The Stand-In, page 5
I shrug. Now that the decision has been made I’m better, more controlled. “I can’t imagine seeing him much.”
Fangli widens her brown eyes. “Didn’t I cover that?”
My heart sinks. “Don’t tell me.”
“Oh.” She’s silent and I realize she took me literally.
“Sorry. Tell me. Sam’s part of this?”
“He’s my usual escort. He’ll be yours.” She waves her hands. “No touching. No hugging, kissing, or holding hands. He was very firm on that.”
“He was, was he?” Although I should be pleased about the clear boundaries, I’m a little unsettled they had this talk in advance. Did they work through scenarios such as what if the body double is so uncontrollably attracted to me she tries to jump me? Does he have a script? Do I need to sign another contract?
Sam comes back in the room and I stand, not wanting to give him the advantage of height. He’s still about six inches taller than I am, but that’s better than looming over me by an extra two feet when I’m seated. He looks at the two of us. “We’re doing this?”
“Gracie has agreed.”
Sam’s lips thin. “Did she?” He doesn’t look at me.
“I did.” I give him a big fake smile, not wanting him to know how bothered I am by his attitude. “We’re a team now.”
“We’re not a team.”
I keep the smile. “We sure are. Remember, you came to me.”
He stares me down. “Fangli did.”
My courage ebbs. “If this is going to work, don’t you need to pretend to enjoy my company, at least?”
Sam gives me a flat look before he reaches down and runs his hand over his shirt, tugging the material enough to outline his chest for a brief and wondrous moment. He lowers his head and seeks my eyes with his. His lips part as if he’s seen me for the first time and likes what he sees. I’m mesmerized as he walks over because under his gaze, I’m the only woman in the world. His eyes turn from my eyes to my mouth, and he bites his inner lower lip before looking into my eyes again.
I stop breathing.
Sam stands close enough to lean down and whisper in my ear. “I’m a very good actor.”
Then he straightens and I see the cold Sam I’m already used to.
“Sam,” says Fangli sharply. “What are you doing?”
I’m too shook to even be embarrassed by my reaction. He’s a master. “Wow,” I finally say. “That was serious Academy Award material.”
He doesn’t smile. “I already have an Oscar, thanks.”
This time, Fangli stands up and physically moves between us.
But that walk over to me is a gauntlet he’s thrown and I consider the challenge. I’m about to pretend to be Wei Fangli, and if there’s a better chance to make some changes in my life, I don’t know when it will be. I can remain the go-along-to-get-along Gracie, or I can be the strong Gracie I always wished I was, the Gracie who speaks her mind instead of swallowing her words. An oversize mirror leans against the far wall and I catch sight of the woman reflected there, slumped over and dressed in gray with her arms crossed so tightly across her chest that her shirt wrinkles. I drop my arms to my sides, raise my head, and turn to smile at Sam over Fangli’s shoulder. It’s a victory when he looks away first.
Six
Fangli’s assistant, Mei, takes me aside, and by four in the afternoon, I’m exhausted, my hand cramped from writing notes on little Xanadu notepads with black Xanadu pens. Mei is an unsmiling, infinite encyclopedia of all things Fangli. I have notes on what the actor refuses to eat, what designers she wears, her favorite words and phrases. Even more mind-blowing is the knowledge that all this is necessary because there are enough people in the world who know Wei Fangli would never, ever touch an orange vegetable that to eat a carrot would make the news. I’m filled with shock at how little of Fangli’s life is private and awe that I think I can pull this off.
Eventually Mei excuses herself to take care of some business so I’m alone as I shake out my hand and watch another plane lift off from the island airport. My exhilaration of earlier has bottomed out to stunned disbelief over what I’ve gotten myself into. I look at the positives: I’m making money and it’s frankly far more interesting than lying in bed surfing job boards. If life hands you lemons and all that.
In the afternoon summer light, sailboats swoop over the lake, tipping this way and that with the wind. That’s what I thought movie-star life was: leisure, beach holidays, and shopping. I forgot the work that got them there. Mei mentioned that Fangli hasn’t been on a real vacation in four years; even when she takes breaks, she appears at events and prepares for roles. Her life sounds stifling and it’s no surprise she wants a breather.
Well, it’s what she chose, and when I turn from the window to grab an artisanal yuzu-infused sparkling water from the full-size but inconspicuous refrigerator, I decide it has its benefits.
Sipping the water straight from the can, I flip through my notes. There are pages upon pages, and even looking at them depresses me. None of my usual to-do lists are up for this level of organization, but I need one to make this happen. I get stressed without those lists, those checks. I need the perfect system to organize this.
Make your own, then. Anjali’s words dance in front of me in bright-pink neon. I put the drink down. I’ve been creating a planning-system wish list for ages, but it never once occurred to me that instead of trying to make other processes fit my life, I could make my own.
Now that the idea has been planted, I want to try it. What can go wrong, after all? I mess up a to-do list? Even I can deal with that.
“Are you ready to leave?” Mei comes into the room. “Ms. Wei will be too busy to see you again.”
“I’m ready.”
We decided I’d move over to the Xanadu the day after next. In the meantime, I have notes to go over and a long list of Fangli’s English and subtitled Chinese interviews to watch and read. Fangli in news footage. A complete biography of Fangli’s life. A full filmography.
I look at the list now and wrinkle my nose. This is a lot of content to consume, even for the most dedicated couch potato. “Do I have to know all of them?”
“I’ve starred the most important,” Mei says. “Those you must watch immediately. People quote lines from the movies at Ms. Wei.”
When I get back in two days, Mei will have a schedule for me. We’ve decided to explain my presence at the hotel by saying I’m a local makeup artist and family friend, and Fangli is doing my auntie a favor by letting me work on her to build my clientele. Until then, I’m free to go home and binge on Wei Fangli trivia, have Anjali come over (twice in a week, which is more than usual but it’s been a very strange few days), and think about how I’m going to deal with Sam.
I put on my sunglasses and leave, Mei shutting the door firmly behind me.
Down in the lobby, no one looks twice and the familiar veil of inconspicuousness falls over me. Will that change by next week? I think it will and I feel my chin rise. There’s a Gracie there who’s tired of being overlooked, even though it’s entirely of my own doing. Is that the real reason I took this job?
Disquieted, I get on the subway.
***
When I spill the story to Anjali that night, she has the anticipated response.
“Are you out of your fucking mind, Gracie?”
Maybe it was a mistake to tell Anjali, but I desperately need to tell someone despite Sam’s sepulchral warnings of doom and NDA-related lawsuits, and she’s the only person I speak to on a regular basis. I tend toward acquaintances over friends, and this is not acquaintance-level information.
“I didn’t come here for the judgment.” I pour out the wine before ripping open a bag of ketchup chips. Gross combination but I need the fat-salt-alcohol juggernaut hit.
“First, I came to your place. Second, consider the judgment to be on the house.” She shakes her head so her glossy black hair, nourished by weekly coconut oil masks, sweeps through the air. Anjali using her hair for emphasis is the only time I regret cutting mine short. It used to be past my shoulders but it was never as pretty as Anjali’s.
“I’ve already agreed.” I stick my hand into the bag, and Anjali cringes and hands me a bowl.
“Stop being a pig.”
I tip a few chips into the bowl, hand it to her, and then go back to eating out of the bag before I pause. “Do you think I shouldn’t eat the chips?” I flutter my hand toward my hips.
“Does Wei Fangli look like a woman who eats a lot of chips? Drinks beer? Eats carbs?”
“No.” I chew a chip morosely, put the bag aside, and then grab it back and hold it to my chest as I brighten. “Wait. She must since she thinks we look similar.”
“Then eat the damn chips.” Anjali throws herself on the couch. “Jesus, eating chips is the least of your problems. Have you thought this through?”
“No.” I sit across from her. “Obviously not. This is a secret. They made me sign an NDA.”
“It’s good you told me because at least someone will know the truth when they kill you and pretend your body is hers so she can escape for a new life in Bali.”
“That’s the plot of a movie.” It might even be one of Fangli’s.
“If they only wanted your body, then you’d probably already be dead,” she agrees. “Honestly, though, how are you going to pull this off? You’re only half-Chinese.”
I try not to wince at the “only,” which implies that half isn’t enough. It’s not that big a deal. I’m sure Anjali didn’t mean it the way it came out, and I don’t want to put her on the spot and make her feel bad. “It’s bizarre how much alike we look,” I say.
Anjali takes out her phone and runs a quick image search. “It is,” she agrees, swiping through the photos. “What are you going to do about not speaking Chinese?”
“Fangli’s going to say she wants to work on her English, which is already perfect. Thank God she has no accent because I’d be doomed.”
“Why no accent?”
“Vocal coach. Plus Sam will be there to help me in tough spots. Mostly it’s to be seen out and about.”
“Sam?”
“Sam Yao.”
She sits bolt upright on the couch, brown eyes eating up her face. “Sam Yao. Sexiest Man? Award-winning actor? Cheekbones that massage your ovaries?”
“I know all this.” I’d better watch his movies, too. Meh. I’ll read his Wikipedia/IMDb pages and call it a day. My antipathy to Sam, ovary masseuse or not, is strong.
“I can’t believe you didn’t lead with this.” Anjali downs half the wine in her glass and coughs. “You know he’s a UN goodwill ambassador for the environment.”
“Huh.” Didn’t know that but it doesn’t change my opinion of him.
Anjali leans forward. “Is he hot in real life or weird-looking?”
“Burningly hot. A raging inferno sheathed in ice and smooth muscle.” I sigh. “With dimples that come out when he smiles.”
She tsks at me. “Seriously.”
“I’m being serious. The dimples are really deep.” She looks a bit dreamy, and I feel bad for interrupting her Sam fantasy with reality. “I don’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s rude. Brisk. Doesn’t like me.” I look down in the bag of chips to poke around for the biggest one.
“He’s probably worried about this incredibly stupid idea,” says the eternal optimist. “Why did he agree to it?”
“Fangli snapped him in line.” That’s right. I’m on a first-name basis with movie stars. I force back a slightly hysterical giggle before Anjali thinks I’ve totally lost it.
Her thick and perfectly groomed black eyebrows rise. “Rumors say they’re dating.”
“Maybe but they act more like good friends.” I fish out the last good chip before I’m reduced to tilting the bag up to my mouth to drink down the crumbs.
“‘Act’ is the key word. They’re actors, so how can you tell what’s real and what isn’t? In any case, be careful. A guy like that would chew you up and spit you out as bones.”
I scrunch my nose. “Graphic.”
She sighs. “Not that it wouldn’t be worth it. Try to get him my number.”
“He can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”
“You’ll handle him,” she says with misplaced confidence as she goes to the kitchen and runs the tap. After returning with two glasses of water, she sits down. “For fun, let’s go through all the things that can go wrong.”
“I’ve already been through them, multiple times.”
“Excellent, then it’ll be a nice refresher.” She lifts one finger. “We’ve talked about using your dead body as proof of Fangli’s demise to help her escape from a stifling public life.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“Potentially far-fetched but remains possible.” She flips up a second finger. “No time to job hunt.”
“I am capable of scanning job sites for ten minutes each day while training to be a body double.”
“Number three—and this is the biggie—if this goes wrong, your privacy will be shot.” She points at her phone. “Imagine you all over ZZTV and social media, outed as an impersonator. It took you two years to try out red lipstick, for God’s sake, and you’ve even stopped doing that. You only wear two colors, black and boring. How are you going to handle worldwide attention even if it doesn’t all go to shit?”
Since I’ve already worried this to death, I have the answer Fangli gave me, the one I’ve been consoling myself with. “First, I did wear the lipstick.” Until Todd’s attention ruined that cosmetic adventure. “Second, it’s going to be like playing a part, and I’ve done that before.”
“Are you saying that being in a school play is good preparation for walking a red carpet? You can’t be that delusional.”
“I’m saying I’ve done some research and I will inhabit a persona to help me cope, like an actor in a play or a performer onstage.”
“You’re going to Sasha Fierce this?”
I shrug. “Works for Beyoncé.”
She picks up her wine, puts it down, and then picks it up again. “And the part about it all going to hell?”
“They have teams to take care of that,” I say. Fangli assured me if her plan went south, she’d call her manager and he’d do what was needed, even though he’d be furious she’d left him in the dark. Sam hadn’t disputed this, so I took it as truth.
“The team’s solution might be to let you hang,” Anjali says.
“The whole point of this is that it doesn’t get out,” I reason.
She blinks. “Holy smokes, you want to do this. You’re finding excuses because you want it.”
“It’s the money.”
“No, it’s not. You want to fake being Fangli.” She shakes her finger. “Insert the trust your friend lecture here.”
I throw myself back on the couch. “I’m doing it for the money.”
“How many times do these words need to leave my red-wine-stained zombie lips? Trust.”
“It’s a lot of money,” I say. “I don’t have a job.”
“Your.” She leans forward as if daring me.
“Look, I don’t have much of a choice.”
“Friend.” She nearly yells it and gestures at me with her wineglass, almost spilling it on the couch.
I crack. “Fuck. I do. I want to do it. I admit it.” I cover my face and feel the skin heat with embarrassment beneath my hands.
“Okay.”
Peeking out from my fingers, I see her grinning at me. “What?”
“Yeah, I get it. It’s a terrible idea but I get why you want to do it.”
“You do?”
“You get to live like a movie star and hang out with Sam Yao for two months. What’s not to get?” She sighs. “I’d probably do the same. Life’s for living, right?”
That hasn’t been my mantra to date, but it’s far more affirming than play it safe, so I grasp at it. “I’m nervous.”
“You should be,” she says darkly, nixing any hope for a pep talk. “But if you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it. How much money are we talking about, by the way?”
I tell her how much and she frowns.
“Did you negotiate?”
“Should I have?” I didn’t even think of it. “She originally offered a hundred grand.”
“Then she would have gone higher. When do you get paid?” She sees my face. “You didn’t ask, did you?”
“I will,” I promise. Chagrin sets in at my poor business sense.
“You need to tell them to give you at least twenty percent up front. Do it tomorrow.” I give her a look and she’s self-aware enough to laugh. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Getting in your face exactly like the life coach says I do?”
“You are, but you’re right.”
“I know. I did your budget for you. I’m going to back off now and promise not to text you about this tomorrow.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Not text you more than once,” she amends.
“Thank you.”
“Here’s to hoping you don’t end up dead.” She raises her glass.
“Aw, thanks.”
We toast.
Seven
The next morning, I settle myself at my worn and scratched kitchen table with the index cards I spent three hours writing up last night.
Fangli drinks her coffee black. I flip over my flash card. Correct.
She was born November 10, 19…damn. I check the card and try to commit the year to memory by chanting it five times.
Her first movie was Along the River. Check. Released when? I forgot to add that in and ferret around online for the answer.
Fill in the rest of the line: “Forever is…” I pause and drag the pen against the table as I run through cheesy lines from her movies. “Only a day with you.” Got it.
