This appreciation is not reciprocated when he looks me up and down. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” I check the mirror. One eye is pink from where I introduced the mascara wand, and I guess I sneezed because black dappled lines decorate the skin under both eyes. I have marks from where I was sleeping on my cheek, and when I smile, I see Mom’s tried and tested lipstick trick has not worked because I look like a postprandial vampire. Also, I forgot the wig.
“Right.” I lick my teeth to get rid of the red lipstick as I rub under my eyes and dash back into the room to adjust my foundation to cover the sleep creases. I pull out the wig and arrange it on my head before I come back out with a little more Fangli attitude.
This time Sam gives me a long, appraising look. I smile Fangli’s smile and he nods reluctantly. “I guess it’ll do,” he says. “Perfume. She only wears Chanel because she’s their brand ambassador.”
“Good. I like No. 19 Poudre.” I don’t wear it all the time, though. I never liked the idea of a signature fragrance, not when there are so many options.
“What?” He’s startled I would know an actual perfume. “Mei says the fragrance collection is in the drawer under the mirror.”
Fragrance collection? How did I miss that? I go back in and gasp with delight at the lines of bottles. It’s like being in the Chanel store. “She has Les Exclusifs!”
“Les what?” He comes in and leans against the door like a black-clad demon as I rummage through the long, rectangular bottles labeled with that inimitable square Chanel font. There it is, Bois des Iles, which I bought once and couldn’t justify the expense to buy again. I spray it and start coughing from the droplets in the air. I breathed too soon. Sam looks tired as he watches me choke.
“It’s a special collection of fragrances.” I don’t know much about clothes but perfume has always been my thing. I have over three hundred samples logged on a spreadsheet with my ratings. Pathetic, I know, but scent is the sense that I’ve always reacted to most intensely. Even as a kid, I would have a fit if my parents changed their laundry detergent. Sam smells good, a faint fresh spice mixed with the fragrance of chipped stone. Sounds weird, but it’s appealing.
“You like that?” He sniffs the air with more caution than I did. “I smell sandalwood.”
“You’re right.” I recap the bottle. It gives a little magnetic click in the very satisfying Chanel way. “Sandalwood is my mother’s favorite perfume.”
“My mother’s as well,” he says, as if shocked we could have anything in common. “Can we go now?”
We walk to the elevator, and I have the pleasure of a steady stream of advice and criticism battering my ear. “Shoulders back,” Sam says.
I push back my shoulders.
“Not that far back. Smile more.”
Forward come the shoulders as I smile and hiss at him through clenched teeth. “Can you lay off? It’s an empty corridor.”
“With security cameras that record sellable video, housecleaning staff and people behind those peepholes.” He eyes me with pretend fondness. “You are never not watched.”
The elevator opens as I consider this. It’s like he and Fangli live in a surveillance state gone amok. We don’t talk in the elevator, and when we get out, he steers me away from the main door.
“We’re not walking?” The restaurant’s only about twenty minutes away and the summer evening is perfect for strolling.
“Too public.”
I guess it’s a good call because even the low heels I chose hurt my feet. I’ve been focusing so hard on my walking that I don’t notice the people in the lobby until we’re halfway through. Even in the Xanadu, temporary home of the rich and famous, Sam causes a ripple of interest. Eyes move to me and I realize it’s not only Sam, it’s Sam and me together. A brief silence falls over the lobby as we walk through, and I stumble slightly with the weight of their attention. Sam snaps his arm out and gathers me close in a single move that I know looks sexily protective, like the faithful bodyguard he played in one of his movies.
I think I hear a woman moan.
Gathering my wits, I flutter my eyelashes at him. I swear his mouth twitches but I must be wrong because he steadies me and then tucks my hand under his arm.
“Walk,” he mutters.
I make it to the car, which is not a car but an SUV that should have little flags fluttering on the front motorcade-style. Sam helps me in, which has the advantage of preventing people from seeing me sprawl sideways when I catch my foot.
He climbs in after me and closes his eyes.
“That wasn’t so bad,” I congratulate myself.
Sam opens one eye. “I hate to see your version of bad.”
“We made it.” I feel confident as I fix up my wig. Then I straighten up. “Is it like that wherever you go?”
“What?”
“People looking.”
“I told you it was.” He doesn’t sound impatient, only resigned.
I think about it. It was exhilarating, but I don’t want to tell Sam this. The little worm in my brain expands slightly as I realize I liked it. I liked being seen. Being admired.
It wasn’t you. That was for Fangli. No one would have turned for Gracie, not even a Gracie with a designer dress and long hair.
Good to remember.
Eleven
When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s hard to not be seduced. I smooth out the front of my dress as I get out of the car to the stares of passersby. They might not recognize us, but the sleek car and the manager who rushes out to meet us when the valet opens the door are visual signifiers that here be people with money and influence.
How would Fangli act? She’s used to fancy places, so she would resist trailing her fingers along the side of the staircase to see if that was real velvet covering the walls. When she reached the top of the stairs, she would check the room casually for acquaintances and wouldn’t squeak with glee when spotting Margaret Atwood.
So I don’t do those things either. Instead, I keep my expression schooled and focus on Sam’s shoulders as the manager leads us to a back table, the most private option the room offers. A silence washes over the restaurant, followed by a hum as people recognize us. This is a fancy place and its patrons are too cool to do anything so gauche as take photos or come up to us so the buzz is all we get.
I wonder if Margaret Atwood got the same attention.
The manager deftly slides the chair forward as I sit down and I give myself a silent high five for smiling in thanks, as a woman used to this would, instead of erupting into a flurry of “it’s okay” and “I got it, no worries” mumbles. The manager nods and leaves us alone with the menus. Too bad the table is turned so we’re on display to the rest of the room. I would much prefer to face the wall and have only my back visible.
I pick up the heavy card-stock menu that lies in front of me. Instead of long-winded descriptions or lists of ingredients, there are only five words typed in a row:
FISH
MEAT
BIRD
VEGETABLE
SWEET
I check the back but that’s it. There are no prices and I peek over at Sam’s paper. No prices there either.
“What is it now?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the world’s most uninformative menu.
“You don’t think it’s strange to order ‘bird’ and leave the rest up to chance?”
He shrugs. “I trust the chef.”
We order when the server comes (MEAT for Sam and FISH for me), and I proudly remember to tell them no carrots in my best Fangli voice—low, confident, and warm. Sam gets into a spirited discussion of the best vintages on offer that will match our mystery food.
“I should have known you’re a wine guy,” I say when the server goes to get the drinks.
“A what?”
“You know, one of those guys who holds up the whole table to wax eloquent about viscosity and bouquet or whatever it is.”