Christmas had come to London again.
I couldn’t walk down the street any more without drifting though repeating spheres of festive music blaring from shop fronts. A constant pattern of crescendo and diminuendo of much beloved anthems spanning the past forty years, with no one getting sick of them yet.
Mum and Dad were spending the festive season in the Maldives. They’d offered for me to come with them, but since they were also calling it their unofficial second honeymoon, I’d taken a hard pass.
Becka had given me the option of going home to Oakland with her, and though I had been briefly tempted, there was something enticing about the idea of having the holiday to myself.
After the year I’d had, it felt peaceful to know that I had an entire three week period off, with no expectations from anyone.
Jihoon had called a few times. I hadn’t answered. I hadn’t known how to. I wasn’t ready. I had sent him a message saying as much. I’d debated ignoring him altogether, but I feared he might do something drastic, like show up at my door, so I’d mitigated the threat.
I’m not ready. Please respect that.
So far, he had.
It had been a week or so since I’d sent the message. Now I was pretending like life had gone back to normal.
I had some pretty solid plans to reorganise my kitchen, and there were some shows on at the West End that I’d been promising myself I’d check out.
I’d already gotten a head start on one of the things I’d planned.
My condiment cupboard was looking pretty damn organised.
I’d also recently made headway a little further from home.
After Mum had told me the name of my biological father, I’d done some digging.
It hadn’t been hard, as it turned out.
I’d known the name of the school she’d worked in before I was born, and the village. I’d networked with a colleague I’d worked with back atThe Loopwho had a particular interest in genealogy, and together we’d been able to find Ryo’s family.
His full name was Ryo Fujiwara.
We weren’t able to find any recent information about him, but it had been enough.
On my way home from the post office, I treated myself to an iced coffee from the tiny, trendy cafe down the street from my flat.
The barista looked at me strangely when I asked for an iced drink. It was sleeting outside – icy, little daggers that didn’t have the courtesy to turn into soft, puffy bits of snow.
I never had broken myself out of the iced coffee habit I’d picked up in Seoul. Not that I had tried very hard.
I’d just toed off my shoes when my watch vibrated with my alarm. Briefly looking down, I saw I had a few minutes before my video call.
While my laptop was waking up, I pulled off my outer layers and made myself comfortable at my desk.
At ten on the dot, my laptop received an incoming call.
“Miss Thompson. You look well.”
“Director. Thank you, as do you. Although I do have to admit that while it is good to see you again, I’ve been trying to figure out all week why you wanted to arrange this meeting with me.”
Kang Jihye, Director of Creative Production at ENT, looked the same as she had when I’d last laid eyes on her. Shrewd, but not unkind. Calculating, but open. In other words, someone extremely good at her job.
She laughed. “Yes, I imagine it had been a bit of a mystery. Allow me to be frank.”
I wondered if she was capable of being any other way.
“GVibes are set to go on tour in a couple of months.”
