“Does this guy think he’s a celebrity?” Ding Zhitong thought to herself.
The dinner was arranged at “Night Shanghai” in Xintiandi.
Ding Zhitong had chosen the place because Wilson wanted to try local Shanghai cuisine. She thought it was decent enough for entertaining clients, so she had Li Jiaxin quickly book a table, killing two birds with one stone.
As night fell, the group gathered at the restaurant.
Li Jiaxin had rested at the hotel and was now fully revived, having changed clothes and styled her hair, looking fresh and polished. The fitness trainer had also arrived and was already perusing the menu to order.
Ding Zhitong arrived with Wilson, a bit late. As their taxi pulled up to the restaurant, they saw a black Mercedes-Benz Sprinter parked in front of them. The rear windows were tinted opaque, preventing anyone from seeing inside. As the door opened, four people filed out: Gan Yang, the Barbie-like woman, and two other male team members.
“Does this guy think he’s a celebrity?” Ding Zhitong thought to herself, then wondered amusedly if the van had a starry roof, walnut wood interior, yacht-style bar, and remote-controlled mood shades. She had seen many such customized vehicles during roadshows with company management in recent years and never understood why people liked to modify them this way, making them look like mobile brothels.
From the 1966 Mustang to a luxury van, even his taste in cars had changed completely. Perhaps this was the power of time – eleven years, and nothing could remain the same as before.
“You’re here, Mr. Gan,” she smiled at him.
In the soft evening light, the streetlamps cast a golden glow on everything around. Gan Yang had changed into a white T-shirt, his hair looking freshly washed. Hearing her words, he seemed to pause for a moment before walking over and saying, “We’re here, Ms. Ding.”
Ding Zhitong casually explained, “We just came from Yu Garden.”
“It was amazing! So full of history and cultural character, quite different from Singapore’s Chinatown…” Wilson praised with a string of diplomatic compliments.
Ding Zhitong knew this was an exaggeration. The Mid-Autumn Festival had just passed, and the colorful lanterns in Yu Garden hadn’t been taken down yet. Looking around, it had been crowded everywhere, just a scene of bustling vulgarity. She joked, “I haven’t been there in a long time. I only dared to go with you around.”
“Why?” Wilson asked.
She replied, “If a Shanghai native goes to places like that, they risk having their Shanghai residency revoked.”
The people around laughed at her comment. Wilson didn’t understand, so she explained the joke again. Everyone watched for Wilson’s reaction, except Gan Yang, who silently observed her.
Once seated in the restaurant, Li Jiaxin had already ordered. Gan Yang asked for the menu, made some additions and subtractions, and even specified cooking methods to the waiter. Listening from the side, Ding Zhitong felt her thirty-plus years as a Shanghai native counted for nothing; Gan Yang was still as meticulous about food as ever.
She maintained her professional demeanor, as if facing a client, and deliberately engaged him in conversation, “Mr. Gan, are you usually in Shanghai?”
Gan Yang, however, didn’t look at her this time, answering, “I’ve been in Shanghai more often these past few years.”
The waiter, having taken the food order, came back to ask about drinks.
“Beer?” Ding Zhitong looked around, seeking others’ opinions.
But Gan Yang spoke up, “Just water for me.”
The Barbie-like woman chimed in, “Same for me, warm water.”
“Then let’s have a beer,” Ding Zhitong decided after consulting with Wilson.
The rest of the dinner seemed to continue with the same factional atmosphere.
Eight people sat around a round table, with Ding Zhitong and Gan Yang almost at opposite ends of the diagonal.
The Barbie-like woman would lean in close to Gan Yang’s ear whenever she spoke to him, at a volume only he could hear clearly. Gan Yang would nod or shake his head, occasionally answering, but others couldn’t hear. Combined with their matching white T-shirts and freshly washed hair, it fueled speculation.
Of course, it might have been just Ding Zhitong’s imagination running wild; others might have found it perfectly normal. Those familiar with them were probably used to it, while strangers would automatically assume they were a couple, nothing to fuss about.
Ding Zhitong forced herself to stop this train of thought, putting aside distractions to focus on livening up the atmosphere and engaging in conversation.
Over the past decade or so, she had become quite adept at networking, with over two thousand contacts in her WeChat. Song Mingmei had once looked at her contact list and said she was like a social media influencer. Without exaggeration, whether at a dinner table or in a meeting room, she could quickly become familiar with strangers. But that familiarity remained superficial – whether knowing someone for an hour or two years, it never went deeper.
Today’s dinner was a similar scenario. The other two male teammates Gan Yang brought were very talkative, and everyone happily exchanged business cards. Only Gan Yang didn’t participate in this activity, simply stating he didn’t have one.
Ding Zhitong didn’t argue with him, confident she’d find a way to break through eventually.
After seeing their business cards, she learned that the muscular woman was named Xu Chenxi, an employee of “Training Box” who had come to compete with her CEO, Yuan Chao.
The bald, muscular man wasn’t older than her as she’d thought. His name was Zeng Junjie, a middle school classmate of Gan Yang, making him a year younger than Ding Zhitong. He now owned a chain of fitness centers.
Due to her work on the “Training Box” project, Ding Zhitong had researched the industry. She knew Zeng’s business focused on weightlifting, aiming to build muscle mass and increase dimensions, with 99.99% male clientele.
Their conversation confirmed this. Zeng showed her before-and-after photos on his phone, explaining how he’d lost 40 kilograms over two years to achieve his current physique. Ding Zhitong expressed genuine admiration.
Unexpectedly, Zeng began to criticize other fitness approaches: “I think CrossFit is useless. Why focus so much on cardio? What’s the point of functional fitness? When I lift weights, everyone notices my pecs and biceps. With CrossFit, what would I do – drop and do 50 burpees on the spot?”
Yuan Chao, apparently used to such comments, chimed in sarcastically: “Right, bigger is better. If you’re not getting bigger, you’re doing it wrong!”
Though they were joking, Ding Zhitong seized the opportunity to learn more. “I’ve heard there’s a hierarchy in the fitness industry. Weightlifters look down on cardio classes like Super Monkey, who in turn look down on traditional gyms like Will’s Fitness, and they all look down on yoga studios. Is that accurate?”
Yuan Chao laughed and elaborated: “It’s not just one-way. If you mapped it out, it’d look like a star. Yoga enthusiasts think the others focus only on form, not substance. Then they all unite in looking down on Cross-fit, seeing it as cult-like with minimal equipment but high fees.”
Ding Zhitong thought about the CrossFit boxes she frequented. They indeed lacked complex equipment, saunas, or pools. Instead, they had barbells scattered about, racks of weights, and shirtless men and women with exposed, rugged bodies performing intense workouts to energetic music.
She laughed along, adding, “I do think CrossFit’s entry barrier is high, but what attracts me is their community fitness model. I’ve tried dance classes before, and while drop-in sessions were convenient, I always felt like a stranger and stopped going after a few times. ‘Training Box’ introducing the community concept is brilliant. It could work for other fitness methods too…”
As the conversation seemed to be getting to the point, Zeng Junjie interjected: “Regardless of the type, as long as it’s a top player, Mr. Gan has invested in it. He’s playing a hedging game…”
Gan Yang, who had been silent, looked up at Zeng, who immediately stopped talking. Yuan Chao also fell silent.
Ding Zhitong wasn’t sure what to make of this. Was Gan Yang upset that Zeng had revealed his secret, or did he simply not want to discuss the project? She couldn’t help but feel that he had changed from the boy who had once sat across from her, drawing the New York Marathon route on a napkin, his eyes lighting up and then dimming at her words.
Since they seemed unwilling to continue, she didn’t push. Instead, she turned to Wilson, asking about his impressions of Shanghai, the local cuisine, and the weather – safe, neutral topics.
However, their chat wasn’t all small talk. Wilson shared bits of his experience over the past few years.
After graduating from the University of Michigan, he joined another BB investment bank in New York, starting in the investment banking department like Ding Zhitong. He faced the massive layoffs of 2008, losing his job soon after starting. He then spent three years earning a JD degree, only to graduate amidst the Occupy Wall Street movement in the fall of 2011. During his internship, he had to push through crowds of protesters daily, changing into his suit only after reaching the office. Suddenly questioning the morality of banking but feeling unqualified for other work, he pivoted to charitable business management and was sent to Singapore.
Wilson shared these experiences as anecdotes, but Ding Zhitong found them deeply relatable. Once again, she felt their experiences were similar, all of them carried along by the ebb and flow of capitalist economic cycles.
“Tammy, during training you mentioned starting in New York. What year did you move to Hong Kong?” Wilson asked.
“2010,” Ding Zhitong replied.
She hadn’t given it much thought, but Gan Yang, who had been focused on his meal, suddenly looked up at her.
Ding Zhitong instinctively met his gaze. As their eyes locked, she felt that familiar flutter in her stomach, like the wings of a butterfly.
“But New York’s situation was good that year. Why did you leave?” Wilson inquired.
Ding Zhitong knew this was true. Due to the poor market in 2009, hiring had been scarce. By 2010, job openings had increased, and many colleagues had been promoted. Her former boss had even tried to persuade her to stay.
After a brief pause, she smiled and answered, “It was because of the short-selling of Chinese concept stocks. Articles were everywhere claiming that 80% of U.S.-listed Chinese companies were shell corporations. As Chinese faces, we lost credibility with clients.”
She wasn’t lying; this was indeed one of the reasons she left New York.
The group continued to chat about various topics over dinner, carefully avoiding any mention of the “Training Box” project.
Whenever Li Jiaxin signaled her with meaningful glances, Ding Zhitong would lower her eyes, silently urging patience as she continued the surface-level conversation. She didn’t force Gan Yang to participate, but occasionally glanced his way, each time finding him looking at her. The flutter was gone, and she understood why. She was doing this deliberately.
The dinner ended just after 9 PM. Gan Yang signaled for the check, but Li Jiaxin had already paid, joking, “If Tammy found out I let a client pay, I’d be out of a job.”
Gan Yang looked at Ding Zhitong again, but she was engrossed in conversation with Wilson.
“Shall we go to a bar?” Wilson suggested.
“Sure,” Ding Zhitong agreed readily, already having a place in mind. “Let’s go to The Captain. We can sit on the terrace and enjoy the river view.”
As they left the restaurant and stood on the sidewalk saying goodbyes, Ding Zhitong opened her phone to call a car to Fuzhou Road. She noticed an unread text message that had just arrived: “Let’s talk.”
The sender was shown as a string of numbers, but she knew it was Gan Yang’s number. He had called her before, and though she hadn’t saved it, she’d memorized it.
It was a familiar scene, but Ding Zhitong found it ironic. Twelve years later, text messages were usually ads, verification codes, or delivery drivers asking for good reviews. It wouldn’t feel the same as before.
“When?” she replied, adding a new contact named “LT Gan CEO.”
Just as she saved it, another message came through: “Now.”