What a Girl Wants (13 page)

He shrugs. “Fine.”

Should I ask for his testimony now? You know, this meeting is just really uncomfortable. I don’t want to talk about his ex. I don’t want to talk about my lawsuit for fear someone’s on the plane who could overhear, and I am doubting Kevin wants to hear what J. Lo is up to this week, so
People
magazine is out.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Is there something I
should
be saying then?”

Again, being the beacon of light that I am, I shake my head as an answer. Better to say nothing at all than to relive my worst moment in high school. Being class president, I was asked to make a speech at graduation, but when I opened my mouth to speak, my foot slipped off the stage. I hit my chin on the podium, silencing me from my peers and leaving a lasting impression upon the class of 1990.

“Did Arin tell you something about me?” Kevin asks, his eyes thinning.

Now I can’t help but wonder,
what could she have told me? Does
he have some weird fetish, like men’s feet or wearing ladies’ undergarments?

“Arin told me that you study too much.” I shrug. “That’s all she told me. Is there something else I should know?”

“I’m focused,” Kevin says. “Arin doesn’t like that. I wasn’t focused enough on her, but I don’t want you to think—” He stops mid-sentence.

“I don’t think anything, and I reserve all judgment until after our day in San Francisco. Do you agree to the same terms?”

Oh, that smile again. Just pierce me in the heart, why don’t you?

“I do.” He leans toward me, glancing at the pile of documents I unload onto my sorry, flimsy tray. “What are you working on?”

I do. He’s said The Words and suddenly, I see him in a tux and my
feet in ivory slippers, coming down the aisle to meet him. People are
oohing and ahhing over my gown, cascading behind me . . .

“Ashley?”

“Uh, yes?”

“I was asking what you’re working on.”

“R-right. I’m preparing to make my case. I’m running numbers and just thinking about all I need to do in Taiwan. Thursday I’ll think about our date and nothing else.” I’m a terrible lawyer. I give everything away and then some.

“Fair enough. I can see I’m distracting you from your work. I’ll leave you alone so you can do your best. But Thursday you’re mine.” Kevin winks, rises, and walks toward the front of the plane before I can say a word. After a moment, I consciously shut my gaping jaw. That’s the last I see of him on the flight. Some cutesy stewardess probably gave him a seat in first class just so she could gaze upon him. I force myself to stare at my briefs, to focus on the task immediately before me and not my fabulous date on Thursday. To say nothing of what it could lead to. He was the one who intimated that there might be more, galleries in Sausalito . . . The Briefs.
Focus, Ashley, focus.

Once in Taiwan, I’m zapped by the stench of diesel and the gray wet heat of the Asian tropics. The air just sucks the life out of me, and I begin to wonder what the average life span is here. The sun is setting and my stomach is growling, but I’m ever fearful of my options regarding food. Somehow, I didn’t see Kevin again. Did he not check any luggage? Was it all a figment of my imagination? There are a lot of people on a 747-400, but I thought I’d at least get a chance to wave his direction, leave a lasting impression. I’d spent half an hour in a cramped lavatory preparing for just that. But no luck.

A car arrives and takes me to my hotel. We drive by a gorgeous Hyatt that looks like something as glitzy as Vegas, but we keep driving. My hotel is American, but it’s a cinder-block special, painted a brilliant Navajo peach. The limo driver helps me into the hotel, bowing ever so slightly when he’s finished. I return the slight bow, and head to the front desk.

“Good evening. Ashley Stockingdale, checking in.”

It’s a young man behind the counter. He is dressed impeccably in a dark hotel suit, and his manners make me wish I could transport him to Palo Alto. “Miss Stockingdale, it’s a pleasure to have you with us. I’ll have your luggage brought to your room, and you can visit the hotel restaurant if you’re so inclined.”

I am so inclined. It’s five p.m. and though food strikes terror at the heart, I must be strong. This is my opportunity. Purvi trusted me with this trip on my own, and I’m going to do her proud. I will not perish from hunger before I serve my papers.

Serving papers. I haven’t had time to think of the fear of doing this alone. Usually, I’m just an ornament on Purvi’s right. I know I’m to wear a business jacket with skirt. I know I’m to present my business card with both hands, and study theirs when they hand it to me, but I’m mortified that if I get lost during the meeting, there’s no one to set me straight. Purvi speaks enough Chinese to be well-revered among the people, but even my hello is rusty. My mind is still churning as the waiter greets me with a leather menu.

“Good evening, Miss Stockingdale. Would you like to start with a cocktail?” Everyone’s English is perfect, unlike my Chinese.

“No. No, thank you. A Diet Coke, if you will.”

The waiter, dressed in a typical black-and-white ensemble, races off to get my soda and a little bit of Americana. I look around the restaurant, which is full of diners eating alone. Windows surround us in a half circle, and heavy draperies hang from the high ceilings. There’s nothing here to let you know you’re in Taipei—except the dim sum and roasted duck on the menu—and even that could be Silicon Valley. There’s a marble fountain creating noise so we business travelers will forget there’s no conversation.

My waiter returns with my beverage. “Have you decided? Did you notice our live seafood selection?” He motions towards a tank.

I hand the menu back quickly. “I’ll have a hamburger.”

If he feels disdain, he shows nothing. “Right away, Miss Stockingdale.”

“You should try the fish.” An American businessman in his suit, jacket draped over the additional empty chair at his table, speaks. He’s eating a hamburger.

“So should you. Fish is healthy, you know.”

“Where are you from?”

“Palo Alto,” I say. Anyone who does business in Taipei knows Palo Alto, birthplace of Hewlett-Packard. “What about you?”

“San Mateo,” he says, naming a nearby city on the San Francisco Peninsula.

“You sound wearied. Do you have to travel here a lot?”

He nods. “Once a month.” He comes over to my table and opens his wallet. “This is my wife and kids.”

“You have kids and they make you travel? I thought it was only us single folk they sent off to the Far Reaches.”

He grabs his hair. “You see this gray? It’s a lifetime of travel in my forty-two years. They own me, and now that I have a Bay Area mortgage, there’s nothing to be done about it. I’m telling you all this because you still have the puppy look. You’re a novice, am I right?”

I nod. “This is the first trip they trusted me with alone.”

“Don’t let them do it to you, Miss. They’ll buy your soul if you let them.” His words send shivers down my back and his presence suddenly frightens me. “Enjoy your hamburger.” He throws a few bills on his table and stalks off towards the elevator. I feel like I’ve just been visited by Slugworth.

“Waiter!” I lift my finger. I think that’s rude here, but I don’t have time to obsess. “Would you pack that hamburger for me? I need to turn in early.”

The hamburger is cold and wilted by the time I make it up the elevator. It’s no In-N-Out Burger, but it’s decent. My hotel room is typical. Small room, lots of phone lines, but I look at my laptop and decide I don’t care what last minute advice Purvi has. My e-mail can wait.

I stare out the window down the busy Taipei street, and I question if I can picture myself doing this in ten years. Five even.

I start to dial Seth. But it’s 3 a.m. at home. While I know he wouldn’t care, I’m too fearful to go through with it. A middle-of-the- night call is so intimate, and that’s just not where we are.

Somewhere along the line, I fall off to sleep and wake up by five-thirty a.m. My morning prayer time has me questioning my career—the career I’m halfway across the world for, mind you. Why is today any different? What good is writing a patent I can’t defend? I’m sure it’s homesickness.
This is all normal
, I tell myself.

By Sunday I’ll be back at church. Back with the Reasons, and knowing I am one of them, not above them. I don’t have one particular reason as I’ve so obviously seen in others. I am a continuous, ever-flowing fountain of reasons, but when I work sixty hours a week and lack a social life? No one seems to notice.

I leave the hotel at seven a.m. for my eight-thirty meeting. With Taipei traffic, there’s no sense in chancing being late. Motor scooters are as thick as beans in Starbucks, and although the city has yet to fully come alive, my driver is stalled while waiting for the throngs of pedestrians and bicycles to cross.

With relief, we reach my destination, and, surprise, I’m still in one piece. I bow to the driver and grab my briefcase with my cheesy novel inside. At least I’ll have a way to pass the forty-five minutes before my meeting. The lobby is still locked and I find a small tea house where I have a pearl milk tea. A well-known treat in Silicon Valley, it’s sweet tea with giant balls of tapioca at the bottom, resembling black jelly beans. The patrons are very excited to see an American, and I feel like Elaine in her nail salon on
Seinfeld
while they chatter and laugh over my presence.

I check over my paperwork, which contains a very scary law-suit alleging that this equipment provider has copied, misappropriated, and infringed on my company’s intellectual property for their rival low-cost product.

I practice saying it in a menacing tone several times before I head back to the office. Someone from our regional Selectech office is supposed to meet me at the meeting, and I find myself praying for his or her appearance.

The receptionist, a young female dressed like an American corporate executive, takes my name and presses buttons on her phone. In the meantime, someone enters the lobby. He’s tall and looks as if he knows what he’s doing.
Please, please, let him be from
Selectech
.

“Corporate Patent Attorney, Ashley Stockingdale?” He bows.

The Chinese are big on titles. If you have one, they will use it. Maybe that’s what I need in Palo Alto. You know, something that announces my prime address: Ashley Stockingdale, Channing Street. Or maybe my car? Ashley Stockingdale, Audi TT convertible. “Yes, I’m Attorney Stockingdale.” I bow and extend my hand.

“Senior Counselman Chen Shing-Sen.” He takes my hand.

“Senior Counselman, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

We are quickly ushered into a dark, high-tech looking room with windows we cannot see through, and introduced around. The business card fiasco takes twenty minutes. After intros, they all just sit back and stare, a silent standoff, if you will. Who’s going to throw out the first number?

“Yes, well . . .” I stammer. “Your company, with its current memory card, is infringing upon U.S. Patent number 66543217, and we implore you to cease production immediately or further action will be issued.”
Ooooh, I even scare myself here.

They all look at one another and speak in Chinese until a spokesperson says no.

“Very well, shipment of your products will be stopped by the U.S. Customs department in accordance with U.S. patent law. Thank you for your time.” I rise to go.
I’m like something out of
The Practice
, I’m so hot.

“Wait,” the spokesman says. “Perhaps there’s a deal. Do you have a price to use this patent?”

“$350,000 for the use of our patent, as well as a steady stream of royalties at a 10 percent profit rate.”

They begin to grumble. I know they have millions in product sitting on U.S. docks and they’ll go nowhere without my approval.
Isn’t that hilarious? Me, who can’t even get a date! I hold this company’s
future in my hands.

“Do you have the contracts with you?”

“I do.” I hand them the agreements.

“We’ll leave word with your hotel. Where are you staying?”

“It’s all on there,” I say as I rise. “Gentlemen, a privilege doing business with you.”

There is no laughter and they actually bid me good-bye. I am a Legal Superstar!

For three days, I tour our company’s factories and shake hands with all the local Selectech managers. Even though I have nothing to do with the daily operation of our product, the managers are all eager to meet me and take me to lunch. Yum, all sorts of exciting local delicacies.

The Taiwanese people are wonderful, and they entertain like Martha Stewart—with a theme. The theme is always Local Flavor, and therein is the problem. Often, Asian food is too fresh for me, meaning it hasn’t been dead long enough. One of my meals, a shrimp, has even been killed right in front of me. There should be some kind of waiting period, I think. Kind of like buying a gun.

My three days are absolutely nonstop until I’m dropped at the airport bound for home.
Home, home, home.
Then the horrible thought comes to me that there is no home in two weeks. Unless you count my parent’s house and that is
SO
not an option. I am, after all, an international legal star. The contracts were returned signed and sealed. My company’s stock rose four points on the news. My head is inflating as we speak. This is not the time to go home to Mama.