She continued tapping away as the car moved.
‘We’ll do hair and make-up at the hotel. I decided that tonight.’ Her mother’s long false lashes still didn’t flutter up. ‘I booked the girl who did your face tonight at the award show. I liked her. She didn’t talk too much. I hate when they talk too much. I hate when you talk back to them. Why do you need to be their friend? What are you going to gossip about, boys? Will you invite her to your wedding? They just want to use you for what you have! Leeches. Always maintain a cool distance, Zhinu. You are their empress and empresses do not gossip with silly market women. Besides, I don’t trust the beauty people at the station. They always age you . . .’
Zhinu was sure not a single breath had been taken. She often wondered if breathing was something her mother pantomimed so that people wouldn’t ask too many questions concerning her immortality.
‘ . . . Hey, Bingwen. You remember last time? They emphasised Zhinu’s laugh lines. I keep telling her about those laugh lines! No need to smile that wide. You’re a popstar not a clown, I said!’
Zhinu’s mother didn’t glance up as she called to her personal assistant, who was sat in the passenger seat of the sleek, tinted saloon car. Zhinu saw the back of Bingwen’s designer haircut （a ridiculous low-fade dyed blond, quaffed at the top, while his edges remained dark） bob up and down.
‘Oh, absolutely.’ His voice dripped with thick derision. ‘It was dreadful. She looked older than you!’
Bingwen’s primary purpose was to echo Zhinu’s mother’s thoughts with just a little added acid. Zhinu’s mother was shrewd enough to know she had to be at least a little careful with her delivery; she acknowledged her dual role of manager and pastoral carer to that extent, at least. So, yes, while she always kept a sword pointed to Zhinu’s back to keep her moving, she also pressed the flat of the blade against her child’s head to cool her when she had a fever and used it to gently brush hair from her face and tell her that everything would be okay. ‘As long as you do as I say, Little Star.’
Bingwen was her conduit, through which she could deliver the messages she knew would sound too harsh coming from her own mouth. Bingwen relished this role. The contempt with which he spoke might not have been audible to the untrained ear, but Zhinu was a musician, and had been so since birth, so she could detect a key that was even very slightly off, or a pipa that was just a little out of tune, or, in this case, the bitterness of a wannabe star with no discernible talent and an unhealthy obsession with fame. Bingwen was her mother’s lapdog. He started as her hairstylist and rose through the ranks by unrelentingly sucking up to her. Zhinu’s mother’s vanity made the seduction easy, and it was clear that Bingwen was who she wished her daughter was. It was clear mainly because she often said it out loud. She joked （lamented） that ‘if only it were possible to pour Bingwen’s soul into Zhinu’s body . . .’ Zhinu’s mother would then laugh. Bingwen would laugh louder still – too loud, deafeningly loud – with the kind of unhinged raucousness that usually came with grief-fuelled wailing, yearning. They would laugh while Zhinu would remain still, silently nauseated, marvelling at the ease with which they referred to this actual nightmare as if it were a wistful dream. And they never wondered about what would happen to Zhinu’s usurped soul.
Zhinu had often made intimations of wanting her own assistant, but her mother had swatted her away. ‘You have me, Zhinu. What else do you need? I know best. I know you better than you know yourself.’
The crystals that dotted Zhinu’s near-sheer, skin-tight gown began to feel heavy on her skin. As if she could feel each and every one pressing their weight into her. ‘Pressure creates diamonds, Little Star! Suck it up,’ her mother would say . . . Oh no. She could now hear her mother’s voice inside her head. Zhinu adjusted herself in her seat and looked out of the tinted window of their chauffeured car, into the falling dusk. She didn’t recognise the town, but it was gorgeous. Rural blended into the urban, and towering, elegant ginkgo trees lined the streets like flirtatious lashes, giving way to bright, yellow, glowing windows and glittering storefronts that were stacked, multi-coloured, seductive. From the outside, all anyone would see looking into the car window was a gleaming black pane that shut them out. Zhinu leant her forehead against the cool glass and saw a strange warping of reality, the world as it was but muted, less vivid. It was as if she were tasting food with a numbed tongue.