by Lauren Ho
7:45 a.m. Rush hour. I plunged blindly into a seething mass of commuters trying to board the MRT.* Managed to squeeze into a carriage by virtue of elbowing someone in the boobs, and now she’s left on the platform, fuming. Well, she can comfort herself that it wasn’t molestation.
7:50 a.m. Ah, shit. Am now crotch-to-shlong with a poker-faced blond cyborg in cycling gear so tight I could see inside him. If the train makes an emergency stop I will fall pregnant. It is not the way I wish to go about it, so have placed an expensive handbag between us as a makeshift condom. Sorry, Prada.
Am trying to think happy thoughts but failing. Hate everyone in sight who managed to score a seat, even the young mother in a sundress carrying a toddler. Especially the young mother in a sundress carrying a toddler. Woman, if you’re not rushing to work, why take up rush-hour space?
Some people are so selfish, rubbing their happiness in other people’s faces.
8:10 a.m. Arrived at the law firm where I will soon become partner, Singh, Lowe & Davidson. Our office is just an eight-minute stroll from the Raffles Place MRT station. We’d just relocated to this spanking-new building two months ago, as befitting our ambitious expansion plan in the region. I stepped past the plush-carpeted lobby with its soft lighting, minimalist artwork, framed portraits of the founding and senior partners, and hot receptionist, and entered the real office, what we called the “Chumpit,” which had its own, less glitzy entrance away from the carpeted lobby. That’s where the real bowels of the office began: more than ninety lawyers were spread out over two floors in open-concept, junior associates’ hell, except for the few of us that had enough seniority to share proper offices until they finish renovating the floor upstairs for the new partners, counsels, and senior associates (the current partners have their own offices, of course).
Luckily for me, I was one of the people who actually had an office, an office I was now attempting to sneak into, because I was ten minutes late, even though technically work starts at nine but nine is for unambitious losers and I am not an unambitious loser but an ambitious, no-holds-barred loser—I mean, winner.
“Morning, Andrea,” announced my officemate, Suresh Aditparan, at a decibel loud enough to wake the undead.
I scowled at Suresh, who had probably arrived at his desk just a few minutes earlier than I had, because his computer screen was tellingly blank and beads of sweat coaxed by the unforgiving Singaporean sun were coursing down his temples. Unluckily for me, for the past nine working days I’ve been sharing my office with Suresh, a hotshot M&A senior associate who’s British with some Singaporean roots (a Singaporean Indian mom, my PA tells me).
“Morning, Subhan, I mean, Suresh,” I said, purposely dismissive in a retaliatory Power Move.
We both turned on our computers and proceeded to Power Type with the vigor of (youngish) people who had not had sex in a very long time (longer in my case than his, I’d imagine, but still).
Suresh joined the firm five years ago, but had been based in London and for most of the last three years was the Singapore-London desk rep for the law firm (in part due to the interest in Singapore/Hong Kong/Southeast Asia from Europe, the increasing cross-continental investment and business relations between these continents in the clients we represent, and the bragging rights in having a swish London address, elevating the overall prestige of the firm, that’s my guess). He’d just returned to Singapore at the start of the year and was now my Little Buddy (management’s new pairing strategy to encourage quicker integration of “new” joiners into the system, and also to orient them in the new office).
I don’t like sharing the office with Suresh, even though he smells like cinnamon. He has a habit of saying annoyingly posh things like “loo,” and he’s tall and conventionally, boringly attractive (golden-brown skin that will turn ashy if not moisturized, hazel eyes framed with such thick eyelashes he’ll definitely have droopy eyelids one day, a rakish mop of silky black hair that will most likely never make it past his forties, and, if I’m held at gunpoint, a rugby player physique, but only like a so-so rugby player whose favorite food is tacos), so now I have female visitors to the office I never had before, such as my nemesis, Genevieve Poo, I mean, Beh.
Genevieve is one of those women who’s just perfect. Not because she’s stunning—she’s not, but she’s very well-manicured, and is always clotheshorsing lustworthy designer threads. Her family is pedigreed—her uncle on her father’s side is a former minister of foreign affairs, her mother’s family are politically connected Chinese. She speaks perfect Mandarin, fluent Japanese, and business Korean, aside from English. And she went to Cambridge, then Harvard Law. On top of it she’s married and has two children, with another on the way—that’s what she does when she was not putting me down in front of others and trying to steal my files: she reproduces. Her husband, Jonathan Beh, a successful real estate multimillionaire, seems to exist solely to gift her with Hermès bags and impregnate her (not necessarily at the same time or in that order)—big, planned families are trendy status symbols these days. The only thing that made me feel slightly superior to her was the fact that she was still a senior associate despite having worked at the firm for longer than I have, possibly because she was always taking maternity leave. Serves her right.
Anyway, as I was saying about Suresh: I don’t trust him. He looks like he cleans between his toes. Every day.
More important, Suresh was a potential threat to my career advancement, since we had about the same amount of experience and seniority, and we were both on the same team working under Mong. Mong (short for Toh Sim Mong) was one of the senior partners at our firm and our boss. He was a legendary M&A lawyer and it was my dearest wish to be just like him, minus the divorce and the kids he had fathered but who knew him not. Typically, only one senior associate per department was promoted each year, hence why I was keeping a very close eye on Suresh’s manicured paws. Suresh had just that bit more experience on cross-continental deals (especially with European jurisdictions) than I did, and because of this he’d been tasked with servicing some of my larger clients such as Sungguh Capital and Poh Guan Industries as support, but I have the advantage of having squatted in Singapore longer than him, and being a permanent resident in Singapore makes me a more attractive candidate to promote.
Nonetheless, he’s still a formidable threat. I spend a lot of my time glaring at him when he’s not looking (our desks are facing each other’s). Goddamn Foreign Talent,* coming here and stealing jobs from locals.
At no point during this train of thought did I find it ironic that I was a Foreign Talent myself.
Suresh did have one identifiable weakness: he was getting married. His partner was a third-generation British-Indian ob-gyn. Kai, my PA/trusty spy and confidante, whose services I unfortunately had to share with Suresh for now, told me that they were betrothed. I know why Suresh is keeping mum on his upcoming nuptials. He’s afraid that people at work would start expecting that he was going to impregnate his fiancée sooner rather than later, even if she was currently still in the UK with no definitive plans to move over. Then nobody will promote him.
It makes no difference to me personally whether he is single and available, or not. Even if he were single, Suresh is forbidden fruit.
Most Chinese parents, no matter where they are in the world, want their kids to bring home a mate of:
Chinese ethnicity (trade-offs are tolerated in some families, but rare—however, likelihood of acceptance increases inversely the longer the errant offspring in question remains single).
High earning capacity and/or wealth: MD or similar (Lawyer, Investment Banker, Consultant*). Otherwise, being a rich and successful entrepreneur is also acceptable; legit royalty is, of course, welcome.
Compatible religious faith (which, unfortunately, tends to mean non-Muslim, as the Islamic faith encompasses cultural practices, customs, and beliefs deemed incompatible or at odds with o
ur traditions and cultural practices).
Good family background: nebulous, but usually linked to social status and wealth.
Compatible values or the “Nice Guy” catch-all: Chinese parents prefer conservative, traditional mates, believing that such mates also subscribe to values like filial piety, which can only benefit them; so if you’re rocking studded sneakers, wreathed in dragon tattoos, and/or believe that elderly retirement homes are acceptable resting places for your parents/in-laws, well goodbye, my friend.
Despite possessing all other desirable qualities, Suresh fails the first and possibly the third criteria. Anyway, not that it matters. Suresh is taken. And it’s not like I’m attracted to him.
Also this is my year to shine. This is my year to make partner, and everything else must come second. Only then, if all goes well, maybe I’ll beat Hairy Helen to the hitching post somehow.
3:40 p.m. Dashed out for a “client meeting,” but in reality am having coffee in a chic café at One Fullerton with Helen.
3:55 p.m. Arrived five minutes late but of course Helen was not there. Urgh. Power Move. We’ll see who pays the check.
4:25 p.m. Helen made an appearance almost twenty minutes late, just as I was really starting to stew, sliding into my booth without a whiff of apology. She looked polished in a long-sleeved black boxy top, black jeans, a navy blue Chanel 2.55, and tons of designer bling, her hair a very cute pixie cut with a silver ombré effect. We air-kissed each other and exchanged perfunctory pleasantries.
“WTF,” I said/asked when we were seated.
“So you’ve heard about the wedding and you’re dying to know what gives, am I right?” she purred. She lifted an arm lazily, flashing a huge yellow diamond ring that might also be a weapon, and a waiter materialized so fast with menus it was as though he’d been standing there the whole time, which of course he hadn’t been, seeing as I’d not been served. Linda tells me it’s because I don’t give off the “I-will-tip-you-despite-being-Asian” vibe—i.e., I look cheap.
“Yes, pray explain, and in generous detail.”
She laughed. “Let me get my coffee first. What would you like?”
She sneered at my choice (“Cappuccino after ten in the morning? What are you, a peasant?”), ordering two double espressos instead. Typical bossy Helen.
I smiled with as much nonchalance as I could fake. “So, why are you getting married, and in a hetero marriage no less? I thought you were holding out till gay marriage was legalized here. What happened to your principles?”
She giggled. “You are so jealous, you should see your face. I don’t even have the heart to tease you, you poor, poor thing.” When I didn’t slap her (not because I didn’t want to but because I saw one of the partners in my law firm queuing for coffee), she sighed and steepled her hands. “Seriously though, woman, you know I live large, right?”
I rolled my eyes. “Quite,” gesturing to her armful of diamond Love bracelets and Richard Mille watch of the day.
Helen nodded grimly. “Well, Mummy told me that if I didn’t get hitched—to a man obviously, this is Singapore—by the time I’m forty, she would turn off the money tap. And she would throw me out of the house and take me out of her will. Isn’t that insane? Her only daughter! As if any of the other money-grubbing Tangs are worthy.”
When I didn’t rise to the bait, she continued. “I had to act fast after that ultimatum, so I found myself a willing fish. I’ll be damned if I have to start buying Zara clothes by default instead of ironically. You might as well just toss me into a meat grinder and call it a day.”
I pressed my lips together in a thin smile—Zara was my go-to apparel store. “It took your mom this long to threaten to cut you off?”
Helen shrugged. “Oh, she’s threatened before, twice, but she’d never brought up disinheriting me. This time she meant business. Her lawyer was there and everything.” She brushed invisible lint off her watch and flicked a sly look at me. “You know she’ll take you out of the will, too, if you’re single. All the Tangs of our generation have to be married to inherit. And trust me, you’ll want to be in that will.”
I swallowed and felt faint. Did I! I’d never have to work again. As for my tiny credit card debt situation . . .
To steady my staccato heartbeat, I dug my nails into my palms and changed the subject. “So tell me: is Magnus straight?”
“Yup!” Helen said cheerfully. “Straight as an arrow.”
“Is he . . . is he aware of your sexual orientation?”
Helen giggled. “Please, Magnus wasn’t born yesterday. Of course he is! Don’t feel too sorry for him though: he gets to move into Le Grand Maison Tang in Bukit Timah, he gets an outsize allowance and access to the family pool of luxury cars, and anyway, I have this whole open marriage arrangement with Magnus and we have a prenup, so both of us will be fine.” She winked. “But hey, the things that private bankers would do to keep their top clients, eh?”
“He’s your private banker?” I gasped.
Helen nodded. “Yup, he’s been managing my money for years. That’s how I got to know him.”
“How is this ethical?” I said, scandalized, realizing how naive I sounded as soon as I’d finished.
“Well, it’s not like I’m forcing him to marry me. He’s a consenting adult.” She rolled her eyes and leaned forward to grasp my hand. “You’re still single after Ivan, aren’t you, poor dear?”
I glared at her. “Yes.”
“Are you still waiting for your knight in shining armor?” she said mockingly. That’s the problem with family: they know all your sore spots.
“Nope. I’m not looking,” I said through gritted teeth.
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Chill, I just thought maybe I could offer some advice to beat the system, which is still rigged against us women, unfortunately.” She gestured to a passing waiter for the bill. “Look, even if you’re happy being single, it is very practical at our age to find a partner—there’s security and comfort in having someone around, especially if they are your equal. So why not? It doesn’t have to be the One, la-di-da—we’re past that bollocks. My mother had an arranged marriage, and didn’t that work out fine for her! And your parents had a love marriage that went belly-up in the end, didn’t they?”
I grunted.
“My point is, waiting around for the One is not sound investment advice, so why not try to be more transactional like me? Think Big Picture. Also everyone knows that in Asia, being married gives you extra cachet. Single women in this part of the world can be slayers and still not command the respect they deserve. I should know.” She sighed. “It really is the smart thing to do if you want your mother and the world off your back. Take my advice, Andrea: be pragmatic and shop for a man. You can still be a hotshot career woman like me, but at least you’ll cover all your bases.”
“You make some interesting points. If only I had your money,” I said, one eye on passing servers, one hand on my wallet.
She shrugged. “Honey, there are tons of solid men out there who are looking for a good companion. You just need to be intentional and get professional help if necessary. Be open-minded and the universe will provide. Oh, by the way”—a silvery, fake laugh—“put your grubby paws away, old girl, it’s my little treat. I gave them my card on my way in.”
* * *
—
I took my time to get back to work after Helen’s gloating session, meandering along the pristine Singapore River and watching people eye it longingly after a long day of pointless work (I know that look well). Maybe she was right. Maybe I was approaching love and relationships all wrong, ascribing foolish romantic notions to what was essentially a very quantifiable commodity. Maybe I should take a leaf out of her book and just find someone Good Enough. It was, after all, a very Chinese way to go about things. If I cut down on nonessential activities, like exercise, I could maybe
carve out some time to manage this aspect of my life. Embrace technology; use the platforms, apps, whatever. The search for a Good Enough Fella would surely be a breeze if I had a very targeted, simple criteria for a suitable match.
6:10 p.m. Back at my desk. Have no work but must outlast Suresh in time logged in the office. Emailed Linda about convo with Helen. Linda is full of admiration for Helen. Apparently, there is a similar arrangement chez Reyes with Papa. Linda, who claims to have never fallen in love, thinks Helen is on the right track, but she’s adamant that it would never work for me because I’m a “big sap with unrealistic expectations when it comes to love.” Well, people can change.
11:45 p.m. Back home. Had to wait till Suresh gave up and left the office. I win!
12:55 a.m. Have made a decision. Aside from the fact I stand to lose a chance at inheriting, I don’t want to be the odd unmarried one of my generation. It’s very much a status thing. If Helen, who’s the definition of unconventional (she has taken work sabbaticals, plural, on a voluntary basis!), is bowing down to social conventions and getting married, why should I be any different? If you can’t beat them—join ’em.
That being said, the prospect of rejoining the dating pool is a bit unnerving. I mean, have you seen some of the men out there? Gross.
The other day I saw a man in his late twenties, a good-looking guy in an immaculately tailored shirt and dark gray trousers, placing his iced kopi in not one, but two small plastic bags, before daintily carrying the bags by the handles away from his pants. I followed him, which is a totally legit reaction. He walked a grand total of 150 meters, then he lifted his drink out of the plastic bags and threw them into a trash bin outside his office block.