across at Jerome from under her head scarf. Jerome smiled politely back at her, then pulled out his film script from the front pocket, rather disappointed that she too had recognized him. That left just one woman in the cabin, a woman heâd already noticed in the first-class lounge. He opened the script and pretended to be reading it as he peered over at her.
She was sitting directly opposite him across the aisle and was the only passenger in full view. A small, slim woman in her midforties whose beauty lay in both her fragility and the obvious skill she applied to her appearance. She was strikingly dressed in an elegant black Gucci suitâa short skirt and jacket. Her black hair was scraped back into an ornate bun; she wore a Patek Philippe watch, large diamond earrings that appeared to be real, and a ruffled mauve silk shirt under her jacket, which promised (a fact Jerome had become acutely aware of) rather full breasts on a narrow torso. Jerome, who was well traveled in Asia, guessed she was Chinese rather than Japanese and after studying her he decided she must be a member of the newly ascendant class of Chinese billionaires.
But what fascinated him most about this woman was that so far she appeared to have no idea whatsoever of his celebrity. Heâd already checked out his theory in the first-class lounge by walking past her several times while talking loudly to his agent on his mobile, and she hadnât reacted at all. At one point heâd deliberately looked over to her, waiting for that dazed gaze that came over people as they realized who he was, but nothing, absolutely nothing had registered in her sphinxlike face. It was this blankness that thrilled him to the bone.
âHow are you today, Mr. Thomas?â The hostess, offering the menu and wine list, startled him. Jerome stared up at her blandly smiling face, furious that she had used his name, and loudly enough for all the other first-class passengers to clearly hear who they were traveling with.
âGood, thank you.â He forced himself to smile through clenched teeth and took the menu. He glanced across the aisle and saw that the Chinese businesswoman hadnât even bothered to look up. It was as if he were a total nonentity, invisible. How was that possible?
He sat back, momentarily stunned. He couldnât even remember the last time he hadnât been recognizedâit must have been at least fifteen years ago. The sensation was disorienting, a little like looking in the mirror and not quite recognizing your own face. Was this what his audience, the constant excitement his presence engendered in people, had become to himâa mirror? It was both a profoundly liberating and deeply intriguing thought. And intrigue in Jeromeâs rarefied and choreographed world did more than excite himâit aroused him.
It then occurred to him that perhaps he should have a conversation with his agent about the Chinese distributors of his moviesâwas this womanâs ignorance of who he was cultural disinterest? But he knew from the number of interviews heâd given Chinese magazines, as well as the number of adverts heâd made, that he was extremely famous in at least Shanghai and most likely Beijing. In which case where had this woman been for the past fifteen years? Did she not watch movies at all? Was she such an obsessive businesswoman she simply didnât have the time? Or perhaps she was the mistress of a top Chinese gangsterâthe Chinese equivalent of the Japanese yakuzaâbeing flown to join him on some dubious sojourn in London. Jerome surreptitiously ran his eyes down her legs, looking for the telltale tattoos that were the insignia of such mafia. There were none.
He leaned back against the soft leather headrest and allowed his imagination to weave storylines starring the mysterious woman. Could she be one of those female warrior types, descended from a great aristocratic prerevolution lineage and imbued
She was sitting directly opposite him across the aisle and was the only passenger in full view. A small, slim woman in her midforties whose beauty lay in both her fragility and the obvious skill she applied to her appearance. She was strikingly dressed in an elegant black Gucci suitâa short skirt and jacket. Her black hair was scraped back into an ornate bun; she wore a Patek Philippe watch, large diamond earrings that appeared to be real, and a ruffled mauve silk shirt under her jacket, which promised (a fact Jerome had become acutely aware of) rather full breasts on a narrow torso. Jerome, who was well traveled in Asia, guessed she was Chinese rather than Japanese and after studying her he decided she must be a member of the newly ascendant class of Chinese billionaires.
But what fascinated him most about this woman was that so far she appeared to have no idea whatsoever of his celebrity. Heâd already checked out his theory in the first-class lounge by walking past her several times while talking loudly to his agent on his mobile, and she hadnât reacted at all. At one point heâd deliberately looked over to her, waiting for that dazed gaze that came over people as they realized who he was, but nothing, absolutely nothing had registered in her sphinxlike face. It was this blankness that thrilled him to the bone.
âHow are you today, Mr. Thomas?â The hostess, offering the menu and wine list, startled him. Jerome stared up at her blandly smiling face, furious that she had used his name, and loudly enough for all the other first-class passengers to clearly hear who they were traveling with.
âGood, thank you.â He forced himself to smile through clenched teeth and took the menu. He glanced across the aisle and saw that the Chinese businesswoman hadnât even bothered to look up. It was as if he were a total nonentity, invisible. How was that possible?
He sat back, momentarily stunned. He couldnât even remember the last time he hadnât been recognizedâit must have been at least fifteen years ago. The sensation was disorienting, a little like looking in the mirror and not quite recognizing your own face. Was this what his audience, the constant excitement his presence engendered in people, had become to himâa mirror? It was both a profoundly liberating and deeply intriguing thought. And intrigue in Jeromeâs rarefied and choreographed world did more than excite himâit aroused him.
It then occurred to him that perhaps he should have a conversation with his agent about the Chinese distributors of his moviesâwas this womanâs ignorance of who he was cultural disinterest? But he knew from the number of interviews heâd given Chinese magazines, as well as the number of adverts heâd made, that he was extremely famous in at least Shanghai and most likely Beijing. In which case where had this woman been for the past fifteen years? Did she not watch movies at all? Was she such an obsessive businesswoman she simply didnât have the time? Or perhaps she was the mistress of a top Chinese gangsterâthe Chinese equivalent of the Japanese yakuzaâbeing flown to join him on some dubious sojourn in London. Jerome surreptitiously ran his eyes down her legs, looking for the telltale tattoos that were the insignia of such mafia. There were none.
He leaned back against the soft leather headrest and allowed his imagination to weave storylines starring the mysterious woman. Could she be one of those female warrior types, descended from a great aristocratic prerevolution lineage and imbued
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