“I’m justsohappy for you and all your well-deserved success,” the actress continues, not to be outdone.
To these people, happiness is a brand, a status symbol to be paraded around like a Bugatti. Happiness doesn’t mean anything unless it’s visible to others, proof that they did everything right and that they’re better than everyone.
It’s exhausting. And strangely, it makes me miss Ares. How honest he is, howrealhe is, in a way that none of the people here seem to be. If I were with him right now, I wouldn’t have to pretend, wouldn’t have to fill awkward conversations with fake niceties and listen to conversations that aren’t interesting or laugh at jokes that aren’t funny. I could simply be a girl, not Chanel Cao.
As the party wears on, bite-sized dishes come out in gleaming trays, carried by pretty waitresses in tailored qipaos. There’s golden scrambled tofu laid out on delicate lotus flowers; taro pieces dipped in melted sugar and stretched into the shape of hearts; yolk-stuffed buns and flaking nut-filled pastries decorated to resemble swans, with sesame seeds for eyes and custard swirls for wings; glazed sea bass and tender lobster bites laced with saffron and bright, edible flowers.
And beside each plate and platter is a silver strip of paper,containing a line from an ancient Chinese poem—something about peach blossoms and the fleeting seasons and an isolated mountain hut.
Little gasps and appreciative murmurs sweep across the room, and even from here, I can make out the gleam of satisfaction in my mom’s eyes. This is her goal, to throw a party deemed luxurious by those already accustomed to luxury. To impress the most impressive. To be seen as living a lucky life, which is more important to her than whether or not her life is something she actually likes.
I flit between cliques and tables, a glass of apple cider in my hand, making meaningless chatter about how school’s going and the restaurants in Paris I’d recommend and how fun Krystal Lam’s concert in Shanghai was and did you hear about this new eyeshadow palette? I’m impressed by my own acting skills, how perfectly put-together I look. The girl reflected in the black marble is smiling wide, like this party was thrown just for her, her red lips matching her red-bottom heels.
“...can’t believe it’s been three years already! I still remember you as a little kid—but you’re basically a woman now.” The middle-aged man smiling down at me must be the fiftieth or sixtieth person I’ve spoken to tonight. Stout and balding, he’s wearing an outfit that’s utterly uninteresting, except for the diamond belt fastened around his middle. Every time he shifts position, the precious gems sparkle, their light dancing off the marble pillars.Tuhao,my mom would call him behind his back—a term for those with an astounding amount of money and a shocking lack of taste. My mom’s worst nightmare is getting lumped into that category.
“Yes, well,” I say as enthusiastically as possible. Though his name escapes me, this tuhao is the business director for one of my mom’s sponsors. It’s important that I leave a good impression.
“You must be very strong,” he goes on.
“Sorry?”
“What happened with your mother...” He clucks his tongue. “A shame, a shame.”
“We’re doing just fine,” I assure him, and breathe an inward sigh of relief when he’s called away by someone who looks like they could be his brother or boss or possibly both.
I go to find my mom in the crowd, hoping for permission to retire early from the party and find Ares, but she’s busy speaking to someone else. Someone familiar, but not from a red carpet or TV show. Blood roars in my ears.
It’s him.
The scar on his cheek. The gelled hair.
Long Ge is here.
“Oh, this is my daughter, Chanel,” my mom says, beckoning me closer. This should be my cue to say “Shushu hao”in my sweetest voice and smile, but all I can do is stare at the man in horror, my heart thudding so fast I feel sick.
The man turns slowly toward me. “Chanel, is it? Pleasure to meet you.”
There’s no malice in his expression, yet my gut won’t stop churning. In my head, I see the paparazzi photos of my mom tucked into a drawer, the unsent love letters, the proof of his obsession. I want to recoil. Scream at him to get away. “Nice to meet you,” I manage.
“This is my friend Long Ge,” my mom introduces. “Or, well—I should call you Long Zongnow.”
He waves his hand, looking exceptionally pleased. “Oh, please, don’t embarrass me. Just Long Ge is fine.”
“You’re being far too humble,” my mom insists. “Long Zong here is the CEO ofmultiplehighly successful corporations, including this exciting new media advertising agency he was just telling me about.”
“Yes, well, as I was saying, you would be the perfect fit,” Long Ge says, and the bad feeling in my stomach solidifies. “We’ve recently signed a few models, but just between us, none of them have quite the reach and influence you do.”
My mom laughs. “Okay, now you’re the one embarrassing me.”
“I’m being serious. And you know we’d work well together—”
“Mom,” I can’t help interrupting. “Mom, I need to talk to you about...” I try to think of a good excuse, but my thoughts are all jumbled, falling apart on the spot. “My wardrobe. I think I lost one of my dresses. The really pretty pink one I bought last weekend.”
Without moving a single facial muscle that could cause a premature wrinkle, my mom shoots me a look that screamsCan’t you see I’m talking to someone important?
I act like I don’t see it. “If you could just help me for a second—”
“Later, Chanel,” she says through gritted teeth. “Sorry about that,” she adds to Long Ge, her voice pleasant. “As we were saying...”
