Last Tang Standing

by Ho, Lauren

  At the end of one particularly intense moment, he paused, looked deep into my eyes and asked me to say yes to being his forever.

  “I’m yours,” I said. And I meant it.

  41

  Sunday 25 September

  7:30 p.m. Got a strange text from Suresh, who must be back in Jakarta by now. It said: I miss you. Surely he meant to send it to Anousha?

  I deleted it.

  9:30 p.m. Deleted Tinder and Sponk, both of which I’d been toying around with from time to time. Why was I looking at profiles and wasting time? I had already found my man. If I believed that, then I should act like it.

  11:20 p.m. Deleted Candy Crush. Goodbye, old friend.

  This deletion has nothing, of course, to do with the fact that I’ve belatedly discovered Angry Birds. Some millennial I’m turning out to be.

  42

  Monday 26 September

  Dear Diary, something amazing happened today—a veritable partnership-saving miracle.

  I was scrolling through TLTS’s Instagram when I got a message on LinkedIn from a stranger called Mohd Usman Ariff. Thinking it was someone from a recruitment agency or perhaps an admirer, I opened it.

  It was my former classmate from law school, who’d gone by Uzi for most of uni (it was a different time back then, a simpler, less polarized time). I remembered Usman fondly because he graduated fifth in the year above me. And we might or might not have made out in some fresher’s party. Whatever.

  Saw your name in some of my files, brought back some good memories, just thought I’d say hi.

  I smiled and replied:

  Been a long time. Where’re you slumming it now?

  He replied:

  Chapel Town.

  Shit.

  Listen, I just took over from the previous general counsel who left after the death of Charleston Sr., read up on the VizWare transaction (among others) as the boss is keen to examine all the loose ends from this year to see if he can salvage anything out of it, and the VizWare transaction is one he’s particularly curious about. From what I can read and my recent chats with Langford-Bauer, Genevieve and Suresh—

  Oh no, I thought.

  —it seems like Chapel Town, under Charleston Sr., made a mistake in pulling out and icing the deal, which is an opinion Charleston Jr. and I appear to share. But we don’t know the ins and outs of this deal entirely as there’s been a mass defection since Charleston Sr. passed. So we’d like to speak to the lead coordinating counsel, i.e., you, to have a fuller picture, in person if you agree. Charleston Jr. insists on doing business in person. If he likes what he hears, the whole thing can move forward relatively quickly. It might not go anywhere on VizWare’s side, but we’re confident it will. The good thing is, last we heard, VizWare has not been courting anyone else, so there’s hope yet. And vis-à-vis our friends at Sungguh, if they are keen to come on board again, I’m going to suggest to them that we prefer if you are put as lead coordinating counsel for the transaction instead of Genevieve, who’s a li’l … erratic.

  Wow, I typed, stunned. That’s great. Of course I can fly over, if you sign an engagement letter.

  Of course. Your time is valuable.

  Thank you. You’re the best.

  No, *you* are.

  I accept your deference, serf. But what I don’t understand is—you wanted to reinstate me *after* speaking with all three of them?

  Yes *wry face emoji* Genevieve and Langford-Bauer were royal pains in the butt, and bitched about you so thoroughly I felt ashamed on your behalf. As for Suresh—

  I steeled myself. And tried to ignore the Kegel my heart just did at his name.

  —Suresh told me, off the record, that you were the brains behind the whole operation. And that was why when they asked to take you off the file at Sungguh, he told them he would prefer to be taken off it as well.

  Ah. That’s … nice of him.

  Anyway, that international tax colleague of yours, Langford-Bauer? He’s going to have to come as well, as Charleston Jr. also wants a briefing on the appropriate structure for his investment in VizWare. He doesn’t trust the old guard’s recommendations.

  A little shaken, I thanked Usman and said I would wait for his update.

  So Suresh had never tried to usurp my place. He’d never even tried to backstab me. I had been the one projecting all those nasty impulses on him.

  He couldn’t help who his future wife is related to, and I should’ve given him the benefit of doubt when he asserted that he wasn’t milking his ties with his future in-laws.

  All of a sudden I felt like a giant Langford-Bauer myself. I wished Suresh was around so I could apologize to him for getting the situation completely wrong. Suresh was a decent guy—I’d met so few of those in my career that I’d missed the signs.

  After I wrote a stiffly worded email to Mong (I was giving him the cold shoulder still, although I think he’s mystified by the reason for it) to update him on this development, I dropped Suresh a text on his private number and apologized for thinking he’d backstabbed me, and that it had been a bit complicated between us after Luxembourg, for which I was sorry.

  The response was swift:

  This is Anousha. You stay away from Suresh if you know what’s good for you.

  43

  Saturday 1 October

  October. Blergh. Even the name sounds icky.

  Ock-toh-ber.

  Anyway, tonight is date night with Eric, who landed late last night from Paris. We were going to a new restaurant that his friend, a celebrity chef of some renown, had just opened.

  I tried to get him to downgrade the meal (following that realization post-convo with Suresh that I really was being sugared, just a little) to hawker food, telling him about this bak chor mee place I’d heard my colleagues raving about, but he laughed in my face. “I don’t eat hawker food, my dear,” he said, waving off my protests.

  He picked me up in a glossy midnight blue Rolls-Royce that I’d not seen before.

  “New car?” I joked.

  “Yes,” he said, not joking. “I just picked it up this morning.”

  I didn’t reply. Sometimes it was so hard to relate. “I have a surprise,” Eric told me. “We’re going to be joined by someone special.” He picked up my right palm and squeezed it. “Don’t, as you young people say, freak out.”

  My heart somersaulted. Was it another scary relative? Or maybe it was Diana again! As much as I could, I started tucking down my boobs, flattening them into my bra. I could tell Eric was amused, but I didn’t care. Stepmothers didn’t have boobs—they have bosoms, maternal ones that had no distinct personality, much like a gently used speedbump.

  When we got to the restaurant, we were ushered into a corner booth. A tall, lithe woman with unnaturally pale skin and jetblack hair was already there, resplendent in a mauve sheath dress. She was sipping her tea and scrolling through her phone when she noticed our approach and stood up to greet us.

  “Hello, you must be Andrea. My name is Esther,” said the mystery woman, extending her hand for a handshake.

  “Esther is, um, my lawyer,” Eric said, a little sheepish.

  “Oh,” I said, instantly jealous.

  Eric cleared his throat. “She’s also my, ah, stepsister.”

  The relief I felt was palpable; I hoped it didn’t show in my face. Of course. “Pleased to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. Esther grasped my hand with a viselike grip, her glittery rings digging into my flesh. Her eyes were hard, almost cold, even as her smile was wide. She was very attractive in a manicured, varnished way peculiar to many of the Tatler jet set: hair and makeup perfect; facial flaws buffed away by a careful surgeon; clothes discreetly luxurious and tailored almost to a fault. “So you’re the woman my brother has been seeing,” she said, giving me a swift once-over without blinking.

  “Hmm,” I replied noncommittally; conversely, I had not heard of her till today.

  Eric cleared his throat and stood up. “I’ll speak to Jack now,” he said, re
ferring to the celebrity chef. He left us in what he thought was a nonchalant manner, but I could see from his hurried footsteps that he was eager to give his sister room to do her thing. I steeled myself for what could only be an unpleasant fact-finding expedition.

  “I’m sure you have questions for me,” I said, as soon as Eric had left, cutting her off before she could speak. “Go ahead. I’m an open book.”

  She nodded approvingly. “I could see that you are a no-nonsense type of woman. That’s good. Now, I know that things between you have progressed quite far; Eric tells me he is quite smitten with you and he wants to make the relationship official. He is even considering marrying you. Has he told you that?”

  “N-not in those exact words,” I hedged.

  “Has Eric told you about his last … dalliance, and the arrangement he has with the woman?”

  I nodded mutely.

  “If you have children, you should know that Diana will still be treated like a legitimate child when it comes to matters of inheritance. She will be the firstborn, and your children, if you have any, will have to acknowledge her claim. You must agree to these terms before you can marry into our family. There will be an agreement you’ll have to sign.”

  My face flushed. “I-I haven’t even, I mean, this is …” I stood up. “Look, my relationship with Eric is still in its early days. I don’t know why he felt it necessary to discuss this at this stage. This is ridiculous. Did he put you up to this? Well, if he did you should let him know in the future to discuss this with me first.” I pushed my chair back and made to leave until she grabbed my wrist.

  “Honey,” Esther said, her voice softening, “I think it’s because he wants to propose to you … tonight.”

  “What?” I said, just as the lights were dimmed and Sade’s vocals boomed across the room. People whooped.

  “Tonight … I celebrate my love for yoouuu,” she sang, just as Eric walked out with a huge cake decorated with fabulous sugar peonies, lit with a gold candle. A waiter followed behind with a large bottle of champagne in a bucket and sparklers sending silvery flowers everywhere.

  “Oh crap,” I said, my voice faltering when I saw what was written on the cake.

  It said, “Let’s get married.” (Yes, with a full stop.) A frisson of annoyance registered in my consciousness. It was so … presumptuous. He’d not even phrased it as a question; it was a statement at best, without even a “pretty please” to soften it. You could say it sounded like a command.

  But then he was in front of me and he was holding a ring with what looked like a diamond as large as a thumbnail and my anger levels nosedived quite rapidly. People were clapping and cheering as he clasped me by my shoulders and kissed me deeply. In his deep, powerful voice, he asked, “Will you do me the honor of marrying me, Andrea Tang?”

  And there it was. The romantic, public marriage proposal. Every woman’s dream, right? Right? I hesitated, staring at the ridiculously large diamond. I could feel the tension rising in the room with every passing second in which nothing was said. I knew what was expected of me, but I couldn’t do it. Was this really what I wanted? I closed my eyes and tried to shut out my audience.

  For some strange reason, I saw Genevieve. She was smiling at me and mouthing something about the matrix. It was so freaky I opened my eyes and gave myself a shake.

  “Will you marry me?” Eric said again, smiling, just the slightest steel underscoring his request. The hush that had fallen over the scene was almost unbearable. It carried in it the hope of every single ancestor watching over me at that instant. I could hear the sparklers fizzing in the silence. Someone’s phone buzzed and it was silenced with a rapidity you would not get these days even during a funeral wake.

  “Well? What will it be?” Eric said in a low voice, and, it must be said, not very romantically.

  I took a deep breath and did the only thing I could under the circumstances: I said yes as loud as I could, then leaned over and said to Eric, sotto voce but very firmly, “I’ll think about it.”

  Part IV

  NO FLUKE

  44

  Sunday 2 October

  9:50 a.m. “You’ll think about it?” Linda shrieked. “That was your answer to a marriage proposal from Eric fucking Deng?”

  “We’re still in the early days of our relationship. Plus he ambushed me,” I said between cool, calming gulps of bargain-bin Pinot Grigio. “It was the best I could do under the watchful eyes of thirty diners! Apparently some of them were his closest business partners!” I made a face.

  “Well, I think it’s brave,” Jason said.

  “Shut up, suck-up,” Linda said, succinct in her meanness as always.

  “Settle down, you two,” I said companionably.

  Jason and I were sprawled on the L-shaped couch, him with a glass of tap water, me with a bottle of Pinot Grigio that he had purchased from the local convenience store. Linda was on FaceTime with us from Lisbon; ostensibly she was there to meet with some clients, but really she was living it up with some Filipino jetset friends of hers from boarding school. At least she was making every effort again to be there for me when I needed her: we had promised each other once upon a time that we would FaceTime whenever one of us sent out an emoji of a shark. A kind of Bat-Signal. I had sent one out as soon as I got home, but she was only able to reply to me six hours later to confirm that she could speak at 9:00 a.m. Singapore time, and now here we were. Neither Jason nor I had had much sleep (I’d put out an early-morning SOS for company at my place on the group chat and he’d come over with liquid breakfast, the doll), and we were now FaceTiming while (I was) drinking.

  “All the same, although things are moving really fast, it feels natural. We seem to be in a good place, and I’ve already met his daughter.”

  “So, are you going to marry Eric or what?” Linda pressed. “And when are you expected to give an answer?”

  “In two weeks, apparently.”

  “It doesn’t seem right, to have to take two weeks to think over a marriage proposal.”

  “Touché, sister. But two weeks is all I could get.”

  “I meant, you shouldn’t have to take so long, you dope.”

  “She’s got a point,” Jason said, making a face. “But, seriously, do you even love him?”

  “I do love him,” I said sincerely. “I could be happy with him.”

  “You could be happy with a vibrator, honey,” Linda said. “That’s how I get though my manless days.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Anyway, I’ve got to go. We’re attending a private after-party hosted by one of the Saudi princes, I believe. Someone told me David Guetta is spinning.”

  “Only David Guetta?” I said sarcastically.

  “I think”—she was distractedly putting on mascara while FaceTiming me—“Rihanna’s supposed to make an appearance as well, but the very least we can hope for is Maroon 5 minus Adam Levine.”

  After we had said our goodbyes and Jason left, I sat in the dark and watched YouTube videos of cats doing funny things while doing up a pros and cons list for marrying Eric so early in our relationship. Not that I could concentrate. I kept tweaking the list. Can’t say I’ve found anything more gratifying in the pros column than “forever beating Helen.”

  11:05 p.m. Andrea Deng. Andrea Tang-Deng. Mrs. Deng.

  11:47 p.m. It’s just impossible to decide in two weeks. Mostly because this is so new. Normally couples date for at least a year, then they move in together, rough it for two years, then get engaged. That is the proper progression …

  12:05 a.m. Oooh, knock on the door!

  3:17 a.m. Was Eric in a suit. At first I was a little annoyed, since we were not supposed to see each other during these two weeks so I could have some space to think. Apparently a meeting in Jakarta had been canceled, so he’d decided to fly back to surprise me on his way to Malaysia. He’d come bearing a lush bouquet of dahlias, champagne, and a handwritten poem. It was all so sincere and romantic that I forgave the rule-breaking an
d spent a couple of hours just cozying up with him on the couch, drinking champagne while he caught me up on his admittedly complicated stepfamily tree.

  “And speaking of family, here’s one of the reasons I came back to Singapore today.” He took something out of the pocket of his suit jacket. “Here,” he said, handing it to me.

  I looked down, stunned. It was my Cartier watch, my graduation gift from my parents, the one that Orson had filched. “I-I don’t … I don’t understand.” I kept caressing the watch. “I mean, how?”

  “I got it back for you from the … boy who’d stolen it from you.”

  Apparently not too long after I’d casually mentioned Orson at our first and only group date, he’d asked Linda for more details at the Fourth of July party, and used his contacts in the PI industry to track Orson using a photo that I had sent to our WhatsApp group at LGA and which Linda had forwarded. It had been difficult to track Orson, since he didn’t really frequent the same spot twice, or at least he didn’t follow any routine. “When my PI finally found him at one of the bars, he followed him to his HDB[fn1] flat, and—”

  “Karate chopped him?” I interrupted eagerly.

  He smiled, his eyes twinkling. “He took out his phone and threatened to start livestreaming unless he listened. He gave Orson an ultimatum. Either give back the watch or he would live broadcast his face and address on all the forums so all the women who he’d stolen from can take legal action—or otherwise.” Now he was grinning.

  “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.”