The Stand-In(19)

“You should have said no.”

“You should have stopped her if it means so much to you.”

He grimaces. “You don’t know Fangli.”

You don’t know me either. I ignore him until the elevator doors open, then stalk out. My suitcase turns on its side and I struggle to get it back upright as Sam stands, arms crossed, and watches. His thoughts might as well be on a huge bubble over his head.

She can’t handle it.

Sam Yao can get under my skin without even trying, effortlessly pulling out every insecurity by simply being himself—confident, polished. Rich. Feted. All the things I’m not nor will ever be. Well, fuck him. Maybe I am a loser, but at least I’d help someone with their suitcase. I decide right then to exclude Sam from my usual policy of being nice. After I beat the bag into submission and tussle it down to 1573, Mei opens the door and watches as Sam follows me in.

“Ms. Wei will be back soon,” she says, keeping her gaze on Sam. “She had a meeting after your early show finished.”

“I’ll stay.” He goes to the window, which lights up his features like a goddamn sculpture, making me angrier, and pulls out his phone.

Mei stares after him, her eyes shining. Then, with a sigh, she turns to much more boring me.

“Your suite is ready.”

As promised, it’s right next door to Fangli’s. Again I try to be cool and again I fail when I rush into the space like I’ve been living in a camping tent and washing in a ditch for the last year. Living room! King-size bed! Big table and windows looking over the lake and huge mirrors on the closets. My own set of candles. I check the scent; it’s called Woods and I decide it’s the only smell I want in my nose for the rest of my life. I release my suitcase, which promptly topples over. Mei prods it with her toe. “Your things?”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t Ms. Wei’s style.” Interesting, since she hasn’t seen anything in the suitcase. She walks over and pulls open the (walk-in!) closet. “You need to wear these. I’ll leave you to get settled.”

The second she leaves, I step into the closet, suitcase dragging behind me. The walk-in is big enough to comfortably hold a chandelier of interconnected glass tubes, a chaise longue, and a cabinet in the middle. I walk around the chaise and wonder who they expect to lounge around in a closet.

When I turn to the clothes hanging in neat tiers along the walls, I realize that person could be me because I could spend all day here. I tuck my hands in my pockets as I survey my new and very lavish domain. Dresses—color-coded and arranged by length—are on the left beside a row of jackets. To the right are shirts, black shading through to white, and below that pants and skirts. I jiggle the drawers of the cabinet in the middle of the space and realize that must be where the jewelry is and that I’m not to be trusted with it. That’s fair. I don’t trust me with jewelry either. My last pair of earrings—silver threader chains—fell out of my ears and down a grate before I’d had them on for an hour.

The entire back wall is shoes and bags.

Is that…? I edge closer. It is. It’s a Birkin. In fact, there are three Birkins lined in a neat row below what looks like the quilted leather of several Chanel clutches. I don’t even recognize the other brands but I assume they are expensive.

I take a photo and send to Anjali.

Show me the rest of that closet, she texts. Then take the Birkins and run.

I give in and start touching, letting my fingers run over the rich fabrics and luxurious leathers. I send the occasional photo to Anjali, who only replies with names and numbers.

Balenciaga. $4k

Chanel. $2k

Givenchy. $8k

When I’m done, I stand back. All of the clothes look my size, and in that entire closet there’s not one item I would have chosen for myself. No jeans. No flat shoes. Not a single pair of sweatpants. Am I expected to loaf around in clothes with non-stretchy waistbands like some sort of animal?

These are clothes you wear to be seen. I pull out a dress so elegantly cut it looks like art and turn to the three-way mirror while holding it against my body. This is not a dress you wear when binge-watching TV and eating pizza. I don’t even think it permits sitting positions. It gives me another peek into Fangli’s life and a premonition of what I can expect from the next two months.

Sam appears in the doorway of the closet. “Not wasting any time, I see.”

“Yes. I uprooted my life for a designer dress. Why are you here?”

Sam speaks to my reflection in the mirror. “I want to appeal to your better nature. You can see Fangli is desperate. Is that what you want, fame without putting in the work? To prey on someone like her?”

“It’s hardly fame when people think I’m another woman.” There’s a quaver in my voice as that little maggot that wanted to seek out the photographers squirms. Sam hears it and steps closer.

“You got fired.” His voice is low. “Why?”

“None of your business.” He’s the last person I would tell about Todd.

“Did you think this was a shortcut? That a woman as pretty as you could reach higher than working at an investment company? You saw a way to get your foot in the door and took it?”

I keep my eyes on him in the mirror. My shame at him reading me so well has turned to anger, and I pull it over me like chain mail. “You want me to leave?”