Eleven
When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s hard to not be seduced. I smooth out the front of my dress as I get out of the car to the stares of passersby. They might not recognize us, but the sleek car and the manager who rushes out to meet us when the valet opens the door are visual signifiers that here be people with money and influence.
How would Fangli act? She’s used to fancy places, so she would resist trailing her fingers along the side of the staircase to see if that was real velvet covering the walls. When she reached the top of the stairs, she would check the room casually for acquaintances and wouldn’t squeak with glee when spotting Margaret Atwood.
So I don’t do those things either. Instead, I keep my expression schooled and focus on Sam’s shoulders as the manager leads us to a back table, the most private option the room offers. A silence washes over the restaurant, followed by a hum as people recognize us. This is a fancy place and its patrons are too cool to do anything so gauche as take photos or come up to us so the buzz is all we get.
I wonder if Margaret Atwood got the same attention.
The manager deftly slides the chair forward as I sit down and I give myself a silent high five for smiling in thanks, as a woman used to this would, instead of erupting into a flurry of “it’s okay” and “I got it, no worries” mumbles. The manager nods and leaves us alone with the menus. Too bad the table is turned so we’re on display to the rest of the room. I would much prefer to face the wall and have only my back visible.
I pick up the heavy card-stock menu that lies in front of me. Instead of long-winded descriptions or lists of ingredients, there are only five words typed in a row:
FISH
MEAT
BIRD
VEGETABLE
SWEET
I check the back but that’s it. There are no prices and I peek over at Sam’s paper. No prices there either.
“What is it now?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the world’s most uninformative menu.
“You don’t think it’s strange to order ‘bird’ and leave the rest up to chance?”
He shrugs. “I trust the chef.”
We order when the server comes (MEAT for Sam and FISH for me), and I proudly remember to tell them no carrots in my best Fangli voice—low, confident, and warm. Sam gets into a spirited discussion of the best vintages on offer that will match our mystery food.
“I should have known you’re a wine guy,” I say when the server goes to get the drinks.
“A what?”
“You know, one of those guys who holds up the whole table to wax eloquent about viscosity and bouquet or whatever it is.”
“I hardly think I was holding up the whole table—which is you—to give the server an idea of what we want and to show respect to the sommelier’s cellar. It’s a pity she’s not in today.”
Then he starts speaking in Mandarin. I understand why when the server reappears; obviously it would be suspicious to be speaking English with only the two of us and I’m impressed Sam thought of this detail. I smile and nod as if I have a clue of what he’s saying.
The server shows us the bottle and uncorks the wine before pouring a bit into Sam’s glass with a neat flick of his wrist. He gives the bottle a quick swipe with the white cloth in his other hand and waits for Sam to swirl and taste and give his approving nod. I try to look interested.
The server leaves and I drink the wine down in a gulp before Sam’s narrowed eyes tell me I’ve made a tactical error. “I was thirsty,” I excuse myself.
He looks away for a moment as if gathering strength. “Fangli doesn’t drink.”
I forgot. “Then why did you pour me the glass?” I ask, incensed. Am I expected to sit there with a full glass and not drink it? In a stressful situation? Does he think I’m made of steel?
Apparently he does. “Imagine this is poison,” he suggests as he refills my glass a measly centimeter. “Also, wine is for sipping, not guzzling.”
“Why bother, then?”
Sam appears pained as he traces his finger down the stem of his glass. “Because you should take your time to appreciate good wine?”
“No, why have the wine if she can’t drink it?”
He sighs. “People expect there to be wine at dinner, so Fangli would have it visible.”
I gape at him. “Does she do anything without a motive?”
Those dimples flash. “Does anyone?”
“Why doesn’t she come out and say she doesn’t drink?”
“Because then she would cut out all branding opportunities for alcohol companies. They pay well.” Sam glances at his watch. “This should take an hour and then we’ll be done.” He doesn’t bother to disguise his relief.
“Great.”
There’s a long silence as Sam regards me. “I don’t think this will work,” he says softly. “You’re not Fangli.”
I’ve never been into the idea of being rescued by a knight in shining armor, but seeing Sam so unequivocally on Team Fangli stings. I ignore it; I’ve been on my own too long for this to matter much. “Then maybe you should step up your helping game,” I say.
“Why are you even doing this?” Sam tilts his head to the side.
I shrug. “It’s a lot of money, and as you so kindly pointed out, I’m out of work.” I don’t trust him enough to go into Mom’s situation and what I want the money for.
“I knew it.” Sam sounds satisfied. “I’m never wrong.”
“I know you did. You’ve been rabbiting on about it since this all came about.” I reach for the wine but Sam’s face causes me to veer over into water-glass territory. “It doesn’t change what’s going on. You lost and we’re doing this.”
He wrinkles his nose but still looks like a sex god.
“Stop that,” I say.
“What?”
“You keep trying to trip me up by showing me how attractive you are. I know, okay? Everyone knows. Celebrity magazine knows. This entire restaurant knows. So knock it off.” Then for good measure, I add, “At least the looks make up for your personality.”
He stiffens. That apparently hit home and I celebrate. Call me Peppermint Petty. “I have a good personality,” he says.
“Do you hate the people who do your makeup?”
“No.” He’s confused.
“The guy bringing the food? The person who cooked it?”
“Of course not.”
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and say what I think. “Then lay off me. Fangli and I made a deal and I’m doing a job. I’m sorry you got roped into it but you didn’t have to play along. You have a problem, take it out on Fangli, because it was her fucking idea.”
Because I’m a quick learner, despite what Sam thinks, I know there’s a good chance that at least one person in the restaurant is watching us at any given moment so I deliver this with a sweet sunny smile while leaning forward as if telling Sam an amusing story.
There’s a long silence as Sam runs his thumb over his lip. Number one from the list again. The action forces me to look away and I beam vaguely at the wall behind him, making sure my posture is straight and doing my best to resist checking that my wig isn’t crooked. It’s hard work, being Fangli.
“Fine,” he says.
“Fine, what?”
“You’re right. I will treat you with…” He struggles for a word.
“Respect?”
He looks up at the ceiling.
“Warmth? Affability? Gregariousness?”
His gaze comes back down to my face. “Sociability.”
What does that mean? I suppose anything is better than active disdain. My heart rate slows now that the confrontation is over and I have at least a partial victory, but my brain gerbils rouse themselves to start doing their laps on the wheel around my head. Why couldn’t I have said the same to Todd? Told him to treat me with respect? Stood up for myself?
I look at Sam, who’s checking his phone as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Is it because Sam, acting or not, prickly or not, seems like a fundamentally good human being who, although misguidedly, is behaving in what he thinks is the best interest of a friend or possibly girlfriend? That Todd defeated me because I knew he was at his core a deeply terrible person?
Thank God the food comes quickly because Sam’s newly professed sociability does not extend to cheerful conversation. Wo zai chi fan (I am eating; finally I have a phrase that matches what I’m doing) but the food’s so good I slow down to savor it. I was initially worried that it would be one of those platter-sized dishes with a thimbleful of food and a drizzle of some pomegranate–pine needle reduction, but I was wrong. The poached fish with ginger reminds me of my childhood.
“What do you think?” Sam looks up from what looks like a steak but it’s almost round like a baseball.
“Incredible.” I take another bite. “My mom used to make something like this but with way more garlic.”
“Lucky. I don’t think either of my parents have even made their own tea for the last forty years.”
“Did you eat out a lot?”
“Sometimes. Usually the amahs would cook for me but we had a chef for my parents.”
As if regretting sharing this information, Sam turns back to his food and we don’t speak for the rest of the meal. After the plates are cleared and we’re waiting for tea, I decide I enjoy the silence. I’ve been on enough dates to know I no longer have the desire to pretend a man is interesting, and with Sam I’m free of the need to bother. He’s not making an effort either, which gives me time to think about how much I’ve already adapted to people watching me, especially now that Margaret Atwood has left and there’s no one else to stare at.
None of them are obvious about it, but the occasional glances are like the flutter of butterfly wings on my skin. Individually it’s nothing, but collectively, it turns heavy. Sam picks up his tea when it arrives.
“We should talk so it doesn’t look like we’re fighting.” He delivers this in a dismal tone, like he’s going in for a disagreeable but necessary dental procedure.
I give him a go-right-ahead gesture and he stares at me, at a loss for words.
I rock the cup in the saucer. “Do you hire people to talk for you the same way you hire them to make your dinner reservations?”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to someone outside of work,” he says.
If that’s true, it’s sad. Not enough to make me reassess his attitude but enough to make me continue the conversation. “What about your friends?”
“They’re all in the industry.”
Definitely sad. Too insular. I’m curious about this life they live. “Your Wikipedia page says you started as a stage actor.”
“We both did, Fangli and I, for a few years after drama school. Our teachers recommended it and they were right.”
“Why?”
He leans forward. “There’s an energy you get from a live audience that hones your craft. Their reactions can change the entire meaning of a performance and you need to adapt.”
I nod. “I remember once in university I said a line that was meant to be poignant. It worked in rehearsals but then the audience laughed. They thought it was funny.”
Sam taps the table. “Exactly. You need to react in the moment. There’s no scene to cut and try again. You have one shot with that audience and then it’s over. You can’t redo it.”
“Do you ever have regrets about a way you played a role on the stage?”
“Many. All the time.” He pushes his cup to the side. “My first roles were overacted and my gestures stiff.”
“Inexperience?”
He looks at me. “In part. It’s easier to act a part than to feel it. It was a battle to open up onstage.”
A flash comes from over my shoulder, and when Sam’s face smooths out from his previous animation, I realize that he’s been speaking to me not as Public Sam but as himself. “Someone took a photo,” he murmurs.
I had forgotten that I was there to play a role. I fold up my napkin with what I hope is elegance. “What do I do?”
“Keep talking. Fangli wouldn’t notice a single photo. It’s expected.”
“Why did you get into movies if you like the stage so much?”
He gives me a big smile. “You’ll like this answer: money.” He changes the topic. “You’ll be with Mei tomorrow,” he says. “Final prep.”
“For what?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Your new life as Fangli, of course.”