It’s all moot. Even for that money, there’s no way I could pull off pretending to be a movie star for two months. I don’t speak Mandarin, number one, nor do I have the…confidence…Wei Fangli has. Fangli is used to being in the public eye; she’s had years of training. When she walks in the room, she doesn’t trip on a rug and wonder what to do with her hands. There’s a whole series on “Doing Stairs like Wei Fangli” that analyzes how she floats down without looking where she’s stepping—and with an occasional scarf toss for good measure. I’m not clumsy, but I’m self-conscious enough that I would freeze. I couldn’t even handle a single paparazzo taking photos. What would it be like with a bank of them?
I toss the phone on my bed and get ready for the day. There’s a boxy black suit that’s my go-to, and I pair it with a thick camel turtleneck that makes the blazer tight under the arms. It’s too hot an outfit for June, but the office is always freezing. I stopped wearing my usual red lipstick but I’m expected to look polished, so I apply an unflattering neutral beige I picked out of the drugstore cheap bin. One swipe of mascara. Nothing else. I don’t bother to open the cabinet where I store my perfume collection, all those glass bottles filled with flowers and spice. I don’t wear any to work, not anymore.
A mirror check confirms I look like an upholstered couch. No wonder Sam Yao thinks it’s ridiculous for me to impersonate Fangli. He’s right.
Although I leave early, a delay on the subway means I arrive three minutes late. Brent raises his wrist to look at his watch as I walk in to make it clear he notices. I don’t make eye contact, but the incident adds to the tight ball in my gut as I turn on my computer. The only sound in the office is the tap of typing, and of course Brent is a heavy but shitty typist, so every few seconds, I hear the backspace key. Dat-dat-dat-dat-dat. Click. Click click. Dat-dat-dat.
Garnet Brothers is an investment firm, and the marketing department, where I work as a project coordinator, keeps moderately busy trying to find ways to subtly remind people that only idiots manage their own money. It’s a boring but well-established company, which is why I took this job over a more exciting yet riskier role with a tech start-up. The first hour of every morning is spent answering emails I didn’t want to deal with on my phone, and about half are other people’s problems that have been dumped on me to solve. Most are routine but two or three are complicated enough that I’ll need to check with Todd before responding. I decide I can get away with asking about them over email instead of booking a meeting. My gift to me.
“Gracie.” Todd’s smooth voice comes over my cubicle wall. When I turn, he’s standing too close behind me and his blue eyes glint with a cold light. “Come to my office. Now.”
He leaves and assumes I’ll follow. I do, Brent’s gaze boring into my back as I fantasize about reaching behind and giving him the finger. Todd waits until I enter his office and then closes the door. I curse myself for leaving my phone at my desk.
“Bit of a frumpy look for you,” he observes. “I liked you better in the black dress with that red lipstick you used to wear. It was hot.”
“Ha, thanks.” My own response makes me sick. I’m an independent adult woman. I should tell him where to go and I can’t. I just…can’t. My need for this job is a noose around my neck, a gag in my mouth.
“You’d be quite an attractive girl if you smiled more,” he says, sitting on the edge of the desk and adjusting his belt. “I think we could have some good times.”
I think of Sam and find a bit of the courage I had last night. “I don’t think so.” My voice comes out like I’ve swallowed it.
“No?” He sounds sharp.
I shake my head.
“Too bad. Gracie, we’re terminating you as of today.”
“What?”
He slaps a printout down on the desk. “You called in sick yesterday. Does this look like a girl who’s ill?”
It’s the same paparazzi photo Fangli had shown me. I try to brazen it out because I can’t lose my job.
“That’s Wei Fangli. The photo says so.”
“Why is Wei Fangli holding the purse that’s beside your desk right now?” he asks. It’s like listening to a snake speak. “Even under that hat I can tell it’s Gracie Reed. Admit it and I’ll be easy on you.”
Then he licks his lips again, and although my gut clenches so hard I have to stop myself from doubling over, I keep my voice level and stare at a spot between his eyes. “It’s not me.”