no secret she was massively out of her comfort zone but she was going to do this. Despite her mother’s reservations, this was the opportunity of a lifetime and one that she’d never believed would happen to her.

Winning the prize of an all-expenses-paid trip to Japan in conjunction with the Faculty of Arts at the Tokyo University Polytechnic was brilliant enough but the chance to exhibit her photographs at the Japan Centre in London was the icing on the cake. She was so thankful that she’d signed up for the evening course run by one of the London universities.

Digging her hand into her pocket, her fingers rubbed over the smooth ivory of the netsuke, the little carved figure that would once have been worn as part of traditional Japanese dress. The little rabbit carving travelled everywhere with her, the only thing she had from her father who died when she was a baby. It had inspired a vague, loose interest in Japan, so that when the competition had been announced, even without the prompting of her bossy friend Avril, she’d been tempted to enter. Avril had pushed temptation into action.

And now here she was for two weeks. Two weeks of experiencing everything Japan had to offer, including a mentoring programme with one of the best photographers in the world, Yutaka Araki. She’d worked hard on her application form and whether she believed it or not, she deserved to be here.

Her fingers itched to retrieve the carefully folded white piece of paper in her bag, for the reassurance of reading it just once more. Stop, she told herself, you know it quite clearly says that you’ll be met at Haneda International Airport. Someone with one of those neat little whiteboards bearing your name will be here any minute. It might even be the famous Yutaka Araki, himself. Her hand closed over her phone, nestled next to the little rabbit in the deep pocket of her mohair coat. No, she wasn’t going to get her phone out and check her messages. There was bound to be another text from her mother with an update on her blood pressure this morning. It regularly rose whenever Fiona did something her mother didn’t quite approve of.

Focusing on the airy space surrounding her and gazing around the crowded arrivals hall, she tried to analyse what made it so different. Thankfully some of the signs were in English as well as the fascinating but baffling Japanese calligraphy. Not being able to read basic information had been one of her biggest worries, along with the fact that she had never mastered using chopsticks and had never even tried sushi before because she really didn’t fancy raw fish. What on earth was she going to eat?

She swallowed hard. What if no one turned up? What would she do? A rising tide of despair began to take hold and she sighed and shifted to her other foot, gazing hopefully at approaching newcomers. Everything felt alien and uncomfortable. Although she could make out the Coca-Cola logo in the outsized vending machine opposite, the contents of all the other brightly coloured cans were utterly incomprehensible.

Her eyes lit on someone half running, half walking down the concourse towards her, his coat flapping. As he came closer, she narrowed her gaze. It couldn’t be. She was imagining things.

Oh, flipping heck with multiple bells on it.

It was.

She almost did that comedic, exaggerated eye-rubbing but there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. Realising it was definitely him, she ducked down into her coat like a turtle.

Gabriel Burnett, Times Photographer of the Year, Portrait of Britain winner, Wordham-Smith winner, and recipient of a gazillion other awards for his amazing photographs. The man had talent in spades, not to mention charm, looks and charisma by the bucket load, and had once been quite the media darling.

What was he doing here? No. He couldn’t be here for her. It had to be a complete coincidence. But things were adding up in her head. She’d won a photography competition. He was a photographer. She was supposed to be met. He was in the arrivals hall.

He. Could. Not. Be. Meeting. Her.

Despite expressly forbidding herself to feel anything at all, her heart stopped dead for at least ten seconds before erupting into action like a train bursting out of a tunnel at a thousand beats a minute. Gabe Burnett. Heading straight towards her. Pushing his hand through dark hair that flopped forwards onto his forehead with those quick jerky movements she suddenly remembered so well.

If she could have turned and fled she might well have done, except her feet seemed to have turned into great lumps of clay that she didn’t know what to do with. He drew alongside the barrier and pulled out a sheet of white paper with a series of bold slashes. FIONA H. Her name was written as if he’d been in too much of a rush to get the surname down but was at least concerned enough that there might be another Fiona that he’d added the H. Would he recognise the name? It had been ten years. Would he recognise her? Highly unlikely. He must have tutored hundreds of students since then. In those days, she’d been much more flamboyant and confident, with a predilection towards Bananarama dungarees, cropped T-shaped jumpers in primary colours and paisley scarves with which she bundled up her hair. Fiona could pinpoint the exact moment that her confidence had shrivelled like an aged walnut. It had a lot to do with the man now standing ten feet in front of her holding up the scruffy bit of paper with her name on it, glancing nonchalantly around the crowded terminal with the style and ease of someone who felt at home anywhere.

‘That’s me,’ she said, putting up her hand like a school girl and nodding towards the piece of paper, ‘Fiona. Fiona Hanning.’

‘Great. Been waiting long?’ He stuffed the makeshift sign into his pocket and, to her surprise, dropped his head and upper body in a quick fluid bow.

She stared at him, putting away the hand she’d held out for want of anything better to do, twisting her mouth slightly at the complete absence of an apology. He was half an hour late. But then, people like him didn’t apologise to lesser mortals. They didn’t need to.

‘I’m Gabriel Burnett. Gabe to most people. Nice to meet you.’ He bowed again but then did hold out his hand and she had to scrabble her hand out of her pocket to meet it. ‘People bow in greeting here.’

She knew that because she had done some mugging up. She just hadn’t expected it from him. ‘You get used to it very quickly. They also love a business card. If you’re offered one, make sure you take it with both hands and treat it like a revered object. Whatever you do don’t stuff it into your pocket. Make sure you put it carefully in your purse, wallet or whatever. Treat it with respect. They’re big on respect in Japan.’

‘Right,’ she said, bemused by his deluge of information. She remembered him as being rather reticent and a man of few words, although expansive when he was talking about his work. But then, she hadn’t seen him for ten years. And she’d certainly changed – hugely – in that time. With a sudden smile, she remembered Avril’s last words to her before she’d dropped her at the airport. ‘Quit the wallflower act. No one knows you there, be who you want to be.’ Which was great in theory, especially when you were a super-confident breakfast TV reporter married to the love of your life and had the most adorable two-year-old. Since their press trip to Copenhagen, Avril had become one of Fiona’s closest friends.

‘This your stuff?’ asked Gabe interrupting her reverie.

She nodded lifting her chin slightly. She wasn’t eighteen any more.

‘You travel light.’ He raised an eyebrow in question. ‘This all you have?’

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘That’ll make it easier on the monorail.’ And with that he took charge of what she thought was a huge case and led the way.

Packing for two weeks for a place you’d never been to before had been a minefield, saved only by Avril coming to the rescue with benign bullying. If Fiona had stuck to her original wardrobe plans of jeans and T-shirts her case would have been half the size.

Keeping up with Gabe, weaving through the crowds and taking in all the unfamiliar sights and sounds, took all of her concentration and it wasn’t until they were waiting for the monorail, standing in the painted queue lines laid out on the platform, that she had time to catch up with herself.

‘Erm … it’s very nice of you to meet me.’

Gabe’s face fell a little and his voice dropped so she could only just hear it. ‘Ah, yes. There’s been a slight hitch in the plans. Unfortunately, Yutaka Araki has had a family bereavement and had to return home to Niseko. I’m afraid you’re going to have to make do with me.’ There was a sardonic twist to his mouth before he added, ‘I’m quite well qualified.’

Irritated by the sudden quickening of her pulse and that cocky confidence, she glared at him. ‘And I’m well aware of who you are Mr Burnett,’ she said, having to lean closer to hear him.

‘Mr Burnett. Ouch. That’s put me in my place and made me sound like I’m a hundred and three as well.’ He laughed quietly

She gritted her teeth to stop herself from pointing out that she knew exactly how old he was.

‘Anyway. I’m sorry about Yutaka but it really couldn’t be helped. The university contacted me – I used to teach there – and they asked if I could step in. I know Professor Kobashi, who runs the programme here in Tokyo, and his wife; they’re actually my landlords. I rent my apartment and studio from them. Anyway, if you’re really desperate to meet Yutaka, he might be back at the end of your stay.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do fine,’ said Fiona, surprising herself with her boldness but adopting his lowered tone as she hissed, ‘As you said, you’re quite well qualified.’

Instead of being offended, he grinned at her. ‘Nothing like being put in my place, again.’

‘I imagine it doesn’t happen very often,’ she said dryly before she could stop the words coming out of her mouth. Was she teasing Gabe Burnett?

With a wry smile, he turned and examined her face as if looking at her properly for the first time. It was impossible to hide or retreat, not when he was standing right beside her. ‘I’m not that insufferable, you know. You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’ His eyes studied hers and for a moment she imagined there was more to what he was saying. There had been a period when his photo had appeared in the papers almost as much as his own photographs were featured. Young models had been his favourite props.

‘I rarely read the papers. My friend Kate used to work in PR and she says most of it is made up, and my friend Avril works in breakfast TV and usually knows the truth behind the gossip.’

‘Sensible,’ he said. ‘So why Japan?’

Maybe it was the approving look he gave her or the fact that he clearly had no recollection of her, but she drew out the little ivory netsuke from her pocket. ‘This.’

He immediately put a finger out to stroke the smooth flank. ‘May I?’

She handed it over. ‘It was my father’s. He died when I was a baby and I found it when I was six. I had no idea what it was until my granny told me. A netsuke. He bought it in an antique shop when he was a boy and had always wanted to go to Japan as a result. He never got there. When I heard about the competition …’ She shrugged as he gave it back to her. It settled with a reassuring thud in her pocket, a small lump nestled against her thigh.

‘Sentimental but nice. You’ll get a real flavour of the country in Tokyo.’ For a moment, his smile was wistful. ‘It’s a country of contrasts: flash, modern, innovative, ridiculously neon and technological, all of which resides alongside a deep appreciation and respect for art, culture, and tradition. I’ve never lived anywhere quite like it before.’

‘You live here?’

‘Between here and London.’ He paused. ‘You’ll be staying with the Kobashi family.’ Again there was that wry smile. ‘Professor Kobashi’s wife Haruka is lovely and rather interesting. She’s a master of tea.’

Fiona straightened with sudden interest. ‘I love my tea. One of the things I really want to do is go to a tea ceremony, although I’ve no idea what it involves.’

‘Well you’ll be in the right place. She’s the expert. She and her daughter own a teashop where she holds ceremonies. They live above it.’

‘Really.’ Fiona’s eyes shone. One of her favourite possessions was a little pottery narrow-spouted teapot with a bamboo handle. She loved the delicacy and simplicity of the design that was as much functional as beautiful. Letting her guard down and forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to have met him before, she smiled warmly at him, straight into his grey eyes. He was still a very handsome man.

‘Hmm,’ said Gabe, stiffening and turning his head away as if she’d got a bit too close or something. His jaw hardened as he stared across the crowded platform.

She pushed her hands into her pockets, one finger stroking the netsuke. His withdrawal had been subtle but definite. There was a hardness in her chest as if she’d swallowed a whole brick of wholemeal bread. Tall, gawky girls like her weren’t Gabe Burnett’s type but he didn’t need to make it quite so obvious. She knew he went for glossy, glamorous, pint-size brunettes who exuded confidence from every last pore. Before his move to Japan a few years ago, his love-life had been well documented in the tabloids.

‘If you like that sort of thing,’ he said dismissively glancing down at his watch. ‘All a bit tedious when you’ve seen it before. One for the tourists.’

‘Just as well I am a tourist,’ Fiona bit out, annoyed by his attitude.

‘Which reminds me, have you got your Japan Rail pass?’

‘Yes.’ The little she had managed to read up on before she came had recommended buying one in advance, and hers had been sent through with her plane tickets.

Gabe didn’t say anything as the monorail glided into the station. When they boarded, Fiona turned to say something to Gabe, but even before he put his finger to his lips the hush of the carriage registered. She peered around. It appeared that in Japan people didn’t talk on the trains. Gabe had pulled out his phone and was scrolling through something, so she copied him and they spent the rest of the journey in rather convenient silence.

They got off the monorail and dived into the melee of people as Gabe led them across the concourse through to a platform where they changed onto a train line.

‘This is the Yamanote line. You’ll use it a lot, so it’s worth familiarising yourself with it. It’s a circular line that stops at all the major city stations. We’re headed to Nippori. Professor Kobashi lives in a lovely traditional area called Yanaka.’

***

After a crowded but silent journey they emerged into the pale sunlight of late afternoon nearly an hour later. Now the initial excitement of being here had faded, exhaustion had crept in to every limb and Fiona found it an effort to put one foot in front of the other as Gabe set a cracking pace along the street without even checking to see if she was following. At least he’d taken charge of her suitcase and was pushing it ahead of him like a man on a mission. A mission to rid himself of her, she surmised, watching his broad shoulders as he marched a few steps in front of her giving her the distinct impression he did not want to be here.

She followed him, disliking the intense sensation of disorientation because she had absolutely no idea where they were in relation to the city. It gave her an uncomfortable and unnerving fear of having lost control. She was a very long way from home. The sixteen-hour flight cocooned in the close confines of the aircraft had cushioned her awareness of the true distance. Now the reality hit hard as she took in the unfamiliar architecture of the buildings, the strange roads signs, the huge multitude of overhead cables that you didn’t see at home, and the lamp posts which looked more like ornate bird boxes. It was like nowhere she’d ever been before. Although the street was wide, the houses came right up to the edge of the road with pots of plants around the doors as if to compensate for the lack of front garden. Everything seemed to be made from wood apart from the dark green tiled roofs that sloped down sharply to create a slight overhang.

When she stopped to study the bamboo screens covering the windows, Gabe did pause and wait for her to catch up. ‘This is quite a traditional area. These houses are a couple of hundred years old.’

‘I love all the wood,’ she said, fascinated by the buildings even though they symbolised how far from home she was.

‘Sugi. Japanese cedar,’ he replied as he kept moving, still a few steps ahead of her.

She glared at his back and picked up her stride to keep up with him as he veered off to the right, down another narrower street, and stopped to wait for her outside a shop front.

With a smile, she stared up at the big wood-framed square window, a cross between a bay window at home and a balcony. Trailing jasmine surrounded the window which had a gorgeous but minimalist display of elegantly spouted teapots and beautifully glazed traditional teacups. Underneath the window were several big pots with leafy camellias with deep pink buds about to burst into bloom.

‘This is gorgeous,’ she blurted out, wishing her camera was to hand.

‘Be prepared to get used to it. This is Haruka’s teashop; she and Professor Kobashi live upstairs, which is where you’ll be staying.’

Fiona clapped her hands in delight. ‘It’s so lovely.’ She took another moment to study the low tiled roof – curling up at the edges like sultan’s slippers – that jutted out above the window with its glossy green tiles.

Inside the doorway, a flight of stairs led to the right into the teashop, while on the left was a wider porch area. Gabe immediately toed off his shoes and called out in Japanese. She caught the words ‘Haruka san’.

‘You speak Japanese?’

He shook his head. ‘Basic greetings. The odd word. That’s all. You need to take your shoes off. The slippers there will be for you.’ He’d already pushed his feet into a pair of larger slippers.

The door of what looked like paper and wood slid open to reveal a tiny Japanese woman with her dark hair swept back from her face and piled in a lustrous bun which added at least two inches to her height.

‘Gabriel san.’ She greeted him with clear delight, bowing before kissing him on both cheeks, her dark button eyes shining before addressing him in a stream of low voiced Japanese and patting his arms.

Fiona studied the enthusiastic welcome with curiosity. She’d expected Japanese people to be formal and reserved. There was no sign of that here.

‘Haruka san, this is Fiona.’

She stepped forward and put both hands together before nodding to Fiona with a polite little bow. ‘Welcome, Fiona. It is very good to meet you.’ Her smile, though friendly, wasn’t quite as effusive as the one Gabe had received; he was obviously very popular round here.

‘Come, come.’ She led the way with small, neat steps, up a flight of stairs that turned right on itself on a small landing, so that Fiona guessed they were now above the teashop. She couldn’t wait to go inside that, although her curiosity was piqued by the very different Japanese interior. The woman led them into a large living area. It was decidedly minimalist with very little furniture and wooden floors which were covered with large mats encompassing the entire central floor area. There were a few very low-level chairs with high upright backs and an odd-looking table that seemed to have its own futon mattress. Apart from a few pottery items on a low-level wooden sideboard and a couple of painted scrolls hanging on the walls, Fiona realised there were very few ornaments and none of the sort of clutter that characterised her mother’s house. She smiled; she rather liked the clean lines and tidiness of the room.

Her hostess drew a few more of the sliding doors open and then led them up another wooden staircase to a series of rooms all divided by the same paper and wooden doors. Gabe carried Fiona’s case for her and they finally came to a small square room containing a futon on the floor. Haruka raised the bamboo blinds to reveal a balcony that ran the full length of the back of the house, overlooking a very pretty zen-style garden.

‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ exclaimed Fiona, clasping her hands together in delight and earning a warm smile from the Japanese woman.

‘I’ll show you later. Would you like something to drink?’

‘I can’t stay,’ said Gabe hurriedly. ‘I need to get back.’ He turned to Fiona. ‘For the first couple of days, I thought I could show you around Tokyo. Acclimatise yourself and then you can start thinking about the focus for your exhibition.’

Fiona nodded, pleased he knew that much. It was already causing her a fair amount of anxiety. Although she’d been drawn to the competition by the idea of a trip to Japan, the real prize was the guaranteed exhibition at the Japan Centre in Kensington in London two weeks after she returned home. It was a fantastic opportunity to gain some recognition and perhaps sell some work. She’d been looking forward to working with Yukata Araki, renowned for his beautiful landscapes, and hoping to learn a lot from him as well as seek his advice on a theme for the exhibition.

But now she was stuck with Gabe. She wasn’t sure he would be the right person to help her. He specialised in portraits, for a start.

‘Acclimatisation sounds good,’ she murmured, the punch-drunk reeling sensation of jet lag starting to make her feel dizzy. She swayed on the spot and Gabe caught her arm. Her eyes immediately shot to his and her breath caught in her chest, almost imagining a quick flare of something before he hurriedly dropped her arm again. Stiffening, she forced herself to focus. Gabe had nothing to fear from her. She’d made a complete dick of herself with him before with fanciful imaginings. She wasn’t going to do it again, no matter how flipping attractive she found him.

Chapter 2

‘Why? Why? Why?’ he asked himself in the mirror as he ran the razor blade over his foaming chin. Going into Tokyo was a pain in the arse at the best of times. Having to take some wide-eyed girl, who really was wide-eyed and wobbly legged – she reminded him of Bambi with those long limbs – was doubly irritating.

Professor Kobashi’s pleas hadn’t moved him to volunteer to take over as mentor; no, it had been Haruka’s distraught tears over her husband’s potential humiliation that the plans he’d so carefully laid had collapsed. The Japanese didn’t do failure and it would bring shame on the professor if the trip had to be cancelled and Gabe was all too aware of the debt he owed Haruka. Although now Gabe was regretting it. He glanced at his watch; he’d deliberately timed things to avoid travelling during the hideous rush hour that was unique to Tokyo and its eight million commuters. This deliberate ploy, thankfully, also reduced the number of babysitting hours duty required him to fulfil.

With an exaggerated sigh, he took one last look in the mirror and leaned closer to inspect the smooth skin, making sure he’d not missed a spot, although he couldn’t have said why he cared. Normally he avoided shaving as often as possible; it was a mindless chore that bored the pants off him. A bit like most things these days. He had a couple of commissions lined up for the next month for Japanese magazines – film stars doing the usual promotional rounds being poked and prodded by their publicists for the right responses but not much else – unless he got a last minute call which did happen more often than not.

He grabbed his phone from the side of the washbasin and read for the third time the text from Yumi.

Meiko is away again. No one else understands me here. I’m so lonely. Come take me out to dinner. Y

On the Shinkansen, the bullet train, the trip to Osaka was only an hour and if he didn’t have this babysitting job, he’d have gone like a shot but sadly he had obligations, even though they were weighty and unwelcome. Haruka would definitely disapprove of any dereliction of duty.

Reluctantly he texted back.

Sorry. I’m working today. Perhaps tomorrow.

He never added a kiss. Not anymore. She was a married woman now. The familiar feeling of despair hit and settled into place. For a moment he waited, one hand resting on the still damp sink but there was no response and he could picture her face. He laughed without mirth. Picture her face? He knew every line and plane of that beautiful face, the shape of each delicate feature and every shadow cast by her graceful, elegant bone structure.

In his mind’s eye he could see the petulance of her bottom lip and the shadowed sad frown of disappointment. Poor Yumi, she was so desperately lonely and isolated out there in Osaka. She needed a friend. Her husband neglected her, but at the same time indulged her every wish and whim with his wealth.

He shook off the melancholy thoughts. Haruka always said to him Yumi had made her bed and must lie in it – or rather, the Japanese equivalent. Gabe stuffed his phone in his back pocket and left the house.

***

Fiona was ready, waiting, and bouncing; that was the only way he could describe it. Enthusiasm leaked from her and he almost took a step back as if it might be catching.

‘Morning,’ she called, kicking off her slippers and sliding her feet into a neat pair of Chelsea boots.

‘You’re very bright and cheerful. I take it you slept well.’

‘I did. There’s something different … I think it’s the smell of the tatami mats. It’s like sleeping outdoors.’

He raised one sceptical eyebrow, having become accustomed to the fragrant, grassy smell over the years.

‘Haruka been giving you a 101 in Japanese culture?’

‘I asked her about the mats. And,’ she added eagerly, ‘the sliding doors. Made of paper and wood. They’re rather beautiful.’

‘Shoji screens.’ He’d got used to them but he could remember a time when they’d been a novelty. ‘Designed originally to create space for a samurai to swing his sword.’ Okay, so he’d absorbed some information over the years and wasn’t averse to trying to impress her a little.

‘Yes, that’s what Haruka told me.’

He smiled. ‘The Japanese are very good at keeping their traditions alive while at the same time being one of the most innovative and technologically advanced societies. Talking of which, if you’re ready, we’ll take the train and then hit the subway system which should be a lot more civilised at this time of day.’

She stooped to pick up a padded camera bag.

‘You’re probably not going to need that today.’

‘Really?’ She clutched the strap as if he might have to wrest it away from her.

‘I want you to look today, see things, feel the atmosphere. Be in the moment. Too many photographers hide behind their cameras and they end up with superficial, surface shots. A good photographer reveals the layers beneath.’

She blinked at him.

And well she might. Where had that come from? Bullshit 101. It was something he might have believed once but now … Now he didn’t want her slowing down the day snapping at everything in sight; it would make an already tedious day even more unbearable.

Today was something to get through as smoothly as possible. He’d decided his strategy and he couldn’t help but wish he was on the train to Osaka instead.

***

Once they left the train station, Fiona developed an ache in her neck, craning this way and that to take everything in. Skyscrapers, neon lights flashing and, taking up every available bit of space, so many people. She’d never seen crowds like it. Gabe had said very little to her on the subway, although she realised that was probably due to local travel etiquette.

‘Here we are,’ said Gabe but she’d seen the sign from further down the road and had excitedly increased her pace. This had been one of the key priorities on her wish list when she’d been swotting up with her guide book on the long flight here. TOP Museum, the letters announced, which made her smile. The Tokyo Photographic Art Museum.

‘Perfect.’ She beamed at him. ‘How did you know?’

‘Know?’ She almost laughed at his horrified uncertainty and the way he stepped back as if she’d handed him a grenade and was waving the pin at him.

‘That this was my number one destination. The place I really wanted to visit.’

‘You’re a photographer?’ He spread his hands wide, his face wreathed in a charmingly insincere smile.

‘An amateur. I’m still learning. I’m actually a blogger and Instagrammer. Until I won this competition, I’ve never really thought of myself as a proper photographer but I’m really excited to see these pictures, although they’ll probably depress the hell out of me. Looking at all that talent. Does it do that to you? Or does it inspire you to go and be better?’

Lines creased his brow and it struck her that he knew nothing about her. He certainly hadn’t bothered asking her any questions about herself and yet had been arrogant enough to assume she knew who he was at the airport. The thought made her feel inconsequential and for a moment she shrivelled a little, but then a little line of anger trickled down her spine, like the flash fire along a fuse. She’d come all this way, taken a risk, been prepared to step away from the handrail and he didn’t seem to know anything about her. Had he even taken the trouble to read her application to the competition or open up the file of photos that went with it? She was proud of those and, she acknowledged bitterly, she still wanted his approval. Craved his praise. Because he was a professional, she told herself, and not in the way she’d wanted it at eighteen when she’d been desperate for him to notice her. A touch of anger stirred in her twenty-eight-year-old self, older and a lot wiser. Surely looking at her application would have been a basic courtesy both to herself and to the person he’d taken over from. What was the point of half doing the job? Was he really that egotistical that he just didn’t care?

‘Have you even seen my portfolio?’ she asked with sudden sarcasm. ‘Read my entry?’

He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. No. I didn’t.’

You had to admire someone who didn’t try to lie their way out of trouble and faced it head on but even so … ‘No surprise there. I had you down as a flake.’ Oops, not quite the word she’d been aiming for and judging by his scandalised affront, completely the wrong thing to say. She had a habit of doing that.

‘Excuse me? A flake? How on earth do you figure that? You don’t even know me.’

‘Yeah.’ Except she did know him. ‘You’re the sort of guy that does what he wants.’ She knew that from his perfunctory attempt at teaching a class when most of the students had been too dazzled by his celebrity status to complain and, truth be told, she had been one of the worst offenders. But no more. She was here to learn. Two short weeks were all she had to nail the exhibition which would give her a foot in the door of an exhaustingly competitive industry. ‘How did they con you into taking over Araki’s gig then?’

‘There was no con involved.’ He bristled and glared back at her. ‘Now, if you want to maximise your time here, I suggest you make a start. I’ll meet you back here in three hours.’ Before he could say another word, he wheeled around and walked away, leaving her standing with her mouth open and doing a very passable impression of a goldfish.

The … the … had he just dumped her here? What sort of mentoring was that? With a huff she turned around and walked into the museum, grateful for the English signage everywhere. It would be better without him, she decided.

***

And it was. With five floors of galleries, there was so much to see and it felt positively self-indulgent to glide about at her own pace, skipping the things that didn’t interest her and pondering for much longer the pictures that did. Recently, she’d decided that life was too short to spend time on things you didn’t have to, like finishing books that didn’t appeal, watching the end of a film that wasn’t your thing, and studying every picture in an exhibit.

Enjoying the quiet, serene atmosphere with hushed whispers and soft footsteps, she turned a corner and walked into a new section where she came face to face with a Gabriel Burnett. It was the picture that caught her attention first rather than his name: an arresting image of a beautiful Japanese woman buried in cherry blossom petals, her limbs carefully arranged in a sea of the flowers with one graceful arm held out, the hand in supplication, catching a frothy pink, out-of-focus, falling blossom. At first when Fiona saw the picture she could admire the technique, the lighting and the way the edges of the flowers blurred, but as she studied the picture, so much more emerged creating a slight but definite unsettling awareness.

Exquisite eyebrows framed the woman’s almond-shaped eyes and the camera highlighted her flawless magnolia skin, but when you examined that beautiful bow-shaped mouth for a second time, the smile held a knowing hint of provocation. Although the composition of the picture was fresh and wholesome – a pretty girl in the flowers – when you looked deeper there were hints of secrets and sexuality, mystery and suppressed desire. All was not what it seemed. Fiona could almost imagine the serpent writhing alongside in the blooms. Eve, the temptress.

The small label to the side of the print called it Girl in Blossom by Gabriel Burnett, 2016. Beside that was a small biography of Gabe which included the information that the model in the picture, Yumi Mimura, was his long-time muse and favourite subject.

Fiona moved around the room and came to a second picture. This time, the setting was a party and Yumi, wearing a deep blue, satin cocktail dress with a tiny nipped in waist and wide skirt, peeped out from behind two sober grey-suited men with their backs to the camera. Holding a martini glass, she possessed an Audrey Hepburn-esque elegance and sophistication combined with an elfin appearance and a sense that she was planning some mischief quite at odds with her glamorous appearance. Fiona smiled; the composition was quite enchanting and very different from the previous picture.

Intrigued now both by the subject and Gabe’s undeniable skill, she focused on the pictures he’d taken of Yumi Mimura over the years. In some she wore western clothes, in others Japanese kimonos, and sometimes she was tastefully nude revealing nothing she shouldn’t in terms of flesh, but in each picture there was always an additional, subtle depth that conveyed an untold story or an emotion. The pictures all highlighted Gabe’s incredible skill. Coming at last to the final picture, Fiona examined the composition. In it Yumi wore a sophisticated white silk dress which hung beautifully, the folds draped over her exquisite body. The way it was lit made her appear as if she were glowing with angelic beauty but then Fiona paused and suppressed a sudden wince. Triumph. That was what she saw in the composition. Inviolate confidence and self-assurance. Sure of her beauty and her place in the world. Exactly the sort of person who made Fiona all too aware of her own short comings.

Gabe was, she realised, nothing short of a genius. Every bit as talented and celebrated as Yutaka Araki. What had she been thinking of, deliberately goading him earlier? He’d earned his arrogance. Now she felt humble. Who was she to question him? She could learn so much from him if she could keep a civil tongue in her head. If she were honest with herself, she was indulging in teenage sulks that she should have grown out of. When was she going to grow up and forget about that stupid class? He clearly had. In fact, she guessed now, with the sharpened vision of hindsight, that the episode had probably never registered with him. He didn’t even remember her name.

***

With half an hour to kill before she was due to meet Gabe in the foyer downstairs, Fiona toyed with having lunch in the museum’s restaurant, but the unfamiliar menu, with foods she’d never heard of, and the prospect of having to eat in public with chopsticks, put her off. She was going to have to ask Haruka, who had been kind enough to refrain from laughing at Fiona’s ineptitude over dinner last night, to help her master chopsticks, otherwise she was going to have to get very used to cold food.

She took her time going down the stairs to meet Gabe. Having seen his work, she felt shy and uncertain … but also inspired, and she couldn’t wait to get started. For the first time, she acknowledged to herself that when she’d signed up for his class all those years ago, like every other student she’d been starstruck by his celebrity status rather than a real admirer of his talent.

Outside, she spotted him studying one of the huge pictures outside the museum – ironically, a scene of Paris.

‘I love this picture,’ he said idly as she drew alongside him, without so much as looking at her. ‘It captures that je ne sais quois of the French perfectly. Are you all done?’

‘Yes.’

‘Enjoy it?’

‘Yes.’ She paused, waiting for him to ask more questions or solicit her opinion on what she’d seen.

‘Good.’ He turned and began to walk briskly, inviting no further conversation.

Realising he had no intention of waiting for her, she trotted after him, determined to engage with him. He’d had three hours to himself. He was supposed to be her mentor; he owed her

‘I can’t decide whether I feel inspired or depressed. I’m never going to be that good.’

‘Probably not,’ said Gabe equably.

For a moment it took a minute for his blunt words to sink in. ‘Thanks for the encouragement.’

‘I don’t deal in dishonesty. You wouldn’t come out of the Louvre and say I’m never going to be as good as Monet or Van Gogh. Because no one would be. They were geniuses of their age. Here you’ve had a snapshot of the very best of the very best.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said.

‘If it’s any consolation, from what I’ve seen you’re a good, competent technician.’

She turned, a touch deflated. ‘Damning with faint praise.’

‘No, encouraging with honesty. Any idiot can take a once-in-a-lifetime photo through sheer luck. A good, competent technician can look for those perfect compositions, seek them out, know it when they see it, and take the shot.’

She could see what he meant but it still stung a little.

‘You’re here to find those compositions … with my help.’ He cocked his head. ‘Have you eaten?’

‘No, I was—’ Thankfully he interrupted before she had to confess what a wuss she’d been.

‘Good. There’s a great tempura bar not far from here. We can grab a bite to eat there.’ What was a tempura bar? She didn’t like to ask but, given her stomach was rumbling like a volcano, at the moment she’d probably eat anything.

***

Gabe knew he’d been an arse; you couldn’t miss the disappointment in that expressive face. The blue eyes damn well shimmered with it. She was a heart-on-her-sleeve girl but he couldn’t bear to talk about photography, about the amazing, often gut-wrenching, pictures in that incredible collection. Pinching his lips tight as he noted the droop of her shoulders, he considered an apology; she deserved more but … he couldn’t do it. Like a snake gliding through his gut, his stomach tied in knots at the thought of it. She was bound to want to talk about the greats – he could already see the earnest enthusiasm that wanted to bubble out of her. She’d want to talk techniques, what she’d seen, what she loved … and he didn’t think he could bear it.

When was the last time he’d taken a decent shot? A truly memorable picture? Sure, he could take pictures that made people happy enough, like a performing bloody monkey, but he’d lost that ability to find and capture what was under the skin. Really lost it, and he missed it like a part of his body. Once it had been second nature, constantly lurking in his peripheral vision, an added sixth sense he could call upon at any moment. A has-been, that’s what they called people like him.

‘If you don’t mind a bit of a walk, we’ll go to the restaurant and then we could take in Shibuya Crossing,’ he offered, taking her arm and steering her down the path. If they ate quickly, they could pick up the subway there and still be in plenty of time to avoid rush hour.

‘What’s that?’ she asked as wary as a puppy that had been kicked once, making him feel even more of a shit. Yet he couldn’t help the little prickle of anticipation at showing her one of Tokyo’s iconic landmarks.

‘Wait and see,’ he said with a quick grin.

‘That’s mean,’ she said, rolling her eyes. His heart gave a funny twist at her instant sunny acceptance. A point to her. She didn’t seem to bear grudges.

‘I know,’ he waggled his eyebrows at her to make her laugh. ‘But I want to see your face.’ He fingered the small Lumix camera in his pocket which he carried out of habit rather than that previous obsessive desire that he should never miss out on a potential shot. He frowned, an elusive wisp of a memory sliding through his brain. For a moment as she laughed, he thought she looked familiar.

‘Will I like it?’ she asked.

‘Hmm, I’m not sure like is the right word but it’s got to be seen. There’s quite a lot to see in Tokyo. Do you have anything you’re desperate to see?’

‘I’d like to see the cherry blossoms, Mount Fuji, although I know it’s a way out, and some of the shrines.’ She lifted her shoulders. ‘I was quite busy before I came, so I didn’t get a chance to do as much research as I’d have liked.’

‘You said you’re a blogger.’ While he’d been waiting in a coffee shop for her he’d dug out the emails, read her application, seen her photos, and visited her blog. He hadn’t expected to be impressed, but he was. ‘What does that entail, day to day? I took a peek at your site. You’re a busy bee.’

She blushed but gave a little laugh. ‘It grew … like Alice. Originally it started as me visiting places I was interested in and taking photographs and blogging about my trips but then people began to follow me. And then PR companies started inviting me to places. I even went to Copenhagen once on a press trip and now I’m asked to do things which has expanded the focus of my articles. So really it’s now more of a magazine site. Sometimes I have my readers vote on what I should do next – that was flipping Avril’s idea, which means they’re really invested.’ Her mouth crimped in amusement. ‘Sometimes I think they don’t like me very much … but it’s … really made me do things I’d never have done. Last month they had me abseiling down a church tower to raise money for charity and the month before I was driving around Silverstone in a Ferrari. Although, that turned out to be a lot of fun and not half as scary as I’d imagined. Then in the last few weeks I’ve been basket weaving, visited Castle Howard, and learned how to make sourdough bread.’

He nodded. ‘And who’s Avril? Your sister?’

Fiona snorted. ‘Ha! No. She would be insulted by that. She’s a very glamorous TV presenter that I met on that press trip in Copenhagen who, for some bizarre reason, has been determined to foster my career ever since. She’s totally forceful and I have to meet her at least once a month. It’s her fault I’m here. If there were an Olympic gold in nagging, she’d win it hands down. But,’ she sobered, ‘she, that trip, and my friends Kate and Eva, they really … well, they helped me.’

‘How?’ Now he was interested. There was a story here. He kept up a brisk pace with the occasional glance her way, so as not to scare her off.

Her laugh was tinged with the high pitch of nerves. ‘Before … before that trip, I kind of hid from real life. Lived my life online rather than mixing with people.’

He deliberately didn’t comment, waiting for her to continue to fill the silence in the natural way that people always did. The technique had served him well over the years when he was trying to get to the essence of someone when he had to photograph them. Those unguarded moments when they revealed truths about themselves were pure gold if he could press the shutter at exactly the right moment. Luckily for him he had excellent reflexes.

Unlike most people, Fiona didn’t elaborate. Instead she closed in on herself, as if the introspection had brought with it unhappy memories.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s part of my technique to get my portrait subjects to open up.’

‘I’m not one of your subjects,’ she said, her voice sharp. ‘And I have no desire to be.’

A pangolin rather than a hedgehog, he mused, finding himself fascinated by the way she’d hunched into her coat – a hideous hairy thing that ought to be tossed in the nearest skip – and how her shoulders gained a stooped curve. Much as he wanted to take a photograph, he refrained.

‘That’s a refreshing change,’ he said lightly. ‘Most people are desperate for me to take their picture and, more often than not, for free. And others fancy being my muse.’ It was, he supposed, the photographer’s equivalent of a groupie.

She unbent a little and one side of her mouth lifted. ‘I definitely don’t. It must be irritating though.’

‘A touch. No one wants to pay for anything these days – music, books, art, films.’

‘The downside of technology, but the upside is that it’s given me a living.’

‘I think more than technology has played a part. You must be good at what you do; there are thousands of people out there with blogs.’

Her response was a shrug that irritated him. ‘There’s nothing worse than false modesty,’ he accused, and he was annoyed when she stared at him. ‘What? I know my worth. You should too. Especially when it’s how you earn your way.’

‘I’m not trying to be modest, false or otherwise,’ she retorted. ‘I do what I do. I’m lucky that people like it and continue to follow and get involved.’

‘But there must be a level of skill to garner that kind of engagement, in your writing, in posting the right pictures that will elicit people’s interest.’

Again she shrugged.

‘You need to have more self-confidence.’

‘Sure, like it’s something you can pick up off the shelf,’ she said with a snap to her voice. ‘Oh look, I’ll have half a pound of belief, a pinch of arrogance, and a side serving of assurance. Because it’s really that easy.’ Her final words were spoken in a lower tone as if they were unwillingly dragged out of her and once again he felt that stab of guilt.

***

The restaurant was packed but Gabe led the way, worming his way through the crowd to snag the last two barstools facing the kitchen where a couple of chefs were working.

‘Ever had tempura before?’ he asked as she shed her coat and picked up a menu.

‘No.’ She glanced around the busy and very noisy restaurant. Over the chatter she could hear the swish of hot oil and the ting, ting of utensils scraping metal as the chefs worked at a furious pace in the kitchen in front of them.

‘Then you’re in for a treat, although this place will spoil you for ever after.’

‘I don’t even know tem … temp … what it is.’

‘Tempura,’ supplied Gabe. ‘It’s basically food deep fried in batter … but nothing like the heavy batter you get on fish at home. You wait.’

She stared at the menu, her mind a little boggled. It was all in Japanese and completely unintelligible. Over in the kitchen one of the chefs was dipping something raw and almost translucent into a jug of white – what she now realised, must be – batter.

‘Don’t worry.’ Gabe put out a hand and pushed her menu down. ‘Do you like seafood?’

She nodded. ‘Leave it to me. Japanese cuisine is all about the freshness and simplicity of the ingredients. They tend to shop daily for their food to make sure it’s as fresh as it can be.’

Gabe ordered in Japanese and in seconds two steaming cups of green tea arrived. Fiona took a hesitant sip and sighed. ‘Oh, I needed that.’

The clean, light flavour and burst of warmth down her throat revived her flagging spirits immediately. It was both refreshing and comforting at the same time, especially when she cupped both hands around the pottery cup the way Gabe had done.

The chef stopped in front of them and showed them a bamboo woven plate of raw prawns, scallops, tiny fillets of fish, squid, and some baby sweet corn, a slice of an odd-looking root vegetable, aubergine, and what she guessed were chestnut mushrooms.

She nodded and smiled at the chef, wondering if she was supposed to take the plate. Her stomach rolled a little at the thought of raw seafood but before she could do anything, Gabe spoke in Japanese and the man took the plate away.

‘Your face,’ teased Gabe as a waitress brought them a set of small pottery dishes each containing different sauces and seasonings.

‘I thought he was giving it to us.’

‘No, just showing us the quality. Did you notice it didn’t smell at all fishy?’

‘Yes.’ Now he pointed it out, the lack of smell was noticeable.

‘That’s a mark of how fresh it is. And now he’s going to cook it for us. Watch. See the batter in the jug there. It’s very thin and almost translucent.’

Fiona watched as the chef dipped the scallops in the batter and then tossed them in a deep pan of oil that was so hot it was smoking. With quick, lithe movements, the chef lifted the scallops out of the oil and tossed them around the basket with a definite air of performance before sliding the crispy golden scallops onto small oval plates with a flick of the wrist and placing them on the counter in front of them. Talk about freshly cooked – this was instant.

Fiona inhaled deeply; she could see the fine sheen of oil still bubbling on the surface. The scallops smelled delicious and her mouth was already watering.

‘Now you dip them in any of these.’ He pointed to an herb-speckled sea salt, the coarse white crystals mixed with tiny crumbs of green, and several other condiments. ‘This is seasoned salt, usually with bamboo greens, and this is grated daikon, a sort of radish, which you mix with the soy sauce to make a dipping sauce. Try it.’

She fumbled with her chopsticks and almost sent the little scallop flying.

‘I’m not very good with these.’

Gabe smiled. ‘It takes a while to master them. No … not that like that. Here.’

He took the chopsticks from her hand and took it in his, his thumb brushing the tender skin on her palm. Intimate and unexpected, Fiona felt a rush of heat at the sensitive touch. She deliberately avoided looking at him and kept a fixed gaze on her fingers.

‘Relax,’ he said in a soothing voice which made her do anything but. It was just sensitive skin, that was all. Slightly ticklish. She straightened her back and concentrated on what he was saying.

‘Right.’ With his hand covering hers, he repositioned the top chopstick between her thumb and index and middle finger. ‘Hold it like a pen but two thirds of the way up rather than down at the bottom. Now anchor the second one on your ring finger.’

Desperate to shake off his hand and stop the ridiculous awareness of him buzzing through her system, she moved her fingers and promptly dropped the lower chopstick. She blushed. Clumsy as ever.

‘Have another go. It takes a while to master and luckily Japanese culture is all about enjoyment of food which means they don’t get hung up on table manners.’ He gave her an encouraging smile but it didn’t stop her worrying about being a complete klutz.

‘That’s just as well, otherwise I might starve.’

‘Not on my watch.’ With a quick, fluid movement he scooped up one of the scallops and held it in front of her mouth. Obediently she opened up and took the dainty morsel, groaning as the flavours hit her tongue.