by Ho, Lauren
No matter—
“Ding!” A pop-up notification. A red-hot jolt of adrenaline: Suresh had just published another TLTS strip.
In a motel, Rhean and Water broke apart, naked, trembling, returning to themselves. Changing back. It’s happening faster now.
The kills just keep them on a shorter and shorter leash.
There are two bodies on the floor beside their bed. A pimp and his business partner, their faces twisted. In horror. They were young, in their late twenties. Maybe they weren’t even pimps. Water realizes he doesn’t know anymore.
Water turned to Rhean. “I can’t stop myself.”
“Neither can I,” she admits.
He knows this. This had gone on long enough.
He gets up, shaking, walks to his kill bag. Retrieves a syringe marked “W.” With a swift jab to his thigh he injects himself with the lethal cocktail of drugs he’d concocted for this purpose. You die fast when that happens. Unless …
She cries out when she sees what he is about to do. Leaps off the bed and runs to him, too late.
He’s already on the floor, already dying.
“Rhean,” he says, with difficulty.
She’s shaking her head, beating the floor, unable to hold him toward the end. “Why?” she asks, even though she knows.
“My North Star …,” he whispered. His nickname for her. “Do you remember w-why I chose it for you?”
Rheans nods, weeping. Between tears, she manages to finish his words for him. “You don’t have to be the brightest star in the sky, but you’re the one I look to when I need direction.”
“I love you, Louise,” he says, fading. He remembers everything now.
All of a sudden a dam inside me burst. I couldn’t stop crying. From exhaustion, from confusion, the gnawing realisation that I was stagnating even as I was moving, from the shape of things unknown in my new future. But it was time to move on from the ill-fitting life I’d made my own for too long. I needed to redeem my own true self, whomever she was, and Eric could not be part of that journey. I would never have to ask the hard questions in the life Eric envisaged for me, a life where all the texture and sharp edges would be sanded away by money and privilege. That was not a life, at least not one I wanted to live. The time for safety nets was over.
“YOLO,” I whispered, blowing my nose with pieces of Mong’s legal pad. The snowflakes had it right, after all.
Part V
THE LAST TRUE SELF
51
Saturday 15 October
1:20 a.m. Just checked TLTS. Suresh is now at 718K followers on Insta! And there’s a heap of reaction videos on YouTube of people crying and most of it is of the positive kind where no one threatens the creator of TLTS for ending Water.
It’s official—Suresh’s bold move to kill Water has broken the internet—ish.
Visited Mong at the hospital. He was asleep, which was good. For lack of a good gift idea, I wrote him a card and told him that VizWare was in play again. Usman had written in to tell me this morning.
Also brought him a super boring new edition of some collection of essays from a super boring constitutional law expert from America, so he’d have something light to read.
Then I called Eric.
He met me at Les Deux, the very first restaurant we ever dined at together (“first date” seemed too juvenile a way to put it when it came to Eric). I wouldn’t let him pick me up from my place, preferring to meet him there directly.
There was champagne, a vintage bottle, chilling in a bucket, and dozens of red roses. He was sipping a glass of his favorite Burgundy red. I sat down and refused the menu when offered—I wouldn’t be staying.
“So, here we are,” he said.
I bit my lip and said nothing; I literally could not speak, so clenched was my jaw.
“I think I already know what this is about,” he said after several uncomfortable moments had passed; his tone was cool, his face expressionless.
I slid the beautiful ring in its box back to him. “I’m sorry, Eric. I just … I really thought I could, but I can’t. I’m so, so sorry.” I looked at him and looked away. The words were trivial compared to the visible impact it had on him.
He pocketed the box and gave me a small, sad smile. “It’s fine. I was afraid that was what you were going to say the moment you told me you wanted to meet in public. But I was hoping”—gesturing at the champagne, roses—“that my instincts would turn out wrong this time.”
“I wanted so much to mean yes,” I said, feeling worse and worse. “But I would have been making a big mistake. You are a good man—just not for me. I’m so, so sorry, Eric—for taking it back.” I tried to return the Charles Bukowski book, even if it had become such a prized possession to me in such a short time.
He flinched and pushed it back to me. “Please keep that—it was a gift. It’s fine, really. I knew this was the likelier outcome from the moment I saw you hesitate when I proposed. When a woman tells you she needs time to mull over her reply to your marriage proposal … well, the odds are definitely not in your favor. Even when you said yes to me in front of your mother, I thought you … you seemed … unsure.”
“Why did you agree to wait, then?”
He held my hand and gave it a squeeze. “I guess I wanted some more time to endear myself to you, in hopes that one day you’d be convinced to keep me by your side.” He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he placed it gently on the table. “Goodbye, Andrea.”
“Goodbye, Eric.” It was taking all my willpower not to burst into tears at the wounded look in his eyes. I stood and walked away, but not before I paid the tab on our table (an eye-watering sum for his wine and the uncorked champagne). It was not a Power Move, but it was the right thing to do.
Monday 17 October
8:30 a.m. Went to work and put in the Face Time. There’s still a chance Kai’s spies are wrong. It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.
Still … what a chore.
Sunday 30 October
5:30 p.m. Just came back from KL after visiting my mom over the weekend. She’s recovered remarkably quickly, even if the heart attack had been a minor one. Turns out Eric was right: finding out that I was engaged had indeed hastened her recovery.
I did try to tell her, really; I had it all written down. How I recognized what a good man Eric was and how wonderful our life would be, but one without the surprises, the discovery, and yes, even the struggle, that make life Life. Choosing Eric meant choosing to study medicine when I really wanted to study pharmacy, however ridiculous that analogy was. Choosing Eric meant not ultimately choosing Me.
But I still couldn’t. I saw her wan face light up whenever she talked about wedding venues and dates, and I couldn’t do it. She may end up waiting on the longest engagement ever.
1:05 a.m. OMG. What will happen to me when she finally finds out? When Auntie Wei Wei and the whole clan find out??? Will never hear the end of it. I’ll have to change my name and move to Japan, where people have given up on reproducing and have turned to much more enlightened, spiritually renewing social activities, like viewing blooming sakuras, bathing in onsens, etc. And maybe at one of the onsens I will, while in top physical shape, run into the divine, utterly age-appropriate Takeshi Kaneshiro, who is still, as far as I can google, single, and we shall fall hopelessly in love.
Mmm. Takeshi Kaneshiro.
1:35 a.m. Texted Linda about possibly moving to Japan.
1:45 a.m. She texts back: Try learning kanji then tell me how you feel about Japan in an hour.
I rolled my eyes. I speak Mandarin, bahasa Indonesia, English, two Chinese dialects, and Spanish at B2 level. How difficult can Japanese be? Challenge accepted.
3:05 a.m. Forget Japan.
Monday 31 October
7:15 a.m. Terrible MRT ride. Blond cyborg cyclist was back and weirder than ever. Why, God, why, are men not arrested on public indecency if they wear Lycra suits? Why? It’s so unfair!
9:20 a.m. Must …
not … hurl … myself … out … of … building …
10:15 a.m. Ooh croissants!
1:20 p.m. Have decided to embark on a self-imposed season of sobriety. Much as I hated to admit it, I think I drink a bit too much. I have to stop using (so much) alcohol and Angry Birds/Candy Crush as ways to self-medicate. Abusing alcohol and mobile phone games is not allowing me space to develop the clarity of mind needed to identify and understand the root cause(s) of my problems so that I could truly solve them, according to a listicle I found on a mental health website today.
3:15 p.m. OK, it’s maybe premature to lump mobile phone games with alcohol. Angry Birds, for example, promotes problem-solving skills and hand-eye coordination. It’s the key to keeping the brain young, unlike alcohol, ruiner of brains.
7:05 p.m. Maybe will just have a wee bit of Malbec.
1:03 a.m. Oof.
Saturday 5 November
Exercised today. Ran 3 km on a treadmill.
Fine, power walked.
Fine, walked.
But still—it’s a start.
52
Saturday 12 November
Today is Valerie’s Big Day!
I got ready with the enthusiasm of a detainee going to a forced labor camp. This wedding was going to be an extravagant snore fest. Valerie’s friends were super boring tai-tais, the kind that had been so successfully declawed by their ceaselessly unsurprising life of comfort and luxury that the only thing that stimulated them was the consumption of luxury goods and being profiled by one society magazine or the other. I could only hope that Ralph Kang’s friends turned out to be raging drunks, professional clowns, or charming intellectuals.
Ralph’s friends …
The blood drained from my face. I had totally forgotten that Eric would be attending the wedding!
I contemplated flinging myself off a tall building but then reality reasserted itself and I sighed. I would likely see Eric again eventually so why not now in the civilized setting of five hundred of society’s Who’s Who. I would be like the Dude in The Big Lebowski, Zen as a Japanese zephyr on Valium.
By the time I arrived at One Fullerton I was sweating so hard that I was worried it was showing through all the gold lace of my favorite (and only) Valentino gown, a vintage piece I had chanced upon one day in a boutique in Chelsea, London. But I needn’t have worried because the sheer amount of bling on display (and the concentrated glory emanating from such a tight clutch of egos) was far more distracting than my sweat stains, plus the lighting was flattering. I downed a couple of glasses of vintage champagne, breaking my season—I mean, week of sobriety, alas, and immediately felt better, so that by the time Linda arrived, herself plus-one-less (Jason, who had been invited, was down with flu), I was in a significantly upbeat mood. As usual, she looked amazing; she wore a fitted mermaid gown in a deep oxblood red satin that set off her fair skin and jet black hair to maximum advantage. She wouldn’t be dancing alone later, that much was for sure.
She gave me a hug as soon as she saw me and said, “You’re lucky I’ve got spare deodorant. Come with me.”
I looked at her tiny cigarette clutch and said, “How—”
“It’s best you don’t ask too many questions,” was her cryptic reply.
Fifteen minutes later she had fixed me and the cocktail hour was drawing to a close. We were escorted to our seats right next to the bridal table. I was gratified to see that Valerie, thoughtful even in the face of her general flightiness, had made sure that Eric and I were no longer seated at the same table. I did however have the company of La Linda, which made it more bearable; she was the only one at the table I knew aside from two women from Valerie’s hen night coterie, and they were far too busy networking with other more important people than me and chatting with their plus-ones.
Someone rang a gong and everyone else drifted to their respective tables, decorated in the autumnal white-and-gold color scheme of the wedding with centerpieces of faceted crystal vases filled with sprays of white ostrich feathers, gold branches, and soft white flowers. I glanced around to see who else I knew in the crowd, and had to stop myself from bolting when I saw Anousha, seated at a table nearby with the managing partner of my firm, Evan Bilson, along with a few of the senior partners and their plus-ones. I had almost forgotten that the firm had been invited, Ralph being a long-standing client; I guess Anousha and Evan must know each other from before, some London connection perhaps. I found myself wishing Suresh was there, but I knew he was still in Jakarta.
I was just morosely thinking to myself that the wedding couldn’t get any worse when Eric made his appearance, dashing in a black tux as he entered the ballroom with his arm around the waist of none other than Anne, Diana’s mom. They made a splash as they wove their regal way to their table; Anne’s one-shouldered canary yellow gown stood out from the crowd. She looked fabulous, but I had a feeling that her smug smile had more to do with her society debut on the arm of Eric Deng, who had hitherto kept her existence hush-hush, than her exquisite dress.
The release of emotions upon actually seeing him, them, even though I had known that he would be there, hit me suddenly and hard. I gasped.
“Oh, sweetie,” Linda whispered, gripping my hand tightly under the table. She, too, had seen Eric.
I watched him like a hawk. At one point they walked past our table, and our eyes met. I nodded at him and gave him a tight smile. A barely perceptible tightening of the lips was the only acknowledgment I got. Then he looked away, expressionless, as though he hadn’t seen me, or worse, he had seen me but deemed me unworthy of recognition. As though I was a stranger.
Anne looked my way and gifted me with a life-sapping glare. You’d think she’d be more grateful, considering how quickly she had risen up the ranks of his affection. Eric Deng, notorious for his reserve and protective of his privacy, could not be making a bigger statement than his public parade with her on his arm in that dress.
Just like when he popped the question to a roomful of his closest friends and family, and then you dropped him like a hot stone and humiliated him, a voice reminded me in my head. I felt worse and worse. I downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession before asking the server for another. Linda tried to get me to slow down without drawing attention to my drinking, but she needn’t have worried—there was serious shoulder-rubbing going on at our table, which had a deputy minister, a Mediacorp star, and a successful Austrian tech entrepreneur in his early forties, good-looking and obviously interested in Linda, but who Linda was steadfastly ignoring; the old Linda would have encouraged and toyed with him, even if she weren’t interested. Nobody except Linda cared that I was drinking myself to oblivion, or why. I was suddenly glad I knew no one at the wedding.
By the time Valerie and Ralph made their grand entrance, waving and smiling, I was quite tipsy. Ralph was wearing a sharp black tuxedo that flattered his tall but slightly portly frame; Valerie was stunning in a champagne gold Inbal Dror gown that I had till then only seen photos of; it was a long-sleeved, lacy beaded number with a plunging V-neckline in gold braid and a daring front slit, showcasing Valerie’s svelte and toned body to honeyed perfection. She was radiant in her happiness. Even Ralph looked radiant, literally and figuratively.
Valerie had obviously started him on a course of very ablative laser therapy, because he looked like he’d been Photoshopped—in person. He looked only a few years older than his real age.
The festivities continued with the usual speeches and performances while dinner was being served. Midway between the fourth and fifth courses, as people began to mingle again while the band started to play, I stood up.
“Where are you going?” Linda asked.
“To the toilet,” I stage-whispered to everyone.
“I’m coming with you.” Linda stood up and held my elbow, but I shook her off.
“I am fine,” I hissed. Then I clattered my way to the ladies’, where, mercifully, there was no queue and only two ladies powdering their noses to hear me gagging over
the toilet bowl as I struggled to empty the contents of my stomach. I knelt there on the luxurious toilet floor in my luxurious gown with tears and snot running down my face, feeling sorry for myself, until my knees began to protest. I looked at my watch and realized I had been gone for less than five minutes. Great, even my body was betraying me.
I opened the stall door to find Linda waiting for me. She was holding a tall glass of warm water with a few slices of lemon in it. “Drink it,” she ordered. I drank it.
“Take this,” she said, handing me a pill. She made a face when she saw my hesitation. “Trust me, it’s going to make your nausea go away and it’s totally safe with alcohol. This was my lifesaver in Cannes.”
I took the pill with a glass of tap water. Don’t argue with the experts.
“You’re on the verge of ruining this night by making a scene. Are you going to stop drinking for the rest of the evening or what?” she said sternly.
“Yes,” I said in a small voice.
“Promise me.” Linda can be very scary when she’s standing over you eight inches taller thanks to a combination of superior genes and sky-high heels.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
“Good.” She relaxed and went back to Friend Mode. “Now I’m going back to my seat. You’re going to wait two minutes, fixing your makeup and hair in the meantime, then return to your seat, tu comprends?”
I nodded.
But the night was not slated to go my way. As I was walking back to the ballroom, who should I see but the hatchet-faced and much older, very married-with-sprogs Evan, locked in a passionate liplock in a shadowy alcove … with Anousha!
“Ahhh!” I screamed.
“Ahhh!” Anousha screamed, pushing Evan away like he was a diseased leper. But Evan was built like a former rugby player and barely juddered on the spot. He blearily locked eyes with me—and belched.
