SHORT FICTION

The Bait — Chapter Two

Could there be a happy ending?

She stares at the flat-screen monitor and frowns. The figures flicker on the monitor, jumping past her inattentive mind. She clicks at a radio button on the screen and the rows of figures change into multi-coloured diagrams. They do not look right. She clicks around listlessly until her screen shows the picture of a beautiful young woman with perfect features, perfect make up, and flawless, airbrushed skin. She looks to the bottom right; at the design of a new product she is charged with managing. She looks again at the woman, with her bobbed and textured hair, striking cheekbones, and Lolita coyness, set against a background of autumnal copper.

However, her mind is already elsewhere as her pupils continue to fixate on the image. She is thinking about the private meeting she had earlier that morning when the director had asked to speak with her after their weekly production conference. He had invited her for coffee in his shining, vast office, something which he had never done before. While sipping that freshly- brewed, gourmand drink his assistant had brought in, he had informed her, in his thick Parisian accent, that they had been observing her excellent performance at work.

Only half conscious of what he was saying, she had taken in his pale blue eyes that were slightly puffy, his blond mane with little ringlets sleekly combed down, and his shapely, enticing lips that betrayed a man much younger than the sober suit he wore. He came to head the Malaysian branch eight months ago, taking over from the incumbent. She had modeled the male lead character in her romance novel after him, albeit a younger version of him.

When she studied his profile in a mind haze, it took her some time to realize he was speaking to her a post in Paris. She will be sent there as an assistant to the general manager in charge of the Asian market, where she will be groomed to take over the latter’s place less than a year from now because the latter will be promoted to the position of Vice President of International Markets. Would she accept this opportunity?

She starts, realizing that she is clicking her mouse idly. Her screen in front no longer shows the face of the model but random slides of her report. The office is buzzing with activity. She looks at the time on her computer. 5:30 pm. Nobody is leaving yet, other than the receptionist, lower-level clerical staff, the pantry ladies, and those already out on appointments. However, those laboring like drudges since after lunchtime are now infused with new energy as they try to cram in the last of their responsibilities before leaving the office. He has not called. She stares at her nails. She needs a manicure.

He sits on a bench table, working hard on a design for a non-governmental organization. The small publishing house he is newly attached to occasionally does pro-bono NGO assignments because of the publisher’s previous affiliations to left politics. This piece of work he is doing is the first assignment they are setting him. He has been hard at it since before lunch, after coming into the office at 11 am.

The managing editor tells him that they will have a meeting later tonight to discuss the new art magazine, the main job they have hired him for. The meeting is set at seven in the evening. He will also meet the managing director and publisher. Together, they will discuss his duties and his contract.

His stomach is kicking a fuss because he has forgotten lunch again. He goes to the pantry at the back of the room and makes himself some oatmeal before returning to work.

Even as he tries to concentrate on the work at hand, his mind keeps drifting back to the sketches of the night before.

“Hey, come have a drink,” urges Nordin, coming by the table. Nordin, his former colleague, and good friend, has been freelancing with the company for the past six months.

“Nah, I need to finish this. Got a meeting later.”

“Right, see you later. I need some cigarettes and food.”

They inform him during the meeting that they have decided to give the Artistic Director position to Nordin. The excuse given is that they want him as a senior writer-cum-illustrator. They have read the art reviews he had done for the other magazines and a newspaper. They thought that it would be good for the magazine to have a critic who is also an artist. Besides, says the managing director, gulping down the teh-tarik which he then followed with a discreet burp, they need someone with a degree for the position of Artistic Director; and someone who has been in the industry longer.

But why, he exclaims. Who is going to care? Readers only care about quality.

The shareholders have insisted, he is told. He wonders who they are, these shareholders since the company is so small.

He knows he lacks Nordin’s academic credentials. But he is confident in his abilities, which he secretly thinks surpasses Nordin’s. Management and the shareholders, whoever they are, are being petty.

Nordin is not at the meeting. Was Nordin already aware of all these when he came into the office that afternoon?

She looks at the clock. It is 6:30 pm. He still has not called. She no longer cares. Not like she wants to see him anyway. She turns down her colleagues’ invitation for a drink and goes home.

Feeling restless, she decides to go to the gym for a little workout after having skipped out for two weeks. All sweaty but more relaxed, she takes a shower, pulls on some casuals, and heads to a nearby café for dinner. Then, it is back to her room. She wants to spend some time alone, to redo the previous night’s efforts, or write a different scene.

After half an hour of futile attempts at writing, her mind unable to focus, she decides to go to the usual curry house, where she normally meets him, just in case he might be there. He is nowhere in sight. But she sees Nordin. So, she talks to Nordin instead.

She is now in a room alone with Nordin. They are kneeling on a woolen rug while facing each other, speaking in hushed tones. Suddenly, she clasps Nordin’s hands and pulls him towards her. In response, he swings her back and embraces her. His hands move under her tiny top, feeling his way towards her bra. He kisses her neck, while his hands are busily undoing the front clasp of her sports bra. Pulling off her shirt, he pushes her onto the rug.

“Huh?”

Yes, it is her mobile phone ringing. She sits up and rubs her eyes. She is in front of her desk, but the tablet is on a blank page. The pen lies near the top right of her desk. Her desk clock shows 11:30 pm.

“Yes?”

“Can you come out?”

“I told you to call me earlier, but you did not, and you expect me to….”

“I’m sorry. I was busy… and I had a meeting. Then I had to rush back for something. But I want to see you now…if that’s possible now…to show you something important. It’s not finished, but I want your opinion.” The words came out jumbled.

“Fine. See you at the same place in half an hour.”

She is facing him, under another, equally unstable umbrella. On their table are two teh-tarik. It is almost midnight.

He is not looking at her, his eyes intent on his drink. Neither is he smoking. “I did not get it,” he blurts out, looking up at her.

“Get what? The job?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather not discuss it…” Hmm.

“What are your plans?”

“Take time off and think about things.”

Ironic yet predictable.

“Anyway, I want to show you something, which is why I asked you out,” he continues after a slight pause.

She looks at him quizzically.

He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a hard manila file. He pulls out a feathery sketch, done in charcoal pencil, of a woman wearing a flowing, fluttering dress. Her figure is only slightly visible through the blurred outlines he had smudged in. There is a teardrop near the left eye. On each hand, she holds a book and a basket. In the basket are many cubic monads portraying snippets of the woman’s routine as the artist imagines her.

She is surprised by how closely the captured fragments resemble aspects of her daily routine. A fountain pen with a tapering tip stands out from among the objects in the basket, like a dusky stalk.

She looks at the picture. Then she looks up at him. “Do you recognize her?”

He eyes her meaningfully.

“Why are you using me as a subject?” Her eyes query in return. He smiles.

She blushes.

She is sitting on his bed, smiling at him as he draws her. Her mind liquid as she holds her tablet on her lap, madly writing, fevered by the flow of words and captive to an imagination that holds her in thrall. She writes chapter after chapter. Then he comes up to her, and gently removes her tablet and pen. He then holds her on his lap and kisses her tenderly. The alarm clock goes off.

The End.

Back to the beginning

Glossary

• Teh-tarik — a milky tea concocted when the person who made it pours the tea from one tin mug into another tin mug in an exaggerated manner that simulates ‘pulling’ the tea.

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