by Lauren Ho
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.”
“What?” I said. “Already?”
“I have a surgery,” he said, looking apologetic. “Tonight. At SGH.[fn2] It’s for a state minister, so, you know, I have to run.”
He had agreed to a date on a night he’d already scheduled a surgery? What a douche. That state minister had better be on his deathbed.
Still—he hadn’t even thought I was worth it enough to meet me on a night off?
We split the bill in silence, dispensing with the check dance.
It was 9:05 p.m. when I called Linda for commiseration from home. The first thing she said was, “You know he could have been lying, right? Why so many details?”
“That did come to mind, but I had to reject it as a possibility since my self-esteem would not take it otherwise.”
She said it was OK. She said knowing me, there was no way he would have been worth it. “I mean, you could never talk about work with him, and once the romance is gone, and you’ve already figured out each other’s political and religious beliefs, finances, and sexual history, what else is there to talk about?” Loud mastication of something small, with fragile bones. “Just think about it, him telling you how a colonoscopy went. Or how best to beat hemorrhoids.”
I sighed. She was right, of course, but still, the idea of him pulling an imaginary surgery out of his ass just to get out of a date with me still felt like a shitty move on his part.
OK, Diary, I’ll stop now.
10:25 p.m. Told my mother that Chuck told me he had failed a year of med school, even after getting a tutor assigned to him. Worse, he had graduated bottom of his class. She will never bring him up again.
11:15 p.m. Still … another one bites the dust. Dating is tough.
21
Monday 11 April
8:35 a.m. Came to work this morning to find Mong at my desk, looking like he had just downed three Red Bulls in one go, which incidentally I had seen him do before.
“Eric Deng is down the hall in conference room Integrity,” he said urgently. “And he’s asking to meet you.”
Sorry to go off topic, but seriously, why do people name conference rooms? It’s bad enough that we have to have meetings in them. Honestly, it would be like naming washrooms. Also, if we’re going to name them, can we at least use names closer to the truth, like Endless Boredom, Pointless PowerPoint Presentations, and Room Not to Have Sex In, Ever, It’s Not a Good Idea, Especially with Your Boss? You know, go wild, be creative.
Anyway. Back to the matter at hand.
“Let me grab a fresh legal pad,” I said, slapping on my “I’m on It” smile even as my palms began to sweat. Oh, Diary, why can’t I be an elegant, dry-palmed woman around men, like Linda? Is it because she went to Cheltenham and I went to a Malaysian high school run by nuns who used to warn us about men and the multitude of diseases they carried in their pants? (“Germ baskets” and “virus cradles” were the exact words used, I believe.)
“Don’t just stare at the wall, go now! And start the clock!”[fn1] Mong said. His voice brimmed with emotion. “I’m so proud of you, Andrea. Landing Eric Deng is exactly the kind of win that would boost your chances of making partner this year ahead of the others, I’m sure of it.”
Then he shoved me out of the office.
I half-ran, half-hopped as fast as I could to the conference room, slowing down to a careful sashay a few doors away. I saw him before he saw me, since the walls of the conference room were all frosted-glass panes and diffused lighting. I took a deep breath, wiped my palms down the sides of my skirt, and opened the door a little harder than I had intended. The door handle smacked the interior wall with glass-shattering potential. We both cringed, then heaved identical sighs of relief when nothing broke.
Unlike the last time we met, Eric was wearing Full Bosswear: an elegant gray three-piece suit and a bow tie in Hermès orange, his shock of graying hair combed, the same pair of twinkly light brown eyes with their laugh lines now showing a hint of steel in the harsh daylight. Although he had what could only be termed a “dad bod,” he was tall and broad-shouldered, he had great posture, and his skin was tanned and healthy-looking; he could have easily passed as someone a decade younger, and not in a Valerie Gomez I-like-standing-only-in-dim-nooks kinda way.
He looked good.
He came up to me, palms outstretched for mine, and did the European cheek press, lingering longer than was strictly necessary on each cheek. “Hello, Andrea,” he said in his gravelly voice.
“Hello,” I said, playing it cool, since he could either be here for business or a date. We sat down. I fiddled with my notebook and uncapped my fountain pen to look more professional. “What can I help you with, Mr. Deng?” I said, primly.
“Oh, I was hoping we were on a first-name basis now, you know, since you’ve already called me an immoral old fart,” he said, poker-faced.
I grinned and took a risk. “I’m sorry, Eric, you’re clearly not old. As for immoral …”
He laughed. “You’re forgiven,” he said, smiling. “I’ll cut to the chase, since I’m aware that your boss probably thinks that I’m here to give your firm some business—I’m not. Tan, Victor & Partners have taken care of my best interests for close to twelve years, and I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. I’m here for personal reasons.”
“Oh,” I said, pleased and disappointed at the same time. It would have been a lie to say I wasn’t disappointed at all. I’m still a fee-earner-on-partner-track at heart. “Does Tan, Victor & Partners have a great M&A practice like ours?” I said gamely. “I mean, Mong is the best.” And I’m his number two, I wanted to add.
“It definitely doesn’t,” he said, looking thoughtful. “But maybe one day. I do have a couple of parallel funds that are invested in Ralph Kang’s businesses, and he’s mentioned to me that he’s a client of your firm’s, so maybe one day?” His eyes were twinkling. “I’m here to ask you for your number, formally, and to arrange a date with you.”
Oh my. Could this man get any more romantic? (Not being sarcastic, I’ve literally always wanted to be asked out by a client, à la Pretty Woman, but with less prostitution—let’s face it, lawyers are paid by the hour, so …)
I smiled at Eric and said, only half-joking, “Only if you put me as the lawyer in charge of your next corporate raid.”
He grinned and shook my hand, firmly. “It’s a deal.”
We discussed our schedules (well, his) and I penciled him in for a lunch date on 30 April. He had a hotel to open in Dubai and would be quite busy for the next two weeks.
“Oh, and it might be a bit cheeky to throw this at you after you’ve just accepted a date with me, since it’s like getting a two-for-one after a deal’s already been made, but please do join me and Ralph for a dinner next Saturday. I think he would like to see your friend again, Val, but he’s not good with women, especially those he considers out of his league. So I thought we could double date.”
“Of course, and I’ll ask Val right away if she can make it.” I didn’t tell him we’d already made a plan for me to join her, in case Ralph asked.
After he left, I immediately texted Val, and she agreed to be there. It was going to be an interesting night indeed.
Wednesday 13 April
1:50 p.m. Apparently, when you try to do a good turn unto one friend, the universe punishes you brutally.
We were having lunch, Linda and I, after not having seen each other for weeks. Sure, I’d been busy and so had she, but she’d never been a hard one to pin down for a quick catch-up, and lately it seemed like she would always have an excuse not to see me.
Linda was twenty minutes late, so I had little time for small talk. We ordered a bottle of sparkling water and two spag bogs, and I launched my inquisition without furt
her ado. “People have been seeing you around town with some mystery man, and I for one am sick of being the last person to know, so, you know, spill!”
Linda’s jaw dropped and she took a moment to compose herself. “Oh dear, I guess we’re not being too subtle, are we.” She giggled nervously. “Look, I’m so sorry I couldn’t tell you, trust me I’d been dying to, but I couldn’t. My partner is a very well-known person in Singapore, and he’s separated from his wife right now so we’ve been keeping this whole thing under wraps.”
“Valerie saw you at the Fullerton.”
“Ah, crap. I knew we should have gone to my place instead. Anyway, there’s really not much to tell. We’re still figuring things out. Maybe once his divorce is finalized …”
I folded my arms and glared at her.
“All right, all right, I’m going to show you a photo, but you have to promise me, if you recognize him you have to keep his identity to yourself.”
I was intrigued. “Is it a movie star?” I guessed. “The one that owns a Macau casino, what’s his name, Darryl—”
She reached over and grabbed my right hand before I could move away, squeezing with anaconda-like strength. She narrowed her eyes at me. “Promise me you’ll keep his identity a secret,” she hissed.
“OK!” I yelped. “I promise!”
She relaxed her grip. “Good. I don’t want to have to hurt you, but I will.” She took out a smartphone, scrolled through some images before handing the phone to me with manga-shiny eyes.
“OMG,” I said, staring in disbelief at the image on Linda’s phone.
“Isn’t he amazing?” she cooed.
From the smartphone screen, a sharply suited, bow-tied man of average height and build stared cockily up at me with a pugnacious leer. To be brutally honest, he was unattractive. He was so unattractive that he was in the negative interest rate attractiveness territory. Linda’s man had the bone structure of the default Twitter egg avatar, was balding, and had a champagne gut. Then I realized that I knew the man and I started putting all the pieces together. Her lover and client was Massimo Poon, one of the richest men in Asia (or rather, the only grandson of one of the richest men in Asia), noted playboy, philanderer, and little else. Despite only being in his mid-fifties he was already knee-deep in the quicksand of his third, apparently failing, marriage. How could this be the man who had finally succeeded in sweeping my best friend and dearest cousin off her feet?
There was no other explanation for it—it was black magic.
I took a deep breath. “OK, Linda, you’re not desperate for money, that I know for sure.” Linda’s paternal family tree was an off-brand Marcos (or so it was rumored); the family had substantial interests in several mining and timber companies, with land to burn in Borneo. Literally. “So please tell me what you see in this man, because I’ll be honest, based on this very unfortunate high-def selfie, I have a real hard time understanding the attraction.” And before I could stop myself, I added, “Plus he’s not just old money, Linda—he’s old!”
Linda glared at me. “Could you be more shallow? I’ll have you know that Massimo is a darling. I’ll bet you didn’t even know he’s one of the biggest patrons of the Singapore Red Cross and that his foundation sponsors dozens of children in Cambodia. He’s smart, fearless, and exuberant. We get along so well, and we connect on so many levels.” Her eyes had a faraway look. “I haven’t met anyone with whom I can discuss politics, conspiracy theories, religion, mid-century modern architecture, and super yachts. Ever.”
“He sounds perfect,” I said snidely. “For an adulterer.”
Linda sniffed. “Well, judge all you want, but I’m not breaking up with him. He’s going to divorce his wife, and then we’ll really be able to take our relationship public.” Her voice grew dreamy. “Did you know I’m the first woman he’s dated who’s in her thirties?” She giggled. “You know, since he turned fifty.”
I felt myself getting annoyed. “You say that like it’s a good thing!”
“Why are you so prejudiced? Poots is real with me, and I am with him. He may have made mistakes in the past—”
“Yeah, like three wives and several high-profile mistresses.”
“That’s the past. He didn’t know what he wanted back then.”
“I’m sure he absolutely knows what he wants now—fresh meat.”
“Why are you being so reductive about this? You don’t even know him and you’re dismissing him.” Her voice was strained. “He’s the first man I’ve dated who doesn’t care that I don’t want children.”
“That’s because he probably doesn’t want any with—That’s because he probably has too many illegitimate ones of his own! I mean, have you done your homework on this guy? Do you remember the tabloid stories of him and every single TVB starlet worth a damn in the noughties?”
“He’s changed!”
“No, he hasn’t!”
“Yes, he has!”
“No, he hasn’t!”
This brilliant exchange went on for quite some time. Our voices were so loud that the tables around us fell silent, but we were beyond caring. I was mad, fueled by my own desire to protect her from a man I thought was using her just like Orson used me. How could she be so blind? When Massimo was done with her she’d just be another notch in his bedpost, nothing more.
I changed tactics. “He’s still old enough to be your father.”
“And?” She crossed her arms. “You always told me that I had daddy issues.” Linda’s father had been a classic absentee parent, a “special-occasions dad” who she only saw whenever she was celebrating a milestone. “Maybe I like that he is old enough to be my dad! Maybe he even looks like my dad.” She gave her trademark barking laugh. “How’s that for your desktop psychoanalysis!”
A silence fell, thick and unpleasant, between us. I had never been so riled up in a conversation with Linda—we usually resolved our quarrels swiftly, over alcohol. When I spoke again, I tried to keep my voice down in order to get through to her. “Do you really think it will last? He’s a known womanizer. Come on, Linda, open your eyes. A tiger can’t change its stripes. It’s what you tell me all the time.”
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he is the exception to the rule.” Her voice was bitter. “But you’re just like the rest: you judge him before knowing him.”
“You’re not thinking straight,” I insisted, raising my voice. “Massimo is clearly a bad choice.”
“At least I’m true to myself and I go for what I feel is right for me. I know that’s a concept you are so familiar with.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “What I don’t get is why you’re suddenly interested in policing my love life, when you used to gawp from the sidelines, taking notes.”
That hit me with the force of a knee to the groin. “Maybe because you’ve never been serious about a man before,” I almost shouted.
Her jaw dropped. “Great, now you’re slut-shaming me.”
“I’m not!”
She narrowed her eyes. “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid that I’ll find love, and you’ll be left behind in a job you don’t even like, with your average expectations out of your average life.”
“I don’t think there’s any danger in you finding lasting love here,” I said acidly.
She pushed her chair back with a loud clatter, threw two fifty-dollar bills onto the table, and strode out of the room without a backward glance.
As I picked up the cash, I was trembling with suppressed fury, trying to put on a nonchalant face in front of the other diners to minimize the burning humiliation I felt. But it was hard. She’d just accused me of being passive and basic. Sleepwalking through my own life. Just because I’m a little risk averse and I have parents who cared enough about me to take an active role in my day-to-day affairs.
1:30 a.m. Can’t sleep.
1:50 a.m. Still can’t sleep.
2:15 a.m. What she said about me isn’t true, is it?
2:35 a.m. I’ll just have one glass of wine to h
elp me sleep.
2:55 a.m. And a whisky. Or two.
3:40 a.m. Whos needs Linda. I l finf new fiends she’ll see1!
22
Thursday 14 April
6:55 a.m. Urggh. My head. Is it time for work already??
8:10 a.m. Suresh took one look at me and ran for coffee and a glass of orange juice.
9:25 a.m. Dying. Went to the toilet, found a clean stall, put the lid down, and sat with eyes closed, just for a bit.
10:10 a.m. Woke up when phone vibrated. Nearly dropped phone. Have a client’s call due in about twenty minutes. Crap. Ran out of toilet. Went back to office and told Suresh casually I had been on super long conference call with a client. Suresh’s deliberately expressionless expression told me everything I needed to know: he knew.
10:25 a.m. Client emailed to cancel conference call. Thank God.
10:27 a.m. Snuck a peek at mirror when Suresh left the room and realized how he knew: long line of crusted drool on chin. I am the epitome of a successful, well-adjusted woman.
11:30 p.m. I will never drink again.
2:07 p.m. I will not drink again—this week. Am feeling slightly better after lunch.
4:00 p.m. Two coffees, five glasses of orange juice, and four paracetamols later: hallelujah, I am healed!
5:15 p.m. Is there a platform for people looking for friends, like Tinder or Sponk, only platonic and not filled with dicks?
Tried asking Suresh without giving away fight with Linda. He shrugged and suggested I build one. Then he invited me to hang out with his Catan group again, to which I declined. It’s one thing to have no life, another to spend it playing board games with no intention or ambition of going pro one day.
5:33 p.m. I have friends. I have Val and Jason and Ben.
5:40 p.m. Wait, these guys were all Linda’s friends first. Would they want to hang out with me if they had to choose between the more glamorous, moneyed, interesting, and beautiful Linda and me?
