The Stand-In(27)

“Too public.”

I guess it’s a good call because even the low heels I chose hurt my feet. I’ve been focusing so hard on my walking that I don’t notice the people in the lobby until we’re halfway through. Even in the Xanadu, temporary home of the rich and famous, Sam causes a ripple of interest. Eyes move to me and I realize it’s not only Sam, it’s Sam and me together. A brief silence falls over the lobby as we walk through, and I stumble slightly with the weight of their attention. Sam snaps his arm out and gathers me close in a single move that I know looks sexily protective, like the faithful bodyguard he played in one of his movies.

I think I hear a woman moan.

Gathering my wits, I flutter my eyelashes at him. I swear his mouth twitches but I must be wrong because he steadies me and then tucks my hand under his arm.

“Walk,” he mutters.

I make it to the car, which is not a car but an SUV that should have little flags fluttering on the front motorcade-style. Sam helps me in, which has the advantage of preventing people from seeing me sprawl sideways when I catch my foot.

He climbs in after me and closes his eyes.

“That wasn’t so bad,” I congratulate myself.

Sam opens one eye. “I hate to see your version of bad.”

“We made it.” I feel confident as I fix up my wig. Then I straighten up. “Is it like that wherever you go?”

“What?”

“People looking.”

“I told you it was.” He doesn’t sound impatient, only resigned.

I think about it. It was exhilarating, but I don’t want to tell Sam this. The little worm in my brain expands slightly as I realize I liked it. I liked being seen. Being admired.

It wasn’t you. That was for Fangli. No one would have turned for Gracie, not even a Gracie with a designer dress and long hair.

Good to remember.





Eleven


When we arrive at the restaurant, it’s hard to not be seduced. I smooth out the front of my dress as I get out of the car to the stares of passersby. They might not recognize us, but the sleek car and the manager who rushes out to meet us when the valet opens the door are visual signifiers that here be people with money and influence.

How would Fangli act? She’s used to fancy places, so she would resist trailing her fingers along the side of the staircase to see if that was real velvet covering the walls. When she reached the top of the stairs, she would check the room casually for acquaintances and wouldn’t squeak with glee when spotting Margaret Atwood.

So I don’t do those things either. Instead, I keep my expression schooled and focus on Sam’s shoulders as the manager leads us to a back table, the most private option the room offers. A silence washes over the restaurant, followed by a hum as people recognize us. This is a fancy place and its patrons are too cool to do anything so gauche as take photos or come up to us so the buzz is all we get.

I wonder if Margaret Atwood got the same attention.

The manager deftly slides the chair forward as I sit down and I give myself a silent high five for smiling in thanks, as a woman used to this would, instead of erupting into a flurry of “it’s okay” and “I got it, no worries” mumbles. The manager nods and leaves us alone with the menus. Too bad the table is turned so we’re on display to the rest of the room. I would much prefer to face the wall and have only my back visible.

I pick up the heavy card-stock menu that lies in front of me. Instead of long-winded descriptions or lists of ingredients, there are only five words typed in a row:

FISH

MEAT

BIRD

VEGETABLE

SWEET

I check the back but that’s it. There are no prices and I peek over at Sam’s paper. No prices there either.

“What is it now?” he asks, not lifting his eyes from the world’s most uninformative menu.

“You don’t think it’s strange to order ‘bird’ and leave the rest up to chance?”

He shrugs. “I trust the chef.”

We order when the server comes (MEAT for Sam and FISH for me), and I proudly remember to tell them no carrots in my best Fangli voice—low, confident, and warm. Sam gets into a spirited discussion of the best vintages on offer that will match our mystery food.

“I should have known you’re a wine guy,” I say when the server goes to get the drinks.

“A what?”

“You know, one of those guys who holds up the whole table to wax eloquent about viscosity and bouquet or whatever it is.”

“I hardly think I was holding up the whole table—which is you—to give the server an idea of what we want and to show respect to the sommelier’s cellar. It’s a pity she’s not in today.”

Then he starts speaking in Mandarin. I understand why when the server reappears; obviously it would be suspicious to be speaking English with only the two of us and I’m impressed Sam thought of this detail. I smile and nod as if I have a clue of what he’s saying.

The server shows us the bottle and uncorks the wine before pouring a bit into Sam’s glass with a neat flick of his wrist. He gives the bottle a quick swipe with the white cloth in his other hand and waits for Sam to swirl and taste and give his approving nod. I try to look interested.

The server leaves and I drink the wine down in a gulp before Sam’s narrowed eyes tell me I’ve made a tactical error. “I was thirsty,” I excuse myself.