‘We need to talk in private,’ she said to Shoji before turning to Yoko. ‘Sweetheart, would you mind fetching Mr Sato? Ask him to mind the counter. After that, go to the waiting room.’

Yoko went through the next set of doors. Meanwhile, Madam took her time to stare at Shoji.

She was middle-aged, with curly, dark-brown hair that reminded him of a bird’s nest, and she held a black pen in her right hand as if it were an extended body part. Shoji tried his best to appear relaxed while maintaining eye contact.

An older man in a black tuxedo came in. This had to be Mr Sato. Shoji bowed to him. The man bowed in return and took a good look at Shoji, long enough to make the younger man feel uncomfortable. Somehow, he looked familiar, but Shoji couldn’t place him.

Mr Sato’s silver hair contrasted against his black jacket. He had white gloves on, like the ones worn by taxi drivers. Everything about him was prim and proper. Shoji could picture him ironing his clothes, making sure not a single crease blighted the fabric.

Madam whispered to Mr Sato while gesturing wildly with her pen. Her nails were painted turquoise. Mr Sato nodded, and Madam whisked Shoji through the doors.

In the corridor, the two of them passed a large room. Through the huge glass windows, he could see about ten people inside. There were two long leather sofas in the middle of the room. A few people were walking around aimlessly, but most of them — including Yoko — were sitting. Shoji stole a glance at her, but she didn’t seem to notice.

‘She can’t see you,’ Madam said. ‘It’s a one-way mirror.’

At the end of the corridor, they passed through another set of doors into a spacious room. Now this looked like a tearoom, albeit in a western style. From the front of the building, Shoji wouldn’t have guessed the place was this big. With floral wallpaper and white pillars decorated with gold carvings, the tearoom was grand enough to hold a lavish wedding banquet. He counted at least thirty tables, separated from each other by curved frosted-glass panels, Victorian lace curtains, or strategically placed potted plants. Classical music played in the background. A white grand piano stood in the corner, but it looked more like part of the decoration than an instrument anyone played regularly.

Madam led him to table fifteen. The partition was designed in such a way that Shoji couldn’t tell whether anyone was sitting there until he reached the table. Once he was seated, a young man wearing a similar black tuxedo to Mr Sato came in with a menu. Madam took it and dismissed him with her pen.

‘Mr Arai, what do you know about this job?’ she asked.

Shoji cleared his throat. ‘It’s to be a listener.’

‘That’s a good place to start. Can you imagine what kind of individual would pay for this service?’

She passed the menu to him. There were only five teas listed — English Breakfast, Earl Grey, Chamomile, Peppermint, and Jasmine White. Shoji was not surprised by the English teas, given the decor of the room. But what was surprising was the price list. A pot was as expensive as a multi-course dinner at a high-end restaurant. Then he saw in small print underneath ‘one hour’ — so the price was for the listening service, not just the tea. Still, what kind of person could afford this?