Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Secret Meeting

Unspoken rules in the entertainment industry have, over time, become so widely known and commonplace that the public hardly bats an eye. If gossip circulates that a certain actress secured a role by succumbing to a director’s demands, the most you’ll hear is a resigned, “Showbiz is truly a mess.” Such rumors almost always revolve around female artists; rarely does anyone mention, let alone pay attention to, the hidden transactions involving male artists. In reality, whether man or woman, as long as one is attractive, the chance of exploitation exists—and those seeking to take advantage are not necessarily of the opposite sex.

One wonders, if the gossip-hungry fans ever heard that their beloved idol had fallen victim to these rules, would their reaction be outrage at the industry’s depravity, or a cheeky “I wish I could do that too”?

Today's society is far more harmonious than in the past; these unspoken rules haven’t yet been flaunted openly, but circulate quietly within the circle. It is a tacit understanding among insiders—some comply, some resist, some ignore—but no one dares to expose it to the public eye. The conduct of this associate producer tonight was as ordinary as eating or drinking; he has doubtless succeeded in similar exploits many times before.

And because he works in media, the very business of disseminating information, he naturally holds the upper hand with the public. He can paint black as white and white as black—how is the average person to distinguish the truth? Gu Zhi recalled an old argument: journalists, it was said, should be granted the power of oversight, as if all journalists were truly virtuous and none could be corrupt. If the media holds the power to supervise, then who supervises the media?

Yet, never has there been word of journalists reporting on their peers’ misdeeds. The associate producer is still thriving at Jingbei TV. This is not a problem individual effort alone can solve; what is needed is a more transparent system and set of rules.

Gu Zhi knew he couldn’t change the world, but he could at least protect those close to him.

After he and Tang Wei left Jingbei Television, it was already half-past nine. They’d hurried over without much dinner, each only managing a few bites of bread. Now, as they stepped out of the station and relaxed, a fierce hunger washed over them.

His stomach rumbled loudly.

Gu Zhi rubbed his empty belly, feeling as if hunger had hollowed him out. He could only take a few sips of mineral water to stave off the emptiness.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Let’s find somewhere to eat first, and then I’ll see you home. How does that sound?”

Tang Wei watched him clutching his stomach, a smile spreading across her delicate features. “If you don’t eat soon, you won’t be able to walk. I’m not carrying you down the street,” she teased.

Without further ado, they hailed a cab to Jindobao Tea House, nestled quietly between the Great Wall Hotel and the Lianghema Residences on the East Third Ring Road—a perfect hideaway for a private meeting.

Gu Zhi had only recently discovered this place, thanks to Liu Qi, a local who seemed to have a map of all the city’s hidden, tranquil eateries—an absolute boon for someone like Gu Zhi, who was weary of endless egg fried rice and takeout at home. He rarely ventured out; stepping outside almost guaranteed being recognized and surrounded. When he did go out, he took every precaution—mask, sunglasses, hat, and always in black, looking more like a hired assassin than a celebrity.

This tea house was just a ten-minute walk from where he lived; he’d become something of a regular, and the waitresses recognized him at a glance. Tonight was his first time bringing a female companion, and although both he and Tang Wei were thoroughly disguised, the sharp-eyed staff spotted them instantly.

“Look, Gu’s brought a girl with him tonight!”
“I thought that silhouette looked familiar—is she a celebrity too?”
“She must be, otherwise why would they be dining together?”
“That’s Tang Wei! It has to be—her hairstyle’s the same. I saw her on ‘Happy Camp.’”
“...”
“Ladies! How many times do I have to tell you—not a word about customers during work hours, and never, ever leak anything about their private lives! We have so many celebrity patrons—if you keep gossiping behind their backs, how am I supposed to stay in business?” The owner’s sudden outburst broke up the impromptu gossip session.

Of course, not talking during work hours didn’t mean the gossip wouldn’t resume after shifts ended. For some of the waitresses, juicy tidbits like these were a hot commodity—exactly what paparazzi were willing to pay handsomely for.

Gu Zhi and Tang Wei booked a private booth and ordered a feast: crystal shrimp dumplings, two plates of braised chicken feet in abalone sauce, sticky rice with aromatic chicken, a bowl of coconut-scented pork chop rice, a pineapple bun, an iced honey lemon, and a cup of Hong Kong-style milk tea.

Oblivious to the fact that they were already being marked for gossip, the pair eagerly awaited their meal.

Soon, their table was crowded with all manner of dishes and two chilled drinks. Admittedly, cold drinks in the heart of winter bordered on madness, but there was a certain thrill in it.

It had been almost a month and a half since Gu Zhi and Tang Wei last dined alone together. With the New Year around the corner and the gentle, elegant ambiance of the tea house, the evening felt like a date. Starvation, however, left no room for appearances—Gu Zhi was well past caring about image.

“We’re old friends—no need for formalities. I’m digging in. Help yourself.”

“Old friends? Speak for yourself! You’re shameless...” Tang Wei retorted.

Undeterred, Gu Zhi nodded and picked up a chicken foot, gnawing it before popping a crystal dumpling into his mouth. As soon as he swallowed, he went for another chicken foot and added a chicken drumstick to his bowl, passing one to Tang Wei as well.

Hunger strips away all concern for image, manners, or composure—especially in front of someone you trust. If not for wanting to keep his hands clean, Gu Zhi would have used them directly.

He ate with gusto—as one should.

“Slow down, you’ll choke. No one’s stealing your food.”
“This one’s really good.”
“Wow, this is delicious!”
“Save some for me! You eat like a pig, leaving nothing behind.”
“That last piece of chicken is mine! Don’t you dare touch it!”
“Ugh, this is so sour! I don’t like it. Let’s swap drinks—you take this one, I’ll have the milk tea.”
“I can’t finish the pineapple bun. Let’s pack it up. No need to waste food.”

When you’re hungry, everything tastes divine. After their meal, both of them waddled out, their bellies full. Gu Zhi carried a beautifully wrapped little bag—who would have guessed it contained nothing but a pineapple bun?

By now it was close to eleven. In the chill night, Gu Zhi held Tang Wei’s hand in one hand and the pineapple bun in the other, strolling down the empty street.

“It’s so late. Cabs will be hard to find. Why don’t you...stay at my place tonight?” he offered.

She replied with a faint “Mm,” her voice as soft as a mosquito’s buzz. She didn’t dare look up at him, only kept her head down as he led her onward.

“There’s only one bed. You take it—I’ll sleep on the sofa. Is that all right?”

“Mm...anything’s fine.”