She leaves and I realize my clothes from home are gone. That’s a later problem, though, so I pull on the outfit. The white linen pants wrinkle on contact with my skin, and I immediately stain the black silk top with deodorant and have to change. In the mirror I practice my Fangli wave again, this time with the correct hand. The shoes are adorable sling-backs that I put on to check the full effect.
Huh. I turn around. I hadn’t realized the difference expensive tailoring made because I now have outstanding posture. Do I look like Fangli? The spacious closet makes finding what I need so much easier than trying to sort through a bunch of shirts crammed tight enough to wrinkle, and I quickly locate a high-necked black shirt. I pull it on like a headband, the collar framing my face and the rest of the material flowing down my back, and toss my head. It’s not the perfect facsimile of long hair but I get the idea, albeit with a nunnish feel.
“I came to see if you were dressed.” Mei, who apparently has no concept of privacy, is at the door, staring at my turtleneck wig. I snatch it off and run a hand through my hair.
“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
She backs out of the room, and I toss the shirt on the bed and follow.
Fueled by coffee and fear of failure, I’m the ideal Fangli student that day. Apparently she does her own makeup except for big events, so Mei shows me the Fangli Standard Face, which necessitates a raft of expensive products to achieve the correct smooth skin and pretty smoky eye. Mei picks up the lipstick, a vibrant red that glides on like a dream, then goes over the edges with a lip pencil before blotting and painting me again.
I stare in the mirror at my lips. It’s been a long time since I’ve had that much color, and I’d forgotten how bright it is. It makes my mouth the glossy focus of my face. No wonder Todd liked it. I shiver.
“Is this Fangli’s usual color?” I ask.
“Chanel Rouge Allure in Pirate,” says Mei. “It’s all she wears in public.”
I stay silent as Mei scrutinizes my face from the side. The makeup is part of a disguise. It’s Fangli’s face being created in the mirror, and when people see it, they won’t see me. I relax slightly.
“Sun damage.” Mei clucks and makes a note on her phone, disrupting my chain of thought. I focus on what we’re doing. “I’ll get better concealer.” She takes a closer look. “And a waxing kit.” Then she reaches over and drags out a mannequin head. “Here.”
On the head is a wig. I haven’t worn one since Halloween, and that was a blue flapper bob. I poke it. “Is this real hair?”
She slaps it on my head like a hat and it is the Lamborghini of hair accessories. It’s definitely all real, and probably the kind to receive regular conditioning. The hair swings as if it’s my own, far better than my turtleneck standin, and when I shake my head, it doesn’t budge. It’s been so long since I had long hair that I forgot how fun it was; I whip my head around like I’m about to star in Showgirls until I get a little dizzy. I need to take a photo of this for Mom because she’ll love it.
This time when I go to the mirror, Mei stands beside me with a critical eye before pulling out her phone to show a photo of Fangli in a similar outfit. I arrange my pose like hers—one foot out and slightly twisted in a move my mom also taught me as a teenager—and turn my face slightly up and to the left with that little smile, then scrupulously check the pose and lower my shoulders a fraction. Mei takes a photo and when we look at it, I think maybe this will work.
“Terrible.” Mei taps on her phone.
“What?” Deflated, I move my legs back to my usual slightly hunched stance and pull off the wig. It’s hot.
There’s a knock on the door and Mei opens it to reveal Sam. They whisper together, looking at me, and I try to decide if my better course of action is to pretend I don’t know they are very obviously talking about me or to break into their conversation.
Take the bull by the horns.
“Hey. I’m right here.”
Sam doesn’t look at me. “We know.” He gives Mei an instruction that causes her to disappear out the side door to Fangli’s suite, leaving the two of us alone. Sam walks by to stand near the window, and when he turns to regard me, I swear the light shifts to pool around him. I’ve always wondered about charisma, if it really exists, and with Sam I can feel an excess of energy that simply makes him more attractive. Fangli has it, too, a vitality that draws attention no matter what she’s doing.
I hope to God that’s something that can be learned, because I sure as hell don’t have it.
Beyond that, I can’t decide what bothers me about Sam. I’ve seen him often enough in media that he’s familiar, but when he stands here in person, it’s a whole new ball game.
“You look different from your movies,” I say finally. He’s sharper, icier than he is in the photos. More unreal looking and far more striking.
“I know,” he says dismissively. “Mei says you’re hopeless.”
I object to this. “‘Hopeless’ is a little strong.”
“You are no judge. Walk for me.”
“Why?” I stand my ground.
When he turns, the sun lights one part of his face and shadows the rest like a perfume ad. I groan. “Do you do that on purpose? Pose in the light?” I mimic his stance.
“Of course I do.” He pulls his chin up slightly and that’s it. I burst out laughing. He’s so perfectly arrogant that I begin to see him more as a comedic character than a man. He brings his brows together. “Something funny?”
“Not at all.”
“Really. Because you’re laughing.”
“Well, you,” I admit. “You’re funny. Who does that?”
The knit brows are joined by pursed lips. “Is there a problem in putting your best self forward?”
“I guess not.” I clear my throat to change the subject. “Are you honestly here to watch me walk?”
Sam comes over from the window and stands in front of me. I’d say he was trying to intimidate me because of how he looks down his nose, but it reminds me of one of his roles—he was a lowly delivery guy who also fought crime—and I can feel my lips twitch. He glares at me as if he knows what I’m thinking. “Fangli refuses to let go of this,” he says. He looks over my shoulder and chooses his words. “I said I would help.”
“If you’re looking for ideas, you can help by not being an asshole,” I suggest.
“I can help by making sure you don’t tarnish Fangli’s reputation with your ignorance.” He leans forward. “I don’t like it but I’ll do what I can to mitigate the risk to her, even if it means working with you.”
“A real professional.”
“I work with many people I don’t respect. Or like.”
“Me, too.” We eye each other and I pull back. I’d held out enough of an olive branch. Now it was business time. “Then let’s do this.”
“Walk around again.” He sprawls in a chair and takes up more space than he has a right to.
“Give me a second.” I replay one of the clips on my tablet. On the screen, Fangli, dressed in a white satin pantsuit, strolls by like she’s walking the runway. I can’t do it like that. I throw back my shoulders and decide to simply go. Sam’s eyes follow me as I walk across the room, which, hilariously, is long enough that I can really get some steps in.
When I come back to the center, he looks thoughtful, as if I’m a puzzle to be solved rather than an insect to squish. This is a decided improvement. “That was less ghastly than last night,” he compliments me. “You have a similar walk to Fangli.”
“No, we don’t.” This I’m sure about.
Sam sighs and takes out his phone, which he taps and shoves under my nose. It shows a dark-haired woman walking away through a lobby, her body language confident and natural.
“This is what you want me to walk like, I know. I’m trying.”
“Unbelievable,” he says. “That’s you. Like I said. When you’re being yourself.”
I watch it again and realize it’s me walking out of the hotel the other day. I didn’t know I looked like that. “Why do you have this?”
“I took it when you left to prove to Fangli what a hopeless idea this was.” He looks back at the screen. “You moved better than I thought you would,” he says grudgingly.
“That is a deeply creepy thing to do.” I’m a little awed at his dedication.