by Lauren Ho
The release of emotions upon actually seeing him, them, even though I had known that he would be there, hit me suddenly and hard. I gasped.
“Oh, sweetie,” Linda whispered, gripping my hand tightly under the table. She, too, had seen Eric.
I watched him like a hawk. At one point they walked past our table, and our eyes met. I nodded at him and gave him a tight smile. A barely perceptible tightening of the lips was the only acknowledgment I got. Then he looked away, expressionless, as though he hadn’t seen me, or worse, he had seen me but deemed me unworthy of recognition. As though I was a stranger.
Anne looked my way and gifted me with a life-sapping glare. You’d think she’d be more grateful, considering how quickly she had risen up the ranks of his affection. Eric Deng, notorious for his reserve and protective of his privacy, could not be making a bigger statement than his public parade with her on his arm in that dress.
Just like when he popped the question to a roomful of his closest friends and family, and then you dropped him like a hot stone and humiliated him, a voice reminded me in my head. I felt worse and worse. I downed two glasses of champagne in quick succession before asking the server for another. Linda tried to get me to slow down without drawing attention to my drinking, but she needn’t have worried—there was serious shoulder-rubbing going on at our table, which had a deputy minister, a Mediacorp star, and a successful Austrian tech entrepreneur in his early forties, good-looking and obviously interested in Linda, but who Linda was steadfastly ignoring; the old Linda would have encouraged and toyed with him, even if she weren’t interested. Nobody except Linda cared that I was drinking myself to oblivion, or why. I was suddenly glad I knew no one at the wedding.
By the time Valerie and Ralph made their grand entrance, waving and smiling, I was quite tipsy. Ralph was wearing a sharp black tuxedo that flattered his tall but slightly portly frame; Valerie was stunning in a champagne gold Inbal Dror gown that I had till then only seen photos of; it was a long-sleeved, lacy beaded number with a plunging V-neckline in gold braid and a daring front slit, showcasing Valerie’s svelte and toned body to honeyed perfection. She was radiant in her happiness. Even Ralph looked radiant, literally and figuratively.
Valerie had obviously started him on a course of very ablative laser therapy, because he looked like he’d been Photoshopped—in person. He looked only a few years older than his real age.
The festivities continued with the usual speeches and performances while dinner was being served. Midway between the fourth and fifth courses, as people began to mingle again while the band started to play, I stood up.
“Where are you going?” Linda asked.
“To the toilet,” I stage-whispered to everyone.
“I’m coming with you.” Linda stood up and held my elbow, but I shook her off.
“I am fine,” I hissed. Then I clattered my way to the ladies’, where, mercifully, there was no queue and only two ladies powdering their noses to hear me gagging over the toilet bowl as I struggled to empty the contents of my stomach. I knelt there on the luxurious toilet floor in my luxurious gown with tears and snot running down my face, feeling sorry for myself, until my knees began to protest. I looked at my watch and realized I had been gone for less than five minutes. Great, even my body was betraying me.
I opened the stall door to find Linda waiting for me. She was holding a tall glass of warm water with a few slices of lemon in it. “Drink it,” she ordered. I drank it.
“Take this,” she said, handing me a pill. She made a face when she saw my hesitation. “Trust me, it’s going to make your nausea go away and it’s totally safe with alcohol. This was my lifesaver in Cannes.”
I took the pill with a glass of tap water. Don’t argue with the experts.
“You’re on the verge of ruining this night by making a scene. Are you going to stop drinking for the rest of the evening or what?” she said sternly.
“Yes,” I said in a small voice.
“Promise me.” Linda can be very scary when she’s standing over you eight inches taller thanks to a combination of superior genes and sky-high heels.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
“Good.” She relaxed and went back to Friend Mode. “Now I’m going back to my seat. You’re going to wait two minutes, fixing your makeup and hair in the meantime, then return to your seat, tu comprends?”
I nodded.
But the night was not slated to go my way. As I was walking back to the ballroom, who should I see but the hatchet-faced and much older, very married-with-sprogs Evan, locked in a passionate liplock in a shadowy alcove . . . with Anousha!
“Ahhh!” I screamed.
“Ahhh!” Anousha screamed, pushing Evan away like he was a diseased leper. But Evan was built like a former rugby player and barely juddered on the spot. He blearily locked eyes with me—and belched.
I ran. This evening was definitely on a highway to hell. Could it get any worse?
It could, apparently. Anousha cornered me sometime during the eighth course, sans Evan.
“We need to talk,” she hissed in my ear after smiling and greeting everyone at the table. Then she led me outdoors, lit a cigarette, and offered me one, which I accepted.
“So, you saw me and Evan . . . having, ah, a moment just now.” Jumping right into it.
“Yes,” I said. Alcohol-composed. Since witnessing that disturbing clinch, I had totally ignored Linda’s evil eye and downed two glasses of white wine successively.
“I think you know that you owe me one. The great Andrea Tang. I’ve heard so much about you from my fiancé. Can’t say I’m a fan, especially after Suresh told me that you guys kissed on the plane, after Luxembourg. He told me before he left for Jakarta.”
“Oh?” I said, serene, not bothering to correct her that it had been more of a lip-brush than a lip-lock. I was in a very Zen place right now. She didn’t scare me at all. I knew then that that was some next-level shit that Linda had given me. I made a mental note to request some more pills once this nightmare of an evening was over.
“Don’t act coy,” Anousha said, her eyes narrowing as she stubbed out the cigarette, along with some of my toes, with her shoe. I felt the grinding from a faraway, untouchable cloud. I smiled at her and saw the first flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
“What do you want?” I asked quietly.
She smiled her anaconda smile. “What happened out there . . . was a one-time, drunken mistake. I want you to keep what you saw to yourself, if you want to keep your job, that is.”
“Bullshit. How long has this been going on?” I said. I knew a first-time clinch when I saw one—the way they were prodding tongues was too familiar, too honest.
“None of your fucking business.” Her defensive tone told me everything I needed to know. “You kissed Suresh first, and now he’s lost the plot. I’m merely setting things right again.”
I had no idea what she was talking about, so I just raised my eyebrow, Linda-style. I felt sorry for Suresh, whose fiancée was on some twisted revenge mission.
She confirmed my suspicions. “I told Evan that I strongly preferred, and that my father would agree with me if I asked him, if you were not made partner this year. Just as a little reminder to know your place. A little probation. Maybe some time spent being seconded in Myanmar. I heard it’s just full of eligible human rights violators—right up your alley, isn’t it?” She smirked. “And who knows, if you are good, in one year, two years down the road . . . you’ll be back on partner track. If you are behaved. And you stay away from Suresh—he’s mine.”
So he never broke up with her, despite what he’d said. Somehow that revelation hurt me more than it should.
“So let me get this straight: you’re boning a married man old enough to be your dad, just so you can get back at me? That’s pathetic. And super unfeminist.”
“I always get what I want
,” she said in response, though her confident mask was slipping. Now I knew for sure that the partnership was secondary: she had mainly hooked Evan to hurt Suresh, to hurt me. She thought that my career was all I had. She wasn’t wrong—it used to be; in fact, until recently it had been everything to me—but it would no longer be. Maybe it was the drugs talking, or maybe it was the magic of the Gomez-Kang union, but suddenly I realized that the job that I was clinging to, my shitty, life-sucking job that paid me so well to afford things I didn’t need, didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. And I was tired of having other people’s decisions dictate the course of my life.
“Fuck you, fuck partnership, fuck the law firm. Tell Evan that he doesn’t have to worry about me—I’m resigning right now.” (Loud, unladylike belch.) “I’ll have a letter on his desk first thing Monday; oh, and by the way, tell Evan that I’ll serve my three months’ notice in absentia, as garden leave, you got that? And don’t worry”—I looked deep into her eyes, feeling sober and in control for the first time in a long time—“I have other more important things in my life to concern myself with than which limp wick you’re burning. I’ll keep your and Evan’s goddamn secret for all your sakes. You disgust me, you know that? I pity Suresh; I pity you most of all.” I stubbed out the cigarette on her clutch and she yelped. “Have a nice life, Anousha.”
I stumbled away with as much dignity as I could. Drunken walk-offs are not easy.
I told Linda what had happened (we don’t keep secrets from each other, and she could be trusted to keep this to herself—and maybe Jason; but it stops at Jason, for sure). The news of Anousha’s infidelity she greeted with indifference (“Their relationship is toast anyway,” was her reasoning). She congratulated me on finally shaking off the corporate shackles and asked me what I was going to do with my time. I realized I didn’t know. Despite how much I bitched and moaned about work, I did enjoy aspects of it; working as a lawyer had given me a very comfortable salary, for one. I just hadn’t taken a break in the last two years as I raced to become a partner, and now I was adrift. All I knew was I needed a breather from work and corporate life, and that meant I should not be job-hunting or odd-jobbing, just “resting” or “pursuing leisure activities,” whatever those were. I was however acutely aware that my new hobbies were going to have to be cheap, since I still had a mortgage to pay and somewhat limited savings. Maybe I could learn to crochet? Lawn bowl? Join a church choir?
The trouble was everything I could think of that seemed cheap as an activity just seemed so . . . so . . . boring.
Valerie and Ralph began making the rounds in the ballroom to greet the guests. When they finally reached our table, she promised to have a cigarette together with me before the night was over. Sure enough, just as the dessert was being served, Valerie tapped me on the shoulder and we managed to evade well-wishers to duck outside to the same spot where Anousha and I had had our earlier spat. I quickly caught her up on the situation (Valerie was trustworthy).
“This is fate,” Valerie said emphatically. She gripped my bare shoulders. “This, darling, is an opportunity. You have no job.”
“Right.”
“No life.”
“Yep.”
“Nothing to lose.”
“Thanks,” I said sarcastically.
“You know what I mean”—she waved the air dismissively—“so focus on the important message behind my words: you have to live your life. Take up golfing! Join a new book club! Life waits for no one! Car-pay dee-em!”
“Right,” I said, touched. Valerie might throw clichés out every other sentence or so, but at least they were always apropos to the situation at hand. I gave her an impulsive hug once again. “That certainly worked well for you. Congrats, babe. You deserve every happiness in the world.” Oddly enough, tears pricked my eyes. “You’re a good friend, you know that?”
“That goes both ways, Andrea,” Valerie replied, pleased with my compliment: it was the first time she had ever heard me refer to her as such. “Well, if I’m a good friend, then for goodness’ sake tell me the truth: you care for Suresh, don’t you?”
I swallowed. “I mean, I think if things had been different, and we’d both been single, I could perhaps see myself caring for him.”
Valerie made an impatient noise. “If you want to be happy, you have to start being honest with yourself. So when you’ve decided to admit to yourself that you do care for Suresh, don’t wait around for him to return from his secondment before telling him how you feel. Don’t use Anousha as an excuse any longer. Go to Jakarta and surprise him.” She started fishing around in her clutch. “Now, if you want to find him without going through your law firm or Kai, here’s the number of a private investigator/psychic I used when I was still married to my first husband. He’s very good. He’ll find Suresh even if he’s in a body bag at the bottom of the Pacific!”
“Er, thanks,” I said, pocketing the card she had just handed me. Her actions raised a legitimate, worrying question: why was she carrying around the business card of a private investigator/psychic at her wedding?
Alas, before I could ask, she was swallowed by a mob of socialites wishing to take a “we-fie” with her. Then I saw her no more till she was waving at us as she and Ralph “left” for their honeymoon, i.e., went to their bridal suite at the hotel.
Start being honest with yourself about how you feel, Valerie’s voice echoed in my head.
How did I feel?
I took a deep breath and let it out. If I were being honest, I did know. I just wasn’t sure how Suresh felt about it. But I resolved to tell him the next time I saw him.
As for my job, it was high time to cut those puppet strings. Let them try to find some other dedicated, attractive, intelligent lawyer who would sacrifice everything for her job, and see if they have luck with that!
Now that I had made up my mind on my next steps, I went home to work on them. As in, I went to sleep. Hey, it had been a long day.
53
Sunday 13 November
Even though I had a lot of things to say to Suresh in person, I didn’t use Valerie’s PI. That’s just not how I roll. But I did tender my resignation, as promised, via email.
Then all hell broke loose. But thanks to the wonders of technology, I muted all the hysterical texters. I turned on Netflix, and I literally, not euphemistically, chilled.
I felt great.
Monday 14 November
Went to the office to collect my personal items, as requested by HR. My garden leave of three months had been approved by, you guessed it, Evan himself.
Three months. That is almost unheard of in this part of the world and in this sector. I was almost feeling guilty for the firm when I remembered all the long hours of overtime I’d sacrificed to these ungrateful bastards in the hope of making partner, and all the guilt evaporated in a jiffy.
Got in around 4:00 p.m. to complete my exit interview with a skinnier Mong, back from his second dengue scare and who couldn’t stop blinking away tears during that one hour, bless him, and the stony-faced HR manager.
When the HR manager had gone, I pulled out my phone to ask Mong about the email I had seen. I needed the closure.
“Did you really think Suresh was the better candidate for partner this year?”
He did a double-take. “Suresh? What are you talking about?”
Wordlessly, I showed him the screenshot of his email.
Mong read what was on the screen and looked a bit shocked. “Andrea, honestly, that’s not what happened. Here’s the actual email I sent.”
He showed me his phone. “Read it,” he said quietly.
Dear partners,
In terms of both candidates, Suresh and Andrea, I do think that Suresh is the better candidate on paper . . . but Andrea is the better candidate overall. She is a fighter. She will never give up. That’s what I think if you asked me to choose between these
two excellent candidates.
Best, Sim Mong
“I chose you,” he said. “I will always choose you, my Work Daughter. Besides, you do get that you saw a draft email, right? Did you really think that I would miss a full stop? Me?”
“I didn’t know what to think, I was so shocked,” I admitted. A tear came to my eye. “But I suppose I should have known better than to think the legendary Toh Sim Mong would commit a typo.”
“Amen.” He hugged me, tight. “Dear God, I’ll miss you. I wish you the very best in the next stage of your career. I have no doubt you will be a star, no matter where you end up . . . just as long as it’s not with a competitor.”
“It won’t be,” I assured him, sniffling.
“Right-o, my love.”
Then he left me to go back to work, indubitably.
I entered my office and saw my team—Kai; my juniors, Josiah and Xi Lin; the associates I was friendly with: Carla, Pei Lynn, Dina, and Wai Seng—gathered inside with a farewell cake and gifts, including a beautiful ink-black Chanel 19 maxi flap bag from Mong (thanks to Kai’s guidance, no doubt). I was so touched.
When the eating, singing, and speeches were done and everyone had left, I started to pack my belongings into the large Ikea plastic crates and several cardboard boxes that Kai had prepared for me. I heard a knock on the door and said absently, “Come in.”
“It’s me,” Suresh said, looking dapper in a sharp dove-gray suit and a turquoise tie. He shut the door behind him.
I pretended to be busy, riffling through an open box I’d just packed, consisting mostly of, surprise surprise, old sports bras and leggings. “Can I help you with something?” I said stiffly.
He picked up a business card (Langford-Bauer’s) from the “dump” pile on my table and studied it intently, maybe because I’d crossed out his name and scrawled “Satan’s spawn” on it. “I heard yesterday that you’re leaving the firm from Anousha, who heard it from Evan. Obviously I was the last to know. Just like when Eric proposed to you.”