The Stand-In(48)

“Not even lipstick?”

“Use this.” It’s a tinted lip balm.

When we stand side by side, we look almost like sisters, but there’s no way an average person will mistake the slight, ponytailed and bare-faced woman in the ball cap for a film star, at least not in Toronto. “Looks good to me,” I say.

“Let’s do it.” She has a pink flush on her cheeks. “We’ll wander around with a coffee from the Starbucks.”

“I’ll go down first and wait for you outside the lobby doors, just in case,” I say. “The lobby’s the worst part for people watching who’s coming in and out.”

Fangli nods as she takes the little cross-body bag I give her. With my short hair and minimal makeup I look like no one in particular, so I stroll through the lobby without an issue. Fangli joins me and we hit the streets.

I decide to ditch the dive bar idea and take her up Yonge Street, which is only a few minutes from the hotel. I tap in our coffee orders for the mobile pickup, and soon Fangli is living the dream of sipping a decaf Americano as she walks up a dirty sidewalk. Since it’s summer, there are people milling around, and except for a guy who walks in front of us to say, “Hubba-hubba,” Fangli is thrilled to discover no one gives a shit who she is.

“What’s it like for you back home?” I ask. “Can you walk around like this?”

She shakes her head so hard her hat falls off. “I have a driver and security.”

“Even to go to the store?”

Fangli waves her coffee at me. “I don’t go to the store. It’s not safe for me or people around me. I get mobbed.”

“But not here.”

She grins. “I’m not as popular here. It’s a pleasure.”

I try to imagine being this famous. “Do you like it?”

“It’s not a matter of like or not. It’s what it is. I need to act because I want to be remembered for something, for this life to mean something.” She shrugs. “I can do what I love and make money at it. How can I complain that I can’t go get coffee whenever I want?”

We pass a drugstore and Fangli pauses to look at a sign promoting a sale on Trident. “Do you need some gum?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t chewed gum in years. My manager forbade it. It looks inelegant.”

Imagine being forbidden a stick of Juicy Fruit. “Tonight’s for you,” I say. “Go nuts.”

We duck in. I leave Fangli deliberating over the candy display—how are there so many gum flavors in the world?—and look around. It’s a big store, with a high-end cosmetics counter. I have all I need back at the hotel, but my eyes linger on the lipsticks. The last one I bought was the unflattering neutral I got for Garnet Brothers.

“Can I help you with something?” A sales associate comes over with a practiced smile.

“No, thanks. I’m only browsing.”

“Of course. I’m right here if you need me.”

She heads over to organize a shelf of concealers. In front of me are a shiny line of Diors in little black and silver cases. They look sleek and chic, and in the last row, on the far left, is a deep oxblood shade. It’s darker and edgier than the brighter reds I used to wear and I now wear as Fangli, but I can’t take my eyes off it.

“Excuse me.” The woman turns back around at my call. “Sorry, can I get that lipstick?”

“Sure.” She opens a wide drawer and grabs it. “I’ll cash you out.”

After I suffer a momentary heart attack because since when has lipstick cost fifty bucks, I join Fangli at the front of the store where it looks like she’s buying one of every gum on display. Not quite under-the-radar behavior but she’s so happy I don’t mention it.

My new purchase is tucked safely in my purse, a secret that gives me as much joy as Fangli seems to be getting from the gum. It’s such a small thing, that little tube in my purse, but it’s so big at the same time. It’s mine.

Fangli finishes scanning her items at the self-checkout. When we leave, she swings her bag like a kid with a new toy.

“Want some?” she asks, digging into the bag.

I hold up my coffee. “Later.”

A roar comes from the crowd ahead; there’s a concert at Yonge-Dundas Square. “Want to check it out?” I ask. It sounds fun.

Fangli’s face is longing but hesitant. “Will it be safe?”

“Sure. We’ll stay on the edge so we don’t get squished in the crowd.”

This eases her concern. The music isn’t crazy loud, and on the edges, people are dancing and smoking. Fangli stares around with wide eyes. Most of the people are in their twenties and they cover all styles. “Everyone is different,” she marvels. “The crowd is so small.”

I try to see it from her perspective. “How many people live in Beijing?” I ask.

“Over twenty million.”

About ten times the size of Toronto. I can’t even comprehend how big that is. There’s a churro truck nearby, so I grab a couple. We get covered in sugar, lick dulce de leche off our fingers, and shout out the chorus to the song, or at least what we think are the words. It’s fun until I pull out my phone to check the time and see a row of increasingly frantic texts from Sam.

Where are you?