Chapter 5

“You met him through Sponk?” Linda gasped theatrically. We were seated in Lau Pa Sat, a hawker center located in a large, beautiful Victorian filigree cast-iron structure in the Central Business District. The lunch crowd consisted of both tourists and office grunts, chowing down on local street food.

“Yeah, I’m On The Apps.” Yes, I said it exactly like this. “Isn’t everyone On The Apps?”

“What’s wrong with Sponk?” I said indignantly.

“Sponk, my dear, is for furries and swingers.” She saw my mouth open to ask a question and said, “You can google that later. NSFW.”

“Thanks a lot, Cousin Gordon,” I muttered. “On the bright side, I did meet this decent, proper Sweet Young Thing, so.”

“No one decent uses Sponk; I should know,” Linda responded ominously.

“And how is Tinder any better?” I challenged. “Isn’t it a hookup app?”

“It all depends on how you screen the people, how you play the game. I’ve many, many friends who’ve met their significant others on Tinder.” She smiled beatifically. “I mean, I myself have never used it for long-term commitment, but I’m positive we can replicate Angi’s success.”

“Twenty-three,” I said meekly.

“Not Valerie?” I was intrigued.

“Valerie-I’m-younger-than-my-surgeon-makes-me-look-in-the-dark-I-swear-Gomez?” Linda said, doing her best imitation of the Rock’s signature eyebrow cock. “No way. She would never be able to accept that she’s older than the man she’s with. Unlike you, you dirty rascal.”

“I get that he’s a little younger, but he’s so mature.” I started drumming my fingers on the grease-slicked tabletop. “Would it really be such a bad idea to go on a date with him? You were just saying I need to date outside my comfort zone.”

“Depends on your objectives: a hookup or love? In my opinion, you should nip it in the bud, because you’re a serial monogamist and you’re looking for the One.”

“I don’t believe in the One,” I protested.

“Easy. Your password was a snooze to crack, took me literally twelve seconds, haha: ihateivan. I mean, seriously, still?” Her laughter died when she saw my face, and she cleared her throat. “But look at how good you look!” she crowed, jabbing a manicured finger at my Tinder doppelgänger. I stared at the zoomed-in view of a full-frontal shot of my face, edited and enhanced till I was barely recognizable.

“What filter is this? I look like I just popped out of the womb,” I said, squinting at my alert eyes and plumped-up lips, unmarred by years of stress-smoking and disappointment.

“Show me my profile description,” I said through gritted teeth. She grinned and scrolled down. “Andrea T. . . . Hey, that’s not my age!”

“Give or take one or two years . . . ,” Linda said cheerfully, unconcerned with being a class A, bona fide liar.

“Linda, you listed me as being twenty-nine!”

“So?” Linda’s already large eyes were wide with faux innocence.

“I’m turning thirty-four in December!”

“Geez, stop being such a stickler for details.”

“That’s rich, coming from a lawyer.”

“If I list your real age, I’ll be cutting down your market by eighty percent.”

“I don’t want to date ageists!”

“I’m being realistic,” she huffed. “Good God, it’s brutal out there. Look at me, I don’t look a day over twenty-six, am highly educated and gorgeous—”

“—and modest, don’t forget,” I added dryly.

“Yes, of course, and even then, my swipe-rights only increased when I put my age as twenty-nine. Me! What’s more, I’m sorry to say this, you!”

“Why am I still friends with you?” I muttered, palming my forehead in resignation.

“Because I’m fabulous and I’m going to get you a man worthy of your lovin’. What’s one or two li’l fibs in the grand scheme of things?”

“Lies: always a good foundation for a relationship,” I said, giving up.

“Ignoring the godawful innuendo, none of this even applies to me,” I protested. Well, except the free whisky and puns part. I began ticking off everything she got wrong on my fingers. “I don’t bake, I’ve been to all of two beginner yoga classes, and the closest I get to salsa is when I’m making a burrito. And there’s nothing here about my work, y’know, Singapore Business Review’s ‘40 Most Influential Lawyers Under 40’ and all.”

“Like?”

“Like, ah, how you are very, ah, well-read and very, er, creative in . . . Anyway, just list the accolades on LinkedIn where they belong. Or, if you must brag, do it casually on purpose, the way some people take selfies standing in front of their bookshelf and the shelf behind their face is conveniently lined with books by Chomsky and Sagan and lots of dead Russians, instead of the Twilight saga in hardcover and glossy untouched cookbooks that the person bought because they went to the bookstore when they were hungry.” She gave me a pointed look, which I ignored.

“You’re right,” I said, resigned. “I just thought . . . there’s not a lot of truth on this profile.”

“Says who?” She leaned forward and winked. “Notice that I said ‘enthusiast’ and ‘interested in.’ That could mean anything, really, if you think about it. Maybe you just really, really enjoy watching Dancing with the Stars. And The Great British Bake Off. Meaning you love telly. And what bloke doesn’t like telly, eh?”

“No further questions, your Dastardly Overlord,” I said, humbled.

“Good. Because you’re live.”

“What?” I shrieked. “Since when?”

“Since yesterday, you dork! Don’t get mad. Look how many matches you’ve already accrued. Twenty-seven!”

“What? I never chose . . . How many?” Despite my better judgment I was soon scrolling with Linda through the profile matches. (Apparently, in the few hours since she had hacked into my Facebook and created/linked my Tinder account, thus being able to publish my profile, all without my consent, she had already selected a few crush-worthy specimens who had also swiped right on my profile.) I did this over Linda’s shoulder, as Linda was still refusing to relinquish the phone or my new Facebook/Tinder password until I had “earned the right to use Tinder unsupervised, because Sponk.”

“You need my guidance. After all, there are a lot of creeps and liars out there,” she said, oblivious to the irony of her own words.

“So, uh, how are we supposed to handle twenty-seven Tinder chats at the same time?” I wanted to know.

“Oh, sweetie.” She gave me a pitying look, the kind she gave men when they asked her why she wouldn’t give them her number. “Fifty-five percent of these guys won’t text you beyond the first three messages because they’re just not that into you; five percent won’t make a move at all because they are too chicken shit or they want the woman to make the first move; ten percent will turn out to be liars, freaks, douchebags, socially inept, and psychos who will show themselves on my superior no-BS radar and who I will eliminate after five text lines; which leaves thirty percent worthy of navigating through, after which we will probably only find half of them deserving of our time, which leaves us with approximately three or four potential dates. I’ll have your results by Saturday morning.”

“So let me get this straight: in order to sieve out the liars, freaks, douchebags, socially inept, and psychos, you are going to pretend to be me?”

“And you don’t see the similarities between you and the people you’re trying to keep away from me? None whatsoever?”

“Nope.”

“Right.” Oh well. The woman did get me twenty-seven matches. “But what if Orson—”

“No. Repeat after me: Orson is poison. Orson is poison.”