The Stand-In(56)

“You’d never let me forget it.”

“True. Wei Fangli, glad to see you.” He nods and I remember the internet says he has a phobia about touching people. “It must be three years now. Four?”

“At least.” I’m having a conversation with someone who knows Fangli.

“There’s something different about you.” He looks at me and cocks his head slightly to the side as I try not to freak out. “New hairstyle,” he finally decides.

I passed the test. Sam touches my arm in a small celebratory gesture.

A harried woman in a gray dress and a headset tugs on Eddy’s arm and mutters into his ear. He nods. “Right, I’ll see you at the after-party, Sam?”

“We have an early morning tomorrow but we’ll come for a bit.”

That’s it. Eddy is swallowed by the crowd and Sam plucks two glasses of bubbly wine off a passing tray. I take it and resist tossing it back like a shot since Fangli doesn’t drink.

The stars of the movie arrive and Sam and I drift back to the edges of the crowd. I make sure to keep on a small smile. “We’ll greet them later,” he says. “How are you?”

“Good,” I say. Then I repeat it. “Good.” I am. My smile hasn’t slipped and I managed the Running of the Photographers, safer but somehow more intimidating than the bulls of Pamplona. “What’s next?”

“Since we timed it to arrive a bit late, we can avoid most of the mingling. We’ll be asked to go into the theater. We watch the movie. Clap. Follow everyone to a room. Decline a drink. Stay fifteen minutes and leave.”

“Sounds like a hot date,” I say.

“Only the best for you.” He drops me a cheesy wink.

A low voice carries over an intercom. “Please take your seats. Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats.”

There’s a slow turn of the crowd as they move to the open doors of the theater. I know from Sam the film is a comedy of errors loosely based on the Oscar Wilde play Lady Windermere’s Fan. Sam sits beside me and we both smile at the people in our row, who seem to know who I am without saying they do. We engage in some light chatter about the weather and how hot it is in LA this time of year; they thank God they had the jet because it makes traveling so much more convenient when you don’t have to wait for customs, and I thank God the lights dim before I need to continue this inane conversation.

In the dark, I am very aware of Sam sitting next to me. We’ve already done some polite elbow jujitsu over who gets the armrest between us but I end up ceding my hard-won territory to him when I realize the prison of women’s clothes makes it more comfortable to sit with my hands primly clasped in my lap and my back straight as a ruler. I shift around to find a comfortable position, but to my dismay, the Spanx start slipping. Only a bit, but like when your socks inevitably come down your calves to land in wrinkled cups by your ankles, the edges roll and my stomach struggles for release. When I get up, I’m going to have a tube right around my hips. While I want to fight the good fight for body positivity, I do not have the courage to do it in front of an A-list crowd.

“What’s the matter with you?” Sam hisses in my ear.

“My Spanx are falling down. If I stand up, they’ll bind my legs together.”

“Your what are falling down?”

“My underwear.” It’s the easiest way to describe them without getting into a discussion about women’s foundation garments.

He doesn’t even reply, merely covers his eyes with one hand as if attempting to gather his emotional strength.

“It’s not my fault.”

More silence.

“What do I do?”

He turns to me, stupefied. “How should I know? I don’t wear women’s underclothes. Surely by this age, you’ve mastered wearing them.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.” This conversation has been conducted in whispers, as if we’re sharing a private conversation that is absolutely not about my underwear.

“Good.”

“Good.”

The film starts right in without any trailers. I want to enjoy the movie, at least enough that I’ll be able to talk about it in the party after, but my clothes make the experience endless. By the halfway point, my thighs are shaking with the effort of trying to keep myself upright and unmoving. It’s no use. With every breath and tiny fidget, the Spanx continue their inexorable trip down my body and they’re now cutting into my lower hips.

Sam puts a hand on my knee, and while at any other time in my life, I would have been left stunned at his touch, right now all I can think is that delicate pressure might bring the Spanx down another centimeter. I can’t risk it and I knock his hand away.

“Then stop squirming around,” he mutters.

“Can I go to the washroom?”

“No.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, do rich people not pee?” This is a very not-Fangli thing to say and the dark look Sam shoots me confirms it.

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” he whispers.

There’s some solace in knowing he’s probably right. The chances of anyone looking at my stomach for the three minutes it will take me to get to the washroom for some adjustments are minimal. That is, as long as the Spanx don’t fall down completely. I take a few deeper breaths and wince as the elastic cuts into the fleshy part of my hips. That’s going to leave a mark.