Chapter 103

On the fourteenth of November 2015, a month after Li Lan came back from England, Cerulean Pharmaceuticals began operating in Yu city.

Unlike other pharmaceutical research companies, its first task was the hydroxy insulin's preclinical work — and knowing her defence was some way off, and she the principal developer, Zhang Lin and Feng Jiang did not let a source of free labour pass, and made her a consultant to the company.

Preclinical work being the main business for now, the site wasn't large — a hundred and fifty mu, nothing beside the five hundred and twenty mu of the cosmetics park. Small and complete, though: GMP-compliant workshops, GLP laboratories, all the equipment, with further building to come.

Beyond some early disorder the company settled into its stride quickly, and Li Lan was content with the role; she couldn't take part in the trials themselves, and preclinical work isn't technically complicated and the daily work wasn't heavy.

Back from the laboratory, she found a new email, and smiled reading it. From Auren James, with two things. First, the defence date: the fifteenth of next month. The second was a pleasure — in October he'd been going to recommend her to the NCI, and she had passed their review and been accepted, into precisely the department she wanted: the cancer research centre.

Cancer research was her final goal. Beyond the hydroxy insulin, the shop had let her publish a series of papers on cancer cell biology with others, and the NCI, being one of the principal institutions in the field, fitted her plan exactly.

The fifteenth of December came quickly. Cambridge, a chemistry department meeting room.

From one until half past four — three and a half hours of examination — and having answered the last question she was sent out while they conferred. Half an hour later she came back in, and against the severity of the defence itself everybody was smiling, and Auren James shook her hand.

"Congratulations, Dr Li."

Looking at his kind face, and having braced for it, she found she wasn't as moved as she'd expected. More than the doctorate, what she was looking forward to was the research ahead.

A fortnight in England settling the formalities, and she left for the NCI, going from newly minted doctor to an ordinary NCI researcher. Being one of the largest cancer research institutions in the world, its staff turnover is high; besides its own researchers there are people from universities, hospitals and associated bodies, on correspondingly varied contracts.

The cancer research centre she joined is the institute's largest cancer unit, with nearly three thousand scientists, over three hundred of whom lead research programmes — anti-HIV drug development, tumour genetics, new approaches to cancer treatment. Which is why she'd chosen it: here she could reach the most advanced work in the field.

July 2016.

Six months after joining, her proposed dual-target regimen combining ramucirumab and erlotinib for early-stage lung cancer caused a stir inside the institute. At the NCI, individual ability matters more than seniority, and after a month of discussion and no little obstruction, she was made project lead for the dual-target work out of the usual order, heading the research herself.

While that was in full flow, good news came from Cerulean Pharmaceuticals: after a year of preclinical work, on the twentieth of December the hydroxy insulin cleared American clinical approval and qualified for trials — meaning the company could begin the final and most expensive stage.

Early in 2017 the phase one trial began. With under a hundred participants it didn't take long, and in July, phase one having gone well, phase two opened.

October 2017. Li Lan's NCI contract expired, and unexpectedly she didn't renew it but submitted her resignation.

Jenny leaned in the kitchen doorway watching her cook. As her colleague and deputy at the NCI, this was the third time she'd come on the institute's behalf to talk her out of it. "Lan, are you really going back?"

She thought it a waste. A year ago, having proposed the dual-target regimen and become the cancer centre's youngest programme lead under enormous internal pressure, Li Lan had gone from strength to strength, apparently without a ceiling, producing something new almost daily and making her group's life simultaneously agonising and delightful. In a single year the group had established and demonstrated that the proposal significantly reduced the risk of progression and death in early-stage lung cancer, and had accurately identified the targeted agents.

The results dropped a great many jaws, and although no preclinical work had been done, that kind of efficiency silenced everybody who had objected to her leading it. And with everybody assuming she'd stay, word came that she wasn't renewing but going home. The first reaction was disbelief: the hardest part was done, and the preclinical and clinical stages ahead are long and consist mainly of working with other departments and aren't heavy, and if the regimen proved effective the credit would be chiefly hers, and her prospects were bright. Nobody had expected her to leave at that point.

"Of course. And my contract expires in two months anyway." She brought out the last dish and waved Jenny to the table.

Jenny rolled her eyes. "You know that isn't what I mean." The institute had a new contract ready for signature, and had received a resignation instead.

Having had her joke, Li Lan said it seriously. "Jenny, in my country there's a saying — fallen leaves return to their roots. I was always going back sooner or later."

Jenny shrugged. "All right." She didn't entirely understand that particular sentiment, which didn't stop her respecting the choice. She'd argued partly because she was about to lose a good friend, and partly because — "Where am I supposed to get Chinese food this good? What they sell in Chinatown does not satisfy my stomach." Having lamented it, she expertly helped herself with chopsticks.

Eating made her sadder. Two years ago Li Lan had invited her over for a Chinese meal and she'd fallen for it entirely, Li Lan's being a good deal better than anything outside — and she was too busy to cook more than a handful of times.

"You could think about working in my country. The food there is a great deal better than mine." Not untrue; having been abroad so long her cooking was merely adequate, and something about it agreed with Jenny. Possibly that she liked chilli? Watching her eat chilli by the mouthful, Li Lan felt she'd guessed correctly.

"Mm." Jenny bit her chopsticks and considered it.

And shook her head, pained. "Not for now. After this project, though, I might." As deputy she'd very likely lead the next stage, and even failing that, being one of the project's founding members, success would raise her standing considerably. Giving that up was more than she could bear. Afterwards, perhaps.

Li Lan hadn't expected Jenny to be a secret glutton, and there she was, genuinely considering it.

They finished quickly and Jenny washed up. "Lan, what will you do at home? Rest for a while?"

Li Lan was making a pudding. "Take a post at my old university."

She'd sent Peking her CV in August, choosing the School of Pharmaceutical Sciences, and had been answered quickly; they were very glad to have her back, and the offer of an associate professorship followed.

"I see." Jenny wasn't surprised. Beyond the researchers, the NCI's largest constituency is university professors; against working for a pharmaceutical company, research is what matters to them.

At the end of the month, with Jenny and her colleagues watching her go, she boarded a flight home.

She chose to arrive unannounced. The last time she'd been home was Spring Festival the previous year, and she'd stayed three days and left in a hurry, and her parents had said nothing about it; video calls at least kept them from worrying too much. To surprise them she hadn't said she was coming, so when she appeared at the door at midday with her luggage, her mother's first reaction was a disbelieving shriek. "Lanlan?"

She put the case down and hugged her; a long time abroad had left her with something of the foreign directness. "Mum. I'm home."

Chen Ying hugged her back on reflex. "Is it really you?"

"Mm," Li Lan said into her shoulder. She grew more attached to home as she got older, and with a previous life behind her she was nearly forty; two years without seeing them had been enough.

Her mother held on, repeating, "Why are you back now? What about your job?"

It took a while for her to settle, and then she held Li Lan at arm's length and looked her over. "It didn't show on the screen — how have you got this thin? Is the work too much?"

Li Lan submitted to being examined without impatience, and looked round for her father. "I haven't lost weight, you're imagining it. Where's Dad?"

"Down at the field. I'll ring him. He's off to that field every other day, heaven knows what he sees in it."

Her parents had taken on a few dozen mu last year to grow vegetables, which the supermarket could sell, and her father had evidently developed a taste for it. Seeing her mother reach for the phone, Li Lan made a face. "Mum, don't tell him."

Chen Ying nodded and gave her a look, and when it connected said blandly, "Where are you? Something's come up at home — come back."

"I've only just got here. What is it?"

"Somebody's here for you. Says they've something to tell you." She kept it vague. "Just come back, the field will keep, one day won't matter."

He grumbled and hung up. "Fine, I'm coming. Whatever it is you could tell me."

Ten-odd minutes later, footsteps on the stairs, and Chen Ying waved her out of sight.

Pushing the door open, Li Quan saw the top of a head above the sofa back — too high to see who — and his wife apparently doing the accounts on the other one. He came over. "Who's here?"

At his wife's covert signal, Li Lan stood up. "Ta-daa. I am."

He stopped. He stood in the living room without a word, and before she could ask whether he was surprised he crossed the room in two strides, looked hard at her and grinned. "Lanlan's home?"

She'd known it would be this. She hugged him lightly, with something in her throat. "Mm. I'm home."

He patted her shoulder. "Good. Good."

Watching, Chen Ying wanted to cry again, and handed them each a tissue. "That's enough, stop it. Good news — she isn't going away again."

He rubbed his eyes hard. "Not going where?"

Li Lan repeated what she'd told her mother. "I've resigned. I'm staying in the country."

He was happier about that than about the Peking post, and kept saying it. "Not going away. Not going away."

They talked to her at length, and she couldn't suppress a yawn, and both were immediately solicitous. "Do you want to sleep? Isn't there the time difference? Your father and I will make you something."

She nodded. There's no direct flight from America to Yu city and she'd changed planes and been travelling two days, and holding out this long had caught up with her.

She woke at seven in the evening to a table covered with dishes, and her mother waving her into a seat, and her father having opened a bottle. Seeing where her eyes went, and knowing she disapproved, he said cheerfully, "I'm happy today. Just a little."

---

Two weeks at home, and then she left to complete her appointment. Worth noting: Li Jingyu was in Beijing too. He'd come back the previous year, as agreed with his mother — no debut before the entrance exam meant coming home — and after nearly four years as a trainee in Korea he hadn't debuted. He wasn't a stubborn person, and disliking the Korean seniority system, he'd steeled himself and returned.

Years of training couldn't be wasted, so after discussion the family decided on the arts examination route, and early that year he was travelling for auditions — and on the strength of those years, unexpectedly came first in the film academy's audition. For a poor student that was never the obstacle; the problem was the academic papers, and to fill the gap his parents gritted their teeth and found him full-subject tutors in Beijing, and nearly a year of shut-in cramming scraped him over the line. A freshly minted university student.

Li Cheng was in Shanghai, where her studio had a considerable name; besides herself she'd signed and developed a number of creators, and spent her days filming and running the studio, which was gratifyingly free — and lucrative.

The evening before, the family talked over video, and hearing Li Lan was coming to Beijing with their parents, Li Jingyu was delighted. "Mum, what time do you arrive? Shall I come and find you?"

Li Cheng had an event in Beijing in a few days and could come early. "Have you booked a hotel? I'll do it."

Chen Ying was cooler about it. "Come if you want. No hotel needed, your sister's rented a flat."

And turned to Li Lan. "Darling, have you got everything? We're driving you tomorrow anyway, take plenty of food."

Li Cheng came out in gooseflesh and said quickly, "Right, I'm going to pack. See you tomorrow. Li Lan, send me the address."

Li Jingyu sourly announced he had a lecture, and hung up.

Chen Ying was unbothered by either of them and went on asking what Li Lan wanted to take.

The flat was near the university: two bedrooms, not large, right for one person, with room for either sibling. The rent wasn't cheap and was nothing to her. Chen Ying had complained at first — in her day a graduate who became a teacher was allocated a flat, and now a professor had nowhere to live — and was told there was staff accommodation and Li Lan had chosen to rent.

Learning it was her own choice, Chen Ying had nothing to say; the maternal filter being undimmed and whatever Li Lan said being correct, she immediately turned about and observed that staff accommodation could never be as comfortable as your own place, and asked whether she had enough money for the rent.

The three of them arrived at five, Li Cheng having got in hours earlier and now talking idly with her brother. "How's university? You're not going to fail your exams?"

He glanced at her. "Sorry to disappoint. My marks are good."

She didn't believe it and he couldn't be bothered proving it, and talking, she remembered what she'd nearly forgotten. "A friend told me something. There's a talent show coming — do you want to try?"

She knew that having spent that long as a trainee he couldn't be content to drop it. Fortunately she was now a creator with over ten million followers across platforms, and while not closely tied to the entertainment industry, she'd deliberately accumulated contacts because of him — which was proving useful.

As she'd expected, he was interested. "What show?"

She recalled it; she'd asked her friend specifically. "You know that Korean show, the one with 101? A domestic company is making one. It's called Trainee Producer. Registration's open."

He knew it. It had become enormous after he came back, and he'd been preparing for the entrance exam and had deliberately not followed it. Hearing a domestic version was coming, he admitted he was tempted.

Then Li Lan rang to say they'd arrived, and the conversation stopped.

Seeing her, he put the show aside. She'd gone off to a doctorate and they hadn't met in years; Li Cheng saw him fairly often, going to Korea to film. He'd expected to be awkward about it and found he'd worried unnecessarily.

Li Lan looked at him — a great deal more alert than the brother she remembered — and complimented him without disguise. "Very handsome. Better than on screen."

Beyond singing and dancing, the years in Korea hadn't been for nothing, and it showed first in how he dressed; trainees attend to it particularly. Nothing he wore was a major label and his eye was faultless, and with the height and the shoulders and the legs, people turned to look at him in the street — possibly also because five people, four over one metre seventy and one over one metre eighty, standing in a row is conspicuous. Undeniably, by appearance he already met the standard of an idol.

After a few words Li Cheng led them off to dinner, and the three of them walked ahead with Li Lan in the middle while their parents came slowly behind, watching their children talk and laugh, and exchanged a look about how long it had been since they'd seen this. For parents there is no happier moment.

Li Cheng had a great deal to ask. "Why are you back? You said nothing about it when I visited in May, and half a year later here you are."

Li Lan answered vaguely; she had a great deal to say to her brother. "How's the course? Since you're back, work at it. You could spend the holidays down at Hengdian getting some acting experience, and send your CV around and see whether a company will sign you — and don't rush; look properly before you sign."

She was afraid he'd come back unbalanced. A trainee is one opportunity away from a debut, and coming home meant starting again with no telling how long it would take. She'd never had time before, and having got hold of him, delivered the lot.

Towards Li Lan he held an indefinable reverence — the reverence of a poor student for a brilliant one, perhaps; her image in his childhood had been altogether too luminous — so rather than fob her off as he would his other sister, he answered carefully. "It's going well. The teachers say I've a real gift for acting. I came first in my class in the speech and performance course." A trace of pride by the end.

"Did you?" Li Lan was surprised. She hadn't expected that.

Li Cheng put in, "The old saying's right — God shuts a door and opens a window. You're no good at school and you may have lit up the acting skill. Go on, lad."

The restaurant wasn't far, and talking, and thinking about living in Beijing permanently, Li Lan raised buying a flat. Her father nodded. "You should."

Her mother took it up. "Your father and I were discussing it. Renting forever isn't sensible once you're working, and we were going to raise it with you." They'd had the idea since learning she'd settle in Beijing. "The question is small or large. We couldn't decide." Small suited her alone; large meant the family — and Li Jingyu was a first-year and Li Cheng was in Shanghai, and neither would be living in Beijing soon, so large might be a waste.

"Large. Large," Li Cheng said instantly.

Li Lan inclined that way too. Only Li Jingyu was practical about it. "Beijing prices are enormous. Can we afford a large one?"

"You silly boy." Chen Ying looked round and lowered her voice. "Have you forgotten? Those flats we bought were cleared for redevelopment last year."

The flats bought years ago on Li Lan's advice. Yu city's development last year had brought all of them inside the redevelopment zone, and her parents hadn't slept properly for days.

Being the youngest and abroad early, Li Jingyu knew only that the family's flats had been redeveloped, not what it came to, and neither parent mentioned figures in front of him — and during Korea and the Beijing cramming his mother had frequently mentioned how much he'd cost and how heavy the burden was. So in his conception the family was a long way from wealthy: reasonably well off by the town's standards, and comfortable at a stretch.

Li Cheng's studio made good money, and that was hers. Li Lan had presumably earned well in America and had savings, and a salary is a salary however good, and a professor's would be lower still.

And redevelopment or not, one doesn't see everybody able to buy a flat in Beijing, let alone choose the size. Affording one at all would be something. So he assumed the family would be economising to manage it, and that after Li Cheng the earning would fall to him. And he currently had no money whatever and was the only one spending it, which was a melancholy thing — at which point he decided to enter that talent show, and at two hundred per cent effort. The sooner he made something of himself, the sooner the family's second man could contribute a brick to the new place.

Li Lan hadn't expected such enthusiasm about the flat; she'd raised it to canvass opinions. "Right. I'll look in a while."

"Just keep an eye out, it isn't a matter of days. Look properly. The compensation money will take years anyway, there's no hurry."

"Yes, buy in a few years," Li Jingyu agreed — thinking that in a few years he might be famous, and could be the family's mainstay.

"I've something to say as well." He looked round, serious.

"What is it?" Chen Ying was indulgent with her son.

"Have you got a girlfriend?" At which his father looked up too, with hope in it. Their three children were each doing well, and some of his contemporaries in the town were grandfathers already; one can't ask daughters, and a son with somebody would be good.

He stopped. The question broke his rhythm and dispersed the gravity he'd assembled, and he cleared his throat. "I'm going to enter a talent show."

His parents: "…?"

What is a talent show?

Li Cheng, who knew: "Mm."

Nobody answering, he was embarrassed, and Li Lan rescued him. "What show?"

He repeated the afternoon's conversation, his parents entirely at sea and Li Cheng putting in explanations and telling them what a talent show is. Li Lan slapped the table. "Excellent. How did I forget about that?" The format was familiar; it had made a considerable noise in her previous life, and she'd heard of it without watching it. The name was different now, and small changes hardly matter.

With Li Cheng's explanations their parents grasped what it was and had no objection; provided nothing was too outrageous, they'd always let the three of them run. So it was settled, with a plan for the whole family to text votes once it aired.

The next day, under her parents' urging, Li Lan went to complete her appointment, which was involved and took a week from end to end, during which her mother got the flat looking something like a home, and then they left reassured. Back home, sent a screenshot of Li Lan's entry on the university website, they saved it immediately and posted it.

---

Formalities lodged, and while the process ran, Li Lan met Feng Jiang and Zhang Lin. They'd known she was back and hadn't come at once, on the grounds she should be with her family, and because it hadn't been long since they last met; the hydroxy insulin trials being among Cerulean's most important business, both were constantly in America.

"Professor Li. Congratulations." Zhang Lin handed over a present on arrival. "There. For the new job."

"Sister Lin, why so formal all of a sudden?"

Zhang Lin raised an eyebrow. "A small thing. You're a university professor now; what's wrong with an older sister buying a present?"

"All right. Thank you."

Feng Jiang arrived with something in his hand too and much the same line.

Courtesies done, they turned to the day's business. Cerulean's growth over these years — Rejuvenate and the hair serum especially — had lifted it clear of the field, and it was now the leading domestic cosmetics brand with a considerable international profile. Which brought its own problem: growth had reached a ceiling, and going further meant listing.

Which was why they'd met. The proposal had been circulating internally, particularly with the hydroxy insulin's phase three ahead, where the money would be several times phases one and two; not enough to pull Cerulean down, and enough to put real pressure on everything after.

The only contested point was the equity. Apart from some long-standing staff, to most people Cerulean's acknowledged founders were Feng Jiang and Zhang Lin, one facing out and one facing in, whose understanding was envied in the industry; very few knew the original founder existed.

People around both of them had suggested finding an opportunity to become the company's sole real power, and both knew what Li Lan's part in getting Cerulean here had been. And Rejuvenate, the hair serum and the hydroxy insulin patents were all in her hands; a genuine falling-out would cost Cerulean most. Without Rejuvenate and the hair serum its advantage over other companies wasn't marked — never mind what the hydroxy insulin would do to the pharmaceutical market once launched, and anybody with a brain knows the profit in pharmaceutical products.

Neither of them was sure yet where the ceiling of Li Lan's ability lay. What was certain was that as long as that central figure was there, Cerulean would not fold — so both agreed she should remain the largest shareholder, and not managing the company didn't matter as long as she kept producing. Business has no room for sentiment; Li Lan had been wondering whether being a permanently absentee proprietor was quite right, and she understood nothing about management, and if Zhang Lin and Feng Jiang had sidelined her there'd have been nothing she could do. Hearing this, she quietly relaxed.

Since they trusted her that far, she told them her own plan: her weight would go on new drugs from now on. Neither was surprised; she'd been tending that way for a long time, and Rejuvenate and the hair serum and Cerulean itself existed because she'd wanted enough money to research new drugs. After a long discussion the three of them decided Cerulean Pharmaceuticals was the focus from here, with the other sub-brands ranked behind it.

She asked how things stood, and learning they were about to launch a shampoo containing a weaker version of the hair serum and were preparing the campaign, something occurred to her. "How are you promoting it?"

The serum works and costs accordingly — over a thousand for a small bottle, and treating hair loss properly runs to nearly ten thousand, which ordinary people genuinely can't carry. A shampoo fills that gap and marks their entry into household products, so the campaign had to be right.

Feng Jiang didn't handle publicity directly and knew the outline, and recalled it uncertainly. "Advertising, I think, and sponsoring some programmes." Cerulean being a major brand now, its publicity was no longer the cramped affair it had been.

And Li Lan discovered, to her delight, that Trainee Producer was on the sponsorship list — and while slightly embarrassed about it, went through Cerulean to ask the production team for a back door: more camera time for Li Jingyu during filming. She wasn't thinking of manipulating the outcome, and Cerulean hadn't the weight for it either; asking for more screen time as a sponsor is reasonable, and beyond that would be improper. And on a variety programme screen time is what matters. The rest was up to him.

The production team took the hint before recording began. Until then the director had no impression of Li Jingyu, which is normal — a hundred contestants, and he wasn't from a major company — and afterwards they knew he was one of the ones with somebody behind him.

The director agreed readily, the request not being unreasonable: more screen time, not a rigged ranking. If Li Jingyu had ability, so much the better and he'd give him more stage footage; if he didn't, there were always the daily-life segments, and an edit can always assemble a story out of those.