Chapter 19: Filming the Bed Scene

That screenwriter surnamed Huo had won numerous awards. He was most famous for a series of films about men, where the reviews inevitably revolved around the fleeting passage of time and how everything and everyone changed. Audiences couldn’t bring themselves to hate any of the characters—they only hated time itself.

He had a real knack for writing regrets born of time slipping away and fateful mishaps, leaving viewers perpetually unsatisfied after a full two hours. Fan-made sequels abounded, but nine times out of ten, they ended up as half-baked cash grabs that fell flat.

Nong Siqing’s filmmaking philosophy boiled down to the idea that life’s impermanence was its one constant. Collaborating with her was like mixing coffee with strong tea—you ended up wanting to light incense and pray for the characters in her stories.

The tone of The Third Party was actually quite subdued. A shampoo girl at a salon wasn’t exactly a fringe occupation, and Ruan Ting needed no explanation—she came from an intellectual family and worked as an accountant at a small-town department store, which barely qualified her as white-collar.

The central conflict in their romance zeroed in on same-sex love and infidelity within marriage—explosive premises that could easily veer into melodrama. But Nong Siqing took the opposite path: plain as water. It was her signature style, making it seem like nothing stood in these two women’s way, as if even heaven itself was rooting for them.

Then, at the very end, she delivered a feather-light gut punch.

Everything was gone. Only on reflection did the earlier details reveal the hand of fate.

Kong Can had settled into a comfortable life in Chongxiang. It beat living under someone else’s roof back home, where she had to watch her every step. Payday meant treating herself: simmering a pot of meat stew or grabbing some braised dishes from the market. When money ran low, instant noodles it was. As long as she didn’t starve, it was fine.

She’d drop by her cousin’s place now and then for a free meal—stir-fried loofah and beans in summer, hot pot in winter. Even within the same province, winter solstice traditions varied by region: lamb in Xin Nan, sweet glutinous dumplings in Chongxiang. She’d heard some southern counties even ate dog.

The first time Kong Can laid eyes on Ruan Ting, she could tell the woman wasn’t local. Her accent gave it away.

It was pouring that day, rain hammering the plastic tarps over the market stalls like machine-gun fire.

Kong Can had just bought a portable cassette player, complete with black earbuds trailing from her ears to her pocket. She had a fair complexion, so that stark black cord peeking from her collar stood out. She hummed along to her music as the vendor dumped half a braised duck—seasonings and all—into a plastic bag. He turned to the two women who’d been bickering moments before. “So, which of you wants it?”

Kong Can stayed quiet, waiting for the newcomer to show some sense.

“I do,” came the reply from beneath a transparent umbrella brim. Ruan Ting’s foxlike eyes curved upward playfully. The frilled collar of her blouse fluttered in the wind, and even her voice carried that same beguiling lilt. The butcher, tough as nails, cracked a soft smile as he gripped his cleaver.

Kong Can’s eyelids drooped. She was done arguing. “Fine, take it. Whatever.”

She hated squabbling over trifles. Back home, it had been a necessity—Why should Dad give it to you?—but in the end, it never mattered. Her brother was the golden child, no matter how dim he was, while she was just unwanted weeds.

Kong Can sidestepped a pile of pork trimmings tossed on the ground and headed out. Chickens clucked to her left, ducks quacked to her right, and the stench of shit was overpowering. Her bad luck held: she stepped in a squashed cabbage, then a rotten tomato, nearly slipping. Her earbud cord whipped through the air in an arc.

Plastic bag in hand, Ruan Ting watched the girl’s comical retreating figure. She’d seen her before, on her first day in Chunhe Alley.

Peering through the window of a rickshaw, she’d taken in the sights along the way. Outside the hair salon sat a scrawny young woman, her bangs slicked back with a clip, her pale face blending into the winter chill. She was eating a boxed lunch when someone called from inside, and she went back in.

Out hustling at such a young age—surely not that kind of work?

No braised duck left, Kong Can settled for a bowl of noodles instead. She didn’t go straight home but wandered to a nearby intersection and stood under a bridge, ears tuned to the rumbling approach of a train.

The vibration thrummed right through her heart, tickling it. She wanted so badly to just walk out into the world.

She knew exactly who that woman was—same building. Sister Miao Miao had gossiped up a storm over skewers, raving about how stunning she was, how men’s eyes went googly.

Googly indeed, or the butcher wouldn’t have been so bewitched that her duck flew right out of her hands.

Everyone in the building was buzzing, speculating that Ruan Ting was in that line of work.

Kong Can just listened. After all, they’d spread similar rumors about her when she was underage. Truly depraved.

A few days later, she spotted Ruan Ting at the salon again, this time with her daughter in tow.

Pretending not to know her, Kong Can took the little girl to a back room for a wash. Ruan Ting perched on a stool, firing off questions like an interrogation. Sure enough, the kid lost her patience and let a curse fly.

She chuckled. “Come over for dinner tonight. I’ll make it up to you with half a braised duck.”

Kong Can later learned that Ruan Ting had come to Thousand Threads Hair Salon specifically for her sake—worried the girl might stray down the wrong path at such a tender age. In truth, their boss’s skills were mediocre; the chop job she gave Yuan Yuan was a classic mushroom cut for country kids, and the poor thing cried all the way home.

That was how the two of them gradually grew close, clearing up the misconception about her “profession.”

Kong Can sometimes resented how nosy Ruan Ting could be, but deep down, she craved that all-encompassing care. The fissures from her childhood had widened over time, filling every pore with the void left by absent parents—until Ruan Ting saw right through her.

She gave Kong Can exactly what she needed. But Kong Can had no idea what Ruan Ting truly wanted.

Ruan Ting rarely spoke of her past. Without this illness, without her feverish ramblings, Kong Can never would have known her marriage had long withered to dead wood. The husband meant to bring her happiness had become vermin crawling over her body, burrowing into her very bones.

Her wrist was seized, then kissed. Sourness and fullness swelled in Kong Can’s chest as a mad impulse surged through her.

Why not me?

“I bought you a skirt. It’s in the wardrobe—try it on?” Ruan Ting leaned against the bedrail. Her fever had broken, but she still looked weary.

Raising a child alone was exhausting, more physically so than before. Little aches and pains were par for the course, but she’d grown used to it. Life in Chongxiang felt more grounded, less draining. She had grown attached, reluctant to leave.

Kong Can turned away. “Am I your daughter or something?”

Her eyes rimmed red, her tone laced with pent-up anger and a hint of grievance.

Off-camera, Jiang Fuwen and the other unrelated men had been ushered out. Nong Siqing had the assistant director at her side for occasional consultations, along with a few crew members awaiting instructions.

Jujiu nearly cracked up at Zhong Jia’s line, even if it was scripted. Xie Yingnian, playing the role, maintained impeccable professionalism, her gentle expression embracing it all.

A Cha missed Jujiu’s reaction, her pupils contracting as she fixated on the monitor.

This was the third take. The first two had stalled right at the kiss, with Nong Siqing calling cut swiftly and bluntly voicing her dissatisfaction.

“Zhong Jia, I didn’t feel like you’ve been holding back for ages. You clearly like her—it’s just all those inhibitions holding you back. Right now, it’s the inner demons at play: you hate yourself, you ache for her. Where’s the release?”

The next line had Ruan Ting tilting her head with a smile: Isn’t it because you’ve always seen me as an elder?

Then the girl would suddenly lunge, pinning her down. Lips met in a scorching press of bodies. Ruan Ting’s eyes drifted shut as the girl’s whimper—”Then why did you kiss me?”—wrenched her heart to pieces. One thought echoed: I’m done for.

The audio picked up the scrape of stool legs on the floor—a harsh screech. A Cha blurted, “Holy shit…”

Jujiu’s eyes lit up too. “Zhong Jia’s got that waist— no wonder she rocks the crop tops. Tsk tsk, your artist’s got some strength.”

Onscreen, the two tumbled onto the bed. A perfectly timed gust of wind billowed in, flipping up Zhong Jia’s shirt hem and baring a sliver of the waist Jujiu was dying to ogle. Zhong Jia’s cheeks burned, but the chill made her shiver uncontrollably.

Xie Yingnian’s palms cupped her waist, distinctly feeling the faint tremors. Her lips were still caught in the girl’s heedless nibbling. Zhong Jia suckled the tender flesh against her teeth, her hand slipping inside the bra strap, teasing it without unhooking.

The emotion was spot-on; what they lacked was experience.

Which fit perfectly—Kong Can’s first time wouldn’t come with know-how.

“That’s it?” Xie Yingnian pulled back slightly from those greedy lips, reclining against the thin summer quilt.

She smiled faintly, her lip split and bleeding, lending a demonic allure to her pallid skin. Without waiting for Zhong Jia’s reply, she locked her legs around her, flipping them inward until they rolled deep onto the bed.

Positions reversed, Xie Yingnian’s slender back bore the brunt of the wild wind from the window. She bent one knee, leaning down to murmur, “Let’s not think about the unhappy stuff, okay?”

A skilled actor’s voice shifted with the character. Zhong Jia had no doubt this was Ruan Ting incarnate. Her brief daze stemmed from Xie Yingnian’s legs—vise-like in their strength. The moment they clamped down, that firm pressure sent a bizarre heat surging between her thighs.

Zhong Jia couldn’t help panting, sweat beading and plastering stray hairs to her forehead.

Acting was all about interplay, and it could trip you up too. Some details couldn’t be scripted. Xie Yingnian held off on her next line, gently brushing aside the hair veiling Zhong Jia’s eyes. The monitor captured a close-up of her face—who could hold out against such a gaze?

“If you bite me, you’re not off the hook,” Xie Yingnian said, sliding her hand lower to clasp Zhong Jia’s wrist. “Want to? I can teach you.”

Before the cameras rolled, Zhong Jia had brushed up on some lesbian knowledge thanks to Chen Kuang’s good intentions. The bullet comments in Reed Shoal Moon had also dropped some educational tidbits like blind boxes, so her view of hands—this particular organ—had gradually lost its innocence. Even knowing full well it was just acting, she couldn’t help letting her mind wander.

Nong Siqing picked up the walkie-talkie from her director’s chair. Zhong Jia had hesitated to proceed further, and while the footage so far was excellent, Nong felt a pang of regret but readied herself to call cut.

The two actresses were pressed close, their hair tangling together. Xie Yingnian leaned in toward Zhong Jia’s ear and whispered something too soft for the equipment to catch—just a faint rustle of sound.

Nong Siqing waited, her gaze sharpening as she set the walkie-talkie back down.

Zhong Jia’s eyes gradually rimmed with a thin, pitiable red. In that moment, Kong Can cast aside all other thoughts. Whatever Ruan Ting wanted, she would give—even knowing there could be no official status, even knowing it went against her conscience, even knowing there might be no future.

All those hard truths crumbled before the glorious April weather. After sunset came the moon, day and night cycling endlessly, lulling them into the illusion of a love that could stretch on forever, through hate and life and death alike.

Zhong Jia arched her upper body upward, as if offering herself to Xie Yingnian’s lips. But instead, she dipped her head, tugged open Xie Yingnian’s collar, and sank her teeth hard into the woman’s slender, graceful neck.

“Good,” she said, choking back tears with a smile. “You’ll be leaving Chongxiang sooner or later anyway. Then we’ll just be strangers.”

The costumes slipped away as the cameras adjusted and followed. Xie Yingnian knew exactly how to use subtle hints to maximum effect. This time, it was Ruan Ting taking the lead—freshly recovered from illness and acting like she had nothing left to lose. Zhong Jia was swept along, rolling this way and that. On the monitor in front of the director, the screen split into multiple angles, capturing how she was drawn in by her partner’s smoldering gaze, her body going limp as she surrendered completely.

Kisses, caresses—even her clothes were rumpled by eager hands.

The curve accentuated Zhong Jia’s pert, firm backside. Xie Yingnian stuck to the script with a flirtatious smack—crisp and echoing.

Zhong Jia’s face flushed crimson, on the verge of bleeding. The sound she made—different from her usual voice—only deepened her shame. She squeezed her eyes shut, her lashes fluttering in helpless vulnerability.

No one kissed with quite such wet, smacking sounds. The two assistants coughed awkwardly and exchanged a knowing glance. Could this really make it to theaters?

Nong Siqing was pleased. The assistant director headed to the next room first. Ai Yilan looked like she’d truly napped—hair tousled, leaping off the bed barefoot, crying out for Mama as she padded to Ruan Ting’s bedroom door and rapped on it. The person inside stirred as if from a dream.

The awkward follow-up scene with all three would need to be reshot separately. Nong called it good.

This wasn’t like ordinary scenes; there was no room to drag it out.

Zhong Jia wriggled out from under the sheets like a fish gasping for air. She couldn’t bear to stay a second longer and flipped over to get off the bed—only for Xie Yingnian to call her back. She glanced down and realized she wasn’t dressed.

The woman behind her was in the same state, clothes half-fallen. Xie Yingnian adjusted herself without a care.

It was all too distracting. Zhong Jia bit her lip and stayed put. She turned back, kneeling on the bed with one leg, her head bowed low as she forced her eyes away from anywhere else.

She gathered the corner of the sheet and drew it inward, wrapping the still-fussing woman snugly once more in its warm embrace.

Xie Yingnian had wanted to do the same, but with all that spring scenery already on full display, she couldn’t just leave it. A few seconds later, she was bundled up tight as a rice dumpling. Zhong Jia wore the guilty look of a young monk who’d broken his vows—like he’d gone down the mountain for supplies and ended up seducing some village girl. And yet, in the scene, she was the one on the bottom.

A sheen of thin sweat filmed the girl’s abdomen, rising and falling rapidly, her faint vest line coming into view.

Xie Yingnian fought a laugh, her mind drifting back to her own first time baring it all for cinematic art. Qiao Yingqiu had wrapped and left right after. Was this girl more like her mom or her dad? Aside from the face, she didn’t really resemble either.

“You’re not dressed either,” Xie Yingnian said, lifting one corner of the sheet to beckon Zhong Jia in first.

The sticky press of skin against skin flooded back into memory. Zhong Jia shook her head vigorously, like a rattle drum. Just then, A Cha hurried in. She threw on her clothes and bolted.

Nong Siqing allotted plenty of rest time. The leads went off to compose themselves.

Actors were human, after all—physiological reactions were normal. There’d been that one idol drama where screenshots turned netizens into crotch-staring creeps.

In the bathroom, Zhong Jia shut off the faucet and thrust her dripping hands under the dryer. Then she shuffled out of the building, listless. She squatted down beside A Cha, hugged her own arms, and pillowed her head there.

“Feeling off somewhere?” A Cha asked with concern. “Catch a chill?”

It took Zhong Jia ages to mumble, “Kinda dizzy.”

Huh? Flu, or from chugging that Wangzai?

A Cha checked her forehead—no fever—and her palms—no chill. “Boob-dizzy?”

Zhong Jia, already retreating into her shell, buried her face strategically. Nailed it.

It took A Cha a few seconds to catch on. She thought of that freebie eyeful Zhong Jia had gotten, and Jujiu hadn’t exaggerated: Teacher Xie was slim, sure, but those boobs, well…

The little assistant sighed to herself. Should she comfort Zhong Jia or congratulate her?