Last Tang Standing

by Ho, Lauren

  12:20 p.m. TLTS dropped a new strip, in which Water, when executing the CEO of a credit ratings agency that gave triple-A ratings to toxic mortgage-backed securities in a dark alley, meets a mysterious woman called Rhean, with similar powers as him. She looks very familiar and he can’t shake the notion that he knows her from before.

  This is an intriguing, and welcome, turn of events for the comic strip.

  Hmm. Let me see: so the woman’s name is Rhean, which is practically derived from “Andrea”; she’s tall, svelte, and a redhead, the total opposite of me. Which means she’s totally based on me. I’m flattered. I’ve never had someone literally make me a character in a comic strip before. It’s almost—sweet, to be respected so much by a competitor.

  Friday 1 April

  Wow. This has been an intense day, and it’s barely 3:00 p.m. The good news is that I survived (a) eating alone with Valerie for two hours (!) without too many awkward pauses (she’s surprisingly quite funny), and (b) staring that whole time at Valerie’s strange Bride of Chucky face and managing to finish my meal. The bad news is that I now know that Linda is sledding straight into a hillock of disaster-flavored turds, full speed, because I’ve heard some very disconcerting news.

  Apparently, Valerie, who had been speaking at a private investment seminar at Fullerton Hotel (art investment for newly minted millionaires with too much money and no clue about art), had stepped out of the room to take a call when who else did her beady eyes spy but Linda, her arms around the waist of a man as they stepped into a lift heading up to the rooms. A man, she claimed, who was wearing a gold band on the fourth finger of his left hand: a married man.

  “What? Are you sure it was Linda? This is not some elaborate April Fool’s Day prank, right?”

  “Positive. I was five feet away, hidden by a potted plant, but there’s no mistaking Linda. She’s pretty unmistakable, especially with that Fran Drescher laugh.”

  She was right; you could hear it from a mile away.

  Valerie leaned forward, her eyes deadly serious, and whispered, “The most shocking thing was she was kissing him, butterfly-style, all over his face the entire time! In broad daylight!”

  We both gagged simultaneously. Who was this imposter and what had she done to our Linda?

  “Who’s the Romeo?” I demanded once I’d recovered, feeling more hurt than shocked. I couldn’t believe she had not confided in me, which told me that this man was special. Linda usually gave me every dirty detail of her dating life. It was part of her charm as a friend, since I could live vicariously through her sexploits, which were manifold and casual.

  Valerie shrugged, her expression frozen in place. “He looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t identify him. The guy was wearing Ah Beng[fn1] aviators. Indoors.” Valerie loved her italics.

  We rolled our eyes in sync and shuddered. Both of us shared a dislike for people who wore sunglasses indoors when they were not visually challenged.

  “And you’re sure that he’s married?” Linda has one rule when she dates: no married men. She’d experienced firsthand the repercussions of her parents’ infidelities. “Maybe his ring is just for bling?” I offered weakly. It was dawning on me that Linda had been hinting at this in our conversation a few weeks ago, though at the time I’d assumed she was talking about one of my Tinder prospects.

  Valerie snorted, which in itself is a feat because it meant she could still contort the muscles around her nose.

  “Child,” Valerie said in the same voice one uses to talk to, well, a child. “No man will scare off pussy by wearing a band on his fourth finger, even if it’s ‘just for bling.’ We must face the fact that our best friend”—mine, I thought—“is screwing a married man, something she crucifies others for doing. I am sure he’s Singaporean, at least he sounded like one, and he definitely has money: he had a Ferrari key fob dangling from his trouser pocket and a to-die-for pair of croc skin loafers, and the air of someone who’s used to being listened and deferred to. His lack of discretion is a sure sign he’s bad news: he was not even trying to hide the fact that he’s married and cheating on his wife, which tells me that he must be a very powerful or very stupid man indeed, and God forbid he is both.”

  I chewed on this as I hurried back to work. Linda was not the most level-headed person when she wanted someone, but this guy sounded like bad news. I added this to the list of things I needed to resolve on an already staggering to-do list.

  8:45 p.m. My nervous, staccato bursts of typing drew Suresh’s ire.

  “Could you please type normally,” he said, irritated. “I have an angry client and an even angrier fiancée.”

  “Oh,” I said. I glanced over and saw him staring blankly at the screen with an expression I knew well. It was what I called the Monday Horror Show™ face, a combo of constipation, existential horror, and resignation. With some hesitation, I got up, went over, and gave him the chastest, most scholarly of shoulder pats. Suresh’s shoulders were dangerous territory: they were taut with muscles that invited lingering caresses. I quickly brought up mental images of hairy men in tight polka-dotted Speedos to quell any unruly carnal urges. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked in my most professional school counselor’s voice.

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Yes, but are you sure you really want to hear about it?”

  “Sure!” I said, widening my eyes. “Isn’t that what colleagues are for?” Yes¸ I thought, mentally channeling Mr. Burns, tell me your deepest darkest secret, which I will never use against you, pinky swear, muahahaha.

  “Not really.” A small smile creased his face. “But it’s what friends are for. And we’re friends, I’d like to think.”

  “Well, friendly rivals, anyway,” I said, trying to keep my gaze from straying off the planes of his face toward those insanely sculpted shoulders.

  “We’ve had a fight,” he said. “Noush and I … we’ve had a massive row about Singapore. She doesn’t want to move here, and I don’t want to move back to London. I get it. I mean, I loved London as a child and a student. But Singapore is my home now. I want to be with my parents.”

  I shrugged. “I’m not saying I’m on her side, but for the sake of argument, if one of you has to move, why can’t it be you?”

  He got up from his chair and began pacing. “Look, it’s much easier for her to find a job here, with her excellent credentials and experience—she even has a standing job offer from one of her former professors who’s working in a private hospital here as the head of his department! Besides, being a working lawyer in London at a law firm like ours is not great. I barely slept five hours a night and I was working myself to the bone—I mean, even more so than here. I hated working and commuting in London—all that smog and cold weather and long commutes in the Tube where it gets so crowded that someone’s nose is always wedged in your armpit.”

  “Right,” I said. The idea of pressing my nose against Suresh’s suit in a crowded train was oddly more appealing than it ought to have been.

  “I just want her to be here, you know? Anousha’s my fiancée. We should be in the same city, don’t you think? If you were my fiancée, wouldn’t you want to live with me instead of living across a fucking continent and being a couple only on paper? Does she even love me?”

  I kept quiet. I knew the answer to that question, and it wasn’t something I think he would have wanted to hear right then. Instead, I said, “Maybe you should go to her. Go to London. Take some time off to, urm”—I made my voice soft, like my unflexed butt—“rekindle the romance.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Nice try, woman. You’re not out-billing me. In fact, maybe it’s better this way so I can, y’know, focus on my work.”

  I narrowed my eyes. Looks like we were in for a long Office Face-Time Battle tonight. Unluckily for him, I had forgotten to wear deodorant and I’d just had a three-bean chili from the new Mexicana place down the street with dangerously empty seating. Game on.

  20

  Saturday 2 April


  4:05 p.m. Went to the office to work on the contract that I should have been working on during the week. Was not surprised to see Suresh there, looking a little rumpled and bleary-eyed, like he’d not gotten a lot of sleep. We greeted each other by grunting, then lapsed into companionable silence, broken only by furious typing and the occasional call. We’ve developed this unspoken routine where we take turns making his famous chai. Sometimes sharing an office with him isn’t so bad.

  8:15 p.m. Found a lull in work and exploited it to send a text to Linda asking her out for lunch next week. Haven’t seen her in a while.

  8:30 p.m. Linda texted me back to tell me she was in the Cayman Islands with “a client.” Hmmm.

  9:10 p.m. Speaking of bad news, my mother’s friend’s son just texted me to introduce himself and ask me out for dinner next Friday at a swanky meat place called Ho Sek.

  I googled him and almost fell out of my chair.

  Someone Up There was having a laugh, a very dark one, at my expense.

  Monday 4 April

  It’s my mother’s birthday today. Dialed her number and let it ring twice before hanging up like a coward. Decided to send her a WhatsApp message instead, then promptly muted all notifications on the chat in case she replied. Have already sent her a birthday card over the weekend and sent it via international priority mail to her place in Kuala Lumpur. The art featured a cute, harmless penguin holding a bunch of flowers. I drew a cross on its chest and wrote “Have a blessed birthday, Mom! Jesus loves you!” in perfectly spaced capital letters and black ink. She should not be able to find any fault with this year’s card. I hope.

  Tuesday 5 April

  7:15 a.m. This just came in from my mom:

  I know Jesus loves me, but do you? You know what I want for my birthday. *emoji of a wedding dress* *emoji of a couple* *emoji of a three-person family unit*

  Her emoji game is on point.

  She followed up with another text:

  Good luck with your date this Fri. Remember, God is watching.

  Gotta give her credit for being consistently annoying. And omniscient.

  1:15 p.m. Called Linda, who was back from the Caymans, and told her my mother had strong-armed me into accepting a blind date.

  “What’s his name? Age? Occupation?” Linda said, presumably already in Google stalk mode.

  “Chuck Tan Ka Seng. Forty-seven. MD.”

  “Dear God.”

  “I know.”

  “He chose—?”

  “Yup. I’m pretty sure he chose the name ‘Chuck.’ As in Chuck Norris, not Chuck Bass.”

  I heard frantic tapping and a gasp. I knew exactly what she had found because I had had the very same reaction.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Linda said, with barely suppressed laughter.

  “Is it, though? Is it? How will I ever look at him with a straight face?”

  “Diazepam,” she said immediately.

  “Thanks, but I prefer to keep my stash for when my mother turns up.”

  “Speaking of names, I almost wish I were back in Hong Kong,” Linda said. “At least people there were creative. I mean, I’d give an actual kidney to meet a Pegasus or an Aristotle again. Or even just a boring old Handsome. At least I can abide by ‘Handsome.’ It shows a certain confidence, an assuredness of being.” Slurping noises. “I envy you, Andrea. I really do. Blind dates and fertility deadlines sound so fun.”

  “Shaddup,” I said. Linda was lucky: her parents, who were in the timber and mining business, were usually busy arranging for “accidental” land clearings instead of blind dates. Anyway, she didn’t have the same, or any, external reproductive pressures. Although she’s an only child, her father has what she euphemistically calls “backup children.” Several, in fact. Furthermore, at the rate he was accumulating wealth, there was no issue about her marrying “up” to help the family. If Linda were to marry one day, she would, quite likely, be doing it for the right reason: fear of dying alone.

  Wednesday 6 April

  10:15 a.m. Ooh! Flowers! A massive bouquet of showstopping rich purplish-maroon peonies was delivered this morning, and they were not for Kai but me!

  10:30 a.m. They were from Eric Deng, actually. He sent them with a card saying, “I’ll be back in town. Will see you soon.” I knew he would know how to find me. Which sounds creepy but is really not.

  When I brought the flowers into the room Suresh promptly started sneezing. Turns out he is allergic to beauty. Anyway, have left the flowers outside with Kai on her desk, so that I can see them.

  Val, who’s an expert in beautiful things, told me that these are Black Beauty peonies, upon my sending a pic of the flowers to her. So there’s another layer to the flowers, since I told Eric that Black Beauty was the first book that moved me to tears.

  Thursday 7 April

  11:35 a.m. Got a text from my blind date, Chuck, that literally said he was reminding me that we were meeting tomorrow. Not a “Can’t wait to see you!” type of message, just a reminder to show up. What a total contrast to Eric’s flowers. Anyway, Chuck’s text came at a good time since I had totally forgotten about the date. Am tempted to cancel as I’m handling a difficult closing, deadline today. Consulted the group chat. Everyone told me to stick with it. Linda posited that since I haven’t been on too many dates in a while I should take this, just to stay sharp. Val concurred that I needed all the help I could get (thanks). Ben and Jason, probably eager for the entertainment value they will surely derive from this, begged me to go ahead. Begged.

  Am a little nervous about Friday. What do people say on dates these days? Do they even talk anymore or just scroll through their smartphones in companionable silence, waiting till they stumble upon a suitably benign news story or Instagram feed to share with their date? Will have to read up on what’s trending and hope that he’s equally ignorant on what makes young people ill these days.

  On the off-chance that my mother’s blind date might turn out to be the love of my life, I went and got an emergency cellulite massage and wax session at my favorite Vietnamese place. Which, by the way, is run by the same family that runs the deli downstairs.

  Friday 8 April

  6:45 p.m. Left the office muttering about a networking event I had to attend, to which Suresh gave a grunt of acknowledgment. Felt guilty since I have some follow-up from the closing to do, but as Linda reminded me, I’ve given enough of my youth in the service of faceless corporations to justify leaving so early.

  I went to the date with the enthusiasm of a carnivore to a PETA conference, even though the restaurant, Ho Sek, was a well-regarded fixture in the local gastronomic scene, specializing in roast meats done in a variety of ambitious styles.

  Chuck was already seated at the table, his back facing me as I walked slowly toward him. He was dressed in a light blue denim shirt, beige trousers, and tan moccasins. Since there was an off-chance that he could one day use my (legal) services, I had put on one of my LBDs (Lawyerly Black Dresses[fn1]) and black ballet flats.

  Both of us were making as much polite effort as possible to not dress to impress.

  I circled the table and said hi, just as he pulled his chair back and extended his hand in a handshake. We shook hands, which never bodes well for romance. I made a mental note to sanitize my hands under the table even as I gave him a quick once-over. He was a firm 6.5 in looks, but given his professional choices, I could only raise his overall score to 4.

  “Thanks for coming out tonight, Andrea,” he said, in perfect accentless English. I raised his score to 4.5. Still, too little, too late. There was, on my side at least, no chance I would ever want to exchange any kind of fluids with him. I suspected he thought the same, as he was not doing the eye dip that most men unconsciously perform when confronted with cleavage, even inordinately modest ones.

  We exchanged some pleasantries and quickly moved on to the Dating Small Talk. He was a skilled, easy conversationalist, but we both knew we would have to discuss our professions sooner or later. I for one
was dying to ask him many, many questions, but I knew he had to broach the topic first. I prayed that I could hold it together when the time came: we needed to get through dinner so we could report to our parents about a suitably grave physical/ mental flaw discovered during the course of the date that would imperil the bloodlines.

  “So, Andrea,” he said, at last, after we were done with our main course (mine a lovely barramundi swimming in browned butter, served with broccolini and roasted leeks, his a pork tenderloin paired with new potatoes and some kind of salsa), and we had to make a decision whether or not to ask for the bill or order dessert. “Why did you decide to be a lawyer?”

  “Ally McBeal,” I said. “I mean, justice, pencil suits, courtroom drama, and all that, yadda yadda yadda, but enough about me—what about you?” The entire sentence was said in one breath.

  “I like big butts and I cannot lie,” he did not say. Instead, he launched into a long story about some poor uncle dying of colorectal cancer while he was in medical school. I deflated. Dear Diary, I realize that I am a juvenile individual with a puerile sense of humor. But God, a proctologist? Of all the specializations in the world?

  I am certain that proctology is the only medical specialty that a Chinese parent would prefer not to brag about but to keep in the dark. And the poor proctologist can come from Harvard Medical School, but he’d still be the butt of jokes.

  Haha. Butt.

  “Andrea,” Chuck said, just as I had begun composing an amusing limerick about butts.

  “Yes?” Had I been speaking aloud without realizing again?

  “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”