Sarong Party Girls (19 page)

“I'm tired,” Sher said, so quietly.

“Tired?” I asked, a bit disbelieving. “Of what?”

“Of this, Jazzy—­this! All this,” Sher suddenly said quite loudly, waving her hand at the scrum all around us. “Aren't you? We've been doing this for how many donkey's years already—­since we were sixteen! That's ten long years, almost half our lives! You still not tired?”

I looked at the ­people around us. The setting didn't seem any different from any of the bars and clubs we always went to on weekends. Singaporean girls, some Singaporean guys, lots of ang mohs—­what was Sher's problem? What did she expect? What did she want beyond all this? Life in Singapore is just like that, after all—­if you want to meet anyone good, you just have to do the bar scene. I don't care how tired you are, you still must just go out there and chong. Otherwise—­do what? Stay at home and look at your mum; your mum look at you, is it?

“Of course I am tired sometimes,” I said. “Of course I wish I was married already. But things that are worth it never come easily, hallo. We have to keep trying, Sher. Please? I mean, I get that OK, maybe ang mohs in the end may not be for you—­but an Ah Beng? Come on, there are so many better Singaporean-­Chinese guys out there than that. You can do so much better. If you told me you want to be Louis's secret mistress, even I would support that more than this. You marrying Ah Huat—­it's just so wasted! As your best friend, I can't just stand by and watch you do this to yourself.”

Sher turned away from me and was silent again. I tried to imagine what she was thinking at that moment. Usually, Sher and I were
xin lin xiang tong
—­hearts and minds perfectly aligned. But now—­now, after all the words that I had just heard out of her mouth, I couldn't even imagine what she might be thinking. Something had shifted.

“You know,” Sher finally said, “when I told my mum Ah Huat proposed, do you know how happy she was? I've never seen my mum so happy, Jazz. You know our parents—­they have so little to get happy about. But my mum, she was really really happy. All these guys we've dated all these years, I never even once thought about bringing them back to meet my mum because—­what could they possibly talk about? An ang moh guy in my parents' little flat? They can't even speak the same language! But Ah Huat—­he's a good guy and he treats my mum well, always bringing her things to eat and renting her favorite Cantonese shows to bring to her. He's going to be good to her. And I think he's going to be good to me. And our children.”

By this point, Sher was just talking a lot because, to be honest, guniang over here was speechless. When I asked Sher to come out tonight, I still didn't think that my mission was such a gone case. But I was starting to understand that I was very wrong.

“Jazz,” Sher continued, “when I told my mum, she even turned off the TV and took my hand and dragged me to her bedroom. She knelt down on her floor—­not even complaining and you know how her knees have really been hurting recently—­and pulled out this small wooden box from under her bed. Once we were sitting on her bed, she opened it and started pulling the few things in there out for me to see. Not much lah—­a thin jade bangle, a pair of small pearl earrings, three bright yellow-­gold bracelets. One of them was quite fat ­actually—­it was made of these mah-­jongg tile–like charms that had “double happiness” all over them. My mum put each of the bracelets on my wrists, one by one, and held up the earrings by my face.

“It was her wedding jewelry, Jazz. She had just been waiting all these years to give it to me. ‘All grown up now,' she told me. ‘Finally, my mind can rest.' ”

I really didn't know what to say. Invoking Auntie in her defense? This one is one damn power move. How could I possibly say anything bad about what Auntie might want? (Especially Sher's mum, who was the sweetest to us of all our mums.)

“Sher, please, at least just think about it a bit before planning anything real . . .” I started to say.

“We've booked the banquet hall,” she said, looking a bit sheepish. “Deposit put down already.”

I thought for a moment. They had paid the deposit. So I guess like that, everything was over already. Even worse—­kani nah, even if I hated the fact that this wedding was happening I still had to deal with the bloody red bomb.

I looked straight ahead, picked up my glass and slowly finished my vodka Ribena. (Heartbreak or not—­drinks still better don't waste.) “Sher, I'm going outside for some air, OK?” I said. She looked at me like she knew not to believe me. I quickly picked up my handbag and shoved my way back outside.

Standing outside on the patio outside the bar, looking at narrow, crooked Club Street, lined with concrete prewar shophouses, the road itself filled with a thick, bobbing river of SPGs and ang moh guys, some draped over each another, staggering together.

When I left Sher, I had every intention of going back into the bar after I'd had a moment to myself. (I think.) But at that moment I was just too tired for any more of that bullshit. I remember taking my phone out and typing: “Sher, not feeling well—­I make a move first. Talk to you tomorrow.”

The next time I would see her was at her wedding.

That day, however, Sher, in fact, was not only on my mind—­she was actually in my office, in a way. My office phone just wouldn't stop ringing! Four times already I'd let it ring until the bitter end. And still, Sher would call back.

Finally, after the fourth time—­I was really staring at the phone by now—­there was silence. I felt relieved at first. Then, a bit sad. I missed Sher. Even after all these months it still felt strange not to hear her voice every day. (Not that I would ever tell her, of course.) No matter how much I tried not to think about her whenever I saw Fann or Imo—­or whenever anything big happened, like meeting Roy or that bitch Sharon—­Sher was always on my mind, the first person I wanted to share my stories with.

Suddenly, the ringing stopped. Then, a beep. I checked my handphone: “Jazz,” a text said, “Just back from Batam. Dropped in to see if you're free for lunch. Brought back some of your favorite squid crackers. Should I just leave them at the front desk?”

I hit
DELETE
.

 

chapter 13

The thing about clubbing is, if you don't have some rich (or stupid) guy buying you drinks the whole night, your life is really quite pathetic.

So I knew this problem with Louis and Imo better be solved ASAP. How? My head was starting to hurt. OK lah—­no choice. Just call for another girls' meeting after work at Ice Cold Beer and see how to bring it up. This bar was a good choice—­mellow mellow type, plus, it was in the middle of a quite touristy area so there would definitely be ang mohs there. So even if Imo and Fann wanted to shout and whack each other in the face, I knew they wouldn't dare to do it in front of potential ang moh boyfriends. Face is face lah. The expat community is so small—­if you lose your temper once in public, everyone will talk.

I asked Fann to get there early so we could chitchat before Imo came—­besides, this being Friday night it might be nice to be out and about early anyway, check out the scenery and all.

“Fann, listen—­I want you to apologize to Imo . . .” I said, holding up my hand to Fann's face before she started trying to interrupt, telling me that kani nah she'd already apologized to Imo how many times already, why is it her fault when Louis was the one who started it and all?

“Look, I don't care how many times you texted or called her—­you haven't done it face-­to-­face,” I said, pinching her nose to get her to stop talking. This move always embarrasses her, but since secondary school, it's always been the most effective method.

“Just do it OK?” I continued, now that she was silent. “And you'd better make it sound bloody sincere, like you are practically on your knees, begging for her forgiveness. Don't actually get on your knees, of course. But just make it sound like it, OK? Otherwise, I tell you, this sisterhood may be over already. We've already lost Sher—­if we lose Imo, then how? Just you and me going chionging together? Boring lah! If Imo leaves, we are over. So please—­just swallow your pride and say you're sorry. The real kind of sorry.”

I only let go of her nose after I was done talking. Fann started being damn drama and all, rubbing her nose and breathing hard, staring at me.

“Understood?” I said. Fann nodded, then took her Chanel compact out of her handbag to quickly touch up her nose before anyone else could see.

Now that that was settled, we could focus on more impor­tant things—­ordering drinks! I waved at the waitress and ordered three vodka green teas. Good choice—­the green tea has caffeine. (I think?) Maybe it would help me energy a bit—­we had a long night ahead of us. Fann said she had something special planned later on!

Imo showed up just after our conversation ended, walking past Fann's chair, her face like stone. Of course she didn't say “Hi” or acknowledge Fann in any way; she just came over to give me a hug, then sat down next to me.

I looked over at Fann, she looked away, picking up her phone to see if she had gotten any new texts. Bloody hell.

“Fann,” I said, “weren't you just telling me something right before Imo came?”

Idiot didn't look up from her phone.

“Oi!” I said. “Fann?”

Finally, Fann put her phone down and looked at Imo. “I'm really sorry, Imo.”

I kept staring at Fann.

So she continued. “Look, I don't know what really happened—­I was so drunk! You know how sometimes when you are too high you make bloody lousy decisions? That's all it was, Imo—­I made a mistake. A really big one. Please, Imo, I don't know how many times I can say sorry. But I know that in your heart, you must treasure our friendship right? We've been friends—­no, sisters—­for how long already? Please?”

Imo, we all know, is bloody softhearted. She cannot stay angry at anybody for long—­especially ­people she cares about. We've seen this how many times with Louis already! No matter what he does, no matter who he sends home, no matter who he snogs right in front of her on the dance floor, in the end, she always forgives him. (Or, looks the other way, I suppose. I don't get the sense that these things can really be forgiven—­but that's just me.) No matter what, Imo just wants everything to be OK. That's her most important thing: appearances.

“OK,” Imo quietly said. “But,” she added, her voice sounding a bit fierce, “
never
again, OK?”

Fann offered her small finger and Imo hooked it with hers and said, “Set.”

“OK, come, come, come, drinks are here!” I said, raising my glass so we could all cheers.

“So,” I said, after we all had taken a few sips, “what's the report, girls? Any action since last weekend?” Imo looked embarrassed.

“Aiyoh, my god,” I said. “Don't tell me you've been spending this whole time moping about this stupid thing?”

When Imo didn't say anything, I was about to scold her for not being serious. But then I thought, It's OK, she's been through a lot. Some more, I think maybe her mission was becoming a little different than ours. Maybe life is just like that—­a mistress's daughter perhaps is always destined to be a mistress also? Maybe it's pointless to fight it. Sad lah, but if she wants to throw herself away, we also cannot say anything. Bang balls only.

If this is the path she's chosen though, I wondered if I should say something.

“Imo, you know Louis cares a lot about you,” I said, reaching over to squeeze her hand. Imo smiled, blushing a little. “The thing is, guys like that—­I hate to say it, but you must know your place sometimes. The only ­people really allowed to throw tantrums with them are their wives. One dragon lady at home is more than enough. If number two is also a dragon lady, I tell you, she won't be shooting her fire around him for very long.”

Imo looked a bit sheepish at this point. As much as she didn't want to openly admit it—­or her relationship with Louis, I guess—­she understood perfectly clearly what I was talking about. I didn't want to embarrass her anymore so I quickly changed the subject.

“Fann? You leh?” I asked.

Fann smiled and said, “Guniang here had a hot date—­don't play play! Remember Melvin the Australian?” she said.

I didn't, but who cares? Australians are confirm OK. So I nodded.

“Sher was right when she told me last month to just ignore his texts—­he started calling and texting, even dropping by my pet store, pretending he just ‘happened to be in the neighborhood!' ” Fann said, smiling.

Aiseh!
This one is quite win.

“So yesterday, I finally agreed to let him take me out for dinner,” she went on. “Very nice restaurant some more—­you know that new happening Spanish place on Keong Saik Road? The guy cooked for that big chef in London or something?”

I tell you, I don't know why she's trying to tell us these kinds of stupid details. Who cares? Food is food. Unless it's super good chicken rice or barbecue stingray then I really don't give a flying shit.

“Hallo—­guniang,” I said, “please, fast-­forward all that Food Network crap and get to the important part.”

“OK, OK,” she said, blinking her eyes one time at me before carrying on.

“It was nice—­a real date! He didn't even bring up the fact that we had hooked up a few times when we were drunk. He was very gentlemanly and sweet. And I realized it was actually nice to talk to him.”

Fann looked so happy, I guess I should be happy too. Now I remember who this guy was. And if he's the one I think he was—­hallo, her hookup history simply had too many Australians—­then he's quite good-­looking!

“Well anyway,” Fann continued, “Melvin promised us a power night tonight!”

Apparently, the Australian has a friend who just opened a bar near Boat Quay. Since it's not been open for that long, right now it's just his ang moh friends and their friends who know about it. But everyone was supposed to spread the word to come out for a big opening party that night. Ang mohs and their ang moh friends? Set lah! Plus, since Melvin knows the owner—­hello, free drinks! So this was what it was. I had been wondering all day what on earth was happening.

“Wear a skirt—­and nice panties,” Fann had texted to me and Imo earlier in the day. When I texted back, “Why?” Fann didn't respond. The whole day I kept wondering what Fann could possibly have planned—­all the possibilities made me laugh. Albert even asked me at some point, “Jazzy—­why you smiling so much today? Good sex last night, is it?”

“Aiyoh, boss, no lah,” I just said. “If it's not with you, how can the sex be good?”

This actually made Albert stop walking. Then we both laughed until I had to fetch some water since he started coughing. (Can't have him dying on my shift, man—­I'll be jinxed for life! No one will ever hire me again as an executive assistant.)

Laughing aside, I was glad things were back to normal with ­Albert—­he hadn't mentioned our conversation again that week and I didn't ask him anything. After the four o'clock meeting, he even stopped by my desk and rubba-­ed my neck a bit. Just like old times.

That night, after settling up at Ice Cold Beer, Fann instructed us all to powder our noses, touch up lipstick and wash all the chicken wing grease off our fingers. Good that we were all together, Fann said. Better to walk in all together—­more impact; three super chio girls coming in at same time is better than one. I was getting quite excited about tonight lah. Even though my date with Roy went well, guniang must keep options open! I was still not quite sure if the oil refinery thing was for me. Plus, you never know when you're going to find someone better. Must always have an open mind.

So I had worn this short flared black skirt—­imitation Gucci from a few years ago! Don't play play, I tell you. (At that time when this Gucci skirt was fashion, I even saw Anne Hathaway wear one in a magazine photo.) And on top I had this stretchy red blouse with a V-­neck. Guniang here doesn't have much tetek, so must add push-­up bra.

Once we neared the bar, Fann got serious and looked closely at me, from my fluffy blow-­dried hair to my red top and small skirt to my skinny black heels.

“Can,” she said, nodding and then pointing at Imo. “This one here—­never listen. Look at her!”

Imo looked chio as always but she was wearing pants! Baggy baggy harem pants, some more.

“Aiyoh—­you think this bar is what? Magic bottle is it?” I said.

“Shut up lah,” Imo answered. “I had no time to go home and change after work today. And hello, these pants this season are very fashion, you know!”

Please, I don't care how fashion they are—­any pants that make my backside look like I need a giant diaper is confirm not sexy. I'll stick to my few-­seasons-­old pretend-­Gucci skirt, thank you very much.

Fann was patting some powder on her nose to get ready then she said, “Come, let's go.” She didn't tell us that much about the bar but from what she did say I gathered that the bar sounded quite mellow, one of those hangout places for low-­key ang mohs. I know this is Friday night and we should be out chionging the clubs somewhere—­Louis certainly had tried to get us to go out with him but Fann put her foot down. But sometimes I guess a change of scene may not be bad. Plus, the name was promising—­Carlyle's. Quite atas sounding, right?

When we got close to the bar though, we could tell right away that it was anything but mellow. The scene was just like Studemeyer's or Attica—­there was even a queue outside! And through the glass windows, we could see that the bar was damn packed—­­people's dancing bodies were pressing against the glass and all. What was happening? It was only 10
P.M.
At this point—­the night technically hadn't even really started yet!

Luckily, Melvin was standing outside waiting for us. Not bad—­score points already. His smile got huge when he saw Fann and he quickly started walking toward us to give her a big hug. She just laughed and gave him her cheek to kiss. Good strategy. (I started thinking maybe last night at the end, I shouldn't have kissed Roy so hot and heavy. Today, the bugger didn't text me!)

“Hi, I'm Melvin,” he said, shaking my hand and then Imo's.

“Imogen,” Imo said, smiling. “But everyone calls me Imo.”

“And I'm Jazeline—­but you can call me Jazzy,” I said. Fann gave me a long stare. My god—­don't tell me guniang thinks I'm flirting with her boy. (Plus, hallo—­she is one to talk! Who is the one who cannot be trusted around guys we've already reserved?)

“I'm afraid that it's a little more crowded than usual,” Melvin said, pointing at the long line. “
Time Out Singapore
just wrote about this place so I guess the masses have come to check it out. I mean, it's good for my friend Steve but . . . well, anyway, let's check it out. It's a fun place and I promise you'll get good drinks. Steve's said he'll take care of us.”

Melvin put his arm around Fann's waist and led her to the door. The bouncer, I guess, knew Melvin because they high-­fived each other before the guy unhooked the velvet rope and let us all in. Just before we entered, I looked back at the long line. I could tell many of the girls in line were SPGs and some were now glaring at us. Aiyoh, so petty. If they are not in the in crowd then they're just not in lah. Why should they be jealous? Wasting energy.

Katy Perry was blasting through the whole bar when we got inside. The place itself was quite small but along one long wall there was big bar with a wide wooden counter. On the ceiling, all along the bar, there was a thick railing, almost like those old handrails on public buses, but this one was shiny and gold-­plated. Quite interesting, I suppose.

The crowd was damn thick—­everyone was moving, dancing a bit to the music and just clogging the whole area. I also didn't know where to go. Melvin was leading Fann somewhere though—­toward the back, near the end of the long bar. Fann reached back to hold my hand so I reached back to hold Imo's hand. By the time we got to the end of the bar, guniang here already had beer spilled on me three times. Kani nah. But at least the table that we were given was a bit more quiet. And it was right next to the bar, so we could see all the action. I guess Melvin's friend had already prepped the table—­there was a big ice bucket, a tower of glasses, carafes of orange juice and soda. Nice!