Five Star Billionaire: A Novel (20 page)

P
HOEBE FELT THAT HER LIFE WAS AWASH WITH GOOD FEELINGS. SHE WAS
dressed according to the rules of fashion that she had picked up from observing Shanghai women: Wear the biggest sunglasses you can find; carry the smallest handbag possible. The new attitude she had been cultivating was filling her with a magnificent confidence.

Already she could tell that she was making a good impression on the man she had just met. His eyes were wandering up and down her tight-fitting dress—he was making no attempt to hide that he found her sexually attractive.

Good, she thought.

Even though the weather was already turning cold and the light was not as bright as before, it was important for her to look as glamorous as possible, as if she were going to a fancy evening function, because this was the way women of style carried themselves, whether on the streets of Xintiandi or on billboards or in magazines. On this day, going to have coffee with a man she’d met on the Internet, she felt certain that she had finally attained the level of sophistication she aspired to. Her life would now surely change for the better.

For a few weeks now, she had been planning a new approach to finding a man, which was also the key to finding success in Shanghai. She had invested a lot of time and money in observing the different methods of accomplishing
this. To begin with, she spent many evenings in bars where she knew men and women gathered to meet one another. In one place in Hongqiao, which she had heard was favored by foreigners, she saw that the local women were dressed provocatively, with figure-hugging dresses that showed off a lot of flesh, the very opposite of how Chinese girls were supposed to dress, with modesty and respect. Phoebe had always thought that nice girls could attract men with their demure charm, but now she could see that she was wrong. That was such an old-fashioned and outdated way of thinking; she had to change her whole attitude. The black satin dress she had worn specially for such evenings out seemed dull and overprotective now, with its long sleeves and strip of see-through lace over her collarbone. She had thought it alluring, but now it made her feel like a Muslim wife, covered up so that no man could approach her.

She watched as a young woman flirted with a group of American men at the bar. The men were laughing and touching the woman on her arm, on her bare shoulder. They were drinking beer from bottles, Budweiser, and every so often they would touch the lips of the bottles together with a loud clinking noise as they made a joke. The bar was lit with neon lights set under the glass counter, and the colors that reflected in the faces of the men and woman seemed too bright, unreal, as if in an old movie. The woman’s heels were so high that her calf muscles were contracted and tense, which made her long legs look like an African warrior’s. She distributed her card among the group of men, and Phoebe could tell they were impressed by it. Before too long, the woman left the bar with one of the men, their arms linked like longtime lovers.

When the whole group had dispersed, Phoebe saw that the woman’s card had fallen to the floor. It had a name on it, and the nature of her business:
PRODUCTS FOR THE BED
. There was no address, just a QQ ID number for online chatting and a mobile-phone number. Yes, maybe she was a prostitute, Phoebe thought; maybe she was what people called
kuaican—
maybe, like so many other girls Phoebe had known in the past, she was just a cheap, quick snack. But tonight she had a man, and maybe by tomorrow she would have a boyfriend. And maybe in a few months’ time she would be married, and maybe she would have security for the rest of her life—maybe that was the last evening she would ever have to spend in a bar. And all because she dared to wear a short skirt and a top that showed off her too-skinny body.

In her “Journal of My Secret Self,” Phoebe wrote down the following rules:

She bought a few self-help books, cheap counterfeit copies being sold on the pavement near the subway station in Tiantong Lu, such as
Sophistify Yourself
. The most valuable one was called
Why Men Love Bitches
. When she read it, she scribbled down more notes:

She started to spend more time on the Internet again, but this time she was more careful. It was her best bet, since there were so many men out there she could ensnare. She put new photos on her profile page, images that showed her in outfits carefully selected in the cramped market in Qipu Lu, not far from where she lived. She didn’t really like going there, because it was full of poor people who reminded her of her desperate situation, but she told herself that it would not be like this for long. In many of these new photos, she adopted the poses that she had learned from other girls’ profiles: side on, lifting her shoulder to her chin, or pursing her lipsticked mouth at the camera with her eyes lifted teasingly. They looked so much more tantalizing than her old photo, taken in the park in Guangzhou. If she were a man, she would surely want to go out with such a sexy girl. She was about to remove the old photo from her profile, but then, for a reason she could not understand, she let it remain, the last of the many photos, where it would not be noticed.

In keeping with her new rules, she was very discerning. She chatted only with men who met her criteria. She mastered the art of chatting with three, four, five people at once, learning to type short sentences or just
single words here and there to disguise the fact that she could not type as fast as the educated men she was pursuing.
Really? Amazing. Cool! Ha-ha. Aiiii. En. En. En
. One word was all it took to sustain a long conversation.
Men do not really want to listen; they much prefer to talk
. It made her job easier.

Every time she chatted with a man, she imagined herself doing all the things that she had decided she would do. Doing things to him. With him. The more she imagined these things, the less bad they seemed. Her fear began to subside. She could do it. She had to.

THE MOMENT SHE WALKED
in to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf café on Wujiang Lu, she sensed that her impressive personal styling was drawing attention. The teenage boys and young men looked up from their laptop computers and followed her with their lustful gazes, while the women gazed at her with envy. The full-length red coat with fake-fur lapels she had chosen was certainly making an impression. Her date stood up at the far side of the room—he’d already found a secluded table in the corner where they would be able to talk quietly. He was better looking than she had imagined, and younger too. She had selected her target well.

This was the third date she had arranged with a man she’d met on the Internet. The first turned out to be twenty years older than his Internet image, while the second one walked with a bad limp, which was the result of a recent accident and for which he had been having expensive medical treatment, leaving him in financial difficulties. On both occasions, Phoebe just made an excuse and left—said she had stomach problems.
It doesn’t matter if men think you are a bitch
. So, before suggesting a meeting with her third target, Phoebe asked him many probing questions and requested numerous photos in order to gather clues about his life. He’d sent her a photo taken from far away, which made it difficult to tell what he looked like or how tall he was; moreover, he was wearing big black sunglasses. But what was important was that she could see a nice car in the photo, and also quality leather shoes in the English style, plus an iPhone. Nonetheless, she had to admit that it was a bonus that he’d turned out to be better looking than his photo suggested.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” the man said, introducing himself with a name that sounded fake. His voice hesitated a little as he said it, as if he had been
practicing saying it but was still a little unsure. Phoebe was alert to such things now; no one could cheat her.

“Nice to meet you—what’s your name again? I didn’t quite catch it. Sorry, the music …”

“Sun Xiang,” he repeated. It sounded more convincing this time, and when he smiled he seemed very charming, with nice straight teeth that showed good calcium intake at an early age. His bone structure was good, too, not just in his face but in his height, for he must have stood at least five feet ten.

Phoebe sat down but did not take off her sunglasses. She had practiced this before on previous dates—it added an air of mystique. She placed her handbag on the table between them—not on the floor or tucked in beside her on the comfortable low armchair, but right in the middle of the small round table so that he could see it. Sure, the handbag was a fake, but it was a very high-quality copy, which had cost her a lot of money—
chao
-A counterfeit goods were expensive and difficult to obtain these days, what with the Europeans putting pressure on the Chinese government to ban such items. This was what the shopkeeper had explained to her in order to justify the cost of more than 1,000
kuai
. She remembered being astonished at the time by the price, nearly five times what she had paid for her existing bag, which she had purchased in a market in Guangzhou and was exactly the same brand. But she was in Shanghai now, and everything was more luxurious and more expensive.

“Sun Xiang,” Phoebe said, “are you local?” She’d detected a Shanghai accent in his voice—she could pick up little signs, which made it difficult for people to lie to her.

“Yes,” he replied, “I was born and grew up here. You?”

She took off her sunglasses. She noticed that people in the café were still looking at her. “It’s complicated. I moved around a lot—abroad, mostly. My parents are from Guangdong province, though.”

“Abroad? That sounds interesting.” He kept staring at her, his eyes settling on her bare knees. “I’m sorry, I’m just … so nervous,” he said.

“Why nervous?” she said, reaching forward to shift her handbag for no reason whatsoever. His gaze followed her hand and remained on the bag even when she had relinquished her grip. Surely he was admiring the remarkable quality of the leather handle.

“I’m nervous because I don’t do this dating thing often. In fact, this is my first time. I chatted with a lot of girls on the Internet but was always too afraid to meet anyone. But you seemed so … interesting.”

“Really?”

“Yes. And … and, also, you are so beautiful. I guess this is why I’m nervous. You are even better looking in real life than in your photos.”

When she laughed, she was aware of a tinkling quality to her voice, like the happy notes of a piano in the lobby of an expensive hotel.

“And your fashion sense is really excellent,” he continued. He glanced around briefly before looking down at his hands and adding in a quieter voice, “Your skirt is very short.”

Phoebe tugged weakly at the hem of her skirt, a false attempt at modesty. She didn’t care at all that her skirt was short; she had planned it deliberately. “Are you going to get me a coffee or are you just going to say flattering lies to me all day?”

“I’m sorry, it’s so rude of me. I’m not my usual self today—as I said, you make me really … nervous.
Hai
, so stupid of me; I’m normally very confident. And it’s not lies! It’s true!”

She laughed. “Young men these days, so full of superfluous nonsense!”

“What kind of drink would you like?”

“Macchiato,” she said. She liked showing off her English. She could tell he was impressed. “What are you having? Caffe latte?”

“Just tea. Longjing, if they have any. I’m very boring and traditional. I’m not used to all this modern coffee drinking.”

He reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and took out a long wallet that looked thick with credit cards. Phoebe tried not to show that she was noticing it, noticing where he kept it, how much it contained. “What did you want again?” he said. “I’m so useless—I can’t even pronounce it!”

As she watched him standing at the counter, Phoebe began to form a fuller picture of him, one that had eluded her during her online chats with him. There he had seemed more confident and daring, making wisecrack jokes and stating his opinion in a forthright manner on many subjects, such as the outrageous property prices, government politics, and Internet censorship. She had imagined him as an entrepreneur whose boldness came from having made money, probably older than he said he was, maybe married too—someone who would want to feel her up and take
advantage of her. She didn’t mind. She, too, had her plans, and he fit them perfectly. Being insensitive and slightly lascivious, he would not figure out that she was meeting him only to get money, would not realize that she was using him until it was too late, until he woke up in the morning to find his wallet missing. Or maybe she would insist that he give her some money, which she would do only after he was in a state of full excitement.
Men will do anything when they are past a certain point of sexual arousal
. She might find his wife’s phone number in his mobile phone and threaten to inform her of his sordid extramarital behavior if he did not give Phoebe some money.

Instead, she had found someone younger, well mannered, and timid, the kind of man she might once have liked to go on dates with—the very opposite of the high-flying modern tycoon she had been searching for. She looked at his nice jeans and slim leather shoes, which had little tassels on them. His glasses were rimless and made him look like a nervous university student, even though he was in his early thirties. Frankly, he did not have an exhilarating appearance or personality; he was a perfect example of a
shiyong nan
—not rich but comfortable, not handsome but still acceptable. A man whose value lay in his high functional and practical aspects, who could maintain your material needs to a reasonable level and would be a solid companion. She had not expected such a person while chatting on the Internet.