“Most of them.” I make a face because Mei made it clear skimming the web for plot summaries wasn’t an option and the man’s been busy. “Why is this a problem? Don’t you make them to be watched?”
Sam angles his head up to the ceiling, lost in thought. Then, God help me, he runs his thumb across his lower lip. In the hierarchy of unconsciously sizzling things hot men do, that has to be tops. The incomplete list, as compiled by me on behalf of all people who find men attractive, is:
1. Thumb on lower lip (mentioned).
2. Look up from beneath eyelashes; only for some men.
3. Hold a kitten. Bonus points if face is buried in fur and he smiles/addresses the kitten directly as if the kitten cares. Puppies will do.
4. That sideways glance over the shoulder.
5. Loosen tie.
6. Run hand through hair.
7. Look in your eyes as he takes his thumb off his lip and asks what you’re staring at.
“What?” I shake out of my musing state.
Sam tilts his head slightly. I add that as number eight to the list. “I asked what you’re staring at,” he repeats.
Mei comes into the room before I have to answer but my Mandarin language app has only gotten me to letting people know I’m feeling happy today so I have no hope of following their conversation. I check the rest of my in-box as they talk. It’s been a couple of days since I’ve seen Mom, but I email her every day and the nursing staff tell me they print out the messages. Occasionally one of the nicer nurses or a volunteer sends me an update. I get antsy if I don’t see her at least once a week in person but I have a couple more days before that becomes a problem.
I put the phone away, dropping my head to the side to try to roll out the faint tightness of a tension headache inching up my neck. If this is how I feel after only two days living as a pseudo celebrity, I can’t imagine the level of stress that is Fangli’s everyday experience.
“Hao.” Sam ends the conversation and Mei glides out the door in the crisp white shirt and black skirt I’ve started to think of as her uniform.
“What?” I stretch and he shuts his eyes as if physically pained when my shoulders pop. I do it again.
“Change of plans,” he says, in the same tone as a general readying himself for an unplanned battle. “We need to go out tonight.”
“Whoa, what?” I’m not prepared for this.
Neither is Sam, by the looks of it. “After the show, we have a dinner reservation.”
“Why?”
He spins his phone over. There’s a photo of Fangli looking tired with Chinese on the bottom.
“Can you translate?” I ask.
“There’s speculation over Fangli’s state of health. Her management doesn’t like it.” He takes the phone back. “Fangli has an image to protect.”
There’s no way I can blow eating food. I’ve been doing it for years. I cheer up a bit. “Where are we going?”
“It’s called Ala.”
I immediately start googling. “Fancy.”
“It’s an appropriate place for us to be seen.”
Out of curiosity, I click on their online reservation system and see the next available table is two months away and at five in the evening. “How do you plan to get a table?”
Sam gives me an unfathomable look. “I can always get a table.”
I let that pass. There’s no menu on their website because the chef only uses the freshest ingredients from the morning markets. Plated with exquisite detail enthuses a Yelp reviewer.
Sam’s phone dings and he picks it up. “I’ve got to deal with this and don’t have time to eat lunch. I expect you to be ready for nine thirty.”
He disappears right as room service arrives. Once he’s gone, I page through my Fangli notes as I wolf down the pasta and then pop a Tylenol. At the top of my to-do list is one overwhelming task: Pretend to be Wei Fangli.
That’s a big action item. But if there’s one thing my thorough examination of productivity plans has taught me, it’s to break big tasks into smaller actions. Humming happily to myself, I check for any new apps that might meet my needs. I’m multitasking, as this is good research for Eppy as well. I decided last night Eppy—secret acronym for Easy Planning Per Year—would be the name of my task planner.
“Wo ke le. I am thirsty.” I absentmindedly repeat the language lesson that has become the background music of my life. Hopefully it will subliminally enter my brain. There’s nothing new to try out in the world of productivity planning so I grab a pen and some paper.
“Wo chi mifan. I eat rice.” Do I need to find footage of Fangli eating? I ponder this for a minute before discarding it as unnecessary.
“Wo he shui. I drink water.” An outfit. Won’t be a problem, I can wear the dress I have on. I tap the pen against my teeth and write “shave legs.”
I add a few more tasks but then remember that outside of being Fangli, I need to check the wait list at Xin Guang, call the lawyer about Garnet Brothers, and pay my rent. I add them and make a face for not thinking of my own life earlier.
Finally, I check my bank account to see if the payment to Mom’s home went through.
Then I look again because I am a lot of zeros richer than I was yesterday. It’s Fangli’s first payment. My situation is suddenly more real than it had been six minutes ago. Money has officially changed hands, which means I now owe her. My head is aching too much to think about it so I shut down the app and suck in deep breaths.
Taking my notepad and phone into the bedroom, I toss them onto the rumpled duvet and climb up beside them. (Mei has told housekeeping we’ll call if we need anyone to come make up the room or bring fresh towels in order to head off any inadvertent missteps by yours truly, so I’m in charge of making my own bed.) My eyes droop and I set my alarm for an hour. A quick nap and I’ll be as good as new.
***
I wake slowly and bury my face back into the fluffy puffball of a pillow the Xanadu has decided is the most appropriately extravagant of sleeping options. A few more minutes, I promise myself, even though I’m more rested than I’ve been in days. I yawn and stretch, thinking how calm the room feels in the dusk. Relaxing.
Dusk?
I fumble for my phone. It’s almost nine and Sam’s coming in thirty minutes for dinner.
“No. Damn, no.” Fully awake, I leap out of bed, get tangled in the bedsheets, and fall over in a cloudy white lump before I stumble to the bathroom, trailing the sheets behind me like the most inelegant of wedding dresses. It’s too late for the refreshing shower I had planned, so I splash water on my face and do my best to brush my hair and teeth at the same time. The face. I groan as I mentally review the multistep Fangli Face process. I screw up the eyeliner twice and then poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand. This is not a good start.
At least the lipstick goes on without a problem, and I suck on my finger to make sure I don’t get any on my teeth, a tip from Mom back when I first started wearing lipstick. It worked for my first neutral corals and even better once I worked up to my ruby reds.
Since I slept in the dress I was going to wear—and in my bra, which I peel off for the relief of unsticking it and wiping my underboob with a towel—I need to find a new outfit.
“Are you ready?” Sam’s impatient voice comes from the living room. He’s early.
“Don’t look. I’m getting dressed. How did you get in here?” I yell back as I yank another dress out. This one’s black, so there’s no way it can’t be stylish, at least not in Toronto. “Do you have a key card?”
“Yes.”
I don’t like that. I’ll get it back over dinner. Dress zipped, I stuff my feet into the lowest heels I can find and launch myself through the bedroom door before Sam comes to pull me out.
Then I freeze. He’s all in black as well, with a collared shirt tucked into tailored black slacks and a black blazer. One hand is placed casually in his pocket and his hair is artfully tumbled. My eyes widen in appreciation.