Chapter 38
38
No. No fucking way.
I rubbed my eyes in case, you know, I had a tumor that was causing me to see betrayal where there wasn’t. But the same email was still displayed there, with the same words.
Un-fucking-believable.
Before I knew what I was doing, I had taken out my personal mobile phone and took a picture of those painful words. Then I snatched the plate of cake off his desk and walked out of his office in high dudgeon.
So Mong didn’t think I deserved the one thing I’d been working toward my whole career. Well, then—he didn’t deserve artisanal cake!
I felt like someone had kneed me in the gut.
Then my heart began palpitating and I got all sweaty and gaseous.
Whenever I get destabilized by news, I tend to drink. I took out my emergency bottle of Patrón and poured myself a shot that I quickly downed. Then another. Then another. And maybe a couple more in quick succession.
And then my eyes narrowed in rage. How could Mong do this to me? I was his Padawan. He’d called me his Work Daughter and I reciprocated by referring to him as my Work Dad. And he’d always claimed to have my back.
I felt sick. And in need of affirmation. Or a shag. These were tumultuous times.
I ran to the taxi stand and hailed one. It took me to Suresh’s
condo in fifteen minutes (we knew each other’s addresses because we’re each other’s backup on files).
Once dropped off at the main gate, I found Suresh’s block and rang his unit, hoping that I had remembered right that Anousha was still in Greece for her medical conference and not with him.
A sleepy voice mumbled, “Hello?”
“Is Anousha in?” I barked.
“Wh-what? No,” he said, befuddled.
“Then let me up.”
When I got to his door it was already open. Suresh, rumpled, stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a thin T-shirt and ratty pair of cotton boxers and T-shirt and looking bleary-eyed, sleep oozing from his eyes and flecks of drool on his chin (hey, it’s not like I’m writing a romance novel here).
“I need to talk to you in private,” I said, marching past him into the apartment. “I’ve got news.” I was all keyed up and no doubt looked a little crazy.
“Nice to see you, too, Andrea,” Suresh said sarcastically after he’d shut the door. “I’m only dressed in my boxers and I did not invite you in.”
“This won’t take more than a few minutes,” I said, throwing myself onto his couch.
Or maybe more. I took in the sculpted abs just visible through his T-shirt. Even in my drunken anger, I was impressed. How was this guy a comic artist? I squinted hard. Was that daubs of . . . paint on his chest?
“Can I help you?” Suresh interrupted my thoughts, his hands crossed over his chest.
“Nice apartment,” I said, making conversation, trying to keep my voice even. I jumped up from the couch and started walking around, peeking in rooms without shame. Adrenaline does that to you—so does five shots of tequila.
There was a light in his study; he’d been working on something.
Distracted, I walked in and saw a beautifully rendered portrait of Water and Rhean, bodies entwined while the world burned. Suresh had painted it in A3 size with gouache. It was breathtaking.
“You approve?” Suresh said, entering the small room and standing barely two feet away from me in front of his desk. My heart was beating even faster now.
“I didn’t know you can paint.”
“I’m not a natural, but I took a course.” He was still studying me in a wary manner. I couldn’t blame him: I didn’t even know exactly what I was doing there.
“I came here to tell you something.”
“So you’ve said.”
“Hey, give me a break. I’m not here to take a meter reading. What I’m about to say is . . . is difficult.”
He raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
“Mong is going to put forward your name for partnership, not mine.”
“What?” he said. “How . . . what . . . ?”
For a second I thought I was going to rage-jump his bones, but before I knew it, tears were pricking my eyes and the urge was gone. “I don’t understand it. I don’t. I bill more than you. I have seniority. It makes no sense.”
“Are you sure it’s not a mistake?”
“Positive,” I said raggedly. “Mong is the least ambiguous writer I know. I saw the email on his screen, when he was away. I even took a screenshot for proof. I’ve read the damn thing a dozen times.”
“Shit,” he said. “I’m shocked. I really thought you were going to get it in the end.”
“Apparently . . . apparently they think otherwise.”
To distract myself from my desire to puke, I picked up one of the silver picture frames (heavy, Tiffany, probably Anousha’s) and glanced at it with some curiosity. It was a picture of Anousha with her arms around an older man and woman with a remarkable
resemblance to her—her parents, presumably. I squinted. The man looked very familiar. Where had I seen him before?
Suresh came over to me and put a hesitant arm around my shoulder. “Andrea, I’m really—”
“Who’s this?” I asked, pointing at the man next to Anousha.
His eyes grew shifty. The man had no poker face, like me. “Oh, him? That’s Noush’s dad. You know, Mr. Singh.”
Mr. Singh. Mr. Singh. Then the coin dropped. I remembered where I had seen that aristocratic face before: hanging in a gilded frame above the receptionist in the lobby!
I dropped the frame with a dramatic clatter onto the teak tabletop. “You shit,” I hissed. “You lying sack of shit.”
Suresh grimaced and started backing away from me. “What now?” he muttered.
I pointed at him like we were in Salem in the 1600s and he had just announced that he voted for legalizing witchcraft and women’s suffrage. “Anousha is Inderjit Singh’s daughter. Your fiancée is the daughter of one of the founders of Singh, Lowe & Davidson!”
“Yes, and?” replied Suresh, feigning innocence. “It’s not like it’s anyone’s business.”
A cold fury enveloped me. “Oh, but it is,” I hissed. “It’s a goddamn conflict of interest, that’s what it is, and it should be declared, especially when you’re on the partnership track.”
“But I’m not,” he said, the lying turd, now approaching me with a placating palm outstretched. “I mean, I was. But I . . . it’s . . . it’s complicated. I’ll explain it all later. I want to know why you came here tonight. Tell me, please.”
“Don’t try to change the subject, asshole. I see everything clearly now, how you
lied
to me, manipulated me into— I mean, you were scheming to get partnership all this time . . . b-by getting into my hear— head to confuse me, you . . . you pinworm infection!”
“What? What the hell are you on about?”
“So you deny it?”
“I was not scheming, and I certainly wasn’t hiding the fact—I mean, I . . .
Fuck!
” He pulled his hair in frustration. “I have
never
used my relationship with Anousha to advance my career, how can you even—”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“I can ex—”
But I didn’t want to listen to another lie, so I did the only thing I could still do with dignity: I ran.
9:45 p.m.
WhatsApp messages and texts from Suresh. I have deleted them without reading. There’s really nothing left to say. Putting the phone away.
10:05 p.m.
Several missed calls from an unidentified number. What is this, amateur hour?
10:25 p.m.
Voicemail from Suresh. Deleted.
11:45 p.m.
Work emails, too? Too bad we’re no longer working on any files together, asshole. I deleted all of them without opening a single one. Then emptied the trash folder before I could change my mind. Archived all his incoming mail to a folder titled “LYING SCUM FOREIGN TALENT (HERE TO STEAL MY JOB).”
How could I have ever liked him, maybe even more than platonically, when I have a man like Eric Deng? (Also, why was it always “Eric Deng” in my head and not just “Eric”?) How could I have put everything I have with Eric in jeopardy like that? What was it about Suresh that tripped me up like this?
1:08 a.m.
Asshole cowaqrd. Wine bertter lover. Who needsa the asshol ewhen I ahv wwine . . .