Chapter 6
Chapter Six
It was impossible to say no to dinner and drinks with Akira.
After a brief and scalding shower, during which her heart broke over and over again (she’d lost the Wimbledon Championship, after all, and she could never go back, could never redeem herself), Yoko changed into a sleek black dress, a pair of high-heeled shoes that didn’t show her banged-up tennis toes, and a light trench coat that, to her, fit the soft evenings in England.
It was nothing like the summer heat back in Osaka.
Afterward, she went to her parents’ hotel room to say goodbye.
Tomorrow, they would explore London together and visit museums, eat strange English foods, and maybe drink beer at a classic English pub.
Her mother gave her that look again that said I know what you’re up to. But Yoko couldn’t let her mother’s feelings about Akira dictate how Yoko acted.
“Be home soon,” her mother said in a tight Japanese voice, one that indicated her word was meant to be Yoko’s rule. “You must be exhausted. Come to our room before you go to sleep.”
Yoko blinked at her mother, remembering the early days, when her mother and father had discovered Yoko’s unique talent for tennis and decided to force her deeper and deeper into the game.
As a girl, Yoko’s own mother had been a regional champion with tennis dreams of her own.
Yoko’s mother had then transferred all of her dreams onto Yoko’s life, making Yoko feel, at times, suffocated.
Now that she was an undeniable champion (in every sense save in Wimbledon), Yoko could only thank her mother for pushing her.
She’d changed the trajectory of her life.
But she couldn’t thank her for this, for trying to control her long after her eighteenth birthday.
She was twenty-one, and she was going to do as she pleased, socially.
Even if it hurt her to see Akira like this.
As they’d arranged, Yoko took a cab to the restaurant where Akira had booked a table for three.
When she approached, her chin raised, Yoko felt twenty-plus pairs of eyes on her.
She heard her name and felt a spike of embarrassment.
Probably almost everyone in the restaurant had been at the tennis match today. They’d watched her fall apart.
Akira and his girlfriend, Himari, were in a quiet conversation, murmuring and gesturing at the menu.
When they realized she was near, they broke apart, as though she’d caught them doing something illicit.
Akira stood, happily bowed to Yoko, then hugged her.
“I’m glad you could shake off your parents,” he said.
Himari stood, bowed, and sat back down again. Her smile was pleasant and difficult to read.
“It’s surreal you came all this way to see me play,” Yoko said. “I can’t thank you enough. It’s wonderful to see a friendly face.” She took a beat before adding, “And to meet your lovely girlfriend, of course.”
Akira ordered sake for the table and made a toast to Yoko’s career. When it was over, they sipped and focused on the menu, ordering everything they craved. Yoko was starving.
“Tell me everything you’ve been up to since I last saw you,” she ordered Akira. “And Himari, I’d love to know more about you.”
Akira explained that he’d been working on another film over the past few months and that things were moving in a powerful direction for him. “Quitting tennis was the best thing I could have done,” he said with a laugh. “I met Himari while working on my last film.”
“Are you a filmmaker as well?” Yoko asked.
“I’m an actress,” Himari said.
Yoko felt it like a sting in her chest—an actress.
Of course, she was. Himari was beautiful enough to get paid to be photographed and filmed.
Yoko wondered if Himari was faking her happiness at meeting Yoko.
How could you ever trust an actress to be truthful?
She pondered if Akira ever questioned Himari’s honesty.
“But we want to hear about you!” Akira said, his face opening like a window.
Yoko stuttered as she explained that there was very little to say. “I spend all my time on the tennis court,” she said. “I see my coach and my parents, and that’s about it.”
“That focus you have is spectacular,” Akira said. “I’ve always admired it.”
If Yoko wasn’t mistaken, Himari seethed internally.
She pulled her eyes from Yoko’s and studied the small plates between them.
Yoko was beginning to wonder if her mother had been right.
Maybe she shouldn’t have met Akira and Himari.
Perhaps it was too painful for everyone involved—everyone except Akira, apparently, who seemed not to care about Yoko romantically at all. Not anymore.
Her hand shaking, Yoko reached out for her glass of sake and accidentally spilled it across the table and into Himari’s lap.
Yoko yelped with alarm and jumped to her feet.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” She rushed for a napkin.
But Himari played it cool, tapping a napkin across her lap and laughing evenly.
“It’s all right! Things happen,” she said.
Akira kissed his girlfriend on the cheek. “She never gets upset about anything,” he said of Himari. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a real fight!”
Yoko’s heart spiked with a mix of anger and jealousy.
“That’s lovely,” she murmured. She sat back down, stabbed a fork through a piece of fish, and chewed methodically.
When the napkin proved not strong enough, Himari got up to tend to her dress in the bathroom, leaving Akira and Yoko by themselves.
Yoko felt heat on her neck. Could Akira tell how clumsy and silly she felt?
Could he sense how out of place she was when Himari was around?
A strange part of her urged her to tell him what was on her mind—that she was in love with him and always had been.
She couldn’t possibly feel worse right now, could she?
She allowed herself to gaze into Akira’s eyes for a whole lot longer than she would have dared if Himari were here. Her heart thudded.
“It’s so good to see you,” Akira repeated, shaking his head as though he was at a loss. “I feel like you’re the most important person from my past. And now, look at us: grown up and doing exactly what we’re meant to do.” He bowed his head.
Yoko felt struck dumb. Although what Akira said was technically sweet, and although it was clear that she meant a great deal to him, that word “past” rang out, strong and clear.
Yoko and Akira were like ghosts, haunting one another’s presence.
She took a big bite of food and urged herself not to cry.
Later, after picking through the last of their dinner, Akira suggested that they go to a bar down the road.
Himari looked visibly annoyed, her eyes showing more of their whites.
Yoko insisted she was too tired. “I have to get some sleep,” she said.
“I need today to be over with. It took everything out of me.”
Akira seemed to understand, although he was disappointed. “We’ll see each other again while we’re in England,” he said. “We’ll be exploring London for the next few days. You know I’d love to see your parents as well.”
Yoko opened and closed her lips, unsure of how to respond.
In truth, she had very little will to see Akira again during this trip.
A dark, secret part of her prayed that he and Himari would break up, that, in a year or two, back in Osaka or elsewhere on the globe, Yoko and Akira would laugh about how wrong Akira and Himari were for one another.
She imagined Akira telling her it was always supposed to be them as he gently laced her hair behind her ear.
Yoko said her stiff, formal goodbyes and got into a cab, where she immediately burst into tears.
Japanese people were taught from a young age not to show emotions so blatantly, but exhaustion and sake and sorrow had gotten to her, crafting a perfect storm of tears.
The taxi driver was very kind and very British and told her that everything would be all right in the end.
At least, that was what Yoko could understand of his English.
He also called her “love,” which felt overwhelmingly cliché. It helped—a little bit.
When Yoko arrived, she found her mother in the front sitting room of the hotel, nursing a mug of tea.
It was clear she was staying up to watch for Yoko.
When Yoko approached, her mother stood, nodded curtly, and said, “It’s good you’re back.
We have many things to tend to over the next few days.
You have an interview in the morning, and we’ve arranged a tour of the Tower of London. ”
Yoko’s vision felt blurry. She could hardly muster a reply. Together, she and her mother walked to the elevator, where, after they rode up, they separated. Yoko turned left, and her mother, right. They said a soft good night.
Back in her room, Yoko couldn’t calm her pounding heart.
For a few minutes, she paced back and forth in front of her window, watching the car lights stream past. It was ten fifteen, which probably meant that both of her parents were asleep by now, comfortable and soft in the darkness of their room.
Yoko felt more alone than she had in many years.
The glint of her second-place Wimbledon medal taunted her from the hotel dresser. She had to get out of there.
What happened next changed the course of Yoko’s life forever.