by Ho, Lauren
She sat back in her seat, looking smug as, well, a lawyer who’d just won her case.
“No further questions, your Dastardly Overlord,” I said, humbled.
“Good. Because you’re live.”
“What?” I shrieked. “Since when?”
“Since yesterday, you dork! Don’t get mad. Look how many matches you’ve already accrued. Twenty-seven!”
“What? I never chose … How many?” Despite my better judgment I was soon scrolling with Linda through the profile matches. (Apparently, in the few hours since she had hacked into my Facebook and created/linked my Tinder account, thus being able to publish my profile, all without my consent, she had already selected a few crush-worthy specimens who had also swiped right on my profile.) I did this over Linda’s shoulder, as Linda was still refusing to relinquish the phone or my new Facebook/Tinder password until I had “earned the right to use Tinder unsupervised, because Sponk.”
“You need my guidance. After all, there are a lot of creeps and liars out there,” she said, oblivious to the irony of her own words.
“So, uh, how are we supposed to handle twenty-seven Tinder chats at the same time?” I wanted to know.
“Oh, sweetie.” She gave me a pitying look, the kind she gave men when they asked her why she wouldn’t give them her number. “Fifty-five percent of these guys won’t text you beyond the first three messages because they’re just not that into you; five percent won’t make a move at all because they are too chicken shit or they want the woman to make the first move; ten percent will turn out to be liars, freaks, douchebags, socially inept, and psychos who will show themselves on my superior no-BS radar and who I will eliminate after five text lines; which leaves thirty percent worthy of navigating through, after which we will probably only find half of them deserving of our time, which leaves us with approximately three or four potential dates. I’ll have your results by Saturday morning.”
She had it down to a science.
“So let me get this straight: in order to sieve out the liars, freaks, douchebags, socially inept, and psychos, you are going to pretend to be me?”
She rolled her eyes. “Did I not make myself clear?”
“And you don’t see the similarities between you and the people you’re trying to keep away from me? None whatsoever?”
“Nope.”
“Right.” Oh well. The woman did get me twenty-seven matches. “But what if Orson—”
“No. Repeat after me: Orson is poison. Orson is poison.”
I decided to drop it. What did Linda know? She was Linda; she’d never had to compromise a day in her life. Orson seemed to like me for me. Besides, it wasn’t as though I had any other suitors—not counting the twenty-seven potential Tinder matches who were all expecting me to be some bendy yoga hottie who liked to salsa. This whole thing was doomed. By the time I returned to work I was back to giving Orson a go, if he texted again. Hey, a bird in the hand is worth twenty-seven in the bush, every good Chinese knows that.
3:00 p.m. Texted Orson to say I’d be happy to have lunch with him next Wednesday. Why wait? And I definitely didn’t need to be supervised on dating platforms/apps. I’m tech-savvy: I’m a LinkedIn Premium user, you know.
5:07 p.m. Got told off for asking Linda for the umpteenth time what was going on in the Tinder chats. She said that if I text her one more time for progress reports, she’ll start sending me dick pics. From Ben.
7:45 p.m. Orson just texted! He said he’s excited to be going on a date with a top forty lawyer. The boy can flirt! I sent him a couple of smiley emojis and chose a café that I knew Linda would never frequent and told him to meet me there at noon.
Am crushing it. Orson is probably younger than Ivan’s girl (though I wouldn’t know, there’s nothing I can see on his Facebook or his other social media platforms, not that I was looking through a fake account or anything).
6
Friday 19 February
Speaking of showing off, I awoke this morning smiling, awash with fresh purpose in life. At long last, the day I had been planning for had arrived—the day I finally take Suresh out.
For lunch.
But not just any lunch: the Establishment-of-Hierarchy Lunch. Just like the ultra-firm handshake I gave him the first time I met him, where I Showed Dominance, I have, by pretending to be super busy, managed to evade hosting the welcome lunch all Orientation Big Buddies are supposed to arrange for their assigned Little Buddy. But it was now well into his third week and I could no longer pretend that I was busy without being rude, well, ruder than I already was. And establishing dominance must be done in a classy, indirect, subtle way, like farting.
It was time Suresh understood who the alpha in the room was. The orientation lunch is all about Power Moves. For that reason I had been waiting for the right moment to invite him out on one: first of all, I had on a total Power Outfit, an exquisite, expensive tailored pantsuit in gray cashmere wool paired with a white long-sleeved cotton dress shirt (even if impractical and my boobs were melting under the layers) and a burgundy crocodile Birkin bag (that technically belonged to Linda); there’d been a significant lapse of time since his arrival before the Ask, calculated to make Suresh understand that he was very low in priority; lastly, I’d managed to book a very visible table in a quiet and expensive finedining Shanghainese restaurant that was guaranteed to make Suresh, Anglophile Indian that he was, swallow hard at the sight of all the bone china bowls and pokey chopsticks. Not to mention the fact that Suresh hadn’t had enough time to acclimate to the Singaporean weather and was still sweating profusely even in the air-conditioning, which is not in his favor at all. But this state of imbalance would not last long for men like him: I knew I had to strike soon.
I waited till he looked like he was knee-deep in a difficult file before I took a deep breath and said, “Suresh … there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Suresh looked up from his phone, on which he was actually working, smiled, and said, “Me, too.”
In an effort to mask my true evil, I said sweetly, “You first.”
“It’s been so killer busy since I arrived, but I’ve been meaning to ask you out for lunch. How does today sound?”
“You’re asking me out for lunch?” I whispered, blood draining from my face.
“Yes,” he said. “I checked with Kai, who said your schedule was free, and since you were free I thought, why wait?”
I took a steadying breath. “Yes, sure, but where—”
Suresh’s dimpled smile deepened. “There’s this fine-dining Shanghainese restaurant that Kai said you liked. I’m a big fan of Shanghainese food myself, so I thought we’d go with the obvious choice.”
“Indeed,” I said. I made a mental note to warn Kai from divulging my schedule to Suresh in the future, even if she worked for both of us. Her loyalties should lie with me, dammit: I lent her money for her gym membership.
2:40 p.m. Just back from lunch, which got off to a bad start. Soon after we were shown to our table, I found out that Suresh had spent a year in Hangzhou studying Mandarin and knew more about regional Chinese food, and tea, than I did. He won food-ordering duties after some haggling, and proceeded to order, among other things, chicken feet in soy sauce, a Power Move in itself as this is a dish rife with possibility for disaster (of the dry-cleaning variety). Worst, when the steamed fish arrived, he looked deep into my eyes and complimented my Power Outfit as he plucked the staring eyeball out of the dead, defenseless fish, popped it into his mouth, and chewed in a deliberate manner, which meant I would have to eat the remaining eyeball.
And the lunch got personal when I least expected it. “So, have you always wanted to be a lawyer?” he asked, his lips still coated with juices from the fish’s eyeball, the psycho.
I shrugged. “I was given only two choices: law or medicine. I didn’t know there was any other path open to me: my mother basically said it was either one of those or be disowned.” I made a face. “I think she threatened to disow
n me every time I tried to make choices that diverged from what she would have picked for me.”
He chuckled. “Sounds familiar. I guess you could be luckier, since in my case it was the threat of dismemberment. Or was it disembowelment? I don’t remember. Just thank your lucky stars your parents aren’t doctors who could actually carry out their threat.”
I laughed, against my better judgment. Laughing at your enemy’s jokes is a sign of submission. I dug my fingernails into my palms.
“So tell me, given all that you know now: what would you be if you could be anything else?”
I pretended to think this over. “I did want to be a marine biologist. Or was it a mermaid? One of those. And you?” I was not going to reveal my dreams to my competitor. I mean, once upon a time, when I was young and foolish, I’d wanted to be a writer.
“Writer,” he answered immediately.
“What a cliché,” I said. “You and every sad lawyer I know.”
“Clichés exist for a reason; many a lawyer started out as a wee little lad or lass interested in storytelling,” he said. “Although I suppose I’m more of a comic book artist at this stage than a writer. I’ve got a graphic novel, which I plan to get published one day, lying in my desk drawer.”
I hated that I had my own unfinished manuscript of sorts lying in my drawer as well, notebooks full of poems about the dark side of law and single life in Singapore. Not that I was going to divulge its existence to Suresh. No, as far as I was concerned, this secret hobby of mine would stay in its drawer, because that’s where hobbies belong in real life. I could hear how disdainful I sounded when I continued, “Aside from your, erm, graphic novel, have you written anything?”
“I have,” he said, smiling. “I have my own superhero comic strip online.”
“Doesn’t everyone?” I said disparagingly.
“Erm, yes, erm. But mine is, well, quite successful. Have you heard of The Last True Self? About a shape-shifting vigilante who murders to protect the oppressed by sucking their life force out by touch, but is doomed to take on the form of the last person he touch-murders?”
“No,” I said. “Sounds super boring.”
He leaned forward and whispered, “Well, I’m the creator. But don’t tell anyone at work, since I don’t want people to think I actually have hobbies, or a life, outside of the law.” He winked.
“Um-hmm,” I said, nonchalant but silently taking notes for future evil reference.
“Also, people have been trying to figure out who the creator of TLTS is for some time now, since, you know, I killed so many real-life celebrities and politicians in my comic strip. I’ve had death threats.”
I fought the urge to blurt out, “And now I know your Achilles’ heel, sucker!”
He seemed reassured, foolishly, by my silence. “Seriously, though, what drew you to read law?”
I hesitated, then said, truthfully, “I wanted to fight for justice for the oppressed. Like Batman. Or you know, like Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird.”
Suresh sipped at his tea. “What area of law did you originally want to practice in?”
“International humanitarian law. You?”
“Criminal law.”
We both fell silent as we reflected on how far we’d deviated from our ideals.
I gingerly picked out the second fish eyeball and swallowed the slimy, chalky thing whole, nearly gagging in the process. “Lemme guess, Tiger Mom?”
“Tiger Dad,” he said. “Well, Tiger Parents, really.”
We smiled wanly at each other in commiseration.
“So, Suresh Aditparan, my next question is: would you do things differently when it comes to your kids? Or do you think tiger parenting is the way to go? I mean, all things considered, we turned out pretty well.” Great, now I was drawing parallels between us and complimenting him. Some Power Lunch this was turning out to be.
He gnawed on his bottom lip as he thought this through. “I think I’d one hundred percent do things differently. I would tell my children to dream big, that I would support them in anything they wanted to do. Anything, that is, except dentistry and accountancy.” He grinned. “One has to draw the line somewhere.”
I laughed against my will. It’s as painful as it sounds, trust me. I couldn’t believe that I was starting to enjoy myself.
Then he leaned forward and adopted a businesslike tone. “Let’s cut the bullshit, Andrea. This isn’t a friendly orienteering lunch, is it?”
“Excuse me?” I said, thrown off course by the lack of segue.
“I know you don’t like me”—I opened my mouth to deny this, but he cut me off with a gesture—“but it’s OK, you’re not very likable either. You are borderline rude, to be honest, glowering at me like I don’t have eyes in my head. I get it, you don’t have much competition around here. But we don’t have to like each other to work in the same office. You stay in your lane, and I’ll stay in mine. And soon we’ll be out of each other’s hair when the office reno is done.”
What a pompous, arrogant jerk!
When the meal was over I tried to pay for it in a last-ditch attempt at a Power Move but was foiled at this because he had already left his card with the reception when he entered. The boy was almost more Chinese than I was!
Clearly, I would have to find other ways to establish my alpha status, and soon. Starting by setting up an anonymous Instagram account and spamming him. Let’s see who’s rude then!
8:55 p.m. OMG. The Last True Self has close to 55K followers on Instagram and 38K followers on Twitter. And what’s worse: Suresh is good. The comic bursts with style, satire, and dark humor, and lots of opportunity for catharsis (his vigilante, Water, has killed John Mayer (!), among others).
Water is an absurdly handsome, John Wick-ish mercenary vigilante who gained his deadly powers (life-force absorption and shape-shifting) and lost his wife after a freak accident at the experimental lab where they both worked almost two years ago. Each time he touches someone with his bare skin, he immediately kills them and takes on his victim’s new form temporarily until his powers recharge and he morphs back, although with each kill he loses a few more of his memories. So while each kill lessens the pain of his wife’s loss, it also takes away more of her, of him. As a result of his powers, he’s a bit of a loner and has not been involved with anyone since his wife died. To touch someone is to take that person’s life; hence the only time he does any touching, aside from himself when no one is watching except God, is when he is ready to kill. It can get a little one-note; it would be nice if Suresh injected, as a counterpoint to all this directionless murder, a bigger agenda for the killing. Maybe a righteous desire to reduce world population to counter global warming—something controversial but logical. Just so there’s narrative tension. And maybe a sex scene or two #justsayin.
Not because I find the protagonist hot, of course. Because he looks a heck of a lot like his creator, and that would mean I find Suresh attractive, which I don’t.
All the same, there’s enough here to please a casual reader. I’m impressed. Using the anonymous IG account I had set up to spam him, I began to follow TLTS. Just to better understand the psyche of my enemy.
11:35 p.m. Looked up from screen, dizzy and ravenous, and realized that I’d finished two years’ worth of TLTS in one sitting. Now I’m hooked, with no choice but to continue following TLTS. I’m contributing to his following and, indirectly, his revenue stream.
Worst of all, dear Diary, was the jealousy. Suresh might not have figured it out yet, but if he ever wanted to take a leap of faith, he could switch careers and do something he was passionate about. He had options, whereas I had none.
11:40 p.m. Urgh. Can feel the downward spiral over life choices beginning.
11:55 p.m. Decided to join Ben for a drink at Boat Quay.
1:20 a.m. Saw Ben in action. He is like a relic of the past, going up to younger women and shouting at them over loud music while they blink at him, unimpressed.
1:23 a.m. Come t
o think of it, is that how I will look to people when I am out with Orson, a boy who has never used a VHS tape player in his life?
1:30 a.m. Oh God. Oh God. Need tequila.
1:45 a.m. Have had tequila, many. Considered, for a panicked moment, whether I should sleep with Ben. Then for some reason I heard Suresh saying, “One has to draw the line somewhere.”
2:38 a.m. Tequilas w why we mustr never have a trade wart with mexivco!1
3:20 a.m. Drunkenly made out with sowmeo who looked lke Ivan befr realize he does nott at all, when car drove by alldey light see.
3:45 a.m. Whaar m I doing? Needa to get my datng life in shipshape like carreer or end up ksssng men in alley.
4:10 a.m. Home.
Part II
TWO BIRDS, ONE STONE
7
Saturday 20 February
Valerie called at 10:30 a.m., violating our group’s golden rule: “No calls before eleven on a Saturday, unless you or someone we know is dying.”
“Andrea! I’m in big trouble,” she said with a megaphone. “I don’t know what to do or who to turn to!”
“Whaaaat?” I moaned. Someone inside my head was banging a timpani in tandem with my heartbeat.
“Are you listening to me?” Valerie shouted.
I sat up, very slowly, in bed, and whispered, “Sorry, the line’s pretty bad, can you repeat the whole thing again?”
“I need to babysit my niece, and I have no idea how to take care of a child! You’ve got to help! You have a younger sister, weren’t you always saying?”
I didn’t tell her that Melissa practically raised herself, she was so level-headed. I mean, I turn to her for advice, not vice versa.
Valerie said her brother Cameron’s helper was on leave and Cameron was in the States on a business trip, and Zi Min, her sister-in-law who was also a real estate agent, had some rental properties she had to show that day. I agreed to come with her after enduring another minute of high-pitched begging. By the time she arrived at my condo, barely twenty-five minutes later, I had downed a bottle of special Korean ginseng energy drink, one coconut water, and two double espressos, and was feeling almost human. Unsurprisingly, after I’d vibrated into Valerie’s car, I turned my head and found a prone Linda lying on the back seat. Her face was a particularly vibrant hue of zombie gray.