Chapter Nine
Max
Ohimesama is a fairly new accessories and lifestyle product company catering to young women—or women who want to feel young, as some of their marketing executives put it.
Their catalogue is unabashedly feminine, with overwhelming pearlescent pinks and purples.
Suits the meaning of the company’s name in Japanese: Honorable Princess.
The princess aesthetics don’t end with the products and catalogue and retail sites. The lobby is white and pastel pink, with sparkly bits of shinier pink as highlights. Somebody might as well have set off a pink glitter bomb.
However, the executives are all men in their fifties and sixties with deep wrinkles and no-nonsense expressions on their faces.
Black suits, white dress shirts and dark blue ties.
Black hair streaked with dignified gray.
They almost look like action figures, the Japanese salaryman edition. No laugh lines.
Three other men are A-class shareholder representatives, standing in for everyone from the founding family. Again, all in black suits.
Despite identically impassive facades, they each manage a smile when the interpreter, Yuka, introduces us. The sole woman from the Japanese contingent, she’s also in a black suit, albeit with a skirt and a pair of black pumps.
We go to a conference room big enough to fit all twenty people.
Rhys sits opposite the head honcho, Shigeru Watanabe.
I sit beside Rhys, connect my computer to the network and download the slides and sync data with my phone.
Yuka helps me connect my laptop to the company’s Bluetooth setup, so I can put the PowerPoint presentation on the projector.
Watanabe drones to welcome the “honored American guests” and makes a rousing speech about the history and achievements of the company. Yuka’s soft voice follows in English. I’m barely listening, since I already know the basic overview of the company.
Finally, Rhys starts his presentation. While I tap the spacebar to flip each page at his signal, I look for a hotel vacancy on my phone. No way am I sleeping on that floor again.
The firm’s official corporate travel portal shows nothing.
The hotel receptionist wasn’t kidding. But maybe that’s for the big chains.
I go to non-contracted booking sites to search for smaller chains or independent hotels.
Although the firm discourages staying at non-contracted hotels, if we submit a reasonable exception request, accounting usually allows the expense.
Come on. Anything with a bed!
Some sites are full of ridiculous ads. Why do I need to go out of my way for soap bath when I can do it in the hotel, no matter how “special” it is?
Two available rooms, finally! Hotel Anjel Rube. What a weird name. The photo shows a four-story building with a faded pink tile exterior. A bit gaudy, but probably better than the hard floor.
I see Rhys’s signal and quickly hit the spacebar.
A popup screen shows on my phone, the prompt text in Japanese.
Is the site asking me if I want to make a reservation?
But why switch language for no reason? I hit the first button, since it’s most likely “yes,” and I need to grab a room before it’s gone.
Suddenly, Japanese executives shift. Two cough uncomfortably. The interpreter taps the spot on the table next to my laptop. “Norman-san, turn it off,” she whispers.
“What?” I look at her, then at Rhys. My phone browser showing Hotel Anjel Rube is displayed prominently on the screen behind him.
Panic deletes everything from my mind for a second. My face hot with mortification, I hurriedly enable airplane mode for my phone. The projector flickers, then switches to the laptop feed.
The executives give me the strangest looks. Not just disapproval—which would be understandable—but disapproval laced with a bit of contempt, which is a bit harsh. You’d think I’d flashed them or something.
Embarrassment washes over me. I should probably strike Tokyo off my bucket list. Everything that could go wrong is going wrong. My second visit might be even worse.
At least Rhys doesn’t give me any judgment. He merely glances at me to gauge my reaction to the weird atmosphere in the room.
After his presentation is over, I pull out the prepared template to start taking notes from the Q&A. Although our translator/interpreter is busy scribbling, I want my own record.
Watanabe looks at his people, some unseen signal passing between them, then says something.
“Nothing to discuss at this point,” Yuka explains. “Why don’t we break for a few minutes?”
Rhys nods and I let out a breath. I need a few minutes to recharge and shake off my discomfiture from the earlier mistake.
We head to the breakroom for coffee and tea.
Some executives start to approach Rhys, then glance at me and back away, like I’m carrying cooties.
Since they weren’t like this before, it must be due to the mistake I made.
But do they have to continue to make me feel bad?
I already feel horrible on my own, thank you very much.
IT screwups aren’t contagious, you narrow-minded jerks!
Rhys leans toward me and lowers his voice. “What were you trying to do?”
He doesn’t need to elaborate. I sigh. “Sorry about that. I just wanted a room of my own. That’s all. I can’t do the floor for another night.”
“Do you know what kind of place that was?”
“Cheap? It looked like a motel, actually.” My wishing Rhys would end up with a Super 8 equivalent is probably coming back to haunt me. Karma never lets me get away with anything.
He gives me a significant look. “A love hotel.”
“What’s that?”
“A place where people go to do the nasty.”
My jaw slackens. “How do you know?”
“The name?” He says it like it’s obvious.
“Can’t imagine how you can get the nasty out of ‘Anjel Rube.’”
“They probably misspelled Angel Love.” A shrug. “Guys who got the best grades in high school English don’t go into that type of business.”
“You have got to be kidding.”
He shakes his head. The only consolation is that he isn’t looking at me like I’m an idiot. But nothing could make me feel worse than how I already feel.
“No wonder those men looked at me funny.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “Why, oh why is this happening to me? This is the worst week ever.”
He studies me for a moment, squinting slightly, like he has so many things to say but won’t. That doesn’t make me feel any better—I’m already mentally scolding myself in his voice. If he could hear it, he might give me a bonus for such a thorough talking-to.
Finally, he spreads his hands. “Think of it this way. It can’t get any worse than this.”
Not sure if he means to cheer me up, because he’s not a cheer-you-up kind of boss. And it sounds like a terrifyingly direct dare to fate.
But I paste on a smile, desperately hoping for the best. “Right. No place to go but up.”