Chapter 166: We’ll Still Be Together When We Grow Up
Xiang Ke suddenly laughed. For an instant she seemed to have reverted to the old Xiang Ke from her college days, when she had first met Song Yang. But Song Yang had forgotten all that; they had only been married for five years, but already he had stopped loving her and cherishing their memories together.
“I want a divorce.”
“Xiang Ke, are you out of your mind?” It had never occurred to Song Yang to get a divorce. He had just established his company—getting divorced now would mean having to give Xiang Ke half of his assets. And what if Xiang Ke told everyone about his affair? His reputation would be ruined beyond repair.
“I’m perfectly sane.” Xiang Ke had seen at once what Song Yang was worried about. They had been married for five years, not even long enough for the “seven-year itch,” and yet Song Yang had already cheated on her. What was the point in staying together?
She was filled only with disgust and revulsion for him.
“I won’t divorce you.” Song Yang abruptly stood and walked away.
“Don’t worry,” said Xiang Ke calmly as she watched his retreating back.
“I won’t ask for half your assets. All I want is for you to return my salary from the last five years, and my half of the payment for this house. You can keep your car, your company, and the rest of your money. I don’t want any of it.”
She saw Song Yang pause in mid-stride when he heard that, but he quickly resumed walking.
She did not miss Song Yang’s sigh of relief, or the sly look of delight on his face.
Song Yang, on the other hand, did not see her tearful face. He did not see her silently weeping.
Soon after, they were divorced. Song Yang engaged a lawyer to deal with the paperwork for his divorce: he gave Xiang Ke 200,000 yuan, which was a paltry sum compared to how much his company was worth. He had already spent upwards of a million yuan on his mistress, but had deemed that the last five years of Xiang Ke’s life, the youth that she had sacrificed to him, the five years of their marriage, and the two children she had lost, were worth only 200,000 yuan.
Xiang Ke walked about her house, caressing the furniture with her fingers. Suddenly, she hugged her favorite chair and began to weep silently. She made no sound, but the tears did not stop falling.
One by one the tears fell, shattering onthe floor.
“Zoom in,” said Huang Ming to the cameraman.
Director Huang was impressed: not every actor could cry at will. Most actors needed some time to get into the mood, and even then they could not cry as elegantly and prettily as Yan Huan. There was a tragic, heartbreaking quality to her beautiful tears.
After they finished filming the scene, Yan Huan stood up and wiped her eyes. She slipped out of character effortlessly—a minute ago she had been crying bitterly; now, she was already back to her usual smiling self.
They had already finished shooting more than half of the scenes for Divorced, and principal production was on track to wrap up in a month’s time. It was a low budget film with a simple, straightforward story, and could therefore be completed in less time than most other movies.
Journey to Fairyland had reached its climax as Yan Huan busied herself with the filming for Divorced. A Xianxia boom had taken over both the internet and real life; everyone could not stop talking about Journey to Fairyland. Even the songs used in the show were so popular now virtually everyone knew how to sing them.
But Yan Huan did not know any of that because she was still filming Divorced. The movie was more or less the story of her life, and she was deeply committed to it. Qing Yao had been a success because of her acting skills, but Xiang Ke was who Yan Huan really was, inside.
When they finally wrapped up principal production for Divorced, the TV stations had just aired the episode in which Qing Yao was killed in Journey to Fairyland. The viewers cried over Qing Yao’s death; the loss of her character was such a shock to them that the rest of the story seemed lackluster in comparison. Qing Yao had been the soul of the story; she was the yin to balance out the yang of the protagonists, and once her spectacular character arc had ended, the narrative seemed to lose all steam. Without her, the plot seemed bland and two-dimensional, but even, so it remained top of the viewer rankings.
Journey to Fairyland was leagues above the earlier Xianxia show, The Story of a Supernatural Chivalrous World, both in terms of production value and success, and it had the ratings to prove it. Many of the actors in the show were now household names, regardless of the size or significance of their roles. The show boosted their reputation and status within the industry, but none of them attracted quite as much attention as the newcomer Yan Huan. Despite the intense public interest in her, she did not make any public appearances; she was busy filming a movie, it was said, and therefore did not have time to accept interview requests.
While Journey to Fairyland was still airing, the TV stations finalized the broadcast slot for Director Jin’s other show, the Republic of China period piece Love and Tribulations.
The publicity team had successfully generated buzz for Love and Tribulations before the show went on air by riding on the coattails of Journey to Fairyland’s success. As soon as Journey to Fairyland ended, Love and Tribulations would begin airing on TV; many viewers had already committed to watching Love and Tribulations because it was by the same creative team behind Journey to Fairyland. In fact, the only difference between the main cast for the two shows was the female lead; Liang Chen had been filming another show abroad when Director Jin had been shooting Love and Tribulations, and so the lead female role had gone to Su Qiao instead. If it had not been for that unfortunate scheduling conflict, Liang Chen would most likely have been the female lead in Love and Tribulations as well; she was Director Jin’s favorite actress, after all.
Love and Tribulations began with a little girl and a little boy making a pinky promise.
“We’ll still be together when we grow up, promise.” The little boy held onto the little girl’s finger, and then pointed at the scar on the little girl’s forehead. “Father said that I’ve disfigured you for life, so I have to do the responsible thing and marry you. I’ll marry you when we grow up, okay?”
The little girl appeared to be younger than the boy. She stared at him with her large, innocent eyes as her lips parted into a wide, toothy smile.
In the next scene, the story had jumped ahead a number of years, to Shanghai during the Republic of China. The city was teeming with life and energy: yellow rickshaws plied for business from women in cheongsams and men in fashionable hats.
On the banks of the Qinjiang River was Rouge Pavilion, the largest brothel in the city. The women inside were dressed seductively; from time to time, the sound of flirtatious laughter from both the men and women sounded through the night, interwoven with a familiar, nostalgic song:
“Shanghai in the night, Shanghai in the night, a city that never sleeps
Bright lights, the sound of cars, singing and dancing
She smiles, but who knows of her inner sorrow?
She works through the night for food, clothing, and shelter
Who needs wine? The atmosphere alone is intoxicating…”
The camera zoomed in on a woman dressed in a royal blue cheongsam as she accepted a wine glass from a man, whose other hand had already crept onto her thigh. The woman lifted the glass, a coy, seductive smile on her lips. She was obviously a prostitute, but one who was, surprisingly, dignified and sophisticated enough to understand correct social etiquette.
She stood up, swaying slightly on her feet. She seemed a little drunk; she hummed a little known traditional song as she swirled the contents of her glass. Her lips curved into a smile; she lifted the glass and downed its contents in one go. When she had emptied the glass, she moved towards the stairs and ascended it slowly, step by step.
“Look at Hong Yao—it’s no wonder she’s the top attraction in Rouge Pavilion. She’s beautiful even when she’s drunk!”