Girl in a Box (23 page)

“What about the diamond? It's half a carat, and it would retail for just under one hundred thousand yen. A nice price point, don't you think?”

“A limited market, though,” I said, picking up the piece, which to me didn't look like a solid stone. It seemed to be a faux solitaire made up of many tiny diamond chips that had been glued together. Still, it glittered and looked very Hollywood. “It's hard to know, because navel rings are still kind of underground in Japan. Can you take some diamond pieces on consignment, rather than pay wholesale?”

“Hmm, I usually handle that wholesale. In any case, I'd like to see the diamond on you.”

“Very much agreed! Maybe I'll get one once they're in store, though I hear we don't get to use our fifteen percent discount on jewelry or cosmetics.”

Mr. Yoshino's face went pink. “I meant to say, Shimura-san, I'd like you to keep the diamond navel ring, at the end of this evening.”

“Excuse me?” I didn't think I'd heard him right.

“It's just a sample; nobody cares. After you try on all eight that you already told me you like”—he lowered his voice from a whisper to something barely audible—“please put on the diamond. It will be my little present to you, for your kindness to me.”

“But I—I!” One of my hands flew to my navel, protectively.

“I humbly request.” Mr. Yoshino's voice cracked with emotion.

I swallowed hard. This wasn't going to be fun, but at least it wasn't like stripping or sleeping with him. And come to think of it, if he was so busy navel-gazing, I might be able to sneak in a few questions.

I took a deep breath, not only gathering courage but putting my famous abdomen at its best advantage. Then I rolled up my sweater until it grazed the bottom of my rib cage, tugged down the already low waist of my jeans an extra inch, and began the show.

It was almost ten when I finally was released from duty at Aladdin's Cave; Mr. Yoshino had wanted a good-night kiss, which I deflected to my cheek before I made a quick escape, mentioning my waiting boyfriend and parents.

When I was securely hidden by the hubbub of the crowd at Shinjuku Station, I clicked open my phone to see what was waiting for me. A message from Michael.

C U AT APT. LMK WHEN U RCH STA. H2O.

So Mr. Brooks Brothers was in my apartment, fixing things so I couldn't eavesdrop on Melanie Kravitz again. I would have thought simply not using that particular circuit would have been okay, but apparently that wasn't thorough enough. At Hiroo Station, I realized that I was starving. I hadn't had more than a single pita wedge at Aladdin's Cave, because Mr. Yoshino had kept me so busy. It was a shame that I hadn't been able to get much gossip out of him; he had been totally distracted by my navel. I could imagine the nightmare ahead for any models, should the store ever mount the kind of advertising campaign he wanted.

I stopped into Kobeya Kitchen and bought a spinach croissant for myself and then, thinking of Michael, added another, and two chocolate cream puffs. I'd give Michael the cream puffs for the road, because who knew how long he'd been waiting for me in the apartment, where I'd not refilled the fridge since my initial grocery run. I'd been too busy to eat take-out at home, let alone cook new things.

Just before I stepped out of the bakery, I phoned the apartment. Someone picked up, but there was no sound on the other end. For the first time, I felt a prickling of unease.

I'd thought it would be safe to call my apartment, but why wasn't he answering me? “Moshi-moshi?” I said.

“Sis,” Michael answered. “Are you en route?”

“Yep, just passing by Kobeya Kitchen.”

“That's a bakery, isn't it? I don't suppose you could pick me up something—”

“I already have, H2O. See you.” I clicked off, smiling. It felt good to be going home to Michael. Really, really good.

I turned the key in the vestibule door and hurried up with a bounce in my step, and when I unlocked the apartment door, I heard the sound of music. Michael had gotten into my CD collection, and he was playing the new disc from My Morning Jacket.

I slipped out of my heels and went into the kitchenette, where my boss was crouched by the dishwasher, working. His plano glasses were off, and he was wearing a black turtleneck and jeans, which made him look more like Cary Grant in
To Catch a Thief
than a State Department bureaucrat.

“In the mood for sweets?” I said, holding the bag of croissants aloft.

“That's quite a way to greet your repairman,” he said, turning and giving me a broad grin. “By the way, I've swept the place already. You can relax.”

He meant sweeping the site for evidence of bugs, using the handheld detectors. I nodded and said, “I like your outfit. I'm guessing…Prada?”

“REI Outfitters.” He winked at me.

“I should own that company, but instead, I work for you,” I said. “Now, I can hardly wait to tell you about my evening.”

Michael raised his eyebrows. “Drinks first?”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I don't have anything in the fridge. I've turned into more of a cocoa person, since I've been here.”

“I picked up wine at Meidi-ya,” Michael said, going to the fridge. “Pinot grigio from California, although it's not from one of those special little vineyards you were so revved up about.”

Thank you very much for understanding about California wines, I thought, taking the glass he handed me and clinking it, very lightly. He patted the seat next to him on the apartment's small sofa.

I settled down next to him with a plate of pastries in front of us, thinking that this was just like old times in the office, eating our meals while we worked. “Well, it turned out to be a trunk show—with me serving as the model.”

“What's a trunk show?”

“It's a kind of fashion show, where a vendor brings a lot of goods to be examined, and hopefully ordered for purchase. But I'm actually making a bit of a bad joke, because it turned out that Mr. Yoshino brought many samples of different navel rings for me to try on.”

“What?” Michael put his glass down and sat bolt upright.

“He insisted at the end that I take one home—the most expensive one, of course.”

“Show me,” Michael said.

Feeling mellowed by both the company and the small amount of wine, I turned toward him, shifting backward so that he could see the diamond navel ring glittering just above the low waist of my jeans. But as he stared at my navel, his eyes narrowed.

“I guess you don't like it?”

“It's very sexy,” he said, but his voice was like lead. He put his finger to his lips and turned his head from side to side. It was a code that any moron could understand: shut up. Trouble. I followed his gaze around to the windows. All the blinds were closed.

I hadn't heard anything outside the apartment. What was he, clairvoyant? Quietly, Michael went into my bedroom, then came back out, a pad of paper and pencil clutched in one hand and the handheld bug-sweeping gizmo in the other.

He sat down beside me again and quickly scribbled a note. He held it out to me.

CD B A BUG.

I shook my head at him, realizing that Michael had slipped into another paranoid episode. At least I hoped he was overreacting.

“Time to go to the bedroom,” Michael said loudly, the warmth restored to his voice. He scribbled again and showed me the paper: TO COVR NOISE, WE'LL SIMULATE SOUNDS OF SEX.

I shook my head. He was not only paranoid but silly.

“When you show me a trinket like that, well, it's asking for it, isn't it?” Michael waved his arm frantically, indicating that I walk with him into the bedroom. I trailed after him, thinking that the only thing worse than participating in this humiliating pretense was the chance that someone actually was overhearing it.

I'd had the foresight to make my bed that morning, thank goodness. I lay down stiffly and unbuttoned the waist of my jeans. Thank God I was the kind of girl who always wore underwear—and these days, really good underwear, purple silk bikinis by Tsumori Chisato.

Sorry
, he mouthed at me. Aloud, he said, “I can't wait to make love to you.”

I made a nasty face at him; if it turned out I'd opened up my jeans for nothing, I'd kill him.

I watched my boss scan the handheld detector across my navel, and its steady green light turned to a blinking red signal. Positive.

“Wow,” Michael said. “I've been waiting for this all night. And you've been driving me crazy, going out with this other guy, and now you're wearing jewelry he's given you, I'm going to have to take it out with my teeth or something—”

“I dare you,” I said, trying to sound breathy and tempting while I felt with my fingers to where the gold ring screwed into the side of the diamond. I turned the screw attachment, but it was solidly stuck.

“I'm having a little bit of trouble here getting my, um, bra off. Can you help me?”

“God, you're hot,” Michael said, turning the bedside light on full blast, over my stomach. Under the harsh light one could see everything, even the return of a few tiny hairs that Dora had waxed three weeks ago.

Michael was no better at it than I. He kept trying, but it seemed as if the ring was screwed permanently closed.

“Oh, again and again!” I said, trying to make up for the inadvertent yelp I'd made at his last attempt to pull metal from flesh. Quickly, I scrawled a note: MY COUSIN CAN HELP, HE'S A DR.

Michael shook his head vehemently. Without his saying a word, I traced the probable trajectory of his thought: that we'd give ourselves away if we asked anyone for help.

Michael spoke, his voice almost rough. “So which way do you want it, Rei?”

“I don't really care,” I said, utterly frazzled. Trying to make it sound like we were still in bed together, I rustled the sheets as Michael hopped out of bed and started quietly picking through his backpack.

“Come on, tell me, honey, while I get a condom!”

“Anything. Seriously, anything!”

Michael was back on the bed, with condoms from the bathroom and a tiny wrench. “Mind if I put on some music, help us relax a little?”

“Sure,” I said, looking at the tool with interest. I hadn't been issued a piece like that.

Michael reached for the clock radio next to the bed. Puffy blared out, the supersweet duo, and he grimaced.

“Let me find something.” I groped for the remote on the bedside table, and soon Jack Johnson filled the room with his soft crooning and slack-key guitar. I motioned for him to give me his tool, but he shook his head and began to pry gently with a miniature wrench at the connection between the edge of the diamond and the ring. His tugging had hurt a little before, but this time around, he seemed to understand what he was doing. To my surprise, I was starting to become aroused.

There was a change in the atmosphere, similar to the way the air pressure alters right before a storm. I opened my eyes and discovered that Michael was leaning over me.

He took my hand, which was still ineffectively working at the navel ring, and touched it to his face for a minute. Then he stretched it out against the bed, pinning me under him as he lowered his head and kissed me.

Michael Hendricks was kissing me; slowly, deliberately, perfectly. Once or twice back in Washington, I had thought about what it would be like to maybe kiss him, maybe come up to him from behind, graze his neck and shock him away from the center-column article of the
Journal
. This was not what I'd expected; it was better. Michael's breath was heaven, a mix of mint and sugar, all that sugar he was always consuming. His tongue curled around mine, and I lost it; I forgot all about being under surveillance and used my thighs to slam his body down on top of mine. As I shuddered at the delicious impact of this, and what would happen next, abruptly, Michael lifted himself away.

I'd gone too far. But I could hardly make an apology, with a microphone plugged into my navel.

“Wow,” Michael said. But he wasn't smiling; in fact, he was regarding me with an expression I couldn't understand. He didn't say anything else as he dug into his backpack again, halfway across the room, safe from me.

Then he returned. I watched him make a thick layer out of condoms from the vanity drawer, stacked against my skin. Then he showed me the tool he'd brought out: a multibladed Leatherman. He made a quick, decisive snip with the gadget's pliers. A spark flew, and we both jumped.

“Oh!” I said, surprised by the brief electric shock. Michael turned the contraption so I could really see into the ring itself—which contained a black electrical wire.

“You're amazing,” Michael said, hopping up from the bed and heading for the bathroom. “I got a little carried away. I hope you weren't hurt?”

“Not at all. But the ring came out of my tummy, can you believe that?” It was a stretch for me to keep the game going, because someone might be listening in.

“Very sorry. I wish I could buy you another, but I'm afraid I can't afford it.” Michael's voice was soft.

I got to my feet and snapped my jeans closed. “Let me put the ring somewhere safe. I've got to get it repaired; it was a gift from one of my bosses at work, a simply wonderful gentleman. He would be so upset if he knew what happened!”

Michael rolled his eyes and put a finger to his lips. Obviously, I'd gone too far.

Michael dropped the ring into the toilet, and we both watched it whirl away in the company of some lipstick-stained toilet paper.

I turned to Michael, ready to heave a great sigh of relief, but instead, he was running around the apartment with the handheld bug detectors again. I went to the drawer, picked up my own device, and ran it over my purse and my coat, just in case anything else had been dropped in.

When I finished, Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, with his head in his hands. “I think everything's normal again.”

“Actually, everything's different now. Isn't it?” Since Michael and I had touched each other, the blurred outline that was Hugh Glendinning, the man who broke my heart, had faded even more. What did this mean, though?

Michael nodded absently, but didn't speak.

“Why did you kiss me?” I asked, thinking that I was the one who typically did stupid things—but this time, the mistake had started with Michael.

“Oh, I don't know.” Michael glanced at me quickly, then looked away. “Jet lag, I guess.”

“What?” This was both the most bizarre and the worst excuse I'd ever heard.

Michael continued, “My body clock's out of sync, which really screws with the endorphins. I'm always like this.”

“So mean you've had the impulsive kissing problem for a while?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yes. I mean, no! I haven't done what I did in—a long time.”

Because of Jennifer
. I thought about his long-gone wife, and the desire that had flared in me subsided.

“Well, if you're as exhausted as you're saying, you'd better get back to the New Sanno and take care of yourself. Get a good night's sleep. It's already almost midnight.”

“But you,” Michael said. “What about you? I don't know what to do.”

“In what regard?”

“I can't figure out if Yoshino was acting alone,” Michael said. “You met Mr. Kitagawa the day before. From what you told me, they both seemed familiar with details that could have been gleaned from your personnel file.”

“Maybe. But personal spying is a kind of national passion,” I said, following Michael back into the living room, where he sidled close to the wall and gently lifted the edge of the drawn blind to look outside. “This is the nation that created the X-ray camcorders that people use to see what others look like undressed. This navel ring bug is probably something he gave to me because he wants to be able to hear me pee or something—-”