“Fine,” she sighs. “I guess it’ll do.”
We agree on minimal make-up, though she insists on a bright coral lipstick. I pick out a pair of gold hoops for my ears, and Mandy finishes off the look with a pair of tan heels.
“Fabulous,” she announces, after giving me a head-to-toe inspection.
My palms are sweating. “You said he’s a doctor?”
“He’s a vet. The animal kind.”
“Right.” I rack my brain, trying to remember everything she told me about Dr. Basil Mitchell in the past few hours. “And he’s British?”
She narrows her eyes. “American. Did you even listen to a single thing I told you?”
“Remind me.”
She glances at her watch. “We have half an hour. Come with me.”
I follow her through to the dining room.
“What on earth is that?” I ask as she dumps a thick file onto the ebony table.
“This,” she announces proudly, “is the book.”
“The book?”
“The book. It’s a record of every client – their personal information, likes, dislikes, everything.”
I move to open it, but she yanks it out of my reach. With one hand firmly on top of it, she stares me down. “This is the holy grail of this whole business,” she says solemnly. “After each date, you should add to it so that the next time they’re in town you remember even the small details. That’s what makes all the difference.”
I try to keep a straight face and fail miserably.
“Okay, A, you sound like a mad woman. And B, when the hell did you become so organized? You can’t even keep track of your whiteboard markers.”
She throws me a look that clearly tells me I’m not taking this seriously enough.
“Cindy set it up, but I’m not kidding, it’s important.” She opens it to the front page, and I see a scribbled note right on top.
“What’s that?”
She peers at it. Her lips move, and her brow furrows in concentration as she tries to decipher her own writing. Then she rips it out and crumples it in her hand. “Okay, fine, so I’m not as meticulous as Cindy was, but I do keep track of what’s important.” She flips through to ‘M’ for Mitchell and finds Basil’s profile.
“Here, see,” she says, showing me the contents. “Dr. Basil Mitchell.”
“Mind if I test you?” I ask. Mandy waves her hand in agreement, and I snatch up the file.
“Hometown?”
“Chicago.”
“Favorite color?”
She rolls her eyes. “Orange, obviously.”
I run my eye further down the page. “Dislikes?”
“Peas, Celine Dion, and jokes about short people. He’s only five-one,” she adds, and then, without any further prompting, “Basil has a PhD in Veterinary Science. He visits Beijing every second month to give lectures at the China Agricultural University on his favorite subject – cats – and is actively involved in setting up mobile clinics in impoverished areas to provide basic health checks, vaccinations, and sterilization of domestic felines. He also eats dessert after every meal, even breakfast, and the last time he had a girlfriend was in college. She left him for a plumber named Stan.”
I gape at her. “How the hell did you do that?”
“I told you. My clients are nice people. Most just need someone to talk to.” She takes the book back. “Oh, and you won’t find this in the book, but between you and me, I suspect Basil is gay. He was raised strict Roman-Catholic, so he’ll never come out of the closet, but I think he’s about as unhappy as a person can be.”
“Mandy,” I saw slowly, my stomach curling. “I don’t think I can do this.”
“Don’t you dare! You’re not backing out on me now.”
“Yeah, but… you know these things. You care about these people. I can’t do that - I forgot my own mother’s birthday, for shit sakes!”
Mandy draws herself up to her full height and gives me a look of pure steel. “Pull yourself together. You are going to meet Basil, and you are going to be charming, and lovely, and so help me if you aren’t, I’m going to rip out your arm and beat you with the wet end!”
We’re both silent for a long moment.
“That’s disgusting.”
She grins. “I know. Now move your ass, sunshine, you’re going to be late.”
When I walk into the restaurant, I ask for the reservation under Dr. Basil Mitchell. A tall, distinguished-looking maître d, dressed in the customary white shirt and black pants, leads me to the table. I feel like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Fortunately, Basil Mitchell seems just as nervous. He scrambles to his feet as we approach, his round, chinless face creasing into a smile.
It’s obvious why he doesn’t like jokes about short people. His eyes are dead-level with my nipples as I extend my hand to his in greeting. If mine are clammy, Basil’s are slicked with sweat.
“Please,” he says, in a surprisingly smooth voice, “take a seat.” To his credit, he waits until I’m seated before he takes his own, and then we simply look at one another for a long moment. I try not to stare at the tufts of greyed ginger hair, meticulously combed to hide a horizon of bare flesh.
“I’m Amber,” I say eventually, to break the awkward silence.
Basil seizes on this like a lifeline.
“Yes, Mandy mentioned that. Beautiful name, Amber. Like the gem.”
“Actually, it’s fossilized tree resin.”
“Oh.” He deflates, and I scramble to recover.
“I always thought it was a gem, too, until my friend Kent informed me otherwise.”
He smiles. “Basil is an herb. So I guess we’re both named after nature.”
I try to laugh, but it’s just not funny. Basil’s face falls.
“I’m sorry, I’m just nervous,” I admit.
“Me too. I know this is a bit unorthodox.”
I don’t know whether to deny it, or be honest and agree whole-heartedly, but fortunately, Basil seems to have found his tongue.
“When Cindy left, I was so nervous to meet Mandy. Our first dinner was a disaster. She spent the entire evening making derogatory comments about short men,” he adds, and I try to look suitably outraged. “But she turned out to be more fun than I ever imagined. She’s probably one of my closest friends.”
“You must be devastated that she’s leaving. I know I am,” I say, and, just like that, we find common ground. We both adore Mandy. Her leaving affects both of us, in our own way. Before I know it, the waiter has returned to refill our drinks, and I’ve all but forgotten that this is supposed to be uncomfortable.
I figure we’ve exhausted the topic of Mandy, so I switch gear.
“Tell me three interesting facts about yourself, Dr. Mitchell.”
“Basil, please. Unless you have a cat at home who needs attending to, I’m Basil to you.”
I smile. “Okay, Basil, then.”
“Three interesting facts,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “Let me think. I’m a cat person, but Mandy’s probably told you that. Back home, I run a cattery – I look after cats when their owner’s travel – and I usually have about twelve or so with me at any given time.” He pauses suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “Do you like cats?”
“Love them!” I lie.
“Wonderful creatures, cats,” he says, satisfied. “Did you know they’re one of – if not the most – popular pets in the world?”
“I did not know that.”
“Five hundred million people can’t be wrong, eh?”
I laugh, and this time it comes out the adoring tinkle I’d planned. Basil warms to his topic.
“Right, next fact. I was born with not one sweet tooth, but an entire mouthful. As you can probably tell.” He gestures at his straining waistband.
“Nonsense. You look absolutely fine to me.” I know it’s the right thing to say by the way his lips curve upward. “Chocoholic,” I say quickly, needing to get off the topic. “Got it. What
else?”
“I have a deep-rooted love for Asian culture. The art, the architecture, the tradition… I’d spend a lot more time here if I could. If it wasn’t for the cats. They need me.”
Mandy opens the door before I’ve even knocked. It’s only nine-thirty, but apparently, dinner with Basil is never a late affair. I’m feeling pretty good. I’ve eaten a fantastic meal, had relatively decent conversation, when we weren’t talking about cats, and Basil was a true gentleman. He’d walked me out, shaken my hand, and seen me safely into a cab. Not one inappropriate comment or attempt to touch me in any way.
“How did it go?” Mandy asks, bouncing on the balls of her feet.
I dump my purse on the table in the hall. “It went well.”
“You didn’t screw up?” she follows me into the living room, where I kick off my heels and sink onto the couch.
“I hung onto every feline-related word. He said he was looking forward to seeing me again. Happy?”
She frowns, thinking it through. “You didn’t make any short men jokes, did you?”
“Oh my God. No! And that’s an improvement from your first date, or so I heard.”
“I wasn’t warned. So, how are you feeling about it all?”
“I can’t actually believe how easy it was. I had fun. And I’m getting paid for it. I am getting paid, right?”
“Yes, of course you are! Do you think I’m going to keep taking the money even though you’re doing the work?”
“Just checking.”
“So, you’ll do it? You’ll take over?”
“It can’t be this easy. What are you not telling me?”
“Oh, stop being such a Debbie Downer. I’ve handed you the world on a plate, Amber. You should be kissing my feet.”
“I feel so sorry for Basil.”
“Right? He’s a beaut.”
“If I could learn to love that nasal laugh, and overlook his height, I’d marry him tomorrow and be Mrs. Amber Mitchell, mother of every ginger cat that exists.”
“Don’t get too excited, you’ve only just scratched the surface. And admittedly, Basil is a super easy client.”
“Who’s next?”
“You’re really doing this? You can’t back out once you’ve agreed.”
“I’m really doing this.” Earning a fortune for being wined and dined? Living in this apartment, with Netflix and no subtitles? I’d be an idiot not to. I run my hand across the satin cushion beside me. “It will be my precious,” I say, in my best Gollum impersonation.
She grins. “Wait right here. I’m getting the book.”
This time, I’m allowed to examine it. I flip through the thick white cardboard dividers, briefly scanning profiles at random.
“Each profile is filed alphabetically, under the client’s last name,” Mandy explains. “Don’t worry I’ll text you the broadcast message list, which has every contact number and name in it. It’ll be easier than trying to go through this one by one and adding them to your contacts.”
“They’ll just text me if they want to see me?”
“Yes. Some will try more often than they’re allowed, but don’t be shy to get firm with them.”
“What do you mean, more often than they’re allowed?”
“Oh.” She waves her hand in a lazy circle. “The rules. I haven’t explained that to you yet. No kissing, no sex, no sleeping over, or even going back to their place. Trust me, it can land you in a whole heap of trouble.”
“Are you speaking from experience?”
“Actually, yes.”
“You’re joking!”
“I wish I was. I slept with one of my clients. I fell for him, hard – thought he was the one and everything.”
“What happened?”
“The asshole was married. Trust me, Cindy knew what she was doing when she set the rules.” She doesn’t wait for me to respond before she continues ticking them off her fingers. “Texting is limited to arranging dates only. And no more than two dates a month. Any more than that and one or both of you might start catching feels, and that’s a complication you don’t want. Men fall in love faster than they fall asleep, especially when faced with a woman who is literally being paid to agree with everything they say.”
“That makes sense.” I turn another page of the file to discover a bright red divider. “What’s this?”
“That’s the red list. Anyone beyond that is a tried and tested asshole. They’re either married, or perverted, or both. We don’t take on married men, but sadly it’s only too easy to take off a ring. If you find out a man has a wife, or a girlfriend, or if he tries anything with you, you shove him in that folder and cut all ties immediately. Don’t worry,” she adds calmly, “it almost never happens.”
While Mandy goes to fetch us a drink, I flip idly through the folder. It’s easy to see where Cindy’s entries end and Mandy’s begin. Cindy was meticulous, her neat, tight handwriting easy to read. Mandy’s illegible scrawl, on the other hand, is almost impossible to decipher.
“I have a feeling you’re going to be really good at this,” Mandy announces as she breezes back into the room with two flutes of champagne.
“I hope you’re right. When’s my next date?”
“Wednesday, if you’re up for it. I can schedule it for you, but after that, I’ll send everyone your number and leave it up to you.”
“Who’s it with?”
“Frank Gunner.”
“Sounds like a douche,” I say, without consulting the book.
“Oh, you’re even better than I thought,” Mandy replies and then takes a long sip of her champagne.
14
The next three weeks are a whirlwind. Between teaching, tutoring Wei, and my new business, I barely have time to think, but all too soon, Mandy is leaving and my heart is broken. Kate, who is still coming down from the high of her week with Tim, even now, is taking it surprisingly well. Mandy and I had met Tim during his visit. He was nice. He was Tim. I could understand what Kate sees in him, but he’s not my type.
“I can’t believe you’re leaving,” I tell Mandy for the fourth time in twenty minutes. The three of us are standing at departures.
“I’ll be back in a few weeks! You won’t even notice I’m gone. Besides, you guys at least still have my apartment to drink in. It’ll make you feel better.” She gives me a discreet wink.
We’d explained to Kate that Mandy would be keeping her apartment, but that I’d be living in it while she was gone. Kate hadn’t questioned it. She’d seen my hovel. She sympathized.
“You girls better not get up to any trouble without me.”
“As if that would be possible,” Kate smiles.
“Right, I’m not into goodbyes, so I’m just going to say see you later and be off, yeah?”
I nod, then, on impulse, I throw my arms around her. Kate does the same.
“Oh God,” Mandy mutters, but she hugs us right back.
I’m so depressed that evening that not even Netflix on Mandy’s enormous flat-screen can cheer me up. Kate and I had gone for mandatory drinks after the airport, on Mandy’s orders, but our hearts hadn’t been in it and we’d left after only two rounds. I’m flipping idly through channels when my phone beeps.
Hi Amber. I’d like to schedule an appointment for Wednesday at 7pm. The Bill and Trout. Please let me know if that works for you. Chase Crawford.
I fetch the book and flip to C. No Chase Crawford. He must be a referral. I haven’t had any yet, but Mandy had mentioned this might happen occasionally. Most new clients were sent to us through existing clients.
I don’t have anything planned this week, and Kent is only flying in on Saturday, so there’s no chance he’ll want to catch up before then. Chase’s profile picture shows only a man with his back to the camera, swinging a golf club. Hastily, I type a quick reply.
Sure, I’ll meet you there at 7.
He sends a thumbs up.
“Wei, this is excellent!” I exclaim on Tuesday afternoon, as I review the
poem he’s written. “Really good job, I love how you’ve compared the sky to a blanket.
Wei smiles. He’s been smiling a lot more since we started our private lessons, and it melts my heart every time. Bianca couldn’t have been more right when she said that Wei was craving attention. Now that he has it, he’s like a different child.
“What do you prefer,” I ask him now. “Stories, or poetry?”
“Stories,” he answers sheepishly, not wanting to admit this hasn’t been his favorite lesson.
“Me too. We’ll do another story on Thursday, okay?” I hand him a worksheet. “Now, before you go, can you put these sentences in order for me?”
We are so engrossed in the task that neither of us notices a diminutive, dark-haired woman enter the classroom. When she speaks Wei’s name, I almost jump out of my skin.
“Oh my goodness, you scared me!”
“My apologies.” She looks to Wei and gives a curt nod of her head before extending her hand to me. “I am Jia Li, Wei’s mother.”
I scramble to my feet. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting you.” Looking down at her, it’s easy to see where Wei gets his good looks. Jia is beautiful, her thick lashes framing eyes that are so dark they seem to be all pupil. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Mrs. Li.”
She doesn’t return the pleasantry, but I plow forward.
“Wei is doing so well. He’s really talented. I can show you some of his work, if you’d like?”
“I’m sorry, I’m in a rush.” She speaks impeccable English, with no trace of an accent. “Wei, get your things, quickly, please.”
“Maybe we could reschedule?” I ask, desperate to engage with her.
“I’m sorry, that won’t be possible. My husband and I are moving. Wei won’t be coming back.”
“What?” My knees threaten to buckle beneath me.
“I’ve spoken to Principal Chen,” she says, as if that settles the matter.
“When? When are you leaving?”
She gives me a pointed look, but I don’t give a shit if I’m overstepping.
“It’s been quite sudden,” she concedes. “My husband’s business requires him to go immediately, and I’ve accepted a transfer.”
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