“Mr. Yao and Ms. Wei feel you would benefit from picking out some of your own things. I have an appointment set for an acceptable brand.”
“Fangli says they come to her.”
Mei doesn’t change expression. “They are coming here.”
It’s time for lunch and I think she thaws a bit when I ask her to eat with me. It’s sashimi today, and I dig in after cracking open a Diet Coke. “Have you worked with Fangli for long?” I don’t know anything about Mei personally.
“Two years.” She’s a delicate eater and I slow down a bit out of shame.
“What did you do before that?”
“I worked in the studio doing odd jobs.”
“Where did you learn English?”
“I taught myself.”
I wait for any questions from her side or even a follow-up answer but she’s content to eat in silence. Ball’s in my court. “Does Sam have an assistant as well?”
She pauses. “Deng is ill and Mr. Yao decided to make do.”
“That’s too bad. I hope he gets better.” The polite words come automatically.
No reply. I decide to get some external confirmation of what Fangli said the night before. “When I was doing research, there were a lot of pieces about Sam and Fangli being a couple.”
“Yes.” Her voice is wooden. I can’t read this chick worth beans.
“Is it true?”
Mei’s cheeks pinken. “Mr. Yao and Ms. Wei are good friends. I believe Mr. Yao’s attentions are elsewhere.”
He has a girlfriend. I stuff some ruby-red tuna into my face. This is disappointing and should not be, not by a long shot. He’s rich, famous, and incredibly handsome. He’s a UN ambassador. It should be Amal Alamuddin Yao instead of Clooney.
Mei is now fully red and I wonder what gossip she has that she’s not sharing. I shouldn’t put her on the spot so I change the topic. “Are there plans for tonight?”
“An art exhibit.”
That’s why I’ve been crammed full of knowledge today. My heart thumps. “I have to talk?”
“About art.” She glances at her watch. “Time for the facial.”
***
I know about art now, I text Anjali.
She sends a photo of the Mona Lisa smoking a blunt.
It’s good to text with Anjali, a bit of normalcy in what is turning out to be a whackadoodle week. She tells me about work; I tell her about how to walk upstairs in a miniskirt. （Apparently the key is to angle your body to the side.） We’ve been talking more since I’ve been living at the Xanadu. Anjali says she wants to live like the one percent vicariously through me but it’s obvious she’s checking in to make sure I’m safe. Her concern touches me more than I thought it would, and I make an effort to text her every day so she knows I’m alive.
Then she’s off to a meeting and I prepare to be pampered.
The aesthetician comes to the room and sets up shop with bottles and vials and bright-white towels before inviting me to lie down with a smile filled with teeth so bleached they’re blue. Then comes an hour of cosseting, from cold masks to face rollers from the top of my head to the tops of my boobs or, as the aesthetician calls it, my décolletage. There are many creams and smells. My multiple imperfections are poked and prodded and eventually eradicated under the skillful hands and tweezers of the aesthetician. It finishes with a face mask that warms and tightens my skin as ten fingers rub and scratch against my scalp. If I’d been a cat, I would have purred. I think I purr anyway because I am a gooey, limp jellyfish with no visible pores. The aesthetician assures me this is a new process so I can go out right away instead of letting my skin settle. I take her word for it.
I lie there in a blissful daze of relaxation until she starts to pull off the mask, which has cemented itself to my face. At my mewl of protest, the aesthetician pauses. “This shouldn’t hurt,” she says.
I would have answered had I been able to move my lips, but the mask has glued them in place. The woman tugs at the mask and lifts my head right off the table.
“I haven’t seen this before,” she says in a thoughtful tone.
There are certain times I don’t want to hear that I’m special. The first is from any healthcare professional. A close second is from a woman who’s slathered me with goop she can’t get off my face. Mei materializes beside me like Porella, the Avenging Angel of Skincare, as the woman slowly peels the mask off. I swivel my eyes to her face and see the droplets of stress sweat on her upper lip as Mei murmurs a stream of low-voiced encouragement that the aesthetician and I both interpret as thinly veiled threats.