The stand in, p.12
The Stand-In, page 12
“No,” he says with surprise. “That won’t last.” He looks at his very pretty watch. “Almost time.”
Dread builds. Dinner the other night was fine since all I had to do was eat. This is going to be me on display, with people who are comfortable approaching me and expecting articulate conversation.
This is why I’m getting the semi-big bucks. Fangli is confident I can do it, and despite his multitude of personality flaws, Sam will have my back if it will help Fangli.
He’s getting into quiz mode. “What’s your latest art purchase?” he asks.
“A Murat Tekin painting,” I say. Triumphant, I scramble through my notes. “Damn. That’s the last I sold. Look at that price tag. Is this what art people talk about?”
“Depends on the crowd.” He sighs. “Why she can’t be interested in more traditional art, I don’t know.”
“What do you collect?” I ask. “Ming porcelains?”
“Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty.” He glances at me out of the corner of those dark eyes. “My collection is currently touring. It’s in Berlin right now.”
“Oh.” I keep forgetting he comes from money as well as being famous. “That’s neat.”
He doesn’t grace this with a response, and I page through more screaming faces and outstretched hands as my anxiety ratchets up. At least I look right for the occasion and Sam’s single nod was a definite step up from his previous expressions when he saw me. The jumpsuit flows around my hips like water. It’s simple and perfect and the wig, with its heavy weight of hair, feels natural for the first time. I’ve even toned down my concerns about losing Fangli’s jewelry by about seventy percent.
The car takes us to the west end of town and turns down a residential street that transforms into an industrial zone. I peer out the window. “I know where we are.”
“You should. Don’t you live nearby?”
“I don’t go to a lot of modern art museums.”
“It’s contemporary art,” he corrects me.
I look at the dossier. “Aren’t they the same?”
Sam sighs. “Contemporary art is evolving and started around sixty years ago. It’s differentiated from modern art in that it’s more conceptually rather than aesthetically based.”
“Oh. Thus the screaming faces?”
“Thus the screaming faces.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“I can do it.” I’m confident now in the face of his doubt.
We turn a corner near a warehouse and then another before the car pulls up in front of a multistory building in the middle of what looks like an abandoned field. With a shock, I realize where I am. It’s right by the path where I go running. I must have passed this place a dozen times and only ever noticed the microbrewery next to it. This lack of awareness of my own surroundings saps my confidence and I grab Sam’s arm.
“You’re right. Let’s leave.”
He puts his hand on mine, I think to comfort me, but instead he shakes me off. “Too late.”
The door opens and we’re confronted by two strangers. Mei prepped me so I know they aren’t Fangli’s acquaintances, and I also know at this moment there is no way on earth I’m going to survive tonight.
“Showtime,” Sam says over his shoulder and gets out of the car.
I need out of here, now.
Fifteen
The two people from the art gallery introduce themselves, and I don’t even catch the names because I’m focused on my new plan. I stroke my throat as I mouth “laryngitis.” Sam turns wide eyes on me and I give him my softest and most beseeching Fangli smile, the one she uses when she’s apologizing. His return—and much more aggressive—smile says he’ll cover for me but we’re going to have one hell of a talk in private.
Sam has a gruesomely expressive face.
Our greeters burst out in polite worry, and Sam steps manfully into the breach. “Fangli refused to stay away,” he says. “She’s thrilled to see the exhibit, but of course you’ll have to forgive her for not speaking. She needs to recover her voice for the show tomorrow.”
The man darts away and I wonder if he’s off to spread the word. There’s a photographer on hand and Sam and I pose for some shots before going inside. Mei had given me instructions on Fangli’s favored pose, and I point my chin down and to the side with a slight tilt to my lips. The shutter clicks rapid-fire beside us, but unlike the scene with Mikey at the coffee shop, I don’t feel under attack. I might not be in control of the situation or have much of a clue what’s going on, but being dressed for the part and with someone who knows what he’s doing gives me a thin feeling of power.
Sam touches my bare arm to tell me we can stop and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Not bad.”
“High praise.” Even whispered, nerves give me a snippy tone that he ignores. The photographer was only one of tonight’s hurdles.
That familiar hush-and-buzz comes over the room when we enter, and I give my superstar Fangli smile as people come up. The first few minutes pass by in a blur as I refuse a glass of wine with great regret and nod my way through many introductions while immediately forgetting names and faces. I’m almost blinded by the beading on dresses, or more accurately gowns. These people are dressed fancier on a Tuesday night than I’ve seen at weddings, and one woman is channeling the excesses of the 1980s with sequined shoulder pads big enough for a linebacker and a suffocating dose of Dior’s Poison. I can’t tell if it’s her usual style or an artistic statement.
My jumpsuit seems almost too sedate. Then I see a woman cast a covetous glance at my earrings and feel better. Fangli thought I looked good and Sam considers me acceptable, which means I’m batting a thousand.
Sam hovers beside me to handle conversations, which at first are softballs about how we like the city and the unseasonable chill of the summer night. It’s nice to know that even with a well-heeled art crowd, the weather remains a go-to Canadian conversation starter.
As we work through the throng, I notice the many shiny jewels decorating ears, fingers, and throats. With a start, I remember that Fangli once paid a half-million dollars for a canvas of hands in various poses. I am in a room of people who consider it reasonable to buy a photograph that costs the same as a house.
They’re only people, I try to remind myself as I’m introduced to a woman with puffy lips and tight skin. She wears only a single jewel, a large pendant that I’m a thousand percent sure is not cubic zirconia. It’s only money. Money doesn’t make you better or more worthy of respect.
But the attitude is different in the room. Since my convenient laryngitis means I can’t talk, I listen in on the conversations. Every single person there has an expectation that they’ll be heard. They all take up space. I watch a man adjust his lapels before he moves across the room and how the servers melt out of his way without a word.
This is why Sam’s not sure about me. I look like Fangli but I haven’t learned how to command a room like she does. Because of her fame, Fangli—even without the diamonds—is the cynosure of most occasions. Mom told me being the center of attention was to be avoided. Now it’s my job to make attention my bitch.
Mei didn’t address that in particular, but Sam the Master is here to learn from.
Keeping my face friendly but aloof, I watch him and have a tiny epiphany. It’s not what he or the rest of the crowd are saying. It’s how they act. I’m at the zoo watching the animals jostle for dominance and Sam is at the apex. He decides who to speak to. He never approaches; they come to him.
But they look at me as if waiting for me to move first. When we do get closer, they get a little too in my space. Is it because they sense a lack of strength in me? Would they do the same to the real Fangli?
I can’t afford self-doubt right now. Luckily, escape comes in the form of the gentle nudge from Sam that I know is my cue to start actively appreciating art. To my pleasure, what I see is far more accessible than Fangli’s collection, and I move to a mannequin surrounded by barbed wire decorated with twinkling shards of mirror. The artist has written “mine” in tiny letters on every centimeter of the mannequin’s skin in a hundred different languages. A bloodred poppy rises from her head. I know this isn’t Fangli’s style—she doesn’t do installations—but I walk around so I can see it at all angles and read the statement.
Around me, the collectors are making utterly impenetrable comments. It’s like listening to a code designed to weed out the culturally ignorant. Which is me, but only Sam and I know that.
As I lean in to see better, a man across the room squints at me. I do my best to control my breathing but Sam turns swiftly. “What?” he murmurs, eyes trained on my face.
“Nothing.” I channel a sloth, moving unhurriedly to avoid the attention of the potential predator. It’s hard because almost the entire room has one eye on us as if monitoring our location at all times. The stress of trying to emulate Fangli’s poise is in part drowned by a more acute worry: Ex-manager Todd is in the room across from me.
I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve heard him brag about his father’s art collection. He’s with a blond woman who wears a smile that never wavers and I wonder if she knows, or cares, what kind of a man he is. I bend in to Sam and he curves down over me like a hero from his period dramas. “How long do we need to stay?” I whisper.
“At least another hour.”
“Can we go to a new room? Is this the only one?”
In response, he puts his hand on the bare skin of my back and guides me through a door I hadn’t noticed into another exhibit. I’m so disturbed I barely even clock the warm comfort his touch gives me. We might not be friends, but in this moment, he’s the one in my corner. To my relief, the new room is a video installation with the light dimmed until it’s almost difficult to see. The cave-like ambiance deepens when I stand next to the wall and Sam comes close as if guarding me.
“Gracie,” he murmurs. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He used my name, my real name. When I don’t answer, he draws me in and tilts my chin up to analyze my face. “Do you need to leave? We can.”
I shake my head and he frowns. “You’re sure?”
Simply knowing he’s there is enough to calm me since I don’t think Todd will try to approach me with another man there.
The truth comes crashing down on me. I’m not Gracie. I’m Wei Fangli right now and Todd has no power over me. He can’t touch me. He can’t fire me and he can’t intimidate me without having Sam or the organizers taking action. I’m protected because I’m now a famous person of value. I’m seen here.
I toss my head and Sam shifts away as if giving me space. “I’m good,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “I trust you to tell me if you need out.”
Sam follows as I examine the videos, all featuring Anpanman, the Japanese superhero. The artist has put the character, who has a pastry for a head, in food-based situations such as cooking shows and grocery stores. His usually cheerful face looks by turns worried and menacing.
Fascinated, I thumb the controller to bring up the next video.
“You like these?” Sam asks.
I keep facing the screen so no one can see me speaking, thus negating my laryngitis story. “My dad went on a work trip to Japan once and brought me an Anpanman figure that I loved. I never saw the show. I guess they’re not like this?” The video we’re watching shows Anpanman tearing off part of his head to give to a hungry cat before being viciously attacked by a flock of seagulls at an outdoor food court.
Sam leans in beside me to watch the video. “Much less violent but Anpanman does give parts of his head away to people in need. Then Uncle Jam bakes him a new one.”
“Is it selfless if you can get a new head when you need one?”
Sam shrugs, his arm brushing against mine. “I know people who could have ten heads right beside them ready to go and not give a crumb.”
So do I, at that. The video ends and we both turn at the same time. His face is so close to mine that if I moved half a step… His eyes dip from my eyes to my lips and a shivery wave rolls through me.
I could move that step. Prickles run down the backs of my thighs from the tension. Sam might move. Might he? Does he come a bit closer? My feet are nailed to the ground but inside I’m whirling like a tornado.
“Mr. Yao?”
Sam stands abruptly when he hears his name and I blink, hard, and turn back to Anpanman with unseeing eyes. This night is giving me the mental equivalent of whiplash as it yanks me between emotional extremes. Impersonating Fangli. Todd. Sam, so close to me.
After Sam’s conversation finishes, we leave the room by mutual silent agreement, weaving in and out of the crowd and only pausing for Sam to engage with people every few feet. News of my voicelessness must have spread because I’m spared any chatting besides hopes that I get better soon.
Despite my newfound confidence, I don’t want to meet with Todd, so I do my best to steer Sam away. It’s nerve-racking to know he’s there, and my core tightens so hard I shake. Sam’s hand returns to my waist, fortifying me, and the muscles relax enough to let me stop clenching my teeth.
Exactly an hour later, Sam tells the organizer goodbye and we pose for a few more photos which I think I handle like a pro. We’re almost out the door when a call comes from a small group near the tiny gift store. It takes me a moment to react since I forgot Wei Fangli is my name tonight.
I turn with my most effervescent smile. They push forward a young woman with long black hair tied in a neat, high ponytail as their spokesperson, and suddenly I know I’m not at all ready for the fresh hell that’s about to open below me.
Dear God, she talks to me in Mandarin. The dark pit to the underworld expands exponentially and flames lick the edges.
“An autograph?” Sam jumps in with English.
The flames burst over the edge. Double dear God. I have no idea what Fangli’s writing looks like and there is zero, and I mean zero, chance I’ll be able to manage faking the Chinese characters. Time stops as the young woman holds out a notepad with hopeful eyes.
I automatically take it and then look around for a place to put it down and forge Fangli’s signature. Why didn’t I fake a broken wrist? Sprained finger? Sam talks to me in Chinese, which, since it is not about being hungry or how to get to the store, I’m at a loss to interpret. My bright smile hurts my cheeks as I trail Sam to a high cocktail table.
He puts the notepad down and then steps behind me, hiding me from view. “Pretend you’re writing,” he murmurs.
My hand trembles as I do as he says, but now it’s not because I’m about to get my cover blown but because he’s pressing against me, his hard body against mine. I know it’s to hide us from the girls watching but my knees are weak. I curse and hope he doesn’t notice because I’ll never live it down.
He pretends to hand me the pen but, at the last minute, dips his hand down to quickly scrawl what I assume is Fangli’s name. Then he gives me the pen. It takes him milliseconds.
I pick up both and return them to the swooning fan. She bows to me and I automatically bow back before giving the wave—with the right hand because I practiced that—and leave.
Then, once we’re in the car, to my shame, I burst into tears.
With an excess of empathy I didn’t expect, Sam hands me a tissue and waits until the sobs subside. “You did well,” he says.
“Sorry.” I snuffle into the tissues and more appear when I reach out my hand. I bury my face.
“Was it that man?”
My head shoots up. “What?”
Sam glances out the window as the shifting streetlights take turns hiding and highlighting his face. “A man with a blue suit escorting a blond woman. He was watching you and you were concentrating on trying to avoid him instead.”
“Do you think he noticed?” I’m a bit nonplussed that he read the situation so well.
“No, you were unexpectedly subtle.”
Good, because that would be bad. I fight back another wave of sickness. Todd fired me because of the misidentified photo of Fangli. He knows we look alike. What if he says something?
He’s got power over me again. I debate telling Sam but decide against it. I’ll wait and see.
He twists in the seat and gives me a straight look. “Who is he?”
“My old manager.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Would you like the person who fired you?”
“It’s more than that. I could tell.” He raises his eyebrows. “I can read you.”
This is too true to debate. “He’s a jerk and I don’t like him.”
“Ah.” Sam regards me. “Did he recognize you?”
“No. I didn’t want to give him the chance to see me up close or speak to me, though.”
“Wise.”
I dab at my eyes with the tissue. “The art was nice.”
Sam exhales. “I think you might be the only person to describe contemporary art as nice.”
“Thought-provoking? Evocative? Bleeding-edge?”
“Is that better than cutting-edge?”
“One step beyond.” I hum a line from the Madness song and his lips twitch again. That’s a definite victory. “Do you ever get used to it?” The pillowy darkness of the car’s interior makes it easier to ask. “That attention?”
“I’ve never not known it.” Sam’s voice wraps around me. “You know who my parents are.”
Sam’s august parentage, a movie-star mother and director father, is mentioned in almost every profile. He takes my silence as a yes and continues. “My parents are many wonderful things but they both also crave attention. I’ve had cameras around my whole life.”
I try to imagine that. All the missteps I took documented and commented on, all the terrible hair days and disastrous fashion choices logged for posterity and resurfaced on listicles every few years. “I don’t know how you cope.”
Dread builds. Dinner the other night was fine since all I had to do was eat. This is going to be me on display, with people who are comfortable approaching me and expecting articulate conversation.
This is why I’m getting the semi-big bucks. Fangli is confident I can do it, and despite his multitude of personality flaws, Sam will have my back if it will help Fangli.
He’s getting into quiz mode. “What’s your latest art purchase?” he asks.
“A Murat Tekin painting,” I say. Triumphant, I scramble through my notes. “Damn. That’s the last I sold. Look at that price tag. Is this what art people talk about?”
“Depends on the crowd.” He sighs. “Why she can’t be interested in more traditional art, I don’t know.”
“What do you collect?” I ask. “Ming porcelains?”
“Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty.” He glances at me out of the corner of those dark eyes. “My collection is currently touring. It’s in Berlin right now.”
“Oh.” I keep forgetting he comes from money as well as being famous. “That’s neat.”
He doesn’t grace this with a response, and I page through more screaming faces and outstretched hands as my anxiety ratchets up. At least I look right for the occasion and Sam’s single nod was a definite step up from his previous expressions when he saw me. The jumpsuit flows around my hips like water. It’s simple and perfect and the wig, with its heavy weight of hair, feels natural for the first time. I’ve even toned down my concerns about losing Fangli’s jewelry by about seventy percent.
The car takes us to the west end of town and turns down a residential street that transforms into an industrial zone. I peer out the window. “I know where we are.”
“You should. Don’t you live nearby?”
“I don’t go to a lot of modern art museums.”
“It’s contemporary art,” he corrects me.
I look at the dossier. “Aren’t they the same?”
Sam sighs. “Contemporary art is evolving and started around sixty years ago. It’s differentiated from modern art in that it’s more conceptually rather than aesthetically based.”
“Oh. Thus the screaming faces?”
“Thus the screaming faces.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“I can do it.” I’m confident now in the face of his doubt.
We turn a corner near a warehouse and then another before the car pulls up in front of a multistory building in the middle of what looks like an abandoned field. With a shock, I realize where I am. It’s right by the path where I go running. I must have passed this place a dozen times and only ever noticed the microbrewery next to it. This lack of awareness of my own surroundings saps my confidence and I grab Sam’s arm.
“You’re right. Let’s leave.”
He puts his hand on mine, I think to comfort me, but instead he shakes me off. “Too late.”
The door opens and we’re confronted by two strangers. Mei prepped me so I know they aren’t Fangli’s acquaintances, and I also know at this moment there is no way on earth I’m going to survive tonight.
“Showtime,” Sam says over his shoulder and gets out of the car.
I need out of here, now.
Fifteen
The two people from the art gallery introduce themselves, and I don’t even catch the names because I’m focused on my new plan. I stroke my throat as I mouth “laryngitis.” Sam turns wide eyes on me and I give him my softest and most beseeching Fangli smile, the one she uses when she’s apologizing. His return—and much more aggressive—smile says he’ll cover for me but we’re going to have one hell of a talk in private.
Sam has a gruesomely expressive face.
Our greeters burst out in polite worry, and Sam steps manfully into the breach. “Fangli refused to stay away,” he says. “She’s thrilled to see the exhibit, but of course you’ll have to forgive her for not speaking. She needs to recover her voice for the show tomorrow.”
The man darts away and I wonder if he’s off to spread the word. There’s a photographer on hand and Sam and I pose for some shots before going inside. Mei had given me instructions on Fangli’s favored pose, and I point my chin down and to the side with a slight tilt to my lips. The shutter clicks rapid-fire beside us, but unlike the scene with Mikey at the coffee shop, I don’t feel under attack. I might not be in control of the situation or have much of a clue what’s going on, but being dressed for the part and with someone who knows what he’s doing gives me a thin feeling of power.
Sam touches my bare arm to tell me we can stop and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Not bad.”
“High praise.” Even whispered, nerves give me a snippy tone that he ignores. The photographer was only one of tonight’s hurdles.
That familiar hush-and-buzz comes over the room when we enter, and I give my superstar Fangli smile as people come up. The first few minutes pass by in a blur as I refuse a glass of wine with great regret and nod my way through many introductions while immediately forgetting names and faces. I’m almost blinded by the beading on dresses, or more accurately gowns. These people are dressed fancier on a Tuesday night than I’ve seen at weddings, and one woman is channeling the excesses of the 1980s with sequined shoulder pads big enough for a linebacker and a suffocating dose of Dior’s Poison. I can’t tell if it’s her usual style or an artistic statement.
My jumpsuit seems almost too sedate. Then I see a woman cast a covetous glance at my earrings and feel better. Fangli thought I looked good and Sam considers me acceptable, which means I’m batting a thousand.
Sam hovers beside me to handle conversations, which at first are softballs about how we like the city and the unseasonable chill of the summer night. It’s nice to know that even with a well-heeled art crowd, the weather remains a go-to Canadian conversation starter.
As we work through the throng, I notice the many shiny jewels decorating ears, fingers, and throats. With a start, I remember that Fangli once paid a half-million dollars for a canvas of hands in various poses. I am in a room of people who consider it reasonable to buy a photograph that costs the same as a house.
They’re only people, I try to remind myself as I’m introduced to a woman with puffy lips and tight skin. She wears only a single jewel, a large pendant that I’m a thousand percent sure is not cubic zirconia. It’s only money. Money doesn’t make you better or more worthy of respect.
But the attitude is different in the room. Since my convenient laryngitis means I can’t talk, I listen in on the conversations. Every single person there has an expectation that they’ll be heard. They all take up space. I watch a man adjust his lapels before he moves across the room and how the servers melt out of his way without a word.
This is why Sam’s not sure about me. I look like Fangli but I haven’t learned how to command a room like she does. Because of her fame, Fangli—even without the diamonds—is the cynosure of most occasions. Mom told me being the center of attention was to be avoided. Now it’s my job to make attention my bitch.
Mei didn’t address that in particular, but Sam the Master is here to learn from.
Keeping my face friendly but aloof, I watch him and have a tiny epiphany. It’s not what he or the rest of the crowd are saying. It’s how they act. I’m at the zoo watching the animals jostle for dominance and Sam is at the apex. He decides who to speak to. He never approaches; they come to him.
But they look at me as if waiting for me to move first. When we do get closer, they get a little too in my space. Is it because they sense a lack of strength in me? Would they do the same to the real Fangli?
I can’t afford self-doubt right now. Luckily, escape comes in the form of the gentle nudge from Sam that I know is my cue to start actively appreciating art. To my pleasure, what I see is far more accessible than Fangli’s collection, and I move to a mannequin surrounded by barbed wire decorated with twinkling shards of mirror. The artist has written “mine” in tiny letters on every centimeter of the mannequin’s skin in a hundred different languages. A bloodred poppy rises from her head. I know this isn’t Fangli’s style—she doesn’t do installations—but I walk around so I can see it at all angles and read the statement.
Around me, the collectors are making utterly impenetrable comments. It’s like listening to a code designed to weed out the culturally ignorant. Which is me, but only Sam and I know that.
As I lean in to see better, a man across the room squints at me. I do my best to control my breathing but Sam turns swiftly. “What?” he murmurs, eyes trained on my face.
“Nothing.” I channel a sloth, moving unhurriedly to avoid the attention of the potential predator. It’s hard because almost the entire room has one eye on us as if monitoring our location at all times. The stress of trying to emulate Fangli’s poise is in part drowned by a more acute worry: Ex-manager Todd is in the room across from me.
I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve heard him brag about his father’s art collection. He’s with a blond woman who wears a smile that never wavers and I wonder if she knows, or cares, what kind of a man he is. I bend in to Sam and he curves down over me like a hero from his period dramas. “How long do we need to stay?” I whisper.
“At least another hour.”
“Can we go to a new room? Is this the only one?”
In response, he puts his hand on the bare skin of my back and guides me through a door I hadn’t noticed into another exhibit. I’m so disturbed I barely even clock the warm comfort his touch gives me. We might not be friends, but in this moment, he’s the one in my corner. To my relief, the new room is a video installation with the light dimmed until it’s almost difficult to see. The cave-like ambiance deepens when I stand next to the wall and Sam comes close as if guarding me.
“Gracie,” he murmurs. “Tell me what’s happening.”
He used my name, my real name. When I don’t answer, he draws me in and tilts my chin up to analyze my face. “Do you need to leave? We can.”
I shake my head and he frowns. “You’re sure?”
Simply knowing he’s there is enough to calm me since I don’t think Todd will try to approach me with another man there.
The truth comes crashing down on me. I’m not Gracie. I’m Wei Fangli right now and Todd has no power over me. He can’t touch me. He can’t fire me and he can’t intimidate me without having Sam or the organizers taking action. I’m protected because I’m now a famous person of value. I’m seen here.
I toss my head and Sam shifts away as if giving me space. “I’m good,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, then nods. “I trust you to tell me if you need out.”
Sam follows as I examine the videos, all featuring Anpanman, the Japanese superhero. The artist has put the character, who has a pastry for a head, in food-based situations such as cooking shows and grocery stores. His usually cheerful face looks by turns worried and menacing.
Fascinated, I thumb the controller to bring up the next video.
“You like these?” Sam asks.
I keep facing the screen so no one can see me speaking, thus negating my laryngitis story. “My dad went on a work trip to Japan once and brought me an Anpanman figure that I loved. I never saw the show. I guess they’re not like this?” The video we’re watching shows Anpanman tearing off part of his head to give to a hungry cat before being viciously attacked by a flock of seagulls at an outdoor food court.
Sam leans in beside me to watch the video. “Much less violent but Anpanman does give parts of his head away to people in need. Then Uncle Jam bakes him a new one.”
“Is it selfless if you can get a new head when you need one?”
Sam shrugs, his arm brushing against mine. “I know people who could have ten heads right beside them ready to go and not give a crumb.”
So do I, at that. The video ends and we both turn at the same time. His face is so close to mine that if I moved half a step… His eyes dip from my eyes to my lips and a shivery wave rolls through me.
I could move that step. Prickles run down the backs of my thighs from the tension. Sam might move. Might he? Does he come a bit closer? My feet are nailed to the ground but inside I’m whirling like a tornado.
“Mr. Yao?”
Sam stands abruptly when he hears his name and I blink, hard, and turn back to Anpanman with unseeing eyes. This night is giving me the mental equivalent of whiplash as it yanks me between emotional extremes. Impersonating Fangli. Todd. Sam, so close to me.
After Sam’s conversation finishes, we leave the room by mutual silent agreement, weaving in and out of the crowd and only pausing for Sam to engage with people every few feet. News of my voicelessness must have spread because I’m spared any chatting besides hopes that I get better soon.
Despite my newfound confidence, I don’t want to meet with Todd, so I do my best to steer Sam away. It’s nerve-racking to know he’s there, and my core tightens so hard I shake. Sam’s hand returns to my waist, fortifying me, and the muscles relax enough to let me stop clenching my teeth.
Exactly an hour later, Sam tells the organizer goodbye and we pose for a few more photos which I think I handle like a pro. We’re almost out the door when a call comes from a small group near the tiny gift store. It takes me a moment to react since I forgot Wei Fangli is my name tonight.
I turn with my most effervescent smile. They push forward a young woman with long black hair tied in a neat, high ponytail as their spokesperson, and suddenly I know I’m not at all ready for the fresh hell that’s about to open below me.
Dear God, she talks to me in Mandarin. The dark pit to the underworld expands exponentially and flames lick the edges.
“An autograph?” Sam jumps in with English.
The flames burst over the edge. Double dear God. I have no idea what Fangli’s writing looks like and there is zero, and I mean zero, chance I’ll be able to manage faking the Chinese characters. Time stops as the young woman holds out a notepad with hopeful eyes.
I automatically take it and then look around for a place to put it down and forge Fangli’s signature. Why didn’t I fake a broken wrist? Sprained finger? Sam talks to me in Chinese, which, since it is not about being hungry or how to get to the store, I’m at a loss to interpret. My bright smile hurts my cheeks as I trail Sam to a high cocktail table.
He puts the notepad down and then steps behind me, hiding me from view. “Pretend you’re writing,” he murmurs.
My hand trembles as I do as he says, but now it’s not because I’m about to get my cover blown but because he’s pressing against me, his hard body against mine. I know it’s to hide us from the girls watching but my knees are weak. I curse and hope he doesn’t notice because I’ll never live it down.
He pretends to hand me the pen but, at the last minute, dips his hand down to quickly scrawl what I assume is Fangli’s name. Then he gives me the pen. It takes him milliseconds.
I pick up both and return them to the swooning fan. She bows to me and I automatically bow back before giving the wave—with the right hand because I practiced that—and leave.
Then, once we’re in the car, to my shame, I burst into tears.
With an excess of empathy I didn’t expect, Sam hands me a tissue and waits until the sobs subside. “You did well,” he says.
“Sorry.” I snuffle into the tissues and more appear when I reach out my hand. I bury my face.
“Was it that man?”
My head shoots up. “What?”
Sam glances out the window as the shifting streetlights take turns hiding and highlighting his face. “A man with a blue suit escorting a blond woman. He was watching you and you were concentrating on trying to avoid him instead.”
“Do you think he noticed?” I’m a bit nonplussed that he read the situation so well.
“No, you were unexpectedly subtle.”
Good, because that would be bad. I fight back another wave of sickness. Todd fired me because of the misidentified photo of Fangli. He knows we look alike. What if he says something?
He’s got power over me again. I debate telling Sam but decide against it. I’ll wait and see.
He twists in the seat and gives me a straight look. “Who is he?”
“My old manager.”
“You don’t like him.”
“Would you like the person who fired you?”
“It’s more than that. I could tell.” He raises his eyebrows. “I can read you.”
This is too true to debate. “He’s a jerk and I don’t like him.”
“Ah.” Sam regards me. “Did he recognize you?”
“No. I didn’t want to give him the chance to see me up close or speak to me, though.”
“Wise.”
I dab at my eyes with the tissue. “The art was nice.”
Sam exhales. “I think you might be the only person to describe contemporary art as nice.”
“Thought-provoking? Evocative? Bleeding-edge?”
“Is that better than cutting-edge?”
“One step beyond.” I hum a line from the Madness song and his lips twitch again. That’s a definite victory. “Do you ever get used to it?” The pillowy darkness of the car’s interior makes it easier to ask. “That attention?”
“I’ve never not known it.” Sam’s voice wraps around me. “You know who my parents are.”
Sam’s august parentage, a movie-star mother and director father, is mentioned in almost every profile. He takes my silence as a yes and continues. “My parents are many wonderful things but they both also crave attention. I’ve had cameras around my whole life.”
I try to imagine that. All the missteps I took documented and commented on, all the terrible hair days and disastrous fashion choices logged for posterity and resurfaced on listicles every few years. “I don’t know how you cope.”
