by Ho, Lauren
She did however text me this morning and told me not to let slip to anyone that Alex had “given her a lift home, that was all.”
Right. I suppose he was also just giving her CPR.
After Alex had left, I hung around with Jason to keep an eye on Ben, who was past wasted, since Val was AWOL (she probably went home early without our noticing; she and Jason are hardly ever drunk—they “don’t believe in binge-drinking,” whatever that means); I myself was too disillusioned by what I had witnessed tonight to drink. So much for Tinder romances—I’m glad I have Orson to look forward to!
15
Thursday 17 March
8:30 a.m. D-day! Went to work today wearing my date outfit, since I probably wouldn’t have enough time to dash home for an outfit change. After hours of agonizing, I settled on a bespoke three-quarter-sleeved kelly green DVF-style wrap dress in a flattering silk jersey fabric, with a skirt short enough to reveal my kneecaps, which were still pretty despite being the approximate hue of moonlit mole rats. I completed my look with a black Chanel Boy Bag and sexy black pair of Erdem kitten heels.
“Wow, you look so pretty,” Kai exclaimed when she saw me. I wish she hadn’t sounded quite so surprised, but I guess when you’re in your mid-twenties and a Pilates fanatic, the bar is set pretty high.
“Thanks,” I said, blushing a little as a few other colleagues crowded around and chimed in with their own compliments (except a skulking Genevieve). “I have this, erm, networking thing later.”
“You have such a nice figure; you should show it off more often,” Kai said, totally unaware that my hourglass figure was the result of squeezing myself into Spanx underwear that was, as she was speaking, constricting the blood supply to my limbs and brain. She winked. “We single women should look great all the time, in case Mr. Right is lurking around the corner.”
I shuddered internally. What a terrifying reality to contemplate: to have to dress like this every day, when my default work outfit, sensible light wool trousers with long-sleeved silk tops, allowed a woman in her thirties to comfortably scarf down a cream cheese bagel and two cupcakes for lunch, after which she could discreetly undo the fastening of said trousers so that the belly, thus satiated, could spread out in post-digestion bliss.
The thing about dressing for a date when you’re almost in your mid-thirties and not a yoga or fitness instructor is that you are no longer primping but literally remodeling. Gone are the days when you could throw on a cute sleeveless dress, spritz on some cologne, and waltz your way out of the house, sauntering under whatever fluorescent light you come across instead of shrinking back with the hiss of a vampire meeting a beam of UV light. Instead, time is spent massaging bolts of cellulite cloth called your skin, tweezing hairs that have suddenly taken root in odd spots on your face while slathering on the contents of jars of whatever low-grade toxin is now fashionable to battle the onset of laugh lines. Then you agonizingly pour yourself into a modernday corset just to be able to wear that vaguely figure-skimming dress, hoping to the Good Lord above that your date doesn’t suggest dessert.
I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m totally looking forward to my date, by the way.
5:00 p.m. Spent the day trying to focus on work but failed miserably. Hopped on one fantasy train after another. Recalled that one of the local celebrity TV news anchors, who like me was in her mid-thirties, was also dating a much younger man, but couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. Will just google her now.
5:05 p.m. Yikes. They’ve broken up. Anyway, I should take this one step at a time and not start thinking of wedding hashtags. That is lame, even though #AndySonWeds is totally cool or sick or whatever slang word is used these days to denote trendiness.
6:05 p.m. I got up to go. Waved goodbye at a bemused Suresh, with whom I am still locked in a spiraling Office Face-Time Battle.
“Good luck,” Kai said slyly, after I had given her my out-of-office instructions should anyone call, which was not unlikely—clients are like Dementors: as soon as they sense a surge of youthful optimism when you should be low on morale and slaving over their files as you bemoan your life choices, they come a-calling and emailing, the soul suckers.
I exited the building, took a cab to the National Gallery, and began walking with a spring in my step toward the cocktail bar. I had timed it perfectly: the sun was dipping toward the horizon and the light was warm and flattering, perfect for an al fresco dining date. Orson was already there when I arrived, dressed in tailored slacks and a crisp white shirt with an orange Hermès tie showcasing a pattern of tilted kayaks. He greeted me by pressing his right cheek against mine.
“You look so lovely,” he murmured as we sat down. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered champagne and a dozen oysters to start.”
By champagne he meant a bottle of Dom Pérignon vintage rosé. I sipped the bubbly, opened the menu that the waiter handed me, and nearly passed out at the price of the champagne he had ordered—it cost what I’d imagine a black-market liver would fetch in America.
Seriously, where was this kid getting his money from?
We proceeded to have a tapas degustation menu with wine pairing. The conversation flowed easily, especially as I got drunker by the hour.
Dinner ended around 11:00 p.m. Orson insisted on paying for us both, in cash. As in he peeled out a wad of cash from his wallet like a magician pulling flowers from a hat. I saw the bill and realized, with some shock, that it was almost a third of my monthly mortgage installment, which meant that Orson had to have family wealth or other sources of income aside from his job; but best not to look a gift horse in the mouth right then, especially if you wanted to kiss that mouth later.
And then we were just a couple of kids on the sidewalk making out in the full glare of disapproving, sex-starved Singaporeans.
“Where we going next?” he asked, his tongue in my ear.
“My place? Or yours?” I said, my tongue in his.
“I vote in favor of your place. What’s your address?”
Soon things were getting hot and heavy in the Grab. The driver was mercifully oblivious to the groping or was more focused on getting a five-star rating at the end of the ride; whatever the motivation, he kept his eyes on the road despite the kissing noises.
And then we got to my apartment in Cairnhill locked in a messy, hot embrace. I opened the door and led him in. In the silence my heart was thudding so hard that I was almost afraid it would wake the neighbors. “Nice place,” was all Orson had time to say before I led him into my room. And then—murder on the dance floor! Just kidding. I’m such a dork.
4:00 a.m. Orson is gone. I think he tried to leave without waking me up, but I am a light sleeper and the merest twitch in my bedsprings shot me out of dreamland like a cannon. He smiled sheepishly, his clothes in his hands and looking remarkably illegal with his tousled Harry Styles hair and white boxer briefs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. You look so peaceful.”
I grinned wickedly. “I think you had a lot to do with that. So why don’t you stay the night? I’ll even risk being late just for you …” I walked my fingers up his right thigh.
“Oh, um, that’s really not necessary,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Um, you know, I snore, and uh, I have this presentation tomorrow and everything I need is back home.”
“Sure, go,” I said, a little disappointed. “We all have to do what we have to do, right?”
“Right,” he said. He bent down and gave me an awkward kiss on the forehead. “Listen, I’ll call you, OK? We’ll catch up soon. I’ll text you later.”
“All right,” I said languidly. As soon as I heard the door shut and lock automatically behind Orson, I closed my eyes and slid blissfully back into a champagne-tinted, endorphin-laced dream. Life was beautiful. And I totally crushed Sponk.
Wait till I tell Linda.
16
Friday 18 March
7:20 a.m. Woke up with a goofy grin on my face. Don’t remember the last time I had sex B.O. (Befor
e Orson, clearly). Feels like this is the beginning of a magnificent chapter of life, one in which the cure for cancer will be found and democratized, politicians will work for the people, looted antiquities will be returned to their homelands, etc.
8:15 a.m. Have decided that I won’t tell Linda or Melissa or anyone else I know above the age of twenty-six about my shag session, much less date, with Orson. They would never understand.
8:30 a.m. Greeted everyone I saw in the office with a big, loved-up smile, which of course made no difference since most of my fellow lawyers are dead inside or too busy to notice a change, but my walk of triumph did not go unnoticed by Kai, who gave me an actual thumbs-up when she saw me.
Am happy for you that the “networking” session went super well *wink emoji*, she messaged me a few minutes later.
I smiled fondly at my screen. Kai was a dear. I called her and we had a giggly five-minute call where I told her the redacted, sanitized story. I didn’t care that Suresh was in the room; I had to tell someone about my date.
Suresh was moody after that call. Instead of congratulating me, he seemed decidedly displeased. “I don’t even need to hear all the details to know you’ve already made a mistake with that boy,” he said in this condescending tone. He’d obviously been eavesdropping on my coded conversations with Kai.
“What’s it to you?” I said defensively.
His expression was unreadable. “I’m just looking out for you, that’s all.”
“Right.” I raised an eyebrow. “I think maybe it’s inappropriate for you to comment on my private affairs. Time to establish some boundaries.”
He got up and left the room abruptly.
Men! You share an office with them and they think they have a right to stick their nose in your business.
8:50 p.m. Had dinner with Suresh at an expensive sushi bar in Fullerton Hotel (his treat); he’d apologized earlier in the afternoon and wanted to make it up to me. He was rather quiet. Over California rolls, sashimi, and a bottle of sake, he mentioned casually that things with Anousha were going south over the proposed move to Singapore. “She’s just been offered a promotion and thinks it’s a bad time to move.”
He hasn’t seen Anousha in over two months. Hmmm.
9:45 p.m. No text from Orson still. Hmm.
11:05 p.m. Was flicking through Tinder profiles to pass time (Candy Crush what?) and came across one that was particularly interesting for all the wrong reasons: Jonathan Beh, Genevieve’s husband, was on Tinder! #shockhorrorgasp
Very cunningly he was using only side profile shots of himself (taken at least a decade ago), sporting large designer sunnies on those where he faced the cam shirtless, with artistic filters thrown in for good measure. I had only seen Jonathan twice, but I knew it had to be him. What gave him away was the last picture he took where he was draped casually across the hood of a massive sports car. I’d recognize this car anywhere, not least because: (a) it was a customized yellow Lamborghini with black racing stripes that Genevieve had driven to the office quite a few times, and (b) it had vanity plates reading “BIGGBEHH” that he’d stupidly forgotten to blank out.
His bio claimed that he was a carefree dreamer and philanthropist, instead of the adulterer he aspired to be. “I’ll treat you like a princess … because you deserve it, and I can certainly afford it,” boasted his profile. “Ladies always tell me that my heart isn’t the biggest thing about me *wink emoji*—I meant my wallet, of course!”
I threw up in my mouth a little before taking a screenshot of this gift from God and keeping it in my Google Drive. Just in case.
11:45 p.m. No text from Orson yet. Very strange. For the last week or so we’ve been communicating every day.
11:48 p.m. I should chill. It’s only been a day.
Saturday 19 March
5:35 p.m. Hmm. Nothing. Maybe he’s traveling and doesn’t have good cell phone coverage.
8:20 p.m. There’s still Wi-Fi though. He should have texted or called by now.
10:40 p.m. I have got to stop checking my texts.
Sunday 20 March
11:55 p.m. OK, something is definitely up.
17
Monday 21 March
3:10 a.m. Woke up from a nightmare where I had to pee during a biology exam, but couldn’t find a washroom anywhere. Tried to fall asleep but a vague, lingering unease from the nightmare kept me awake (that, and the intermittent glancing at the smartphone screen checking for a weather update and you know, Orson’s texts, but not in an obsessive way, of course).
3:25 a.m. Decided to watch an episode of Orange Is the New Black.
3:50 a.m. Will have a wee tipple of wine.
5:00 a.m. No text from Orson. It’s fine. Technically it’s only been seventy-five hours or so since he left. Is it normal that I’ve needed to pee twice in the last hour?
7:13 a.m. Decided to stop drinking wine.
7:25 a.m. Shit, realized midway during the fifth episode of Orange Is the New Black that I have to be at work in thirty-five minutes. Shit!
8:25 a.m. Slunk into the office and hoped no one would notice me, but of course, Genevieve called me out in front of everyone as soon as she saw me. Bitch!
9:45 a.m. My bladder and kidneys are working a little too efficiently today. Hmm. But need coffee. Nearly fell asleep while peeing.
12:05 p.m. No text from Orson, still. Decided to send him a flirty little text, since it’s been more than eighty hours and I won’t seem desperate, saying:
What’s up, stranger? Did you lose your phone on the way home or get hit by a car? *angel emoji*
12:30 p.m. Texted Orson again:
Haha I’m just kidding. I hope you’re fine, though. Miss you, LOL.
As soon as I sent it I regretted it. Only desperate or unfunny people use LOL in their texts.
6:00 p.m. No text reply from Orson. But maybe he’s busy with his work. Creative types and all. I then realized that I didn’t really know where he worked. I pulled up his LinkedIn profile, which I had consulted in passing. It only contained a brief profile describing him as a creative designer and no mention of the company. Hmm.
8:30 p.m. Eating cold soup alone in my office, surfing pictures of kittens and baby otters while attempting to work on a file. I’m officially worried. Have not heard from Orson for three and a half days.
10:00 p.m. Total number of toilet visits since I awoke this morning: fourteen. Something is off.
11:50 p.m. Still no text from Orson. I must accept the truth: he is dead.
11:58 p.m. Who am I kidding? It’s worse—I’ve been jilted.
Tuesday 22 March
3:45 a.m. Wide awake in bed. Oh God. Something is burning up down there. WTF.
5:30 a.m. Fifth time peeing in less than two hours. Each time feels like an exorcism, all sulfur and pain. I tried not to panic, but all my hypochondriac tendencies are in overdrive. Forced myself to lie in bed and not WebMD myself.
5:45 a.m. Tried not to think about peeing. Made myself lie still, like a corpse.
6:05 a.m. But to no avail. Feel completely parched yet every sip of water I take makes me sprint to the toilet.
6:20 a.m. Frantically typed in my symptoms after my fifth panic pee in three hours. One of the sites told me that I most likely have a urinary tract infection, or UTI, which sounds scary enough, but then WebMD told me I may also have:
Urethritis
Appendicitis
Diverticular Disease
Herpes Simplex Virus
Sexually Transmitted Diseases (Shit. Shit. Shit.)
Menopause (!)
Spent a half hour scrolling through pictures and descriptions of different STDs, which amplified my hypochondria. #FML
7:03 a.m. It’s probably syphilis, though. With my luck. And could one contract leprosy from sex? Has that skin tag on my chin always been there? Has it?
8:50 a.m. “You are not going to die from leprosy,” the doctor at the twenty-four-hour clinic said snidely. He was drawing blood from me for the STD screening,
looking peeved at my barrage of hysterical questions. “It looks like you have a urinary tract infection, nothing more.”
“How can you be a hundred percent sure?” I said, eyes bulging. “How can you be so sure about what I haven’t contracted? I mean, I used a condom, but still, this is a boy, I mean, man, whose sexual history I know nothing of. So there is indeed a chance that he has passed me leprosy, syphilis, HIV. These diseases and UTIs aren’t mutually exclusive, you know!”
Even in my hypochondria, I was lawyering him. No wonder our kind is so beloved.
“Well, it’s true that I can’t say for sure at this point of time,” the doctor conceded without bothering to suppress an eye roll. “You could indeed be that very unlucky person that has contracted every STD known to mankind from one single encounter, along with leprosy, which isn’t transmittable through sexual contact.”
“Thank you,” I said, gratified. “And it wasn’t one single encounter. There were several encounters, albeit in the course of a night.”
The doctor looked like he was suffering intense regret over his career choice, so I shut up.
“Miss Tang, I would advise you to stop speculating on how your life will end. Take your mind off things by spending time with your family and friends. We’ll know more in three to five working days’ time when we get your STD test results back. In the meantime, please finish your course of antibiotics and drink lots of fresh cranberry juice.”
I cabbed home with my medicine and two liters of cranberry juice concentrate. Felt extremely sorry for myself, and was not at all assuaged by the doctor’s empty assurances that it was most likely “only” a UTI—I could see the judgmental light in his eyes as he shook my hand goodbye. It didn’t matter that Orson was the first man I’d slept with in close to a year, that in all my three decades plus of life I’d only been with four men, all in monogamous relationships. If I had been a man, the doctor would have looked at me with commiseration.