Chapter 26
26
Tuesday 3 May
12:16 a.m.
Very bad start to our trip. Left home later than planned because I had to put on makeup before meeting Suresh at the airport at this ungodly hour.
Speaking of which, why do people use the expression “ungodly hour”? All hours are godly. It just depends on who your god is.
Made it to the airport with only minutes to spare before they closed check-in, but looking fabulous (for myself, obviously, not because I was flying with Suresh). Made it through security checks and frantically texted Suresh, pretending that I had been there for the past hour. No luck. Apparently the freak had been there for
two hours
, pottering around duty-free, thoughtfully buying boxes of pineapple tarts and TWG tea to cart all the way to Luxembourg.
As if clients, the Sauron-worshipping tapeworms that they are, can be appeased by pineapple tarts.
The only thing that tapeworms understand is, erm . . . hmm. I don’t think tapeworms actually have the capacity to understand. Well, then the only thing tapeworms are driven by is . . .
What
are
they driven by?
12:25 a.m.
I now know all the types of intestinal worms you can get and how to get them.
12:27 a.m.
How to get Genevieve to drink from muddy swamp water? How to ensure the swamp water sample contains eggs of flukes?
12:33 a.m.
How to get water from a lake containing Guinea worm, surely the Lamborghini of parasitic worms?
12:36 a.m.
Pleasant fantasy of Guinea worm bursting forth from a screaming Genevieve is shattered by the insistent buzzing of my phone. It was Suresh asking where I was in the duty-free zone. Realized I had not budged more than twelve feet since I cleared immigration. Shit. Am ten minutes away from the gate and that gate is closing in seven minutes.
12:40 a.m.
Went to a pharmacy and bought a box of Zentel. My mother, God bless her, was right in this limited case: kill them worms.
12:43 a.m.
Arrived just before they closed the gate, last second. Smiled triumphantly at Suresh as I waltzed into business class, looking immaculate even though I was gasping for breath after sprinting to the gate.
12:45 a.m.
Shit. Just looked down at my feet and realized that in rush to the airport, I’ve worn different-colored ballerina shoes
in different styles
.
Also dropped the box of Zentel in plain sight of Suresh, who was seated across the aisle, when bending over in a panic to stick my handbag in front of my feet so as to obscure the different shoes. The box lay in the middle of the aisle, its lettering visible from space.
“Is everything OK?” he said in a pseudo-concerned voice when I tried to pick up the box with nonchalance.
“I’m being prudent: Europeans don’t boil their tap water.”
“The heathens,” he deadpanned. “Thank God I know for a fact we’ll be served mineral water one hundred percent of the time.”
“Unboiled mineral water is just as bad. We’ll see who’s laughing when you swallow the eggs of a parasitic worm,” I replied. What I didn’t say was where said eggs would come from, but I expect it will not be difficult to get a sample of swamp water the next time I’m in Malaysia.
10:00 a.m.
Luxembourg Airport at last, after taking the connecting flight from Zurich. “Wake up, quail face,” I said, elbowing Suresh, who awoke with a jerk.
“Wahh? Wahh?” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, groggy and disoriented. “Have we arrived already?”
“Yes,” I said. The passengers around us were reaching for their luggage in the overhead compartments, eager to disembark. “And you’ve been drooling in your seat for the past fifteen minutes since we landed, so I’d really like to get going.”
He straightened and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, you should have woken me up.”
“I didn’t want to; you looked so peaceful,” I admitted. I leaned close and whispered, “Plus I like listening to you sleep-talk. I’ve learned so much about you. Like the name of your kissing cousin, the actual polytechnic school you graduated from instead of Leeds . . .”
He cuffed me playfully on my shoulder; I responded by punching him, harder than I’d intended to, in the chest. “Ack!” he wheezed. “What was that for?”
“C’mon, slowpoke, let’s go.” I was already pulling our luggage down the aisle.
11:30 a.m.
Soon after our landing, we were strolling down the pretty cobblestone Grand-Rue (honestly, everything sounds better in French, doesn’t it?), enjoying the bright, cloudless day. We’d
checked our bags into the Sofitel Luxembourg Le Grand Ducal, where the client had booked us adjoining suites (“Sweet!” Suresh had said. “Get it—suite? Sweet?” to which I must shamefacedly admit to giggling; it must have been the jet lag) and had a few hours to play tourist before meeting the Luxembourg lawyers, Loesch & Kremer, in their office in Kirchberg, the sparkling new CBD of Luxembourg, at 2:00 p.m. Suresh, predictably, had done all the research as to where to go for food and to take Instagram-worthy photos (yes, we were conforming to cultural stereotypes); we had coffee and a selection of delicate pastries from Oberweis, spicy hot chocolate from a beautiful café facing the Grand Ducal Palace, followed by a late lunch in a small, hole-in-the-wall Laotian (!) eatery. It was annoyingly useful that Suresh spoke French, one of the official administrative languages used in Luxembourg.
*
For once though, it was nice to be led along from one place to another, not thinking, not planning. Just enjoying the sights and trading insults.
2:55 p.m.
It was a shame to leave the picturesque medieval part of Luxembourg and head by (scandalously expensive) taxi toward the anonymous steel-and-glass facades of the new city when it came time for our meeting. A tall, pale, mousy-haired man in an attractive suit was waiting in the lobby. I recognized him as Tristan Langford-Bauer, our Singapore desk representative in London. He shook our hands hard and did not smile. He was one of those men who sucked the charm out of a room, but was apparently born with the resilience and hardiness of the superbug MRSA (great name for a boy band or a logistics company BTW), which is how, despite his lack of warmth, he’d flourished in new environments
and slithered up the ladder. I comforted myself with the knowledge that we’d only need to be around him for one day.
Once we had been seated in a conference room (“Aspiration”) and met our Luxembourg lawyers, Etienne Mousel and his underling, Frédéric Weber, our doubts were quickly assuaged. They assured us that the common sense approach would be to sign the SPA with some carve-outs. Very sensible, business-friendly suggestions. Got to love the Luxembourgians.
We left the firm an hour later, after exchanging some regulatory chitchat, and Suresh, bless him, very kindly suggested that we all get tea or beer, since Tristan had succeeded him as the Singapore desk rep and had been bringing in a steady flow of business and Suresh wanted to exchange ideas.
“No,” said Langford-Bauer, turdily, not even bothering to find some excuse.
“We have to update Sungguh Capital’s counsel, he’s waiting on us,” I said, desperate to find some excuse to leave him.
“Right,” said Suresh, acquiescing because I was stabbing him in the back with a pen.
I had already finished composing an update email to Baldev Singh, Sungguh Capital’s general counsel, by the time we got into a cab, and was eager to explore the picturesque Les Rives de Clausen area (where a local brewery had a bar). We found it and proceeded to order giant pints of fresh Mousel beer, and something porky and fried as a snack. I was thinking the whole unnecessary drama was over and we could now drink ourselves silly, but a panicked email titled “URGENT: VIZWARE CLOSING” arriving barely twenty minutes after we’d sat down proved me wrong.
Turns out Langford-Bauer, who was friends with Baldev from university (London School of Economics), had told Baldev that the closing was potentially jeopardized if, because of the delayed
filing, the Luxembourg authorities decided to liquidate the holding company before the closing was done. So Baldev was demanding we have a conference call in an hour.
Langford-Bauer replied to the thread and said that he’d already booked a conference room in his hotel and was ready.
I updated Suresh, who was as upset as I was to be leaving after downing only one pint: we shared a love of fresh beer. But work called. Literally.
4:30 p.m.
“What’s this I hear about the closing being jeopardized?” Baldev demanded when we got on the phone.
Langford-Bauer explained the situation with great exaggeration, clearly having gone behind our backs to paint a grimmer picture of the delayed filing than was necessary. So much for being on the same side on this file.
“Andrea, why wasn’t this flagged earlier?” Baldev said in agitation. “What am I going to tell the investment committee? Not to mention Mr. Zhang.”
“They had seven months to file, Andrea,” added Langford-Bauer silkily. “I’m a little appalled myself that you and Suresh didn’t push for all the boxes to be checked when the client has been working on this transaction for the past ten months, and the closing is supposed to be in two months, tops.” He shook his head. “I was under the impression that, biologically, women were better multitaskers.”
WTF?
“This is unacceptable,” Baldev said, now shouting. “I think Mr. Zhang has made it clear that this closing cannot be delayed. How could this have slipped through your fingers?”
I was flustered; our relations over the past couple of years had always been super cordial and professional. Langford-Bauer must have shanked us in the back with a machete. “Well, w-when the
due diligence really got off ground, the holdco still had two weeks or so to file the accounts, and it was the Luxembourg lawyers’ duty to make sure—”
“No fucking excuses,” Baldev yelled. “You’re the lead coordinating counsel; what were you doing?”
I gaped. Langford-Bauer looked at me in his supercilious way. I had the distinct impression that maybe, just
maybe
, he didn’t like me.
“If I may, Baldev, this is really not Andrea’s fault,” Suresh cut in. “It was clearly something beyond her or the Luxembourg lawyers’ control. Plus Andrea has already drafted some carve-out language in the SPA, to mitigate the
very
remote risk of a liquidation by the Luxembourg authorities.”
His hand was on mine under the table, squeezing it tight. I regained presence of mind and replied in an authoritative voice, “And I’ll follow up to ensure all this is fixed before the closing.”
Baldev was not placated. “See that you do, and Suresh, watch Andrea,” he said. “Now Tristan, can you tell me again what would happen in the worst-case scenario?”
Zero respect. He’d dismissed me like I was incompetent over one mistake, even though I had been Sungguh Capital’s day-to-day contact on their files for the
last four years
and they knew I had sacrificed a lot on a personal level to service them. But he’d only let up when Suresh vouched for me.
I went into a fugue state for the next forty minutes or so as Langford-Bauer led the discussion with Suresh, blatantly directing all his questions on the transaction to Suresh without bothering to consult me, which of course gave me ample time to imagine the many scenarios in which Langford-Bauer was shamed and tortured with the efficiency of a Chinese demon that had been promoted to the most imaginative echelon of Chinese hell. Somehow I held it together until I got into the taxi. Then it was all faucets go.
“Hey,” Suresh said, grabbing me by the shoulders, “what’s wrong?”
“I’m f-fine,” I said through hacking sobs.
“You’re literally projecting snot.”
“So now it’s y-your turn to mock me, too?” I said angrily.
“Shhhhhh,” he said, pulling me even closer and resting his chin on the top of my head. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m on your side. And are you going to let a bunch of MCPs get to you, Andrea? Miss ‘Top 40 Under 40’?”
“It’s n-not fair,” I blubbered. “I-I’ve been working with these ingrates for over four years, and I’ve never made a mistake. So basically I lost Ivan because of these assholes?”
Suresh held me and made soft shushing noises that eventually soothed my sobs down to a stream of hiccups. When I was sufficiently calm and removed myself from the warmth of his embrace, I was horrified that I had lost it like that and had soaked the right shoulder of his very expensive suit. Not that he seemed to notice. He was looking at me in a way I could only describe as “horny.”
Or maybe he was just looking at me with concern. Maybe I was just projecting.
“Was Ivan, ah, your ex? The fiancé you mentioned?”
“He was my fiancé, yes,” I said, sniffling.
“You never did tell me why you broke up. Was it really because of work?”
“Lawyers should know better than to ask leading questions.” I couldn’t bear to tell him the whole story. “Anyway, thank you. You were a real friend in there.”
He smiled and shrugged. “Anytime. You would have done the same for me, right?” he said rhetorically.
I shook my head and he cuffed my shoulder. He thought I was joking. “We should stick up for each other, you know. As friends.”
“Are we friends?” I said, also rhetorically.
“I would hope so. You and me against the world, two foreign talents in a pod,” he said softly, his face getting closer.
“You’re my biggest competition. I shouldn’t let my guard down with you, it’s dangerous,” I whispered, leaning in—
“Vous avez arrivé!”
the taxi driver announced suddenly, shattering the mood. I looked up in confusion. The entire ride had taken less than eight minutes, literally. Yet there we were, a stone’s throw away from the hotel. The taxi turned to a side road and stopped. Rain began pelting the car. The driver said something rapid in French to Suresh. He pointed at roadwork that was preventing him from dropping us at the hotel. “You have to walk there, sorry,” he said.
We looked at each other, shrugged, paid the fare, and ran the last fifty meters to our hotel under a downpour. Within seconds we were drenched. We slopped into the hotel lobby, giggling. I shook off the droplets clinging to my hair to the disapproving gaze of the bellboy, then we headed to our rooms. Our very conveniently located rooms. Side-by-side. No security cameras on the wall, as far as the eye could see.
There was an awkward moment when we just stood there in front of our doors, not knowing what to say.
“Erm. So, like, thanks for sticking up for me in the meeting,” I babbled to dispel the tension in the air.
“Anytime. Dinner in an hour? Six thirty?”
“I’m way too jet lagged,” I lied. “Plus work. Gotta catch up on emails.”
“Sure, I’ll just order room service then,” he said, suggestively. Or not. He leaned toward me and I jumped back before I realized that he had only been trying to air-kiss me, I think. But why would he do that, when he had never air-kissed me before? I mumbled a hasty goodbye, opened the door, and practically lunged in before slamming the door behind me.
6:25 p.m.
Mmm. Tub good. Shower head even better. Might take another bath.
7:28 p.m.
OK, really need to stop. Water is a precious commodity.
7:45 p.m.
OK, am really stopping now. Need to eat anyway.
8:45 p.m.
Seems like disaster is averted—the client is appeased, they will wait for the accounts to be filed, some carve-out language will need to be inserted, everyone is on board again. Hurrah!
Wednesday 4 May
Spent all day at the showcase, then awkward evening at the gala. Naturally, I was seated next to Suresh and Langford-Bauer. I wore my artfully crinkly (so I tell myself) pleated Issey Miyake sleeveless black dress. Suresh wore a tuxedo. He should never be allowed to wear a tuxedo—he looks too good. Spent most of the night trying to avoid talking to him because my gaze kept straying to his lips and it is very annoying because people like that don’t need to be reminded how physically attractive they are.
Midway through the gala we ducked out and hightailed it back to the hotel, checked out, and made our way to the national airport in the nick of time to fly to Munich, after which we’d be seated next to each other for thirteen hours.
We soon found out that our return flight was in premium economy, which is a bit of a rotten deal. Clients are like that: they want you fresh and ready to fight their battles, so they fly you in business class and put you up in a fancy five-star; but once they’ve gotten what they wanted it’s back to polyester class. If only I could slip some worm eggs in their breakfast . . .
“Are you OK? You look a little constipated,” Suresh said. “Shall I buy us some in-flight data that we will not use, because I’m confiscating your phone right now, and charge it to the client?”
“Buzz off,” I said companionably.
“Sure,” Suresh said. He settled back down in his tiny seat and continued reading, a small smile on his lips. His soft, voluptuous, sensuous . . .
I raked my nails across my arm just as Suresh turned and caught me at it. “Hives,” I said, pretending to scratch my arm. “Flares up when I’m tired.”
He patted his right shoulder. “Why don’t you nap on me? You can even do that cavewoman drool thing you do when you nap in the office.”
I
was
tired. I leaned on his shoulder and closed my eyes like an obedient child. Immediately I regretted it. It was futile to attempt to sleep when his shoulder smelled like cinnamon. And how through the soft, ticklish fibers of his linen suit I could feel the heat of his skin.
My heart gave a strange calypso spasm and all thoughts of sleep were replaced by an untoward desire to nuzzle his neck and the terrifyingly basic urge to nibble his earlobe.
Almost as though he had sensed my thoughts he subtly shifted in his seat so that he could angle his face to my conveniently upturned one. My breath caught in my throat and that agonizing tension began to build in my stomach. Our eyes locked; I imagined the earth trembling as every ancestor I’d ever had started turning in their graves. “Andrea,” he whispered, his lips brushing mine. “I—”
I jerked back from his shoulder and said inanely, “I’ve got to go to the toilet!” The high altitude was obviously messing with my brain. I splashed some water on my face to jolt myself back to reality. Then I returned to my seat and sat back down, pointedly facing away from Suresh and pretending to sleep. I couldn’t wait for us to land so that I could get away from him.
Thursday 5 May
7:45 p.m.
When we landed, I leaped out of my seat, grabbed my bags from the overhead compartment, and ran for immigration control before I ended up doing something I really regretted. I cleared immigration and customs in record time and hailed a cab for home, way before Suresh.
Then I was in my apartment. God, I needed a cold shower, and the shower head. I turned on the light and screamed.
“Hey,” said the figure on the couch.
She stood up, her eyes swollen from crying. It was Linda, dressed in a ripped T-shirt and denim shorts, her makeup smeared all over her face. And my once-pristine cream leather couch.
“L-Linda!” I gasped, staring at her. “What happened?” I was so surprised that it took me a few heartbeats to remember that she had the spare keys to my apartment.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she choked out. “Can we just go to bed?”
“Sure,” I said. I held her as she sobbed into my shoulders while I surreptitiously checked her for bruises, all the while vowing grimly that if Massimo Poon were to somehow appear in front of me right now, I would take him out with a blunt knife. She didn’t have to say it, but I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he was the cause of my best friend’s misery.