Last Tang Standing: 2020’s most hilarious, heartwarming debut rom-com for fans of Crazy Rich Asians

by Lauren Ho

  “You bunch of nerds. You guys are so into each other, just get it on already.”

  “No, we aren’t.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No, we aren’t.”

  Of course, this sophisticated exchange went on for some time, after which Linda, being completely shag-crazy, started egging me on to “jump Suresh’s bones and taste the rainbow!”

  Only Linda can pervert the tagline of Skittles.

  But there will be no tasting of any candy. I must be strong. Back when I was sticking to the Life Plan, things were easy. Smooth-going. I didn’t constantly doubt my every move. It was just when I started going off-piste that my life started coming off the rails. All Tiger Moms want and know what’s best for their children. Look at the Kardashians. Everyone knows that Kris is the one conducting the orchestra so to speak, and look how successful they are. They might even be happy!

  If I stick to my Life Plan, my life will be the best version of itself. And that is what I want.

  10:10 a.m. Meeting next door is done. Saw my colleagues drift past my room. I stood up and made sure they saw me on the call through the unfrosted bits (I was still chatting with Linda), making threatening sounds and waving my arms. My junior, Xi Lin, flashed me a thumbs-up sign, which I returned. I should have been an actor, clearly.

  10:45 a.m. A DEFCON 2 situation (“last bottle of water while stranded in the Sahara, with what could either be an oasis or a mirage one day’s crawl away, and you have only one arm left, but at least you still have an arm” kind of catastrophe) has developed. Jin Li, Mong’s secretary, called me in a panic.

  “It’s bad,” she said, her anxiety mixing with her years of hardened PA professionalism in a disconcerting mash of cheery anguish. “He’s got dengue—again.”

  “Aww fuck,” I said, worried. I couldn’t be mad at Mong anymore. “How is Mong?”

  “You know that getting dengue for the second time can be deadly, right?”

  “Yes,” I said, full of contrition.

  “Well, he’s stable, but they are monitoring him closely, something about critical platelet counts and needing a transfusion and his rare blood type, but his helper is with him. She’s taking good care of him.” There was a loaded silence between us, before Jin Li said, almost apologetically, “His ex-wife and children are, well, indisposed.”

  “Right.”

  “But his parents are also with him.”

  “But they must be like … what, eighty?”

  “Older,” she said. “They had him when the mother was close to forty. He was the ninth child.” She coughed and said, “Apparently she’s volunteered to give blood, in case they run low.”

  Seems like Mong came from a line of fighters—he would make it through, right?

  Right?

  Come to think of it, there were no guarantees when it came to Mong. Who knows what other horrible chronic illnesses the man was hiding from us: he was the kind who would be perfectly capable of working through Ebola while ensconced in an isolation ward, just so he wouldn’t infect the rest of the team, even as his brain started leaking through his nostrils …

  “Can we do anything? Like run a blood donation drive?”

  “It’s OK, dear, the blood bank is good for now.”

  “Let me know when he’s out of ICU so I can visit him, OK? Just … just keep me updated as to how he is,” I said, trying to keep it together. I was this close to bawling: the man was family. He basically taught me almost everything I knew and made me the lawyer I was today. I’d spent more time with this man over the past few years than any member of my biological family—and it was the same for him.

  If I ever got married, he would have to walk me down the aisle. He had no choice.

  I realized that I was crying silently and held the phone at arm’s length so I could blow my nose without giving my feelings away.

  “I will,” Jin Li said. “But, ah”—sounding embarrassed—“he told me that the only thing he cares about right now is the VizWare file. So … you know: close the deal. Make sure Charleston Jr. and, by extension, Chapel Town, are on board.”

  I did. I arranged with Chapel Town to get the return tickets to Omaha, where I would meet the elusive Charleston Wesley Jr., son of the founder of the coinvestor Chapel Town Investments, one of the largest family offices around. I would sign them just so Mong would get better. Even if it meant playing nice with goddamn Langford-Turdy-Bauer.

  And maybe, just maybe, I could redeem myself and make partner. I still want that. Right?

  47

  Thursday 6 October

  Landed in Omaha smoothly.

  I was picked up at the airport by Charleston Wesley Jr.’s chauffeur, who drove … a Tesla Model S with the sticker “Say No to Fossil Fuels” emblazoned on it. So far, so good. As the housekeeper led me through the house to the living room, I noticed how homey and lived-in the house was: the leather couches were the kind you would be able to nap on; there was a large stone fireplace, over which were mounted several hunting trophies (mostly deer, one antelope, a buffalo); multicolored hand-knitted blankets and bean bags completed the décor along with several portraits of some dead (possibly related) people, a large Turner seascape, and a small mural of a soldier holding—oh dear—the head of a scalped Native American.

  Ah. I knew there had to be a catch somewhere.

  And there was the man himself. Slight, slope-shouldered, and white-haired, he was an Elmer Fuddish figure dressed in a thin white polo shirt and beige Dockers, sallow in complexion and altogether unimpressive in visage and bearing. He could have been cast as a hobbit. How was this man one of the Top 100 Richest Men in America?

  Then he shook my hand with a perfectly calibrated handshake and I saw how shrewd his light blue eyes were. I stood up a little straighter.

  He had noticed my gaze on the mural and apologized for it. “It belonged to my father, and even if the subject matter is rather abhorrent, I leave it there to remind myself that even the best of men have areas in their lives where they can make better choices. That’s my motto in life and business, anyway. We’re not bound by our past, you know.”

  I warmed to Charleston immediately. “I understand.”

  “I really appreciate you taking time out to fly here to allay my doubts about the closing. I have a lot of faith in your firm, because of what Usman told me. And I do prefer to do business in person.”

  “Of course,” I said. He’d flown me business and put me in a suite in the local Hilton, so I was mollified.

  “By the way”—he made a face—“your colleague Langford-Bauer is already here, along with Usman.”

  I fought the urge to groan audibly by doing a Kegel. “We won’t take much of your time,” I assured him.

  “Oh, you can, my dear, but your colleague is a little bit of a—how shall I put it—a bit of a—”

  Turd hillock? I said in my head. Out loud, “Challenge?”

  “Yes,” Charleston said.

  “That’s why he’s the best, in London,” I said, loyally. Firm first, personal animus second.

  Over a sumptuous high tea spread of scones and other pastries, and delicious tea from a super isolated mountain plantation in China, we spent a pleasant, but intense, afternoon briefing Charleston and Usman on the situation. Langford-Bauer did his best to annoy me by constantly insinuating, in his subtle British way, that I was not as competent as him, but I kept it professional and classy, like Gong Li. Charleston seemed appeased by the explanation, considered the risks minimal, and agreed to go ahead with the closing. So long as VizWare said yes, it would be a win for me and the firm.

  When we were done, he showed us around his ranch, where he kept a flock of champion fighting cocks (try saying that really fast) that he had bred out of some Mexican, Javanese, and Filipino stock. It was all quite fun, if only because Linda had an uncle who was a somewhat renowned breeder of gamecock in the Philippines, and I had visited a clandestine cockfight in a tobacco field in Cuba and had been shown how they wer
e “outfitted” before the fight. The bloodlust, I told Charleston, reminded me of people queueing for Kanye’s kicks.

  “What?” Charleston said, coming to a stop and staring at me. “There are people who line up—to be kicked by something called Con Yay?”

  I was struggling not to burst into laughter or pee. This was the point when Langford-Bauer said, in his supercilious voice, “She means ‘shoes.’ Kanye West has a range of sneakers, and they are very fashionable, these”—a wrinkle of his aristocratic nose—“kicks.”

  I wished, wished, wished that Suresh was with me right then.

  I did find the time to complain about Langford-Bauer to Linda later that night over WhatsApp chat, once we’d gone back to our hotel after a full day of sightseeing in Omaha with Charleston Wesley.

  “Tristan?” she said, surprised. “Tristan Langford-Bauer is your Singapore desk rep?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Oh,” she said, giggling. “I know Tristan. He’s a friend of a friend from London.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah.” Her voice was conspiratorial. “The next time he pisses you off, just say: ‘Chicken of the Sea.’ He’ll know what it means.”

  “Tell me!” I said, practically foaming at the mouth. “Is he allergic to fish? Is that how I bring him down?”

  “No, dummy, how amateur, and quite worrisome that you went straight to the option of murdering your nemesis, you psychopath. Besides, ever heard of EpiPens? Chicken of the C, the letter C, C for … oh well. I’ve said too much,” she said cheerfully, meaning she’d said exactly how much she wanted me to know.

  I was dying of curiosity. “C for what?”

  “Bye.” The line went dead.

  I typed some notes in My Cloud. Chicken of the C. C for “cocaine”? Or some kind of animal, even if that combination made less sense? Was Langford-Bauer involved in his own #PigGate? Hmmm.

  The line rang again. I picked it up without screening for caller ID. “Linda, tell me—”

  “Andy. Andy.”

  I tensed—only one person ever called me that, and it was my sister. “Melissa? What’s up?”

  Her voice was eerily calm. “I’m so, so sorry to tell you this over the phone, but … but Ma had a heart attack.”

  I gasped. “What? When?” I managed to ask.

  “A few hours ago. You should come back as soon as you can.”

  48

  Melissa was talking but through a fog of some kind. The sensation was one of tripping over a phantom step on a flight of stairs. I had a moment where I felt like the universe was tilting before the world righted itself on its axis. When the swoon had passed, I began to pack.

  What had happened was my mother had had a heart attack in the wee hours of the morning. She’d been traveling back with a friend from Beijing; she’d landed in KLIA and taken a taxi when she started having bad cramps in her chest. It was lucky the taxi driver had recognized the symptoms and had brought her to the emergency room, or—

  I shuddered.

  The hospital had tried to call me, Melissa said, but couldn’t reach me. So they had called her, the other emergency contact. It was the only good thing to come out of this, that my sister had been the one to be with my mother just before they had wheeled her into the operating room.

  I told her I’d be there on the next flight out tomorrow morning, since it was already close to midnight Omahaian time, but that it would be difficult to know exactly what time I would land. Sometime Saturday night. After I had taken a Valium and waited for myself to calm down, I called Eric, who was in Hong Kong for a couple of board meetings, and he immediately offered to fly over.

  “Thank you for offering,” I said, touched. The grand opening of his new Lana hotel in Phu Quoc, Vietnam, his first eco-hotel in the region, was on Monday; I knew how important it was for him to open that hotel in person, since his family had fled China through Vietnam. “But don’t change your plans; it’s really not necessary.”

  “Of course it is. I’m coming over. You need support.”

  “No, it’s really OK,” I insisted. “She’s stable for now. Please, stay, open the Dulit Lana Phu Quoc.”

  “You sure? I mean, it’s fine. My deputy is here.”

  I laughed nervously. “Well, it’s just … I haven’t told her anything about your proposal.”

  “I see.” I could hear the wry grin in his voice as he said, “Don’t you think it’ll make her recover faster if she hears your good news?”

  “I think so,” I said cautiously. “But my mother is unpredictable at best.”

  “I’ll fly over after the opening. I know how to charm mothers,” he said.

  Says the man who’s never been married.

  After the call I got dressed in sweats and knocked on the door of Langford-Bauer’s room, since I would need to leave earlier than expected, before the due diligence was completed. I prayed that he would be dressed so I wouldn’t have to see his legs.

  He was, in pajamas and a robe. I thanked God. It’s hard to hate men with stick-thin, hairless legs.

  Langford-Bauer was less than understanding. “What do you mean, you have a family emergency?” he said, having grown up never experiencing familial love. “Is anyone at death’s door?”

  “Actually,” I said, squaring my shoulders, glad to be able to rub his face in my truth, “someone is at death’s door. My mother … had a heart attack.”

  Langford-Bauer’s face was a picture. “Oh my, this is unex—What I mean is … I’m, ah, dreadfully sorry,” he stammered. “I didn’t know, I mean … I’m so sorry, really.” If he had pearls he’d be clutching them now, the bastard. “Are you two, ah, close?”

  “How can you even ask me a question like that, at a time like this?” I said, disgusted. “So if I said no, that would make it OK?”

  “No, no! That’s not what I meant at all!” He blanched and actually started backing away from me. “You should, ah, definitely take some time off. Leave. Go. I’ll take it from here.”

  “I will,” I said. “And you’ll just have to deal with the slack. You haven’t had to deal with much of the slack so far because I’ve been an awesome, valuable team player.” And then, fiercely: “And I’m an awesome, awesome woman.”

  “You certainly are.” He cleared his throat, looking embarrassed. “You have been, of course, since the beginning. A strong … intelligent … team player, in spite, I mean, regardless of your, ah, gender.” The way he was saying this you’d think I had just made him admit to the possession of a micropenis. “I, ah, I’ve always … admired your, ah, strong work ethic.” I could see his eyes were crossing, so I let him off by waving his feeble compliments away.

  “See that you do not text me during the next few days,” I warned him. “Unless the sky is falling, and you’re flat out of sky-umbrellas.”

  “Right,” he said humbly.

  I strode off to my room, booked the earliest flights back, and slept.

  Friday 7 October

  Early in the morning, I called to see how my mother was. Melissa assured me that she was stable, which was a huge weight off my shoulders, since I was so far away.

  When Eric called to coordinate our schedules, I told him about the connecting flights I had to take.

  “It’s so complicated. You need to switch off and just relax in this difficult time. Why don’t you let me fly you back?” he said.

  “With what private jet?” I replied, half-heartedly teasing. “You told me you were too ‘real’ of a billionaire to have one.”

  He chuckled, sounding uncomfortable. “I do have a friend or two with idle jets who owe me favors. So, if you want …”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, thank you, I’ll take commercial. It’s going to be tough, but I’ll survive, even if I can only afford, horror of horrors, premium economy.”

  I could almost hear him flinch, even long distance. “When would you land?”

  “In twenty-three hours. It’s fine.”

  “I could get you back in alm
ost half that time,” he said.

  Under the circumstances, it would not have been unreasonable to acquiesce. But his tone rubbed me the wrong way, for some reason. “She’s stable, so I think we can afford to not take the private jet.”

  “Suit yourself,” he said, sounding, to my ears, just a tad frosty.

  I texted Linda to update her about the situation. And then I called the one person I knew would be able to sort everything out for me at work: Suresh. When I told him about my mother, he immediately assured me that he would handle it, since he was working from Singapore this week.

  And this time, I trusted him whole-heartedly.

  “Just send me your flight details and I’ll sort everything out in the office.”

  “Thanks, Suresh, I—I really appreciate you.” I swallowed hard. “Also for the honorable thing you did for me … with Sungguh.”

  A pause. “It’s nothing, really. Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked. His voice was soft, reassuring. “Name it.”

  I had a crazy urge to ask him to meet me in Kuala Lumpur—it was almost a physical craving. “No, thank you, just handle work and I’ll be fine.”

  Work. It might seem insane to an outsider that I cared about work at a time like this, but they didn’t get it. I’d been hardwired for too long to just throw everything aside even when my personal life was in chaos. Work had always been there for me, no matter how bad things were. Work was family, a drug. Work was life.

  Saturday 8 October

  Almost a whole day of traveling later, I landed in Kuala Lumpur, jet lagged and disoriented, and almost wishing I’d given in to Eric’s private jet offer. Almost. I headed straight to the government hospital where my mother was recovering. The last thing I expected to see was Suresh and Linda, both standing awkwardly in the waiting lounge.

  “Surprise!” Linda said. She threw her arms around me.