Chapter 10: Sleeping in the Primary Bedroom

Early the next morning, Ban Ban washed, went downstairs and tied on an apron. From the refrigerator she took shiitake mushrooms, fresh beech mushrooms and cordyceps flowers.

She’d spent nearly twenty minutes selecting them at the supermarket, examining each carefully and rejecting anything wilted or oddly colored. In the end she’d brought home a full bag.

Auntie Jiang helped prepare the vegetables, smiling. “You’re very thoughtful toward the young master.”

Ban Ban sliced the shiitakes thinly without looking up. “Of course. He works so hard every day and has business dinners at night. A good breakfast gives him energy. Besides, it’s professional responsibility. If you’re someone’s wife, you ought to make him breakfast.”

Auntie Jiang laughed and went to cook porridge.

For the mushroom soup, Ban Ban used freshly made chicken broth, skimming off the fat. She stir-fried the shiitakes, beech mushrooms and cordyceps flowers, added the clear broth and simmered them for twenty minutes. The liquid turned pale amber as the mushrooms released their flavor.

In a separate pot she cooked wide noodles she’d rolled herself, chewier than dried noodles. She lifted them into a bowl, poured the mushroom broth over them and added scallions, goji berries and two drops of sesame oil.

Ting’an came downstairs as she carried the bowl to the table. She wore a pale pink cardigan, her hair in a low ponytail with a small pearl clip by her ear. Hearing him, she turned and smiled. “Mushroom noodles today.”

He sat and looked at the bowl. The broth was clear, the mushrooms carefully arranged, their natural colors unaltered by soy sauce and dotted with green scallions. Steam rose with a light, savory mushroom fragrance.

Ban Ban sat opposite, chin in her hands. “They’re nutritious. I used shiitakes, beech mushrooms and cordyceps flowers. Auntie Jiang and I bought them together, and I chose them very carefully. I made the noodles fresh, too. Try them?”

He lifted a mouthful. The noodles were smooth and springy, coated in the broth’s flavor. The soup was light without being bland, with a clean, lingering sweetness unlike her richer broths.

He swallowed, drank some soup and looked at her. “Delicious.”

Her smile appeared instantly, as if she’d lit up. She leaned forward on her elbows. “Really? Not too bland?”

“Just right.”

She sat up and added some pickled radish to his bowl. “Have this with it. It cuts the richness.” Satisfied, she picked up her own chopsticks.

They ate facing each other, the quiet dining room filled only by the soft sound of chopsticks touching bowls. Outside, wind rustled the ginkgo leaves, and sunlight cast flecks of gold across the table.

Halfway through, Ting’an spoke. “Ban Ban.”

“Yes?” She looked up with noodles in her mouth.

He set down his chopsticks and leaned back. “A few of my friends want to meet you. Would you be willing? They’re close friends I’ve known since childhood.”

She swallowed and wiped her mouth. “Are your friends easy to get along with?”

At her serious expression, his mouth moved. “Afraid of socializing?”

“No.” She folded the tissue and sat straight. “It’s just that your friend last time was so rude, calling me short. I didn’t like him. What if another friend calls me short or fat?”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll talk back. I’m worried it might embarrass you.”

Her earnest indignation made the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen as he smiled. He rarely smiled like that; usually his smiles were polite and distant. This one reached his eyes.

“Don’t worry. They wouldn’t dare.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He finished his noodles and several more mouthfuls of broth, then stood. “If they dare say anything out of line, I won’t let them leave that room.”

Ban Ban smiled up at him, her anxiety gone. “All right. I’ll go shopping tomorrow and dress beautifully. I can’t embarrass Dad and Sis.”

Ting’an took a card from his suit pocket and pushed it across the table. It was black, with a matte metallic finish and a simple gold emblem.

“Take this. There’s no limit. Use it for whatever you want.”

She looked at it without picking it up, then ran to the entryway and fetched another card from her bag. It was a silver supplementary card, plainly designed for a woman.

“I have money.” She patted it. “Sis gave me her supplementary card before I came. It has no limit either.”

Ting’an studied the silver card for two seconds, then looked up.

Thinking he didn’t believe her, Ban Ban said seriously, “Really, no limit. Our family only had temporary cash-flow trouble; we didn’t go bankrupt. The company has recovered. Dad said I can buy whatever I want in Dong City. I couldn’t spend it all.”

She sat perfectly straight, proud to be the Ban family’s younger daughter.

He was silent for several seconds. Then he pushed the silver card toward her, followed by his black one. “You married me. You’re Wen Ting’an’s wife, and you should spend my money. What would people say about the Wens if you spent your family’s?”

He paused. “I didn’t marry a wife so she could spend her family’s money.”

He stood by the table, back straight against the light, his expression too serious to be joking. The words You’re Wen Ting’an’s wife went around and around in her head, warming her ears.

“All right.” She slipped the black card into her pocket. Its metallic surface touched her fingertips, and her heart sped up.

His gaze lingered on her reddened ears before he turned for his jacket. “Have Auntie Jiang go shopping with you.”

“No.” She stood and put both cards away. “I can go alone. I often shopped by myself in Nan City.”

He didn’t insist. He fastened his cuff links, took his keys and headed for the door.

Just then Auntie Jiang came in with five or six workers carrying plans, toolboxes and color samples. She hurried over. “Young Master, Madam, the elder Mr. Wen sent a renovation company. He wants several empty guest rooms converted into a nursery and an indoor children’s playroom.”

Ting’an stopped in the entryway. His gaze swept the plans and samples, his brow furrowing before understanding dawned. His father had a long reach, arranging the use of his guest rooms from afar. Wen Henian must have learned he was sleeping there and was finding a way to force him back into the primary bedroom.

After two seconds’ silence, he nodded without exposing the scheme. “Do as he says.”

Ban Ban peered past him at the workers, puzzled. “Why renovate the guest rooms?”

Ting’an glanced at her for two seconds, then told Auntie Jiang, “Move my clothes from the guest room back to the primary bedroom later.”

Auntie Jiang couldn’t hide her smile. “Yes, Young Master. I’ll do it right away.”

Ban Ban still hadn’t understood. She tugged his cuff. “If they’re renovating the guest room, where will you sleep?”

He looked down at her. She squinted in the sunlight, face tilted up and mouth slightly open in confusion. He found it amusing. “The primary bedroom.”

“The primary bedroom?” She blinked.

Auntie Jiang smiled. “Have you forgotten, Madam? Where else would he sleep? Husband and wife naturally share a room.”

Ban Ban finally understood. “Oh,” she said slowly, releasing his cuff as her ears turned red. “Right. I forgot.”

Ting’an watched the color spread over her ears, then left without another word. His car door closed outside and the sound receded.

Ban Ban stood in the entryway, watching his car leave and Auntie Jiang lead the workers upstairs. She touched her hot ears. Tonight they would sleep together. She and Wen Ting’an.

They’d been married nearly two months. She’d slept in the primary bedroom and he in the guest room, supposedly because he worked late and didn’t want to disturb her. They had treated each other with polite distance, seeing each other twice a day for less than forty minutes altogether: courteous breakfasts, and, if they met at night, a greeting before going to separate rooms. She’d grown used to the distance and even thought it was fine.

Now Wen Henian’s renovation order had shattered it.

She sat on the sofa hugging a cushion while workers went up and down measuring and drawing plans, and Auntie Jiang carried things in and out. Ban Ban saw her bring Ting’an’s pajamas and clothes into the primary bedroom and hang them among her yellow, white and pink things. His dark gray pajamas hung beside her pale pink cotton nightdress. She glanced once and looked away.

She was nervous all afternoon. She wandered about, changed the water for the flowers, watered the garden plants and carried the fruit Auntie Jiang had cut from the kitchen to the living room and back three times.

Watching from the counter, Auntie Jiang smiled. “Madam, why don’t you sit and rest?”

“I’m not tired.” Ban Ban stood in the middle of the room, unsure where to put her hands. “I’m just nervous. Tonight, I…”

She couldn’t finish, her face bright red.

Auntie Jiang patted her shoulder. “You’re his properly married wife. It’s only natural to share a room. Besides, the young master knows his boundaries. Don’t be afraid.”

Ban Ban considered it. That was true. In two months, apart from staying out for dinner and coming home smelling of alcohol, Ting’an hadn’t done anything to her. At breakfast he’d been polite; before leaving he’d say he was going, she’d ask him to come home early, he’d say yes, and then arrive after ten as usual.

He really did know his boundaries. He was also genuinely distant.

She bit her lip and climbed the stairs with heavy steps.

That night she showered, changed into pajamas and sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the quilt and watching the bedroom door. It was ajar, a thin line of hallway light falling across the floor.

She waited a long time. The clock on her phone reached eleven, then eleven thirty, but no footsteps sounded in the corridor.

Wrapped in the quilt on her side, she listened. Her eyelids were heavy, but part of her remained alert: Ting’an still hadn’t come home. He usually returned at ten; he was already an hour and a half later than usual.

She pulled the covers higher and curled up. Did he not want to come back? Had he agreed to the primary bedroom only because he couldn’t refuse in front of everyone?

With the guest rooms being renovated, he couldn’t very well sleep on the sofa. But she was in the primary bedroom. After two months of politeness under one roof, suddenly sharing a bed would feel awkward to anyone.

She buried her face in the pillow and breathed out. Forget it. She wouldn’t wait. Whether he came back or when was none of her business. They’d already agreed she shouldn’t worry about him or wait up.

She turned over and closed her eyes. She left the bedside lamp on, its warm yellow light falling beside the pillow. Curled at the edge of the bed, tightly wrapped in the quilt, cheek pressed into the pillow, her breathing gradually steadied.

The bedroom door remained ajar. The corridor was quiet. Ban Ban fell asleep.