by Diana Ma
“Xie xie,” I say, thanking them in Chinese, as one woman hands me a cup of tea and the other whisks the towel from my neck.
They dart anxious looks at each other and don’t say another word to or about me. I would’ve liked to tell them that I don’t mind them talking about me, but I’m too shy to say it in my stilted Chinese.
Then Liz swivels my chair to face the dressing room mirror, and my jaw goes slack at what I see. No wonder the two Chinese women couldn’t stop talking about my resemblance to Alyssa Chua. With my hair arranged in impossibly chic layers and the professional makeup . . . I’m a dead ringer for her.
CHAPTER NINE
Jake is easier to deal with when I get back to the set. I mean, he’s still an asshole, but at least he’s an asshole who seems to know what he’s doing. Fortunately, Aidan Keller, my co-star, is not only professional, but he actually seems like a decent human being. Eilene told me that he’s a rarity in Hollywood—notoriously faithful to his wife. In fact, they had to throw an obscene amount of money his way to get him to take a role that required him to be so far from his family. As for me . . . I wouldn’t call the amount they’re paying me obscene—in fact, it’s downright prudish. But it’s still way more than I’d ever dreamed of being paid as an actress, so I’m not complaining.
When I told Eilene this, she said that might be true as I’m starting out, but that I shouldn’t get too far into my career before I do complain. Believe me, she said darkly, I’m no stranger to pay disparity. Not for the first time, I wonder what Eilene’s getting paid to be a co-director. Not enough and not nearly as much as Jake—that’s for damn sure.
Jake is having Aidan and me rehearse a scene a few times before we start shooting. The scene we’re shooting today is of Sonia out of male drag. Sonia is enjoying a solitary dinner at a restaurant and bumps into Ryan. This is the scene I did for my first audition, and I’m more eager than nervous to dive in. We start with the rehearsal of the scene, and it goes pretty well. For one thing, Aidan is a good actor, and he makes even the sappy lines work.
Eilene lets Jake take the lead and doesn’t comment as Jake runs through a rapid-fire critique, starting with Aidan’s performance. Aidan doesn’t seem fazed in the least and takes in every direction with a nod of his head or an even-keeled “Got it.” When it’s my turn, I’m not nearly as chill, but I have to admit that everything Jake says makes sense, and the second rehearsal of the scene goes smoothly.
It requires a few takes before Jake is satisfied. The only direction Eilene gives through the rehearsal and shooting of the dinner scene is “Relax, Gemma,” in a voice wound tight as a spool of thread. The weird thing is that I was relaxed. As relaxed as I could be on my first day on the set. But I’m not now. What’s Eilene up to? She said that she wants me to help her change the direction of the movie, but how am I supposed to do that if she’s not doing any directing?
When we take our first break, Jake suggests (oh so casually) that I take a walk near the barricade dividing the set from the rest of the street. There are a few curious onlookers that the security guards efficiently wave off, but it’s clear as day that Jake is hoping to cash in on my famous look-alike.
I fold my arms across my chest. “No way,” I respond. I might have to take Jake’s directions when we’re shooting scenes, but I’m not about to let him trot me out like a prize horse for the paparazzi.
In a dangerous voice, Eilene says, “Drop it, Jake.”
To my surprise, he does drop it.
We wrap up the shoot before the end of the day, and Jake decides to have us rehearse the scene that follows—the scene I did for my second callback. In this scene, Ryan chases Sonia out into the rain after their argument at the restaurant.
It’s in the middle of our rehearsal for this scene that Eilene makes her move. “This isn’t working.” She stands up from her director’s chair next to Jake’s.
I’m caught off guard, foolishly batting my eyes up at Aidan. But I straighten immediately, my gaze snapping over to Eilene. She’s right. We’re both trying our damnedest, but this scene just isn’t coming together.
Aidan and I have enough on-screen chemistry, so that’s not the problem. The problem is that we’re saying the same lines I read during my callback two weeks ago—and they haven’t gotten any less icky since then.
“Are you kidding me!” Jake throws his hands in the air. “How can you tell it’s not working if they haven’t even finished the scene?”
“Do you think it’s working, Jake?” she asks reasonably.
“No,” he admits sulkily. “But we can fix it.”
“Fine.” Eilene sits down and crosses her legs at the ankle. “Fix it, then.”
Jake gives Aidan some blocking directions and positions him to “generate heat.” To me, his directions boil down to “sex it up.”
Great. If I sex up this scene any more, I’ll be draped onto Aidan like plastic wrap with my tongue in his ear. Aidan and I exchange a look, but what can we do? Jake’s the director.
We do the scene again, and if anything, it’s worse.
My shoulders hunch up defensively as Jake yells, “Cut!”
I’m expecting Jake to blow his top, but instead, he turns to Eilene and says wryly, “Point taken.” My mouth drops open. The great Jake Tyler admitting that someone else might be right? “Any ideas?” And that someone else might have ideas? Hell hath officially frozen over.
“I’d like to do a rewrite of the scene,” Eilene says calmly. No unseemly gloating or smugness—just pure confidence. My admiration for her, already high, shoots into the stratosphere. “See if we can’t get something Gemma and Aidan are more comfortable with.”
Jake glances at Aidan. “What do you think?”
“I’ll go along with whatever you decide,” Aidan says easily.
Jake transfers his gaze to me. “What about you? Are you uncomfortable with this scene as is?”
“Well,” I hedge, “I can get into the part where I tell Ryan to be careful, but there’s an earlier part . . .”
“What part?” Jake asks.
To be truthful, most of the dialogue makes me want to crawl out of my skin. How do I pick just one thing? Behind Jake’s back, Eilene gives me an encouraging nod, so I take a breath and say, “Like when Ryan calls me his little butterfly.”
“The film is called Butterfly,” Jake says sarcastically. “Or hadn’t you noticed?”
Unexpectedly, Aidan speaks up. “You know, that line does make Ryan seem like a jerk.”
I shoot Aidan a grateful look and wait for Jake to glare at Aidan or say something sarcastic, but he just shrugs. To Eilene, he says, “It looks like both our leads agree with you. Work with Henry and do a rewrite, but do it fast. We’re on a tight schedule.” He turns to Aidan and me. “As soon as Eilene and Henry get you the new lines for this scene, memorize it. We pick up rehearsals tomorrow.” He picks up his megaphone and booms, “That’s a wrap for today!”
As everyone scatters to shut down the set, Eilene pulls me aside. “Thank you for speaking your truth, Gemma,” she murmurs.
I blush furiously. “It was nothing.”
“It was something,” she corrects me gently. “It’s a chance to make something of this movie.”
The next day, we rehearse Eilene’s rewritten scene in the rain, and I’m so nervous about not messing it up that, of course, I do just that.
Jake does a lot of yelling, and my stomach curls tensely because I know he’s right. I did play that scene with about as much emotion as a wet noodle.
But as bad as Jake’s anger is, it’s not as bad as when Eilene pulls me aside and tells me that she has faith in me. Like I didn’t know that. Like my worry about letting her down wasn’t the exact reason I effed it up.
For the second run-through, Jake reminds me to play Sonia as a “sex kitten in heels.” Wow, Jake really is an ass. As if there was any doubt. To make matters worse, his words remind me of my aching arches and the pair of patent leather torture chambers curr
ently squishing my toes.
Eilene adds, “Remember you’re conflicted. You’ve never gotten over Ryan, but you’re afraid of getting burned. It’s a dangerous attraction that you just can’t resist.”
I fall upon her directions in relief. I can’t play Sonia unless she comes alive for me. Sex kitten in heels? All that does is conjure up a distracting mental image of a wobbly kitten in stiletto heels and a corset. But . . . Irresistible attraction? Playing with fire? I’m into it.
The second rehearsal is better. And after a couple takes, I stop second-guessing myself and start getting into character. By the end of the day, I feel like I’ve nailed it.
Jake grunts his approval, and Aidan tells me I did a great job.
“Bu cuo,” Eilene says to me with a smile.
My face heats in the glow of her praise. Like I said, there’s nothing like a “not bad” in Chinese. And one from my idol? Even better.
Bu cuo, indeed.
CHAPTER TEN
Two days later, I’m totally wiped out by the time I get back to my hotel after a day of shooting. Jake was being extra finicky, so it was nearly ten at night before he called a wrap on today’s shoot.
The first week on the set of Butterfly is almost over, and it’s been a blur of exhaustion, but I’ve never been happier. Eilene’s successful rewrite of the scene means that she now has oversight on the script. In practice, she’s now not only the co-director but the co-screenwriter too. But it’s still Jake’s movie, and he doesn’t let anyone forget it. I’ve learned to pick my battles, Eilene tells me dryly.
As for me making a suggestion of my own? Not going to happen. Still, I’m living my dream as a lead actress in a Hollywood movie, so I’m not going to let one bad-tempered director spoil things for me. In fact, there are only two things marring my happiness. One—I’m lying to my parents. Two—I haven’t talked to Ken since I got to Beijing four days ago.
Between my movie and his commercial, Ken and I are already independently busy. Throw in a fifteen-hour time difference, and talking on the phone becomes nearly impossible. We’re giving each other text updates, but it’s not the same. What if Ken’s dating up a storm while I’m in Beijing? Meanwhile, I haven’t even met anyone my own age here.
Just then, my room’s landline starts ringing. Wearily, I pick it up, remembering to answer with a “Wei?” instead of a “Hello?”
The polite female voice on the other end of the line replies in English. “Miss Huang, this is the hotel desk,” she says. “You have a visitor. She’s waiting for you in our private VIP room.”
Eilene. She’s probably here to debrief today’s shoot. I would have thought that she’d first let me get a good night’s sleep, but I guess sleep will have to wait.
When I get down to the main desk, a receptionist is waiting to escort me to Eilene. She leads me through the hotel bar to a mirrored door in a discreet corner, opens it, and then steps aside. It’s not Eilene.
The girl sitting in a red leather booth in a sleeveless black silk dress with little clusters of diamonds flashing at her throat, ears, and wrist . . . is Alyssa Chua.
My jaw drops. Alyssa Chua—who’s so famous that she causes riots with her mere presence—is at my hotel.
“Who are you?” My heart is pounding as I ask the question. Now that I’m seeing her up close and in person, the resemblance is startling. There are small differences like her cheekbones being higher and her chin being sharper, but we could still be twins. Visions of The Parent Trap dance in my head. Is Alyssa my twin sister? My stomach twists sickly. Did my mother have a secret daughter that she abandoned? Is that why she didn’t want me to come to Beijing? No. I’m overreacting. Plenty of people who aren’t related look alike. But seriously. This girl looks a lot like me.
Alyssa smiles, but her expression is wary. “I’m Alyssa Chua. And you’re Gemma, an American actress shooting a film in Beijing.” She speaks flawless English with the slightest of accents. Holding her phone out, she asks, “Is this you?”
Chills run down my spine. It’s an image of me from the first day I was on set. Looking closer, I can make out a bunch of Chinese characters accompanying the picture, making it look like a social media site. Shakily, I slide into the seat opposite her. “What is my picture doing on . . . Is that Weibo?” I remember the curious onlookers hanging out during the shoot and wonder if one of them took this picture.
“It’s a paparazzi site on Weibo dedicated to celebrity gossip,” she says, radiating an intensity at odds with her carefree social media image. “In the last few days, the site has blown up with speculation that I’ve decided to start a career as an actress. Except I haven’t. That’s you in that picture.” Her eyes narrow. “And as soon as I saw your picture, I knew who you were.”
My mouth goes dry as I think of all my mom’s cloak-and-dagger warnings about staying out of Beijing. This is no joke. Something seriously strange is happening. “And who do you think I am?”
“My mother has a twin sister who was cut off from the family thirty years ago,” Alyssa says hesitantly. “I think there’s a possibility that . . . you’re her daughter.”
Shock jolts through me. “My mother doesn’t have a twin sister.” I need to sit down. Except I’m already sitting down. Maybe if I put my head between my knees and take a few breaths, all this will seem normal. Maybe it will make perfect sense that I’m related to an über-rich family—that my mother never told me about. A rich family that cut my mother off. Nope. Calm breathing will not help.
“Eighteen years ago, my mother received an envelope with no return address.” Nervousness leaks into Alyssa’s voice. “Inside, there was a picture of a baby.” Whoa. My mom sent a baby picture of me to her twin sister? A twin sister I didn’t even know she had?! As if Alyssa is trying to make my head explode, she continues. “And written on the back of the picture, there was a message. It said, ‘Do not forget.’”
Feeling like I’m drowning in a whirlpool, I ask faintly, “What does that even mean?”
“It could mean many things.” Alyssa’s eyes shift away from me. She’s hiding something. “But my mother took it to mean that my aunt wanted to remind her about you—who should inherit a part of our family fortune. Although my mother is the eldest by a few minutes, my grandparents intended for both daughters to inherit equally. Your mother knew that, and she has not forgotten or forgiven the family that drove her out.”
My heart goes still in my chest. In all my wildest imaginings about my mother’s past, heiress to a vast fortune has never even crossed my mind. “So, my mother was kicked out of the family.” It would make sense for my mother to be bitter about that. But to send a baby picture of me, reminding her family of how they had wronged her? That doesn’t seem like my mom. An ache blooms in my lungs, making it hard to breathe. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” She still won’t meet my eyes. Under that cool silk and the hard glitter of diamonds, Alyssa Chua is lying—and I want to know why.
“Try again,” I say, and the sudden, furious pulse in my throat startles me.
She studies her hands clenched in her lap. “All I’ve ever known is that I have an aunt who gave birth to a girl eighteen years ago. Given how much we look alike and that your Instagram feed says you’re eighteen, I’m guessing you’re my cousin.”
“My mother never told me I had an aunt.” My dizziness grows worse, and my voice sounds like it’s coming from a long way away. “Or a cousin.” But, of course, this must all be a mistake. My mother can’t possibly come from an incredibly wealthy family. I can’t possibly be related to a super-famous girl like Alyssa Chua.
Alyssa raises her gaze to mine. “I know your family name is Huang, but what was your mother’s family name before she married?”
Heat floods my face. There’s no way that I’m going to tell Alyssa that I have no idea.
Her expression softens. “My aunt’s given name is Lei,” she says. “That’s your mother’s name, isn’t it?”
My heart starts banging
against my rib cage like a feral beast. “Yes.” It would be one too many coincidences for her lost aunt and my mother to share the same name. Alyssa is telling the truth—she is my cousin. “Oh my god.” Don’t freak out, Gemma. But it’s no use—the room is already spinning, and I’m pretty much breathing into an imaginary paper bag at this point. Well, at least my mother’s not hiding a secret, abandoned daughter. No, she’s just hiding the fact that her high-society family kicked her out for some mysterious reason. Oh, and that I was supposed to inherit a fortune. There’s that too. Shit. All this soap opera stuff is actually true.
“I know it’s a lot to take in.” Alyssa studies me. “You know, I’ve always wanted to meet you. When I was little, my mother told me that my aunt went to Hong Kong.” She pauses. “One year—for my tenth birthday—I asked if we could take a trip to Hong Kong to find you.”
A sudden pain hits my heart at her words. I thought I had gotten over that childish longing for a sister, a brother, a cousin—someone my own age to grow up with. Unlike Alyssa, I didn’t grow up knowing I had a cousin. If I had—I would have wanted to find her too. Did Alyssa actually look for me? “You wouldn’t have found me in Hong Kong.” My voice doesn’t betray the turmoil of my inner thoughts. I could have met my cousin in time to grow up with her. If I had been in Hong Kong, that is. “My parents did live there, but they moved to the U.S. before I was born.”
“What year did your parents leave Hong Kong?”
My breath catches. “1997.” I knew that my parents came to the United States the year Hong Kong reverted from British to Chinese control. I just never thought it might mean something.
“I see.” Her expression doesn’t change, so maybe there’s nothing significant about the year my parents left Hong Kong. Just another coincidence among too many other coincidences.