chapter 63

A woman sat at the bar of the Deluxe with a vacant, far-off expression on her face as if she was not really there. Like she’d upped and left her body behind to fill itself with alcohol until it could take no more.

This was the state in which Camille found her best friend.

Octavia Tang Carmichael had an ethereal quality about her even sporting a pageboy haircut. Much of it had to do with her fine-boned face, how it happened to be an almost perfect combination of both Eastern and Western features like her name suggested—a pouty mouth, wide brown eyes so dark they looked black in some lights, and slanting cheekbones.

Simply put, she looked like a sad beautiful porcelain doll.

It was this image that struck Camille when they first met in Paris during their debut at Les Bal des Débutante, where a madness settled into her and did not leave until she’d done the sketch of an original design inspired by the other girl so fully-formed it felt like she must have seen it somewhere.

They hadn’t spoken then, hadn’t had the time too really, though even if they had Tavy wouldn’t have made much of an effort as she’d been notorious for her quietness and the general air she gave off as if she didn’t really want to be there.

One perfunctory email congratulating her on having a photo of hers—in which she’d been wearing a stunning gold and black Elie Saab ball gown—from the event feature in Singapore Tatler had been the length and breadth of their socializing, though as luck would have it they’d bump into each other a little over five years later in England, at a bar completely devoid of haute couture dresses this time.

Camille had been in her third year at Central Saint Martin’s where she was studying Fashion and Tavy in her second at Brasenose College, Oxford, where she was studying Law.

The latter had driven up to London because a friend of hers was performing that evening, and while it turned out that said friend happened to be a pretty shitty musician, they’d kept in touch through the years, growing close all the while and even living briefly together when she returned to America after a brief two-year stint in Paris.

Seven years later and Camille was cautiously sliding into the bar seat beside her friend, hoping against hope that Tavy would come-to just before they were supposed to leave and Camille could claim she’d been there all along, and she’d just been too conked-out to notice.

Apparently, this was not to be as Tavy turned her blank stare on her as soon as she positioned herself for the anticipated long wait. Immediately the vacant expression dissipated, sharpening to a point as her face flushed even redder.

Next a sharp, searing pain burned a trail up Camille’s uncovered arm, and she let out a pained gasp.

“Ouch!” Camille snapped, recoiling. “What was that for?”

On hearing this, Tavy’s face hardened and she backed away as the other woman reached for her, anticipating that she would be struck again—but the other woman merely grasped her bicep, pulling her close so they were almost nose to nose.

Her breath smelled faintly of beer and strands of her dark hair obscured her vision so frequently that she had to constantly bat them away in scissor-like motions.

“I’ve had to drink alone for thirty minutes while turning down corporate execs with zero game,” Tavy fumed, “You don’t get to act like you didn’t deserve that one.”

A thin curl of guilt unfurled into Camille as she soothed the struck part of her arm, where faint, red handprints could be made out.

“I’m sorry, but, you know, I have a job,” she deadpanned.

Tavy gave a drawn-out sigh, letting go of her to take a sip of her beer.

“As if anyone could forget you’re the next Anna-fucking-Wintour,” she mumbled, swallowing and then setting the tall glass down. “Just a friendly reminder: I have a job too.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Camille said, flagging down the bartender, a dark, slender man with towel strewn carefully over his shoulder.

“I do, which is why I’m letting you off lightly with that slug and the fact that you’re paying for drinks.”

Camille’s jaw fell open.

“The only thing reason we’re even here is because it’s Happy Hour and there is a discount on the drinks.”

Her best friend shrugged, taking another swallow.

With a mother from one of Singapore’s richer-than God banking and finance families and a father whose ancestors were proven to have come into America on the Mayflower, Tavie was used to affluence on a scale incomprehensible to most of the average working class and thus, found money talk exhausting.

She was a thrill seeker whose only excitement came from two things. The first, winning at anything and everything (a trait they both shared), which was why she’d chosen to pursue Law even knowing she could go without putting in a day’s work for the rest of her life and lack nothing.

The second, women.

“So I met this girl,” she began as Camille tipped her head back and swallowed down a shot glass of vodka, the liquid burning a trail down her chest as it wound its way to her stomach.

“Fuck,” she hissed, beating a fist on her chest as involuntary tears sprang up her eyes. “That hit different.”

“Hear ye, hear ye,” Tavie said with a nod, raising her glass in one easy movement.

Eleven a.m. Tuesday appointments—though admittedly too early to be drunk on a working day—were a tradition they’d began in their time at England which died down when they’d cohabited but quickly returned again as soon as they stopped living with each other.

Because of their busy schedules they’d had to set aside a time to meet up, kick back and relax as they caught each other up on the goings of their lives, which for Tavie meant an entire hour in which she got to talk about the latest woman she happened to be in love with at the time.

The fact that their meetings fell on Tuesdays where the overpriced drinks at Deluxe happened to be forty-percent off was only a lucky coincidence, and even though the workout sessions that followed for Camille were always brutal as she’d need to work off the extra calories somehow, they were always worth it.

“You were saying something,” she prodded, knowing that if Tavie did not get this off her chest right now she’d have a week of frequent 2 a.m. meltdown texts and calls to look forward to.

“Yes, I met someone new.”

Camille pursed her lips.

“What happened to Elaine?”

“Elaine?”

“You know, the lawyer,” she said with unnecessary hand gestures.

“Huh?”

Her expression of genuine confusion would’ve seemed false to anyone who did not know that Tavie, did not know that ran through women the way a shopaholic ran through clothes they’d purchased.

“I’ve dated a lot of lawyers so you’re going to have to be more specific than that, sweetheart.”

Camille ran a toothcomb through her mind in search of some defining characteristic, a feature which stood out even though she’d only seen the picture of said girl.

After a moment she slapped the marble island, posture straightening in a show of victory.

“Crazy Rich Asians.”

That was all, but the other woman’s eyes widened and before they knew it they began to giggle like errant school girls, only decreasing in volume when they noticed that the other patrons had begun to shoot dirty looks at them.

“Elsa,” Tavie corrected when they finally calmed down enough to carry on with their conversation, and Camille nodded.

“Yes, her.”

She shook her head fondly, most likely in remembrance of the story she liked telling, of how when she and Elsa—another lawyer at Carlyle & Richards—went on a celebratory dinner after a particularly tricky case they’d worked together panned out, the other woman had suddenly blurted that she loved Asians before backtracking and saying she loved Crazy Rich Asians when she realized how her statement rubbed-off when said out loud.

Tavie, already used to such microaggressions despite her monied background, had graciously let it slide, offering that they head to her apartment for a night cap, where things quickly escalated.

God, Elsa fucked like a mad woman. And that tongue…

“It’s over,” she rasped, knowing fully well that her complexion had turned flushed.

Clearing her throat, Tavie shook her head and returned from her foray into the past to find her friend’s shrewd gaze on her.

“You’re like a frat boy,” Camille teased, breaking eye contact to flag down the bartender again for a refill.

“Hell, you’re worse than a frat boy,” she continued.

Her best friend offered a succinct shrug.

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game.”

“Enough already, Jesus,” Camille giggled, readying herself for another shot.

Two were all she’d risk, because unlike Tavie who drank like a fish and had a tolerance sharpened to a fine point from years of partying—she had very low tolerance, and couldn’t afford to have her wits compromised.

Also, showing up to work completely knackered was in bad taste.

“As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, I met a new girl,” she paused, took a deep breath and then added, “on Tinder.”

Camille was sure that her eyebrows had disappeared into her hairline.

“But, I thought—”

“I know, I know,” Tavie cut in sharply, “I know I said dating apps were the height of desperation and I would never get on them, but I got curious, okay?”

At an uncharacteristic loss for what to say Camille nodded, and after a few tense seconds Tavie relaxed.

So maybe it was time she cut back on those drinks.

“It’s not so bad y’know,” she defended. “In fact, you should try it sometime.”

“I have Milo.”

“Oh, really?” Tavie remarked, batting her lashes in a show of false innocence. “I totally forgot about him. You know how bad I am at remembering things.”

Camille sighed at this blatant lie.