by Lauren Ho
“That is an awesome threat,” I had to admit. “What did he say?”
“At first he didn’t know which watch my PI was referring to. He was confused. Turns out this guy has been running love scams for some time. It was only when the PI told him the watch model and the inscription on the back that he remembered which one was yours. Said that he hadn’t managed to pawn it because of that inscription, so he had been holding on to it. And now here it is.”
I was so touched, not just by the lengths he went to to please me but by the level of attention he paid to the seemingly random things I said to him, that I started to cry. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
He kissed the top of my head. “You’re welcome. Listen, I’ve been thinking about how I went about asking you to marry me. I’m sorry I sprung the whole engagement thing on you,” he murmured in my hair. “I know it’s fast, and we’re supposed to do things a certain way, but I can’t imagine waiting around two more years just so it’s appropriate to pop the question. You know I’m a decisive person, and Andrea, I know it’s you that I want.”
I found it hard to speak, so I kissed him.
Since he had an early flight to Malaysia and I had to work in a few hours, he left sometime around three. His visit had left me keyed up, so I eschewed sleep and decided to go for a rare jog, figuring that the exercise would help me think. I couldn’t understand why I was on the fence about Eric—was it because it just felt too soon? That had to be it. Objectively speaking, Eric had so many good qualities it was hard to keep count: intelligent, caring, worldly, a good father, a family man, and, let’s be honest, wealthy. And he was totally devoted to me.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense to commit to Eric. The bird in the hand is worth none in the bush, obviously. And obviously I would win forever over Helen if I married Eric. Billionaire and of Chinese descent.
And if I could time it so I’d get pregnant immediately after the wedding, and announce it right before Helen’s wedding …
Ahaha. Ahahaha!
45
Monday 3 October
7:08 a.m. Andrea Tang-Deng. Andrea Deng. Andrea Deng-Tang.
7:25 a.m. Let’s try it out: Good morning, Mrs. Andrea Deng! Hmm. Has a nice ring to it.
8:35 a.m. OK, so if I’m going to say yes, then I guess I should consider myself engaged. Should I start planning the wedding already? Will just take a peek at some wedding sites. Also it might make sense to book Fullerton ASAP on the auspicious dates I’d like for the wedding, preferably before Helen’s date.
8:37 a.m. Haha will get married two months before Helen hahahaha on 18th March hahahaa!
9:15 a.m. Shit, just got off the phone with the manager in charge of Fullerton’s ballroom rental and, after an almost inaudible sniff, she told me 18th March is not available as it already has four weddings booked on that day. Apparently I should have booked a year ago if I wanted to get married on a particular date, especially one that was auspicious.
“Well,” I said huffily to the girl at reception, “if I had known I’d be getting married a year ago, I’d not have gone to Auntie Wei Wei’s CNY do with Linda, would I?”
Of course, the poor woman had no idea what I was on about, but that’s the kind of outburst you have to deal with when you man the friggin’ reservations line for ballrooms.
9:20 a.m. Mrs. Andrea Deng. Mrs. Andrea Tang-Deng. Hmm. Maybe I’ll just keep my maiden name. How will potential clients know that it is me, Andrea Tang of the “40 Most Influential Lawyers Under 40”?
OH SHIT! Am late for work!
9:57 a.m. Got to work late but no one was looking for me. The partners were on their annual partners’ retreat, so the atmosphere in the office was relaxed.
10:05 a.m. Told Kai about my news. She shrieked and hugged me. I then put her on a mission to find me a suitable venue for five hundred guests on 18 March. #priorities
10:08 a.m. Hmm, just realized that Eric might want more than five hundred guests.
10:10 a.m. I literally have no idea what kind of wedding Eric would want. Not that he has a choice. Eric’s a five-hundred-guests-or-more kind of guy, by default. It’s a business wedding.
10:13 a.m. If I were marrying someone less impressive, I’d probably want only three hundred people at my wedding, if even. Less than one hundred if it had been strictly up to me. It would be held somewhere remote, on a beach; the vibe would be casual: cork sandals, floppy beach hats, linen suits; a softly beaded Claire Pettibone dress; my mother in restraints.
10:28 a.m. I should tell the girls. But I’m somehow very reluctant. I should wait. Tomorrow’s Val’s hen night. Seems a bit gauche to talk about my news. Yeah, that’s right.
10:40 a.m. Called Melissa and Val and Jason and texted everyone else in my wider group of friends who hadn’t heard about the proposal when I found out that Kai had basically told everyone on all her social media platforms (excluding LinkedIn, at least) that her boss was finally engaged (without naming names, but still, who else could it be—Suresh?), even when nothing is official yet. Honestly, is nothing sacred with Generation Z?
Hesitated in texting Suresh. Didn’t. Figured he’s already aware since he is friends with Kai on Facebook.
Everyone I contacted was apparently still unaware. Thank God for the social media digital divide. Means very likely older bosses will not know about the potential engagement until after the partnership decision is made, and will not be unfairly biased against my gender more than they already are (approximately 20 percent of the equity partners in my firm are women—it’s pretty appalling).
6:00 p.m. Snuck out of the office early and went to the Dungeon (an underground bar/restaurant in the CBD favored by traders) to grab a couple of drinks with Linda, who just got back from Lisbon.
I love the Dungeon. The whole place was sweaty with testosterone and the sultry musk of successful people. I waded into the rich pheromone pond and sank into it blissfully, knowing I, too, would soon be spraying the scent of my success into the olfactory stew.
9:43 p.m. Drinkng wattrr v. slowly. Nce man holdifg straw to fface. Water cold. Must not ppuk
Oops. Toolate.
11:15 p.m. Will never drink again.
Tuesday 4 October
6:40 a.m. Must drink again. In twelve hours. Or bad friend. Urgh. Floor rushing up to face, must not—
Oopsie.
8:05 a.m. Am at work. Must not die.
9:11 a.m. Kai handed me a bottle of coconut water and what she says is “like a vitamin B pill, really.” She gave me three others to take something or other blah blah urgh hungover.
10:05 a.m. Am feeling great! Listening to Bruno Mars on repeat! Am glad I have Spotify Premium!!
10:25 a.m. Mong opened the door to me doing a plank! Why not? Helps me think. Although he did not look too pleased. “Is health not part of work?” I asked him. He said yes, very hesitantly. To assure him, I told him I was still on the clock with one of our “favorite” clients. He chuckled and left me, still in plank. Boss Great!
2:07 p.m. Have had another two vitamin B pills twenty minutes ago and a Red Bull as energy was flagging! Kai said don’t mix with caffeine, but she’s an uptight Pilates vegan! Caffeine is legal drug, everyone knows!
4:00 p.m. Kai has no more pills. She said I was supposed to take one pill once every six hours, but how was I supposed to know?
4:57 p.m. Please let me die in peace, is all I ask.
10:45 p.m. Met at six p.m. at Le Luxe, a French fusion restaurant where we were supposed to celebrate Val’s hen night. On a freaking Tuesday. WTF, I know.
One of Val’s work friends, Jessie, a starched-face former beauty queen and bitter, broke divorcée of a casino tycoon, had been coerced into organizing the shindig for Valerie and a gang of ten girlfriends. The whole thing was a mess from start to finish, shambolic and flat. After a lackluster dinner, we went to K-Suites, a karaoke bar, and sang, well, attempted to sing because most of Val’s friends (except Linda, myself, and another woman whose name I’
ve forgotten) were all in their forties and fifties, rich (or pretending they were), and addicted to surgery; most of them had had so much work done to their faces it was like watching concrete stretch. They mimed singing as much as they could.
Linda should have organized it. She would have booked a table at some Les Amis restaurant, doused us in cocktails and champagne, then brought us out for a night of Ironic Clubbing à la Mambo Jumbo at Zouk. She would never have brought us to this place. But Linda was only a guest, and Jessie ruled iron-fisted over the proceedings, brooking no argument and allowing no deviations from her itinerary. She wanted bland rice pudding hen night, and we were going to get it no matter what.
But guess what? Valerie genuinely seemed not to care. She ate the bland food in that boring restaurant and she belted her off-key way over one Bublé song after another without holding back. This from the woman who was so careful and protective about her image that she once ex-communicated a friend who had let slip that she was Airbnb-ing her beautiful River Valley apartment (thus letting her other frenemies know that she needed the money). I watched her, and envied her. She had almost always believed in love despite all her odds, and she had finally been rewarded with her happily ever after. The only thing that would complete her world now was her getting pregnant, and at the rate she was going, who’s to say it wasn’t possible? She’d be the next Sophie B. Hawkins! And Linda, even Linda—Linda, the Lethargic in Love—had found her version of happiness. Whereas I—what was I destined for if I said yes to Eric Deng?
11:30 p.m. Despite Jessie’s best attempts, we still had a decent night out and I was a little tipsy by ten p.m. (fine, very tipsy) and made my excuses to leave as I had a closing that week. I was struggling to open my door when I received a text from Suresh:
I’m back in town for a week, will be working from Singapore. Could we talk? Need your advice on something personal. It’s urgent.
And I thought, Let’s talk now, why not? I told him to come over to my place, since I was the one living alone.
Alone. We would be alone in my place. The idea was oddly destabilizing, or maybe it was the alcohol.
My heart was pounding when I opened the door. “Hey there, stranger,” I said. I beckoned him to come in. “You’re up late.”
“Sorry to have texted you at this hour, but I’ve got big news and I wanted to ask your opinion.”
I trailed him to the living room in a semi-daze. He was dressed in a white singlet and a filmy, clingy pair of track pants. The effect was very arresting. I forced myself to stare at his chest. His very exposed chest. Come to think of it, I wasn’t much better. I looked down and realized I was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, which showed a lot of leg.
We were both trying hard not to stare at each other’s bodies in an Adam-and-Eve-post-forbidden-apple scene. But to admit to our uncomfortableness was to admit that we found each other’s semi-nakedness affecting, and neither of us was willing to do that.
“So, what’s up?” I said, casually placing my left hand against the counter to stabilize myself.
He caught sight of my engagement ring (I’d slipped it on at work before leaving, maybe because of tai-tai peer pressure or something—that rock is huge) and his lips thinned. “Are congrats in order?”
“On?” I asked, a little confused.
“Looks like someone proposed?” His face was expressionless. “Anyway—congrats.”
I flushed. “Oh, erm, actually I haven’t accepted his proposal, but, yes, he asked.”
“Right,” he said, pointedly looking at my ring.
“I was wearing the ring for fun. I meant to tell you about his proposal, but you weren’t around. It just … felt inappropriate to tell you over WhatsApp or email, you know …” I was blabbering.
“So nothing is set in stone?” Suresh said, his lip twitching.
I laughed. “No, nothing is.” We were smiling at each other now. I quickly changed the subject. “What did you come here to talk to me about? You said you needed advice.”
“I do.” He drew a shuddery breath and exhaled. “I’ve been offered representation!”
“What?”
“TLTS! Someone from a fancy literary agency DMed me and told me they love it, and I did some research on the agent, he’s big and legit, so I signed with him. He and his team think TLTS is going to be big.”
“Wow,” I said, clapping excitedly. “Congratulations! You deserve it, you’re so talented.”
“Thank you,” he said, his eyes shining but his voice serious.
Something else was up. “What is it?” I asked, a little afraid.
“They’re saying that there’s potential for it to be made into a series of books, web-toons, maybe even a movie, if we’re lucky … but that I should take some time off to really work on the debut graphic novel.” His eyes met mine. “And I’m really, really tempted. This is my chance—strike while the iron is hot, and all. So what I’m saying is … I-I think I should quit,” he said.
“Wow.” A bombshell. “This … this is great news,” I said, my thoughts spinning.
“What do you think? Because Noush told me I was crazy for even thinking that. That I’d be stupid to quit. There’s no guarantee I’d be making what I make now. Or that it’ll turn out to be anything other than a flash in the pan. Maybe this is imposter syndrome talking, but … but I’m afraid I’m not as good as they think I am,” he admitted quietly.
“What? You’re being ridiculous. Of course you’re as good as they say you are—better, even! And of course you should go for it—you’d be crazy not to! And not just because you’re my competition. I think one of us should be happy in their career, at least.”
He squinted at me. “Andrea, do you hear yourself? You just admitted that you are not happy.”
I stared at him. “Yup. And?”
“If you’re not happy, why continue being a lawyer? You should quit, too.”
“That’s ridiculous. Tons of people are in the same predicament, but we—I have no choice. You can afford to quit because you have options.”
“You’re the one who’s super talented. And smart. And amazing,” he said, his voice unsteady. “Andrea, I don’t know how much clearer I can put it: you have all the choice. You’re the better lawyer of the both of us.”
As a response, I went to him and hugged him. Tightly. It was the first time I had actually had close, prolonged physical contact with him, after Luxembourg. He felt … warm. Safe. Muscular. He returned the hug and now we were completely enmeshed. I could smell the earthy cinnamon scent of his skin. Mmm. I locked eyes with him and flushed. He was so attractive with his velvet, honey-colored eyes and long Bambi lashes. And those soft, cotton-candy pink lips. Every neuron in my alcohol-addled brain was suddenly screaming at me to—
My stomach emitted a loud rumble.
—eat. Oh God, I was so hungry.
I let go of him and staggered to the kitchen. I found a bunch of half-black bananas and proceeded to peel one before smashing it, somewhat off target, into my mouth hole.
“You want one?” I said, making sure he had a good view of my mastication. All the better to turn him off so that I didn’t have to deal with how much I wanted him right then and there.
“No thanks,” he said evenly.
I opened the fridge door, took out a jar of possibly expired pickled onions, and began using my fingers to transfer them into my mouth. Regrettably, they did indeed taste like they had expired, which I visually confirmed when I looked into the jar and found the telltale film of mold.
I ran to the sink and began spitting the whole mess up.
“I really should go,” Suresh said.
“Wait,” I said, suddenly frantic. “Err, I …”
“Look, just get some rest. We’ll talk some other time.”
“Thanks,” I said, curtly, extending my hand in a weirdly formal gesture.
“You’re welcome,” he said, shaking it.
We were both squeezing each other’s hand so h
ard, it brought back memories of our first handshake, when we were each trying to show dominance over the other.
“Good night,” he said, like a dog with a bone.
“Good night,” I said through gritted teeth, not letting go.
“Count to three?” He gasped, as I increased pressure.
I winced and nodded. “On the count of three. One, two, three!”
We let go at the same time with simultaneous whooshes of relief.
“Well,” he said.
“Good fight,” I replied.
I was aware that we were both staring at each other in a very unkosher way. He took a hesitant step toward me. “Listen, Andrea, I’ve got something I need to confess.”
“Can we talk tomorrow? It’s late and I’ve got to, uh, go back to work,” I babbled, skirting around the kitchen island. “I’m sorry, but it’s this VizWare acquisition that’s just restarted. There’s still a chance I can salvage my shot at making partner, so … I really need to prepare my briefing for the general counsel as I’ll be flying in to Omaha the day after, chop chop, hustle hustle.”
He swore quietly. “You know what, I give up. Whatever. You do you.” Then he strode out of the living room, uttered a curt “good night,” and slammed the door to my apartment behind him.
Honestly! Some people are just so rude.
46
Wednesday 5 October
8:00 a.m. I will tell no one about what happened yesterday. It doesn’t mean anything. And what we almost did, I think? What were we about to do?
8:05 a.m. OK, I’ll just tell Linda.
8:08 a.m. Shit, I have a department meeting that’s due to start at 8:30 a.m.! Shit! How could I have forgotten? My priorities are all over the place!
8:45 a.m. Arrived at the office after a surprisingly smooth MRT ride and ran to Resilience, the conference room where the meeting was being held. Saw through the frosted glass that the room was full and there was no way to slip in unnoticed. Panicked, before realizing my best defense would be to pretend I had an even more important meeting with a client. Ducked into the adjoining conference room (Dedication) and called Linda. She could be my alibi.
