The Stand-In(16)

I scrunch my nose. “Graphic.”

She sighs. “Not that it wouldn’t be worth it. Try to get him my number.”

“He can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”

“You’ll handle him,” she says with misplaced confidence as she goes to the kitchen and runs the tap. After returning with two glasses of water, she sits down. “For fun, let’s go through all the things that can go wrong.”

“I’ve already been through them, multiple times.”

“Excellent, then it’ll be a nice refresher.” She lifts one finger. “We’ve talked about using your dead body as proof of Fangli’s demise to help her escape from a stifling public life.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Potentially far-fetched but remains possible.” She flips up a second finger. “No time to job hunt.”

“I am capable of scanning job sites for ten minutes each day while training to be a body double.”

“Number three—and this is the biggie—if this goes wrong, your privacy will be shot.” She points at her phone. “Imagine you all over ZZTV and social media, outed as an impersonator. It took you two years to try out red lipstick, for God’s sake, and you’ve even stopped doing that. You only wear two colors, black and boring. How are you going to handle worldwide attention even if it doesn’t all go to shit?”

Since I’ve already worried this to death, I have the answer Fangli gave me, the one I’ve been consoling myself with. “First, I did wear the lipstick.” Until Todd’s attention ruined that cosmetic adventure. “Second, it’s going to be like playing a part, and I’ve done that before.”

“Are you saying that being in a school play is good preparation for walking a red carpet? You can’t be that delusional.”

“I’m saying I’ve done some research and I will inhabit a persona to help me cope, like an actor in a play or a performer onstage.”

“You’re going to Sasha Fierce this?”

I shrug. “Works for Beyoncé.”

She picks up her wine, puts it down, and then picks it up again. “And the part about it all going to hell?”

“They have teams to take care of that,” I say. Fangli assured me if her plan went south, she’d call her manager and he’d do what was needed, even though he’d be furious she’d left him in the dark. Sam hadn’t disputed this, so I took it as truth.

“The team’s solution might be to let you hang,” Anjali says.

“The whole point of this is that it doesn’t get out,” I reason.

She blinks. “Holy smokes, you want to do this. You’re finding excuses because you want it.”

“It’s the money.”

“No, it’s not. You want to fake being Fangli.” She shakes her finger. “Insert the trust your friend lecture here.”

I throw myself back on the couch. “I’m doing it for the money.”

“How many times do these words need to leave my red-wine-stained zombie lips? Trust.”

“It’s a lot of money,” I say. “I don’t have a job.”

“Your.” She leans forward as if daring me.

“Look, I don’t have much of a choice.”

“Friend.” She nearly yells it and gestures at me with her wineglass, almost spilling it on the couch.

I crack. “Fuck. I do. I want to do it. I admit it.” I cover my face and feel the skin heat with embarrassment beneath my hands.

“Okay.”

Peeking out from my fingers, I see her grinning at me. “What?”

“Yeah, I get it. It’s a terrible idea but I get why you want to do it.”

“You do?”

“You get to live like a movie star and hang out with Sam Yao for two months. What’s not to get?” She sighs. “I’d probably do the same. Life’s for living, right?”

That hasn’t been my mantra to date, but it’s far more affirming than play it safe, so I grasp at it. “I’m nervous.”

“You should be,” she says darkly, nixing any hope for a pep talk. “But if you’re going to do it, you’re going to do it. How much money are we talking about, by the way?”

I tell her how much and she frowns.

“Did you negotiate?”

“Should I have?” I didn’t even think of it. “She originally offered a hundred grand.”

“Then she would have gone higher. When do you get paid?” She sees my face. “You didn’t ask, did you?”

“I will,” I promise. Chagrin sets in at my poor business sense.

“You need to tell them to give you at least twenty percent up front. Do it tomorrow.” I give her a look and she’s self-aware enough to laugh. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I? Getting in your face exactly like the life coach says I do?”

“You are, but you’re right.”

“I know. I did your budget for you. I’m going to back off now and promise not to text you about this tomorrow.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Not text you more than once,” she amends.

“Thank you.”

“Here’s to hoping you don’t end up dead.” She raises her glass.