“Did you hurt your leg?” he asks as he stabs at the number panel.
“I am walking like a movie star.”
“You’re walking like your shoes are too loose and you’re trying to shuffle them on your feet as you move.”
“Oh.” This is too precise a critique to be taken as an insult so I decide to file it under Potentially Useful and think about it later.
“You’re going through with this?” His beautifully accented voice is low. According to his Wikipedia page, he had a British tutor growing up.
“Obviously.” I own my decision the same way Anjali or Fangli would.
He blows out his breath. “I’m doing this for Fangli and I want to be honest with you. I don’t think you have what it takes. You couldn’t manage a single photographer, let alone fifty.”
True but no need to point it out. “I was surprised.”
“When you screw this up, you can cause more damage than you know. Why are you doing this? Do you want to be famous that bad?” Even though his tone is earnest, the words are rude and that’s what I react to.
“She. Asked. Me. I didn’t go hunting her down and begging to be her second. You were there.” I don’t want to be famous, which is such a boring and jejune goal for a self-actualized human being that I would be ashamed to admit it. I need the money for my mother—that’s why I’m here. Not the applause. Not being seen. Money for Mom’s room.
“You should have said no.”
“You should have stopped her if it means so much to you.”
He grimaces. “You don’t know Fangli.”
You don’t know me either. I ignore him until the elevator doors open, then stalk out. My suitcase turns on its side and I struggle to get it back upright as Sam stands, arms crossed, and watches. His thoughts might as well be on a huge bubble over his head.
She can’t handle it.
Sam Yao can get under my skin without even trying, effortlessly pulling out every insecurity by simply being himself—confident, polished. Rich. Feted. All the things I’m not nor will ever be. Well, fuck him. Maybe I am a loser, but at least I’d help someone with their suitcase. I decide right then to exclude Sam from my usual policy of being nice. After I beat the bag into submission and tussle it down to 1573, Mei opens the door and watches as Sam follows me in.
“Ms. Wei will be back soon,” she says, keeping her gaze on Sam. “She had a meeting after your early show finished.”
“I’ll stay.” He goes to the window, which lights up his features like a goddamn sculpture, making me angrier, and pulls out his phone.
Mei stares after him, her eyes shining. Then, with a sigh, she turns to much more boring me.
“Your suite is ready.”
As promised, it’s right next door to Fangli’s. Again I try to be cool and again I fail when I rush into the space like I’ve been living in a camping tent and washing in a ditch for the last year. Living room! King-size bed! Big table and windows looking over the lake and huge mirrors on the closets. My own set of candles. I check the scent; it’s called Woods and I decide it’s the only smell I want in my nose for the rest of my life. I release my suitcase, which promptly topples over. Mei prods it with her toe. “Your things?”
“Yes.”
“They aren’t Ms. Wei’s style.” Interesting, since she hasn’t seen anything in the suitcase. She walks over and pulls open the （walk-in!） closet. “You need to wear these. I’ll leave you to get settled.”
The second she leaves, I step into the closet, suitcase dragging behind me. The walk-in is big enough to comfortably hold a chandelier of interconnected glass tubes, a chaise longue, and a cabinet in the middle. I walk around the chaise and wonder who they expect to lounge around in a closet.
When I turn to the clothes hanging in neat tiers along the walls, I realize that person could be me because I could spend all day here. I tuck my hands in my pockets as I survey my new and very lavish domain. Dresses—color-coded and arranged by length—are on the left beside a row of jackets. To the right are shirts, black shading through to white, and below that pants and skirts. I jiggle the drawers of the cabinet in the middle of the space and realize that must be where the jewelry is and that I’m not to be trusted with it. That’s fair. I don’t trust me with jewelry either. My last pair of earrings—silver threader chains—fell out of my ears and down a grate before I’d had them on for an hour.
The entire back wall is shoes and bags.