It wasn’t that I had a cock day at work.
No—I guess what was more disturbing was that it wasn’t as obvious as that. I mean, things were still a bit weird with Albert after our talk in his office yesterday and that whole crazy business about asking me to think about the circulation department and all. I kept wondering what he might be planning, but thank god he didn’t bring it up again. So, who knows?
I was distracted all day, however, because I couldn’t stop going over all the things I saw at Temple of Heaven last night. China Girl, New China Girl, George going down on Long Legs right in front of us. I thought about texting Fann and Imo about it, but I didn’t even know where to begin. (At least Kin Meng was nice and texted me in the morning asking if I had a good time. Of course I said yes. Though I was mainly just glad that he didn’t seem angry about my ten-thousand-dollar garland. I guess the deal Keith signed must have been fucking huge. I wish I had thought of exchanging phone numbers with Keith when he dropped me off. Even if he’s gay, if he’s in that kind of money range—who knows? I’m sure he has straight ang moh friends who also make that kind of cash! Aiyoh, Jazzy here sometimes really doesn’t think straight.)
Just thinking about that KTV room, that night, that club, made me feel damn dirty. Of course I’m not so naive as to believe that girls like that don’t exist everywhere in the world. But to see respectable men—husbands!—like Sam or Kin Meng in that environment, just going along with all of it. Aiyoh—how can? But what was making my heart the most pain right now was the thought that Sher—our sweet Sher—now had one of these exact types of lousy Singaporean husbands. My god! What did she do to herself?
I still remember the night when I first realized that things were really going to shit for Sher—and, I guess in a way, all of us as a group. The four of us—and Ah Huat—were all squeezed around a small table at Chin Chin Eating House. We had just finished eating our pork chops and chicken rice; we still had beer on the table, so the Chin Chin uncle still hadn’t come over to ask us to fuck off yet. Just before that, Ah Huat had invited us to come see his tuition school over at Peace Center. Walao, I tell you, this locale is a damn funny place for tuition school, man—with all those sleazy KTV lounges surrounding it, which parents in the world would want to send their kids there for physics and chemistry tuition? But Ah Huat had told us his school was actually quite successful—and since I didn’t believe him, we agreed to go and look-see look-see.
It turned out that I was wrong. Ah Huat, in the end, was quite an entertaining teacher, jumping around the front of the class, madly scribbling all these crazy equations on the board, explaining science and all this super complex maths in his Ah Beng lingo, swearing and telling dirty jokes all the way. His students all called him “Ah Lim,” and his classroom was very small but somehow he managed to pack in forty to fifty students each hour. He just rotated his subjects all day—one hour teaching chemistry, one hour teaching maths, then physics next, etc. He was quite funny lah—even if I don’t know pythar gorass theorem is what cock, when Ah Huat explained it with his smelly Ah Beng attitude, I also listened. I guess if you can make people laugh they confirm will pay more attention. And I could tell so did the students—they were all leaning forward at their desks, listening carefully to every single thing he was saying. Even I could see that Ah Huat was actually teaching them something. For a former teacher from some lousy government school, he really had made something of himself lah.
So, no choice—I had to admit that I was wrong, and Ah Huat almost dropped his chalk when I did. “You know,” he said, staring at me with his squinty Ah Beng eyes and stroking his chin as if he had a Confucius beard, “you should come and work for me. The school is growing so quickly I can’t handle all the admin and managerial work. I really need some sort of assistant or business manager . . .” I tell you—if I was drinking anything at the time I would have laughed so hard I’d spit it out right in Ah Huat’s face. So typical of these kinds of people—you say one nice thing to them and suddenly they think that they are equals with you. Please—my god! As if I’ll ever work for a smelly Ah Beng!
I didn’t want to be rude, though—he had been nice enough to show us around his tuition school and all. So I just laughed and said, “Aiyah, come, come, I’ll buy everyone dinner.” So we all walked over to Chin Chin for pork chops. Everything was going OK—it wasn’t say, very fun but it also was not terrible. We all didn’t know Ah Huat that well—because hello, do we look like the sort of girls who would actually be seen with him? But Sher had known him since they were teenagers because their mothers were mah-jongg friends for donkey’s years. At some point in our early twenties, of course both aunties had started hinting to the two of them that maybe they should go see a movie or something. But when Sher mentioned it to us—aiyoh—the three of us laughed so hard that she looked bloody embarrassed for even mentioning it.
That night at Chin Chin though, we knew that Sher had started hanging out with him a bit—we had not been so successful with ang moh guys for a few months, I told her I guess it’s OK to just hang out with him lah. Better to keep busy otherwise we might lose practice. Also, if you have someone to buy you dinner now and then, what’s the harm? As long as I don’t see Ah Huat’s fuck face so much around the four of us—in public—I also don’t really care.
Halfway through the dinner, Fann poked my elbow—her eyes rolling from side to side, asking me to look over at Sher. Aiyoh, Sher was picking out nice pieces of chicken from the big platter to put on Ah Huat’s plate! I remember thinking, this girl—my god—she’s really getting out of control. “Kani nah—tomorrow ah,” I whispered to Fann, “we’d better talk to Sher. Acting so romantic? We must stop this!” I think Sher noticed us whispering because after that she didn’t feed him anymore.
When we finished eating, Ah Huat pulled out his box of Marlboro Reds and lit one up. Imo was telling us about how her dad was saying that day that the new HDB flats were quite nice-looking, asking whether she had a serious boyfriend or not. Apparently the new flats were so nice that Uncle was saying that people should fasterly get married just so they can buy one. So he was advising her, “Imo, if you even have a not-so-serious boyfriend, maybe you can at least consider whether can get more serious lah—the new flats are so beautiful. They’re a very good investment! Just go to the registry of marriage, quickly buy a flat first, then deal with everything else later.” Wah, when we heard Uncle’s advice, Fann and I started laughing and laughing. Please! Yah lah, if you want to buy a government-subsidized flat then sure, you have to get married and preferably do it by a certain age. And it’s true lah—the whole country had been talking about how nice the new ones are. Some are located downtown and all—and look even more atas than some private condominiums! In fact, the other day Fann almost got slapped for saying to Imo that Waikiki Towers looks more like an HDB flat than the new HDB flats. Even so, is Uncle blind? Surely he should know by now that his daughter and all of us are never going to be like those loser Singaporeans who get married just so they can buy a flat. Cheh!
Ah Huat also laughed a little bit, then he sucked hard on his cigarette and nodded his head over at Sher. “Eh, how?” he said, smelly puffs of smoke coming out of his chubby hairy nostrils as he talked. “Want to register for flat or not?”
Fann, Imo and I started laughing and laughing. We laughed for so long that we actually had to stop and take a sip of water—that type of laughing. Until we suddenly realized that Sher and Ah Huat were not laughing! Then all of a sudden, everything felt quite scary. Ah Huat was looking at Sher. We were staring at Sher. Sher was looking down at the chicken bones next to her orange plastic plate.
“Well, it seems like a good deal—those flats are quite nice,” she finally said. “OK.”
Ah Huat was suddenly so happy he actually pumped his fist into the air as if he won some cock competition. He raised his beer glass to try and cheers with all of us but we were so stunned we didn’t move. Sher couldn’t even look at us.
Imo was the first one to say something. “Sher, are you sure . . .”
Sher just cut her off and said, “It’s a good time, Imo. OK?”
“Sher,” I said, reaching over for her hand. I suddenly felt like throwing up.
Sher grasped my hand in hers first though. “Jazzy,” she said, looking very seriously at me. “Please—just don’t. Not now.”
I couldn’t believe it. I tried to look at Sher one more time but this time she not only could not look up at me but she also actually turned her head and looked away.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. I took fifty dollars out of my wallet and threw it on the table. “Come,” I said to Fann and Imo, “let’s go.”
Thinking back to that day, I wish I had said something—anything—that could have made that cock marriage proposal disappear. Instead I’d gotten angry like a baby and stormed off. I should have reasoned with Sher, taken her out for drinks after. If I had, would we have lost her forever to a loser Singaporean who’s probably going to behave just like Kin Meng or Sam at those KTV clubs before too long?
I mean—forget Kin Meng and Sam. Even the Singaporean guys who don’t have the money—or expense accounts—for KTV lounges are also doing funny business outside of their marriages. A few years ago, the girls and I really liked Hard Rock Cafe—we had just started hanging out with this group of English ruggers that we had met there, so we were feeling a little hopeful. One Saturday at Hard Rock when we girls had just climbed onto the dinner tables and were still sweating from swinging our long hair and going crazy to “Sweet Child of Mine,” some guy near our feet suddenly said, “Eh, Jazzy and Sher ah?” At first we didn’t recognize him. Some Singaporean guy at Hard Rock—who cares? But then Sher said, “Eh, I think it’s Aileen’s husband.”
My first thought was, “Cannot be.” Aileen just got married—how come her husband is already going clubbing without her? But it confirm was him! Well, we liked Aileen, so we got down from the tabletops to say hello. Her husband bought us a pitcher of Long Island Iced Tea and we talk-talked with him for a while, passing around the pitcher with two long straws so everyone could sip it. When the pitcher was empty, he bought another one. That was when I noticed he was suddenly standing right next to me, rubba-ing more and more as each song came on. I asked, “Eh, what you think you doing?”
“Aiyah, Jazzy, don’t be so serious lah. Let’s just get high and have a good time. Come, later I send you home.” Aileen’s husband kept rubba-ing—even using his left hand to hold on to the back of my neck so I felt like I was in one of those thick dog collars. At first I thought, OK, be nice lah, Jazzy. People just bought us all drinks—better to just swallow it, smile and say nothing.
But then I thought—kani nah, Aileen is our friend!
So I elbowed him and pushed him away. “You think we who? One of those China girls who can actually pretend they like sucking your small cock?”
That was when he got angry. He just wiped his mouth and spat on the floor. “You all ah,” he said, pointing slowly at each one of us, “are nothing but a bunch of lousy sarong party girls. You think all these ang mohs will treat you any better than we will? Lan jiao, lah!” And then he walked away. I just couldn’t believe it—even the not good-looking, not rich Singaporean guys are like that. So you tell me—what kind of hope do we girls have?
My head felt like it was going to explode thinking about last night at the KTV lounge, about Sher, about Aileen. So after I knocked off from work, I took the MRT down to Orchard Road and walked over to Paragon. Walking along its gleaming corridors and peeking into its perfumed cocoons filled with handbags and shoes always made me feel better. Prada, Loewe—even Coach. No matter what happened, these were the friends who could always instantly cheer me up.
I know this kind of thinking is quite materialistic lah. (Although, at the same time I also think—what the hell is wrong with that? Doesn’t PM Lee always say it’s good to have goals?) But since teenage times, I guess I’ve always been like this. And I guess walking these expensive corridors now always reminds me of the first guy who actually made me think that this was the life I could have someday.
There is only one Singaporean guy I ever considered worth marrying. Maybe.
This was a long time ago when I was still young. I knew about Gavin from the first week at JC—we were both in the same year in the commerce faculty, so even though we weren’t in the same class I always saw him in econs and maths lectures. He was damn hard to get to know at first, because we were nowhere near being in the same circles. Even though he only managed to get into lousy Changi Junior College, his family was fucking rich. So each day, from the moment he parked his older brother’s BMW in the teachers’ car park to the time he left, he always had a big group following him around. Mostly guys, but since he was the richest guy in school, of course there were always a few girls—all the pretty ones, even a few Eurasians. The fucker knew this, of course—you could always see him walking around the school corridors with major attitude, like he’s George Clooney at that atas French film festival or some shit.
So even though I thought he was cute—tall tall skinny skinny one, with small backside and sweet cheeky smile, and his school uniform shirt collar was always turned up a bit, like Cantopop singers in those paparazzi shots of them on vacation and all—I thought, this kind of guy, I confirm have no chance with him. If he has Eurasian girls wanting to date him, why on earth would he consider me? For me to dream about being his girlfriend—waste time only lah. I might as well try to date George Clooney. Same same.
But one day Gavin was late for econs lecture and I guess his gang forgot to save a seat for him—and usually I sit with Sher, but that day she was sick so there was a big empty seat next to me. Ten minutes after Mrs. Ho started talking about diminishing returns or some shit I heard someone sneaking into Sher’s usual chair. When I looked to my left and saw it was Gavin, I was so shocked my mouth dropped open and I even stopped writing notes. Fucker saw that and just laughed quietly, shaking his head. Babi!
I thought, OK lah, if he wants to be like that, guniang will be a bit stuck-up with him. I just turned back to my notes and didn’t look at him again during the whole lecture. At the end, when he winked at me and just got up quickly to leave, I wasn’t surprised. Probably had some hot date at recess or something. Cheh!
I saw him around school the next few days, of course—fucker would wink at me here and there but never bothered to come over and say hello. But then a few days later, I happened to be leaving school late—so late that the bus stop outside was empty. Gavin was sitting on the railing at the bus stop, just casually smoking, looking a bit action. Damn funny—I whole life never see him at bus stop before. He had a BMW after all—and even if he didn’t have his car that day, his mum could always send her driver to come and fetch him. What’s he doing at a bus stop? The mighty Gavin taking public transportation? As if!
When I got to the bus stop though, Gavin threw his ciggie into the longkang and hopped off the railing.
“Why are you so late?” he asked.
I was so stunned I had to look around me for a moment to make sure he wasn’t actually talking to someone behind me.
“Come,” he said. “I send you home.”
I usually try to be a bit proud—but then again, I also never say no to free car ride. (At that time, buses got no air-con, you know—if you have to take long bus trip in the middle of the afternoon . . . very hardship!) So I just nodded and follow him to his BMW.
“You live near town, right?” he said after he started the engine—this engine was damn power, man. It sounded like one of those Formula One cars! (Not that I’d actually ever been close enough to a sports car to hear something like this. But hello, even if Jazzy here is not rich, she has some imagination.)
“Yah,” I said, suddenly wondering how he knew where I live. I had never even said “Hello” to him before—how the hell did he know all these things?
“OK, I bring you to King’s Hotel for lunch first,” he said. “The chicken rice there, quite good.”
Go to a hotel to eat chicken rice? I whole life never hear something so stupid before. Chicken rice is hawker food, hello—the hawker center across from my block alone has so many good kinds, and all just the two-dollar three-dollar type! If you are toot enough to go to a hotel for chicken rice, you must know you’re going to cough up at least ten dollars for a plate! And GST on top of that! But I assumed he was paying, so I just kept quiet. In fact, being quiet was not so hard at that point. Gavin’s air-con was as power as his engine—everything was so cold and shiok I was getting a bit sleepy. I actually wished he wasn’t there so I could just close my eyes and take a nap. But babi was not only sitting next to me—he kept looking at me, like he wanted to see if I was OK or not. So I just looked out the window and counted the angsana trees flashing by.
“I’m Gavin,” he said.
“You think I don’t know, is it?”
I heard him laugh, so I turned around to look at him.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” he said. I could see that he was still smiling. “Just wondering why you are being so attitude with me. It’s not like I did something to you before. Excuse me, uncle over here is even fetching you home and all.”
OK lah. He had a point. I guess I was on edge because I wasn’t really sure what was going on. Is he treating me like a charity case? Or did he want to ask me for favor? (My god, if he wants to copy my econs homework, he’s even more stupid than I think.) This kind of situation—rich handsome guy; poor not bad-looking girl—usually never ends well in those films in the cinema. Often the guy’s friends dare him to ask her out or something—and in the end they always end up making fun of the girl and how poor she is. Jazzy may not have money lah, but she’s not a goondu!
I didn’t know what to say so I just turned around and carried on looking out the window.
Gavin had turned onto the ECP by then and revved up his engine so we went a bit faster. I wished he would slow down. I had only been on this part of the ECP a few times before because guniang usually only took buses at that time. (And buses never go on the ECP, which is why all the bus rides from Changi all take so long. Sometimes, it feels like we have to get through one thousand traffic lights and even more bus stops before I get home, man.) It had already rained that day so the sky was damn blue and I could see a few people walking near the beach, the rows of skinny, short holiday chalets, the tall palm trees all around, the seaside hawker center that I heard had very shiok satay. I bet every day when Gavin drives to school he never even looks out his window at all this. When the fucker wants to go to a beach I bet he just flies to Bali or some shit.
“How you know I live in Tiong Bahru?” I asked.
“I asked around,” he said. “And I’ve been noticing you. You’re quite popular, you know. There are a lot of guys in school who are just waiting for a chance to take you out.”
Popular? Fucker must be pulling my leg. I know I’m a bit cute lah—some more I make sure to keep my school uniform skirt damn short. Some girls in school—even Eurasians!—have even quietly taken me aside before to ask me to show them my technique for rolling up my skirt at the waistband so the skirt rides up but also flares out nicely in that way that suggests that maybe guys can see a bit of backside if they look hard enough but hello, of course we girls know better than to actually give the whole show away for free.
No, usually when strange guys start talking to me, it’s usually because they want to get closer to Sher. Back then, I had better legs lah (hence the emphasis on skirt-rolling) but Sher was already damn pretty. Even so, she wasn’t that busy on the dating scene because the truth is, she just couldn’t be bothered. Of all of us, she was the most focused on studies—so when she was in school, she actually cared about going to classes type. (And when she was there, she actually listened.) I could always see guys—really good-looking ones, too—trying to get close enough to her to say hello. But usually only the really nerdy smart ones were the only ones who succeeded because Sher was mostly interested in asking them about homework and other cock shit like that. I had heard that some guys in school had started calling her “Ice Princess” because she never talked to people she didn’t know. I guess they thought they could get to her through me because I was a bit more friendly. (Or desperate? Babi.)
I wanted to say something to Gavin—like “Don’t talk cock lah!”—but decided to act cool. So I just nodded and kept looking out the window.
“You know,” I said. “Usually when guys ask a girl out, they do it nicely, sometimes bringing flowers all. They don’t kidnap them at a bus stop and force them to go and eat chicken rice.”
“Kidnap?” he said, laughing again, shaking his head. “You are really something, Jazeline.”
After that, we were stuck together like superglue. We went to lectures together, studied together at McDonald’s after school, on weekends we’d go to shows at Lido, holding hands for the world to see that we were a couple. The one year we were together was quite fantasy lah. If it was Bollywood movie we confirm would be running around a tree.
Even though I thought at first that Gavin was damn attitude, he actually turned out to be a very good boyfriend. Always pick me up in his BMW; always send me home. Some more each month on the fourteenth—the anniversary of our first bus stop date—he always gave me a present. Something branded some more—not a flashy or expensive present, usually something small like a Gucci keychain or the cheapest Tiffany pen. But on my birthday he gave me a Louis Vuitton wallet—the one with the logos all over so everyone could see it was LV!
Things were going so well after a few months that I actually allowed myself to start imagining what it would be like to be Mrs. Gavin Lim. To live in big house, have two maids, maybe even a Malay driver. Win lottery! This kind of life, I confirm don’t mind. I wasn’t sure how rich Gavin was exactly—and honestly, I didn’t really care. I got the sense that he was definitely rich enough for more than one maid. But I did hope that he could give me enough to buy a nice house for my mum and dad also, and make sure they also had a maid to take care of them. I know back then we were still pretty young but it was a little bit different than it is now. When you’re in school, some of the relationships you have, you’ll stick with them until early twenties and when it’s a decent enough age, you get married. Those kinds of school relationships were much simpler than now lah—now, aiyoh, it’s all about hooking up and getting free drinks. Somewhere along the way between JC and real life, everything always changes when it comes to dating. If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll snag that good guy before he sees the opportunities out there and any of that crap can change him.
Then a few months before our A-level preliminary exams, Gavin took me to dinner at Nadaman at the Shang. Nice Japanese dinner at Nadaman? Must be something important. Could it be? Just in case, I made sure my mascara was waterproof that night. So when I make those few tears of joy at least we can still take a nice photo afterward.
The dinner was damn shiok—foie gras chawanmushi, super expensive sashimi and all—but guniang here was not even halfway through eating when Gavin dropped his fucking bomb.
“I think we should take a break,” he said, reaching across the table to take my hand.
I just laughed. Things were going so well—why was he saying such cock words? “Crazy, ah?” I said, laughing even more.
“Jazz, I’m serious,” he said. “The A-levels are so important. My mum says I need to really focus. She wants me to come straight home after school every day and take extra tuition classes before the preliminary exams. I can’t afford to bollocks this up.”
His mum! Of course she is behind this. I always try not to be rude to my elders but Auntie Lim is a fucking chee bye, man. From the first time I met her until now, she was always damn stuck-up around me, always pulling a dark face if Gavin invites me to family parties. I know she thinks her precious son can do better.
“Did your mum ask you to break up with me?” I asked.
“Break up? No! This is not that, Jazz. She just thought maybe it’s good to take a break. Just at least until the A’s are over.”
“Why do we need a break? We can see each other less often. Do you think I don’t know how important the A’s are? I also need to study! You’re not the only one who is trying to have a future, Gav!”
“I know, I know. Jazz, please don’t be upset.”
He was trying to bend across the table to kiss me now but I just leaned back and folded my arms.
“Jazz,” he said, sighing. “You know I love you. My mother . . . you know what she’s like. I need to at least pass my A’s. The future chairman of Lim Yee Sheng Exports cannot retake his A’s! Do you know how embarrassing that would be? My parents won’t be able to show their faces at Chinese New Year!”
I refused to say anything and just looked away. I was still waiting for him to tell me this is a joke. Or that he’s going to tell his mum to go fly a kite.
“My mother said if I don’t at least show I’m serious about it and break up with you—for now—she’s going to take away my car. And cut my allowance. Do you know how hard that would be? I would have to take a bus to school! I won’t even have enough money to take a taxi to school! Do you understand?”
At that point, I finally did. I guess I had thought Gavin was different.
I folded my napkin, put it on the table and picked up my handbag.
“Jazz, please, don’t go. Don’t be so petty. I know you love me. Think about my future. Please?”
I just got up and walked away.
Gavin shouted behind me, “It’s just temporary!”
But of course it wasn’t.
And ever since then, even though now and then of course there will be some rich Singaporean guys who want to chase me, I never say yes. Date these spineless babies who at the end of the day will always kowtow to their snobby mums? No thank you. Please—waste time only.
Even though I hated Gavin, he still popped into my head now and then. Last I heard, he was in the States—California or some shit—studying business after he finished with his army training. Not married yet, but I can confirm I’ll never hear from him again. His mother would probably vomit blood and die if she ever heard the name “Jazeline” ever again, I’m sure. And boys like Gavin will always keep that in mind once they get close to marrying age.
Even so, kani nah—eight years later and I still think about him whenever I see a Gucci handbag. Damn pathetic, right?
I guess, since he was the first person who gave me branded gifts, I can’t help but think of him whenever I go to Paragon. There’s Bottega lah, Chanel lah, Gucci lah; the air-con is cold cold and all, the toilets so nice they have a sofa, pink carpet and must pay twenty cents to even enter type. All these things somehow make me think of Gavin. I guess I imagined that one day I would be able to come to Paragon and actually buy something for myself, not just look-see look-see.
Even though this mall makes me think of him and that cock time before Jazzy here smartened up, I still come. Just seeing all the logo handbags and big fashion show catwalk posters, the expensive lipsticks and thousand-dollar high heels—even if it’s through the window—can always cheer me up. And this evening I really needed cheering up.
“Jazzy?” I heard someone say. “Is that you?”
I didn’t recognize the voice but when I turned to look, I recognized the face—Sharon! God, I hadn’t seen her since secondary school. Her face was a bit fatter—and so were her hips. Must have had a kid already. But she still looked the same otherwise.
“Sharon! Eh, woman, you still look damn happening!” I said, giving her a hug.
“Talk rubbish!” she said. “You are the happening one—look at you!” (We both knew she was the only one not talking rubbish.)
We caught up a bit—she was always damn smart so she went to Raffles JC and then National University of Singapore after our secondary school days, even studied law and all. But then she fell in love with some ang moh barrister and had a kid right away, so she quit her job at Allen & Gledhill to be at home. I was a bit shy about telling her what I do exactly so I just said, “Oh, I work at the New Times.”
“Oh wow!” she said. “Everybody subscribes to the New Times! Good for you, Jazzy.”
I always liked Sharon, even though we didn’t keep in touch after she went to Raffles—no point lah. Why on earth would she want to mix with some Changi Junior College friend when she has her clever Raffles classmates to talk to? But bumping into her made me a bit nostalgic for our old school days. So I suggested that we go across the street and grab dinner to catch up more.
“You know that old beef ball noodles at Scotts Picnic that we used to go to after school?” I said. “It’s over at Ion now! Still damn shiok.”
I was never that close to Sharon—even in secondary school, Sher was my best friend—but she and I did always take the same bus home. So sometimes if we didn’t have lunch waiting for us at home, we would stop at Scotts for noodles. Sharon always tried to encourage me to study harder, aim higher and all that crap. I was thankful for that, yes, but I also knew that at the end of the day, my brain and her brain is not same same lah. She’s the type to be a future CEO, lawyer or maybe even minister of parliament! Me? I’d be lucky if she thought I had enough brains to be her future assistant. Beef ball noodles, though—that’s what we always had in common.
Sharon laughed and said, “I can’t believe that place is still around!”
When we got to the air-conditioned food court at Ion, the line for the stall was as long. And it turned out the noodles were as shiok as they used to be. And it was quite fun to chitchat and tell her about all the things that had happened recently—not last night, of course. But I filled her in on Sher getting married, Imo working at her power fashion job and Fann . . . I didn’t have much to say about Fann lah, but she understood.
“Eh, how’s the life of a married lady with a Chanel baby?” I asked. She had just taken out her phone and shown me many screens of her and her husband Alistair holidaying here and there—Greece lah, Paris lah. Even New York! And also photos of her daughter, who looked more British than Chinese. Aiyoh, when you have one of those types of Chanel babies—the really obvious ang moh ones—this one is really win.
“I guess I can’t complain . . .” Sharon said. And then she didn’t say anything more for a while.
After her noodles were gone, she took out a packet of tissue from her Givenchy tote—from this season some more! I just saw one in a window at Paragon.
Sharon took a tissue out, daintily dabbed the sides of her mouth—and started crying!
Guniang here was so stunned I didn’t know what to do.
“Oh Jazzy, I’m so sorry—I’m never like this,” Sharon said. (Usually when people say something like that, it’s when they start to slow down or stop crying. But she really had no shame—she was still crying!) I reached over and patted her shoulder.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I said. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Sharon kept crying for a few minutes—softly, thank god. But it was still so obvious that people around us were beginning to look over at us. A small boy even walked by our table very slowly so he could see what was going on. (I just told him, “Stare what stare? Got problem is it?” Fucker ran away.)
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said when she finally stopped. “It’s just . . . I think my husband is having an affair.”
I looked at her again from head to toe—hair a bit messy, fat face, chubby hips, baggy dress, auntie-style Ferragamo flats and from the look of her skin I don’t think she’d had a facial in at least six months. OK lah, I can see it. Which ang moh wants to come home to this shit?
“No! I’m sure he’s not!” I said. “You are so happening!”
Even if these were all lies, at least I made her smile.
“You’re sweet, Jazzy,” Sharon said. “But I’m pretty certain. He’s started going out on weekends until the wee hours of the morning, coming home pissed—so pissed I sometimes have to wake up and help him up the steps to our bedroom. And he smells of perfume sometimes, even when he says he’s just been working late at the office or entertaining clients. I know the women he works with—they don’t wear perfume!”
I was trying to figure out how to tell her what I think she needs to know, but she kept going.
“And he was never like that, Jazzy! He’s never been that type of guy! But these few months—oh, I just don’t know what to do . . .” Sharon said, starting to cry again.
“Well . . .” I said. “Have you . . . have you thought about going shopping?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sharon said, putting her tissue down. She was still breathing damn hard but had stopped crying.
“Shopping—you know, to get a makeover,” I said. “You’re still very pretty, you know—but maybe you just need a bit of a touch-up? Sharon—maybe it’s not my place to say this, but guys . . . guys, even after they are married, still care about looks. How their wives dress, whether they still wear lipstick and eye shadow, dye their hair, go for facials—you know, all the things you used to do before you got married. I mean, I know you recently had your daughter, but, I don’t know—maybe if you tried a bit?”
Sharon stopped her heavy breathing.
She was really looking at me now so I guess she was listening. So I decided to carry on. “You’ve probably put on a bit of weight since the baby so maybe that’s a factor also?” I said. “It’s unfair lah—but guys are just like that. Want to keep their attention then maybe you need to just look nicer a bit, maybe suggest romantic holiday to Bali or something to try and win him back or . . .”
“You’re right, Jazzy,” she said. Her voice got a bit sharp. (My mother and her wet market lectures suddenly popped into my head.) “You’re right that it’s not your place to say any of this. Please—look at who you are and who I am. Are you married? No. When was the last time you had a boyfriend who wasn’t a smelly Ah Beng? I don’t even know. And let’s not even get into success, smarts and all that jazz. Who are you to assume you can give me such shallow, self-loathing, misogynistic, pitiful advice like that?”
Wah. Some of those words I don’t even understand. But from the way she was staring at me, I knew they must mean damn bitchy things. When she paused, I thought Sharon was finished but she kept going on.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Wah—finally, I thought. She’s going to apologize for being a bloody chee bye to me. All I was doing was trying to help her!
“I guess I shouldn’t have said anything at all—I’m sorry I did,” she said. Then she just picked up her handbag and left.
Kani nah. I was so shocked I had to sit there for a while. When I got up to walk over to the bus stop, it suddenly occurred to me another piece of advice I should have given Sharon.
“Givenchy? Please. It’s been yonks since even anyone’s mother wanted to carry that brand.”
World War III had started by the time I got home.
All I did was not look at my phone between the MRT station and my bedroom and that was enough time for Fann and Imo to send seventy text messages. My god. What do they think? Texting is like air is it—free? (OK, actually it is free—I think—but you get the point.)
At first I was fucking annoyed. But after I read all the texts, I realized the situation was quite bad. Most of them went something like this: “I CAN’T BELIEVE Fann is such a fucking CHEE BYE!!!!” and so on. And some came from Fann too, trying to explain but then also calling Imo a fucking baby, etc. Apparently Louis kissed Fann goodnight or some fuck, when he dropped her off on Saturday night. And Imo finally heard about it because Fann was feeling bad about it and decided to tell her. All Imo’s texts were about how Fann should have slapped him or something. Although, from what I sort of remembered of last night, I think Fann was quite gone. Imo was too—which is why she should be understanding a bit! It’s not like Louis is hers, after all. The fucker can kiss whoever he wants. If Mary doesn’t care, why should she? Waste time only.
“GIRLS,” I texted. “Just shut the fuck up. Both of you are in the wrong. Both of you apologize. Louis is just Louis. Don’t forget our goal.”
My god, this day was never-ending. I was damn tired. Even though it was early, I needed to turn on the air-con and lie down a bit. Even though I was tired, I knew there was no danger of falling asleep. My bed since secondary school days was damn uncomfortable—lumpy lumpy one. Plus, it’s so small—my parents, I think, didn’t want to buy me a full or queen bed because they think I’ll bring guys home or some shit. (It’s true lah—I only did it once or twice and my god, it was really uncomfortable. My bed was so narrow—our hands and knees where to put, we also don’t know. Might as well be doing it in public toilet.)
Actually, I don’t know why my parents refuse to change my room. All the cupboards, shelves and desk and chair have all been around from not just secondary school, you know—some date back to primary school! I mean, they’re still in good condition, so I actually can understand a bit when they tell me no need to change, buy new furniture—waste money only. But hello, the desk even still has some of the Little Twin Stars stickers I stuck on it in primary school, man. People here are twenty-six years old already, you know—how can I still have cartoon stickers on my bedroom furniture? Apart from that, I admit that the rest of the shit in the room is my own fault. My photos from primary school, my sparkly gold piggy bank with the fat lipstick mouth, that hundred-meters medal I got on Primary 4 Sports Day. And even until recently I still had that poster of Christian Slater from Gleaming the Cube up on the wall. But that movie is damn power! Some more he was so cute in it! Cuter than now when he has that balding spot on one side all—aiyoh! Guniang had to go all over Far East Plaza to all those cheapo poster shops to find one you know. So of course I didn’t want to take down. (Until recently when the Scotch tape was so yellow and old that the poster just fell off. Then, OK lah, I thought, this is a sign.)
There’s one thing my mum always nags me to throw away—this big thing of dried flowers that yes, I know, is not fresh anymore. But it’s also quite crumbling and crackly, so much so that each time you try to pick up and move it, confirm will have petals falling off in pieces. But I think it still looks quite nice. Back when I first got them I made sure to preserve them carefully after just a few days, hanging them upside down to dry in the original plastic wrapping so the overall look is still quite can. (Even got red ribbon around it and all!) But every time my mum comes in to clean my room and I’m around, she confirm will shout “Aiyoh, AH HUAY! These ants are all coming into your room because of these flowers! Die so long ago already still want to keep . . .”
It’s not like they’re really pretty, I know. But this guy gave them to me a long time ago. At the time I was still only going out with Chinese-Singaporean guys—and maybe sometimes local Indian guys. Indian guys, after all, are quite like ang mohs in some ways—more gentlemanly. Not spoilt big babies like all these Chinese guys who, no matter how old they are, their mothers still pick out all the meat from crab shells for them at the dinner table. But with Indian guys, you must try to find the ones that have a China doll fetish—those will actually bother to take you out to nice dinner, treat you like a princess. It’s quite sad lah—those kinds are the ones who I think look down a bit on Indian girls and don’t want to date them. I also don’t know why because Indian girls, come to think of it, actually seem quite nice. One time I made friends with this one girl Sheela from the office—it’s not like we were close enough to say, go clubbing, but we were actually friendly enough to grab lunch together a few times. Once we even went for after-work drinks together, just the two of us. But even so, there are some Indian guys out there who, no matter what, just don’t want to date their own kind of girls, even nice guniangs like Sheela. Such a waste, you know. I think maybe they think Chinese girls are more high-class. Singapore sometimes is just like that one.
But then one day this guy from the States came to help my boss with some project. At that time I had just started working for Albert at the New Times. I was still quite new—and happening! Because I was the very young chio new girl in the office, my god, all these people kept asking me out. Even so, I wasn’t interested. What for? Guniang here just started work, OK—must at least try and act professional a bit.
Until this guy Nathan showed up in the office—wah, tall tall, white white, cute cute one. His smile was so big and friendly. He told me he came from some place called Savannah so that’s why when he talked he sounded a bit different from those people on Friends. I also don’t know where this Savannah is lah but hey, he’s ang moh—like that is can already. Plus, he was very sweet—when taking me to see a movie, he’d always buy tickets in advance. When he took me out to drink coffee, it was always at nice air-con cafe and all. Not some sweaty kopitiam! No Ah Cheks sitting around scratching their balls and chain-smoking! So, yah lah. Is can.
But in the end, Nathan was only here for one month—to help my boss redesign the newspaper front page or some shit. And when he left, he left. I guess we could email and keep in touch lah, but in the end, for what fuck? Not say the States is very near, you know. Also, not say I know where this Savannah is. So, that was that.
Before he left, he took me out for one last nice dinner, showing up at my doorstep with that bouquet of flowers in hand. (Even my mum was damn stunned. Until cannot even open her mouth to say hello kind of stunned.) After he left, guniang actually cried. Not in front of him, of course. No matter what, I always know that in front of ang moh guys must act high-class a bit. Well, life is just like that. And my mum knows that if she dares to touch those flowers I’ll heck care respect and hantam her one time.
Which is why this Imo-Fann-Louis thing really made me angry. Waste time on Louis for what? Guys like that will only give you flowers once in a long time and only then if they have something to say sorry about. All that sweet crap is only for their wives. If you expect anything else, you are just a fucking goondu. No point.
No—we guniangs must focus!