The Stand-In(29)

“Incredible.” I take another bite. “My mom used to make something like this but with way more garlic.”

“Lucky. I don’t think either of my parents have even made their own tea for the last forty years.”

“Did you eat out a lot?”

“Sometimes. Usually the amahs would cook for me but we had a chef for my parents.”

As if regretting sharing this information, Sam turns back to his food and we don’t speak for the rest of the meal. After the plates are cleared and we’re waiting for tea, I decide I enjoy the silence. I’ve been on enough dates to know I no longer have the desire to pretend a man is interesting, and with Sam I’m free of the need to bother. He’s not making an effort either, which gives me time to think about how much I’ve already adapted to people watching me, especially now that Margaret Atwood has left and there’s no one else to stare at.

None of them are obvious about it, but the occasional glances are like the flutter of butterfly wings on my skin. Individually it’s nothing, but collectively, it turns heavy. Sam picks up his tea when it arrives.

“We should talk so it doesn’t look like we’re fighting.” He delivers this in a dismal tone, like he’s going in for a disagreeable but necessary dental procedure.

I give him a go-right-ahead gesture and he stares at me, at a loss for words.

I rock the cup in the saucer. “Do you hire people to talk for you the same way you hire them to make your dinner reservations?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to someone outside of work,” he says.

If that’s true, it’s sad. Not enough to make me reassess his attitude but enough to make me continue the conversation. “What about your friends?”

“They’re all in the industry.”

Definitely sad. Too insular. I’m curious about this life they live. “Your Wikipedia page says you started as a stage actor.”

“We both did, Fangli and I, for a few years after drama school. Our teachers recommended it and they were right.”

“Why?”

He leans forward. “There’s an energy you get from a live audience that hones your craft. Their reactions can change the entire meaning of a performance and you need to adapt.”

I nod. “I remember once in university I said a line that was meant to be poignant. It worked in rehearsals but then the audience laughed. They thought it was funny.”

Sam taps the table. “Exactly. You need to react in the moment. There’s no scene to cut and try again. You have one shot with that audience and then it’s over. You can’t redo it.”

“Do you ever have regrets about a way you played a role on the stage?”

“Many. All the time.” He pushes his cup to the side. “My first roles were overacted and my gestures stiff.”

“Inexperience?”

He looks at me. “In part. It’s easier to act a part than to feel it. It was a battle to open up onstage.”

A flash comes from over my shoulder, and when Sam’s face smooths out from his previous animation, I realize that he’s been speaking to me not as Public Sam but as himself. “Someone took a photo,” he murmurs.

I had forgotten that I was there to play a role. I fold up my napkin with what I hope is elegance. “What do I do?”

“Keep talking. Fangli wouldn’t notice a single photo. It’s expected.”

“Why did you get into movies if you like the stage so much?”

He gives me a big smile. “You’ll like this answer: money.” He changes the topic. “You’ll be with Mei tomorrow,” he says. “Final prep.”

“For what?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Your new life as Fangli, of course.”





Twelve


Fangli’s in her room when we arrive back at the hotel, but she comes into mine when she hears us. From her reddened eyes, I know she’s been crying but I don’t feel comfortable enough to ask her what’s wrong, so I take my cue from Sam, who pretends not to notice. Maybe this is normal for her. He goes to his own suite down the hall, leaving us alone with Mei, who is in the kitchen making tea.

Fangli shakes her head, her hair bouncing. “I can’t get over how much we look alike,” she says. “How was dinner?”

I take off the wig and toss it on the table, where it spreads like an octopus. “It wasn’t what I expected,” I say as I scratch my head. Gross, but the wig makes me itchy.

“How so?” Fangli accepts the tea Mei brings out and I breathe in the delicate flowery aroma. It’s not jasmine or chrysanthemum so I sniff again. Maybe chamomile. Mei reminds Fangli of her personal trainer appointment in the morning, picks up my abandoned wig without comment, and leaves.

I sit cautiously on a chair, not wanting to tear a seam in my dress. “I was worried people would come talk to me,” I say.

“That happens occasionally, but most people are respectful, particularly in your country.”

“Some aren’t?”

She looks at me over the cup before she places it back on the table. “I’m not a person to them. I’m an object, a product. Commodities don’t have feelings or emotions.”

“Ah.” I don’t know what to say. My last boyfriend had a verbal code for these situations, where you have to acknowledge the issue but don’t have a productive comment. I dust it off and deploy. “That’s rough. How do you feel about that?”