Chapter 17 The Difference
The Difference
She answered emails. She updated price lists.
She checked condition reports, reordered foam corners for shipping, and called a framer in Sheung Wan about a crack in a sheet of acrylic.
She made tea when Mr. Cho forgot. She corrected Mr. Chou’s English on three wall labels and then watched him insist on correcting her correction.
She had resumed wearing her clothes, the no-name blouse, the plain black skirt and the cheap flats, and boxed up all her brand name dresses, fancy heels, Tiffany jewelry and the Celine purse, storing them on the floor of her closet. She was tired of being that person.
Except the Tom Ford sunglasses. Everybody, even her, needed a good pair of sunglasses.
She fit in again. The clothes fit. The work fit. Her apartment fit after she pushed the Horizon 70 (with the Horizon 55 inside) beside the wardrobe, where it blocked the door from opening all the way.
Everything fit well enough.
That was the phrase she had settled on.
Well enough.
Aaron was still doing Golden Hour promotional work in Los Angeles. He had told her he would be back in a week, which was now tomorrow. She had said she was looking forward to it. At the time, she had meant it.
At least, she thought so.
Now that feeling existed somewhere in her phone, part of a thread she did not reread.
He texted from cars, hotel rooms, production offices, and once from a gym at six in the morning Los Angeles time.
He sent short things. A photograph of an espresso cup.
A note about a meeting running long. A complaint about an executive who thought all Asian markets were the same market.
He asked if she was sleeping. He told her he missed her.
Natalie answered.
She told herself that this exhaustion with people in general was temporary. Jet lag. Shame. The return to her job. The awkwardness of coming back from Los Angeles early on a commercial flight.
At night, in her apartment, Natalie took off her work clothes and put on old T-shirts. She ate noodles, toast, rice with egg, leftovers from a cha chaan teng downstairs. She washed the same bowl and the same glass.
On Friday, she did not go to the Yat Sing, even though she was desperate to.
That had been the worst part of the week: knowing that Grace, Constance, Alexis, Tessa and probably even Lung didn’t want her there. Not that Friday, not the next, not ever again.
Nobody had texted her, not even Grace. It was obvious that Natalie had said things that could not be taken back. That could never be forgiven.
But Natalie had missed all of them.
Even Tessa.
Danny was different.
It seemed like he wanted to be friends, even though Natalie had betrayed him in the worst way. She didn’t trust herself to be a good friend to him or anybody else.
On this particular Wednesday morning, the gallery was empty.
Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou were in the office, arguing softly over whether a collector in Singapore needed to be called before the shipment left or after, each man apparently convinced that the other’s preference would bring legal ruin, social humiliation, and possibly mold.
The door opened.
Natalie turned.
Aaron Lam stepped into Galerie Cho Chou alone.
He wore a pale linen jacket over a white shirt, trousers that fell perfectly, hair silvering slightly at the temples in a way that seemed like more of a fashion statement than age.
His gaze found Natalie.
“Natalie,” he said, smiling faintly. “I arrived early this morning.”
Her name in his voice was smooth and silky, still guaranteed to make Asian teenage girls wet. But now, considering how Golden Hour was breaking box office records, it probably made American women of all ages and skin tones wet.
She didn’t get wet, though.
“Aaron.”
Mr. Cho made a soft sound.
Mr. Chou bowed, realizing too late that Aaron was not looking at him, and remained slightly bent so as not to be embarrassed by straightening up.
Aaron crossed the gallery to where Natalie was standing.
He kissed her on both cheeks. Lightly. Warmly. He smelled wonderful, like clean linen. For a moment, she remembered it all.
Then the moment passed.
Aaron stepped back and looked at her.
Not rudely. Not with disappointment. With the same attention he gave a painting whose hanging had changed.
“This suits you,” he said.
Natalie looked down at her blouse and skirt.
“Does it?”
“Yes. Very much.” His eyes returned to her face. “There is a clarity to you today.”
Of course there was.
Aaron would never say, you look less exciting. He would say clarity, and it would be true enough to be a compliment.
“Thank you,” she said.
He smiled.
Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou hovered.
“May I see the new hang?” Aaron asked.
“Yes,” Natalie said. “Of course.”
She walked him through the first room.
The movement felt familiar. Too familiar, almost. Aaron beside her, the white walls, the careful paintings, the old choreography of showing him what the gallery had hidden or hoped he might transform by looking.
Aaron stopped before the Zhu Jia. A smaller one, not the famous piece, not the one collectors asked for, but a quieter work from the same series: one turned figure, grey field, the back of a neck rendered with almost unbearable restraint.
“This one survived the rush from your event,” he said.
“Barely.”
“Good. It deserved to.”
Natalie folded her hands behind her back. “Why?”
Aaron looked at the painting, then spoke as if the answer had been waiting for the courtesy of a question.
“The others are more immediately seductive. The scale, the color, the drama. This one is less interested in drama. She is simply not available. That is more serious.”
Natalie looked at the painting.
He was right.
It was insightful and interesting.
“Your film,” she said. “It’s doing well?”
Aaron’s expression warmed. Not modestly. He had no false modesty. He had the serene confidence of a man who could accept success without grabbing at it.
“Very well. Better than expected. The domestic numbers are strong, but the American response is what matters.” He turned slightly from the painting. “There are offers.”
“Hollywood?”
“Several. Two quite serious. One absurdly serious.”
“Absurdly?”
“Numbers become unreal at a certain point. I have learned a lot about Americans. And America.”
Natalie smiled despite herself. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” He received it simply. “I will need to spend more time there. Los Angeles, New York, perhaps London. But mostly Los Angeles. I am looking at houses.”
“Houses.”
“A place in Beverly Hills, probably. Nothing too large.”
“A mansion,” she said.
“A house,” he corrected. “That is all.”
“Of course.”
He turned to her.
“You helped,” he said.
Natalie blinked. “I did?”
“Yes. Without you, none of this would have been possible.”
She almost laughed, but the sincerity in his face stopped her.
“You helped me to understand Americans.”
“I’m glad,” she said.
He nodded.
Mr. Chou sneezed softly behind them, perhaps from tension.
Aaron glanced toward the backroom. Not suggestively. Not directly. Only enough that the memory moved between them.
Then he looked back at Natalie.
“I am having a small dinner tonight,” he said. “Friends. A few people from the film. Two Americans from the studio. Nothing formal. You should come.”
There it was.
The door to return to that life with him.
Dinner at Aaron Lam’s house. Friends. Film people. Americans from the studio. Art, wine, low light, the terrace, that room, that bed, orgasm after orgasm.
Natalie looked at him.
He was still beautiful.
Still warm.
Still sincere.
Still offering exactly what he had always offered.
But she did not want it.
“No,” she said.
Aaron accepted the answer gracefully.
“Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
He touched her hand.
Only for a moment.
His hand was warm and elegant. The touch that had once made every woman he had ever met say yes.
Now it was simply a hand.
Aaron smiled at her.
“I wish you success, Natalie.”
“Thank you.”
“I hope you get what you want.”
She looked at him for a moment.
“I hope the same for you.”
He seemed to like that answer. Or perhaps he simply appreciated it.
He nodded to Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou, who bowed in two different rhythms, then walked toward the door.
At the entrance, he paused.
Mr. Chou inhaled sharply, ready to sell if necessary.
But Aaron did not look back.
He left.
The door closed.
Mr. Cho sagged against the desk.
Mr. Chou whispered, “He did not buy anything.”
“Maybe next time,” Mr. Cho said.
Natalie smiled. “Maybe.”
The rest of the morning passed. They had lunch. Then the rest of the afternoon passed too.
At five-thirty, Natalie was entering an invoice when Mr. Cho said, “Natalie.”
She looked up and came over to where he stood.
Danny Yeung was outside the window.
He was standing five feet behind a woman on the sidewalk.
She was beautiful, dressed in a fitted designer dress, clearly on her way to a night out. She stood with one hip out, freshening her lipstick in a compact mirror.
She didn’t see Danny.
Danny had one hip out in exactly the same way.
He was looking at his hand as if it were a compact.
His lips were puckered, and he was applying imaginary lipstick with great care.
He seemed pleased with the result. He smiled at his reflection, turned his face one way, then the other, and patted his hair into place.
Natalie laughed. “Danny seems ready for a night on the town.”
The woman snapped her compact shut, glanced behind her, noticed Danny, and gave him a dirty look.
Danny snapped his imaginary compact shut, gave her a dirty look back, turned around, and walked the other way in a huff.
Natalie doubled over laughing. She didn’t even try to hide it behind her hand.
Then Danny turned with a huge smile and waved after the woman with both hands, bouncing on his toes and blowing kisses.
He glanced in the window and saw Natalie laughing.
So he turned it up a notch.
He began to walk along the pavement as if it were a fashion show runway, wiggling his hips and swinging his butt widely with each step.
“Oh, my God,” Natalie laughed.
He carefully placed one foot in front of the other as if he were wearing high heels and he wobbled uncertainly.
Natalie laughed. “Yeah, Danny, it’s not as easy as it looks! Those heels are like walking on a tightrope!”
Still, with every step, Danny looked up and to the left, striking a fashion model pose for a moment, before looking down to carefully take the next step.
Mr. Chou had come over and watched with his mouth slightly open. “Natalie,” he said with concern, “he’s embarrassing himself.”
Natalie laughed and hugged Mr. Chou from the side. “Absolutely! And I love it!”
A businessman stopped on the sidewalk, staring at Danny.
Danny smiled, posed and blew a kiss to the businessman.
The businessman wasn’t sure what to do for a few moments and then, finally, blew a kiss back.
Danny captured it and drew it to his heart, treasuring the businessman’s kiss.
Tears were streaming down Natalie’s face.
“That’s it! I’ve got to put an end to this!” she exclaimed.
She rushed outside, caught Danny by the arm and started to drag him back in. “That’s enough, Danny! Come in, come inside! You’re embarrassing yourself!” she said in a loud voice.
Danny relented and let her coax him inside.
“Danny!” Natalie said exasperated. “Don’t you know that you should be embarrassed?!”
“Really?” Danny replied, mocking her. “I didn’t know.”
“This is not good for business,” Mr. Chou said.
“How do you know?” Mr. Cho asked looking at Mr. Chou. “It might be great for business.”
“Mr. Cho, Mr. Chou,” Natalie said, looking at them kindly and gesturing with one hand, the other still on Danny’s arm. “Shoo.”
“I believe that she wants us to leave,” Mr. Chou said walking away.
Mr. Cho followed him. “She wants you to leave because you said it was not good for business.”
Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou retreated, pretending to give privacy and failing because they remained ten feet away.
Danny looked around the gallery.
“How’s the gallery?” he asked.
“It’s fine.”
“Busy?”
“Sometimes.”
He nodded and glanced towards Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou. They looked back at him kindly, completely unaware that they were not involved in the conversation.
“How’s the set?” Natalie asked.
“Okay.”
“Filming?”
“Rehearsal today. Stunt work.”
“Long?”
“Started at six.”
Natalie stared at a cut on his face.
Natalie looked at it. “Did you get hit again?”
“It’s nothing. Kai caught me with the tip of his foot.”
“Hurts?”
“Not really.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. The gallery felt quiet around them. A taxi passed outside. Mr. Cho cleared his throat.
Danny looked at her. “How are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You still upset about L.A.?”
“No, not really.”
A few moments passed.
“How are your friends? The women?” Danny asked.
A shadow came over Natalie’s face.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay.”
A few more moments passed.
“Jason asked about you,” he said.
Natalie looked up. “He did?”
“Yeah. He asked if you got home okay.”
“That was nice of him.”
“I told him you did.”
She nodded.
He smiled faintly.
Mr. Chou made a small sound. Natalie turned her head.
“Mr. Chou.”
“I said nothing.”
“You breathed loudly.”
“I breathed normally.”
"Farther away, please," Natalie said with a warm, apologetic smile. She held her hand out, palm down, and gently rippled her fingers outward in a soft, rolling wave.
Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou looked at each other, both took one step back and then leaned closer so they could continue to hear.
Danny looked at a painting on the nearest wall.
“I’ve been trying to learn this stuff. Why don’t you show me some?”
Mr. Cho made a hopeful sound.
Natalie looked at him. “The art?”
“Yeah. The art.”
“Nah. I’m not interested.”
Mr. Chou made a wounded sound.
“Really?” Danny asked, surprised.
Natalie shrugged. “It’s just art. Who cares?”
He looked at the wall again, then back at her.
“There’s more important things in life, you know,” she said.
“I guess.”
They stood in silence for a minute or so.
“Well,” Danny said, “I guess that I’ll take off.”
Danny started to move towards the door.
“Wait,” Natalie called after him.
Danny stopped and turned back. “What?”
“Aren’t you going to ask me on a date?”
Behind them, Mr. Cho and Mr. Chou went completely still.
“You want me to ask you on a date?” Danny said in surprise.
“If you want.”
“Yeah… hey, you want to hang out tomorrow after work?”
“Hmm,” Natalie said, smiling to herself. “Tomorrow is Thursday. I don’t think that I’m busy.”
Then, to him: “Yes, Danny, I’d love to.”
Danny grinned. “It’s a date, then.”