Forget Me Knot (18 page)

“No, miss. Penthouse flat.”

“You mean, up there?” she said, sounding feeble as well as indignant.

“Yeah. Top floor.” The guard was looking at her as if she were either deaf or stupid.

“I see. Right. OK. No problem.”

Had her appointment been last week, she would have gone into the building and immediately sought out the fire-escape stairs. Then she would have trudged up all twenty-three flights, arriving at Mr. Takahashi’s apartment slick with sweat and in a state of near collapse. Not today.

Her heart racing, she stared at the building. “I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.” Slowly, she began to move
forward, unaware that the guard was looking at her as if to say: “Gawd. Got a crazy one here.”

Eventually she picked up her pace. Soon she was standing in the marble entrance hall, amid brown leather sofas and giant abstract paintings. In front of her were the doors to three elevators. She swallowed hard. Then she headed toward the middle door and pressed the call button. The door opened instantly. She hesitated, sent up a quick prayer for her safe delivery to the twenty-third floor and stepped inside. She hit the relevant button and waited. The glass elevator began to rise. It wasn’t particularly fast. In fact, it was a rather elegant ride clearly designed to give the passenger a chance to admire the view. She decided to concentrate on seeing how many landmarks she could spot. She immediately found Big Ben, the London Eye and Canary Wharf. Soon she was pressed against the glass, squinting, as she tried to locate the new Wembley Stadium. She found it just as the bell pinged to indicate that she had reached her destination. She almost didn’t want to leave. She hadn’t found Battersea Power Station yet.

As she stepped out, she felt a surge of exhilaration. It wasn’t quite as intense as the emotion she had felt on leaving the Covent Garden elevator, but it was pretty close. She realized that her elevator phobia really was fading.

Riding in a traditional, closed-in elevator would no doubt present more of a challenge, but she was reminded that every great journey begins with one small step, and for now she was more than happy with how far she had come.

THE MARBLE
-and-glass theme continued inside Mr. Takahashi’s vast penthouse. Ichiro welcomed her with a
flamboyant double kiss. “Abby! How are yeeeeuuww?” His effusive manner suggested that he had known her for years. The accent was pure
O. C
. Abby never quite knew how to respond when Americans greeted her with “how are you?” Did they really want to hear about the state of one’s sinuses or the progress of one’s piles? Still, she supposed it was no more vacuous a greeting than the British “how do you do?” to which the correct response was the laughably nonsensical “how do you do?”

“Fine, thanks.” Abby smiled, taking Ichiro’s outstretched hand.

Ichiro was twenty-something and slim as a reed. Abby was certain that if he turned sideways he would disappear. He was wearing a long black T-shirt over skintight white drainpipe jeans. A wide belt encrusted with multicolored glass gems rested on what passed for his hips. He had a smooth, gamine face and longish, straight hair that had been dyed rich red setter and cut into a trendy, edgy style with a fringe that formed a severe, asymmetric slant. “I am so excited to meet yeeeeuuww,” he continued, leading her down a long wide hallway, its walls covered in vibrant, modern abstracts not dissimilar to the ones in the downstairs lobby— probably by the same artist, Abby thought. “And I just know we are going to be able to work together. I felt this instant connection with yeeeeuuww. I can just tell that we’re in the same headspace spiritually. I can feel connections between people. It’s a Zen thing. Are you picking up on it?”

Abby replied with another smile and a noncommittal “quite possibly.”

She almost gasped as Ichiro led her into the magnificent drawing room. It was vast, with a creamy marble tiled floor and matching walls.

“What a stunning room.”

“I guess,” he said, “but I sometimes wonder if it isn’t… you know—just a tad beige-a-vu.”

“I like it,” Abby replied with a soft laugh. At the same time, she was thinking that Ichiro really was as gay as a daisy in May.

She made a beeline for the window, which was a massive expanse of floor-to-ceiling glass.

The views over the city were beyond glorious— although at the back of her mind she could hear her father’s voice: “With all this glass, I wouldn’t mind seeing this chap’s heating bills for a winter quarter.”

“Mr. T sends his apologies for not being here to meet you in person, but as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, he’s a very busy man. He tends not to involve himself in domestic matters, but Sophie has assured him that we’re in safe hands leaving the floral art to you.”

Ichiro invited her to sit down on one of the giant chocolate leather sofas and then disappeared to fetch them some tea. He came back carrying a tiny wooden slatted tray covered in a black cloth. On it were two white bone-china mugs of green tea and two miniature blueberry tarts, which had been finished off with slivers of bitter chocolate and a net of spun sugar. Abby remarked that they looked far too good to eat.

“I know. Aren’t they just divine? Pablo, our pastry chef, is truly gifted. His creations aren’t so much food as fine art. What’s more, they’re wheat-free, gluten-free and less than forty calories a pop.” He invited her to sample Pablo’s delights.

Abby bit into the tart. She could have easily fit the entire thing into her mouth, but it seemed rude to demolish it
in one go. The pastry literally melted in her mouth. The fruit was sharp without being sour.

By now, Ichiro had moved into the center of the room. “You know what, Abby? I’ve given great thought to this project, and I’d like to share my vision with you.” Abby said all ideas were welcome, but added, “But won’t Mrs. Takahashi and her daughter be joining us? Mothers and daughters usually have very specific ideas about what they want.”

Ichiro explained that Mr. Takahashi was divorced and that his ex-wife lived in Tokyo. Presently, Mai and her fiancé were visiting her and wouldn’t be back until just before the party.

“So, organizing the event has pretty much been left to me. With Mrs. T gone, I’ve become Mr. T’s wife.” He paused, clearly thinking about what he’d just said. “Omigahd, eeeuuwww. No, not in that way! I’m purely his domestic slave.” Another beat. “Anyway,” he continued, clearly anxious to bring the conversation back to his artistic vision, “here’s my thinking. For a start, I think that clever use of space is vital, don’t you?” He was standing arms outstretched, feet carefully placed in second position.

Abby nodded. “Absolutely.”

“I don’t think we should be filling every spare inch of the room with flowers. I think you make just as much of a statement with the space you don’t use.”

Again Abby said she couldn’t agree more.

“You see, we do connect. I told you so.” Ichiro clapped his hands in glee. “Oh, this is so thrilling for me.”

Abby asked him if he’d had any thoughts about a color scheme.

“I’m thinking merlot is very now.” His feet moved to third position.

“Umm. Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?” he said thoughtfully. He pulled a nail file from his pocket and started to smooth a jagged edge on his pinkie.

Abby decided it was her turn to share. She said the room was large enough to take a miniature Japanese garden with a scaled-down water feature and a bridge. “And maybe even one of those gloriously gnarled plum trees and a pagoda. Flowerwise, I’d like to go for traditional cherry blossoms. Also, as it’s an engagement party, I think we should have lotus flowers, because they symbolize immortality, and peonies, because they’re about prosperity.”

Ichiro replaced the nail file and joined his hands together, as if in prayer. “Oh, this I love. It’s so original.”

It was hardly original, Abby thought, but, hey, if Ichiro thought it was original, who was she to contradict him?

Abby was busy making notes and jotting down rough room dimensions on a legal pad when she heard loud footsteps. Ichiro heard them, too, and looked startled, almost to the point of fear.

“It’s Mr. T,” he hissed.

A short, square, middle-aged Japanese man with a graying mustache and fierce military demeanor strode into the room, looking as if he were about to inspect a regiment of kamikaze pilots. By now Ichiro had assumed a bent, positively geishalike stance. Ignoring Abby, Mr. Takahashi shot Ichiro a ferocious glare and began bawling him out in Japanese. Ichiro responded with a deep bow and words that Abby assumed were a statement of his most profound
apologies for whatever crime he had committed. Throughout Ichiro’s prolonged telling off, which caused his masterߣs face to turn positively merlot with rage, Ichiro’s gaze remained firmly locked on the floor.

When it was over, Abby wasn’t sure if Ichiro was going to fall on his nail file or regain his dignity. Somehow he managed to regain his dignity. He raised his head, found his smile and introduced Abby. In an instant, Mr. Takahashi’s face lit up. “Ah, Miss Crompton,” he said, his speech clipped and breathy. “Welcome.” He stepped forward, hand outstretched to greet Abby.

“Kajitsu,”
Abby said, taking his hand. Whenever she met foreign clients, she liked to greet them in their own language.

“Kajitsu!”
Mr. Takahashi responded in delight. He gave a bow, which she returned.

“Mr. Takahashi doesn’t speak very much English,” Ichiro interjected, “so I will translate.”

Abby suggested that Ichiro explain her ideas for the party. Ichiro began, but immediately Mr. Takahashi became irritable and began waving his hand to indicate that he was an important man who had better things to do with his time than discuss floral arrangements. She got the impression from his hand-waving that he had lost something and was blaming Ichiro. While Ichiro scuttled off to find whatever it was that had gone missing, Mr. Takahashi turned his attention back to Abby.

“You like peenis?” Mr. Takahashi inquired.

“I’m sorry?” Abby said, startled and unsure if she’d heard correctly.

“You like peenis? Japanese like peenis. I want beeg peenis. Very beeg peenis.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Takahashi, but I’m not sure what I can do about the size of your—”

“Peenis very big in Jah-pahn.”

“Really? I’m afraid I wouldn’t know.”

“Yes, they very big. Peenis bring—how you say?—prosperity.”

“Oh, you mean peonies! Of course. Yes, we are planning to have lots of peonies.”

“Very good. We have much peenis at party. Yes?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Takahashi, I’ll make sure there’s much penis—I mean, peonies—at the party.”

“And other flowers?”

“Yes. Traditional cherry blossoms and lotus flowers.”

“Excellent. Excellent.”

Just then Ichiro reappeared, carrying a file bulging with papers. He handed it to Mr. Takahashi with an obsequious bow. Mr. Takahashi snatched it and offered poor Ichiro a few more harsh words. Then he turned to Abby, took her hand in his and kissed it. “Good-bye, Miss Crompton,” he said, bowing. “We meet again very soon.” With that he bowed again and took his leave.

She turned to Ichiro, who still looked a bit shaky. “You OK?”

“I’m fine. That little outburst was nothing,” he said. “You want to see Mr. T in a bad mood.”

“I do?”

“He gets into these wild, Hitlerian, carpet-chewing rages. But the good thing is they never last long.”

Abby knew it was none of her business, but she found herself asking Ichiro why he worked for Mr. Takahashi if he treated him so badly. Ichiro explained that he had two sets of grandparents living in poor areas of rural Japan.
“They’re frail and ill. My parents and I give them money, but we’re not a wealthy family and it’s not enough to support them. As soon as Mr. T found out about them, he started sending them money every month. Deep down he’s a good man. He gives millions to charity. I hate being beholden, but what can I do?”

“I really don’t know.” Abby put her legal pad back in her bag and zipped it. Still at a loss for anything helpful to say, she looked at her watch. “It’s been great meeting you, Ichiro,” she said, “but I really must get going.” She thanked him for the tea and said that she would e-mail him with her estimate.

WHEN SHE
got back to the shop, Abby found herself being no more than civil toward Martin. She was still angry with him, so much so that she wasn’t about to share the news that she had managed to take another ride in an elevator. She certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of confirming that Ichiro was gay. For what remained of the day, their conversation was confined to work.

Toby rang just as she was closing the shop. “OK, put on something nice, we’re going out for dinner.”

“Ooh, we are?”

“Yep. I’ve booked a table at Zafferano’s for eight-thirty.”

Zaffarano’s was one of the best Italian restaurants in London.

“Are we celebrating?”

“Wait and see.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she giggled, assuming he had pulled off some major deal at work.

As soon as she got off the phone, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. As she undressed, she found herself thinking how unusual it was to hear Toby so buoyed up.

She spent ages thinking about what to wear. Finally she picked out a clingy floral silk dress in raspberry and pale mint. She teamed it with a raspberry cashmere bolero cardigan that tied at the front, emphasizing her bust.

She arrived at the restaurant dead on time. Toby was already there. The moment he saw her, he got to his feet and held his arms open.

After they had kissed hello, he told her how fabulous she looked. She blushed with pleasure.

“This is such a treat,” Abby said as they sat down. “Apart from the other night with your mother, we haven’t been out for dinner in ages.”

“I know. You’ve had a rough deal these last few months, and it’s just my way of saying sorry and how much I love you.”

Toby ordered a bottle of champagne.

“So, what are we celebrating?” she asked.

He grinned. “Two things.”

“Actually, it might be three,” she said, deciding that today’s elevator journey was without doubt a cause for celebration. “But you go first.”