CHAPTER 31: HOLLYWOOD ROMANCE

"I'm really sorry, Rob. I lost. Don't worry, though; I'd still love to go on a date with you."

"I'm sorry, too, babe. You did your best."

Whoa! I thought. He just called me babe! I was unprepared for that moment that I had to hit the brakes

of my car.

"What happened?" asked Robert. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. Almost ran the red light," I lied. "Anyway, are you free tomorrow night? We can

do...um, let's see... There's this Japanese restaurant—"

"I can do better. Are you familiar with Le Chaumier?"

"Nico's restaurant?"

"Who?"

"One of my classmates at Chef Maxwell's. His family owns the place."

"He's a Leroy? Nicolas Leroy? They're my clients. Anyway, listen. I have a meeting in five minutes. I'll

have Nathaniel Leroy rent out his restaurant for us. It'll be great. Bye, babe. I'll call you later."

There he was with that babe thing again. If he didn't stop, I'd probably crash my car.

When I got home, I slept like a baby and woke up around noon the following day. There was nothing

much for me to do, so I thought of dialing Faye's number to invite her for some weekend pampering.

And then I realized that she was still not talking to me. Ugh!

I went to Derrick's room, but he hadn't woken up yet. I figured he had had a rough night at the hospital.

There was no one else I could think of to drag to a day of skin care and self-pampering.

I decided to go solo instead.

By chance, I had my hair done beside a gay comedian. I wasn't sure what his name was, but I'd seen

him on TV a few times.

"Hello, sis!" he greeted me jovially. He was the type of gay to call everyone sis.

"Hi! I recognize you!" I greeted back.

"Wow, English-speaking!" he joked. "Maybe that's why you don't know me—rich people don't watch

local TV."

"No, it's not that," I said, smiling and reverting to our local language. "I used to work abroad, so I never

really had the chance to follow local shows. I just came back a few months ago."

"Wow, a career woman!" he joked again. "Anyway, my name's Mówcah Usóg, from ABS-ZBN."

"It's a pleasure. I'm BJ."

"I know you, sis," Mówcah said. "I follow your IG account, bjmesoftly. I love it! So witty! And I also saw

you on that cooking challenge show with Maxwell Olivier."

"Oh." I smiled. "Thank you."

"How come you don't have pictures with Jiwoo anymore?"

"We'll, we're not really boyfriends. We only did that for fun," I explained.

"Wow, so you guys do things like that for fun, huh? I'm so envious."

"No! That's not what I meant!"

"Sis, I'm just kidding. Anyway, do you have a boyfriend?"

I shook my head in response. "I don't really have one right now. Do you have someone for me?"

"Oh? I don't believe you."

"It's true!" I protested. "Back in Korea, there's an imbalance between the demand and supply of tops

and bottoms."

Mówcah laughed. "You mean there are more tops than bottoms?"

"Yes!" I laughed, too. "There's a surplus of tops and a shortage of bottoms. So I literally had guys lining

up for me."

"Wow! I want to migrate to Korea!"

"You should!" I said with a giggle. "Unfortunately, it's the opposite here in the Philippines, isn't it? The

gay population seems to be 80% bottoms, 20% tops."

"Truth, sister, truth!" Mówcah said, still laughing. "That's why I gave up. I'm dating a straight guy now.

His name's Jeremy, and here's his gorgeous face." He showed me his boyfriend's photos on IG. They

were rather uncomfortable for me to look at because this Jeremy dude was clearly in his 20s, while

Mówcah was nearing menopause.

He probably noticed my expression because he laughed and said, "Yes, it's a May-December

relationship. I'm 43, and he's 21. He's just in his 3rd year in college."

"Um, sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"No, no, you don't have to be. As you said, the number of tops in the country is countable by the fingers

on my left hand! I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"Is he not taking advantage of you or something?"

"In a way, yes. I'm taking care of all his expenses. We live together now. Sometimes, I also give

financial aid to his family."

"I'm not supposed to judge you on this, but doesn't that make you a sugar mommy?"

"Well, to-may-to to-mah-to, it doesn't matter. It's not like I'm paying for sex," he answered, surprisingly

cheerful. "We're in a relationship, and I happen to be more financially stable. If I can help him, why

wouldn't I?"

I was quiet for a while before I was able to put my thoughts into words. "Doesn't that make the

relationship transactional?"

"Maybe," he answered with a noncommittal shrug. "But isn't that exactly how heterosexual relationships

work—the husbands work for their wives?"

Although he had a point, I still felt like there was something wrong with the entire situation. "Yeah, but

at least heterosexual marriages start out with love. What do you think?"

"That's true," he answered back. "Despite being transactional in nature, I guess you could say that

most heterosexual marriages begin with mutual affection and mutual sexual attraction. But it doesn't

mean the reverse can't be true as well, right?"

"What do you mean?"

"What's stopping us from starting off the relationship as transactional then working our way toward

mutual affection?"

I didn't have an answer to that. What he said made total sense. I didn't know why it was difficult for me

and my stubborn ideals about romance to accept that.

"I think relationships don't always have to start romantically," Mówcah added. "That idea of Hollywood

romance is so outdated."

"What if he's not genuinely in love with you? What if he's only tolerating you for the benefits he can get

from you?"

It was Mówcah's turn to be quiet.

"As long as he doesn't cheat, I should be okay with it," he answered after several minutes of silence.

"This may sound selfish, but what's important is my feelings. I love him. He makes me feel good. I'm

not interested if he's only pretending to feel the same way. As long as I can feel it, I guess I'm good with

that."

We spent the next course of our package, which was the facials, in silence. It wasn't like we had a

choice because there were a lot of products on our faces, but it forced me to think about what Mówcah

had said. He wasn't wrong. Maybe my ideals really were outdated.

Right before we finished the package, Jeremy, Mówcah's boyfriend, came over. Mówcah introduced us

to each other, and then we exchanged numbers. He invited me to watch one of his shows, and I

responded by inviting them to Chef Maxwell's restaurant one of those days.

Back in the condo, I slowly prepared for my date with Robert. He had called earlier that day to confirm

our rendezvous at 8 that night. I had difficulty selecting which clothes to wear. Rob would definitely be

in a suit—lawyers tend to dress that way most of the time. That meant I had to match it, right?

However, I wasn't in the mood for formal wear. I wanted to don something that Rob could easily rip off

of me after dinner. Naughty, I know, but I was planning for something to happen between me and Rob

that evening. It had been months since I last slept with someone—with that lying son of a bitch JM,

nonetheless—so my body was itching for some vitamin D.

Besides, I thought Rob had earned it.

And if I were to be completely honest with myself, I had gotten scared of what Mówcah had said. I still

didn't know why I didn't feel a spark with Rob. Yes, I felt the butterflies whenever he did something

sweet, but his effect on me ended there. Still, I was afraid that if I continued playing hard to get, he

would lose interest and I would end up like Mówcah.1

At 30 minutes past 7, Rob came over, picked me up, and drove us to La Chaumier.

When he said he was renting Nico's place, I thought the restaurant was going to be all ours. It would

have been totally romantic if it were just the two of us inside the big restaurant hall, and we would be

watching the chef cook our food a few feet away.

Then again, that would be too much of a waste for a date, wouldn't it? If I had just won that challenge,

we'd be at Hacienda's doing exactly that.

But still, we were at the more exclusive portion of the restaurant. The tables were set so far away from

each other that you couldn't hear the conversations from the other tables.

The maître d' led us to our table, and within seconds there, we were welcomed with champagne in

crystal coupes. That was already a sign that La Chaumier was not your typical French restaurant.

Normally, restaurants serve sparkling wine like champagne in tall glasses called flutes. Higher-end

restaurants, like the one we were in, serve them in beautiful glasses rumored to be molded after the

breasts of Marie Antoinette.

To top things off, that portion of the restaurant served customers omakase-style. That means you don't

get to order—you just have to wait for whatever the chef serves you, from appetizers and hors d'

oeuvres to entrées and desserts. It was a full-on classic French course dinner.

Rob and I toasted to nothing in particular. The champagne was absolutely amazing. I made a mental

note to ask the chef what it was as I didn't get to see the bottle. Right after, we were served our first

course: a trio of hors d' oeuvres. We had some goat cheese crostini with fig olive tapenade, a zucchini

fritter, and a few pieces of shallot and pancetta tortilla crisps.

The food was practically to die for. I had never had a French-style full-course meal before. During my

time in Samsong, we normally took our clients to Korean, Chinese, or Japanese restaurants.

Next came the amuse-bouche, or what we refer to as tiny servings of flavor meant to amuse the mouth. From .

I have always wanted to incorporate that concept into my food, a sort of preview of the kind of flavors

the courses to come would have. They gave us sweet potato chips with a bit of goat cheese and caviar.

"I love this, Rob. Everything's just...splendid."

"I'm glad you do," said Robert, exuding sexiness with a smile.

He was very similar to Nico yet very different from him at the same time. Rob is half English, so he has

light brown, wavy hair; a tall nose; a strong jawline; and a handsome pair of big, blue eyes.

Nico, on the other hand, is half French. He has dark hair, a slender nose, impressive cheekbones, and

a more defined jawline.

As striking as they are, I figured I was just not into European men. I prefer Asian hotties like Jiwoo.

Fuck. I should forget about that prick. No more thinking about him, or I would end up like Mówcah! I

should be grateful I had someone as good-looking, smart, and rich as Robert chasing after me. There

shouldn't be any more questions asked!

"Anything the matter?"

"No, of course not!" I said, quickly wiping my lips with the napkin. "I was just savoring the flavors of the

amuse-bouche."

Soup was our third course, and there was only one word I could think of to describe it perfectly:

heaven. The server explained that it was made with Tuscan white beans and roasted garlic.

The appetizers came next, and I swear to God my mouth couldn't stop orgasming with every dish. We

were served with mushrooms stuffed with Italian cheese—Pecorino Romano if I wasn't mistaken—

garlic, and breadcrumbs.

We were waiting for the fifth course of salads when the server came over with my phone in hand.

"Monsieur, I'm afraid this is an urgent call. From Chef Maxwell Olivier."

Robert looked worried, and I didn't understand why Chef Maxwell had to call me at that time, too. I

grabbed the phone, thanked the server, and excused myself. I walked as quickly as I could to the

lounge before speaking into the phone.

"Yes, Chef?"

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you, BJ, but our junior pâtissier got caught in a traffic accident," said Chef

Maxwell. "There is no one to help out Chef Jacob in his station. To think that this happened today of all

days—the Dutch ambassador and his wife are in!"

"What? Is he okay, Chef?"

"We're not sure yet. I am planning to visit him in the hospital as soon as today's service is over. But will

you please lend us a hand? This is a make-or-break matter for the Dutch society in the Philippines."

"Of course, Chef."

"I will never forget this, BJ. Thank you."