There’s a slow turn of the crowd as they move to the open doors of the theater. I know from Sam the film is a comedy of errors loosely based on the Oscar Wilde play Lady Windermere’s Fan. Sam sits beside me and we both smile at the people in our row, who seem to know who I am without saying they do. We engage in some light chatter about the weather and how hot it is in LA this time of year; they thank God they had the jet because it makes traveling so much more convenient when you don’t have to wait for customs, and I thank God the lights dim before I need to continue this inane conversation.
In the dark, I am very aware of Sam sitting next to me. We’ve already done some polite elbow jujitsu over who gets the armrest between us but I end up ceding my hard-won territory to him when I realize the prison of women’s clothes makes it more comfortable to sit with my hands primly clasped in my lap and my back straight as a ruler. I shift around to find a comfortable position, but to my dismay, the Spanx start slipping. Only a bit, but like when your socks inevitably come down your calves to land in wrinkled cups by your ankles, the edges roll and my stomach struggles for release. When I get up, I’m going to have a tube right around my hips. While I want to fight the good fight for body positivity, I do not have the courage to do it in front of an A-list crowd.
“What’s the matter with you?” Sam hisses in my ear.
“My Spanx are falling down. If I stand up, they’ll bind my legs together.”
“Your what are falling down?”
“My underwear.” It’s the easiest way to describe them without getting into a discussion about women’s foundation garments.
He doesn’t even reply, merely covers his eyes with one hand as if attempting to gather his emotional strength.
“It’s not my fault.”
More silence.
“What do I do?”
He turns to me, stupefied. “How should I know? I don’t wear women’s underclothes. Surely by this age, you’ve mastered wearing them.”
“I don’t want to talk to you.” This conversation has been conducted in whispers, as if we’re sharing a private conversation that is absolutely not about my underwear.
“Good.”
“Good.”
The film starts right in without any trailers. I want to enjoy the movie, at least enough that I’ll be able to talk about it in the party after, but my clothes make the experience endless. By the halfway point, my thighs are shaking with the effort of trying to keep myself upright and unmoving. It’s no use. With every breath and tiny fidget, the Spanx continue their inexorable trip down my body and they’re now cutting into my lower hips.
Sam puts a hand on my knee, and while at any other time in my life, I would have been left stunned at his touch, right now all I can think is that delicate pressure might bring the Spanx down another centimeter. I can’t risk it and I knock his hand away.
“Then stop squirming around,” he mutters.
“Can I go to the washroom?”
“No.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, do rich people not pee?” This is a very not-Fangli thing to say and the dark look Sam shoots me confirms it.
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” he whispers.
There’s some solace in knowing he’s probably right. The chances of anyone looking at my stomach for the three minutes it will take me to get to the washroom for some adjustments are minimal. That is, as long as the Spanx don’t fall down completely. I take a few deeper breaths and wince as the elastic cuts into the fleshy part of my hips. That’s going to leave a mark.
What I need is distraction, like when you’re trying to get through the last ten seconds of a plank pose. The movie is good but not good enough, so my mind sorts through all my current issues: looking for a job, worrying about Mom, getting caught as a fake Fangli. Then it lands on the one that looms largest because he’s physically right beside me.
Sam.
There’s always an intimacy in a dark movie theater, and having him so near and in that suit is enough to send my imagination into overdrive. Sam taking my hand and pulling me close. Sam, his arm wrapped around me as he laughs in my ear at an excellent joke I’ve made. Sam watching me get ready before he pulls me back on the bed, his black hair and tanned skin a striking contrast to the white sheet. Sam giving me that same look as the first time in Fangli’s suite, but this time meaning it. Sam seeing me and not Fangli’s double.
The images on the screen pass by without me noticing what’s occurring because I’m thinking about Sam. Just for this little while, I promise myself. Only for the amount of time it takes for this movie to run will I let myself dive into the fantasy of what it would be like to be wanted by Sam, to be one of the few to know the man beneath that public exterior. To have him only want me.
I stifle a heavy sigh. It’s sweet that he and Fangli are such good friends but I’m even jealous of that. Not of Fangli specifically, but of the strength of their relationship. There’s a level of trust between them that can only have been forged through supporting each other in the hard times, when the work is difficult and you’re going to collapse because every muscle aches from fatigue. They know they can turn to each other.
The movie ends too soon and I reluctantly bid my dreams goodbye. I’m back to being fake Fangli with her Spanx cutting off her circulation.
“Beautiful tones,” approves the man beside me. “That palette was perfect.”
“Gorgeous,” I agree. Sam stands, and when I do, my Spanx slip down further. Sam senses my sudden grab because he glances back and then down. His eyes widen slightly.
Ah, so it is as bad as I thought. I can’t decide if this means vindication or humiliation.
I hobble out of the row after him and he puts his arm around my waist with his palm flat and spread against my hip. His touch is firm because he’s trying to keep up the damn elastic. We walk as if we’re in a three-legged race to the washroom, Sam with his dazzling social smile and me beside him. He leaves me at the door.
There’s a line. I can’t believe it. The men are probably swanning up to the urinals without a care in the world. Between my underwear, hunger, and this stupid aching yearning for Sam that I did to myself, I’m so done with tonight.
Sam is talking to a strange woman when I come out with my precarious undergarments now under control. Our gazes catch as I head toward him. He doesn’t stop his conversation but the eye contact lingers about two seconds longer than it should and I try to avoid stumbling over my own feet.
Don’t read into this. All that happened is that he looked at me as I approached. He’s looked at me before. He will look at me again and see me as part of a job.
I don’t want to be his job. I want to think he was looking at me, Gracie, the person who loves a generously poured glass of wine and thinks way too much about organizational planners, and not an alternate Fangli. This isn’t safe.
Then someone grabs me by the arm, hard, squealing into my ear.
“I can’t believe it’s really you!” A wide-eyed blond woman leans close, too close, and her grip on my arm doesn’t soften. “Can I get a selfie?”
This is what Fangli meant by people acting as if she’s nothing more than a robot. Sam’s at my side in a moment, but she doesn’t take her eyes off me.
If I humor her, it will end faster. “Of course,” I say politely.
“Your face is so cute! I loved you in Sin Eater.”
I stare at her, racking my brain for Fangli’s movies. I know that’s not on the list but it’s familiar. Comprehension hits Sam and me at the same moment.
Ellen Gao is the only Chinese actor in Sin Eater. She thinks I’m another person.
Deciding discretion is the better part of valor, I pose and smile as expected. She disappears almost as quickly as she appeared and Sam reaches for my arm. His smile fades and he glances around and makes a hand signal. In seconds, there’s a man in a black suit and earpiece beside him. Sam has a hushed conversation and the man nods once, looks at my arm, and leaves.
“She thought I was Ellen Gao,” I say, almost laughing. It’s not a funny laugh. I’m a little breathless and my adrenaline is up.
“That shouldn’t have happened. She snuck in and security will get her out.” Sam gestures to my arm, and I raise it to see the livid marks from her fingers. He strokes the skin gently, his expression hard. “Does that hurt? Do you want to leave?”
“No.” I steady my voice. “You said fifteen minutes at the party?”
“Only if you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it.” I said I’d take this job seriously and I’m going to. This time, I lead Sam.