Serena Singh Flips the Script

by Sonya Lalli

  I quietly clicked shut my laptop, processing. He wasn’t wrong. It did make rational sense, but since when did our hearts ever follow logic? Natasha and I had nothing in common, and it wasn’t like my high school friends and I shared any of the same passions, other than one another. Our tastes and careers were as different from one another as Gucci to Joe Fresh, internal medicine to commercial real estate.

  “I bet,” he continued, “you could find someone to go to that movie with you if you really wanted.”

  I shrugged, thanked Becket for his idea, and told him I would think about it, even though I knew I didn’t want just “someone” to go to a movie with for the sake of companionship. I needed to make my life feel full again, and warm bodies I found on the Internet weren’t going to cut it.

  7

  I looked up from my screen as I heard the Spice Girls start to pack up their things. I yawned, smiling at them.

  “Heading home?”

  “Is that OK?” Ginger asked, coolly. “Check your e-mail. I’ve just sent you the revised copy.”

  “Thanks,” I said, irritated by her defensiveness. “And that’s not why I was asking . . .”

  She threw me a look I couldn’t read and then texted something on her phone. A beat later, I heard a ping to my right, and then Sporty Spice giggled.

  Win her over, Serena.

  Don’t throttle her, Serena.

  There’s still a chance you can get along, Serena.

  Three years earlier, I had taken a mindfulness course on a lark, and I stood up slowly, trying to employ the skills I’d learned. Trying to be the bigger person and give Ginger Spice a chance to come around. She was clearly the ringleader of their little group, and even though the rest of them liked me well enough, her disrespectful attitude was starting to rub off on them. Getting through to her was my new number one priority.

  “Should we finally grab that drink?” I asked casually, looking at Ginger and then the others. I’d asked them once before, but maybe I’d seemed too eager. “It is Friday, after all.”

  “Can’t,” Ginger said dismissively. “I’m wiped.”

  “One drink—”

  “Can’t.” She pursed her lips at me. An attempt at a smile. “I really gotta go.”

  I nodded, my face flushed in embarrassment as, one by one, everyone turned me down, grabbed their bags, and left.

  As I sat back down, alone in my pod, a flurry of brownish-red caught my attention in the corner of my eye. It was Ainsley, the digital director, turning back around in her chair.

  Had she been listening to our conversation? Momentarily, I felt bad that she’d overheard me ask my team out for drinks when I’d so blatantly blown her off the month before and, except for work meetings and small talk in the kitchen, hadn’t made an effort to connect with her since.

  My phone buzzing on the desk shifted my attention. It was Mom calling me back from that morning. I tried (and often failed) to call her every day.

  “Hah?” she said, without saying hi. “I’ve been very busy today. We’re raising money at the gurdwara for a new family that’s just arrived. The poor couple. They have no family here. I remember what that was like.”

  I smiled. My mom was the kind of woman who spent every waking hour thinking about others, and I was proud of her philanthropy, her selflessness. It also made me want to shake her.

  “You called?” she continued.

  “Yeah,” I said, walking toward the corner of the office, out of earshot from Ainsley and the others. “I was wondering if you wanted to come into the city tomorrow. Natasha and I are having brunch.”

  It had taken me a few days, but I’d finally worked up the courage to reach out to Natasha. She was my best friend, and I missed her. Yes, she was married now, and yes, she had a baby on the way, but we could still make time for each other.

  “Brunch?” Mom asked, repeating the word in English. There wasn’t really a Punjabi translation.

  “Yeah. I know how badly you want to ask Natasha about planning the baby shower. It’ll be fun. We can talk about it. We can even get a pedicure after. You can relax a bit.”

  “Uh ho.” She sighed. “Your father has the day off. He’ll be home . . .”

  “So? Leave him—”

  “Why don’t you both come here? I can make you brunch, hot aloo paratha!”

  I grimaced, tilting the phone away from me. “And exactly how will that be relaxing for you?”

  Mom didn’t answer. She often didn’t.

  “You are at work, my honey?” she asked, switching tones and gears entirely.

  I nodded. “I am.”

  “I am so proud of you and your big job.”

  I wasn’t sure Mom actually understood what my job entailed, or had ever asked me a more specific question than “How was your day?” but I thanked her anyway.

  “And . . .”

  And . . .

  Do you have a boyfriend?

  Do you have any “special plans” coming up?

  Can I give your phone number to Mohan Uncle’s Buaji’s grandson?

  Coincidence or not, her incessant nagging had trailed off ever since Mark and Natasha got together. Presumably, Mom realized that at least one of her daughters would be “settled.” Still, she couldn’t help leaving a pause like this in the conversation.

  A place marker. Something to signal what was noticeably missing in her line of questioning and in my life.

  A husband.

  After we hung up, I made my way into the women’s restroom, deflated, and sat down in the far stall. I couldn’t get Mom out of my head, and my mind was racing. I peed and then sat there, thinking about what to work on for the evening while the office was quiet. I had a dozen campaigns on the go, not to mention pitches we were preparing for hopeful clients. I had a million options to distract myself.

  Suddenly, I heard the door swing open and then footsteps.

  “Is it here?”

  “I know it’s in here. I had it like two seconds ago . . .”

  “There it is. Knew it.”

  It was the Spice Girls. I recognized all their voices.

  “I would literally freak out if I lost my phone,” Ginger Spice said. “Give me a second, guys. My lipstick isn’t right.”

  I was about to stand up and flush when Ginger continued speaking.

  “Do you think she’s still here?”

  She. I froze. By the tone, I could tell she was referring to me.

  “Although, I mean, where else would she be?” Ginger laughed, and my stomach knotted as I put my hand over my mouth. “Can you believe she keeps trying to hang out with us? Kind of pathet—”

  “Vic,” said Scary Spice. “Cut it out.”

  “Is she married?” Baby asked. “How old is she?”

  “She’s thirty-six,” interrupted Ginger. “But I don’t think so.”

  “She’s very impressive, especially considering how young she is.” Was that Posh? “Did you see how many clients she’s brought over from her previous agency?”

  “We could have invited her tonight,” said Sporty.

  “As if. She’s our boss.” Baby laughed. “I don’t want her to see me drunk—”

  “She shouldn’t even be our boss,” Ginger snapped, her words echoing loudly against the tile. “It just pisses me off, you guys. I was basically Deborah’s creative lead until she showed up.”

  I could feel myself sinking farther and farther into the toilet, my body tense.

  “That should have been my job. I left New York to work for Deborah Fucking Kim,” Ginger said, her voice echoing. “Not some . . . lonely middle manager.”

  “Vic, are you done yet?” snapped Scary Spice. “We’re going to be late.”

  “One minute . . .”

  My hands were trembling on my lap, and I moved to stand up, to go out
there and say something, but I couldn’t think of anything.

  “Our Uber is here.”

  “Cool. Let’s go . . .”

  I waited for the footsteps to disappear, the door to slam, and then, like a zombie, I washed my hands and made my way back to the office. It was deserted except for Ainsley, who was staring at some Matrix-looking code on her desktop. Her headphones were on. I thought about speaking to her, but something stopped me.

  I slid into my chair, angered by Ginger’s words, but more so angry at myself for not confronting her.

  Her confidence was astounding. Sure, she was good at her job, but she lacked experience—her strategy skills simply weren’t there.

  I shook my head. Why was I trying to justify Deborah’s decision to pick me over Ginger Spice? Why did I care so much what some spiteful person thought about me? I deserved to be here, and everyone damn well knew it. Still, I couldn’t stop ruminating. Ginger thought I was just some “middle manager.” She thought I was . . . “lonely.”

  It hurt when the aunties said it, but it hurt more when it came from the mouth of one of my own peers. And maybe it cut so deep because they were right.

  I’d tried and failed to keep my social circle alive, my passions and interests outside of work. Extracurricular activities were all well and good in school and university, but they were hard to keep up as an adult, as a woman of color breaking her back to try to make it in advertising.

  Now it was safe to say I’d made it. I was here, at the helm, but there wasn’t much in my life around the edges. Yes, I had Becket, and Natasha—who’d always be my sister at bare minimum. But what else? Who else?

  Refusing to feel pathetic, I opened up an Internet browser and found one of the websites Becket had showed me. That very night, there was a book club at a nearby library—but I’d never read the memoir they’d selected. There was a board games group, which sounded interesting, but it was being held in somebody’s basement. (And for all I knew she was a serial killer.)

  I scrolled down farther, and just then, another option presented itself.

  Cosmos and Conversation: Ladies night out with some new gal pals

  I cringed, imagining Carrie Bradshaw on a bedazzled night out. Even though I’d never really drank, I’d had my fair share of nights out with the girls. That wasn’t me anymore, but then again, who was I, really?

  Not just some middle manager.

  Not just some unmarried, lonely thirty-six-year-old set in her ways, too afraid to try to put herself out there.

  The event started in forty-five minutes at a restaurant on the H Street Corridor, and without another thought, I grabbed my credit card and signed up.

  After all, what’s the worst that could happen?

  8

  Do you have a reservation?”

  I squinted at the hostess. “I think so?”

  “You think so?” She smiled at me. She didn’t seem annoyed at all, but rather pleased a customer had a problem, one that she could help solve. “What’s your name?”

  “It wouldn’t be under mine.” I fumbled with my phone, racking my brain for the organizer’s name. “Um . . .”

  “Uma?”

  I grimaced, putting my phone away. “No. Sorry. I don’t know the name . . .”

  “Oh.” She beamed at me. “You’re here for that make-new-friends dinner?”

  Speak louder, wouldn’t you? I don’t think the guy outside heard.

  “The”—her eyes flicked down to her podium—“Cosmos and Conversations thing?”

  She took me to a back area of the restaurant, where I was presented to a large table of at least a dozen women.

  “Hi,” I whispered to no one in particular. Nobody heard me. Should I just sit down? There was a chair at the end, but would it be weird to just slip in?

  I adjusted my glasses—solid-black square frames today—as they slid down my nose. Oh god. I was sweating. Why the hell was I so nervous? I dined with strangers all the time—various aunties and uncles, prospective clients, friends of Natasha and Mark’s, blind dates.

  “Hello,” I tried again. This time, I spoke too loudly, and I cringed as my voice boomed across the table. Everyone turned to look at the same time, and I bared my teeth into what I hoped looked like a genuine smile.

  “I’m Serena.”

  On cue, they all smiled back, waving, greeting me in return. I wasn’t the oldest, although I certainly wasn’t the youngest. They all looked very friendly, earnest, and while that fact should have put me at ease, it made me feel even more anxious.

  “Take a seat!” called the woman at the far end of the table. She looked familiar, and then it dawned on me that I’d seen her profile online when signing up. Cara. That was her name. She was the organizer.

  “Thirsty?” asked the woman across from me. She leaned in, filling my glass from a jug before I’d answered. “So what brings you here? I’m Lilly, by the way.”

  “Thanks,” I answered, reaching for the glass. “Do you know what’s in this?”

  “Cosmos, duh.”

  “Right—”

  “Ladies. Ladies!” Cara called from the other side of table, and we all turned to look. She had stood up, clipboard in hand. I heard Lilly snort.

  Cara had us go around the table for introductions, and I tried my best to remember everyone’s names and “fun fact,” but the only one that stuck was Lilly’s; she claimed she once climbed a cactus. (While drunk, of course.) I was parched, and after finishing my glass of water, I took a sip of the cosmo. It was very good, sweet. I could barely taste the alcohol, so I took another sip. Drinking culture had never appealed to me much, although I had tried alcohol, of course, and always obliged with a few sips for a toast or a work cocktail. Once or twice, I’d even gotten tipsy. But I hated not feeling in control. How alcohol made me feel in general.

  Cara had the waiter take a picture before anyone was allowed to eat anything, despite Lilly’s rather vocal grumblings, and then wanted everyone’s approval over how they looked in the photo, then the filter, then the hashtag. I dug into the cheese platter, feeling guilty for being happy about the fact I was seated far away from Cara, when I heard her call out my name.

  “What’s your handle, Serena?” she asked. No one else was talking. They looked as if they weren’t permitted to speak.

  “I don’t have a handle.”

  “Your Instagram handle.” She shook her head, smiling as if I’d just told a joke. “It wasn’t on your registration form.”

  I set down my knife. “I don’t have Instagram.”

  “Oh. Good for you.” Cara nodded, returning to her phone. “I’ve been thinking about doing a social media cleanse. How’s it working out for you? But like, as an influencer, I can’t really afford to.”

  “No, I mean I don’t have an Instagram account. I never have.”

  She gasped, audibly. In my peripheral vision, I could see Lilly laughing, and my cheeks immediately flushed. I tilted my head away so I couldn’t see her.

  “You’re telling me you’ve never used Instagram.”

  “Not at all,” I said, taking another swig of the punch. “I use it every day. I work in advertising. I just don’t have a personal account.”

  This didn’t seem to be an acceptable answer.

  Cara didn’t leave us alone throughout dinner, interrupting every natural conversation—which was surely the point of the whole evening—for the structured fun outlined on her clipboard, playing one get-to-know-you game after another. I tried to participate as much as I could, but I was having a blast at the other end of the table with Lilly. The cosmo really did taste very good, and I kept sipping at it. Every time, Lilly poured a little bit more into my glass.

  “What’s next?” Lilly whispered to me, as Cara instructed us to play Never Have I Ever. “Truth or Dare?”

  “Shh!” I told her, patting my c
heeks with the back of my hand. They felt hot. I was hot.

  “Do you think Cara has any coke on that clipboard?”

  I rolled my eyes at Lilly’s joke. I hoped it was a joke.

  “Stop it,” I said. “We should join in. Cara just wants us to have fun.”

  “I’d have fun if Cara took a hike!”

  I giggled and then felt terrible about it. I sat forward to take another sip of punch, but I must have moved too quickly, because my head started to feel dizzy. I steadied myself, and a moment later, the dizziness passed. How much had I drunk? Surely not that much. I glanced at my watch. Two hours had passed already. I hadn’t even noticed.

  “Never have I ever,” I heard Lilly say, even though it was someone else’s turn, “played this game as an adult.”

  “Lilly—”

  “Never have I ever . . .” she said, even louder this time, “wanted to jump off a building in the middle of dinner.”

  I laughed, louder than I meant to, and when I sat back, everyone was staring us.

  “Lilly,” Cara said loudly.

  Stiffly, Lilly made eye contact with her.

  “Could we all, like . . . you know?” Cara pleaded. “It’s a crowded restaurant. It’s loud in here as it is.”

  I nodded, my cheeks flushing in embarrassment.

  “It’s just that”—Cara batted her lashes, pressing at the outside corners of her eyes—“I’m trying to find my bliss, you know? Empower myself with other empowered women—”

  “Look,” Lilly interrupted. “Cara, you need to—”

  “You need to not speak over me!”

  The table went eerily quiet. I swallowed hard as I tried to think of something nice to say, but I was finding it difficult to think clearly.

  “I totally feel you, girl,” Lilly said finally. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . . obstruct you from finding your bliss.”

  Cara smiled, squeezed the hand of the woman sitting next to her. My stomach curdled. She had clearly missed the sarcasm dripping from Lilly’s voice.