Chapter 440: The Million-Dollar Idea

Mei Yanfang had only ever heard Zhou Hui-min’s studio recordings; songs released from the studio were surely meticulously crafted and repeatedly revised, and in her view, they couldn’t represent a singer’s true ability.

Hearing Zhou Hui-min’s live performance today, however, surprised her—apparently, the young lady really did have some talent.

Though her stage movements weren’t as rich or fluid as her own, her shy performance evoked a sense of first love—no wonder she was called the goddess of first love; if this segment aired on TV, Zeze , it would probably sweep away a whole wave of middle schoolers.

Of course, the quality of this new song also greatly enhanced her performance—probably another Wei Ming composition.

Wen Zhaolun beside her kept chattering: “Definitely has star aura—probably scored even higher than you.”

“I didn’t perform well at first—that’s normal,” Mei Yanfang defended herself. “First time on a stage like this, no experience.”

Especially since the original singer of that song was sitting right in the audience, she’d been a little nervous—but she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Mei Yanfang glanced at the slightly handsome Wen Zhaolun: “So, you like her?”

Wen Zhaolun awkwardly scratched his head: “I’m not good enough for her—if it were two years ago, maybe I could’ve dreamed about it, but now she’s a rich young lady.”

“Wasn’t she the same two years ago?”

“No, actually her family was once very poor—she was a posthumous child, raised by her mother alone, who later started Hua Li Lai and gradually built it up.” Such gossip about Zhou Hui-min was widely known among Hong Kong middle schools.

What? She’s a posthumous child too?!

Mei Yanfang stared in surprise at the bright, youthful girl on stage—same posthumous child, but alas, not the same mother.

Look at her mother, then look at her own—Mei Yanfang shook her head: compare goods, you discard; compare people, you die.

Other contestants simply performed, got scored, and left—but Zhou Hui-min was different; after singing, she chatted with the judges for a while.

All four judges gave her a perfect 10, including Huang Zhan, who’d initially harbored reservations—now he looked at Zhou Hui-min with almost paternal fondness.

It wasn’t flawless, but compared to the other contestants, Amin’s performance was utterly without flaw.

After all, others’ songs could be compared to original versions; no matter how well Mei Yanfang sang, she couldn’t match Zhen Ni’s years of skill and stage experience—but Zhou Hui-min’s song, she was the original singer, so however she sang, it was right.

“Vivian, seeing you on this stage was truly unexpected and delightful,” Zhen Ni spoke first.

“Thank you, Jenny-jie, I’m very happy to see everyone.”

Zhang Guorong smiled and asked: “This song, ‘Pink Memories’—whose pink memories are they?”

Zhang Guorong was the youngest judge and closest to Amin, so his question was suitably gossipy.

Zhou Hui-min dodged: “Memories of summer.”

Teddy Robin, though frail, spoke with righteous indignation: “Hey, you know perfectly well whose memories they are—why ask? You’re a bad man, Amin, ignore him.”

Zhang Guorong protested innocently: “I’m actually a good person, and I’m thrilled to see Amin—looking forward to your next performance.”

“Thank you, Rong Shao.”

Huang Zhan, seated in the main chair, asked: “Will your next song also be new?”

Zhou Hui-min: “Yes.”

“Working with the same person too often gets boring—you could consider other lyricists, like me,” Huang Zhan pretended to try to break up Amin and Aming, though he was clearly just performing for effect.

Backstage, people grew even more envious—gold-medal lyricist competing to write for her—no wonder she’s a princess!

Amin blinked: Huh? Work with you? Aren’t you the bold, rugged type? That doesn’t match my style at all.

Still, out of politeness, she said: “Thank you, it’s an honor.”

Zhang Guorong immediately chimed in: “Uncle Zhan, you could consider me too.”

Huang Zhan waved his hand: “We’ll discuss it later, we’ll discuss it later.”

Amin still had other contestants after her, and it was getting late—host Cai Fenghua stepped in to cue the next segment, and Zhou Hui-min finally left the stage; her family members Wei Hong and Lin Ni also rose to leave.

But at the entrance, they spotted Zhou Hui-min walking out with a tough-looking girl—a previous contestant.

Amin enthusiastically introduced: “Hong-jie, Ni-jie, this is Amei—Mei Yanfang—my new friend. Let’s have dinner together.”

Mei Yanfang stared in disbelief—this, already a friend? So fast?

The preliminary round was over; the next day’s notice confirmed, as expected, her advancement to the Top 30, preparing for Friday’s semifinals.

Mei Yanfang’s family was also waiting—but what they received was that her sister Mei Aifang, who’d also competed, had not made it.

Mei’s mother scolded her elder daughter harshly, then patted Mei Yanfang’s shoulder: “Little sister, the whole family depends on you now—and break up with that Paul soon. If you place and sign with Hua Xing, you’ll be a real singing star!”

Mei Yanfang snorted inwardly but nodded outwardly: “Mm.” “I’ll go practice for the semifinals.”

“Go, go—don’t disturb her!”

That day, “The Witness” wrapped filming.

Actual shooting took only eight days, but prep work took time; post-production still needed editing and color grading—luckily, no special effects, just standard editing, handled by Wei Ming and Zhang Shuping, with Zhang Yimou also wanting to join.

All that was future talk—right now, the urgent matters were the wrap party and salary settlement.

Wei Ming booked a seafood restaurant; the crew was only a dozen or so, costing him several thousand Hong Kong dollars—everyone said Director Wei was generous, practically a mainland Cheng Long.

That was Da Sha’s comment—he’d heard it from friends in Jackie Chan’s team, whose generosity to his crew was legendary.

Wei Ming thought: that kid must be out of the hospital by now.

That night, back home, Wei Ming invited Amin out for a stroll and told her he’d wrapped filming.

“Oh, so you won’t have to shoot tomorrow?”

“Right.”

“So tomorrow you can sleep in—tonight we can stay up late?” Amin asked.

Wei Ming looked at her strangely: “Amin, what are you planning?”

Zhou Hui-min patted him: “A Lun called me—he invited you to his place to watch the ball game—the World Cup final, Italy vs. West Germany—and said many of your friends will be there.”

Wei Ming: “Oh, the World Cup? I’ll go check it out.”

“Won’t you take me?” Amin asked.

“How? The final’s in the middle of the night—just a bunch of guys. I bring you, a little girl?” Wei Ming poked her forehead, telling her not to get silly ideas.

“Then just spend more time with me now.”

They were downstairs now; Wei Ming looked up: “But I feel someone’s watching us.”

Zhou Hui-min giggled: “Don’t get any ideas—I won’t get in trouble, Mom won’t say anything.”

“I’m not getting any ideas,” Wei Ming thought—no, I’m just afraid you’ll get ideas and ruin my image with your mom.

“How much are you making now?” Wei Ming hadn’t gone home or seen Xiao Hong yet, so he asked Amin.

“Each of us made over ten thousand.”

A profit margin of over ten percent was already impressive—more than Wei Ming’s usual investment returns.

Still need professionals like Xiao Hong—if not, when would we ever afford a luxury Hong Kong mansion?

Hong Kong’s top villas—even if Wei Ming sold everything he owned, he couldn’t afford one.

Tan Yonglin lived in the mid-levels of Hong Kong Island; though it was a luxury home, it wasn’t a villa—he was famous now, but still nowhere near the level of top billionaires; singers and stars hadn’t yet hit their peak earning years.

Wei Ming drove over; it was already midnight when he arrived—the match hadn’t started yet, but many people had gathered; he already knew Zhong Zhen Tao, Chen You, Chen Baixiang, and had met Zeng Zhiwei once before.

Hong Jinbao was also there; if Jackie Chan hadn’t been recovering at home, he’d have come too—he really loved football.

Tan Yonglin immediately introduced Wei Ming to those he didn’t know—besides Fat Hong, there was Yin Zhiqiang and others; they ate skewers and fried chicken while watching the TV.

Yin Zhiqiang, like Tan Yonglin’s father, was a real football player—he still played, acting was just his side job; later, his girlfriend would become famous—Michele—and his sister-in-law was Snowy.

The core lineup of Hong Kong’s future celebrity football team was all here—initiated by Yin Zhiqiang and Tan Yonglin.

Seeing them all dressed in Italy and West Germany jerseys, Wei Ming felt oddly out of place.

But Tan Yonglin had prepared: “Aming, I’m so glad you came—pick a jersey, support whichever team you like.”

Wei Ming looked: roughly equal support for both teams; West Germany had won the World Cup twice already, and in recent years had performed excellently—a traditional powerhouse.

Italy had won twice too, but decades ago—back when Mussolini was still in power.

Still, their surprising run to the final this time gave everyone hope.

Wei Ming chose Italy and asked: “You guys betting on the match too?”

Hong Jinbao said: “Watching football without betting? What’s the point? Don’t you bet on horse racing?”

Zeng Zhiwei grinned mischievously: “Yeah, lost big—I thought Brazil vs. Italy meant Brazil would win, but, Heihei .”

Before the World Cup, Brazil was the favorite—no one expected them to be eliminated in the quarterfinals; Italy was completely ignored.