Lowering himself into the zebra-skin chair with an insouciance he doesn’t feel, Simon takes a deep hit of his drink. The Star Bar’s decor is preposterous, even for Shanghai. The emerald-green stingray-skin walls are hung with sub-pornographic paintings, the fireplace is black marble, a vast Fortuny-style chandelier glows overhead. The overall effect is absurd, alluring, vaguely satanic.
The Martini is volcanically strong, caressing Simon’s taste buds with sugary top notes before drenching his cerebellum in iced Berry Bros. No 3 gin. Half-closing his eyes, he feels himself wreathed in flavour. Juniper, a hint of grapefruit, and that sexy, suggestive dragon-fruit sweetness. Fuck me, he murmurs, his brain clouding with pleasure. That hits the spot. Around him drift expensively dressed revellers. Friends, office colleagues, lovers… Why is it always, always like this? Everyone else at ease, having the time of their overpaid lives, while he’s on the outside, face pressed to the glass, invisible.
“All alone?”
At first Simon takes no notice, not believing that the question has been addressed to him. Then the slight, dark-haired figure at his side swims into focus. He takes in the mischievous upturned eyes, the dimpled grin, the sharp little teeth.
“I suppose I am, yes.”
“You new here then. I think I remember if I see you before.”
“My name’s Simon. I got in a couple of days ago.” He gazes at her, marvelling at the soft swell of her breasts in the lilac crop-top, the trim little stomach, the skinny jeans and pretty, strappy shoes. She is, without question, the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Janie.”
Jin Qiang is a superb dancer. To the swooping, shivering strains of “Moon River,” he waltzes Eve expertly round the floor, one hand lightly holding hers, the other against the bare flesh of her back, guiding her. Despite their price, she’s glad she bought the cocktail dress and the shoes.
“So would you like to have lived in the 1930s?” she asks him.
“It was a time of great inequality. Great hardship for many.”
“I know. But also elegance… glamour.”
“Are you familiar with Chinese cinema, Mrs. Polastri?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“There’s a film I love, made here in Shanghai in the 1930s, called The Goddess. A silent film. Very sad. Very beautiful and tragic actress Ruan Lingyu. She shows great emotion in her face, and in her movements.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She killed herself, aged twenty-four. She was unhappy in love.”
“Oh my goodness, that is tragic.”
“Indeed. Today, I don’t think many people in Shanghai would kill themselves for love. Too busy making money.”
“You sound like a romantic, Mr. Jin?”
“There are a few of us left. But we operate in secret.”
“Like spies?” Eve suggests.
They both smile, and “Moon River” comes to a close. Ice-blue neon flickers round the stage, and the singer segues into “The Girl from Ipanema.”
“The foxtrot,” says Jin. “My favourite.”
“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. With my two left feet.”
“You have two left feet? Really?”
“It’s an expression. It means I’m a bit clumsy.”
“That is something I would never say about you, Mrs. Polastri.”
Half an hour later they’re on the scooter again, careering through streets vivid with neon. Eve is enjoying herself. Jin is a man of many interests. Hunan food, early Chinese cinema, and post-punk music among them. His favourite band, he tells her, is Gang of Four. “With that name, how could I resist them?” At the same time Eve recognises that for all the wry surface charm, there is a steeliness to Jin Qiang. In a tight corner, this man would make the hard choice, take the pragmatic decision.
They come to a halt outside an unprepossessing-looking establishment on a side street. As Jin opens the door, oily steam gusts into their faces. The place is crammed, and noise levels are deafening. Everyone seems to be shouting, and there’s a continuous clattering of pans and woks from the kitchen. Standing in the doorway, Eve is pushed roughly out of the way by a departing customer. Taking her arm, Jin steers her towards the small counter. A tiny, ancient woman in a greasy apron appears and directs them to a plastic-topped table. Narrowing her eyes at Eve, she screeches at Jin in Mandarin.
“She says I’m a very naughty boy,” he tells Eve. “She thinks I’ve picked you up.”
She laughs. “You’re going to have to help me with the menu.”
He inspects the streamers pinned to the walls. “How about bullfrog in rice wine?”
In the end they settle for spicy skewered shrimps and cumin-crusted ribs washed down with cold beer. It’s delicious, among the best food Eve has ever tasted. “Thank you,” she says, when she can eat no more. “That was fantastic.”
“Not bad,” he agrees. “And private.”
She knows what he means. Given the noise levels, audio surveillance would be impossible here.
“I have something for you,” he says, and below the level of the table, places a sealed envelope on her lap.
She doesn’t move or speak.
“I’m trusting you with my career, Mrs. Polastri. If you are right, and we face a common enemy—this organisation you speak of—we should work together. But I doubt Beijing would see it that way, so…”
“I understand,” says Eve quietly. “And thank you. We will not let you down.”
Simon knows, straight away. Janie’s hands, perhaps. Something in the set of her cheekbones and her mouth. But it doesn’t matter. He’s lost.
She tells him she works for a child-minding agency. That she lives in a one-bedroom flat in Jingan, near the Art Theatre. As they talk she gazes at him. No one’s ever looked at him like this. The soft, unblinking stare.
