I Did Something Bad

One

“What?”

I’m glad I haven’t taken the sip of wine I was going for, because I would’ve definitely just spat it across the table cinematic-style. And spitting red wine on the editor in chief of Vogue Singapore who is conveniently wearing an all-white Gucci pantsuit is very low on the list of things I want to do today (or, you know, ever).

Clarissa Song’s berry-red lips part once more as she repeats, “I want you to do the Tyler Tun cover story,” with as much casualness as though she’s just informed me of the way she had her eggs for breakfast this morning.

“The—” With slightly trembling hands, I do take a sip, but only because otherwise my dry mouth isn’t going to form any words. Formulating a coherent response as I swallow, I place my glass back down beside my untouched Caesar salad and try to hide the fact that I can feel my heartbeat inside my ears. “You want me . For the. Tyler Tun. Cover story.”

Clarissa nods, holding up her fork as she chews on her forkful of salad. At least one of us is able to eat right now. “Yes.” She nods again and swallows. “We have an exclusive. He’ll do the usual publicity tour closer to the movie release date, but while he’s shooting on location here in Yangon, we’re the only outlet who has access. Obviously, all the Asia offices fought over it, but you know me—” She puts another forkful of greens into her mouth, letting her wink finish the sentence. Because I do know her— everyone in the Asian media network knows her—and I know how the sentence ends: I always get what I want.

Which prompts me to ask the obvious with as much tactfulness as I can summon: “And you want… me? To… write it?”

“Well, obviously it’ll be more than just writing .” She laughs. “He’s in town for almost two months—”

“I thought shooting was only a month?” I had just read an article on this very topic a couple of days ago.

“Yes, but he’s arriving a week earlier and staying behind for two weeks after filming’s wrapped up. Wants to spend time with his mother’s side of the family here. And he’s all yours for the approximate two months.”

I frown, wondering if it doesn’t seem a tiny bit invasive to be shadowing someone whom Rolling Stone recently called “the busiest human being in the world” when he’s specifically carved out personal time to spend with his family. But then again, I’m sure he would’ve said no if he weren’t on board. It is Tyler Tun, after all.

Clarissa is still talking. “You’ll have a company card. Charge whatever you’d like. Taxis. Food. Clothes if you feel like you need a new wardrobe. Flights if you need to follow him around the country. Trail him. You’ll get him from nine A.M. ’til five P.M. or whenever he leaves set. Whichever is later. Except for Sundays. Nothing on Sundays.”

“I—”

I am swiftly reminded that you don’t cut off Clarissa Song. She continues like she didn’t notice a thing. “It’s a weird setup, I’ll admit, but it’s all in the contract. What I want you to focus on is him. I’m sure I don’t need to explicitly clarify what a big deal this is. Learn his favorite breakfast. If he has a running playlist. If he does, who’s his most-played artist? He has a private plane, but when he flies commercial, does he like the aisle or window seat? Is he a cat person? Dog person? Hamster person? Anything. Everything. Two months may seem like a lot, but you won’t get any chances for follow-up questions. Learn”—she leans forward to emphasize—“ everything. By the time this profile comes out, I want you to know Tyler Tun better than his own parents. I want you to know if America’s favorite golden boy flosses every night, and if he does, I want you to know his favorite brand of floss.”

I nod, and, because at this point Clarissa’s finished half her salad—while I think I’ve had a cherry tomato?—I take a small bite off of my plate. I’m equal parts intrigued and terrified. I wonder if asking this next question will essentially be me shooting myself in the foot, but in the end, my curiosity wins out. “And… why me?”

Clarissa sits back, a small smirk curling one side of her lips. It’s not a mean smirk, but more an I thought you might ask that smirk. “Because,” she says, one perfectly microbladed eyebrow rising, her answer prepped and ready to go. “We needed the best of the best of the best. Not just the best, or the best of the best. The best. Of the best. Of the best. ”

But I’ve never done a celebrity profile before.

When Clarissa’s eyes narrow and she says, “And yes, I know you’ve never done a celebrity profile before,” I move slightly back. Did I say that out loud? No, I didn’t. Did I? No. I didn’t. “But every time we’ve worked together, you’ve arguably been the most professional journalist I’ve collaborated with, and I need someone who will be professional about this and not lose their mind over the fact that it’s Tyler Tun,” she says, and fear and flattery collide head-on inside my stomach. Because I’m not necessarily “losing my mind” over the fact that I’m being handed a Tyler Tun profile, but I’m only human, which means that I’m also not not .

I inhale. Professional. I am professional, and composed, and definitely listening to what Clarissa’s still saying.

“Additionally, here’s the thing about journalism, Khin. I used to work with Neil Gaiman, back when he was a journalist, and to paraphrase something he always said, in order to be a good journalist, you only have to fulfill two of three criteria: your writing is good, you file on time, you’re fun to work with. If your work is good and you file on time, people won’t mind if you’re an utter asshole.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the elderly couple at the next table shoot Clarissa a dirty look, but either Clarissa doesn’t notice or she doesn’t care (probably the latter). She continues, raising a second finger. “If your work is good and you’re generally pleasant to work with, people will forgive you for missing deadlines. If you’re pleasant to work with and you always meet your deadlines, people won’t care if you’re not the best writer in the game.”

“I see. And which category do I fall into?”

“That’s the thing. I had my assistant track down every editor you’ve ever worked with, and I personally rang each and every one of them.”

“You did?” I don’t know why I ask such an inane question, because of course she did.

“My reputation is on the line, Khin. I had staff writers and editors begging me to take them off of their previously assigned celebrity profiles so they could have this one. I said no, of course. But I also wasn’t going to hand over this assignment to just anyone.”

“And what did my editors say? Which category did I fall into?” I repeat. I mimic her smirk because I know that if there’s one thing that impresses Clarissa Song, it’s bold, unapologetic confidence. “Do I want to know?”

“You checked all three,” she says, tilting her chin upward.

I’m taken aback by her answer but am also conscious not to let my surprise show. Instead, I return a smile that conveys something along the lines of That’s not surprising to hear, but thank you very much for the compliment.

Clarissa pauses before she speaks again, her eyes scrutinizing my reaction. Most people would try to be subtle about it, but not Clarissa. Then again, I suppose if I’m going to be profiling one of the most famous actors in the world, she has to make sure I’m good under pressure. When she’s seemingly satisfied with whatever it is she was testing me for (or with), she says, “I needed a journalist who checked all three. If even one editor had had one complaint, your name would’ve been crossed off the list. But you’re always polite, always file ahead of time, and you have an astounding way with words.”

There’s something so finite and assertive in her tone that it zaps me out of my daze, like she’s reached across the table and slapped me.

I have this job. Clarissa Song wouldn’t have wasted her time traveling here if she didn’t have something major (and official) to say. This isn’t an interview, or her asking me to file a writing sample. I’ve got this job already. And I need to start acting like it. “Was it a long list?” I ask.

Judging by the grin that overtakes her face, my recovered boldness is what she was waiting for. “I’m not concerned with the rest of the list. I tossed it in the trash weeks ago.” A beat. “You are taking this assignment.” She doesn’t pretend to phrase it as a question. I don’t think it ever occurred to her that I might say no.

“When do I start?”

“He lands in two weeks. Private flight. Everyone’s going to think he’s flying in from Singapore that evening.”

“But he’s not.”

Clarissa takes her time chewing another mouthful of salad, savoring the Caesar dressing, which I must concede is—as she noted when she ordered it on my behalf— decadent and the right balance of creamy and sweet. “No.” She blots her lips with the napkin on her lap. “He’ll be landing a full twelve hours earlier.”

“Do you want me to email you my rates?”

A chuckle ripples out of her throat. “Your pay is already written in the contract, which has been sitting in your inbox since the moment you walked into this restaurant. But trust me, you won’t need to negotiate,” she says, and thrusts her hand into the space above our plate of shared potato wedges between us. “Are you in?”

I’m about to grasp her hand but pause just before my fingertips lift off of the table edge. “I want fifteen percent more.” I say it before I can chicken out.

Clarissa’s reaction is the closest I’ve ever seen her come to being ruffled. “You haven’t seen the number.”

“I make it a rule to always ask for more money.” I shrug. “Nothing personal.”

“And you want… fifteen percent more?”

“Yes.”

“Than what’s already in the contract.”

“Yes.”

side of her lip quirks up. “I don’t remember you being this bold last time we worked together.”

I give another shrug. “I hadn’t been doing this for six years last time we worked together. And also, that hadn’t been a cover story.”

Without so much as an apologetic hand raise, she starts laughing. Oh fuck . Was that too much? I suppose she could still rescind the offer if she—

“Khin Haymar, you are absolutely perfect for this job,” she says. My relieved smile halts when she adds, “And I’m starting to think not just for this job.”

“What do you mean?” I feel like I’m in the middle of a game I hadn’t realized had started, like a media-themed, slightly less fatal version of Squid Game . And I somehow seem to be almost winning even though I don’t know what the rules are, if there are any rules.

Clarissa’s eyes gleam once more, as though she can see a hurtling train that I have no clue is about to hit me. “We might have an opening coming up.”

“An opening?”

“A job opening.”

I blink twice. “At V —”

“Yes.” She nods. “ of our reporters might be transferring to Hong Kong soon. And I might already be looking at possible candidates to replace them. And if somebody—someone bold and tenacious and unyielding—if they were to get me a good story on a big Hollywood star, well, then I don’t see how on earth anyone could object to me offering them the role.”

I swallow. I’d come to this lunch expecting—well, I wasn’t expecting anything specific, really (you learn quickly that Clarissa is full of surprises). But it had not been a Tyler Tun cover story and a (potential) role at Vogue Singapore within the span of ten minutes. There’s a subtle spark in Clarissa’s voice that makes me fidgety.

“When you say ‘good story,’ you mean…?”

She leans closer and I mirror her. “Here’s the thing,” she says, enunciating each slow syllable, voice dropping as if the elderly couple next to us might be covert editors at a rival publication. “The rumor at the top of the food chain is that Tyler’s gearing up for something big, that he’s reading fewer scripts, turning down big modeling contracts. I want you to find out what’s happening. Why did Tyler Tun allegedly ”—she raises a brow, ever the cautious journalist—“turn down the most expensive spokesperson deal Rolex has ever offered? Is he getting married? Did he just have a secret baby? Has Marvel tapped him for a new Avengers movie? Is he, I don’t know, pivoting to become a pop star? A thriller novelist? Something is going on, and I want to know what it is.” She narrows her gaze down at the table, brain having kicked into overdrive. “This is the first time he and May Diamond are working together on a movie despite being best friends for years. Why this one? After all this time? They both shoot in similar genres, so why work together now? Is this them getting ready to announce they’re dating? Engaged? Already eloped? Getting a joint reality show? Or is it a separate multi-year acting commitment? Has the studio behind Bond secured him? Daniel’s made it clear that he’s done, and it’s no secret that Tyler’s at the top of the short list. Personally, that’s what my money’s on.

“I mean, he has never, and I mean never, agreed to a profile this in-depth, to be shadowed for this long. It feels like… like he’s delineating some sort of transition, marking a new chapter in his career. After this one, what is he moving on to?”

I’m not expecting her to abruptly look up at me straight on, so when she does, like it wasn’t a rhetorical question, I cobble together a semi-confident “Let’s try to find out?”

“Let’s,” Clarissa says with a dagger-sharp stare. She knows she’s just dangled the shiniest, juiciest carrot in front of me. “So you’re on board?”

My natural human instinct is to jump out of my seat and promise her that I’m the woman for the job, but then I remember that I’m probably still being tested to see how good I am under pressure. So, “I’m a big fan of Singapore,” I say in a subtle acceptance of her challenge. “But I also still want that fifteen percent.”

“Fifteen percent it is.”

I grin as I finally shake her hand. I’m about to let go and dive into the rest of this salad, but she holds on to this handshake for just a beat longer than necessary.

And I clock them, even though they are the minutest of motions. A flicker of the eyes to my left hand resting on the table. A delicate pressing of her lips into a thin line, just for a millisecond. But when you’ve seen said motions enough times over the past couple of months, they become unmissable.

“It—” I begin.

“I heard the news. I’m sorry,” she says, and to be honest, I’m thankful she doesn’t make this awkward by pretending not to notice it. We both know that she knows Ben, too, so there’s no point in dancing around this. “How long has it been?”

I reflexively glance down at my ring finger, as though it will show me—what? Something different from the small light-skinned band that has stared back at me for so long and yet still seems strange to me, like this hand should belong to someone else?

“It’s been nearly two months since we signed the papers. We were already separated before that, though,” I say. “It’s not a big deal.”

Her eyes widen with encouragement. “Exactly! Every smart woman has a starter husband, darling. Better to get it out of the way when you’re young. Look at me.” She gestures at herself with her fork. “Took me three failed marriages to get here, and I’d say it worked out pretty well.”

I know it’s meant to be a reassurance, but the phrase “failed marriage” makes me want to throw back up the two sliced cherry tomatoes I swallowed earlier.

“Thank you. We’re okay. I wish Ben nothing but the best,” I continue by rote.

My Professional Face must’ve cracked despite my best efforts, because Clarissa dials down her enthusiasm and gives me a silent nod. I know The Nod. I know it means sorry I brought it up. I know this because everyone is eventually sorry that they brought it up.

I clear my throat and raise my glass of wine, now realizing that this cover story is why Clarissa insisted on the most expensive bottle on the menu at the start of the meal. “To us,” I say.

Clarissa shakes her head. Instead, when she clinks my glass, she says, “To you. Knock this out of the park like I know you can, Khin. Don’t let me down. Tell our readers who Tyler Tun is.”

I know there are bigger things for me to focus on as I drive home, such as, say, getting assigned a Vogue Singapore cover story, but my brain cannot stop hyper-fixating on the words “failed” and “marriage.” They keep ricocheting around in there while I say a passing hello to the doorman and walk into my still somewhat-new-to-me condo. I enter my twenty-first-floor unit with the spectacular view of Inya Lake, and as I awkwardly reach behind to unzip myself out of my Prabal Gurung dress, it’s like the words are now bouncing off of the new furniture in my living room, from the cream couch to the marble dining table to my beautiful vintage Persian rug: Failed. Marriage.

I’m removing my watch to start my six-step skincare routine when it buzzes. It is, of course, the group chat; precisely, the “Bitch Bucket,” as my best friends and I have named it.

Thidar

How was the meeting?

What did VOGUE SINGAPORE want from us??

Nay

And what are WE demanding from THEM in return?

Chuckling, I’m about to reply with a quick voice message when it happens again, ringing loud and clear to highlight the overwhelming quietness of this beautiful apartment and the giant bathroom with the rainfall shower in the corner: Failed. Marriage.

It’s not that I’m under any delusions that my marriage is still capable of salvation. I know we tried everything—couples counseling, living separately for a month, going on our own “self-discovery” trips (me to Bali, him on some cross-country trek in Bhutan), more counseling—before we called it quits. Or, more specifically, before Ben called it quits and told me point-blank that he wanted a divorce because he didn’t see a future for us anymore. I also know that a marriage that didn’t even last a year is, by all means, a failure; it’s nothing personal, just an objective fact. If I bought a new laptop and it combusted in my face as quickly and as spectacularly as my marriage did, I would march over to the store and tell them it was a piece of crap. And I meant what I said: I do wish Ben well.

I take a deep breath and begin rubbing my oil cleanser in small, tight concentric circles across both cheeks.

The last time I saw Ben was when we handed over the keys to our house—our old house—to its new owners. We were polite, like neighbors running into each other at the supermarket. I’m okay. This is actually okay, I remember thinking. And it had been okay, that is, until we parted with an awkward platonic handshake that in the moment had felt more appropriate than a hug, and I’d noticed that all ten of his fingers were fine. Ring tan–less. Admittedly, it could’ve been because his white skin had tanned faster and more evenly than my brown skin, but it’d still felt like the final twisting of a knife that was already six inches deep in the center of my heart. The final piece of proof that confirmed my worst, most embarrassing fears: that our marriage had meant significantly less to him, and that I was extremely easy to get over, so easy, in fact, that it was already as though we had never been married in the first place.

I shut my eyes and splash water onto my face, focusing on washing off the oil.

The thing about having been in a relationship with the same person in the same city for six-plus years is that the overlapping space in the Venn diagram of People We Know is almost a perfect circle. Even if I didn’t want to know what Ben has been up to since we last spoke, I can’t avoid it; a few weeks ago, I ran into one of our (many) mutual friends at a restaurant, and, against my will, was informed that Ben is thriving, and, in fact, had just scored a much-coveted gig to shoot the behind-the-scenes photos of some Netflix documentary on whale sharks in Triton Bay (which is located in West Papua in Indonesia, as my Chardonnay-fueled Google search that night informed me).

I am aware that despite it being a natural human reaction, it is also the pettiest trope in the book, that of Partner Who Was Unceremoniously Dumped (or, in my case, Divorced) and Wants to Show Their Ex that Their Life Is Even Better Now.

But here we are.

Because I will move mountains to get Clarissa her story, her big scoop, and she will offer me the full-time role on the spot, and that will be my literal plane ticket out of this miserable town, and by the time Ben and all of our friends see my name on the cover of Vogue Singapore, I’ll have already moved on to my next assignment. Singapore will be good. Change will be good. And although I enjoy freelancing and have never had any trouble finding work, the stability that comes with a full-time reporter role will also be good. Maybe I’ll be profiling Sandra Oh next. Or Viola Davis.

And “failed marriage” will be the last thing that anyone thinks when they see me.