Chapter 29 - Mr. Wong Cant Make a White (1/2)

He could have called. He should have just called. Why would he even do that?

Claire fumes as she stands in the elevator. She presses the buŧŧon for ground floor, and like in all luxury hotels that seem to have come from the 19th century, the elevator descends at its leisure. She couldn't understand what really is on Gabriel Tan's mind. One moment, you're his fake fiancée, sending you to live in this posh tower; the next moment, he's sending you to that Chinese laundromat again to fetch his clean clothes. Worst, he could have just called up the hotel to tell her that. Why must he appear at the wrongest moment? Why?

Claire grinds her teeth. She's embarrassed that Gabriel saw her dancing like an idiot in her bathrobe, munching on a turkey leg like some primitive savage. It didn't help that the music was really dance-y in the first place. The image of her in that most ridiculous moment must have been burned on Gabriel's mind. The other half of her mind says, ”So what?” He's not ”anything” to you, is he? It's not like you have a reputation to uphold. If you were, you wouldn't even agree to this set-up, these terms of employment, this game of charades.

But the other half couldn't move on. The elevator doors ding open, and in her mind's eye the scene replays: Claire dancing to Blondie's music, in her bathrobe, swaying her hɨps, using the turkey leg like some improvised mic. Ugh!

Good thing, a limousine is bringing her to Leed's. Which only adds to her overall confusion—Gabriel can just send his butler, Lopez, to get his clothes, right? Why send her over there, in a limousine, of all modes of transport? What is this insanity?

Inside the limo, the driver offers her a selection of miniature drinks to calm her nerves. ”No, thank you,” Claire says; she's done for champagne and all sorts of alcohol for the day. She's not touching any of that shit for now.

The limousine stops right in front of Leed's. The driver even opens the door for her. And she's thinking, this is getting more and more ridiculous by the minute. Here I am, stepping out of a limo to get my boss's clean clothes. ”I'm a glorified girl Friday, but a girl Friday still,” she mutters to herself.

Mr. Wong greets him as she enters. He's wearing the same thing, yet this time, he recognizes her and is instantly reverential.

”Good afternoon, Miss Claire,” Mr. Wong says in careful diction. ”You've come for Mr. Tan's clothes, I presume?”

At that, Mr. Wong's face shatters into a thousand pieces. He freezes in mid-action as he's about to open a cabinet. ”Oh my God, Miss Claire,” he begins sobbing. ”I am an utter failure. I deserved to be castrated. My own tėstɨċŀės deserve to be torn right out of my scrotum and tossed to a pack of hungry donkeys to be eaten. I am a failure! I cannot do this job, anymore! I should die!”

”Whoa! Hold your horses, Mr. Wong! What do you even mean?”

”I can't, Miss Claire, I just can't!” Mr. Wong sniffles. ”Mr. Gabriel Tan's perfect silken boxers! I could not resurrect it!”

”How do you mean?” Claire asks, but she already knows the answer.

Mr. Wong whimpers as he disappears into a back room. Minutes pass by. Claire looks at the wall clock and wonders if she's still expected to be at Gabriel's office at this hour. Maybe he needs this particular set of clothes, but she doubts it. She has an inkling Gabriel is making her do these things just for shits and giggles.