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would he ever again settle for mediocrity.
        Partially because of this meticulousness his business flourished, but the wildish lifestyle he’d maintained when Ryoko was healthy had lost all appeal for him. Which is not to say that he went without sex. There were always bars and clubs where one could find female companionship, and he had plenty of opportunities to meet women through his work; but he hadn’t got involved in anything one could call an affair, or even a romance. At one point, friends and acquaintances had been all over him about remarrying. Even Ryoko’s father had come to him one day, bearing a photo of an elegant-looking lady in her early thirties and saying, ‘I know it’s highly irregular for me of all people to suggest this . . .’ But Aoyama declined all such offers, and eventually they tapered off. He came to be regarded as fiercely loyal to the memory of his wife, and though he didn’t protest this assessment the truth was that he simply couldn’t be bothered. He might have considered remarrying if he’d been too unattractive or too poor to get his sexual needs met, but that wasn’t the case. The two goals he’d set for himself after Ryoko’s death had taken more time and effort to accomplish than he’d ever imagined they might. He’d ultimately succeeded at both of them, solidifying his company’s reputation and status into the bargain, but he had no desire to expend that sort of time and energy on a woman.
        At least not until Shige asked the famous question, and added, ‘You seem pretty down in the dumps lately. Seriously, Pops. What if you thought about getting married again?’
     
    Yoshikawa, an old friend and colleague from the ad agency, had been doing TV work for something like twenty years but was now involved in film. Although their career paths had diverged, he and Aoyama still got together often. They had a certain deep-seated respect for each other, which precluded the semi-antagonistic back and forth that makes some friendships so tiresome.
        That a talented man like Yoshikawa had moved from television to film was decidedly not because movies themselves had regained anything close to the power and influence they’d once wielded. It had more to do with advances in digital technology. Private, digital-based viewing systems demanded film-quality software. High-definition TVs were easily obtainable, but camera technology was lagging behind, and it wasn’t financially feasible to make high-budget films solely for the ancillary markets. Negotiations with studios and backers were complex, and that was where a man with Yoshikawa’s skill and experience was indispensable.
        They usually met in the bar of some hotel or other. Yoshikawa had designated one in Akasaka for tonight, a fairly pretentious place with a lady playing a harp.
        ‘What happened to all the real bars?’ Yoshikawa said. He had arrived five minutes late and was tossing back a sherry on ice as he surveyed the room. ‘The places where a couple of real men could relax over a real drink. Look around you – nothing but incomprehensible couples in this joint. Check out the pair slurping their Bloody Marys. Shit. They wouldn’t recognise a really delicious Bloody Mary if they fell face-down in one. Ah well, let it go. But look at the two office girls baring their gums to the world as they yuck it up over whatever that is they’re drinking. Gimlets? I’m telling you, give it five more years and every bar in the country will have the atmosphere of a beer hall.’
        ‘I don’t know,’ Aoyama said. ‘I’m not one who tends to think bars were so much better in the old days. There was more discrimination back then, for starters, and that’s never a good thing. And the belief that the cocktails in those snooty places were the gold standard is probably just another delusion.’
        ‘Something’s changed, though. Everything’s all mixed up. And it’s not only because the rich are