Ten
“Why are you here?” I demand. Sam is sitting in my suite’s living area when I come out of the bedroom, dress swinging around my legs as I halt. I forgot to shave them and pray he doesn’t look down. Mr. Physical Perfection doesn’t need to see that stubble.
He doesn’t put down his phone as he sips his coffee. “I have some time so I’m here to run your boot camp.”
I grab a coffee for myself, yawning. It was another night of fitful sleep as I ran through my many anxieties. My old therapist used to try to get me to have some perspective on my problems. That worked well enough when all I had to understand was that the world would not end if I returned a phone call Tuesday instead of Monday. My coping techniques are markedly less effective when facing a situation where public disgrace at a global level is a real possibility if I screw up.
“Where’s Fangli?” I ask.
“Resting.”
Although it would be nice to see her, the entire reason I’m here is so she can get a break. “What’s on tap today?”
“Conversation.” From the flat tone, I can tell he’s as thrilled as I am to spend the next several hours making small talk.
I try to rally. “Should we start with an icebreaker?”
He doesn’t change expression.
“Icebreaker it is.” I try to smile. He’s making it hard for me to do what Fangli hired me to do.
“No icebreakers.”
“Childhood memories?”
“No.”
“Best vacations? Favorite food? Two truths and a lie?”
I’m on the receiving end of an eye roll that would put a sulky teenager to shame and bite my lips together to keep from laughing.
“What?” he demands.
“Nothing.” I walk over to the table. “Tell me what you come up with, then.”
We sit. Sam’s here under duress but it’s not my job to make this go smoothly. I blink. That’s not something I usually think. Sam brings out the worst in me.
Or maybe the best. This isn’t my usual reaction, which would be to fuss and worry and fill the empty silence with whatever came into my head.
To pass the time, I take out my phone and check the news, which is bad. An email from Garnet Brothers gives me such a punch my whole body jerks with sudden coldness. I forward it straight to Fred the Lawyer.
“What happened?” Sam’s attention is on me.
“Nothing. Why?” I avoid his eyes.
He frowns. “You were looking at your phone and yelped like a small dog. It’s obvious you had a message you didn’t like.”
“This is what passes for conversation with you?” I ask. I don’t want to talk about the email, let alone with Sam.
“It can.” He smiles, the slow, predatory grin I remember from binge-watching his movies. It’s intriguing to see it in real life. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I don’t think I do,” I say. “That’s the face you get when you’re about to fuck someone over.”
“It’s what?” The smile disappears. “Fangli doesn’t swear.”
“Again, I’m not actually Fangli. Your expression. It’s the ‘you underestimated me and now I’m going to wreak some havoc’ look. From your movies. You did it before fighting the Triad guy in Dragon Claw, and you did it when you were confronting the man who betrayed you in Glass House. Oh, and you did it a bunch of times in Alley Boom Down. It was almost a tic.”
When his eyes widen, I see they’re very dark brown and not the black I thought. “How many of my movies have you watched?”
“Most of them.” I make a face because Mei made it clear skimming the web for plot summaries wasn’t an option and the man’s been busy. “Why is this a problem? Don’t you make them to be watched?”
Sam angles his head up to the ceiling, lost in thought. Then, God help me, he runs his thumb across his lower lip. In the hierarchy of unconsciously sizzling things hot men do, that has to be tops. The incomplete list, as compiled by me on behalf of all people who find men attractive, is:
1. Thumb on lower lip (mentioned).
2. Look up from beneath eyelashes; only for some men.
3. Hold a kitten. Bonus points if face is buried in fur and he smiles/addresses the kitten directly as if the kitten cares. Puppies will do.
4. That sideways glance over the shoulder.
5. Loosen tie.
6. Run hand through hair.
7. Look in your eyes as he takes his thumb off his lip and asks what you’re staring at.
“What?” I shake out of my musing state.
Sam tilts his head slightly. I add that as number eight to the list. “I asked what you’re staring at,” he repeats.
Mei comes into the room before I have to answer but my Mandarin language app has only gotten me to letting people know I’m feeling happy today so I have no hope of following their conversation. I check the rest of my in-box as they talk. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Mom, but I email her every day and the nursing staff tell me they print out the messages. Occasionally one of the nicer nurses or a volunteer sends me an update. I get antsy if I don’t see her at least once a week in person but I have a couple more days before that becomes a problem.
I put the phone away, dropping my head to the side to try to roll out the faint tightness of a tension headache inching up my neck. If this is how I feel after only two days living as a pseudo celebrity, I can’t imagine the level of stress that is Fangli’s everyday experience.
“Hao.” Sam ends the conversation and Mei glides out the door in the crisp white shirt and black skirt I’ve started to think of as her uniform.
“What?” I stretch and he shuts his eyes as if physically pained when my shoulders pop. I do it again.
“Change of plans,” he says, in the same tone as a general readying himself for an unplanned battle. “We need to go out tonight.”
“Whoa, what?” I’m not prepared for this.
Neither is Sam, by the looks of it. “After the show, we have a dinner reservation.”
“Why?”
He spins his phone over. There’s a photo of Fangli looking tired with Chinese on the bottom.
“Can you translate?” I ask.
“There’s speculation over Fangli’s state of health. Her management doesn’t like it.” He takes the phone back. “Fangli has an image to protect.”
There’s no way I can blow eating food. I’ve been doing it for years. I cheer up a bit. “Where are we going?”
“It’s called Ala.”
I immediately start googling. “Fancy.”
“It’s an appropriate place for us to be seen.”
Out of curiosity, I click on their online reservation system and see the next available table is two months away and at five in the evening. “How do you plan to get a table?”
Sam gives me an unfathomable look. “I can always get a table.”
I let that pass. There’s no menu on their website because the chef only uses the freshest ingredients from the morning markets. Plated with exquisite detail enthuses a Yelp reviewer.
Sam’s phone dings and he picks it up. “I’ve got to deal with this and don’t have time to eat lunch. I expect you to be ready for nine thirty.”
He disappears right as room service arrives. Once he’s gone, I page through my Fangli notes as I wolf down the pasta and then pop a Tylenol. At the top of my to-do list is one overwhelming task: Pretend to be Wei Fangli.
That’s a big action item. But if there’s one thing my thorough examination of productivity plans has taught me, it’s to break big tasks into smaller actions. Humming happily to myself, I check for any new apps that might meet my needs. I’m multitasking, as this is good research for Eppy as well. I decided last night Eppy—secret acronym for Easy Planning Per Year—would be the name of my task planner.
“Wo ke le. I am thirsty.” I absentmindedly repeat the language lesson that has become the background music of my life. Hopefully it will subliminally enter my brain. There’s nothing new to try out in the world of productivity planning so I grab a pen and some paper.
“Wo chi mifan. I eat rice.” Do I need to find footage of Fangli eating? I ponder this for a minute before discarding it as unnecessary.
“Wo he shui. I drink water.” An outfit. Won’t be a problem, I can wear the dress I have on. I tap the pen against my teeth and write “shave legs.”
I add a few more tasks but then remember that outside of being Fangli, I need to check the wait list at Xin Guang, call the lawyer about Garnet Brothers, and pay my rent. I add them and make a face for not thinking of my own life earlier.
Finally, I check my bank account to see if the payment to Mom’s home went through.
Then I look again because I am a lot of zeros richer than I was yesterday. It’s Fangli’s first payment. My situation is suddenly more real than it had been six minutes ago. Money has officially changed hands, which means I now owe her. My head is aching too much to think about it so I shut down the app and suck in deep breaths.
Taking my notepad and phone into the bedroom, I toss them onto the rumpled duvet and climb up beside them. (Mei has told housekeeping we’ll call if we need anyone to come make up the room or bring fresh towels in order to head off any inadvertent missteps by yours truly, so I’m in charge of making my own bed.) My eyes droop and I set my alarm for an hour. A quick nap and I’ll be as good as new.
* * *
I wake slowly and bury my face back into the fluffy puffball of a pillow the Xanadu has decided is the most appropriately extravagant of sleeping options. A few more minutes, I promise myself, even though I’m more rested than I’ve been in days. I yawn and stretch, thinking how calm the room feels in the dusk. Relaxing.
Dusk?
I fumble for my phone. It’s almost nine and Sam’s coming in thirty minutes for dinner.
“No. Damn, no.” Fully awake, I leap out of bed, get tangled in the bedsheets, and fall over in a cloudy white lump before I stumble to the bathroom, trailing the sheets behind me like the most inelegant of wedding dresses. It’s too late for the refreshing shower I had planned, so I splash water on my face and do my best to brush my hair and teeth at the same time. The face. I groan as I mentally review the multistep Fangli Face process. I screw up the eyeliner twice and then poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand. This is not a good start.
At least the lipstick goes on without a problem, and I suck on my finger to make sure I don’t get any on my teeth, a tip from Mom back when I first started wearing lipstick. It worked for my first neutral corals and even better once I worked up to my ruby reds.
Since I slept in the dress I was going to wear—and in my bra, which I peel off for the relief of unsticking it and wiping my underboob with a towel—I need to find a new outfit.
“Are you ready?” Sam’s impatient voice comes from the living room. He’s early.
“Don’t look. I’m getting dressed. How did you get in here?” I yell back as I yank another dress out. This one’s black, so there’s no way it can’t be stylish, at least not in Toronto. “Do you have a key card?”
“Yes.”
I don’t like that. I’ll get it back over dinner. Dress zipped, I stuff my feet into the lowest heels I can find and launch myself through the bedroom door before Sam comes to pull me out.
Then I freeze. He’s all in black as well, with a collared shirt tucked into tailored black slacks and a black blazer. One hand is placed casually in his pocket and his hair is artfully tumbled. My eyes widen in appreciation.
This appreciation is not reciprocated when he looks me up and down. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” I check the mirror. One eye is pink from where I introduced the mascara wand, and I guess I sneezed because black dappled lines decorate the skin under both eyes. I have marks from where I was sleeping on my cheek, and when I smile, I see Mom’s tried and tested lipstick trick has not worked because I look like a postprandial vampire. Also, I forgot the wig.
“Right.” I lick my teeth to get rid of the red lipstick as I rub under my eyes and dash back into the room to adjust my foundation to cover the sleep creases. I pull out the wig and arrange it on my head before I come back out with a little more Fangli attitude.
This time Sam gives me a long, appraising look. I smile Fangli’s smile and he nods reluctantly. “I guess it’ll do,” he says. “Perfume. She only wears Chanel because she’s their brand ambassador.”
“Good. I like No. 19 Poudre.” I don’t wear it all the time, though. I never liked the idea of a signature fragrance, not when there are so many options.
“What?” He’s startled I would know an actual perfume. “Mei says the fragrance collection is in the drawer under the mirror.”
Fragrance collection? How did I miss that? I go back in and gasp with delight at the lines of bottles. It’s like being in the Chanel store. “She has Les Exclusifs!”
“Les what?” He comes in and leans against the door like a black-clad demon as I rummage through the long, rectangular bottles labeled with that inimitable square Chanel font. There it is, Bois des Iles, which I bought once and couldn’t justify the expense to buy again. I spray it and start coughing from the droplets in the air. I breathed too soon. Sam looks tired as he watches me choke.
“It’s a special collection of fragrances.” I don’t know much about clothes but perfume has always been my thing. I have over three hundred samples logged on a spreadsheet with my ratings. Pathetic, I know, but scent is the sense that I’ve always reacted to most intensely. Even as a kid, I would have a fit if my parents changed their laundry detergent. Sam smells good, a faint fresh spice mixed with the fragrance of chipped stone. Sounds weird, but it’s appealing.
“You like that?” He sniffs the air with more caution than I did. “I smell sandalwood.”
“You’re right.” I recap the bottle. It gives a little magnetic click in the very satisfying Chanel way. “Sandalwood is my mother’s favorite perfume.”
“My mother’s as well,” he says, as if shocked we could have anything in common. “Can we go now?”
We walk to the elevator, and I have the pleasure of a steady stream of advice and criticism battering my ear. “Shoulders back,” Sam says.
I push back my shoulders.
“Not that far back. Smile more.”
Forward come the shoulders as I smile and hiss at him through clenched teeth. “Can you lay off? It’s an empty corridor.”
“With security cameras that record sellable video, housecleaning staff and people behind those peepholes.” He eyes me with pretend fondness. “You are never not watched.”
The elevator opens as I consider this. It’s like he and Fangli live in a surveillance state gone amok. We don’t talk in the elevator, and when we get out, he steers me away from the main door.
“We’re not walking?” The restaurant’s only about twenty minutes away and the summer evening is perfect for strolling.
“Too public.”
I guess it’s a good call because even the low heels I chose hurt my feet. I’ve been focusing so hard on my walking that I don’t notice the people in the lobby until we’re halfway through. Even in the Xanadu, temporary home of the rich and famous, Sam causes a ripple of interest. Eyes move to me and I realize it’s not only Sam, it’s Sam and me together. A brief silence falls over the lobby as we walk through, and I stumble slightly with the weight of their attention. Sam snaps his arm out and gathers me close in a single move that I know looks sexily protective, like the faithful bodyguard he played in one of his movies.
I think I hear a woman moan.
Gathering my wits, I flutter my eyelashes at him. I swear his mouth twitches but I must be wrong because he steadies me and then tucks my hand under his arm.
“Walk,” he mutters.
I make it to the car, which is not a car but an SUV that should have little flags fluttering on the front motorcade-style. Sam helps me in, which has the advantage of preventing people from seeing me sprawl sideways when I catch my foot.
He climbs in after me and closes his eyes.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I congratulate myself.
Sam opens one eye. “I hate to see your version of bad.”
“We made it.” I feel confident as I fix up my wig. Then I straighten up. “Is it like that wherever you go?”
“What?”
“People looking.”
“I told you it was.” He doesn’t sound impatient, only resigned.
I think about it. It was exhilarating, but I don’t want to tell Sam this. The little worm in my brain expands slightly as I realize I liked it. I liked being seen. Being admired.
It wasn’t you. That was for Fangli. No one would have turned for Gracie, not even a Gracie with a designer dress and long hair.
Good to remember.