Last Tang Standing Page 8

  “Hi, sweetie, thank you so much for agreeing to help,” Valerie said. She motioned at Linda. “That one back there spent the night at mine after we had a heavy night out in Clarke Quay. Between you and me, I can’t believe she’s still alive.”

  Linda groaned and unleashed a cloud of mint-veiled alcohol breath. She should really have been sleeping off her hangover at Valerie’s place, but since Valerie and I were the kind of friends who had never hung out alone, it made sense that even her hungover ass was a good buffer against awkward small talk. “Keep your voices down, will you,” she pleaded.

  I turned my attention to Valerie, who, under the world’s largest sunglasses and a cap, looked bright and hard-shiny in the daylight. “How come you’re totally fine and she’s half-dead?” I asked.

  “I’m not an alcoholic,” Valerie replied.

  We arrived at the condominium in Tiong Bahru where Valerie’s brother lived. Valerie was begging us to hurry as we were already nine minutes late and her sister-in-law was a stickler for punctuality. “She’s going to freak,” she said in a panic.

  Which was exactly what happened.

  “You’re late,” Zi Min barked, her arms crossed. I eyed her warily, since the apple never falls far from the tree and we were supposed to take care of her daughter. Zi Min was classically attractive: tall, porcelain-skinned, and thin but B-cupped, she was dressed in a flowy long-sleeved white silk top paired with dark blue jeans and matching denim Chanel ballerina flats and bag. There was no doubt in my mind that she was a conventional pain in the ass.

  “Sorry,” Valerie said meekly, seeming to shrink into herself. I felt bad for her; she really needed to toughen up.

  Zi Min jerked her chin at our direction. “So. Who are these people?”

  “These are my friends from, ah, work. They are here to help me take care of Lilly. They have a lot of experience with, uh, children.” I nodded on cue, the enthusiastic smiley nod of a Jehovah’s Witness. I had my arm slung companionably around a sunglassed Linda (mostly to prop her up). Linda had already been Febrezed, but we stood a little ways back, just in case.

  Zi Min was in too much of a rush to bother vetting us in the care of her only child; she let us in without further debate. She motioned down the hallway. “Lilly just came back from ballet and she was supposed to be having chess lessons but her coach canceled.” She scowled. “Make sure she doesn’t watch TV. She has to complete her homework, then practice her piano drills for two hours for her piano class tonight. For a treat, she may complete four advanced Sudoku puzzles before you drop her off for her piano lesson at five o’clock.”

  “For a treat,” Linda repeated in disbelief, jolted out of her hungover stupor.

  “Y-e-s,” Zi Min said. “Just four puzzles. There’s lunch in the kitchen, some quinoa salads I got delivered, but if you’re still hungry, there’s leftover oat and quinoa porridge in the fridge. Lilly is on a gluten-free diet as she is getting super fat. OK, I really have to run. I’ll try to be back by four thirty in order to send her to piano class. Sometimes she fusses and I have to smack her.”

  “Where is she now?” Valerie asked as I watched Linda turn a magnificent shade of pukey indignation.

  “In her room, studying chess openings. Please watch her!” She had a change of mind and kicked off her ballet flats before shoving her feet into a pair of towering Charlotte Olympia platform pumps. Maybe she intended to intimidate her clients into signing the lease. “All right. Goodbye. Have fun.”

  The door slammed shut behind her. We heard her heels clattering down the hallway as she ran. A flurry of swearing, then blessed silence. All of us breathed a sigh of relief. Almost immediately, one of the bedroom doors creaked open and a girl’s head peeked out. “Is she gone?” Lilly whispered.

  “Yes, sweetie,” Valerie said, smiling as much as the Botox would allow.

  “Oh, thank God!” Lilly stomped out of the room, slammed the door, and threw herself onto the couch. “I hate her.”

  “Now, now,” Valerie said, awkwardly petting the girl’s head, “she is your mother.”

  “I know, Auntie Val,” Lilly said. “But she’s mean and controlling. I never get to do anything I want, and you follow her every instruction.” She looked around and pouted at me. “Would you let me watch TV, please?”

  “Well, now …” I looked at Valerie. “I’m not in charge here, sweetie. Your aunt Val is.”

  “Hold on,” Valerie mouthed. She sidled to the TV console table and parked her handbag directly in front of an insidious-looking stuffed rabbit with exposed teeth, the only incongruous object in the minimalist living room, which had obviously been decorated by a Scandinavian monk with expensive taste.

  “Now you can,” she said with a grin.

  Valerie turned the TV on and the three of us joined Lilly on the couch without further ado, Lilly gripping the remote control with both hands, her eyes trained on the TV on which five nubile Korean girls were gyrating to techno music and alternatively rapping and yowling. She had the slightly gormless look of an entranced gopher. Poor kid. Valerie explained that every minute of the child’s day was scheduled, down to the second. Piano lessons, creative writing, coding, drama therapy, chess lessons, and because Zi Min had hopes that Lilly would excel at a sport, ballet and kiddie golf. Of course, you must understand that these were just after-school enrichment classes designed to gild Lilly’s academic CV—God forbid that the kid actually decided she wanted to be a ballerina, a professional athlete, or a violin teacher. Every Chinese parent knows that those extracurricular activities were just that—extra.

  I’ll have to admit I don’t think I had it this rough: what Lilly was experiencing was next-level Tiger Parenting. Val’s brother, Cameron, was a high-flying investment banker, and Zi Min was a senior director of a large real estate agency: they had big dreams and only one offspring, so the poor child was essentially hostage to her parents’ wishes forever.

  But for now the little monster was just hanging loose, her legs splayed over the glass-topped coffee table as she munched on yellowing breath mints that she had salvaged from the bottom of my bag. “I never get to eat candy,” she confided. “You aunties are the best. I wish all of you were my mommy.”

  I looked over at Valerie, who was beaming despite having just been called an auntie.

  We watched four hours of TV, Linda, Valerie, and I taking turns napping while Lilly watched music video after music video and ate all the breath mints we collectively owned. When she was hungry she asked for McDonald’s, which I was only too happy to oblige. You should have seen this kid’s eyes when she saw the food arrive—I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone that excited to see gluten. Linda revived soon after the Big Mac and Coke and she brought out a stack of cards and taught Lilly how to play poker. We were all sorry when the time came to drop Lilly, whose eyes had now crossed from watching almost six hours straight of music videos, off at her music school (her mother had called at 3:00 p.m. to say she had an “emergency errand” to run and would be late, but reminded us to “use all force necessary to get Lilly to her lesson”).

  And then Lilly’s vacation from the real world was over.

  I pulled up in front of the music school ten minutes late and did the very Malaysian thing of double-parking with the hazard lights flashing. Lilly refused to leave the car. She threw an epic kicking-and-screaming tantrum, stopping only when Valerie said she would have to call Zi Min and tell her that Lilly wouldn’t go to class, at which the child almost immediately stopped fussing, fear evident in her eyes. When Valerie and I finally managed to usher her to her class, Lilly was in tears. To be honest, I was almost in tears myself—who knew a child could bite so hard?

  Later, as I drove us back in the car, Valerie said quietly, “I want one.”

  Linda, who’d once said that Halloween was great because that was when you could poison the kids you didn’t like with the sweet justice of candy, turned to Valerie and said, “I think you’d make a great mom, Val.”

 
As for me, having survived today, I went straight to my neighborhood pharmacy and bought a pack of extra-thick, dolphin-friendly condoms, which were helpfully on sale. Score!

  9:45 p.m. Val video-called me to thank me for my help. “You’re awesome, and I’m going to do something very special for you,” she said. “Linda filled me in on your, um, quest, and I think I know just how to help you.”

  “What do you mean?” Who knew what Linda had been blathering on about in her state last night. And I have many active quests: I’ve always wanted to find out Beyoncé’s real age, for instance.

  “I’m going to open my social circles to you. We’re going to go out, hunting, the old-fashioned way!” She then added somewhat unnecessarily, “For men.”

  I was both terrified and intrigued. “What? How? Where?”

  “There’s an event I’ve been dying to go to and to which I’ve just been put on the guestlist, so we can try that. I can’t divulge any details yet since I need to ask permission from the hostess, but I’m sure you’ll be able to meet eligible age-appropriate bachelors there.” Her voice took on a steely tone. “But if you are accepted into the fold, you must promise me never to bring anyone else, especially Linda, to the club I’m about to bring you to. It’s my watering hole. Mine.”

  And then, against the laws of Botox, she glared at me.

  Dear Diary, I am scared.

  8

  Monday 22 February

  10:07 a.m. Orson just sent me a weird-cute GIF of his face superimposed onto a gigantic mandarin orange to wish me Happy Chap Goh Mei. “Chap Goh Mei” in the Hokkien dialect refers to the fifteenth night of Chinese New Year; it marks the drawing to a close of the Lunar New Year celebration. It is also celebrated as the Chinese Valentine’s Day for many Malaysians and Singaporeans (because one day of torture was not enough). In this part of the world, there exists a “fun” Chap Goh Mei tradition, where single Chinese ladies throw perfectly good mandarin oranges with their names and phone numbers written on the fruit into a body of water, where they would usually be scooped up by eager gentlemen who may or may not be looking to score a free supply of vitamin C. The origins of this custom are obscure—to foolish die-hard romantics. There is little doubt in my mind that some crafty Southeast Asian mandarin orange cartel came up with this idea as a means of getting rid of their surplus stock at the end of the festivities for profit instead of letting them rot in a landfill; certainly it also makes their lives easy should they wish to pick out the single womenfolk for their trophy wives. Sleazy capitalist bastards.

  Anyway, what was I saying? Ah, yes. Orson and the Giant GIF. I thanked him and he immediately messaged back to say that he was in Jakarta on a work trip and couldn’t make Wednesday for lunch but hoped to reschedule our date to the following Thursday, and that he would miss me.

  I was disappointed that we wouldn’t see each other this week, but flattered. The last person who told me they missed me was my online grocer. Who says you can’t find nice ones on Sponk.

  Thursday 25 February

  8:20 p.m. Urgh. Am finally done with another bloody closing.

  When I had sent all the documents to the client, I shakily stood up from the desk I had been crouched over for four hours straight and took stock of the damage: my eyes were burning and out of focus; I think I lost a tooth in my coffee; something smelled of warmed kimchi and I was pretty sure it was me (maybe that was why Suresh had taken to working in the library today?). My rib cage hurt from the too-tight sports bra I was wearing instead of a proper one, because I’d run out of clean lingerie. I’ve been eating takeaway salad (OK, fine, so they were fried spring rolls and not salad per se, but there’s radish in there so that counts toward my five-a-day) for lunch and dinner from that Vietnamese deli downstairs for three effing days straight and have slept a total of sixteen hours in the last four days, in my office.

  On days like this I fantasize so hard about quitting that I actually have heart pangs. Just like Suresh, my plan wasn’t to go to law school to become a corporate lawyer. I had ideals once. I was passionate about human rights. After graduation I paid my dues and put in some time at Slaughter & May, but just as I’d begun a new position as a legal adviser for a small nonprofit helping trafficked women in the UK, my father got really sick and I had to get what my mother called a “real job” to help defray their living expenses, instead of “wasting my expensive legal education.” So I did what I had to do: I went back to Slaughter & May, cap in hand, and got my old job back. Some of that money went toward paying part of Melissa’s tuition, since she was in the middle of an expensive British degree in architecture and needed to get the best grades she could instead of working part time and getting just a second-lower-class or third-class degree. No way were we going to do that to her.

  I guess I’m the reason she was able to meet Kamarul in her third year. This has always made me feel a little guilty toward my mother, not because I condone her casual racism (“You can be friends with them, but you can’t date them!”), but because, since I’d borne the full brunt of the financial fallout (cancers are expensive when you don’t have good insurance!) and downplayed my mother’s mental breakdown after my father’s passing in the misguided belief that Melissa shouldn’t suffer remotely any more than could be helped, my sister never knew the full extent of how bad things had gotten. My mother recovered thinking Melissa hadn’t cared enough to return home after her degree was done a few months after my father’s death, embarking instead on a gap year with Kamarul. They’ve been inseparable since.

  Anyway, the rough patch my family found itself in, emotionally and financially, is somewhat over and I could quit and work somewhere else as I had intended to before I had to move back—only I can’t. I don’t know how to anymore. The money at my job is more than anything I’ll make elsewhere; I have little savings in my bank account because of my father’s illness and a mortgage I can barely afford (I might have been a little too aspirational with the posh address I’d chosen), which is fine, just as long as I have a job. Plus, I can’t give up now: I’ve half-ruined my eyesight on pages of document review, sucked up to too many people, sacrificed too much of my youth and identity, listened to far too many lectures from my mom about languishing in the purgatory of mediocrity. It’s no longer a choice; too much hangs in the balance. I have to become partner.

  9

  Monday 29 February (Leap Day!)

  6:25 a.m. Goddammit, it’s Monday again.

  7:20 a.m. Why are people sending me Leap Day memes? It’s a goddamn extra day of work.

  7:45 a.m. On train. Got elbowed, groped, and stepped on several times.

  8:10 a.m. Ooh, Suresh just emailed me and told me he’s bringing chocolate croissants to the office.

  8:12 a.m. Must not eat croissants from the enemy. Revealing fondness for carbs and sweets is a sign of weakness.

  8:20 a.m. Hmm, actually I eat sweets in front of him all the time. I even have a pot of raw sugar on my desk that he uses for his chai. He’s already heard the noises of pleasure I make when I have cake, once in a blue moon.

  8:22 a.m. I’ll just have one croissant.

  8:25 a.m. Or two. When he leaves the kitchenette.

  9:40 a.m. Poor Suresh got schooled today. We were loafing around in the kitchenette having morning chai and croissants when he told me that he was going to the wedding of an acquaintance from his school that weekend and was planning to put a token sum in the red packet because he didn’t know her that well anyway.

  “How much is token to you?” I asked, curious.

  Suresh seemed uncomfortable with the line of questioning, maybe because I was leaning over him like a horny grandmother. “Er. I don’t know. Fifty?”

  “What kind of reception: lunch or dinner? Which hotel is it? Four or five stars?”

  “Dinner, and, er, I don’t know, some fancy-sounding hotel; no doubt it’s going to be expensive since she’s marrying a senior partner of a Big Four audit firm, but seriously, why does it matter?” He shrugged. “I bar
ely know her. I’m only going because she and Anousha are distantly related and she courtesy-invited me. I’m sure whatever I give will be fine.”

  “Are you insane? This is social suicide.” I stuck my head out of the kitchenette. “Kai, get in here!”

  Kai entered wearing a crisp white linen dress and suede pumps, looking flustered. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

  I explained the situation and she burst into loud hoots of laughter. “Oh, you’re never going to live this down. You should just pack your bags and leave Singapore now,” she said.

  Suresh raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand what the big deal is. It’s a huge wedding with a gazillion people. Everyone will be contributing gifts or money, so why does it matter what amount I put into an ang pao? No one cares.”

  “No one cares!” I exclaimed. “Are you fresh off the boat? Oh wait, you are, because let me tell you something, my friend, everyone ca—”

  “What’s all the commotion?” a sinister voice said from the doorway. Without warning, Genevieve Beh glided into the room in her cloud of dead forest rat secretions, her interest piqued.

  I rolled my eyes, which started streaming from an allergic reaction to her perfume, but held my tongue; no one was better suited to emphasize how serious Suresh’s situation was about to get if he proceeded as planned. Genevieve was the perfect example of a money-worshipping, soulless, calculating wraith that I wanted to showcase to Suresh. I quickly laid out the pertinent facts.

  “Suresh, were you born yesterday? You can’t just give any sum you want—there are market rates!” she exclaimed as though Suresh had just mentioned that he was going to attempt skydiving in his undies. “Has no one here told you about Genevieve’s ang pao matrix?”