Chapter 4

Shutters crackled and popped, and a set of perfect final shots landed.

In the camera’s frame, the sky happened to hold one last stray ribbon of light, not yet gathered in; the glow spilled across the clear sea surface, shimmering like the dancing light in a portrait’s eyes.

Some people, just by standing there, made the scenery around them dim.

Zhou Siyou was that kind of person.

Flawless looks, emotions on point. The photographer of course sang praises without pause, exclaiming again and again, “I knew Teacher Zhou would be a sensation! Perfect! That’s a wrap, that’s a wrap!…”

Amid the bustle, Zhou Siyou smiled politely at the photographer, but the corner of her eye stayed fixed on a certain spot at her side. On a certain person.

Baseball cap. Bluetooth earphones. Simply cut white winter wear.

Quiet and still, as if the whole of her might fade into the wind.

That was the feeling Zhong Qing gave off.

Cool and clean. Polite. Hard to get close to.

Impossible to get any closer than that.

Sensing Zhou Siyou’s gaze, Zhong Qing glanced over briefly, then looked away.

The photographer was floating on air over the finished shots when, behind her, an assistant tugged her hem and murmured a reminder, “Um… Teacher Zhong is here.”

The photographer woke as if from a great dream. “Little Director Zhong… Teacher Zhong!”

Her eyes lit up; she set down her equipment and scurried over in a few quick steps. “You didn’t even give us a heads-up that you’d arrived! We could have had Little Lin come pick you up!”

At the voice, Zhong Qing paused—maybe, maybe not. In any case, she didn’t pick up the conversational thread at all.

Presumably she’d decided the photographer’s words were mere pleasantries, requiring no courteous reply.

Fortunately, the photographer was a chatterbox, and a few bursts of babble flipped the topic over. “Teacher Zhong, let’s not drag out the small talk. Since your production and our company are partners, all the liaison work from now on—coordination, handoffs, differences between domestic and international film processes and such—Little Lin will handle with you.”

The photographer waved over a young woman behind her, then looked at Zhong Qing again and said with a smile, “This is Little Lin. Talks a bit much normally—even more than me—but works efficiently, quick and clean on her feet. That’s why we assigned her as your temporary assistant.”

The young woman pushed up her glasses and grinned. “Hello, Teacher Zhong.”

Zhong Qing nodded, treasuring each word like gold. “Mm.”

“Teacher Zhong, we asked you here today hoping you’d take a look at this set of finished shots,” the photographer said. “Celtic and baroque aren’t really related, granted, but Western styles all share more similarities than differences. We wanted your eyes on it—specialties differ, after all. If you could offer a few suggestions, share some guidance, nothing would be better….”

Zhou Siyou watched the group chat their way toward the exit. Her gaze had chased them only a few steps when a pair of hands waved out in front of her face, swaying like windshield wipers.

“Staring yourself silly?” Fang Ming grinned, evidently in an excellent mood.

“Little Director Zhong’s getup today… doesn’t it remind you of your first role? Bluetooth earphones, killing to music—a murderer straight out of the Stansfield mold.”

“…!”

Zhou Siyou was speechless. As if she’d ever think of that.

Back in the makeup van, she shed the intricate costume, unpinning the enamel fontanges one by one. Zhou Siyou tugged the braided updo out of her hair.

She changed into her own clothes, casually gathering her long curls behind her back.

Her makeup wasn’t off yet when Fang Ming suddenly called to her from outside the van, sounding somewhat excited. “Zhou Siyou!”

Zhou Siyou looked toward the sound—and saw, outside the van, the whole photography crew clustered together, Fang Ming among them waving her over with a look that said ‘we’re just waiting on you.’

It gave Zhou Siyou the absurd awkwardness of being dragged along to visit relatives during the holidays.

Lifting her eyes, she saw Zhong Qing standing beside the photographer, glancing over a few times, expression faint, devoid of emotion.

Zhou Siyou brushed back the loose strands at her forehead, climbed down from the van, and walked toward them.

“Something up?”

“This is the year’s final issue—once we wrap, it’s holidays. So the photographer’s treating us all to a meal, just a little celebration~” Fang Ming said. “Siyou, you barely ate anything all day. Come along.”

Stepping closer, Fang Ming lowered her voice. “Zhou Siyou, you were the one who said you’d fight for the role yourself. I’ve already secured you a dinner. Put on a good show.”

Zhou Siyou didn’t catch on. “Wha—”

Fang Ming frowned with great seriousness, swept her gaze in a circle around the few people nearby, then feinted at Zhong Qing.

Then she turned back and said, with pointed meaning: “Go get ’em, Zhou Siyou.”

“…!”

The private room that evening sat beside a long, silent stretch of river.

Zhong Qing pushed the door open with the rest of them and went straight to the corner seat by the window.

The photographer blinked, her hand pausing as she pulled out a chair, but she didn’t dwell on it, simply ushering everyone to sit. “Sit anywhere, sit anywhere. Everyone, wherever you like…”

Everyone knew perfectly well that even if Zhong Qing didn’t take the seat of honor, the star of this dinner wouldn’t change because of a difference in seating.

So the waitstaff served dishes briskly, almost all of them things Zhong Qing loved.

Sliced raw fish, a sashimi platter, surf clams, foie gras, scallops and sweet shrimp…

Watching it all made Zhou Siyou’s stomach cramp.

Zhou Siyou had a fragile stomach; she wouldn’t even order a steak below medium, let alone eat anything raw.

Now, with the table full of glistening raw meat, she felt she could hardly breathe.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic, hold on.” Fang Ming pulled her along, whispering, “I ordered you cooked food.”

Before Zhou Siyou could reply, Fang Ming nudged her into the seat across from Zhong Qing. “Little Director Zhong~ this is Zhou Siyou, my artist. The one who starred in all those shots you just looked at, haha.” She tried to build a bridge between the two. “Does she look familiar? You two follow each other on Weibo. Oh, and you met at the film festival, too.”

Zhou Siyou stood at the table’s edge and extended her hand to Zhong Qing. “Hello, Teacher Zhong.”

Zhong Qing raised her eyes, her gaze patrolling Zhou Siyou’s face for a few seconds.

But without answering Fang Ming, Zhong Qing rose slightly, reached out, and gave Zhou Siyou a perfunctory handshake. “Hello.”

Her voice was crisp and cold; tone and expression were equally indifferent.

Cool fingers brushed lightly past, and Zhong Qing returned to her seat.

Along the long banquet table, the atmosphere congealed for a solid half minute.

As if she hadn’t expected the other woman to be this aloof, Zhou Siyou looked at Fang Ming, her eyes carrying—of all things—a trace of bewilderment.

The photographer beamed. “Teacher Zhong doesn’t much like to talk. Which is fair—no talking while eating, no chatting while sleeping, as the old saying goes. Tonight’s just a little celebration feast—eat your fill and we’re done.”

The others obediently sat, and the atmosphere eased a little at last.

In a small WeChat group, someone was spamming the screen. “We’re doomed. A hothead and an ice queen—turns out the iceberg is the natural counter to the motormouth….”

Zhou Siyou didn’t respond.

While they waited for her cooked food, the people around her chatted away—but Zhou Siyou turned uncharacteristically serene.

Chin propped on her hand, she gazed out the pitch-dark window in profile, as if daydreaming.

Fang Ming stole the occasional glance, grumbling inwardly in confusion: It’s pitch-black out there. What is there to stare at?

Only Zhou Siyou knew: on the glass window was Zhong Qing’s reflection.

Everything Zhong Qing said and did carried a sense of unhurried order. For instance, at the table now, no matter what question anyone asked her, she would never answer right away.

She would first swallow what was in her mouth, set down her chopsticks, dab her lips with the napkin, and only then lift her eyes and answer, at her own leisurely pace.

In that, at least, she was much the same as before.

The edge of Zhou Siyou’s vision swept the table and caught sight of Zhong Qing’s phone and Bluetooth earphone case.

She guessed the earphones were playing songs by the Apple Queen. Of course, that assumed Zhong Qing’s tastes hadn’t changed too much in seven years.

But so long a time had passed—her interests could well have turned upside down, Zhou Siyou thought, for no reason at all.

Just then, the server finally set down a bowl of tofu rice cakes. Fang Ming grabbed a small plate, edged closer to Zhou Siyou, and lowered her voice again. “Talk? Why aren’t you talking? Isn’t your little mouth usually rattling on just fine? Wilted now that you’re looking at Zhong Qing?”

Zhou Siyou raised her eyes.

Who’d have thought—the very next second.

Having probably caught her own name in their exchange, Zhong Qing looked over as if sensing it.

And somehow the words slipped out of Zhou Siyou unbidden. “You don’t remember…”

“Hm?”

Zhong Qing’s eyes widened slightly, a hint of hesitation in them.

Caught by that gaze, Zhou Siyou looked away, feeling inexplicably guilty.

Unable to pick the thread back up either way, Zhou Siyou’s brain crashed for two seconds, and what came out was: “Little Director Zhong, there’s… cat hair on your collar.”

Fang Ming: “…”

“Oh.” Zhong Qing set down her chopsticks, wiped her fingers lightly on the napkin, tilted her head, and brushed at her collar.

“Thanks for the warning.” She gave Zhou Siyou a polite, perfunctory smile.

Seeing Zhong Qing’s tone gradually soften, and catching the encouraging look from the agent beside her—one that practically screamed Press the advantage!—Zhou Siyou’s mouth ran off without her. The moment it opened, her intent was frighteningly blunt.

“I hear Little Director Zhong has a new production in the mainland. So—what kind of leading lady are you looking for?”

Fang Ming’s jaw dropped.

…That was too—too direct, too transparently self-serving!!

Everyone in the private room seemed to choke on Zhou Siyou’s words, breaking into coughs.

But Zhong Qing remained as impassive as before.

She dabbed her mouth, raised those unrippled eyes, and looked straight into Zhou Siyou’s. “A suitable one, of course.”

—What kind of lead was she looking for?

—A suitable one.

An answer that was no answer at all.

Everyone present tentatively filed it away as Little Director Zhong’s way of deflecting a thousand pounds with four ounces—a graceful refusal. The younger ones, the ones who couldn’t hold in their feelings, had already started snickering behind their hands.

Laughing at Zhou Siyou for failing to curry favor and losing face instead.

Terrified Zhou Siyou would say something else, Fang Ming hastily cut into the conversation with two dry laughs. “Little Director Zhong, haha, Siyou just… really, um, really admires you. Nothing else meant by it.”

Zhong Qing gave a lukewarm “Mm” and lowered her eyes.

There was no follow-up.

The dinner’s atmosphere had been stirred thoroughly strange by the two women’s several baffling exchanges.

The others, by unspoken agreement, changed the subject, trying to paper over the awkwardness.

Only Fang Ming kept glancing hesitantly at Zhou Siyou, terrified she’d drop another bombshell.

—Not looking was fine. Looking, she got a shock.

How could Fang Ming have imagined that the little actress beside her—the one who always presented herself as a bristling firecracker—was at this moment biting her lower lip, eyes downcast, her face covered in…

Hurt?

Fang Ming thought she was hallucinating.

By the time everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, only a few pieces were missing from the tofu rice cakes in front of Zhou Siyou.

Even Fang Ming felt a pang of sympathy at the sight.

“Opportunities come when they come—you can’t force them. Maybe we just don’t have the karma for this one.”

After the dinner broke up, Fang Ming steered Zhou Siyou toward the exit, already painting her grand castles in the air. “A few years from now, once you’re some Best Actor or Best Actress, you’ll snag any script in minutes, okay? So don’t be too down. After all, right now we’re still small-ti—”

Fang Ming’s rambling sheared off mid-word.

Beneath the streetlamp lay a spread of winter night and moonlit shadow.

Zhong Qing stood at the roadside, her expression still indifferent—but her gaze was unmistakably turned this way.

It gave both Zhou Siyou and Fang Ming the same strange illusion.

As if… Zhong Qing had been waiting for them there all along.

Fang Ming smacked her forehead.

Illusion, schmillusion—a lifeline hand-delivered, and only a fool wouldn’t grab on!

“Little Director Zhong!” She tugged Zhou Siyou along at a half-jog. “You—”

“—Zhou Siyou.”

Zhong Qing cut Fang Ming off.

As she raised her eyes and looked over quietly, her long, slender lashes split the murky lamplight, gathering it into a hazy moon glow.

It left Zhou Siyou strangely dazed.

It seemed this was the first time Zhong Qing had called her by that name.

And yet the Zhong Qing before her was still all business.

She spread open the A4 notebook in her hands, then slowly smoothed it flat.

Zhong Qing handed it to Zhou Siyou.

“This is my script.”

This—this—this…

Fang Ming sucked in a sharp breath: What on earth is going on!?

Zhou Siyou took the script, a little dazed, and asked instinctively, “Who do I play?”

Zhong Qing countered: “What is it you’re trying to win?”

“I…”

Zhou Siyou’s eyes glazed faintly; she pressed her lips together, a beat slow.

Seeing she had no answer, Zhong Qing turned away, as if to leave.

Impulse vaulted over reason.

By the time she came to her senses, Zhou Siyou had already reached out and closed her hand around Zhong Qing’s right wrist. “Zhong Qing!”

On Zhou Siyou’s face, the heavy makeup from the shoot still hadn’t come off—long lashes, peach-red eyeliner, glimmering fox eyes gathering a kaleidoscope of strange light. Utterly beguiling.

Yet Zhong Qing, of all people, remained entirely unmoved.

“Something else?” Zhong Qing asked.

The courage Zhou Siyou had labored to build was doused three-quarters out by those few words.

So she smothered her voice, cowardly to the bone.

“…Nothing.”

Zhong Qing said nothing more, just nodded to Fang Ming as well.

Then she put her earphones back on, lifted her feet, and strode away.

Zhou Siyou couldn’t quite parse Zhong Qing’s attitude.

Call it fondness? The low pressure at the dinner table had been there for all to see. Call it dislike? But just now, she had plainly been lying in wait on purpose—script at the ready.

Until Zhong Qing left her sight, Zhou Siyou hung her head, unable to make head or tail of it.

Then suddenly, as if remembering something, she looked at Fang Ming, brimming with hope. “Fang Ming, do you have Little Director Zhong’s WeChat?”

“…What are you dreaming? How could I possibly have her WeChat?” Fang Ming’s mouth twisted—yet she smirked, teasing.

“Once you land the role, go ask her for it yourself.”