He leans forward. “There’s an energy you get from a live audience that hones your craft. Their reactions can change the entire meaning of a performance and you need to adapt.”
I nod. “I remember once in university I said a line that was meant to be poignant. It worked in rehearsals but then the audience laughed. They thought it was funny.”
Sam taps the table. “Exactly. You need to react in the moment. There’s no scene to cut and try again. You have one shot with that audience and then it’s over. You can’t redo it.”
“Do you ever have regrets about a way you played a role on the stage?”
“Many. All the time.” He pushes his cup to the side. “My first roles were overacted and my gestures stiff.”
“Inexperience?”
He looks at me. “In part. It’s easier to act a part than to feel it. It was a battle to open up onstage.”
A flash comes from over my shoulder, and when Sam’s face smooths out from his previous animation, I realize that he’s been speaking to me not as Public Sam but as himself. “Someone took a photo,” he murmurs.
I had forgotten that I was there to play a role. I fold up my napkin with what I hope is elegance. “What do I do?”
“Keep talking. Fangli wouldn’t notice a single photo. It’s expected.”
“Why did you get into movies if you like the stage so much?”
He gives me a big smile. “You’ll like this answer: money.” He changes the topic. “You’ll be with Mei tomorrow,” he says. “Final prep.”
“For what?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Your new life as Fangli, of course.”
Twelve
Fangli’s in her room when we arrive back at the hotel, but she comes into mine when she hears us. From her reddened eyes, I know she’s been crying but I don’t feel comfortable enough to ask her what’s wrong, so I take my cue from Sam, who pretends not to notice. Maybe this is normal for her. He goes to his own suite down the hall, leaving us alone with Mei, who is in the kitchen making tea.
Fangli shakes her head, her hair bouncing. “I can’t get over how much we look alike,” she says. “How was dinner?”
I take off the wig and toss it on the table, where it spreads like an octopus. “It wasn’t what I expected,” I say as I scratch my head. Gross, but the wig makes me itchy.
“How so?” Fangli accepts the tea Mei brings out and I breathe in the delicate flowery aroma. It’s not jasmine or chrysanthemum so I sniff again. Maybe chamomile. Mei reminds Fangli of her personal trainer appointment in the morning, picks up my abandoned wig without comment, and leaves.
I sit cautiously on a chair, not wanting to tear a seam in my dress. “I was worried people would come talk to me,” I say.
“That happens occasionally, but most people are respectful, particularly in your country.”
“Some aren’t?”
She looks at me over the cup before she places it back on the table. “I’m not a person to them. I’m an object, a product. Commodities don’t have feelings or emotions.”
“Ah.” I don’t know what to say. My last boyfriend had a verbal code for these situations, where you have to acknowledge the issue but don’t have a productive comment. I dust it off and deploy. “That’s rough. How do you feel about that?”
“It’s upsetting.” Fangli smiles. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Asking. Understanding. Not telling me I should be grateful, that it’s my duty to be seen and let fans come to me. That it comes with the territory of being rich and famous and I knew what I signed up for when I started acting.”
I think about this. Even for a movie star, it’s not right. “You need space to be yourself.”
“I wonder who that is at times,” she says softly. Then she shakes her shoulders like a wet dog and puts her tea down. “Tell me about your day.”
“Well, I mostly slept.” I grimace. “Sorry, didn’t mean to rub that in.”
“I’m only a bit jealous. The dinner?”
“Oh, incredible.” I describe the food in excruciating detail until I notice her confused expression. “What?”
“I meant with Sam. Was he…” She searches for a word.
“I can handle it.”
Fangli eyes me sympathetically. “I’m sorry he’s being difficult,” she says. “I’ll talk to him.”
“No, we’ve figured it out. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.”
She nods. “Thank you.” When she closes her eyes, her entire face draws in and grows tight.
“Tired?” I ask. I go to the fridge and grab two cans of seltzer. According to Mei, Fangli only drinks out of glass, so I open the cabinet.
“The can is fine.” She reaches out and plucks it from my hand.
“Mei said glass only.”
Fangli holds the can to the side of her throat to enjoy the cold before opening it. It leaves a faint red mark on her skin. “I don’t care, to be honest. The image consultant said it was better because it was more sophisticated.”
“Image consultant?” I can guess the point from the name but it seems utterly unnecessary.
She grins at me. “I see her every six months. She was trained as a futurist.”
This is intriguing. “What does she tell you?”
Fangli tilts the can to drink in gulps. “It’s quite an experience. I enjoy it.”
“She dresses you?”
“Not for that money.” Fangli laughs. “She comes in for half a day, and we talk about world events and trends she sees. She works with CEOs mostly.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I need to be exactly a little ahead. Not too much and not behind.”
“How?” I’m puzzled. “How do you do that?”
“Training.” She shrugs. “Plus at this point, I create trends. If I cut my hair like yours, you would see a spike in that look globally in the next three months, beginning with specific demographic segments in Asian urban centers before spreading out to Western and European cities. Advertisers map out my brand reach and potential for market penetration before they sign me to promote their products.”
“Whoa.” She says that like it’s no biggie but it hits me that being Fangli is a multimillion-dollar business. This must be why Sam is so worried; there’s a lot of money at stake if I screw up. No pressure.
“I try not to think about it.” She beams. “Now tell me about what you’d be doing if you weren’t here.”
“Like, if I had a real job that wasn’t pretending to be you?” I think of Todd and shiver. My fear of him… Wait. Fear? Was I scared of him? It’s such a big word, more suited to a life-or-death situation than his kind of garden-variety assholeness, but the word sits right. I’d been scared, but to be honest, it wasn’t only Todd’s actions but my own reactions that frightened me. I’d freeze when he approached me. What did that say about me that I didn’t stop him?
“Or anything.”
“I’d go see my mom. She has Alzheimer’s and lives in a nursing home.” I get that out quickly, not wanting any pity.
Fangli doesn’t give me the look I dread. She only nods. “She’s lucky to have a devoted daughter since your father passed away.”
It must have been noted in the dossier she’d received from the private eye, but she does me the credit of mentioning it straight out instead of pretending she didn’t know about Dad. “He died almost ten years ago.” Cancer’s a bitch. I try not to think about it.
“Ah. I never knew my mother. She died when I was a baby. My father remarried to a nice woman but we have little in common.”
“Is he alive?”
“Lives in Beijing. I see him when I go home but he refuses to leave China.”
“Why?” There’s so much of the world to see.
“He says the world is in China.” She rolls her eyes. “I have no idea what it means either.”
“He didn’t have a problem with you acting?”
Fangli stretches and pulls her mass of hair back into a loose ponytail that she immediately drops down. “I’ve only ever wanted two things in my life. A pet cat—which he refused when I was a child and now I’m not home enough to take care of even if I had one—and to act.”