Chapter Seventy-Four: You Are.

"Where does Akira Yashiro live?" asked Fujiko Ayako's manager, a man in his forties with an honest, straightforward face that made him look like an ordinary office worker.

"From the south exit of Sangenjaya Station, it's less than a ten-minute walk straight ahead. It's in the Morita Building."

"Sangenjaya?" Ayako interjected. "I often go to that area to watch performances at the small theaters." Perhaps it was the influence of the alcohol, but she seemed livelier and more talkative than when they'd first met.

"There are quite a few theaters around there, but even though I live nearby, I've only been to the Central Theater once," Akira replied. "By the way, where do you live, Ayako?"

"I just moved to Meguro Ward not long ago."

"In that case, it's not really on the way..." Akira hesitated a little.

"It's no trouble," the manager interjected. "I live not far from Sangenjaya. After I drop Akira off, it won't take long for me to circle back home."

"Then I'll trouble you, Mr. Manager," Akira said gratefully. "By the way, I've never had a chance to return Ayako's coat. Why don't you come up for a cup of coffee, and you can take the coat back with you?"

Ayako tilted her head. "You really bring up that coat every time we meet, don't you, Akira?"

"I can't help it. After all, it was just a loan," Akira rubbed his nose, catching a faint whiff of women's perfume in the car. "Ayako, did you move to Meguro for Sachiko's sake?"

"My real home isn't here," Ayako explained. "I just rented an apartment nearby for Sachiko's convenience, so she wouldn't have a long commute. Not that I'm a model parent, but I couldn't just leave my daughter at home and go out drinking. Sachiko went on a trip to Kyoto with her friends."

Akira looked a little embarrassed. "Ayako, nobody brought that up."

Ayako let out a girlish laugh. After it faded, she spoke with a touch of loneliness, "I'm just afraid, that's all."

...

As they approached the Mitsui Building, Ayako's manager checked the rearview mirror several times before finally speaking. "Ayako, I think we're being followed by a tabloid car."

Ayako made a noncommittal sound, reacting with surprising calm. Akira, on the other hand, instinctively turned to look behind.

"It's fine," Ayako reassured him.

That made sense. They were only sharing a ride; once Ayako got out, the reporters would naturally disperse. Come to think of it, the last time Akira had been followed, it was because he had "hitched a ride" with Izumi Sakai's fame. This time, was he "borrowing" Ayako's spotlight? The thought made Akira chuckle inwardly at himself—he was a popular singer, after all. Why hadn't he developed the consciousness of a true celebrity yet?

With Ayako's reassurance, the manager drove on in silence. At the intersection ahead, the green light blinked a few times, then turned red. The manager eased on the brakes.

In the rearview mirror, the tabloid car also slowed, keeping a respectful distance.

When the light turned green again, the manager started the car. But just as they passed through the intersection, a sudden screech of tires shattered the nighttime quiet behind them.

Even Ayako looked back instinctively this time.

"The tabloid car got rear-ended," the manager reported, slowing down and watching through the mirror. A flashy red Honda NSX sports car had had a little "intimate contact" with the silver Isuzu driven by the tabloid reporter.

Ayako thought for a moment. "Mr. Kumagai, pull over. Let's go check on things, and explain to the tabloid what's actually going on in this car."

Only then did Akira realize the manager's surname was Kumagai.

Kumagai replied, "All right," pulled over, and headed to the scene of the accident.

For a moment, only Akira and Ayako were left in the car.

Ayako broke the silence. "Were you meeting friends tonight, Akira?"

"Yes. My manager and some friends from my underground days—we had a few drinks," Akira answered. "By the way, how did you know I was with friends and not out alone?"

"Just intuition."

"That legendary female sixth sense?" Akira pretended to be deeply impressed. "Amazing."

Ayako laughed softly. "I'm just making things up. Actually, I was having a little get-together with a few enka singer friends tonight, on the second floor of TIP TAPS TIP. When I stepped out to make a call, I happened to see you."

"A bar party for enka singers? That sounds fun."

"It's not much different from ordinary people. Everyone dresses casually, and some get tipsy and start hugging everyone."

"That's exactly what makes it interesting!" Akira laughed.

Ayako shot back, "So, what are rock singers' parties like?"

"Well..." Akira stroked his chin, pretending to think. "Also not much different from regular folks—everyone dresses casually, and some get tipsy and start hugging everyone."

"Hey!" Ayako scolded, feigning annoyance.

Akira burst into laughter. "Don't mind me, Ayako. That's just how it is. But if there's anything special worth mentioning, last time I went to the BEING seniors' New Year's party, we spent three hours in a karaoke box in West Ikebukuro singing enka together."

"Singing enka?"

"That's right. Maki Ohguro even sang your 'Kokoro Sake.'"

"And what about you, Akira?" Ayako asked, clearly interested.

"I sang Fuyumi Sakamoto's 'Yozakura Oshichi.'" Akira looked slightly embarrassed. "The arranger I went with, Mr. Akashi, is a huge fan of Sakamoto. After I finished, he scolded me thoroughly, said I ruined her song." He could still recall Akashi's look of utter disdain.

Ayako seemed delighted. "Next time I see Fuyumi, I'll be sure to pass that story along."

"If Sakamoto gets upset, please pass along my apologies, too." Akira turned to Ayako, pressed his palms together in a gesture of supplication. Now that they were closer, the faint scent of a woman's perfume grew stronger—a crisp, cool rose fragrance.

...

About ten minutes later, Mr. Kumagai returned from the accident scene. He sat in the driver's seat and reported to Ayako and Akira, "It was Mr. Morohoshi from Hikaru Genji and a reporter from FRIDAY. Apparently, Morohoshi had a few drinks and then drove, rear-ending the reporter's car. Luckily, no one was hurt, and the police have been called—they'll be here soon. The FRIDAY reporter said he happened to spot Akira at the bar and decided to follow him, not knowing it was Ayako's car. But he promised that nothing from this incident will appear in their reports."

Ayako nodded. "That's good."

"Are you on friendly terms with FRIDAY, Ayako?" Akira asked in surprise. From the way the reporter spoke, it sounded like if he'd known it was Ayako's car, he wouldn't have bothered following at all.

Kumagai answered instead. "Akira, you might not know, but unless it's a huge scandal, tabloids don't pay much attention to enka singers' private lives."

That made sense. Compared to other musicians, enka singers' private lives were usually discreet and mysterious, and their audience rarely cared about who they met or what they ate. Besides, Ayako's agency was the notorious powerhouse BRUNING; even if something was caught on camera, it would be almost impossible to publish, and no reporter would risk being summoned for a "friendly chat" just for a small scoop.

"Even if they didn't get anything on me, Morohoshi basically handed them a big scoop on a silver platter," Akira joked, steering the topic away.

Ayako, happy to do so, played along. "Oh? How so?"

"I saw Morohoshi chatting up a pretty woman at the bar earlier—she's probably in his car right now. With a beautiful woman by his side, drunk driving, and rear-ending a tabloid reporter, that's a much juicier story than anything they'd get by following me."

"Why do I hear a hint of schadenfreude in your tone?"

"Just a little." Akira raised his right hand, making a "tiny bit" gesture. "You know, for people who always have everything go their way, sometimes you just want to see them slip up a bit. Like, right when they're charming a girl, they accidentally burp or something. I guess that's just a man's jealousy..." Akira trailed off, because he suddenly felt a small, soft hand enveloping his raised right one.

After a moment, he finally drew out the last syllable of his sentence. Glancing at Mr. Kumagai, he saw the manager staring straight ahead, as if oblivious to anything happening in the back seat.

"Ayako?" Akira called tentatively.

Soft fingers brushed lightly across his palm, grazed his fingertips, and then Ayako quickly withdrew her hand, her tone casual as if nothing had happened. "You have beautiful hands, Akira—no wonder you're a guitarist."

"Ah... yes," Akira responded absentmindedly, feeling his earlier soberness give way to a renewed flush of heat in his chest.

The car stopped in front of Ayako's building. Mr. Kumagai checked the surroundings in the rearview mirror. "Ayako, it's safe to get out."

Ayako picked up her handbag and opened the door.

Akira's hand moved toward the seatbelt buckle, hesitated, then withdrew. "Good night, Ayako."

"Good night," Ayako replied, stepping out.

Only after watching her disappear into the building did Mr. Kumagai start the car again, carrying Akira in silence back toward Sangenjaya.