At 11:50 a.m. the next day I do my best to swing into the Xanadu like I own the place. Although I know the hotel is one of the most exclusive in the city, I’m a little disappointed there’s no Olivia Newton-John memorabilia. The lobby is decorated with sleek black vases on spotless glass tables, each holding a single white poppy with a hot-pink stem. The faint, light smell of green tea and fig wafts through the space as an olfactory welcome.
As my heart thumps, I remind myself it’s only a hotel. I’ve been to a lot of hotels, including a honeymoon suite in Niagara Falls (not on a honeymoon) that had a heart-shaped red hot tub with short, curly hairs decorating the taps. But there’s no denying if I had to place the Xanadu and that tourist trap on a map, they would occupy diametric spaces.
I try to look like I belong as I search for the elevators, which I can’t find because the lobby has apparently been carved from a single slab of black marble traced with golden veins. I tilt down my sunglasses—I obeyed the disguise instructions, grateful because this wouldn’t have occurred to me at all—and assess the situation. A woman in a black suit, so slender she’s barely wider than her stilettoes, comes near me and I stop her.
“Sorry, can you tell me where the elevators are?”
She looks down her medically sculpted nose. “Do I look like the help?” Her voice is high and weedy.
Normally I’d crawl away and die after being given that look, but this time her attitude is like chewing on tinfoil. “Yes.” I glance at her projecting chest as though searching for a name tag. “Aren’t you Tracy? From the front desk.” Then I sidestep her and walk away, rejoicing in my single hit at the one percent. Eat the rich.
I eventually find the elevators at the back of the lobby near the recessed concierge desk. The elevators are black marble as well, and I spend the time going up to the fifteenth floor wondering if some poor sap spends their time polishing every square inch of this design nightmare. The walls shine like mirrors, reflective enough that I can take off my hat and give my hair a final fix.
The elevator doors silently open onto a monochrome-gray corridor with bronze sconces on the walls. My hand tightens on my purse, and I force my breath out through the lump in my chest. You don’t need to take any deals. This is an informational interview only.
I check the directions painted in script on the wall and find Room 1573 seven doors down to the left. My hand hovers near the peephole: I can knock or I can run.
The choice is taken from me when the door swings open to reveal a woman I don’t recognize. Her black hair is cut into a sleek bob that parts precisely in the middle to frame her face and swings forward when she nods at me. “Ms. Reed?”
“Yes.” I pull off my shades, and her eyes widen slightly as she gestures me in. I try to pretend this is nothing out of my ordinary, but this is no standard room. Every other place I’ve stayed has the closet to one side of the door, the bathroom on the other, and the bed in the room beyond placed on slightly stained industrial carpet, possibly with a faint pattern picked out in maroon. Here I stand on a thick, ivory-toned Persian rug laid over dark hardwood floors in a room larger than my whole apartment. A conversation zone of deep white-leather couches surrounds a large, glossy black coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows reveal the lake, and I can see the green trees of the Toronto Islands. The air is slightly perfumed with cedar from a line of flickering black-jarred candles lining the side table.
I do my best to not look flustered but I know the red is creeping up my neck from nerves.
Fangli stands as I enter, and I’m not surprised to see her watchdog Sam there. I am surprised when my heart skips a beat. He stands in a puddle of morning sun that lights him up. In all black with his hair tumbling down over his eyes, Sam Yao is so hot and so cool that he should explode from the contrast.
“I can’t believe you’re going through with this,” he tells Fangli, in English so it’s obvious he wants me to hear. He doesn’t look at me.
Bam! There we go! He was a jerk in the car and he’s a jerk now. He was obviously posing in the perfect light because he’s a movie star and that’s what they do. I feel him becoming less attractive in my mind. The idea slowly comes to me that this man is going to be out of my life in a minute and I don’t have to like him or impress him; it’s a revelation for my usual people-pleasing self.
Fangli comes over, tailored gray pantsuit flowing around her, and leans in to deliver not one but three air-kisses. I stand straight, not wanting to move accidentally to the wrong side and mess up her perfectly applied red lipstick. Up close, her makeup can’t cover the dark shadows under her eyes or the anxiety pinching her face. Despite the fatigue, her skin is smooth and luminous. The more I look at her, the more I can feel my every imperfection, including the freckles on my nose that never bothered me before. I’m the country mouse next to the city mouse.
“I’m grateful you came,” she says, taking my hands and drawing me over to the couch. When I realize how pleased I am to follow her, I make sure to keep some distance between us. My internet search this morning made it clear she’s been expertly trained to charm. I couldn’t find a single negative article about her. She’s never stepped wrong in her public or personal life, has never been a drunken mess or said an unkind word. In fact, the phrase “consummate professional” came up multiple times.
I ruffle up my hair as we sit down. Like a fish senses a shark, I feel Sam moving to the couches behind me, but I don’t look. “I’m not sure this is the right thing for me,” I say cautiously. I should tell her flat out that I made a mistake when I texted her but it’s hard when faced with Fangli in person. I decided in the elevator to have a quick conversation, give a noncommittal answer, and then leave the country, which is obviously the best and most reasonable way to deal with this situation with minimal awkwardness. Maybe I should have ghosted on this entire meeting.
“Before we begin, you need to sign this.” Sam slides a paper in front of me.
I read it over. This nondisclosure agreement (the “Agreement”) dated on this 19th day of June… “An NDA?”
“We need to protect ourselves.”
“It’s the usual process,” Fangli assures me. “It protects both of us.”
To irritate Sam, I read the Agreement with exaggerated slowness. It’s a reasonable request for someone who assumes I’m untrustworthy and can be summarized as Gracie will keep her mouth shut under pain of death or at least protracted and expensive legal proceedings. I sign it and Fangli does as well, with Sam as the witness.
“Now we can speak freely,” says Fangli, looking at the signatures with satisfaction.
“Right. As I said, I’m not sure about this,” I say.
“You lost your job this week,” Sam says, coming into my field of vision.
I don’t reply and Fangli speaks as if he hasn’t said a word. “It’s as I discussed in the car. I’m here for two months and I need a double for public appearances. You would live next door in a room that adjoins this suite.”
Live here in a luxury hotel. Okay, there’s that. “Who would know?”
“Only the three of us and my assistant. My manager would not approve.” She smiles tightly.
“Why not?”
Behind me, Sam sighs. “Because this is an outrageous idea. That’s why he wouldn’t approve and why Fangli isn’t telling him.” I glance over, surprised. He doesn’t sound harsh, only worn out, like a man who’s done his heroic best and failed mightily.
“My manager is what you would call a workaholic,” Fangli says, not looking at Sam. “He doesn’t understand exhaustion but I’m tired out.”
Having experienced burnout, this makes sense, although my solution was not to hire a body double. Well, it takes all kinds. An idea occurs to me. “Are you using me to lure a stalker?”
“No.”
No stalkers, that’s good. “What kind of events are we talking about?” Why am I asking when I don’t want to do it? It’s like a job interview where you know the moment you walk in that the place isn’t for you, but you feel obliged to go through the motions so as to not be rude. I don’t have the courage to cut this short, not after saying I would come.