Page 61 of Little Miss Fortune

‘I think I was under you.’ I hear myself say it and add, ‘My room was under you, I mean. I heard a foreigner with a Japanese woman in the hotel room the day before we met.’

His silence and the complete stillness of his drink tell me what I need to know. I look back at the photo. Some animalistic upset rises in me that I wish was logical in any sense.

‘Unbelievable, that’s why Rufus looked at me like that. You bring women here all the time, don’t you? Or do you pay them?’

‘Woah! I’ve enjoyed casual sex in the past, and yes, I did sleep with someone in Japan, consensually, with no payment!’

My admonishing laugh lacks the usual brightness. I feel so ridiculous, so little and silly, buying all his fate-talk nonsense. Just another girl for the roster. He had enough of the horilka; now he wants a glass of sake.

‘I’m such a mug.’ I start walking to the lift but quickly realise that I don’t know how to call it up. Is there a button? Do I need to call Rufus? This cannot be more luxurious than just having your own key.

‘Fuko, please, it’s not like that.’ Toby pulls me by the hand. ‘I promise you this is not some move. I am not trying to get you into my bed.’

Despite his reassuring and soft tone, and the way his hand is gently holding onto mine, and how his breath is so close to my cheek, a twinge of disappointment hits me. At first, I thought it was because, for a second, I thought him a liar and a cheat, so it was natural to feel disappointment. But that wasn’t it—I was slightly, marginally, a teeny-weeny bit upset that he didn’t want to have sex with me. I am not going to express to him that I felt as if my self-worth decreased because he didn’t want to have sex with me. Because that’s not a conversation I am ever going to have with anyone. I am going to lock it away and never think about it again. The goal here is to prod for truth in his hypothesis.

As if reading my thoughts black on white, Toby adds, ‘It’s not like I don’t want to bed you, Fuko. I am but a man, and you have a beautiful face, and if memory serves me right, a stunning body. But I want to prove to you that this is more than me wanting to fuck you.’

‘You said you didn’t see anything without your glasses.’

‘I lied.’

I am so easily pleased and aroused, it should be studied. Here is subject A, Fuko Brewer. On a scale from 1 to 100, her cumulative self-respect is sitting at a measly 2.

Toby sits me down in the living room as he rummages through some folders. There aren’t many decorations around that prove that this is Toby Lewis’s apartment and not just a staged room to show prospective buyers. The art on the walls is modern, but the soulless kind; there are no movie or band posters, no memorabilia to show any special interests. There are a lot of books, but Toby doesn’t strike you as someone who solely reads in his spare time.

‘Here.’ He drops a thick file on my lap.

‘Is this from uni? What, have you done some calculation that proves we are fated lovers?’

‘No.’ He rolls his eyes and pulls out an A4 scanned page from a newspaper. ‘Look.’

The page reads about the local election’s campaign, the crushing victory of the Lib Dems (rare), some couple’s cruise coupons (those were the times, eh?), and in the top left-hand corner, there is the ending of a story from the previous page.

Wait a minute.

It’s my story. The one that got me fourth place.

The one I wrote about Tateyama. ‘The entrance to hell is hidden at the foot of Mount Tate. Maybe those of us desperate enough to experience it can face it and find peace within its chaos’. How old was I to be so weird?

‘You wrote it, didn’t you?’ Toby asks rhetorically.

There is smugness in his face, but it is hiding an element of something meek. Like a bit of hope and anticipation peek through.

I consider the implications of this discovery. That somehow, the two of us were always going to meet. That we stayed in the same hotel, walked into the same onsen, now work in the same company. I consider that maybe he is right.

But he isn’t. It’s not fate.

‘That is weird. You got me there.’ I nod. ‘Still, that doesn’t quite mean we are meant to be together in my books.’

I half smile, trying to be gentle with my words and tone. A man once believed that we were meant to be, but it turns out he doesn’t even know or care that I am allergic to almonds.

Toby is, however, completely unfazed by my subtle rejection.

‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t think that just by a series of some strange coincidences. And neither did I, Fuko. My feelings for you didn’t just happen because we miraculously end up in similar locations. They are there because every time I have spoken to you, you end up lingering on my mind until I speak to you next. Because I have seen how selfless you are and how you make sure that everyone around you feels comfortable.’

I was waiting for a laugh or a chuckle, or a gotcha, but nothing of the sort followed.

His body is so close to mine, I can feel the warmth radiating through him. I put the paper back into his folder avoiding eye contact after hearing such unfounded praise. He doesn’t know me. Why would he feel this way about me?