chapter six

i r e n e

***

Shame.

Shame.

Shame.

Wendy Shon is the harbinger of misfortune and shame.

Irene had been intent on testing the murky waters she would have to wade into after Amber’s files for the bi-annual Bake Fair were lying in plain sight, folder cracked open on her desk for anyone to see. She had walked by her colleague’s cubicle, minding her own business (well, partially, given the context) when her awareness is drawn to the name of a very familiar patisserie and a very familiar owner. The opportunity presented itself like a treasure chest cradling the world’s finest jewels and gold, too valuable to be ignored.

Too wasteful to be thrown.

It would have been a crime for her to dismiss the chance.

What’s more irresistible to not have that one pass was the slotted fieldwork in her calendar on the date of the Bake Fair. Her schedule was flexible, merely consisted of hunting for a venue for her godchild’s birthday party, something that could be done in a matter of five hours with Irene’s expertise, then still have the remaining afternoon to gauge on Wendy.

She isn’t TNT Event’s best coordinator for nothing.

And Irene is a quick thinker. She’s able to improvise her next move on her cab ride to the plaza. Taking a detour to a department store, she sought a boutique that was already hanging dresses to be worn in the upcoming summer heat. Her skin had been peppered with goose pimples from the piercing kisses left by the spring breeze, but she soldiered through the chill clad in Off-White, recalling how Jennie had commented about her back being a “strange asset” after wearing a backless gown at a function that enticed a reaction from guests.

Irene may not have a complete understanding of what Jennie had meant, yet she trusted her friend’s remark, combing her hair over a shoulder to have her be unobstructed amidst the goddamn weather.

She even took the extra mile of sprinkling herself with perfume.

And what did she get?

A gaggle of strangers gawking at her, and another embarrassing memory taking up space in the mental cabinet she sifts through whenever she has her occasional late-night existential crisis. It’s what she gets for going out to war without a concrete plan, the failure of her operation due to the absence of a strategy.

The hills of Machu Pichu and a terrifying pack of alpacas are very well in her foreseeable future.

But Irene is no quitter. She’s a woman on a mission. Two missions to be exact: win Wendy over for the event, and expose her true colors. A failed operation wouldn’t discourage her fighting spirit. After all, she has a friend to protect from an inevitable heartbreak.

She is given five months to bait Wendy. Jieun is on a seven-month recovery period. Her time with the pastry chef is a sufficient leeway to unleash the real Wendy underneath the pretty little coral apron and friendly demeanor.

To warrant her from any more mishaps, Irene devises her new scheme with the greatest forethought, jumping on it urgently in the taxi home. Self-help forums and articles become her bible, the tabs on her tablet’s browser exceeding double digits. It would have to suffice in educating herself in the foreign territory of flirting.

Because people flirt with Irene.

The other way around?

Unheard of.

Googling flirting techniques would have to be the worst assignment she has made herself do. She could have phoned her older sister for advice, but she is sure she would be mercilessly teased for it. She’ll just have to be resourceful on her own.

Irene knows he has the means to do it. Knows she has won the jackpot in the genetic lottery. It still doesn’t abolish her cluelessness in flirting. She’s never had to exert effort in the dating scene. All she ever had to do was sit back, and have people woo her with their heartfelt prose and bountiful bouquets.

Being the one laying the groundwork has never been her role.

She has only dated seriously one time, and that was when she was a junior in high school, which is basically written off as ancient history. A drastic courtship many moons ago. She couldn’t even label the guy her boyfriend since she ended things between them before he could cement their relationship. He was in it for one thing anyway, bragging to his friends about their after-school make-out sessions (like it was something to brag about; he was the sloppiest kisser she’s had in her kissing roster) at a secluded are of their neighborhood park, awarded with wolf whistles for dating the “hottest girl in school”.

The objectification wasn’t fresh to her, but that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

Ever since then, she made romantic relationships at the back burner of her priorities. She would go on dates in college, have drunken kisses with girls here and there, none leading to commitment.

Clearly lacking in experience, she has gone to consult Jennie.

Irene is unsure how Jennie and Lisa came to be. Her neighbor might have shared to her offhandedly once upon a time. She doesn’t remember. Her cursed info-blocking tendencies could have played their part. She had dialed Jennie’s number under the guise of wanting to unwind from a stressful day at work, Reveluv’s cheesecake in a carton for her, Off-White dress ditched for warmer clothing. She was only supposed to drop it off, have a little chitchat at the hallway about Jennie’s relationship with Lisa, and retreat to her apartment unit.

But her neighbor curls delicate fingers around her wrist, yanking her into the flat.

“Oh no, missy. We’re talking inside. You are not leaving with an empty stomach.”

“I can cook for myself—”

“Unnie, you cook like you’re a broke college student. No offense.”

Irene grimaces.

Jennie Kim can be brutal.

On the flip side, it means Irene can harvest further insight on topics alien to her.

“Lisa and I met at YG Private Academy. I was her upperclassman. I’m a year older. We didn’t start talking until her senior year while I was at uni. Our old school and my university were blocks apart, and I volunteered some of my weekdays to tutor the freshmen at YG. We crashed into one another at the study hall and got to talking. It went on from there.”

Irene hums some affirmation to the story, drilling holes onto the screen of her tablet, simultaneously drafting her proposal for Ahn Hyejin and listening to Jennie speak. Constituting this hidden agenda may be Irene’s primary goal for the evening, but her work just couldn’t be tossed aside. Multi-tasking is a unique talent of hers she has honed over the years. She has always been gifted in splitting her attention into half to save precious time.

As Irene stays on her seat by the kitchen island, Jennie whips up the ingredients for the shrimp fettucine alfredo.

“We had been flirting for fun. Some teasing and banter. You get the gist. Barely any difference to what we currently do. Then one day, a mutual friend asked if we were dating. We just gave each other a look and agreed like, yeah why the hell not, and the rest is history.”

Their story sounds too simple. Irene nibbles on her thumbnail. A notification from her older sister appears, and she swipes it out of her screen. Whatever her sister wants can wait. “You two got closer because of how frequent you saw each other?”

“That and coupled with more flirting.”

Irene has to fish for details. Jennie’s responses are too vague to be of use, but her neighbor is already a hundred times better than Google. She then coats her follow-up question with nonchalance, as if she’s asking about today’s weather forecast.

“How did you flirt exactly?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Feel like asking.”

Jennie covers the lid of the boiling pasta.

Her neighbor is no fool. The woman is as sharp as the premium stainless-steel knives in her gloriously designed kitchen, one whose cat-like eyes could slice through thickly concealed truths. Almost nothing flies beyond this woman.

She goes around the island, abandoning her station, a fierce lioness stalking its cornered prey. Her bone-chilling eye contact maintains on Irene until the tip of Jennie’s slippers nudge against the legs of the stool, suspicion traced at the younger woman’s lips daubed in pink. “Could it be…you’re interested in someone?”

“It’s not for me.” Irene rushes in to say, all the while preserving her unanimated face. She wasn’t taught to lie. Dealing with difficult people in her line of work, however, has certainly smoothened her deflecting skills, shrouding how shook-up she is from the immediate interrogation. She must rack up a fabrication.

Jennie would be hot on her tail. Becoming the target of her skepticism would be a dangerous threat to Irene’s scheme. She has to deflect Jennie’s mounting speculation.

“It’s for Juhyun. Seo Juhyun.”

The creases on Jennie’s forehead relaxes. “Your best friend from high school?”

“Yup.”

“Is she in Seoul?”

“No. We were up all night talking about this guy she likes.” Irene sells her lie seamlessly, refusing to have her steady gaze on Jennie wither.

Much to her alleviation, the alibi seems to be working. Jennie’s eyes aren’t screwed into crescents anymore. She goes back to the boiling pot of pasta that calls for her and doesn’t pry about Juhyun’s imaginary love life.

Irene breathes a little easier.

She will just have to give her best friend a heads up to go along with the story in case Jennie decide to sniff her out on the truth, but the prospect is minimized by the fact that Juhyun is a producer whose ongoing project is based in Japan. Jennie wouldn’t have a direct contact.

The notification bell dings on Irene’s iPad. Supposing it’s another senseless message from her older sister, Irene is about to leave it unread. Her finger advances upon impulse, but she stops just prior to touching the LCD.

It’s a message from Kim Yerim’s mother.

***

Humiliation isn’t something Irene would like to be reacquainted with. The haunting faux pas at the Bake Fair rewinds in her thoughts, pledging to herself to steer clear from another slipup and from another douse of embarrassment. A double whammy would be an overkill. Her dignity wouldn’t have it, already debilitated at being routinely beaten into a bloody pulp.

She can’t afford to be impetuous.

And because of Jennie’s cooperation—unbeknown to her neighbor, of course—Irene is supplemented with ideas to water the seeds that would someday bear fruit, a fruit so captivatingly sweet and poisoned for her unsuspecting victim.

“Get their attention. Tell Juhyun to be assertive with the right set of circumstances that requires his attention.”

“Is that what you did?”

“Lisa noticed me before then, but I made my own shots by being suggestive with my actions.”

“Why bother? Didn’t your presence alone attract her?”

“Think about it, unnie. What’s a powerful gun without an ammo?”

Jennie had given her a compelling statement.

What good would her genetics do if Irene didn’t know how to exploit them?

But she hasn’t weaponized her looks in a situation before. Capitalizing on her advantage feels like a douche-y narcissistic behavior. It has always been repulsive to her. She would be unsettled knowing she had achieved something by embarking on the easiest route.

Although, it seems that all directions and signages in her mind map are leading her to the dreaded route. Irrespective of the diversified options she has sifted through (paying someone to get the job done doesn’t bide well, even with her straying moral compass; it also goes against her unwritten contract with Jieun), impersonating a seductress is the best alternative.

Irene is stuck between a rock and a hard place.

She will, unquestionably, loathe herself for what she is about to do.

The plan prompts her to create these “coincidental” intersection of their paths. For these coincidences to be executed, she does an intensive research on Wendy.

Stalking someone’s—celebrities included—social media accounts hasn’t been her cup of tea, but she considers the activity as a college term paper that could make or break her GPA, so she justifies it just this once.

Wendy’s Facebook is deserted and doesn’t reveal anything helpful. Irene could envision the clouds of tumbleweed roll by with how bare it is. Her Twitter handle, which Irene tracks down without difficulty thanks to Lisa being mutuals with her, redirects her to the blonde’s public account where she has recently posted about loving the perks of the members-only gym in her building. A user named “dogtor kang” probed for her gym schedule, and the random information dumped there is a stark contrast from her Facebook profile, an information Irene pays heed to.

Two days later, Irene is dolled up in her most flattering gym attire. Her athletic gear of black leggings and purple sleeveless crop top are a military-grade ammunition, gaining casualties from the gym members who stick around the lobby as she signs at the reception. Jennie had given her a free trial pass for selected gyms in Gangnam. It’s pure luck that this gym qualified for the promo.

After signing, Irene scans the vast space and rows of equipment. On the wall to her right, a wide mirror is erected by what could be the warm-up area, long navy-blue mat laid below it. At the innermost portion of the gym, there’s a shock of blonde hair nobody could have missed.

Wendy descends from a tilted treadmill in labored huffs, supporting her body against the mirrored wall, mellowing out her breathing. She must have been at it for a while.

Irene squares her shoulders.

It’s showtime.

She spies an unguarded water bottle on a bench in front of the mirror. It could be anyone’s. Whoever the owner is isn’t pertinent to Irene’s scheme anyhow. Wendy is too consumed by whatever she’s staring at the window adjacent to the mirrored wall to be vigilant of Irene fast approaching, the woman orchestrating their coincidental meeting by accidentally knocking over the bottle from its spot.

Wendy swivels on her feet, bends downwards to retrieve the rolling object from the floor, in time for Irene to fake a doubletake.

“Wendy?”

Irene feigns a moue of shock on her features, gasping dramatically at the blonde before perching on the bench, just a meter apart from where Wendy is now seated, bottle in her grip. Jisoo would have wept buckets at her suave acting. Golden Globe-Oscar worthy acting. “Hey, what a coincidence for us to be here.”

“Uh. Hi, Irene.” Wendy waves at her awkwardly, as charmless as a pail of rocks. What the hell did Jieun see in her?

“Jennie’s membership got me a free trial. I came to check this branch out.” Irene gathers her hair up into a ponytail, unhooking the elastic hair tie from her wrist. Moderately lean biceps flex in the process, her abs contracting below, molded from her episodic Yoga and Pilates classes.

A man crossing to the locker room rams his head on the doorway, and a woman hurriedly restarts her sit-ups the instant Irene sees her.

She hides a smirk. Their reactions are meaningless. Wendy’s is what matters to her, but the blonde has been absorbed with tinkering the tight cap of the water bottle. It turns out to be hers. Goddamnit. Irene will have to take the reins in their exchange.

“Sooo. You work out here often?”

Wendy her head. “I live in this building.”

Okay, that wasn’t the brightest thing to ask.

But Irene recounts how being an airhead can be deemed as cute. One of the many forums she has read somewhere told her so. Said it would give the other party a feeling of superiority.

Irene doesn’t like it. Hates it even, with a burning fiery passion at people dumbing themselves down just to wangle an attraction from their desired person. But if the internet says it’s effective on easily seduced simpletons like Wendy, then so be it.

She laughs, embarrassed, playfully slapping Wendy on her thigh, a habit she did in high school whenever her ex-boyfriend told her a whacky story.

The blonde glances to where Irene’s fingertips had grazed. Her scheme has to be doing its magic.

“Oh, silly me,” Irene says. “I must be so out of it to have that info go over my head!”

“We have our moments.” Wendy gives h