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?”