Eight
There are days when everything comes together as though part of a well-practiced symphony. Hair wisps stay down. Socks stay up instead of bunching in the toes of shoes. The keys are where you left them, the phone fully charged, and the pantry well stocked with coffee or, at the very least, instant packs.
Today is not that day.
I practice the deep breathing my favorite lifestyle blog insists will change my life—not that I need any help in that department, thanks kindly, I’ve managed to pull that off in spades this week—and stare at my phone, which I forgot to charge. I will it to reach the magical fifty percent charge point that’s the lowest I’m comfortable with leaving the house. Forty percent. Forty-one.
I pick up the book I’m reading and hesitate. I’ve never not finished a book, and although this one is trying my patience, I’m almost done. I should see it through. It might get better. I toss it in my bag. Then I take it out. New Gracie isn’t going to waste her time on a book she doesn’t like. I don’t owe the book anything.
I put it back in.
Forty-four percent.
I weigh the consequences of an undercharged phone against being late for my meeting with Fangli. Suddenly angry, I grab the phone. Today things are going to change. I’m not going to be limited by a list or a percentage on a phone screen. It’s a matter of having a growth mindset, and frankly, I should be embarrassed about a phone keeping me from my destiny.
I take the damn book out again and thump it down on my night table.
Fighting a slight twinge of anxiety, I decide to buy a portable charger and pocket the phone, grab my bag, and run out the door. My neighborhood is the residential equivalent of the golden mean, gentrified enough that I can choose between two hipster coffee shops filled with people tapping seriously on decal-covered laptops but not so slick that the rent is unaffordable for people with small kids or precarious jobs.
Today I don’t stop for coffee. Today I go to live a life of exquisite luxury and deceit.
This time, I walk into the Xanadu like I belong. That’s right, man wearing an excellent suit and so much plastic surgery your cheekbones puff into your eyes. This is my world now. Out of my way, little woman with head-to-toe Gucci. (I know it is, because every garment is labeled.) Take a hike, incredible-looking man at the elevator staring at me.
Oh, that’s Sam. I debate pretending I don’t see him because it might be less awkward than making conversation, but he waves me over with an almost imperceptible gesture. With the new Fangli-esque gait I practiced in front of the mirror, I stride over, dragging my suitcase behind me, and try not to let him notice my shaking knees.
“Did you hurt your leg?” he asks as he stabs at the number panel.
“I am walking like a movie star.”
“You’re walking like your shoes are too loose and you’re trying to shuffle them on your feet as you move.”
“Oh.” This is too precise a critique to be taken as an insult so I decide to file it under Potentially Useful and think about it later.
“You’re going through with this?” His beautifully accented voice is low. According to his Wikipedia page, he had a British tutor growing up.
“Obviously.” I own my decision the same way Anjali or Fangli would.
He blows out his breath. “I’m doing this for Fangli and I want to be honest with you. I don’t think you have what it takes. You couldn’t manage a single photographer, let alone fifty.”
True but no need to point it out. “I was surprised.”
“When you screw this up, you can cause more damage than you know. Why are you doing this? Do you want to be famous that bad?” Even though his tone is earnest, the words are rude and that’s what I react to.
“She. Asked. Me. I didn’t go hunting her down and begging to be her second. You were there.” I don’t want to be famous, which is such a boring and jejune goal for a self-actualized human being that I would be ashamed to admit it. I need the money for my mother—that’s why I’m here. Not the applause. Not being seen. Money for Mom’s room.
“You should have said no.”
“You should have stopped her if it means so much to you.”
He grimaces. “You don’t know Fangli.”
You don’t know me either. I ignore him until the elevator doors open, then stalk out. My suitcase turns on its side and I struggle to get it back upright as Sam stands, arms crossed, and watches. His thoughts might as well be on a huge bubble over his head.
She can’t handle it.
Sam Yao can get under my skin without even trying, effortlessly pulling out every insecurity by simply being himself—confident, polished. Rich. Feted. All the things I’m not nor will ever be. Well, fuck him. Maybe I am a loser, but at least I’d help someone with their suitcase. I decide right then to exclude Sam from my usual policy of being nice. After I beat the bag into submission and tussle it down to 1573, Mei opens the door and watches as Sam follows me in.
“Ms. Wei will be back soon,” she says, keeping her gaze on Sam. “She had a meeting after your early show finished.”
“I’ll stay.” He goes to the window, which lights up his features like a goddamn sculpture, making me angrier, and pulls out his phone.
Mei stares after him, her eyes shining. Then, with a sigh, she turns to much more boring me.
“Your suite is ready.”
As promised, it’s right next door to Fangli’s. Again I try to be cool and again I fail when I rush into the space like I’ve been living in a camping tent and washing in a ditch for the last year. Living room! King-size bed! Big table and windows looking over the lake and huge mirrors on the closets. My own set of candles. I check the scent; it’s called Woods and I decide it’s the only smell I want in my nose for the rest of my life. I release my suitcase, which promptly topples over. Mei prods it with her toe. “Your things?”
“Yes.”
“They aren’t Ms. Wei’s style.” Interesting, since she hasn’t seen anything in the suitcase. She walks over and pulls open the (walk-in!) closet. “You need to wear these. I’ll leave you to get settled.”
The second she leaves, I step into the closet, suitcase dragging behind me. The walk-in is big enough to comfortably hold a chandelier of interconnected glass tubes, a chaise longue, and a cabinet in the middle. I walk around the chaise and wonder who they expect to lounge around in a closet.
When I turn to the clothes hanging in neat tiers along the walls, I realize that person could be me because I could spend all day here. I tuck my hands in my pockets as I survey my new and very lavish domain. Dresses—color-coded and arranged by length—are on the left beside a row of jackets. To the right are shirts, black shading through to white, and below that pants and skirts. I jiggle the drawers of the cabinet in the middle of the space and realize that must be where the jewelry is and that I’m not to be trusted with it. That’s fair. I don’t trust me with jewelry either. My last pair of earrings—silver threader chains—fell out of my ears and down a grate before I’d had them on for an hour.
The entire back wall is shoes and bags.
Is that…? I edge closer. It is. It’s a Birkin. In fact, there are three Birkins lined in a neat row below what looks like the quilted leather of several Chanel clutches. I don’t even recognize the other brands but I assume they are expensive.
I take a photo and send to Anjali.
Show me the rest of that closet, she texts. Then take the Birkins and run.
I give in and start touching, letting my fingers run over the rich fabrics and luxurious leathers. I send the occasional photo to Anjali, who only replies with names and numbers.
Balenciaga. $4k
Chanel. $2k
Givenchy. $8k
When I’m done, I stand back. All of the clothes look my size, and in that entire closet there’s not one item I would have chosen for myself. No jeans. No flat shoes. Not a single pair of sweatpants. Am I expected to loaf around in clothes with non-stretchy waistbands like some sort of animal?
These are clothes you wear to be seen. I pull out a dress so elegantly cut it looks like art and turn to the three-way mirror while holding it against my body. This is not a dress you wear when binge-watching TV and eating pizza. I don’t even think it permits sitting positions. It gives me another peek into Fangli’s life and a premonition of what I can expect from the next two months.
Sam appears in the doorway of the closet. “Not wasting any time, I see.”
“Yes. I uprooted my life for a designer dress. Why are you here?”
Sam speaks to my reflection in the mirror. “I want to appeal to your better nature. You can see Fangli is desperate. Is that what you want, fame without putting in the work? To prey on someone like her?”
“It’s hardly fame when people think I’m another woman.” There’s a quaver in my voice as that little maggot that wanted to seek out the photographers squirms. Sam hears it and steps closer.
“You got fired.” His voice is low. “Why?”
“None of your business.” He’s the last person I would tell about Todd.
“Did you think this was a shortcut? That a woman as pretty as you could reach higher than working at an investment company? You saw a way to get your foot in the door and took it?”
I keep my eyes on him in the mirror. My shame at him reading me so well has turned to anger, and I pull it over me like chain mail. “You want me to leave?”
He hesitates. “Fangli wants you to stay.”
“Then knock it off,” I say to his reflection. “Otherwise I go out that door and she’s left on her own.”
His perfect lips thin but we hear Fangli greeting Mei in the other room.
“Your choice, movie star,” I say, channeling the new Gracie. “Also, you’re a dick for thinking that working at a regular job is reaching lower than being an actor.”
The tension between us rises, and I think he’s going to call my bluff. I drop the dress and reach out for the handle of my suitcase as Fangli comes in. “You came,” she says with relief.
That tone of utter exhausted gratitude must be what changes Sam’s opinion because he leans in to me. “We’re getting to know each other.”
Fangli looks from his warm face to my confused one. Because I’m not an actor, I haven’t been able to adjust to the new Sam in seconds.
“Let me change and we’ll talk,” she says.
When she leaves the room, Sam moves away and we face off again. “Be civil,” I say. It’s hard to not try to keep the peace, even after a fight. “We need to work together.”
There’s another long silence and then Sam simply turns and leaves. I watch him go, wondering if I’ve won this round. I think I did and I get back a tiny bit of the pride Todd whittled away.
I go back to the closet before a thought stops me dead.
Did Sam Yao, the Sam Yao, call me pretty?
* * *
True to her promise, Fangli is soon back in my room. Her face is scrubbed clean and she wears a huge bathrobe that drags behind her like the train on a gown. She could attend the Met Gala as is. I’ve sorted through the clothes again and noticed they come in several categories: Major Event, Very Fancy, and Regular Fancy.
“Do you like them?” She points at the wardrobe.
“You must like shopping. Is that one of the things I’ll need to do?”
She looks honestly shocked. “I don’t go to stores. They send people to me.”
We stare at each other. “How do they know what you want?” I ask.
Fangli shrugs. “They bring the collection. I like to pick my own garments. Otherwise a stylist would create my looks.”
“Right.”
She comes over and picks up the same dress I’d been holding when Sam came in. “This is my favorite.”
“Me, too.” We smile at each other.
“Claudie at Chanel designed it for me after I signed on as their brand ambassador. It’s one of a kind.” She sounds utterly guileless, and despite myself, I burst out laughing. I think I like Fangli.
She sits down on a chair and crosses her legs in a manner I know I’m going to have to replicate and will find difficult. “I thought we’d chat tonight, get to know each other. I ordered dinner.”
“Thanks. Umm, how was your day?” I pause. “I don’t know much about what you’re doing in Toronto besides acting in a play.”
“All things you should know.” She settles into the chair and I groan inwardly. She’s so fucking graceful, goddammit.
Fangli talks for about an hour as I make notes and nibble on the smoked salmon salad that arrives. It has distractingly good deep-fried capers. She’s here in a play that’s showing on King Street. Operation Oblivion is a World War Two historical drama, and as she talks, I can’t believe I’ve never heard this story before. Apparently there was a group of Chinese-Canadian volunteers called Force 136 recruited for dangerous special missions in Asia.
“This was not covered in my history class,” I say. I think through the dates. “Chinese weren’t even allowed to vote in Canada then.”
“As part of their training, they had to swim with fifty-pound packs,” says Fangli. “Very few of them knew how to swim because they were banned from most Canadian pools.”
Although Force 136’s recruitment happened on the other side of the country, the story follows Sam’s character as he finds one of the first recruits, who is dying in Toronto, and falls in love with Fangli, who works in a Chinatown restaurant.
“Don’t you usually do movies?” I ask. “And shouldn’t those roles go to Canadian actors?”
“Yes, they should and we’re only here for part of the run because Sam is friends with the director and he thought it would be good publicity. We both started in theater back in China.” She recrosses her legs. “I love being on the stage, so it was a nice break. Being in front of an audience is a different experience.”
“I can see that.”
“Do you act?”
“I did in school.” I shrug. “It was only for fun.”
“You enjoyed it?”
“Loved it.”
Her smile lights up her face. “Then you understand why I’m here. How is your practice coming along?”
I take a deep breath. “Take a look.”
Grabbing a pair of heels out of the closet, I pop them on and take a few steps before I stop, smile, and wave. Fangli’s eyes open wide.
“Do it again.” It’s Sam, from the door. I do it again, a little more self-conscious now that he’s here. A lot more.
“It looks strange.” He frowns. “Not like it needs practice but wrong.”
“I practiced in front of the mirror.”
His eyes narrow. “Practiced how, exactly?”
This is embarrassing. “Ah. You know. Like practice.”
He folds his arms and waits for me to answer.
I try to wait him out and fail. He can stand like that for hours, I bet, stubbornly refusing to give in. Fangli watches with those leaf-like eyebrows delicately raised.
I admit defeat. “I propped the tablet near the mirror and copied what I saw.”
“You’re a human uncanny valley.” He and Fangli share a look. “Unbelievable.”
Uncanny valley? “What? I’m not an android.”
He sighs, grabs the tablet, and leads me to the mirror. “Watch.” He taps for a second, finds a video of Fangli smiling and waving, and then plays it.
“I’ve seen this.” I’m insulted. I did my homework.
“You’re not watching.” His voice is the perfect degree of smoky deep. Sam looks in the mirror and our eyes meet in the glass. Then I shift my gaze to his right hand, which waves the same as Fangli does in the video.
“Very elegant,” I say, trying to regain myself.
“Like the Queen,” Fangli interjects. She does the wave in person.
“Except totally wrong.” He turns. “Fangli’s right-handed and that’s how she waves. You’re looking in the mirror and copying it, but that means you’ve been waving your left hand. Everything is backward because her wave was filmed.”
I stare at my hand, astounded. “Are you putting me on? That’s why it felt so weird?”
“Yes.” He gives Fangli an eloquent look that I read as saying what an idiot I am.
“Shit.” I deflate. All that work and I did it backward. I bury my head in my hands.
“A fixable problem,” declares Fangli. “You and Mei can work on it in the morning.”
She leaves and Sam hesitates. Then he shakes his head. “Right-handed,” he says.
He calls out after Fangli and I wish I knew what they were saying.
Wow, if there was only some way to learn Mandarin, maybe with a handheld device that’s conveniently attached to my hand for about eighteen hours a day and can provide access to a thing like language lessons given at my own speed for $2.99 or less.
I whip out my phone.
In six minutes, a Scottish gent and a lady from Beijing cheerily work me through how to say where I’m from in perfect Mandarin. I freeze as they shift into telling me how to ask where others are from and pause the app. I could have done this years ago when Mom started getting bad. I could have been speaking to her all this time. I put that thought aside. I did the best I could.
Then I’m alone in my luxury room waving in the mirror at myself and practicing my new language skills by telling my reflection I’m a Canadian in poorly accented Mandarin.
Good times.