by Lauren Ho
11:55 a.m. Was reading news (fine, tabloids) when I came across a feature of Helen and Magnus’s engagement party in Tatler. The bitch had not invited me!
28
Saturday 14 May
A knock on the door. Waited for Linda to open it since she has colonized the living room, even though there is a perfectly functional second bedroom with a proper double bed. Maybe she is now allergic to the sight of double beds.
Waited for a full two minutes before I realized that Linda was not budging. Walked out and saw that Linda was sleeping, naked as a daisy, on the couch surrounded by an empty bottle of vodka, a bottle of Chinon red, half a bottle of Patrón, a small bottle of Evian, and several bottles of Tiger beer. Maybe she wasn’t even sleeping; maybe she was dead.
I opened the door. It was Eric Deng, standing in the hallway in a pale lemon polo shirt and khakis.
“Are you going to gawk at me or invite me in?” he said, after a few seconds of stunned silence had passed from my end.
I collected my dignity (I was in a god-awful Ramones T-shirt and a pair of graying cotton shorts) and said, “My friend Linda’s naked in my living room. You can’t enter.”
“Well, get dressed. I’m taking you out to champagne brunch.”
I pretended to hesitate; he had me at “champagne.”
“I’ll wait in the car,” he said, a small smile curving his lips. “Take your time.”
We arrived at the St. Regis twenty-five minutes later (I had taken ten minutes to complete my toiletries, apply makeup, and throw on a respectable flowered sundress). It was only while I was in his car that I realized that my pretty peep-toe sandals were exposing, in all their glory, the remnants of a month-old pedicure. I tried to angle my feet away from his sightline, but I was sure he had seen them: Eric Deng was not a man who missed such details. I’d felt like a fraud in his gleaming, immaculate car, even though he himself was delightfully, gently rumpled, in hair and clothing.
“I got you a gift,” he said after we’d ordered. He pressed a small, brown paper–wrapped parcel in my hands. He raised his eyebrow. “I’m not sure it’s as good as flowers, but I think it’ll last longer.”
“Oh!” I said, my manners forgotten. I felt a bolt of excitement in my stomach. “What’s . . . what’s it for?”
“For being such a lovely companion,” he said. “Companion.” What an odd choice of words. We could have been knitting buddies.
“Open it,” he urged. I tore through the wrapping like a kid, thinking it was a Moleskine or something practical.
“Oh!” I said in a tiny voice when I saw the cover. Then I opened it, trembling. It was a first edition, signed hardcover of It Catches My Heart in Its Hands, my favorite book of Charles Bukowski’s poems. A poet I had once mentioned in passing, over two months ago, at the Sexless Book Club. He’d remembered.
The inscription in his elegant cursive read:
Andrea,
Here’s to the beginning of new, poetic exchanges.
Eric
“Eric, this is too much,” I murmured, embarrassed, pushing it across the table to him. “I can’t accept this.”
“You must. It’s got your name on it.” He pushed the book back. “I can’t return this, you know.”
During the champagne brunch he regaled me with stories of his recent business trip throughout Mongolia and China, meeting with potential codevelopers for his passion project, the Dulit Group’s Lana brand of luxury eco-hotels. His passion for the project, and his fascinating anecdotes on his travels and his business, made the hours pass quickly. By the time we’d finished around three o’clock, he had to go for a coffee with a colleague and I was reluctant to leave his side. He was just so easy and nice to be with. I had the sense that when it came to him, I was struggling upstream when I could be cruising with the current to him, the inevitable conclusion to the tale of the woman I wanted to be, if I would just let him be that to me.
And—I cast a sidelong glance to him, my heart beating faster when I caught him looking at me in his frank, admiring way—why not? The attraction was there.
He walked me to my door like a gentleman, waited to see if I could find my keys, opened the door for me after several fumbles at the doorknob, and once the door was ajar, bid me goodbye with a soft peck on my right cheek.
“Wait,” I slurred, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him close, even as I was unsure of what I wanted to achieve as I did so. But he put his free hand on my shoulder and held me at arm’s length.
“You’re drunk,” he said.
“I’m sober,” I said, trying again.
“Don’t make this . . . it’s . . .” He swore in bahasa Indonesia. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you soon,” he said. Then he turned on his heel and left. I watched him go, let myself in, locked the door before I stumbled into the living room, humiliated and definitely less sober than I had initially thought myself to be.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Linda said snidely, in the exact same spot on the couch. She had barely budged, except her entourage of bottles now included three new empties of white wine and two bags of Kettle chips.
I walked over, dropped my tote bag (and the book, secure in its wrapping again) on the floor, sank into a bean bag, and slept.
29
Sunday 15 May
I went to the office today, thinking I could work through the swirl of confusion that seems to be my thoughts these days (and also to escape La Linda, truth be told). The book of poems I had stashed in the drawer of my nightstand, untouched. I felt like if I opened it, there would be no turning back.
I was looking forward to billing some long, hard hours while ordering in brunch. In the absence of a suitable companion with whom I could have said brunch, the twisted adrenaline I get from milking some faceless corporation dry, fees-wise, would have to do.
The office was a picture of Sunday industry: smart casual threads, Nespresso coffee, and the acrid base notes of yesterday’s hangover mixed with ambition. As usual, several gung-ho juniors, a.k.a. minions, including Suresh’s and mine (Josiah and Xi Lin), were milling about, putting in face time and billable hours that we would have to slash later, but still; this being a week when several closings were at hand, one could also see a few senior associates, and even the occasional partner, hard at work, slave-driving their juniors. Then there were those partners who, despite not having any real need to be in the office, chose to come in that Sunday to seek refuge from their progenies/marriages. I took it all in and felt my anxiety ebb away. This was my safe place, my second home.
Until I entered my office and saw Suresh.
The thing is, it’s been weird between Suresh and me since Luxembourg. We would oscillate between laughing chummily over some shared joke and stone-facing each other for extended periods of time in a day; we avoided being alone in our shared office for long (I even started smoking again just to have an excuse to duck out of the office). Even Kai commented on it when she cornered me privately in the washroom. “There’s a weird tension in the air. What’s wrong?” I told her it was because we were both fighting for the same promotion, but my private impression was it was because we couldn’t decide if we wanted to string each other’s intestines like fairy lights over the walls or smush our genitals together.
Now, happening upon him working in a slim-fit chambray shirt and dark jeans, I knew it was definitely the latter, on my part at least. I wanted to lock us together in some isolated padded cell, throw away the keys, and smush genitals all day long. My stupid treacherous libido.
I took my seat after grunting a hello at him, careful not to look at his chiseled face.
“Hey there,” he said in a neutral tone. “Didn’t know you’d be coming in today.”
“Is there a problem? It’s my office, too,” I said testily. It was my office first, I corrected myself mentally.
“No problem,” he sa
id. “Just thought I’d be alone today. Get some real work done.”
“Does my presence bother you?” I countered.
“That’s not what I meant, I just meant—well, you’ve been busy.”
“Yeah, I’ve been busy with someone,” I said.
“Really,” he said evenly. “With who?”
“Remember Eric Deng? Big-shot tycoon? Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other.”
We lapsed into loud, passive-aggressive typing for the next few minutes. It was like being in a firing range. My fingers and wrists began to hurt.
“Hey,” he tried again.
“What?” I said, still typing loudly.
“This is very juvenile,” he said.
“What is?” I asked, typing louder.
He got up and came over to my side of the table. “Will you just stop typing for one second and have a real conversation with me? Look at me.”
I stopped typing and looked at his Adam’s apple, the least sexy part of his anatomy. Aren’t Adam’s apples just the weirdest? Find one and really study it, just take it in. Really eyeball it. What does it remind you of?
He reached out a hand and pushed the hair out of my face. “Why can’t you look me in the eye?”
I forced myself to do so, even though I was trembling. “You know why. Because I’m trying to keep this relationship a platonic one for both our sakes and you’re being really unfair.”
“How so?” He was bent over me now and exercising some kind of cobra stare on me.
“You’re being deliberately provocative when you shouldn’t be.”
He stroked my face. “Like this?”
“Don’t touch me,” I whispered, my arms snaking around his waist. He lifted me out of my seat and—
A loud rapping on the door jolted both of us apart. He fled to his side of the room just as the door flew open to reveal Kai, who was red with excitement.
“Oh, great, you’re here, Suresh!” Kai said, sauntering into the room wearing a hobo’s singlet and what looked like the shredded remains of a leper’s jeans. She called out over her shoulder, “Come on in. Your hunch was right!”
“What are you doing here?” we chorused at the same time in high, guilty voices. I was subtly hyperventilating.
“Someone special roped me in for a sweet surprise. You are going to be so thrilled,” Kai said.
That was when I saw that she had someone with her; a woman was standing behind Kai, her face partially obscured.
“Voilà, lover boy!” Kai said, stepping aside with a flourish. My jaw dropped: there was no need for introductions—I knew who she was. I’d seen photos of her on Suresh’s phone. But there was something else about her face that was familiar. What was it?
She glided into the room in a powder blue sari that was embroidered with silver thread and the tears of little Indian boys. Our eyes met briefly, her kohl-rimmed light brown ones narrowing as she assessed me. I could tell she thought of me as a threat. Kai, ever the perceptive one, sensed the crackling tension in the air and decided it was time to leave. Then it was just the three of us.
I sneaked a peek at Suresh, who was staring at her with his mouth ajar, an understandable reaction considering he’d not seen her in ages.
“Darling, I missed you,” she said to him in a throaty, intimate voice, as though I was just a coat rack with eyes and they were alone in the room. She tilted forward to kiss him even as he slid a panicked glance in my direction; but what could I do? Anousha was now in town.
Part III
SALTY WITH AGE
30
Monday 16 May
Called the office and took a week off. Kai was worried, but I assured her once again I was not close to death’s door but had to deal with “an urgent family matter.”
Mong was not so understanding in his email. “What family? The whole reason I hired you was because you have no family in Singapore! And you said you were single!” I had to tell him I had contracted viral fever and was close to death’s door, upon which he stopped emailing.
Anyway, am on my way to the airport now with a disheveled Linda in a limo cab. We’re flying to the Maldives in two and a half hours! Linda’s dad’s friend’s business partner owns a swanky six-star resort there, and since it’s the start of the monsoon season he’s been pretty generous in giving us free accommodation in one of his two-bedder villas: the only thing we’ll have to pay for is any F&B (code for “alcohol”) consumed throughout our stay. Smart move, Linda’s dad’s friend’s business partner. Smart move.
Linda was, understandably, quite furious that she had been kept in the dark about Luxembourg and the whole lead-up to yesterday’s shenanigans until today. She revived from her fugue state of Massimo-less depression to give me an earful when I confessed why I needed to get away from Singapore; even though she liked Suresh, who she’d met several times at various lawyerly events, she was worried about his baggage (I know, I know, this coming from the lady who had been dating a married man).
“Not only were you pooping where you eat, you had to go for the pretty toilet magazine, didn’t you?” she said, pulling another nonsensical metaphor out of thin air. “I always said to you, Andrea, stay away from the pretty boys, they’re poison, but did you? Did you listen to La Linda?”
“You said stay away from the boy toys, not pretty boys.”
“Stay away from the kiddos and the pretties. Pretty boys are to be avoided like the plague. They are so prized, their sense of entitlement is beyond that of pretty girls. They’ve never had to work hard in bed, ever. I won’t be surprised if Suresh turns out to be a bad kisser and a stinker in bed—the boy looks like that K-pop star you’re always mooning over—what’s his name, Won Won? Bon Bin? Bing Bong?”
“Won . . . Bin . . . ,” I said through gritted teeth. “He’s an actor.”
“Actor, pop star, whatever, I say ‘same-same in Korea,’” said Linda dismissively.
“Those are two separate professions—two! And how can you even confuse Won Bin with Bing Bong? Bing Bong is a character from Inside Out, a beautiful animated film that we’ve watched together, twice!” I hissed. “Did you even bother reading the Henry Chong brief I made for you in preparation for Chinese New Year?”
“Why are we arguing about ancient history? Especially since you’ve only got yourself to blame for being such a crap liar that no one bothered to ask for a photo of Henry,” was my best friend’s cavalier reply before she pulled out a hip flask that smelled suspiciously of rum.
Too late to back out of Maldives trip now. I’ll have to charge all bar drinks to her credit card.
5:10 p.m. Maldives is amazing—clear skies, cotton-candy puffs of clouds, lush vegetation. We flew in a sea plane to arrive at the super exclusive eco-resort. The resort is insane, wooden villas on stilts perched over crazy aquamarine water and undead coral beds everywhere. And since it’s super low season, the management is offering us a villa each! This trip is going to be off the charts. I feel sorry for all the suckers missing out on the low-season rate.
Linda, my pet, has pulled out her AmEx Centurion and passed it to the hotel, quibbling not. We’re going to be drinking till we turn as blue as the water.
6:05 p.m. Urgh. It’s started to drizzle.
6:08 p.m. Shit, the 4G is down. No internet!
6:20 p.m. Total downpour.
6:25 p.m. Wi-Fi dead!
6:33 p.m. Still dead!
6:58 p.m. STILL DEAD!
7:15 p.m. Decided to go hang out at the bar, since there was nothing else to do in the villa. Thought of dashing through the drizzle but found that rain had turned into a storm with mad buffeting winds. Called the butler. He came with a huge umbrella, which was useless as the rain was falling diagonally (?). My long peasant skirt was drenched by the time I arrived at the main restaurant, where Linda was waiting, somehow dry and unscathed.
9:00 p.m. Excellent nosh, wine. Who cares if rain? Who cares about Anousha and Suresh? More wine!
10:45 p.m. In villa. Discovered that I could get 4G if I stood very still two feet by the open window in my bathroom, on top of the toilet lid, which is surprisingly solid. By turning work phone, which had sporadic 4G connection, into a hotspot, I was able to use my personal phone. Launched Sponk just for shits and giggles and was amused to see the bar manager on it. Who was he hoping to match with, the guests? There’s like thirty-five of us, max; low season it being. Hmm. Oh well, he is rather attractive. Maybe—
10:47 p.m. Linda walked into the villa, found me in the washroom and confiscated my phones. All three of them. Says she will only return the office phone to me on Wednesday—if I’m good.
11:05 p.m. There is no twenty-four-hour computer room. What kind of six-star resort is this?! And apparently, according to the receptionist, because we were “in the middle of nowhere,” the Wi-Fi will not be fixed till Friday. Friday.
Tuesday 17 May
Has not stopped raining, and I have not stopped drinking with Linda, since this morning; absence of phones (thus, work) is causing anxiety that can only be soothed by copious amounts of wine.
Hit on the bar manager IRL during the Tuesday Tequila Sunset Hour and was rejected like an expired credit card. No wonder no one tries in real life anymore. Don’t even know what I was trying to achieve. It’s almost as though I’m self-sabotaging.
Wednesday 18 May
Raining again, surprise, surprise.
No office phone from Linda. It’s fine. Let Suresh handle all my work crap.
Did nothing but eat and drink. Reread somebody’s copy of Kane and Abel. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been to resorts all around the world and there is always, always a novel by Jeffrey Archer, Judith McNaught, and/or Michael Crichton in each “community library.” I wonder what books will be in a doomsday bunker.
