II.

Irene took out a ruler, rough on its edges and faded, from one of the drawers of her crescent-shaped Tonelli Strata glass desk. She then used it to measure the distance between her Mac computer screen and the potted cactus plant that Seulgi had given her ever since they were just in a dingy, cold, and abandoned garage that used to serve as their office.

It was 3 cm off Irene’s desired position. She scowled then rearranged the misaligned plant, measuring the distance again afterwards to see if it was in its exact position this time.

This became a habit. The measuring. The calculating. Numbers were reassuring, never lying. They could be trusted unlike people.

She measured the distances of the other items on her desk: the small digital desk calendar from the keyboard, the pile of fashion portfolios and magazines from the edge of her table. She made sure all of them were in their right spot and were neat and straight.

Once she was satisfied, she leaned back on her cream-coloured chair, with the genuine leather, crossing her arms, recalling the events that had transpired this morning.

Wendy was there waiting at her usual spot, the spot Irene had told her where to wait during Wendy’s induction, with Irene’s de-caff, no foam, non-fat caramel brulée latte in her hands. Irene didn’t take it, however, as she could tell from looking at Wendy’s appearance that her useless personal assistant arrived no less than two minutes before Irene which meant that the de-caff, no foam, non-fat caramel brulée latte Wendy was holding was too hot for Irene to drink.

Messy was not a good enough word to describe how Wendy looked this morning. Wendy looked like she got swept up in a tornado and used that to get to the office. Dishevelled hair, frizzy from the autumn humidity; un-ironed blouse, untucked from her black pencil skirt that she probably bought from a thrift store.

Damn that un-ironed blouse.

Irene hated nothing more than crumpled clothes filled with creases and if only she had her precious steam iron with her right now, she would’ve ironed that blouse herself, there and then, so she wouldn’t have to see it throughout the day.

So frustrating. Irene thought she was paying that incompetent oaf too much for the quality of work she was giving. Why did she even hire a personal assistant? And this good-for-nothing blunderer at that?

Oh yes.

Irene remembered.

It was her grandmother who insisted, who suggested that Irene could use a personal assistant and that this Son Wendy was the right person for the job. And to Irene, grandmother’s words were absolute law.

Admittedly, when Irene saw Wendy’s résumé, she was impressed at all of the oaf’s achievements. Wendy had a phenomenal record in her alma mater, Harvard University: outstanding grades, president of various clubs, and an award specially given by President Barrack Obama. President Barrack Obama. Now that got Irene convinced. Who doesn’t love President Barrack Obama?

And Wendy’s picture on her résumé…

Irene acknowledged that Wendy was pretty in her picture. She had the same hairstyle she had on now: copper blonde with a fringe that sat on top of her well-shaped eyebrows. Her eyes looked pure, gentle and kind yet it had that power in them that gave hope and inspiration when looked at.

So yeah…Irene guessed that maybe Wendy did stand out from the rest of the applicants (not that there were many who applied to begin with).

But Irene realised, after today, that some people just look different in person. That there were those photogenic ones who looked just okay, maybe worse, in real life. And that was what she thought after seeing Wendy with that un-ironed blouse.

Un-ironed blouse. Such a crime. Irene gritted her teeth. She then placed the worn-down ruler back in the drawer before she could break it from her irritation. She mustn’t break that ruler. That ruler was Irene’s treasure, along with this old photograph of her with another young girl. Both were the only items that had age and meaning in her modernised, artistic and high-class office.

Irene ran her finger on the photograph, slowly, as if she was scrolling through her past, through the memories of her childhood that were long gone. She could barely recall the events. Time had made them vague and blurred, but some of the emotions were not marred, still fresh as if it had just happened yesterday.

10 years ago. In high school. Irene’s worst yet best moments happened there. Where her dreams and motivation started. Where she gained the confidence in herself that she badly needed. Because of that person in that photograph.

Irene’s lips curled into a distant smile, sad and regretful. If only she could see that friend again one more time, then maybe she could thank her for the things this friend had done for her.

The first-class plane ticket for Korea caught Irene’s eyes. Maybe. Just maybe.

* * *

Wendy hesitated, her hands ready to knock the glass doors with the golden door handles. She fidgeted, turned around then went back again to face the door. To face Ms. Bae. To ask for that advance.

Ms. Bae’s office was the definition of posh. Even her walls were made of glass. And so Wendy could see, could peek, whether Ms. Bae was in a good mood or not.

And she was. Because the wicked witch was smiling. Very prettily. Innocently. Though Wendy could see that Ms. Bae’s beautiful smile had a tint of sadness in it.

But still…Wendy got reminded of Irene. Not Ms. Bae, the evil dictator with the intense, spine-chilling glare and the terrifying but monotonous authoritative voice.

But of Irene. Her childhood friend in high school. The naïve, introverted and shy friend of hers with the cute laugh and puppy-dog eyes.

Wendy lowered her hand, from a fist to the door handle, ready to open it then she remembered. Ms. Bae was Ms