The Little Teashop in Tokyo

by Julie Caplin

  They got off the monorail and dived into the melee of people as Gabe led them across the concourse through to a platform where they changed onto a train line.

  ‘This is the Yamanote line. You’ll use it a lot, so it’s worth familiarising yourself with it. It’s a circular line that stops at all the major city stations. We’re headed to Nippori. Professor Kobashi lives in a lovely traditional area called Yanaka.’

  ***

  After a crowded but silent journey they emerged into the pale sunlight of late afternoon nearly an hour later. Now the initial excitement of being here had faded, exhaustion had crept in to every limb and Fiona found it an effort to put one foot in front of the other as Gabe set a cracking pace along the street without even checking to see if she was following. At least he’d taken charge of her suitcase and was pushing it ahead of him like a man on a mission. A mission to rid himself of her, she surmised, watching his broad shoulders as he marched a few steps in front of her giving her the distinct impression he did not want to be here.

  She followed him, disliking the intense sensation of disorientation because she had absolutely no idea where they were in relation to the city. It gave her an uncomfortable and unnerving fear of having lost control. She was a very long way from home. The sixteen-hour flight cocooned in the close confines of the aircraft had cushioned her awareness of the true distance. Now the reality hit hard as she took in the unfamiliar architecture of the buildings, the strange roads signs, the huge multitude of overhead cables that you didn’t see at home, and the lamp posts which looked more like ornate bird boxes. It was like nowhere she’d ever been before. Although the street was wide, the houses came right up to the edge of the road with pots of plants around the doors as if to compensate for the lack of front garden. Everything seemed to be made from wood apart from the dark green tiled roofs that sloped down sharply to create a slight overhang.

  When she stopped to study the bamboo screens covering the windows, Gabe did pause and wait for her to catch up. ‘This is quite a traditional area. These houses are a couple of hundred years old.’

  ‘I love all the wood,’ she said, fascinated by the buildings even though they symbolised how far from home she was.

  ‘Sugi. Japanese cedar,’ he replied as he kept moving, still a few steps ahead of her.

  She glared at his back and picked up her stride to keep up with him as he veered off to the right, down another narrower street, and stopped to wait for her outside a shop front.

  With a smile, she stared up at the big wood-framed square window, a cross between a bay window at home and a balcony. Trailing jasmine surrounded the window which had a gorgeous but minimalist display of elegantly spouted teapots and beautifully glazed traditional teacups. Underneath the window were several big pots with leafy camellias with deep pink buds about to burst into bloom.

  ‘This is gorgeous,’ she blurted out, wishing her camera was to hand.

  ‘Be prepared to get used to it. This is Haruka’s teashop; she and Professor Kobashi live upstairs, which is where you’ll be staying.’

  Fiona clapped her hands in delight. ‘It’s so lovely.’ She took another moment to study the low tiled roof – curling up at the edges like sultan’s slippers – that jutted out above the window with its glossy green tiles.

  Inside the doorway, a flight of stairs led to the right into the teashop, while on the left was a wider porch area. Gabe immediately toed off his shoes and called out in Japanese. She caught the words ‘Haruka san’.

  ‘You speak Japanese?’

  He shook his head. ‘Basic greetings. The odd word. That’s all. You need to take your shoes off. The slippers there will be for you.’ He’d already pushed his feet into a pair of larger slippers.

  The door of what looked like paper and wood slid open to reveal a tiny Japanese woman with her dark hair swept back from her face and piled in a lustrous bun which added at least two inches to her height.

  ‘Gabriel san.’ She greeted him with clear delight, bowing before kissing him on both cheeks, her dark button eyes shining before addressing him in a stream of low voiced Japanese and patting his arms.

  Fiona studied the enthusiastic welcome with curiosity. She’d expected Japanese people to be formal and reserved. There was no sign of that here.

  ‘Haruka san, this is Fiona.’

  She stepped forward and put both hands together before nodding to Fiona with a polite little bow. ‘Welcome, Fiona. It is very good to meet you.’ Her smile, though friendly, wasn’t quite as effusive as the one Gabe had received; he was obviously very popular round here.

  ‘Come, come.’ She led the way with small, neat steps, up a flight of stairs that turned right on itself on a small landing, so that Fiona guessed they were now above the teashop. She couldn’t wait to go inside that, although her curiosity was piqued by the very different Japanese interior. The woman led them into a large living area. It was decidedly minimalist with very little furniture and wooden floors which were covered with large mats encompassing the entire central floor area. There were a few very low-level chairs with high upright backs and an odd-looking table that seemed to have its own futon mattress. Apart from a few pottery items on a low-level wooden sideboard and a couple of painted scrolls hanging on the walls, Fiona realised there were very few ornaments and none of the sort of clutter that characterised her mother’s house. She smiled; she rather liked the clean lines and tidiness of the room.

  Her hostess drew a few more of the sliding doors open and then led them up another wooden staircase to a series of rooms all divided by the same paper and wooden doors. Gabe carried Fiona’s case for her and they finally came to a small square room containing a futon on the floor. Haruka raised the bamboo blinds to reveal a balcony that ran the full length of the back of the house, overlooking a very pretty zen-style garden.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely,’ exclaimed Fiona, clasping her hands together in delight and earning a warm smile from the Japanese woman.

  ‘I’ll show you later. Would you like something to drink?’

  ‘I can’t stay,’ said Gabe hurriedly. ‘I need to get back.’ He turned to Fiona. ‘For the first couple of days, I thought I could show you around Tokyo. Acclimatise yourself and then you can start thinking about the focus for your exhibition.’

  Fiona nodded, pleased he knew that much. It was already causing her a fair amount of anxiety. Although she’d been drawn to the competition by the idea of a trip to Japan, the real prize was the guaranteed exhibition at the Japan Centre in Kensington in London two weeks after she returned home. It was a fantastic opportunity to gain some recognition and perhaps sell some work. She’d been looking forward to working with Yukata Araki, renowned for his beautiful landscapes, and hoping to learn a lot from him as well as seek his advice on a theme for the exhibition.

  But now she was stuck with Gabe. She wasn’t sure he would be the right person to help her. He specialised in portraits, for a start.

  ‘Acclimatisation sounds good,’ she murmured, the punch-drunk reeling sensation of jet lag starting to make her feel dizzy. She swayed on the spot and Gabe caught her arm. Her eyes immediately shot to his and her breath caught in her chest, almost imagining a quick flare of something before he hurriedly dropped her arm again. Stiffening, she forced herself to focus. Gabe had nothing to fear from her. She’d made a complete dick of herself with him before with fanciful imaginings. She wasn’t going to do it again, no matter how flipping attractive she found him.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Why? Why? Why?’ he asked himself in the mirror as he ran the razor blade over his foaming chin. Going into Tokyo was a pain in the arse at the best of times. Having to take some wide-eyed girl, who really was wide-eyed and wobbly legged – she reminded him of Bambi with those long limbs – was doubly irritating.

  Professor Kobashi’s pleas hadn’t moved him to volunteer to take over as mentor; no, it had been Haruka’s distraught tears over her husband’s potential humiliation that the plans he’d so care
fully laid had collapsed. The Japanese didn’t do failure and it would bring shame on the professor if the trip had to be cancelled and Gabe was all too aware of the debt he owed Haruka. Although now Gabe was regretting it. He glanced at his watch; he’d deliberately timed things to avoid travelling during the hideous rush hour that was unique to Tokyo and its eight million commuters. This deliberate ploy, thankfully, also reduced the number of babysitting hours duty required him to fulfil.

  With an exaggerated sigh, he took one last look in the mirror and leaned closer to inspect the smooth skin, making sure he’d not missed a spot, although he couldn’t have said why he cared. Normally he avoided shaving as often as possible; it was a mindless chore that bored the pants off him. A bit like most things these days. He had a couple of commissions lined up for the next month for Japanese magazines – film stars doing the usual promotional rounds being poked and prodded by their publicists for the right responses but not much else – unless he got a last minute call which did happen more often than not.

  He grabbed his phone from the side of the washbasin and read for the third time the text from Yumi.

  Meiko is away again. No one else understands me here. I’m so lonely. Come take me out to dinner. Y

  On the Shinkansen, the bullet train, the trip to Osaka was only an hour and if he didn’t have this babysitting job, he’d have gone like a shot but sadly he had obligations, even though they were weighty and unwelcome. Haruka would definitely disapprove of any dereliction of duty.

  Reluctantly he texted back.

  Sorry. I’m working today. Perhaps tomorrow.

  He never added a kiss. Not anymore. She was a married woman now. The familiar feeling of despair hit and settled into place. For a moment he waited, one hand resting on the still damp sink but there was no response and he could picture her face. He laughed without mirth. Picture her face? He knew every line and plane of that beautiful face, the shape of each delicate feature and every shadow cast by her graceful, elegant bone structure.

  In his mind’s eye he could see the petulance of her bottom lip and the shadowed sad frown of disappointment. Poor Yumi, she was so desperately lonely and isolated out there in Osaka. She needed a friend. Her husband neglected her, but at the same time indulged her every wish and whim with his wealth.

  He shook off the melancholy thoughts. Haruka always said to him Yumi had made her bed and must lie in it – or rather, the Japanese equivalent. Gabe stuffed his phone in his back pocket and left the house.

  ***

  Fiona was ready, waiting, and bouncing; that was the only way he could describe it. Enthusiasm leaked from her and he almost took a step back as if it might be catching.

  ‘Morning,’ she called, kicking off her slippers and sliding her feet into a neat pair of Chelsea boots.

  ‘You’re very bright and cheerful. I take it you slept well.’

  ‘I did. There’s something different … I think it’s the smell of the tatami mats. It’s like sleeping outdoors.’

  He raised one sceptical eyebrow, having become accustomed to the fragrant, grassy smell over the years.

  ‘Haruka been giving you a 101 in Japanese culture?’

  ‘I asked her about the mats. And,’ she added eagerly, ‘the sliding doors. Made of paper and wood. They’re rather beautiful.’

  ‘Shoji screens.’ He’d got used to them but he could remember a time when they’d been a novelty. ‘Designed originally to create space for a samurai to swing his sword.’ Okay, so he’d absorbed some information over the years and wasn’t averse to trying to impress her a little.

  ‘Yes, that’s what Haruka told me.’

  He smiled. ‘The Japanese are very good at keeping their traditions alive while at the same time being one of the most innovative and technologically advanced societies. Talking of which, if you’re ready, we’ll take the train and then hit the subway system which should be a lot more civilised at this time of day.’

  She stooped to pick up a padded camera bag.

  ‘You’re probably not going to need that today.’

  ‘Really?’ She clutched the strap as if he might have to wrest it away from her.

  ‘I want you to look today, see things, feel the atmosphere. Be in the moment. Too many photographers hide behind their cameras and they end up with superficial, surface shots. A good photographer reveals the layers beneath.’

  She blinked at him.

  And well she might. Where had that come from? Bullshit 101. It was something he might have believed once but now … Now he didn’t want her slowing down the day snapping at everything in sight; it would make an already tedious day even more unbearable.

  Today was something to get through as smoothly as possible. He’d decided his strategy and he couldn’t help but wish he was on the train to Osaka instead.

  ***

  Once they left the train station, Fiona developed an ache in her neck, craning this way and that to take everything in. Skyscrapers, neon lights flashing and, taking up every available bit of space, so many people. She’d never seen crowds like it. Gabe had said very little to her on the subway, although she realised that was probably due to local travel etiquette.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Gabe but she’d seen the sign from further down the road and had excitedly increased her pace. This had been one of the key priorities on her wish list when she’d been swotting up with her guide book on the long flight here. TOP Museum, the letters announced, which made her smile. The Tokyo Photographic Art Museum.

  ‘Perfect.’ She beamed at him. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Know?’ She almost laughed at his horrified uncertainty and the way he stepped back as if she’d handed him a grenade and was waving the pin at him.

  ‘That this was my number one destination. The place I really wanted to visit.’

  ‘You’re a photographer?’ He spread his hands wide, his face wreathed in a charmingly insincere smile.

  ‘An amateur. I’m still learning. I’m actually a blogger and Instagrammer. Until I won this competition, I’ve never really thought of myself as a proper photographer but I’m really excited to see these pictures, although they’ll probably depress the hell out of me. Looking at all that talent. Does it do that to you? Or does it inspire you to go and be better?’

  Lines creased his brow and it struck her that he knew nothing about her. He certainly hadn’t bothered asking her any questions about herself and yet had been arrogant enough to assume she knew who he was at the airport. The thought made her feel inconsequential and for a moment she shrivelled a little, but then a little line of anger trickled down her spine, like the flash fire along a fuse. She’d come all this way, taken a risk, been prepared to step away from the handrail and he didn’t seem to know anything about her. Had he even taken the trouble to read her application to the competition or open up the file of photos that went with it? She was proud of those and, she acknowledged bitterly, she still wanted his approval. Craved his praise. Because he was a professional, she told herself, and not in the way she’d wanted it at eighteen when she’d been desperate for him to notice her. A touch of anger stirred in her twenty-eight-year-old self, older and a lot wiser. Surely looking at her application would have been a basic courtesy both to herself and to the person he’d taken over from. What was the point of half doing the job? Was he really that egotistical that he just didn’t care?

  ‘Have you even seen my portfolio?’ she asked with sudden sarcasm. ‘Read my entry?’

  He held up his hands. ‘I’m sorry. No. I didn’t.’

  You had to admire someone who didn’t try to lie their way out of trouble and faced it head on but even so … ‘No surprise there. I had you down as a flake.’ Oops, not quite the word she’d been aiming for and judging by his scandalised affront, completely the wrong thing to say. She had a habit of doing that.

  ‘Excuse me? A flake? How on earth do you figure that? You don’t even know me.’

  ‘Yeah.’ Except she did know him. ‘You’re the s
ort of guy that does what he wants.’ She knew that from his perfunctory attempt at teaching a class when most of the students had been too dazzled by his celebrity status to complain and, truth be told, she had been one of the worst offenders. But no more. She was here to learn. Two short weeks were all she had to nail the exhibition which would give her a foot in the door of an exhaustingly competitive industry. ‘How did they con you into taking over Araki’s gig then?’

  ‘There was no con involved.’ He bristled and glared back at her. ‘Now, if you want to maximise your time here, I suggest you make a start. I’ll meet you back here in three hours.’ Before he could say another word, he wheeled around and walked away, leaving her standing with her mouth open and doing a very passable impression of a goldfish.

  The … the … had he just dumped her here? What sort of mentoring was that? With a huff she turned around and walked into the museum, grateful for the English signage everywhere. It would be better without him, she decided.

  ***

  And it was. With five floors of galleries, there was so much to see and it felt positively self-indulgent to glide about at her own pace, skipping the things that didn’t interest her and pondering for much longer the pictures that did. Recently, she’d decided that life was too short to spend time on things you didn’t have to, like finishing books that didn’t appeal, watching the end of a film that wasn’t your thing, and studying every picture in an exhibit.

  Enjoying the quiet, serene atmosphere with hushed whispers and soft footsteps, she turned a corner and walked into a new section where she came face to face with a Gabriel Burnett. It was the picture that caught her attention first rather than his name: an arresting image of a beautiful Japanese woman buried in cherry blossom petals, her limbs carefully arranged in a sea of the flowers with one graceful arm held out, the hand in supplication, catching a frothy pink, out-of-focus, falling blossom. At first when Fiona saw the picture she could admire the technique, the lighting and the way the edges of the flowers blurred, but as she studied the picture, so much more emerged creating a slight but definite unsettling awareness.