Chapter 15
15
Thursday 17 March
8:30 a.m.
D-day! Went to work today wearing my date outfit, since I probably wouldn’t have enough time to dash home for an outfit change. After hours of agonizing, I settled on a bespoke three-quarter-sleeved kelly green DVF-style wrap dress in a flattering silk jersey fabric, with a skirt short enough to reveal my kneecaps, which were still pretty despite being the approximate hue of moonlit mole rats. I completed my look with a black Chanel Boy Bag and sexy black pair of Erdem kitten heels.
“Wow, you look so pretty,” Kai exclaimed when she saw me. I wish she hadn’t sounded quite so surprised, but I guess when you’re in your mid-twenties and a Pilates fanatic, the bar is set pretty high.
“Thanks,” I said, blushing a little as a few other colleagues crowded around and chimed in with their own compliments (except a skulking Genevieve). “I have this, erm, networking thing later.”
“You have such a nice figure; you should show it off more often,” Kai said, totally unaware that my hourglass figure was the result of squeezing myself into Spanx underwear that was, as she was speaking, constricting the blood supply to my limbs and brain. She winked. “We single women should look great all the time, in case Mr. Right is lurking around the corner.”
I shuddered internally. What a terrifying reality to contemplate: to have to dress like this every day, when my default work
outfit, sensible light wool trousers with long-sleeved silk tops, allowed a woman in her thirties to comfortably scarf down a cream cheese bagel and two cupcakes for lunch, after which she could discreetly undo the fastening of said trousers so that the belly, thus satiated, could spread out in post-digestion bliss.
The thing about dressing for a date when you’re almost in your mid-thirties and not a yoga or fitness instructor is that you are no longer primping but literally remodeling. Gone are the days when you could throw on a cute sleeveless dress, spritz on some cologne, and waltz your way out of the house, sauntering under whatever fluorescent light you come across instead of shrinking back with the hiss of a vampire meeting a beam of UV light. Instead, time is spent massaging bolts of cellulite cloth called your skin, tweezing hairs that have suddenly taken root in odd spots on your face while slathering on the contents of jars of whatever low-grade toxin is now fashionable to battle the onset of laugh lines. Then you agonizingly pour yourself into a modern-day corset just to be able to wear that vaguely figure-skimming dress, hoping to the Good Lord above that your date doesn’t suggest dessert.
I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m totally looking forward to my date, by the way.
5:00 p.m.
Spent the day trying to focus on work but failed miserably. Hopped on one fantasy train after another. Recalled that one of the local celebrity TV news anchors, who like me was in her mid-thirties, was also dating a much younger man, but couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. Will just google her now.
5:05 p.m.
Yikes. They’ve broken up. Anyway, I should take this one step at a time and not start thinking of wedding hashtags. That is lame, even though #AndySonWeds is totally cool or sick or whatever slang word is used these days to denote trendiness.
6:05 p.m.
I got up to go. Waved goodbye at a bemused Suresh, with whom I am still locked in a spiraling Office Face-Time Battle.
“Good luck,” Kai said slyly, after I had given her my out-of-office instructions should anyone call, which was not unlikely—clients are like Dementors: as soon as they sense a surge of youthful optimism when you should be low on morale and slaving over their files as you bemoan your life choices, they come a-calling and emailing, the soul suckers.
I exited the building, took a cab to the National Gallery, and began walking with a spring in my step toward the cocktail bar. I had timed it perfectly: the sun was dipping toward the horizon and the light was warm and flattering, perfect for an al fresco dining date. Orson was already there when I arrived, dressed in tailored slacks and a crisp white shirt with an orange Hermès tie showcasing a pattern of tilted kayaks. He greeted me by pressing his right cheek against mine.
“You look so lovely,” he murmured as we sat down. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered champagne and a dozen oysters to start.”
By champagne he meant a bottle of Dom Pérignon vintage rosé. I sipped the bubbly, opened the menu that the waiter handed me, and nearly passed out at the price of the champagne he had ordered—it cost what I’d imagine a black-market liver would fetch in America.
Seriously, where was this kid getting his money from?
We proceeded to have a tapas degustation menu with wine pairing. The conversation flowed easily, especially as I got drunker by the hour.
Dinner ended around 11:00 p.m. Orson insisted on paying for us both,
in cash
. As in he peeled out a wad of cash from his wallet like a magician pulling flowers from a hat. I saw the bill and realized, with some shock, that it was almost a third of my monthly mortgage installment, which meant that Orson had to have family
wealth or other sources of income aside from his job; but best not to look a gift horse in the mouth right then, especially if you wanted to kiss that mouth later.
And then we were just a couple of kids on the sidewalk making out in the full glare of disapproving, sex-starved Singaporeans.
“Where we going next?” he asked, his tongue in my ear.
“My place? Or yours?” I said, my tongue in his.
“I vote in favor of your place. What’s your address?”
Soon things were getting hot and heavy in the Grab. The driver was mercifully oblivious to the groping or was more focused on getting a five-star rating at the end of the ride; whatever the motivation, he kept his eyes on the road despite the kissing noises.
And then we got to my apartment in Cairnhill locked in a messy, hot embrace. I opened the door and led him in. In the silence my heart was thudding so hard that I was almost afraid it would wake the neighbors. “Nice place,” was all Orson had time to say before I led him into my room. And then—murder on the dance floor! Just kidding. I’m such a dork.
4:00 a.m.
Orson is gone. I think he tried to leave without waking me up, but I am a light sleeper and the merest twitch in my bedsprings shot me out of dreamland like a cannon. He smiled sheepishly, his clothes in his hands and looking remarkably illegal with his tousled Harry Styles hair and white boxer briefs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. You look so peaceful.”
I grinned wickedly. “I think you had a lot to do with that. So why don’t you stay the night? I’ll even risk being late just for you . . .” I walked my fingers up his right thigh.
“Oh, um, that’s really not necessary,” he said, looking embarrassed. “Um, you know, I snore, and uh, I have this presentation tomorrow and everything I need is back home.”
“Sure, go,” I said, a little disappointed. “We all have to do what we have to do, right?”
“Right,” he said. He bent down and gave me an awkward kiss on the forehead. “Listen, I’ll call you, OK? We’ll catch up soon. I’ll text you later.”
“All right,” I said languidly. As soon as I heard the door shut and lock automatically behind Orson, I closed my eyes and slid blissfully back into a champagne-tinted, endorphin-laced dream. Life was beautiful. And I totally crushed Sponk.
Wait till I tell Linda.