The Stand-In(37)

“That might be stretching it. Amused, at a minimum.”

“There you go.”

“You win.” He sits back up.

“We weren’t fighting.”

“No,” he says with surprise. “That won’t last.” He looks at his very pretty watch. “Almost time.”

Dread builds. Dinner the other night was fine since all I had to do was eat. This is going to be me on display, with people who are comfortable approaching me and expecting articulate conversation.

This is why I’m getting the semi-big bucks. Fangli is confident I can do it, and despite his multitude of personality flaws, Sam will have my back if it will help Fangli.

He’s getting into quiz mode. “What’s your latest art purchase?” he asks.

“A Murat Tekin painting,” I say. Triumphant, I scramble through my notes. “Damn. That’s the last I sold. Look at that price tag. Is this what art people talk about?”

“Depends on the crowd.” He sighs. “Why she can’t be interested in more traditional art, I don’t know.”

“What do you collect?” I ask. “Ming porcelains?”

“Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty.” He glances at me out of the corner of those dark eyes. “My collection is currently touring. It’s in Berlin right now.”

“Oh.” I keep forgetting he comes from money as well as being famous. “That’s neat.”

He doesn’t grace this with a response, and I page through more screaming faces and outstretched hands as my anxiety ratchets up. At least I look right for the occasion and Sam’s single nod was a definite step up from his previous expressions when he saw me. The jumpsuit flows around my hips like water. It’s simple and perfect and the wig, with its heavy weight of hair, feels natural for the first time. I’ve even toned down my concerns about losing Fangli’s jewelry by about seventy percent.

The car takes us to the west end of town and turns down a residential street that transforms into an industrial zone. I peer out the window. “I know where we are.”

“You should. Don’t you live nearby?”

“I don’t go to a lot of modern art museums.”

“It’s contemporary art,” he corrects me.

I look at the dossier. “Aren’t they the same?”

Sam sighs. “Contemporary art is evolving and started around sixty years ago. It’s differentiated from modern art in that it’s more conceptually rather than aesthetically based.”

“Oh. Thus the screaming faces?”

“Thus the screaming faces.” He rubs his eyes. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“I can do it.” I’m confident now in the face of his doubt.

We turn a corner near a warehouse and then another before the car pulls up in front of a multistory building in the middle of what looks like an abandoned field. With a shock, I realize where I am. It’s right by the path where I go running. I must have passed this place a dozen times and only ever noticed the microbrewery next to it. This lack of awareness of my own surroundings saps my confidence and I grab Sam’s arm.

“You’re right. Let’s leave.”

He puts his hand on mine, I think to comfort me, but instead he shakes me off. “Too late.”

The door opens and we’re confronted by two strangers. Mei prepped me so I know they aren’t Fangli’s acquaintances, and I also know at this moment there is no way on earth I’m going to survive tonight.

“Showtime,” Sam says over his shoulder and gets out of the car.

I need out of here, now.





Fifteen


The two people from the art gallery introduce themselves, and I don’t even catch the names because I’m focused on my new plan. I stroke my throat as I mouth “laryngitis.” Sam turns wide eyes on me and I give him my softest and most beseeching Fangli smile, the one she uses when she’s apologizing. His return—and much more aggressive—smile says he’ll cover for me but we’re going to have one hell of a talk in private.

Sam has a gruesomely expressive face.

Our greeters burst out in polite worry, and Sam steps manfully into the breach. “Fangli refused to stay away,” he says. “She’s thrilled to see the exhibit, but of course you’ll have to forgive her for not speaking. She needs to recover her voice for the show tomorrow.”

The man darts away and I wonder if he’s off to spread the word. There’s a photographer on hand and Sam and I pose for some shots before going inside. Mei had given me instructions on Fangli’s favored pose, and I point my chin down and to the side with a slight tilt to my lips. The shutter clicks rapid-fire beside us, but unlike the scene with Mikey at the coffee shop, I don’t feel under attack. I might not be in control of the situation or have much of a clue what’s going on, but being dressed for the part and with someone who knows what he’s doing gives me a thin feeling of power.

Sam touches my bare arm to tell me we can stop and leans down to whisper in my ear. “Not bad.”

“High praise.” Even whispered, nerves give me a snippy tone that he ignores. The photographer was only one of tonight’s hurdles.

That familiar hush-and-buzz comes over the room when we enter, and I give my superstar Fangli smile as people come up. The first few minutes pass by in a blur as I refuse a glass of wine with great regret and nod my way through many introductions while immediately forgetting names and faces. I’m almost blinded by the beading on dresses, or more accurately gowns. These people are dressed fancier on a Tuesday night than I’ve seen at weddings, and one woman is channeling the excesses of the 1980s with sequined shoulder pads big enough for a linebacker and a suffocating dose of Dior’s Poison. I can’t tell if it’s her usual style or an artistic statement.