I can’t do this anymore. It was okay when we were on set, I could handle it. But now? It’s killing me.

Akemi blows musky smoke into the dark, and it swirls, lit up in the light, caught in between the flickering projector and the giant screen.

She points and says, I don’t get it. This guy is such a bad actor. Why is he so famous?

I take the nearly finished joint from her, feel the warmth of it on my fingertips. One last deep toke, the red glows brighter in the dark of Charles’s private cinema room, and it’s done.

I feel myself fill up with the smoke, hold it in as long as I can.

I finally exhale, and after a coughing fit that has me doubled up in my seat, I straighten up and say, Looks count for a lot. And that actor’s pretty good-looking. For an Asian guy, anyway.

She glances at me. What’s that supposed to mean?

Tell me one Asian guy who is better looking than George Clooney.

She looks at me, tells me she can think of dozens. No, more.

And then she adds, You realize you’re Asian, right?

And I say, Am I?

The opening credits roll for a new film.

Opening shot over some plinky-plonk orchestral music: Mia, in a kitchen. It’s an old black and white film.

She’s wearing an apron over a dress, fifties housewife style, preparing a meal while the movie star sits at the dining table, reading a newspaper. It’s so big it covers his face and his body.

The camera zooms in on the hob Mia is cooking on: a big bubbling pot of water, another of gently simmering, clear brown broth.

She drops some noodles into the water to cook, and shouts to the movie star in an old-timey American accent, Dinner will be ready in just a tick, honey!

We see Mia drain the noodles. She places them into a deep bowl, she ladles the broth over, she sprinkles some chopped spring onions on top.

She brings it over to the table, where I’m now sitting, the movie star to my left. He bends the top corner of his paper down and grins at me a grin full of perfect, white teeth.

The movie star folds his newspaper up, puts it down on the table next to the steaming bowl, and breathes the fragrance of the dish in deep.

He says, Sweetie pie, you’ve simply outdone yourself, this looks and smells absolutely delicious!

Mia, she just stands there with her hand on his shoulder, admiring him.

And then he devours the food like he’s some sort of rabid wolf. He’s got the bowl in his hands, boiling soup pouring and splashing all over his face, noodles on his crisp white shirt and tie, noodles on his perfectly pressed trousers, noodles frigging everywhere.

Mia, she just laughs as if this is the most adorable thing she’s ever seen.

Me, I’m horrified by the display.

From beyond the glare of the studio lights, the audience laughs.

And Mia, she smiles a glowing smile at him, then takes her apron off and sits down to my right.

And while the movie star carries on shovelling the noodles into his mouth with his hands, she turns to me, still smiling, puts her hand on my leg, and she says, You’re the one that’s confused.

And the camera pans out and moves high above me as I stare straight into the lens, while the audience’s applause crescendos.

Akemi sits down again and the lights fade back on.

I say, Where did you get that weed from? I think it is fucking with my head.

And she says, A friend of mine grows his own stuff. Good, right?

I fidget in my wheelchair, try to get comfortable. No dice.

My dad, she says, nodding to the screen. He’s a big fan of that actor – has been ever since his first movie. I remember him taking me and my mother to the cinema whenever there was a new film of his out. I never got the appeal, personally, but I’d look at him in the movie theatre and he would be engrossed the whole way through. One time, we finished one screening, and stayed in the theatre to watch the thing all over again.

I say nothing, just wait for her to fill the silence, because I’m pretty sure Charles does not want anyone knowing what the story behind him and the movie star is – or the stuff we got up to together.

How did you meet my dad, anyway?

I look around Charles’s cinema room, the deep red of the plush seats, the uplighters on the dark grey walls giving off a soft, yellow glow. In here, our words leave our mouths, hit the fabric-coated walls and die a quick death.

I tell her we bumped into each other at a doughnut shop, the day after I arrived in the city.

I tell her it was lucky, considering I had no idea what I was doing here.

She does this scoff and says, What a crazy coincidence. My dad, he would call it fate. Did he call it fate?

He did, I say.

And now that I know her and Charles are related, I take the opportunity to look at her in this new light, to see what other similarities I can find.

The eyes, they’re bright like Charles’s, for sure, with an intensity that could be mistaken for outright hostility if you didn’t know any better.

And they have the same nose.

So what, are you working with him now? she says.

And I say, I only did one job for him.

And she says, Doing what?

And I say, Photographing stuff.

Just as well, she says. My dad, he’s into some shady stuff.

She says, Want my advice? Don’t get too involved. And if you do, I don’t want anything to do with you.

She leans further back into her seat, looks around the room.