CHAPTER ONE
“Lunchtime,” Bujang-nim, my boss, announces with a clap of his hands. “If you work too hard, you won’t be productive this afternoon. Go on. Go on.” He gestures for us to move.
Bujang-nim isn’t his name. It’s Park Hyunwoo, but everyone refers to him as Bujang-nim. It signifies his leadership role, and Koreans are about class, station, and seniority above all else.
The three of us, the only women on Bujang-nim’s international marketing team, stare at him for a long, silent moment. When I was installed in this department, I was relieved to see two women and had immediate fantasies that Chaeyoung, Soyou, and I would be great friends. Ovary solidarity or something like that. I was wrong. Chaeyoung is unwelcoming and Soyou is outright hostile.
Soyou glares at me as if I made up the concept of lunch to annoy her, while Chaeyoung worries one of the three thin necklaces strung around her neck, the diamond-studded interlocking Cs catching in the bright fluorescents overhead.
The men in the department went to eat an hour ago. It’ll be another hour before they return. Chaeyoung and Soyou generally do not eat lunch. I’m not sure if it’s because they’re dieting or because their workload is so immense. Everyone here seems to be on a perpetual diet, probably because every social activity revolves around food.
When I first started working in this department six weeks ago, I opted to work through lunch, too. I wanted to prove to everyone that I wasn’t a worthless addition given a job because my mother is the CEO. I mean . . . yes, my mother is the CEO, but I’m a hard worker. Back home in Iowa, I never had any complaints about my work product or my work ethic. Here in Korea, at the IF Group, on the seventh floor, it’s different.
No one is more keenly aware of my position as the daughter of the CEO than ambitious Soyou. As the silence stretches from awkward to uncomfortable, she pastes on a polite smile and rises. Bowing slightly to Bujang-nim, she grabs her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk, surreptitiously kicks Chaeyoung’s chair, and then starts toward the elevators. Eating lunch with me is not on her list of pleasant things to do, but she’s smart and savvy, which means when the boss says to go to lunch, she’s going to lunch, even if it means eating with the devil.
“Come on, Chaeyoung-ie,” she says, and after a pause, “and Choi Hara-nim.”
I don’t think I’m as low as the devil in Soyou’s mind, but who knows? Calmly, I get my purse and follow the two to the elevator. I could have declined. I can do anything here. Bujang-nim would shine my shoes if I asked it, which is precisely why Soyou hates me, and that’s why I can’t be mad. I can be hurt and frustrated and annoyed, but I can’t be mad. I don’t deserve this job, the deference Bujang-nim pays me, or the energy drinks the resident ass-kisser, Yoo Minkyu, places next to my monitor every couple of days.
I should decline because a lunch with the three of us is bound to be miserable, like three women who meet after finding out they’ve all been dating the same man. I guess the situation is not all that dissimilar. We crave the approval of Choi Wansu, and the other two resent that I have the inside track, what with her being my mother.
If I’m the demon, Choi Wansu is my opposite. To most of the women in this company, she’s a savior. The IF Group is an anomaly among Korean companies. They don’t always hire people from the three biggest universities, known as SKY—Seoul, Korea University, Yonsei. Hell, they don’t always require a college education. All they care about is results. Can you do the work you’re hired to do? If so, here’s your badge and your desk. Go to work.
In this achievement- and effort-based corporate environment, I stand out in an ugly way, given a job solely because of my connections, without proper qualifications or education or experience.
In the elevator car, Soyou launches into some topic that I only partially understand because it’s all in Korean and Soyou speaks very fast. Chaeyoung slips the double C pendant up to her mouth and listens intently.
I catch a few words about drinking and a man and a bastard. The smaller woman nods, offering nothing but support. They’re good friends and their strengths and weaknesses overlap. Chaeyoung sometimes struggles at work. She’s clever and witty but often forgetful. Soyou keeps the other woman on track, leaving sticky-note reminders or collecting the woman’s phone when she’s left it in the bathroom or on a conference room table.
Chaeyoung repays her by springing for lunch and snacks, footing the taxi bill, leaving small gifts, offloading things like designer jewelry in a nonchalant manner so as not to make Soyou feel small. She would not be able to afford even one of Chaeyoung’s necklaces.
It’s their bond that draws me, but they’re closed off, always standing to the side, sitting apart from me. Soyou often uses her taller frame as a shield for the smaller Chaeyoung, as if my laying eyes on Chaeyoung is inappropriate. Even now, Soyou is positioned between us discussing their weekend plans. Then her voice drops and I hear myself being referenced—or at least they’re referencing Choi Wansu’s daughter. I’m the only daughter she has.
When will they stop fawning over Choi Wansu’s daughter?
I don’t know.
Her US college isn’t a good one. Not Harvard or Stanford or Yale.
She’s a nakhasan. Chaeyoung shrugs as if that one word—that word meaning a product of nepotism—explains it all.
I swallow a deep sigh and lean against the wall of the elevator. She’s right. It does explain it all. I stare at the back of Soyou’s worn black heels, where the scuffed spots are colored in with marker, and shift uncomfortably in the three-inch designer heels Choi Wansu bought for me. If I were in Soyou’s knockoff pumps, I’d be mad at me, too.
The doors open and Soyou marches out, her long strides making Chaeyoung have to practically jog to keep up. The taller woman doesn’t stop to hail a taxi but makes straight for the convenience store across the street. The two of them will buy a prepackaged salad and a beverage. Soyou prefers iced Americano and Chaeyoung gets the Chilsung Cider lemon-lime flavor. They’ll talk in fast Korean that I can’t quite understand while eating the dry salads on a bench in the nearby Yongsan Park with the stay-at-home moms, day-care workers, and nannies.
My stomach rumbles. I don’t want to eat lettuce and I don’t want to sit like an outcast with two coworkers who will spend the next thirty minutes icing me out as they’ve done for the past six weeks. I grab my phone and shoot a text to my group chat.
ME: I’m eating at the fried pork ball food truck. Meet me if you’re hungry.
“I’m going to a food truck to get fried pork balls,” I call out to the two women. Chaeyoung halts at the side of the road, and for a half second, I think she might respond. “There’s a CU next to it. They sell the salads you like there,” I add because I’m foolish and want to be liked. Chaeyoung half turns, but Soyou grabs the woman’s arm. The crosswalk light turns green and they’re off without either of them looking back.