Chapter 9: Ban Ban's First Stirring of Love

Ban Ban didn’t speak to Wen Ting’an on the drive home from the hospital or as she got out of the car. Only when she entered the house did she put on a smile.

“Was the checkup all right, Madam?” Auntie Jiang asked.

“I’m fine. Just a nosebleed from the dry air.” She sounded cheerful, as though nothing had happened.

But after changing into house clothes and sitting on the sofa, she stared at the food program on television without taking any of it in. The man’s words kept circling in her head: Young Master Wen, bringing a woman to the hospital so early? Did you get her pregnant?

Pregnant.

Ban Ban hugged a cushion to her chest and rested her chin on it, looking at the vase of pink roses on the coffee table. The edges of the petals had begun to wilt. She ought to change the water, but didn’t feel like moving.

Before the wedding she’d prepared herself. She knew Ting’an was a flirt, that he changed companions often and that the city was full of rumors about him. She’d thought it didn’t matter. It was an arranged marriage; each of them got what they needed. His money solved her family’s financial trouble, and she became Mrs. Wen. Neither owed the other anything.

But hearing someone say it in that tone still hurt. He had a wife now, yet apparently didn’t know how to restrain himself, carrying on openly.

She hugged the cushion tighter. Her nose stung, but she sniffed and held back her tears.

At ten the doorbell rang. Auntie Jiang opened it to two men in work clothes carrying three boxes. Mr. Wen, they said, had ordered humidifiers delivered.

Ban Ban leaned over the back of the sofa and watched them carry the boxes into the primary bedroom, living room and study, then efficiently unpack and install them. Auntie Jiang consulted the instructions and asked how to adjust the humidity.

Half Ban Ban’s anger suddenly melted away. He had remembered what the doctor said about putting a humidifier in the room and arranged for them to be delivered.

She pinched the corner of the cushion and told herself to let it go. She forgave him. He wasn’t so bad.

The next morning she got up and made breakfast as usual: soup dumplings, their skins rolled thin and their filling mixed with aspic so each held hot broth when steamed.

Ting’an came downstairs just as she set them on the table. He looked at the steaming dumplings, sat and picked one up. He bit into it, sucked in the hot broth and nodded.

“Good?” Ban Ban asked from across the table, propping her face in her hands.

He chewed and swallowed, then looked up. His gaze lingered two seconds longer than usual, and his mouth curved faintly. “Mm.”

That single sound made her smile, her eyes curving like crescent moons.

She’d noticed he would ask for more noodles: he could eat two bowls of crab roe noodles, or all eight dumplings in a steamer basket and a bowl of soy milk. Watching him finish the breakfast she’d made always filled her with satisfaction.

She also watched him in secret. His lashes lowered when he drank soy milk, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed. The forearm revealed by his rolled sleeve had graceful lines, his wrist and knuckles well defined. Even sitting, his back was naturally straight, his broad shoulders filling his shirt, their shape faintly visible beneath the fabric.

Nearly 1.9 meters tall, well dressed, with abs.

She bit the tip of her chopsticks, a thought drifting through her mind: if she were one of those other women, she would probably be captivated too, unable to resist throwing herself at him.

She quickly removed the chopsticks and lowered her head, pretending to drink porridge, the tips of her ears red.

It was the first time in Ban Ban’s life she’d been fascinated by a man. She was twenty-one and had never dated; she didn’t know what falling for someone meant. All she knew was that every morning when he came downstairs and sat across from her, her heart beat a little faster.

And the man who made it do that was her legal husband.

In a private room at an upscale Dong City restaurant, Ting’an sat at a table with Zhou Lin, Song Chengyuan and two or three other close friends.

After several rounds of drinks, Zhou Lin leaned over. “Old Wen, who was that at the hospital the other day?”

Ting’an picked up some food without looking up. “My wife.”

Zhou Lin nearly dropped his glass. “What? Your wife? The little wife you married from Jiang City?”

Ting’an looked up, his gaze heavy. “Little wife?”

Zhou Lin caught on at once. “Your much younger wife? Wrong choice of words.” He pressed his palms together. “Correction: your much younger wife. I’ll drink as punishment.” He drained his glass, poured another and turned to the others with a look.

“You don’t know this, but I ran into Young Master Wen taking her to the hospital. Guess what she looked like.”

The others grew interested and urged him on.

Zhou Lin set down his glass and gestured. “Fair and soft-looking. I didn’t really examine her features, but she looked like a student. Just short, standing next to Young Master Wen—”

Ting’an laid his chopsticks on the rim of his bowl with a crisp click. He said nothing, but one look stopped Zhou Lin mid-sentence.

Zhou Lin blinked and corrected himself quickly. “Not short! Not short at all! She only looked short beside our Young Master Wen, right?”

Ting’an looked away and picked up his chopsticks again.

Amused, Song Chengyuan tapped the table. “Old Wen, when will you bring her out to meet us? Don’t keep her hidden at home.”

Ting’an lit a cigarette and exhaled. “We’ll see.”

“That means there’s hope!” Song Chengyuan slapped his thigh and turned to Zhou Lin. “Arrange something, Lin. Make it grand and formal. Our little sister-in-law is a young lady from the south; we northern men can’t be discourteous. Prepare the proper gifts.”

“Right, let’s do it! At Chengyuan’s restaurant. Have the kitchen put on a proper spread, all on my tab. Song Chengyuan, you’re in charge of drinks.”

“Drinks are on me,” Song Chengyuan agreed.

Ting’an smoked in the middle, neither nodding nor shaking his head. It was impossible to tell from the curve of his mouth whether he’d agreed.

A bowl of noodles sat untouched before him, chopsticks beside it.

As they were leaving, Song Chengyuan noticed. “Old Wen, why didn’t you eat the noodles? I ordered them especially for you. Didn’t you say you liked them here?”

Ting’an flicked his ash and looked at the bowl. The broth looked thin, the noodles soft and limp beneath a few leaves of greens. It was worlds apart from the clear, fragrant bowl he’d had that morning.

“It looks bad,” he said.

Song Chengyuan stared. “How can you tell just by looking? You used to love it.”

Ting’an stubbed out his cigarette, stood and picked up his jacket. “That was before I’d had good noodles.”

Passing Song Chengyuan on his way out, he paused and added, “You can fire your noodle chef.”

The door closed behind him.

Song Chengyuan stood there, then turned to Zhou Lin. “What did he mean?”

Zhou Lin leaned back, laughing helplessly. “What do you think? Someone at home must be making him noodles. He can’t look at your lousy chef’s food anymore. Your chef can pack his bags.”

Song Chengyuan thought for two seconds, caught on and laughed too. “Wen Ting’an is done for.”

When Ting’an got home, the living-room light was still on. He changed his shoes and found Ban Ban sitting cross-legged on the sofa, remote in hand, a late-night food program playing quietly.

At his footsteps she turned sharply, jumped off the sofa and hurried over in her slippers. “You’re back?”

He stood between the entryway and living room, watching her approach: slippers slapping, white nightdress swaying around her calves, hair loose over her shoulders, cheeks pink.

For a moment, warmth spread through his chest.

“Yes.” He draped his jacket over his arm. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Waiting for you.” She looked up, wrinkled her nose and leaned close to sniff. Her frown deepened. “Wen Ting’an, why do you drink every day? You come home smelling of alcohol every night.”

He looked down at her face, her nose almost touching the front of his shirt. His throat moved, and he stepped back half a pace. “I’m used to it.”

“That’s a bad habit.” Hands on her hips, she looked as serious as a teacher correcting a disobedient child. “You need to change it.”

He looked at her and smiled faintly. He remembered the look he’d given Zhou Lin for calling her short, and wondered why he felt protective of a woman he’d known less than two months.

Should he change? Looking at her standing there, hands on hips and glaring, a small voice inside him said perhaps he could.

But he said nothing. He simply pressed a hand lightly on top of her head, went around her and headed upstairs.

Ban Ban stood stunned for two seconds, touching the spot, her ears reddening again. She called after him, “Did you hear me? You need to change!”

At the turn in the stairs, he didn’t look back, but his voice floated down. “I want noodles tomorrow morning.”

She blinked, then smiled.

She switched off the television and the living-room lights one by one, leaving only the small hallway lamp. She climbed the stairs and paused at the primary bedroom door to glance at the closed guest-room door.

After a moment’s thought, she went inside, found paper and pen in a drawer and lay on the bed writing several new noodle recipes.

“Mushroom noodles tomorrow. He should like those.”

When she’d finished, she turned off the light, pulled the covers to her chin and smiled at the ceiling.