by Ian Hamilton
“The boy has an enormous amount of talent.”
“We know.”
“It’s too bad that it’s going to be wasted.”
“I don’t see why that should be the case.”
“You’ve been given the chance of a lifetime and you’re pissing it away. Worse, you stay in my house, you come to my office, and then you piss on me.”
“That’s a completely unfair and inaccurate characterization,” Ava said.
“You’re smooth, I’ll give you that,” he said.
Every eye at the table was on her, and the group seemed to be holding its collective breath. Ava hit the speaker button and placed the phone in front of her. “I’m not sure where this is heading, Mr. Ventola,” she said. “It’s obvious that you’re upset about our decision, but I have to say I don’t want to listen to much more of this.”
“You are a bunch of dumb bitches, and you deserve to be called worse for what you’re doing to that boy’s career.”
Ava saw May’s face contort in anger. The others looked stunned.
“Mr. Ventola, please, you’ve said enough.”
“Is that a warning?”
“No, it’s a request that we end this conversation in a more professional manner.”
“Well, let me say something that you might find completely unprofessional,” he said. “I have to decide what I’m going to do about your little company. I could ignore you, I guess, or cause you some problems in the marketplace. Or I could even go all out and try to destroy you. It wouldn’t be that difficult, you know, to make the PÖ brand disappear.”
“Mr. Ventola —”
He spoke right over her. “A few phone calls to the right people, some favours cashed in, some favours requested, and a couple of nudges can do a lot of damage.”
“Mr. Ventola, we’re a tiny dot in your universe. Why should our existence matter to you?”
“Raffi and I think of anyone who isn’t associated with VLG as the competition. The easiest way to get rid of competition is to go after it before it has any strength.”
“We’re hardly a threat.”
“Not yet.”
“And not in the foreseeable future. Maybe not ever,” Ava said. “Mr. Ventola, when we spoke in your office, you said that Clark’s talent had won you over. Please stay won over and become his mentor. Let Clark do his thing and let us manage our company.”
“It doesn’t work that way with me.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I have to go,” he said abruptly. “You’ll know soon enough what I decide to do about PÖ.”
“Mr. Ventola —”
The phone went dead. The group was silent, everyone looking at Ava with eyes full of questions and concern.
“Wasn’t he charming,” Ava said as lightly as she could.
“I didn’t quite believe Elsa Ngan when she told us he has something of a dual personality. I know we had a glimpse of his coarseness when we were at the office, but I never expected that kind of reaction,” Amanda said.
“He’s crazy,” Gillian said.
“Or it was only a performance, a tactic,” May said.
“To achieve what?” Gillian asked.
“To scare us enough that we’ll go back into negotiations.”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Clark said. “If I didn’t want to work with them a few hours ago, I feel ten times stronger about it now.”
“In a strange and almost perverse way that was quite the compliment he delivered,” Ava said. “If he recognizes the quality of Clark’s work to that extent, then others will as well. What I think we should do is forget about Dominic Ventola and VLG and get on with building our business, our way.”
“Can we afford to ignore him?” Chi-Tze asked.
“What do you mean?” Ava said.
“I know he was angry and might not have meant everything he said, but if he decides to try to damage our business, don’t you think he’s capable of doing it?”
“Are you suggesting we do something?”
“No, I’m just concerned.”
“Then take that energy you’re using to worry and transfer it into closing the deals we have on the table,” Ava said. “That’s the best way to respond to his threats.”
( 13 )
As the plane began its descent into Toronto’s Pearson International Airport, Ava looked down on the familiar landscape and saw that it was blanketed with snow. She groaned. The airport was in the northwest corner of the city and her condo was near its centre, near Avenue Road and Bloor Street. It was three p.m. and the start of rush hour. A one-hour limo ride would turn into two or more in this weather. Still, of all the things that were weighing on her, the prospect of a torturous commute barely registered.
Despite the message she’d conveyed to Chi-Tze and the positive attitude she’d displayed with the others, she had been alarmed by Dominic Ventola’s threat. It had been her experience while working with Uncle that threats from people who were scared or in a position of weakness rarely amounted to anything. They were face-saving gestures, a last-gasp attempt at hanging on to a shred of dignity. It was different with people who had power. They didn’t need to bluff. They could say what they meant without any fear of repercussion, and they had the ability to execute their threats.
She had no doubts that Ventola would indeed try to damage them. What she had struggled with during the flight was how to respond if he did attack. She couldn’t think of much beyond continuing to promote Clark, and she wasn’t the least bit sure that would work if someone as credible and powerful as Ventola wanted to damage PÖ’s reputation.
The ride from Pearson was worse than she had imagined. The snowfall continued wet and heavy, and the combination of numerous fender-benders and tricky road conditions meant the limo stopped, started, and crawled when it moved at all. She turned on her phone and found a text from Maria. We need to talk when you get back. I can’t continue like this, it read. Ava felt her stomach tighten. She contemplated answering the message, but she had a sense which way the conversation would go and she wasn’t ready for it.
It was past seven p.m. when she finally reached her building. She quickly unpacked, took a shower, checked the fridge, and found an unopened bottle of Pinot Grigio. She poured a glass and went to sit at the kitchen table, where she could look out the window. It was her favourite spot, a place to think while she viewed the outside world. It was still snowing, the flakes glimmering under the light of the street lamps.
She looked at her phone again. There was nothing from May, Amanda, or the PÖ group. They were all probably still in transit. None of the other messages she had received needed her immediate attention. She thought for a second about calling Maria and then let the idea go. She was too exhausted for an emotional discussion. Instead she sent a text saying Will be in Toronto tomorrow. Are you available for dinner? Then she turned off her phone, topped up her glass, and went back to watching the snow swirl.
She went to bed just before ten, certain that she would have trouble falling asleep. That was the last thought she had before waking up at a quarter to nine, the sun streaming through her bedroom window. She looked outside. The streets had been ploughed and salted and were now coated in slush. The sidewalks hadn’t been cleared yet and pedestrians were trudging through a foot of snow. She liked to go for a morning run when she was at home, but conditions looked too messy for that. Maybe she could fit in a workout with Grandmaster Tang, her bak mei instructor. His house was only a ten-minute walk away in good weather.
She went into the kitchen, made a cup of instant coffee, and sat down at the table. She turned on her computer and saw a flood of overnight emails from Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Wuhan. Everyone was back at work and following up on London. So far there hadn’t been any negative reactions from potential customers.
This has been a very encouraging day, Amanda wrote in the last email. I think that Dominic Ventola may have decided to ignore us.
Or he’s not in a rush, Ava
thought. She started to respond to Amanda with advice that they should be closing deals as fast as possible, but then she deleted the message. They didn’t need to be told the obvious.
She made another coffee and looked at her phone. She expected to see a text from Maria, but there wasn’t one. Ava knew she would probably be at her office at the Colombian Trade Commission by now. She thought about calling and then decided to give Maria more time to respond to the dinner invitation. Besides, Ava’s message had said she was arriving today. Maybe Maria saw no need to answer so quickly.
Ava phoned her mother in Richmond Hill. When Jennie Lee’s cell went directly to voicemail, Ava called the house number. It rang five times and then prompted a message. “It’s me. I’m back. Call me when you’re up,” Ava said. Her night-owl mother was probably still in bed.
She went into the bedroom and put on a black sports bra and black T-shirt, a thick wool sweater, and black leggings. Ten minutes later she left the apartment dressed in an Adidas track suit and walked along Cumberland Street to Avenue Road. She turned right and headed north to Lowther Avenue. It had stopped snowing, but the temperature was well below zero and a brisk wind bit into her face. She pulled her tuque down over her ears and zipped her jacket up to her chin. The sidewalk was slippery and she had to concentrate on every footstep. The effort was made more difficult by the fact that the wind was making her eyes water. She almost felt like turning around and going home. When she reached Lowther, the wind shifted direction and the temperature became more bearable.
Grandmaster Tang’s home doubled as his dojo. There wasn’t any sign on or near the house to indicate that this was the pre-eminent martial arts facility in the city. Those who were skilled in any of those arts knew of the Grandmaster and where to find him. Ava had been his student since she was a teenager. She’d been sent to him by an instructor in Richmond Hill who recognized she had special talents that he couldn’t develop any further. Grandmaster Tang had tested her, agreed with the instructor’s assessment of her potential, and decided to teach her bak mei. It was one of the oldest of all the martial arts. Chinese in origin, it was always taught one-on-one, traditionally passed on from father to son, but in Ava’s case from mentor to student. The Grandmaster had only two students he deemed talented and disciplined enough to learn bak mei: Ava and her friend Derek Liang.
The main objective of this fighting style was to do as much damage to your opponent as you could, by attacking nerve-endings, eyes, ears, and other sensitive body parts. The classic strike was the phoenix-eye fist —the middle knuckle of the first finger driven into the target with all the concentrated force that the body could generate. It was devastating when properly executed, and Ava had used it more often than she could remember. Derek was as capable, and until he married Ava’s best friend, Mimi, she had taken him on some collection jobs as backup.
Now that she wasn’t in the collections business anymore, Ava wasn’t sure she would need to use bak mei on such a regular basis. But she liked the physical workouts. Her body never felt more alive than when training, and it always cleared her head. This morning she felt that her head needed it more than her body.
She climbed the front steps to the Grandmaster’s house, hoping he was in. She didn’t know if he even had a phone. When she first started training with him, he would tell her when to come for the next session. In later years she would simply show up at his door and more often than not he was there. Most of his regular students came in the evening, so his days were usually free. She knocked at the door and waited, preparing to bow to the small grey-haired man in his black T-shirt and black jeans. A moment later she knocked again, then stood on tiptoe to peer through the high window next to the door. The house looked deserted.
“Shit,” Ava said. She turned and retraced her steps back to the condo.
She was hungry by the time she got back and found some shrimp dumplings in the freezer. She put them in a pot of water and brought it to a boil, then replaced the water with chicken broth and brought it to a boil again. She ladled the dumplings into a bowl, added chili sauce, and sat at the kitchen table to eat. But first she checked her phone and email account for messages and found nothing new. Maria’s lack of response was beginning to irk her.
She ate slowly, then washed the bowl and pot before returning to the table, where she picked up the phone and without thinking called Maria.
Maria answered on the second ring with a hesitant “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m back,” Ava said. “Did you get my text about dinner?”
“I did.”
“Can you make it?”
“You sound as though nothing has happened.”
“What has happened?”
“You got my message about not being able to continue like this?”
“I did.”
“Is that why you’re suggesting we meet for dinner?”
“Among other reasons.”
“Ava, unless we resolve this, there are no other reasons I care about.”
“By ‘resolve,’ do you mean am I prepared to change my position?”
“Yes, I guess that’s what I mean.”
“No, I’m not,” Ava said as gently as she could. “I’ve thought about it, I’ve agonized about it, and I know I can’t live with anyone else. I love you, but I like the way things are now.”
“I thought the longer we were a couple, the more our relationship would develop. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to expect that.”
“No, it’s not unreasonable. I just can’t give you much more.”
“All I’m talking about is living together. I’d like to be married, but that can wait. I’d also like to have children sometime down the road, but that can wait too.”
“I’m not ready for any of that.”
“So you keep telling me.”
“Would you rather I be dishonest?”
“No.”
“I really have thought about it,” Ava said. “But I always end up in the same place.”
“Then there’s no point in having dinner,” Maria said.
“What do you want to do?”
“I think we need to take a break, or maybe I should say I need to take a break,” she said calmly. “I have to decide if what you’re prepared to give to this relationship is enough for me to stay in it.”
“Yes, I think you do have to make that decision,” Ava said.
“It won’t be easy.”
“Maria . . . I hope you decide to stay.”
“Do you really feel that way?”
“I love you. You know that.”
“And I love you, but I’ve got this overpowering need to be part of a family, part of something bigger than myself.”
“So where does this leave us?” Ava asked.
“I need to make the decision, and I have to make it knowing that I’m not going to get more from you. I don’t know how long that will take. Will you wait until I do?”
“By ‘wait,’ do you mean that I won’t abandon our relationship?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an easy thing for me to agree to.”
“Thanks.”
“And in the meantime, do you want me to contact you at all?”
“No, I think it’s best for me to sort this out quietly by myself.”
“Okay. I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”
“Thanks,” Maria said softly, then ended the call.
Ava stared at the phone for a few seconds. She had half expected the conversation to go like that, but it hadn’t made it any easier. Still, it was a relief to have everything out in the open. And no matter what happened, she wasn’t going to do anything that ran contrary to her nature and, ultimately, cause more distress and pain than she and Maria were experiencing now.
Her phone rang. She blinked in surprise. “Hello,” she said.
“Ava, it’s Amanda.”
Ava checked her watch. It was almost midnight in Hong Kong. “What’s happened?”
“Elsa
Ngan just phoned. There’s an online publication called Fashion Times. She just saw an advance copy of tomorrow’s edition. Dominic Ventola is the lead story.”
“What does it say?”
“It’s what he says. He trashes Clark.”
“Trashes?”
“He was asked for his opinion about the highs and lows of London Fashion Week. Or, Elsa thinks, he called the reporter and offered opinions he knew they’d want to print,” Amanda said. “However it came to be, the main focus of the article is on the lows —predominantly on the work of Clark Po. Ventola found the collecton ‘unimaginative, pedestrian, and totally lacking in originality.’ He said it was by far his biggest disappointment in London. He wondered how someone like Pang Fai could associate herself with the brand. He went on to say that the world is still waiting for a design star from China, and despite all the hype surrounding Clark, he isn’t even close to being one.”
“Shit. So much for ignoring us as one of his options.”
“Elsa was appalled. She called the editor and argued that she’d seen Clark’s show and the reaction to the collection in London. She said Ventola was being biased and unfair. She was told that they reported news and that Ventola’s opinions were news.”
“When he strikes, he strikes hard.”
“He does. Fashion Times is read by just about everyone in the trade, including the buyers we’re currently pursuing. On top of that, Elsa says we should expect other publications to pick up the article.”
“Have you told May yet?”
“No. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“And there’s no way we can get the story killed?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I’ll call May right away,” Ava said. “You phone Chi-Tze and give her a heads-up. Let her communicate the details to Clark and Gillian.”
“He’ll be shattered.”
“I don’t blame him if he is.”
“This is a disaster,” Amanda said.
“It certainly has that potential,” Ava said. “So we need to do damage control right away. If we move fast enough, maybe we can blunt its impact.”
