Woe in Kabukicho by Madelynne Ellis Page A

me, figuring out a suitable line of attack to make the night flow well.
    No compliments, I think. I’ve heard too many pointless adjectives before.
    “A drink?” His voice is low, a husky purr that entwines my senses.
    A safe start.
    “Let me pour you something you’ll like.”
    Arrogant that he thinks he knows what that will be. Nevertheless, I continue to feel curiously drawn.
    Around me, my companions are ordering champagne. Just looking at the price of a bottle gives me near heart failure. I’ve never much cared for the sensation of bubbles bursting upon my tongue, so I’m relieved when Sky returns from the bar with a cocktail.
    It’s virulent green and yet surprisingly good. Peppermint and vermouth, and likely several other things slip coolly down my throat. I shiver at the sensation but the drink puts me at ease, and I find myself smiling.
    I twirl the glass in my fingers. “It’s good. What’s it called?”
    “Woe.”
    “Woe?” I confess I was expecting something more obviously flattering like Beauty or Passion. Woe , I roll the word around my head as I sip the drink. It does taste slightly bitter, and there is a salty hint of tears.
    “It suits you,” he says.
    And I wonder how he knows, this man whom I’ve only just met. How can he tell how recent events have fallen?
    “Where are you from?” He taps his index finger to his lips, as though we’re sharing a secret.
    I guess I’m an obvious outsider, with my pale hair and accented words.
    “England.”
    I notice he’s drinking something that looks suspiciously like lemonade. Keen to keep his wits in this madhouse, I suppose.
    “On business?” His dark gaze sweeps to my companions and back. Even in their party frocks and night-time glitz they still exude the miasma of stuffy offices and corporate life.
    I pause. “Absolutely.” Let him make of that, what he will. I’m not sure myself, only that there’s more to this trip than tallying accounts. I guess it’s about escapism too. Pushing the last six months behind me. Moving on. Moving up.
    “Are you here for long?”
    “A month or two. Perhaps longer depending on how things go.” My plans are fluid, as it would seem are his. Does he imagine I’ll return? Is he calculating how much effort to put in, whether I’m going to be a worthy investment? In a sense, I feel the same way about him. What is this thing we’re sharing? It’s not a date, nor the tentative bridge building of a new friendship. Even as I laugh at his jokes, the situation feels contrived.
    Still, I can’t dislike him, or convince myself to leave. There’s something about him that draws me, something familiar that I can’t quite put my finger on. What lies beneath this polished metrosexual image, I wonder? He’s too clean, too scrubbed up and polite for me to feel entirely at ease. I want to see what he’s really like. So I sup, and I imagine him sprawled along the leather banquette on which we’re sat, feet up, legs bent, and a crumpled T-shirt stretched across his chest. The image suits him better than his high-collared shirt.
    “Does this pay well?” I ask, leaning forward.
    “Women,” he scoffs, rolling his dark eyes. “You’re all about money. Drink. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’m at your beck and call. Tuck your frowns away.”
    “I can’t,” I say. “You remind me of them. I’ve been looking at business suits all day. Maybe if you had a T-shirt you could change into.”
    His narrow, arched eyebrows rise. “I’ve had many requests but never that one—a T-shirt!” His grin grows broad. “Very well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll change.”
    Taiko leans over while he is gone and her slender fingers close around my wrist.
    “Doesn’t he make you happy? Have you sent him away? Tsuyoshi is wonderful, if you prefer another.”
    I reassure her, but I’m intrigued by her concern. She doesn’t like Sky. It’s clear from the way she says his name. I wonder why. Has he upset her somehow? The mystery of her