10
Wednesday 2 March
7:10 a.m. Woke up this morning to a text from Orson. It said:
Hope I din anythin wrong cz I hvnt heard bak abt tat lunch/diner date tmw, iz on?
Linda’s right. I can’t date him; he can barely spell.
9:05 a.m. Texted him back on WhatsApp to confirm our lunch date, which he confirmed enthusiastically (meaning he has absolutely no game, which is awesome). Thank God for instant messaging, which has done away with the whole waiting-by-the-phone nonsense. Nowadays even a delay of thirty minutes in answering an email is enough to set your colleagues’ teeth on edge, and not IMing back someone who fancies you when you have your Last Seen time-stamp mode on can be tantamount to mental harm.
When I texted Linda to tell her, she exploded into a screen confetti of disapproving and red-faced emojis in our WhatsApp chat, followed by angry animated feral cat stickers in our Line app. Then she broadcasted her barely coded disapproval to our chat group by captioning a picture of a durian with “It’s gonna fucking hurt when it lands on your thick head, Andrea!” just in case I didn’t catch her drift. I wished she would pick up the phone and tell me off directly like she used to in the good old days. Whatever happened to direct gladiatorial confrontation, mano a mano, the way we used to do in the noughties?
Anyway, I’m insulted that Linda thinks I’m no match for the crafty wiles of a millennial hipster munchkin. After all, we’ve survived dial-up internet, ’90s television, and the days when shoulder pads were acceptable. We can overcome anything.
11:40 p.m. Have been working nonstop since 6:00 p.m., after a client sent us a panicked email asking us to handle an urgent matter (nothing is ever non-urgent with clients—nothing). Can feel low-level hysteria enveloping me as I contemplate the flood of snippy emails from the London firm representing the other party to the deal—there is probably no chance of seeing my own bed till 3:00 a.m. How am I supposed to plan my outfit?
Thursday 3 March
1:55 a.m. OMG I’M FINALLY HOME WHY THE HELL DID I BECOME AN M&A LAWYER #fmltothemax
5:50 a.m. Woke up in a blind panic thinking I had overslept. No such luck. I’m due back in the office for a conference call at 8:00 a.m. FML!
7:50 a.m. The clients just canceled the conference call even though I’d been preparing for the call for hours.
8:15 a.m. Woke up with a start when Suresh gently patted my arm, smirking. Turned out I’d been drooling on my keyboard. Great, sleeping in front of the enemy, how very alpha of you, Andrea. And now I have keyboard face. FML!
10:05 a.m. Can still see faint outline of keyboard on my face. Damn my flagging collagen production!
10:20 a.m. Read online that the most foolproof way to younger-looking skin is to drink at least two liters of water a day.
10:25 a.m. Bought two large bottles of sparkling water and started to chug water like wine.
10:45 a.m. Finished second bottle of sparkling water. Might have overdone it, as now I need to pee badly but am restraining myself as constantly needing the loo—I mean, toilet is a sign of weakness, or at the very least a weak bladder. In any case, the water appears to have filled out my skin cells. Now I can have my date with Orson without looking like SpongeBob SquarePants.
11:07 a.m. It’s no use. I need the washroom. The alternative involves a change of clothing I do not have.
11:15 a.m. Peed like a racehorse, or how I imagine racehorses to pee.
11:35 a.m. Peed again.
11:50 a.m. And again. That’ll show me to drink water.
12:10 p.m. Lunchtime. Panicked dash out of office. We’re supposed to meet for lunch at Quinn’s, a (real) salad bar (not my Vietnamese deli) close by. It was a deliberate choice on my part to do lunch. Orson had to see me in daylight sooner or later, and there is nothing less flattering to an older woman’s face and neck than harsh noon daylight, aside from maybe the fluorescent lighting in prisons and the restrooms in petrol stations. All the Crème de la Meh will not make a bulldog look like a Chihuahua, is what Linda likes to say (but not in Valerie’s hearing, because Valerie does believe that she can indeed freeze time with her potions, if not turn it back half a dial at the very least).
2:15 p.m. Just back from fun lunch. As usual I was running late, thanks to work. When I arrived, panting and disheveled, I saw that he was already seated in a booth. I took a steadying breath and walked in with the confidence of a woman with a thigh gap. Orson grinned when he saw me and we exchanged air kisses.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“No worries,” he said, waving my protests away. “I just got here. What would you like for lunch?”
I remembered that he had bought me drinks at LGA. “No, it’s my treat today,” I said firmly, waving my purse in the air.
“But—”
“Let me.” I repeated, narrowing my eyes before I could stop myself. Dear God, I was scary. He held up his hands in mock surrender and gave me his order.
Anyway. Soon I was seated in front of Orson and his sleek black hair.
“So . . . ,” he began. “Er, you look nice. I like your watch and shirt. Very chic.”
“Oh, thanks,” I replied. “I like your, er”—I gave him a desperate once-over, looking for some article of clothing I didn’t have to lie about liking: I don’t get male fashion these days, and he was a walking poster of trends—“Invisalign,” I finished feebly.
I tried hard to find a good conversation starter. Now that I was sober, for the life of me I couldn’t think of anything safe. Here’s the thing about dating without alcohol at my age: it’s pure agony. You lose the ability to lightheartedly banter as you age; instead you worry about sounding intelligent (but not in an intimidating fashion), being current without trying too hard, while being politically correct. Plus I could clearly see one of the partners from my law firm seated just two rows away from us, munching on an anemic-looking salad, looking morose and clearly hoping that someone would walk up to him and blow his head off or at least give him an encouraging hand job. God, why did I choose the busiest salad bar in the freaking CBD* for a first lunch date?
Oh right. I had a conference call right after and it’s close by the office. Priorities.
Somehow Orson came to the rescue. “So, what about this wrap, huh? Don’t you wish we were having nasi lemak instead? Speaking of which, being a Malaysian, how do you find Singaporean food?”
And just like that, we were off to the races. We pitted Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine against each other and dissed each other’s national claim to having invented Hainanese chicken rice. We talked about our favorite hawker stalls, casual and posh eateries, our secret holes-in-the-wall, all the obscure little places where we would never bring anyone other than family, close friends, and bosses we wanted to bribe with nonsexual favors.
I ended up having way more fun that I was supposed to. It’s strange how much Orson and I have in common. Maybe it’s fate, moving in mysterious ways?