Chapter 2  You're Not Pretty Enough

It's tomorrow, and I rush to my office to find my boss, Ms. Hwang, in a fluster. 

Ms. Hwang is tall and strikingly attractive, and she likes to dress in black because it gives her an air of mystery and allure. She is a workoholic, and comes to the office early, and leaves late at night.

She shoves a thick big envelope at me, and tells me to "do my best", and I smile helplessly, and say, "Yes, ma'am." She knows that Seung ah and I are best friends, and that she's engaged to Director Jang - that's what she calls him - who happens to be the son of the Chairman of NJ Group, and she's forced me to pass him this portfolio of our advertising company, and invite him to take a look at it. I can't say no, I won't do it, because he's an , chaebol or not, and I'm not going to use my best friend to clinch a deal. I can't say all these things that are bursting inside of me, and hurting me so, and making it hard for me to breathe, because she's my boss, and she's looking at me with those pleading and desperate eyes. So I smile at her, and say meekly, "Yes, ma'am", and I take the dreaded envelope from her, and turn on my heels to go, when she grabs this paper bag, and s it at me, and says, "Your skirt. I got you a new skirt, make sure you change into it, and not wear - ," she shudders, "THOSE!"

She's talking about my black-and-white checked pants, that reach down to my calves, and are absolutely my most favourite pair of pants in my wardrobe; they're so comfortable, and soft, a bit worn - I've had them for two years - but they don't stick to my like a second skin after a long, tiring, sweaty day at work; they're my go-to pants when I'm feeling stressed, and I'm feeling especially stressed today, knowing that I'm going to have to up to that jerk, and endure all his little mocking glances, and his sly, hurtful little jibes.

I grab the bag, and the invitation card, and I make a dash for the door because I don't want to be late. It's Seung ah's first solo exhibition, and it's her birthday today, as well. She mentioned that her boyfriend, who's organizing the whole thing, has arranged for a fireworks display later, after the exhibition. So it's going to be a grand affair, and I would be really excited about it, if not for the thought of the unpleasant task that lies ahead of it.

I hail a cab and call my brother on his mobile.

"I'm stuck in a bad jam," he yells at me from the other end. "There's a suicide in an apartment block, and the road is jammed real bad."

"I could be late, so don't wait for me," he says, sounding really harried, and I hear honking and raised voices in the background. "You go on in, and tell Seung ah I'll come as soon as I can."

I reach the open car park, and hop out of the cab, just as Seung ah drives up beside me in her spanking new white sports car, a birthday gift from Woo sang.

She climbs out of the car, looking gorgeous in a frothy white lacy dress. I feel like a frump beside her expensive elegance in my white collared blouse (I got it online for a steal; it was classified under the All Stock To Clear: Cheap!Cheap!Cheap! section) and checked pants, and my practical low heels, which, while excellent for sprinting up stairs and running errands, look decidely plain and sad beside her branded high-heels.

I hug her, and say, "Happy birthday, sweetie!"

She hugs me back unethusiastically.

She seems nervous and distracted.

"Are you nervous about your exhibition?" I ask her.

She doesn't say anything, but looks tense.

"It'll be fine, Seung ah," I give her a little shake. "Don't worry, you'll do just fine."

She laughs, and it is a strange kind of laugh; humourless and harsh.

"I feel," she looks at me, straight into my eyes, and says, her voice dead, "that I want to die."

I stare at her.

"I want to die," she says again in that awful, hollow voice.

"Seung ah - ," I touch her arm worriedly.

She looks at me, and then laughs.

"I was kidding," she grins. 

I sag with relief.

"You had me worried for a sec," I grumble. 

"We'd better hurry," she says. ""Woo sang will be coming any time now."

She eyes me critically.

"You're carrying way too many things. Very uncool," she makes a face at the big envelope that I'm clutching, and the bag with the skirt in my hand, and my handbag slung over my shoulder.

She grabs my bag with the skirt and dumps it inside her car, ignoring my protests, and hustles me off.

Seung ah settles in an armchair for a conversation with the event coordinator. 

I hover in the background, and watch her talking intently to the coordinator. She's not happy about an interview that has been scheduled for her. I hear the coordinator telling her nervously that the interview was Director Jang's idea. Seung ah looks furious and she picks up her mobile and I hear her speaking into it, " Woo sang, I need to talk to you now. In person." Her voice is tight, and is set in a rigid line. She's mad at him, I think. She's not happy about something, and it has to do with him.

My mobile rings, and I pick it up. It's my boss, and she wants to remind me about the portfolio.

"What about the skirt?" she asks. "Does it fit?"

Gosh, the skirt. I had forgotten about it. It's in Seung ah's car.

"It fits perfectly," I say.

I ask Seung ah for her car key and hurry to the car park.

I unlock the door, and get in.

Ms. Hwang is still on the other end.

"All you have to do is to say, very politely: Director Jang, please take a look at my company's portfolio," she says in a high, sickeningly sweet voice. Is that supposed to be MY voice? Because if I sound like that, boy, do I need help.

"The standards of a branded design. Design and looks," she continues, pitching her voice like a saleswoman's. 

I grit my teeth and say, "Yes, ma'am. I'll try my best."

She stops talking, finally, and I pull my new green skirt over my pants. It's a striking green, with lace ts at the edges, and slim-fit, but I manage to hoist it up successfully, and then proceed to remove my pants. I dump my pants in the bag, and open the car door.

It catches him right in the thigh, and he grunts.

I clamber out of the car clumsily, and see him standing there, looking down at me, rubbing his thigh.

He's tall, much, much taller than me - I have to stretch my neck all the way up to look at him - and he's wearing this dark blue tee, and it's got the words ARTS BREWERY stitched in red, in a sprawly, curly kind of arty scrawl across the top of his left pocket. 

He has an arresting face, the kind of face that one never forgets. Once seen, never forgotten. The phrase flashes in my mind suddenly.

His eyebrows are dark and arched in such a way that they make him look wicked, almost diabolical, but it is his eyes that I notice straightaway; he has the strangest eyes. They survey me between narrowed, half-closed lids, and I realize as I look into those eyes, that they are unreadable, inscrutable, devoid of expression. They appear dark as he stands, back to the sun, and then he moves slightly, and the sunlight catches his eyes, and they flood with light, and become glittery, and kind of gleam; they remind me of this time when I was coming home late at night and I saw this street cat in the dark alley; it was waiting to pounce on this rat, and had its shoulders haunched up. It heard my footsteps, and swivelled its head, and stared at me, and I remember its eyes, gleaming in the shadows, blank and glassy and lit up with this creepy ethereal white light, and it was just unnerving. I am feeling much the same way I felt then. Those glassy eyes of his unnerve me.

"I'm sorry," I stammer. 

How long has he been standing there? Did he see me change into my skirt? I could die from embarrassment.

He looks at me for an instant, then shrugs, and turns away.

I walk a few steps, and then I stop.

"Are you from Arts Brewery?" I ask. "What kinds of beer will you be providing at the function?"

He sighs, then rattles off the names of the beers in quick succession.

"Love Me Belgian Wheat, Sunshine Golden Ale, Live Nine Pale Ale, Blue Rabbit Irish Stout, Clover Weizen," he intones, looking bored.

"What about Something New Brown Ale or Last Dance IPA?" I ask, because these are my absolutely most favourite beers in the world.

"We don't have those," he said.

"Oh," I say. I am crushed.

"I see," I smile. "Well, that's alright."

I turn on my heels.

"Is this your car?" 

I stop, and turn.

He's looking at me, just standing still, looking at me.

"No, it's not," I say.

"I guessed as much," he says, softly, and then he gives a funny little twisted half-smile, his eyes crinkling at the edges, and they appear very light suddenly, as if they are filled with light, so that they gleam.

"You're not pretty enough," he says, speaking slowly, clearly, every syllable inunciated with precision, every word ripping into my heart with its stark simplicity and cutting cruelty.

I am so stunned that all I can do is stare at him, my heart beating so fast that I can feel a vein throbbing, pulsing erratically in my head.

He stares back at me, and he looks mocking and hateful and I don't know what I have done to deserve those cruel words from someone that I have just met, and barely spoken to.

I draw a sharp intake of breath, and try to salvage whatever dignity I have left.

"Do you know me?" I ask him, trying to keep my voice steady. I'm not going to let him know how much his words have affected me.

"No," he says. "I can't say I do. Not at all." Is that a trace of amusement that I see in his eyes, like he knows that he's rattled me and he's pleased with my reaction?

What is wrong with this guy?

I turn abruptly and walk away from him.

My heart is pounding so hard.

"You must have just bought it," he calls after me, in a bland, pleasant kind of tone, like you would use when you are asking about the weather, or inquiring after someone's health.

I turn, and he's already walking away.

Huh? What on earth is he talking about?

I walk away, as fast as I can, my pride hurt, my self-confidence in tatters.

Who is that guy?

My day has been totally ruined, and it hasn't even begun.