Last Tang Standing

by Ho, Lauren

“Mine, too,” he said. “Somewhere in the Polynesian islands, where it’s—”

  “Far and expensive enough so the people you courtesy invite don’t make the effort to actually come, unlike Bali?”

  “Exactly,” he exclaimed.

  I shook my head, marveling at how much on the same wavelength we were. “Too bad we’re not getting married to each other.”

  Suresh looked at me strangely. “Yeah. Too bad,” he said.

  “But you’ll invite me to the wedding, yes?”

  He shrugged. “I have no choice, since we share the same office. Otherwise you might start spitting into my chai. Especially once I’m made partner over you.”

  “You wish,” I said. “Have you forgotten? I’m not getting married next year. You are.”

  “I almost wish I wasn’t,” he muttered. “But if I didn’t, I’m not quite sure I would be able to keep my life. Much less sure I’d keep my job. My future father-in-law will see to that.”

  It was an odd thing to say, but I let it slide. It didn’t make sense—what did his future father-in-law have to do with his job?

  Anyway, not the time to dissect this. Am on my last burst of billing. Got to make those numbers pop for Friday’s interviews.

  Friday 19 August

  First round of interviews with the Partnership Committee is done, finally! Super exhausted but am feeling positive.

  Tuesday 23 August

  2:35 p.m. Valerie called with great news: Ralph just proposed to her! It happened after a work lunch at Forlino’s. Having been invited by one of Ralph’s least favorite clients and his wife for business lunch, Ralph and Valerie quaffed two bottles of pricey Venetian red and ate some fine Italian food, and once the client and his wife had left, Ralph had proposed with champagne and tiramisu, putting it all on the client’s tab. Classy.

  “I’m going to be a married woman again,” Valerie shrieked. “Oh Lord, I’ve been waiting so long for this to happen!”

  I offered her my heartiest congratulations before gently hanging up on another high-pitched squeal. Opposite me, Suresh wrinkled his nose at me and asked, “Did someone win the lottery or something?”

  “You could say that. Valerie is engaged,” I said. I added, “To someone she really cares for.”

  “That’s great,” Suresh said. He knew Valerie, which is to say he had heard so much about her from me that they were almost real friends.

  Anyway, since he’s been back and we’re sharing an office again, from what I can gather Suresh’s relationship with Anousha seemed to be back on track. In the sense that she was leading and he was following dutifully with minimal resistance, as far as I could tell. Every phone conversation with his beloved was now completely conflict-free, now that she was working in Singapore and they had put the dark days of free Chiswick bungalows behind them. So what if the light from his eyes had faded and every time she came to get him at the end of the workday he wore the frozen smile of an unwilling child bride? That was his problem. Anyway, Kai told me that he had already accepted a follow-up secondment in Jakarta, so that should help the situation. And then he and Anousha would get married.

  Of course, I was happy for the both of them. So happy. And in one week’s time, my better half would be back from his tour of South America with his daughter, too.

  Thursday 1 September

  Bring out the Red Bulls: Eric’s back. Yay!

  Saturday 3 September

  Eric and I were having breakfast in the eastern sunroom (go figure) when he invited me to fly with him to Madrid tomorrow. “It’ll be fun. You’ve never been and I have time off between meetings. We could visit the Prado museum. It’s one of my favorites in the world.”

  I groaned. “I’d love to, Eric, but I have work, remember? You’re dating a member of the working class.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “So call in sick. Why do you care? You’re always complaining about work.” He caressed my face. “I’ll bring you to the finest restaurants, we’ll go shopping …”

  I swatted his hand away. “Stop teasing me! I really can’t. If I’m going to make partner this year, I have to outdo Suresh and bill more.”

  He pressed his lips against my neck. “But why are you so bent on making partner? Do you even like what you do?”

  “What do you mean? I have to make partner,” I answered automatically.

  Somewhere between collarbone one and two, he said, casually, “You know, if we got married …”

  I inhaled sharply. “Married” was a trigger word for me.

  “If we got married one day, you could just stop working, be a tai-tai,[fn1] do whatever you want instead, like start a charity, work in one of those development aid organizations. You’ll be much happier.”

  I stiffened. “That’s sounds so … Stepford Wives. And I’m not interested in being that.”

  “Not at all! I didn’t say stay at home and be the perfect homemaker in heels—that’s sexist. Suggesting you use your time in a more worthwhile manner by working on something you believe in. Plus I’m not making you quit a job that you love more than anything in the world. You hate your job. You called it ‘indentured labor,’ if I recall correctly. That if you weren’t in debt and didn’t have loans, you’d have broken free from your corporate shackles, to quote you.”

  He did have a point; I didn’t love corporate law. “But I’m very good at it. And I want to be financially independent from my partner, whomever he is.”

  He looked amused. “A feminist slave to the system. Suit yourself, but then work in a field that you enjoy. What do you like to do?”

  I fell silent. When Suresh had asked me, I’d joked about wanting to be a mermaid or a marine biologist, and I had once flirted with the idea of writing as a career, but the truth is I don’t know what I would do, if I had the freedom to decide. Growing up I’d never been asked that question before, because I’d never been given a choice. Since I sucked at math (meaning it didn’t come easily to me; doesn’t mean I didn’t get straight A’s all the time), my mother narrowed it down to “lawyer.” And the right kind of lawyer, of course. Not ones that worked for legal advice centers or nonprofits.

  I had only the vaguest notion that I wanted to protect the underdogs of the world with my sick legal skills.

  “I don’t know what I’d want to be,” I said.

  He laughed and kissed my forehead tenderly—I had spoken out loud again. “So what’s wrong with being a tai-tai? You would be free to pursue your dreams. Start a foundation and champion a cause you care about. Be an activist. You are such a passionate person. There must be a cause you care strongly about. Gender equality? Fair trade? Cyberbullying? Anything is possible.”

  With your money, I said in my head. That was the unspoken part of his sentence.

  “Think about it,” he whispered, now nibbling at the sensitive area under my collarbone, his right hand sliding down my spine and under my top. “You could finally do what you want. You could be happy. I could help you.”

  I toyed with the idea of being a tai-tai until my focus was brought elsewhere. Mmm.

  Sunday 4 September

  And off he goes, again, to another business meeting in Spain.

  With him gone, I had time to mull over what he’d said. If money wasn’t an object, what would I be? If I didn’t know, was it bad to try to find out under someone’s patronage? Eric was offering to free me from being a slave to the system, but was what he was offering real freedom? And how could I consider myself a feminist if I did that? But was being a feminist as important as being free to live the life I’ve always aspired to have, i.e., quit a job I hate and have enough money to buy whatever I wanted? Could it even be possible without some kind of blood sacrifice and was Eric Deng actually the devil?

  I chastised myself for constantly putting down Eric. He was sensitive, worldly, family-oriented, wealthy. He was a goddamn find. And if there was anything Linda taught me over the last few months, it was that love came from unexpected places, and I just needed to open my hear
t to let it in and not be blinded by preconceived notions incepted by Disney and De Beers, that love had to feel one way or another to be authentic.

  Thursday 8 September

  Renovations for the new floor have finally finished. Suresh will be moving out next Friday.

  We decided to have a casual dinner in our office to celebrate his leaving, since it happened to be one of his rare days in town. He ordered takeaway pizza, then we grabbed some Belgian beer and a bottle of Riesling from the pantry (clients love sending their lawyers alcohol) and, for dessert, cookies from the vending machine. He didn’t mention that it was his birthday, which I had remembered but had chosen to ignore, and I didn’t bring it up; I did think it was strange that he had chosen to spend it with me instead of with Anousha, seeing that he had no real active files back here and could certainly afford an evening off.

  Strange, but flattering.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you would be,” Suresh said as he poured me a glass of Riesling. He cleared his throat. “How’s Eric?”

  “Good. And Anousha?”

  “Good.”

  “Chiswick didn’t come between you? All fences mended?”

  His lips thinned. “No and yes. We’re going to Langkawi for a short vacation next weekend, after she gets back from Greece from a medical conference. We really need to reconnect.”

  I struggled not to barf at the idea of the both of them literally doing that. “Oh, nice,” I managed. “Which resort?”

  “Four Seasons.”

  “Fancy.”

  “I have to step it up,” he said lightly. “Isn’t being fancy the reason why men like Eric Deng get women like you?”

  He was joking, but for some reason it rubbed me the wrong way. I tried to laugh it off, but I recognized the barb underneath that throwaway comment. Eric’s largesse was not the reason I was with him, of course. I never asked for the gifts he sprang upon me; I went out of my way to make sure that I paid for my share of the entertainment and F&B whenever Eric Deng asked me out. I didn’t do the check dance—I paid. Once I nearly sliced open his palm grabbing the credit card out of his hand, so eager was I to be the one to pay for the meal.

  Still, there had been other occasions when I’d just been out of my league in the face of his generosity. Those VIP opera tickets … that surprise staycation at Capella … those vintage Burgundy wines that he would always insist on having when we dined French … that sublime meal with the superlative sake pairing at Waku Ghin … I hadn’t paid for those, couldn’t even afford to pay for my half. Not to mention the gifts he showered me with. Who could forget that Charles Bukowski; the Van Cleef & Arpels diamond studs he insisted were “no big deal, a trinket, really”; the occasional designer bag …

  Whatever. Suresh is one to moralize. He tried to steal my Sungguh Capital file. Can’t forget that. Glad he’s leaving again for Jakarta in two weeks.

  Wednesday 14 September

  Awkwardly said goodbye to Suresh, who now has his own office. And his own PA, Hong Lim, a young man who Kai said was not part of the PA web of gossip. Apparently Hong Lim had principles.

  Well, he’s really out of my life now. There’s nothing to hold us together. We don’t have to pretend to be friends anymore.

  Kai dropped in after he’d left to comfort me with an Earl Grey and lavender cake. We ate it in silence, contemplating the empty space where Suresh’s desk and chair had been. Can’t believe I no longer have to hide my burps or farts by coughing, a move that no doubt never fooled anyone as I could never cough convincingly, being either too vigorous or too weak.

  Worked a bunch till it was past dinner time and I finally decided to make a move. I looked at the half-eaten cake and thought I would put it in the pantry so that the others could partake thereof. I wondered if anyone from the team was around.

  I poked my head out of the office and realized with a start that the floor was almost dark except for Mong’s office, once again. The door was open, and no one was in. Where was he? He should have been at his desk as, according to our shared calendar, he had a conference call in an hour with New York and he was taking it from his office. He probably hadn’t eaten yet, actually, and might appreciate some cake.

  I walked to his door with a slice. “Mong?” I called, knocking out of habit before walking in to put the cake on his table.

  His screen was unlocked and lit. A draft email was up.

  I wasn’t going to read it until I saw the subject matter of the email:

  Proposed candidates for promotion from M&A

  I couldn’t read it, dear Diary. It would be a clear breach of privacy. And trust. I couldn’t. So I did.

  It was Mong’s email in response to a chain of discussion regarding, among a couple of other M&A names, me and Suresh.

  And it read:

  Dear partners,

  In terms of both candidates, Suresh and Andrea, I do think that Suresh is the better candidate

  38

  No. No fucking way.

  I rubbed my eyes in case, you know, I had a tumor that was causing me to see betrayal where there wasn’t. But the same email was still displayed there, with the same words.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  Before I knew what I was doing, I had taken out my personal mobile phone and took a picture of those painful words. Then I snatched the plate of cake off his desk and walked out of his office in high dudgeon.

  So Mong didn’t think I deserved the one thing I’d been working toward my whole career. Well, then—he didn’t deserve artisanal cake!

  I felt like someone had kneed me in the gut.

  Then my heart began palpitating and I got all sweaty and gaseous.

  Whenever I get destabilized by news, I tend to drink. I took out my emergency bottle of Patrón and poured myself a shot that I quickly downed. Then another. Then another. And maybe a couple more in quick succession.

  And then my eyes narrowed in rage. How could Mong do this to me? I was his Padawan. He’d called me his Work Daughter and I reciprocated by referring to him as my Work Dad. And he’d always claimed to have my back.

  I felt sick. And in need of affirmation. Or a shag. These were tumultuous times.

  I ran to the taxi stand and hailed one. It took me to Suresh’s condo in fifteen minutes (we knew each other’s addresses because we’re each other’s backup on files).

  Once dropped off at the main gate, I found Suresh’s block and rang his unit, hoping that I had remembered right that Anousha was still in Greece for her medical conference and not with him.

  A sleepy voice mumbled, “Hello?”

  “Is Anousha in?” I barked.

  “Wh-what? No,” he said, befuddled.

  “Then let me up.”

  When I got to his door it was already open. Suresh, rumpled, stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a thin T-shirt and ratty pair of cotton boxers and T-shirt and looking bleary-eyed, sleep oozing from his eyes and flecks of drool on his chin (hey, it’s not like I’m writing a romance novel here).

  “I need to talk to you in private,” I said, marching past him into the apartment. “I’ve got news.” I was all keyed up and no doubt looked a little crazy.

  “Nice to see you, too, Andrea,” Suresh said sarcastically after he’d shut the door. “I’m only dressed in my boxers and I did not invite you in.”

  “This won’t take more than a few minutes,” I said, throwing myself onto his couch.

  Or maybe more. I took in the sculpted abs just visible through his T-shirt. Even in my drunken anger, I was impressed. How was this guy a comic artist? I squinted hard. Was that daubs of … paint on his chest?

  “Can I help you?” Suresh interrupted my thoughts, his hands crossed over his chest.

  “Nice apartment,” I said, making conversation, trying to keep my voice even. I jumped up from the couch and started walking around, peeking in rooms without shame. Adrenaline does that to you—so does five shots of tequila.

  There was a light in his stud
y; he’d been working on something. Distracted, I walked in and saw a beautifully rendered portrait of Water and Rhean, bodies entwined while the world burned. Suresh had painted it in A3 size with gouache. It was breathtaking.

  “You approve?” Suresh said, entering the small room and standing barely two feet away from me in front of his desk. My heart was beating even faster now.

  “I didn’t know you can paint.”

  “I’m not a natural, but I took a course.” He was still studying me in a wary manner. I couldn’t blame him: I didn’t even know exactly what I was doing there.

  “I came here to tell you something.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Hey, give me a break. I’m not here to take a meter reading. What I’m about to say is … is difficult.”

  He raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

  “Mong is going to put forward your name for partnership, not mine.”

  “What?” he said. “How … what …?”

  For a second I thought I was going to rage-jump his bones, but before I knew it, tears were pricking my eyes and the urge was gone. “I don’t understand it. I don’t. I bill more than you. I have seniority. It makes no sense.”

  “Are you sure it’s not a mistake?”

  “Positive,” I said raggedly. “Mong is the least ambiguous writer I know. I saw the email on his screen, when he was away. I even took a screenshot for proof. I’ve read the damn thing a dozen times.”

  “Shit,” he said. “I’m shocked. I really thought you were going to get it in the end.”

  “Apparently … apparently they think otherwise.”

  To distract myself from my desire to puke, I picked up one of the silver picture frames (heavy, Tiffany, probably Anousha’s) and glanced at it with some curiosity. It was a picture of Anousha with her arms around an older man and woman with a remarkable resemblance to her—her parents, presumably. I squinted. The man looked very familiar. Where had I seen him before?