He disappears right as room service arrives. Once he’s gone, I page through my Fangli notes as I wolf down the pasta and then pop a Tylenol. At the top of my to-do list is one overwhelming task: Pretend to be Wei Fangli.
That’s a big action item. But if there’s one thing my thorough examination of productivity plans has taught me, it’s to break big tasks into smaller actions. Humming happily to myself, I check for any new apps that might meet my needs. I’m multitasking, as this is good research for Eppy as well. I decided last night Eppy—secret acronym for Easy Planning Per Year—would be the name of my task planner.
“Wo ke le. I am thirsty.” I absentmindedly repeat the language lesson that has become the background music of my life. Hopefully it will subliminally enter my brain. There’s nothing new to try out in the world of productivity planning so I grab a pen and some paper.
“Wo chi mifan. I eat rice.” Do I need to find footage of Fangli eating? I ponder this for a minute before discarding it as unnecessary.
“Wo he shui. I drink water.” An outfit. Won’t be a problem, I can wear the dress I have on. I tap the pen against my teeth and write “shave legs.”
I add a few more tasks but then remember that outside of being Fangli, I need to check the wait list at Xin Guang, call the lawyer about Garnet Brothers, and pay my rent. I add them and make a face for not thinking of my own life earlier.
Finally, I check my bank account to see if the payment to Mom’s home went through.
Then I look again because I am a lot of zeros richer than I was yesterday. It’s Fangli’s first payment. My situation is suddenly more real than it had been six minutes ago. Money has officially changed hands, which means I now owe her. My head is aching too much to think about it so I shut down the app and suck in deep breaths.
Taking my notepad and phone into the bedroom, I toss them onto the rumpled duvet and climb up beside them. （Mei has told housekeeping we’ll call if we need anyone to come make up the room or bring fresh towels in order to head off any inadvertent missteps by yours truly, so I’m in charge of making my own bed.） My eyes droop and I set my alarm for an hour. A quick nap and I’ll be as good as new.
***
I wake slowly and bury my face back into the fluffy puffball of a pillow the Xanadu has decided is the most appropriately extravagant of sleeping options. A few more minutes, I promise myself, even though I’m more rested than I’ve been in days. I yawn and stretch, thinking how calm the room feels in the dusk. Relaxing.
Dusk?
I fumble for my phone. It’s almost nine and Sam’s coming in thirty minutes for dinner.
“No. Damn, no.” Fully awake, I leap out of bed, get tangled in the bedsheets, and fall over in a cloudy white lump before I stumble to the bathroom, trailing the sheets behind me like the most inelegant of wedding dresses. It’s too late for the refreshing shower I had planned, so I splash water on my face and do my best to brush my hair and teeth at the same time. The face. I groan as I mentally review the multistep Fangli Face process. I screw up the eyeliner twice and then poke myself in the eye with the mascara wand. This is not a good start.
At least the lipstick goes on without a problem, and I suck on my finger to make sure I don’t get any on my teeth, a tip from Mom back when I first started wearing lipstick. It worked for my first neutral corals and even better once I worked up to my ruby reds.
Since I slept in the dress I was going to wear—and in my bra, which I peel off for the relief of unsticking it and wiping my underboob with a towel—I need to find a new outfit.
“Are you ready?” Sam’s impatient voice comes from the living room. He’s early.
“Don’t look. I’m getting dressed. How did you get in here?” I yell back as I yank another dress out. This one’s black, so there’s no way it can’t be stylish, at least not in Toronto. “Do you have a key card?”
“Yes.”
I don’t like that. I’ll get it back over dinner. Dress zipped, I stuff my feet into the lowest heels I can find and launch myself through the bedroom door before Sam comes to pull me out.
Then I freeze. He’s all in black as well, with a collared shirt tucked into tailored black slacks and a black blazer. One hand is placed casually in his pocket and his hair is artfully tumbled. My eyes widen in appreciation.
This appreciation is not reciprocated when he looks me up and down. “You can’t be serious.”
“What?” I check the mirror. One eye is pink from where I introduced the mascara wand, and I guess I sneezed because black dappled lines decorate the skin under both eyes. I have marks from where I was sleeping on my cheek, and when I smile, I see Mom’s tried and tested lipstick trick has not worked because I look like a postprandial vampire. Also, I forgot the wig.