Is that…？ I edge closer. It is. It’s a Birkin. In fact, there are three Birkins lined in a neat row below what looks like the quilted leather of several Chanel clutches. I don’t even recognize the other brands but I assume they are expensive.
I take a photo and send to Anjali.
Show me the rest of that closet, she texts. Then take the Birkins and run.
I give in and start touching, letting my fingers run over the rich fabrics and luxurious leathers. I send the occasional photo to Anjali, who only replies with names and numbers.
Balenciaga. $4k
Chanel. $2k
Givenchy. $8k
When I’m done, I stand back. All of the clothes look my size, and in that entire closet there’s not one item I would have chosen for myself. No jeans. No flat shoes. Not a single pair of sweatpants. Am I expected to loaf around in clothes with non-stretchy waistbands like some sort of animal?
These are clothes you wear to be seen. I pull out a dress so elegantly cut it looks like art and turn to the three-way mirror while holding it against my body. This is not a dress you wear when binge-watching TV and eating pizza. I don’t even think it permits sitting positions. It gives me another peek into Fangli’s life and a premonition of what I can expect from the next two months.
Sam appears in the doorway of the closet. “Not wasting any time, I see.”
“Yes. I uprooted my life for a designer dress. Why are you here?”
Sam speaks to my reflection in the mirror. “I want to appeal to your better nature. You can see Fangli is desperate. Is that what you want, fame without putting in the work? To prey on someone like her?”
“It’s hardly fame when people think I’m another woman.” There’s a quaver in my voice as that little maggot that wanted to seek out the photographers squirms. Sam hears it and steps closer.
“You got fired.” His voice is low. “Why?”
“None of your business.” He’s the last person I would tell about Todd.
“Did you think this was a shortcut? That a woman as pretty as you could reach higher than working at an investment company? You saw a way to get your foot in the door and took it?”
I keep my eyes on him in the mirror. My shame at him reading me so well has turned to anger, and I pull it over me like chain mail. “You want me to leave?”
He hesitates. “Fangli wants you to stay.”
“Then knock it off,” I say to his reflection. “Otherwise I go out that door and she’s left on her own.”
His perfect lips thin but we hear Fangli greeting Mei in the other room.
“Your choice, movie star,” I say, channeling the new Gracie. “Also, you’re a dick for thinking that working at a regular job is reaching lower than being an actor.”
The tension between us rises, and I think he’s going to call my bluff. I drop the dress and reach out for the handle of my suitcase as Fangli comes in. “You came,” she says with relief.
That tone of utter exhausted gratitude must be what changes Sam’s opinion because he leans in to me. “We’re getting to know each other.”
Fangli looks from his warm face to my confused one. Because I’m not an actor, I haven’t been able to adjust to the new Sam in seconds.
“Let me change and we’ll talk,” she says.
When she leaves the room, Sam moves away and we face off again. “Be civil,” I say. It’s hard to not try to keep the peace, even after a fight. “We need to work together.”
There’s another long silence and then Sam simply turns and leaves. I watch him go, wondering if I’ve won this round. I think I did and I get back a tiny bit of the pride Todd whittled away.
I go back to the closet before a thought stops me dead.
Did Sam Yao, the Sam Yao, call me pretty?
***
True to her promise, Fangli is soon back in my room. Her face is scrubbed clean and she wears a huge bathrobe that drags behind her like the train on a gown. She could attend the Met Gala as is. I’ve sorted through the clothes again and noticed they come in several categories: Major Event, Very Fancy, and Regular Fancy.
“Do you like them?” She points at the wardrobe.
“You must like shopping. Is that one of the things I’ll need to do?”
She looks honestly shocked. “I don’t go to stores. They send people to me.”
We stare at each other. “How do they know what you want?” I ask.
Fangli shrugs. “They bring the collection. I like to pick my own garments. Otherwise a stylist would create my looks.”