The Escort

            THE FIRST TIME my grandmother calls me in the last five years is a week before my twenty-ninth birthday. Her raspy voice, because of chain smoking, rattles the telephone, chastising me for not being married yet, or being in a relationship at least. I cringe when her voice raises a notch and she is yet again on another bout of giving her great grandkids. She always tells me before how I should not get myself into a relationship, which I religiously obliged, and now that I have never been in any relationship, she tells me to be in one. Worse, she asks me for kids which I cannot commit myself to.             Well, not yet. Not really. I’m busy enjoying being single and being in my twenties. There’s a feeling of liberation to explore yourself, to get to know yourself, and to love every part of yourself. Being in my twenties, I see a lot of relationships fail because at such young age, people are in love with the idea of being in love—that loving someone completes themselves, as if they are not accustomed to the idea that it is alright to be alone and that being alone does not equate to being lonely.             “I’m not rushing things,” I reply slowly but my grandmother scoffs. She is already eighty-four years old, but she is stronger than a typical eighty-four-year-old albeit she smokes a pack of cigarettes every once in awhile. “There’s nothing wrong with just exploring my youth and not having kids at my age is not even a bad thing.” My grandmother scoffs once more, and I can imagine her rolling her eyes as if it’s the most preposterous thing. I can’t blame her. She has lived during the world war, and production and productivity has a different meaning to her.             “This is your prime age of having kids! Your chance of having kids once you reach thirty will be slim to none,” she exclaims a bit energetically, and I can imagine her flailing her arms in despair. I chuckle, rolling my eyes at her adorable concern towards me. It’s not like a guy will fall for his feet for me immediately. Every guy my mother, even my sister, has set up for me ends up getting cold feet on the day of our date after knowing my name. What’s in a name, really. My mind wanders back to Shakespeare’s famous play Romeo and Juliet.             There’s only one guy, however, who did not stand me up. He is nice to even consider going out on a date with me, a typical chivalrous guy that every traditional woman will fall for. So-called radical feminists will probably flip him off and say they can open the door themselves, as if it’s a really big deal in the first place. There is a fine line between feminism and being too pressed for the little things that is not even oppressive in the first place.             At the end of our date, however, he admits that he’s gay and that his father forced him to go on a date with me just to straighten his sexuality out. I feel bad for him yet I have no idea how to console him with his situation in the first place so I ask him where he wants to go. He shyly admits that he wants to go to a gay club. I smile and take his hand, asking my chauffeur to take us to a gay club my date secretly wants.             “Don’t worry lola,” I say endearingly to my grandma, “I’ve frozen my eggs just in case I won’t get married before the age of thirty.”             She doesn’t understand what I mean. Luckily, she diverts the topic about marriage and children and she becomes sombre when she asks me, “Haven’t you found your love yet?”             I freeze on my comfortable couch, and pause the show I’m watching on Netflix. I gulp, and briefly answer her, “No, I don’t.”             “Good,” she replies solemnly, the buzzing at the other side of the line quieting. “Because next month you’ll be meeting your wonderful fiancé.”             I stand up from my seat, pressing the phone to my ear a bit tighter than intended. “What do you mean fiancé? I am not even in a relationship! How could I be engaged?”             She clears her throat as if she is announcing a very important news which she probably will be. “Your parents and I have signed an agreement that if you don’t find a husband before you reach thirty then we will arrange a marriage for you to a rich Chinese businessman,” she answers, her voice cold and stoic like I’m some simple business transaction. This is unfair. Heckling unfair. I am not given a choice, and I am not even informed about this arranged marriage they may have been planning for years.             “You can’t just marry me off to some guy I don’t even know!” I shout, my breathing hastening its pace. My fists clench and unclench, the nails digging into my palms. I pace back and forth, shell-shocked with the revelation. It feels like my parents and my grandmother have stabbed me behind my back, without even asking permission from me in the first place. My grandmother at the other end of the line calms me down, and offers me a calming jasmine tea at her place. I mentally scoff. As if I’m going to her place just so she can manipulate me into marrying a stranger by rationalizing things.             What sickens me more is the fact they will do everything in their power to keep their multi-million company intact by marrying me off to some rich businessman to strengthen the foundation of the company my parents built from the ground up. As much as I understand they want to preserve their wealth by appointing me as the heiress and the chief executive officer of the company, I do not want to be used as an object to further my parents’ unsurmountable wealth. Yes, I’m able to gain something good by living a comfortable life but I am a human first before I am their daughter.             I end the call with my grandma explaining things midsentence and brew myself some calming jasmine tea. It’s eight in the morning for Christ’s sake and I’m met with the worst news of my life. My phone rings once more and I almost reject the call without looking at who is calling me. The good thing is that I’ve checked the caller ID and it is Janet, my younger sister.             “I’ve heard the news,” she says without warrant, her voice filled with remorse and pity. I roll my eyes, disliking her tone towards me. She is always the softer sister between the two of us, but sometimes her softness is unnecessary with these types of situations. “I’m so sorry Tilda.”             “Whatever Jan, it’s not like I have a say in this anyway,” I reply sarcastically but she only chuckles, as if she’s used to the harsh tone I always throw her way. “Our parents have my future planned out way before I was born anyway.”              I’m envious how Janet can live a carefree life while I’m here burning myself out for hours running a company I do not even want to in the first place. Janet is taller and slimmer than me, and because of her oriental features she has been booked in a lot of modelling gigs, posing for billboards with different products. Sometimes, the most trivial kinds like condoms and whatnot. My parents pay no mind because their attention has been solely focused on me.             “You know, there’s one way to win this kind of situation,” she suggests, her tone cheeky. “You can say that you have a boyfriend or something.”             “Like an escort?” I ask, raising my brows.             “Maybe, maybe not,” she says conditionally, and I can probably imagine that wide smile plastered on her face. “I overheard you and grandma’s conversation. She might have given you a head start with this arranged marriage mom, dad and grandma have been planning. You might have missed out when she said if you’re not able to find a partner before turning thirty.”             I give myself a face palm. Janet is right. Sometimes, she sees and hears things that I cannot even notice in the first place. I probably may have fallen blindly to several situations if it isn’t for her and her hobby of wordplays.             “Yeah, you’re right,” I answer as if it’s a eureka moment. “Thanks so much Jan, you’re such a life-saver.”             “No problem,” she replies in nonchalance, as if she knows she’s the genius that she is. Well, she is and I can’t care less if she is way smarter than I am. “So what’s your plan? How will you find an escort? Or a fake a boyfriend?”             I mischievously grin, knowing Janet can’t see my expression but she knows all too well how to start this devious plan.