Page 98 of The Comeback
Then I delete it, because what can I say?
I could say I made a mistake, but then we’re back to where we started, him in Korea being a big-ass idol and me living in Toronto. There’s no point.
So I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to my heart argue with my obtuse head.
Thirty-Two
I hate parties.
No, I’m looking forward to this event. Then I repeat it, out loud and with zest. “I am lookingforwardto this corporateparty. Iamlooking forward to thiscorporateparty.”
The affirmation doesn’t help. I amnotlooking forward to this corporate party.
After the workday, I force myself under a cold shower, filling the bathroom with pained yelps but knowing it will be worth it to feel slightly more alert. In twenty minutes, my hair is up in a high bun because I can’t stand it on my neck in this unseasonable heat, my black dress is on, and I have a good red lip and even a cat eye. Alex, who looks like a movie star in charcoal pants and one of those suit vests with the satiny-looking back panel, nods in approval when I meet him in the hallway.
We slide into the cab, and he gives an address on the other side of the Han River. Seoul is enthralling, and I want to investigate every street and alley we drive past. So far I’ve only seen around the hotel and the commute to Newlight, which is sad. More pathetic is that putting off pleasure for work is standard for me. At least I feel bad about it now, so that’s growth of some kind. The next but distant stage is doing something about it.
The neighborhood we arrive in is surprisingly multicultural compared to the office in Gangnam. “Itaewon,” says Alex as we get out of the cab and walk to a small alley lined with a green carpet. “Gay town, party town, and where a lot of foreigners hang out.”
We halt in front of a chrome door etched with tulips that swings open on silent hinges when we cross a dark square cut into the carpet. I wait for another robot to come up, but instead beautiful women smile and bow as we enter. I can’t help but suck in my stomach because they have waists so cinched they resemble wasps, an impression heightened by the black-and-yellow dresses they wear and hair that rises above their very pale faces in sculpted bouffant styles. Fresh sympathy grows for Hana if this is the obviously not impossible but very difficult body standard she’s being compared to by her mother.
Hyesu and her team are there to greet us, lit by the spotlights that gleam down on the bars lining the room. Smeared glasses litter the tables, and the sickly sweet smell of alcohol floats in the air.
“Ariadne!” Wonho comes up, already at the level of drunk where his eyes are hazy and a slight slur makes him hard to understand over the loud music. Yet his tie remains a work of art, and he hasn’t even downgraded to a French tuck. “You need a drink.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine.”
It doesn’t take. He plucks one from a pretty tray that’s flashing LED lights into the glasses so they glow and hands it over, then he waits until I sip it. Only when the glass is empty does he smile contentedly.
The first hour of the night passes. Wonho introduces me to his colleagues, and Alex chats to Hyesu at one of the bar counters nearby. The atmosphere is overwhelming, and my skin feels too humid from everyone’s breath. Not helping are the idol holograms that cluster in tableaux near the bar, similar to the ones at Newlight headquarters. More of the groups are recognizable from my meetings, and I’m pleased to identify KntK as well as StarLune.
When Wonho is distracted, I escape to a quiet corner. Tilting my head against the wall, I survey the crowd, noticing how many people StarLune keeps employed. There’s the staff at Newlight, the stylists, dancers, and videographers. It’s a mini economy, and most of it comes directly from StarLune. Jihoon wasn’t lying when he said his decision impacted more than only him.
Programmers, too. Newlight has propelled their technology game to boss level with a set of holograms that make their way around the room, so realistic I could have sworn it was StarLune in the flesh. They’ve dressed the images in blazers and black jeans, and when I peer closer, the faces are extraordinarily expressive. I knew Korea was light-years ahead of Canada, but the expertise here is more than I can imagine. A slight aura seems to follow the band and people melt out of their way because it would be weird to have Kit walk through you like a ghost.
I catch sight of the Jihoon hologram, and my breath simply stops. He has lilac hair trimmed in a sleek undercut that emphasizes his bone structure. As I stare, Alex appears at my side from the opposite direction. “We’ve put in enough of an appearance,” he says. “Want to head back to the hotel or look around Itaewon?”
“Itaewon so we can see the oldest jazz bar in Korea, but in a minute.” Bemused, I move across the room to get a better look at Jihoon. Longing for the real man itches along my fingers.
Ariadne Hui, you are an absolute and utter jackass to have done what you did.
“This technology is phenomenal,” I say. The black boxes lining the ceiling must be projecting the holograms.
Alex follows me. “What are you talking…oh no. Ohno.”
As I step close to the hologram, I reach out to see what happens to my finger in the light. A murmur goes up around me.
“Ari!” Alex grabs my arm before I make contact.
I freeze as I recognize the light citrus cologne. Computer generations don’t wear cologne.
The not-hologram Jihoon looks right at me.
“Oh my God,” I say. “You’re real.” Then I cringe.
“Jesus, Ari,” mutters Alex as he tugs at me. “How much did you drink?”
Jihoon at least keeps his cool, although his eyes look a bit wild. “Min of StarLune.” He’s so close that when he bows, a breeze flows over my sweaty skin.
