Another Love Story

Epilogue A

It was a hot morning. The sun was blindingly bright and heat radiated off the pavements and shimmered in the air. It was definitely not the type of weather for a wedding dress—even a Vera Wang one. But I couldn't complain as yet. I was seated in an airconditioned Mercedes Benz; in my entourage's convoy that was parked down the hill from Namirembe Cathedral.

At the top of the hill was utter madness according to my social secretary, Anita. She was moving between the fleet of Benzes in a nice dress and heels; reassuring my bridal party, handing out extra water bottles and snow-white handkerchiefs through the windows while communicating with the team at the cathedral through her earpiece.

I had fought Tiger over Anita and a few other people on my team. It was hard to imagine; watching Anita now as she talked to the people in the lead car, that once upon a time I had faced down Tiger about her; refusing to have a social secretary. It sounded posh. I didn't know anyone that had a personal social secretary within my income bracket.

But Anita was indispensable. When she wasn't acting as my personal liaison in my wedding planning, she organized my social calendar. She worked with Tiger's social secretary to coordinate our calendars. Tiger had insisted from the start of our relationship that he wouldn't be doing public appearances without me for as long as it could be arranged for us to do them together.

I didn't think a software engineer had that many social engagements. Boy was I wrong. There were Saturday nights where Tiger and I attended up to four events in a night. The events bled into weekday evenings as well. There were private dinners, receptions, concerts, club appearances and more. I couldn't quite complain about the club appearances. They were a chance to let loose. Tiger's A-list friends were often contracted to turn up at clubs to host parties. When we could, we rolled through as part of the entourage and helped to add fun and visibility to their club appearances.

It wasn't just about the parties though. Dating a multi-billionaire brought all kinds of people to my DMs. Magazines, gossip rags, TV shows, radio shows, newspapers and podcasters reached out continuously for interviews and photoshoots. Charity organizations, orphanages and youth remand homes reached out to request visits, donations and partnerships. Companies reached out with endorsement deals. It was a lot.

Thanks to Anita, I didn't have to deal directly with any of it. She took my calls and answered my emails; acting as a human shield between me and the world. She summarized everything into brief reports which I reviewed and used as the basis to give her further instructions.

She also helped me manage my social media accounts. I had control over the content that I shared. She answered the DMs and read through the comments; deleting and reporting the offensive ones (and apparently, they were many). I was glad that I didn't have to deal with the overwhelming social demands of my relationship—even though I had resisted a social secretary at first.

Tiger had learnt from my reaction to Anita. Every other member of my personal staff had been snuck in on me gradually. My stylist, for instance, was a lady that somehow turned up four times in a row to help me get ready when Tiger and I were going to events. We were having lunch in his office, chatting about a dinner we were going to attend in a few days when I expressed to him my worry about what I would wear. He had casually slid the lady's card to me and told me to check with her for any suggestions. When I asked him why I should check with her specifically, his response was "That's what I pay her for."

Just like that, I had a personal stylist. Then a makeup artist. A chauffeur. A home manager. A security agent. I caved with the chauffeur because there were days I was too exhausted to drive. After socializing most of the weekend, there were Mondays where I simply couldn't put the key in the ignition and take myself to work. It was clear why Tiger and his friends were self-employed. You couldn't live the way they did and hold a steady, salaried job.