The Woman Who Tests, Episode 7: Rose-Colored Continuity [Creative Awards Romance Novel Category]

In June, the humidity in Ginza clung to the back of my throat every time I inhaled, settling sluggishly at the bottom of my lungs. In the evening, while the neon lights still held their brightness, the pavement still bore the faint remnants of rain, and the tips of my heels splashed water in small ripples. The faint scent of rising asphalt heralded the arrival of the night. It was my first month-end sales battle as a hostess. I had lost to Mari-san and settled for second place.

Mari-san toyed with groups of customers using laughter and sex appeal, freely manipulating the tension at each table. Like a gorgeous dress in a display window, she shone under the light, illuminating the room as if she were the light source herself. As for me, I relied on individual customers with high spending, centered around Mr. Fukuyama. It was a lonely business, like rowing a rowboat out into the night sea all by myself. Every time laughter rose in the distance, I stared at the ice clinking in my glass.

“Well done,” Mama Kayoko told me. But those words were not enough to soothe the dull fatigue floating beneath my heavy makeup. As the night deepened, the air conditioning in the shop grew colder, and somewhere in my heart and body, I felt damp and heavy.

July. In the sweltering heat of dawn, sweat slicked my forehead as I tossed and turned. Nausea rose to my throat, and I hesitantly took a sip of the room-temperature water left in the glass by my pillow. A metallic taste remained in my mouth. Even at the club, I felt dizzy just by putting a glass to my lips, and the alcohol mixed with the scent of champagne raged deep in my nasal cavity. While plastering a smile on my face, I was desperate to hide the trembling of my legs.

The number of days I couldn't go to work due to poor health increased, and my sales slumped. Every time I erased a schedule from my calendar, I felt as if my own outline were fading away.

“Rookie of the year, running out of stamina?” When I arrived at work at the end of the month in a dark mood, Mari-san spoke to me. Her eyes, hidden behind false eyelashes, were narrowed in a slight smile.

Then, she made an unexpected offer: “Why don't you join me at my table for a change of pace?” I was bewildered, but I answered, “Yes.”

Behind her boisterous talk, Mari-san's customer service was marked by meticulous attention to detail. That consideration extended to the help staff; when a customer who had too much to drink tried to touch a helper, she would take the customer's hand, place it on her own chest, and say, “If you’re going to touch, do it properly!” making the customer blush. For other customers who teased the helpers, she would use the company's internal relationships to have a superior reprimand the subordinate.

When I was a helper, I only ever worked at Kaoru-san's table. Kaoru-san taught me all sorts of ways to skillfully guard myself when customers tried to touch me, but in return, it was a style of self-responsibility at the table—a seat where kindness and strictness coexisted for the helpers.

“Well, the nightlife business has its ups and downs. A woman who keeps working for a long time is the winner, not the one with the momentary sales. Like that old hag over there.” She glanced at Mama Kayoko, swirled the champagne in her glass, and laughed jokingly.

But her words of encouragement sank deep into my chest along with the summer humidity, and my heart wouldn't easily float back up.

One afternoon in early August, I was called by Kaoru-san and headed to a cafe in Daikanyama. The street trees along the road swayed heavily, and the shadows of the parasols on the terrace cast small movements on the sidewalk. A lady with a white dog passed by, and the ice melting in my iced latte glass made a faint sound.

It had been a long time since I last saw Kaoru-san. On LINE, I had apologized for not quitting Ginza even though I said I would, and I had reported and thanked her when customers who were originally her clients, like Mr. Fukuyama, came to the shop. Kaoru-san had replied with a “Thank you,” but it was different from talking face-to-face.

“I’m sorry.”
As soon as I sat down, I said that. Kaoru-san, while adjusting the sleeves of her matte beige jacket, swirled the straw of her iced latte without making a sound, with the same gestures as before.

“It’s the customer who chooses the shop. So, it’s not your fault.”

There was no anger or jealousy in her voice. However, compared to before, there was a quiet distance, as if she were someone who had gone somewhere far away.

“I hear you’re competing with Mari-chan,” Kaoru-san said with a smile.

“Yes. I’m learning from her.”

“Whether it’s a good lesson for you, Rikako-chan, is a bit questionable, but that girl is a creature of the night, just like me.” After saying that, she took a breath and brought up the main topic.

“Have you... become that kind of relationship with Mr. Fukuyama?”

I nodded. "Yes. But I am serious."

"Then think about it properly. If you can only feel love by making someone spend money, that isn't love."

"...No, it's not. I love him, I really do..."

"Then, is he the only one whose love is being tested?"

I lost my words.

"You are living in the night right now. If you can only measure your own worth within the night, then that, too, is just using love."

Those words hurt. But they sank clearly into my heart.

As I was leaving, Kaoru-san said,

"Don't push yourself. But don't run away, either. The night is strong, but it's not a place that heals wounds."

I couldn't move until her back melted into the shadows of the cafe.

After a while, I entrusted him with a key. It wasn't so much living with Fukuyama-san as it was a semi-cohabitation where I let his scent mingle just a little with the air in my room. The slightly aged wooden flooring, the afternoon light filtering through the gaps in the blackout curtains. To that, new toiletries and bottles of IPA beer were added.

He suggested we move to a larger room, but I shook my head. Even if it was small, this was a place I had built, and Kaoru-san's words echoed in my heart.

Those days were calm. To an eerie degree, the sense of reality had thinned. Wrapped in kindness, everything felt soft and damp.

Thanks to the split-cost system, my work schedule was flexible. So on days when I didn't have appointments at the club, I prepared dinner to match the time he returned from his office in Shibuya. Green salad, smoked salmon, warmed potage, and freshly cooked white rice. The steam from freshly boiled broccoli seeped into the ceiling of the small kitchen. In the refrigerator were his favorite IPA beer and my mineral water. Looking at the dishes lined up on the small dining table, Fukuyama-san laughed and said, "This is more relaxing than a restaurant."

He never forced me to cook. But when he asked for seconds of the nikujaga I made, he muttered, "It's been a long time since I've had a taste like this." At that voice, I suddenly felt like crying.

On my days off, as the night deepened, we would sit side-by-side on the couch and watch movies. While resting my head on his lap, I listened to his heartbeat, which I could hear mixed in with the background music. That sound was like a rhythm that affirmed my existence.

Occasionally, he would take my fingertips and wrap them in both his hands as if they were a treasure. Without saying a word. His kindness became a substitute for conversation.

Even as September began, that sweetness continued. But I felt that I shouldn't just be on the receiving end, so I worked more actively at the club. Not just depending on Fukuyama-san, but earning my own way. That was my form of love.

Perhaps that resolve had reached him. He quietly supported my efforts. On days when my number of designated clients increased, he would narrow his eyes and say, "That's great," and on nights when I came home feeling a bit down, he would brew herbal tea and have me sit on the sofa.

On the bathroom shelf, amenities for him were lined up, and half of the closet was filled with his jackets and his scent. In this room, he was truly "there".

In late September, Mr. Fukuyama said softly.

"I wish this kind of time would last forever."

Those words sank softly into the depths of my heart. They left behind a touch that was faintly warm, yet somehow fleeting.

—That night, I slept deeply in his arms. Until the very moment I fell into the depths of sleep, his hand was quietly stroking my hair.

The end of September. On the final day of the sales battle, I was waiting for the results in front of the locker in the dressing room. My back was sweaty, and the hand holding my smartphone was trembling slightly.

"...Congratulations on being number one." The moment the staff member handed me the paper, something burst in the back of my throat.

When I returned to the shop, Mari-san clapped for me. "You did it. I've really changed my mind about you, seriously."

Mama Kayoko narrowed her eyes and nodded. "You did well to overcome it during the most difficult period."

I wanted to tell Mr. Fukuyama directly, if only for that night, so I hurried home after work. When I entered the room, he was dozing on the sofa. When I gently shook him awake, he looked at my face with sleepy eyes and asked, "Hmm? What's wrong?"

I smiled and said, "I took number one."

He looked a little surprised, then smiled sheepishly. "...I see, congratulations."

That one word made me happier than anything else.

I sat down next to him and leaned gently against his shoulder. Somewhere far away, the neon lights of Ginza were quietly flickering.