Sarong Party Girls (22 page)

“Ah Huay!”

Perfect timing. For once, I was happy to hear my mum's voice. “Yes? What?” I said, getting up and opening my bedroom door before she could even put her hand on the knob. When it swung open, she just stared at me a bit shocked. This eagerness to see my mum had never happened before.

My mum paused for a second and said, “I know you're always very busy—­don't know doing what in this messy room of yours,” she said, looking around and sighing. (It's true lah—­I hadn't swept the floor in a week now. Dust and
Her World
magazines were all over the floor.) “But I need your help in the kitchen.”

Once again, she looked shocked when I just nodded and followed her out. From the slight smile on her face though, I could see she was happy.

My mum had the table all set up in the kitchen already—­one giant tub of bean sprouts. “This whole thing of tau gay—­can you peel for me?” she asked, pointing over at the bean sprouts. When I just walked over and sat down, drawing my plastic stool closer to the small round kitchen table, I could see her raising her eyebrows. (I bet the old lady was wondering who was this person and what happened to her real daughter.) My mum paused, as if she was thinking of saying something, but then she turned around and went to the sink to drain a tub of green beans she was soaking,

Bringing the tub over to the kitchen table, she pulled up a stool and sat down next to me, starting to snap the beans one by one. The kitchen was dark—­this one, cannot help it lah. When our first flat was old enough that we were finally eligible to buy another HDB flat, there were a few blocks of apartments in this neighborhood that suddenly opened up. This neighborhood is damn central—­few minutes to Orchard Road, the financial district, Marina Bay and everything. So everyone wants to live here. So the moment the government announced these new buildings, everybody wanted one! My mum spent days and days nagging my pa to quickly go and apply for one, since they had just become eligible for a new flat. But of course he was so lazy—­and so hates to be nagged—­that he purposely ignored her for a while. By the time he got off his backside to file the application, all the high floors had been snapped up already. That's how we ended up with a third-­floor flat that's not only quite small but one with a kitchen that's super dark because it's blocked by other buildings from the sun and also faces this wall of gigantic rubbish bins. On really hot days in Singapore, the smell—­aiyoh, you don't want to imagine.

But at least we live in Tiong Bahru. The location really is A-­plus-­plus.

As always, it was so dark in the kitchen even though it was not even 11
A.M.,
so we had to really squint a bit to see what we were peeling. It was fine lah—­after all these years of helping my mum, I'm used to it already lah.

Side by side we worked, not saying a word. It was somewhat comforting to hear the rhythmic snapping of the green beans from my side and to feel my fingers breaking off the crisp, tough roots of the bean sprouts in my basket and tossing them onto the old Chinese newspaper my mum had laid out for rubbish. I was so focused on this that Alistair and the debauchery of last night quickly vanished. This was simple; this felt good. I know I always look down on shit like this lah, saying that I'm going to have a maid in the future to do this kind of crap job for me—­but my mum is right about things (sometimes). Of course it's nice to have a maid—­or two, like future Jazzy will have—­but simple hard work like this also can be satisfying. Later on, when I eat my mum's stir-­fry I confirm will feel a bit more shiok. Guniang here earned it after all, my hands here peeling all my mum's bean sprouts until sore!

“Ah Huay,” my mum suddenly said, interrupting my blank thoughts. “You OK or not? Not feeling well, is it? Is something wrong? Want me to boil some barley water for you?”

My god. And she wonders why I don't like helping her. Guniang here decides to finally be nice to her mum without complaining about having to spend a morning peeling bean sprouts for her also end up getting interrogated like this.

“Yah?” I said. “Don't worry. All OK.”

My mum looked at me, still snapping her green beans, her mouth opening slightly. “Ah Huay ah,” she said very quietly. “Your ah pa and I are getting very worried about you, you know. You always go out so late, we don't know who you are with, you come home drunk, we also don't know what you're up to when you're out . . . Decent girls don't act like that, you know. If you carry on like that, one day something bad is going to happen to you.” She looked so sad that I was actually feeling a bit bad. I thought about trying to explain to her how everything I was doing was my only chance at actually finding a good husband—­that this is what all the girls were doing these days anyway. Besides, most nights, it actually was fun!

“You ah,” my mum said, sighing very loudly, “always sailing too close to the wind.”

“Ma—­just don't worry,” I said, smiling at her. “Everything's OK. OK?”

She didn't say anything; just grabbed another handful of green beans. We didn't say another word until the two tubs were empty.

A few hours later, my phone rang—­like, actually rang.

Normally, I don't really like talking on the phone these days, unless it's for work lah, so most ­people know not to actually call me. But guniang here was so stunned to hear the phone ring that I just picked up the call.

“Oi!” was all I heard. Ah, Fann.

“Yes?” I said. “Finished your sex fest with Melvin yet?”

Fann snorted. “Talk rubbish lah!” she said. “I stuck to my plan of course. Just snogging and rubba-­ing. I refused to follow him home. The guy had super blue balls, man! He's already been texting me all morning asking when he'll see me again.”

Bloody hell. In the end Fann managed to win while I ended up opening my whole kitchen?

“Anyway,” Fann said, “I'm downstairs. My mum sent me to your neighborhood seamstress to pick up a dress. Are you home?”

“Yah, yah,” I said. “Come up—­my mum's just putting lunch on the table.”

A few minutes later, after Fann had said hello to my mum and given her the oranges she quickly bought before coming up, we found ourselves sitting down in the kitchen. The small table was already filled with dishes. Some of them, I know, my mum had planned to save for dinner that night. But once she heard that we were having a guest, my mum decided to just bring everything out, so we had my dad's favorite salted mustard greens soup lah, some braised duck and fatty roast pork, stir-­fried noodles with green beans and bean sprouts, some leftover fried tofu from yesterday.

“Wah—­aunty! Such a happening lunch!” Fann said.

My mother smiled a little and gestured to us to quickly eat. “You girls eat first,” she said. “I'll wait for your pa to come home then eat with him.” Fann started to protest and ask her to sit and eat with us but my mum just waved her away, walking out to the living room to turn the TV on. Aiyah, our parents' generation is just like that—­they think the youngsters feel more comfortable if they're not around. Which is actually true lah.

The moment my mum left the kitchen, Fann grabbed her chopsticks and started piling all sorts of food on her rice bowl. Watching her, I realized how hungry I was so I did the same. We didn't really pause again until our rice bowls were half-­empty.

“Jazzy,” Fann said after a long sip of chrysanthemum tea in between bites. “So . . . what did you think?”

“Of? The club? The cute bartenders? The shots?” I said, reaching for more roast pork.

Fann slapped my hand. “Aiyoh—­don't be like that lah!” she said. “You know what I'm asking!”

I wasn't sure what to say—­but I knew I shouldn't pause too long or Fann would think I didn't like Melvin. It's true that Melvin probably wouldn't be the type of ang moh I'd like to end up with. There was something too—­quick—­about him. Yes, I know it's ironic considering I was the one who spent the night with an ang moh—­something I wasn't about to tell Fann with my mum sitting in the next room. But at the same time, I had been very clearheaded about Alistair. I wasn't expecting anything more from him than a few hours of fun, though it was a few hours I was regretting more and more each time I thought about Sharon. With Melvin though, if Fann saw him as a real prospect, we needed to judge him by different standards! To have him pawing at her breasts like that in a public bar? Aiyoh—­is that really what a guy who is serious about a girl does?

“Well,” I said, “he seems nice.”

Fann wrinkled her nose. “Oi, woman—­if you have something to say, just directly say it lah,” she said.

“OK then,” I said. “Is he serious?”

Fann smiled at this question. Now I was really curious.

“Well, I have one thing to say,” Fann said, picking up her chopsticks again and reaching over to pick up the nicest-­looking, fattiest piece of roast pork on the table. Bloody hell—­I'd had my eye on that since we sat down but thought I should save it for my mum.

“Brunch,” she said, once she'd examined the pork closely, decided it would definitely do and put it in her bowl. “He's invited me to Sunday brunch—­at the Australian Club. With his close friends. And their wives or girlfriends.”

Jazzy here almost started tearing up after hearing this. Brunch? A daylight activity? With friends and their wives? In an ang moh club, no less! This was some serious shit going on right here.

I reached over and squeezed Fann's hand. She looked at me and I looked right back at her—­and we both started squealing.

 

chapter 15

Saturday night started out damn cock.

First, Imo suggested going to Studemeyer's. “The deejay tonight is quite good!” she texted. So, OK, we all agreed to go. But then, when Fann and I showed up at the VIP table Louis booked, Imo stood us up! Turns out she left Carlyle's early last night because she wasn't feeling well. Then, it turns out she was actually quite sick, so all we got once we were already at Studemeyer's was a text from her saying, “Sorry, sorry!” (And a bunch of lines about how much exactly she was hugging the toilet bowl, which we looked at one time and fasterly deleted. Who needs that kind of shit floating around our heads on a happening Saturday night out?)

But at least Louis booked a table at Studemeyer's and even though he hadn't come out yet, he let us pull out his bottles from his liquor locker and all. So Andrew and Kelvin—­who were so happy their wives let them come out to chiong for the night that they arrived at Studemeyer's super early—­had been drinking there since 9
P.M.
By the time Fann and I got there, Louis's bottle of Chivas was gone and they were asking the manager to bring out his Grey Goose and whatever the hell unfinished bottles Louis had in his locker.

“Come, come, cheers!” Andrew said, making vodka sodas for us four and passing them around.

“Eh, ladies,” Kelvin said after we bottoms-­up and Andrew started making another round. “Tonight—­be prepared. There's an extra special show!”

When Kelvin said that, guniang here panicked a bit. I remember the last time we were out with Louis and his gang and they were talking about a special show coming on—­my god, I could still taste the sourness of defeat from that night at Lunar, that Chinese club.

I looked at Fann, who was looking at her phone. I considered gesturing to her that perhaps we should leave. (Although I guess the more effective way of communicating that to her would have been to text her, even though she was sitting just one seat over.) The truth is, I was not feeling much like being in a club that night at all. Guniang here didn't need any drinks to feel high—­I was already feeling quite buzzed from a date with Roy. Yes—­Roy!

My mum always says that good deeds bring good karma and guniang here has always thought that's a bit bullshit lah. This kind of zen-­zen-­type stuff—­please, it's not very modern thinking! You think this one is what—­ancient Japan, is it? (I know I should respect it and all but I always think it's a bit wasting time only.) But this morning, after peeling all those bean sprouts and being a good girl for my mum, even clearing all the dishes after lunch, I got back to my room to find my phone beeping.

“I know it's a bit late to be asking but are you free for coffee this afternoon?” Roy said.

After the awfulness of last night, guniang here was so happy to hear from Roy that I almost wanted to run back outside and hug my mum, I tell you. Maybe things were looking up a bit after all.

Of course, I waited half an hour before texting back—­good, make him worry. Then I said, “OK.”

Roy had warned me to wear really comfortable walking shoes—­a bit strange but I thought, OK, maybe he wants to go walking along Orchard Road to go shopping or something? It's true—­sometimes, when you're doing heavy-­duty shopping, especially on Sunday when all the families and kids are out, better be prepared to fasterly maneuver through all that crap. So I made sure to put on my nice sneakers—­these were about five years old but guniang here uses them so little they're still shiny shiny and all. I tell you—­they look so new that if you put them on display in the store right now, ­people wouldn't think twice about trying them on.

Roy had taken my coffee order by text so he had two medium-­sized styrofoam cups in his car when he showed up downstairs. His car wasn't too big or flashy—­no Mercedes SUV here—­but it wasn't terrible. It was one of those MINI Coopers that were in fashion these days. Forest green, with one fat white stripe running down the side of it—­not bad. Masculine and not that boring lucky red like so many Singaporeans were choosing when buying that kind of cute car.

The fact that he even had a car—­and I deduced it was his because most companies wouldn't buy a MINI as their company car, let's face it—­was promising. Cars are so expensive in Singapore—­the island is so small, the government wants to discourage ­people from buying too many and clogging the roadways and all. So, first of all, they're all imported and taxes on them are crazy. On top of that, even before you buy the car you have to bid on a certificate of entitlement to buy a car—­each year the government only issues so few. So, my god, once those COEs are issued, everyone bids like crazy to get one. All in, you should know that if you want to buy a decent car, you know you'd better have at least a hundred thousand dollars in your bank account or you can forget about it.

So the fact that Roy has one—­it's not bad. Either he's making enough to buy one himself or he's valuable enough to his company that they factored a Singapore car allowance into his contract. Or maybe he came from a super rich family? From the looks of it, it was a brand-­new MINI too. When guniang here saw the car—­wah, I was immediately damn happy. This was promising!

Roy reached over to give me a hello kiss on the lips the moment I slid into his car. I turned my face slightly so he got my cheek instead, but made sure to give him a sweet little smile.

“Afternoon,” he said, smiling and turning his music down a little. I had thought he might be listening to pop or club music—­I guess I'll always associate him with that since that's what was playing when we first met. But he was actually listening to the Beach Boys. Interesting. I wondered if he'd lived in the States before—­or if maybe he might get posted there in the future? A lot of these oil guys I know often get stationed in Houston or some shit. I don't really know how I would like living there lah—­but it seems pretty fun from all the movies I've seen. I was trying to think whether that's where all the cowboy movies are? Can consider.

We chitchatted a bit as he drove—­nothing serious lah. Just how was your morning (I didn't tell him about the bean sprout peeling—­too LC), what have you been up to, that kind of thing. I was hoping he'd say something about why he hadn't texted me since our date a few nights ago (and wondered about asking or commenting on it, but I didn't want to seem needy). Besides, I guess it had really only been just over a day, really.

At that moment, I was just feeling happy to be sitting in this cute little car, with Roy, slowly driving past the tall boring buildings in my housing estate, turning onto a road near downtown that would lead us to leafy Bukit Timah, where the rich or expats with kids live. The trees, each one perfectly spaced apart and elegantly shaped, along the wide road medians were getting greener and fuller. As we neared the botanical gardens, Roy slowed down, turning into the car park. Ah, this kind of walk. To be honest, guniang here is not really a nature nature type of girl. (Please, not many Singaporeans truly are. If they say they are, I can tell you—­confirm it's all lies and posing. With all these great malls and cinemas around—­who wants to spend time in a dirty garden?) But I had decided that Roy had potential—­and he did seem sweet. So I guess, why not?

Roy handed me my coffee—­“milk, two sugars, right?”—­as we got out of the car. “It was such a nice day,” he said as we entered the tall iron gates to the gardens. “I thought perhaps it might be nice to get out.”

Once we got inside the park, I let Roy take the lead. Seemed like he'd been here before and probably knew his way around. Of course I'd been to the botanical gardens before—­only once though, on a primary school excursion and even then I found it damn boring. Except for the ­couples doing photo shoots in their wedding outfits, seriously—­what else was there to see in this place? But if Roy likes it then I'll keep an open mind lah.

“I like coming here to clear my head,” Roy said, leading me down a narrow path toward the heart of the gardens. “Singapore's so different from where I grew up—­not quite the countryside but definitely not the city,” he added. I tried to think about whether I'd asked where he grew up in the UK. And decided not to risk asking him again, in case we'd already had this discussion that night when I was drunk.

I was starting to feel strange. Not with Roy, but just the general feeling that something very odd was happening. It wasn't that I hadn't been around gardens before—­it's true, I hadn't done this that often but hello, once you've seen one bush or one orchid jungle, do you really need to see more? Is each one really that different? I mean, of course if I had bothered to go on one of those school trips to Malaysia to go camping or some shit I might know a bit more about wilderness lah. But please—­ask me to spend money on these kinds of toot things? Might as well ask me to buy ticket to see an opera or some useless crap like that. It's not as if I'm printing money.

But I quickly realized what it was that made me feel like something was off—­the silence! Roy wasn't talking; neither was I. And while there were ­people around us—­joggers, ­couples, the occasional family—­everyone was fairly quiet, just slowly strolling, looking at flowers. I even heard birds. My god, I couldn't remember the last time I heard birds just chirping at each other in Singapore—­actually, maybe like in the 1990s, when for a few years it was quite happening among old uncles at the kopitiams to buy parakeets or other small songbirds and put them in pretty little round bamboo cages and bring them to the coffee shop early in the morning to show off. Back then, I tell you, this trend became so popular that kopitiams all over Singapore actually started creating sections of their terraces where there were hooks on the ceilings for these Ah Cheks to hang their birdcages.

Don't ask me why this was fashion. Please—­these are really old uncles we're talking about. Who cares? But if I have to guess, I think it's maybe something quite symbolic, that if their real birds cannot perform anymore then they might as well buy birds to rear and compete so they can at least feel better about one thing in their pathetic lives. You know how guys are lah—­no more good bird to fight also still want to fight.

I guess that's why when it was so quiet that I could hear birds in the air—­immediately, I felt like something was wrong. After all, we definitely weren't in a 1990s kopitiam!

“Shall we sit?” Roy suddenly said, bursting my kopitiam uncle-­bird memories. We had come upon a bench in the shade. I looked around—­Roy wasn't bad. He had managed to pick the only bench all around us that was nicely painted and not speckled with birdshit. (Although if my mum was here, she would say, “Bird shit—­very lucky!” Not that she would actually dare go near a bench that was filled with bird shit, of course.)

Roy quickened his step a little before getting to the bench, taking out a packet of tissue from his pocket, pulling a sheet out and wiping down the bench before looking over at me. Tilting his head a little, he waved his hand with a big flourish, like those emcees onstage before introducing a singer or some shit.

“My lady?” he said, smiling and bowing a bit. OK lah—­this move, even I have to admit, is quite can. It's stupid lah. My god. So stupid. But I couldn't help but smile.

We sat quietly for a bit, just sipping our coffees—­lattes from Starbucks, mind you. (The thought of Seng buying me kopi at the kopitiam popped into my head all of a sudden. I was trying to imagine him asking me out on a coffee date like this in the park. My god, the guy would confirm show up with those old coolie-­style clear plastic bags filled with kopi and then tied together with fluorescent pink plastic string into a loop so you can hook the hot bag of kopi on your finger and bring back a whole bunch, one for each of your Ah Beng friends. That's just what happens when you buy takeaway kopi from a kopitiam. I wondered if Seng had ever even been inside a Starbucks and actually laughed out loud.)

“What's so funny?” Roy asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. When he still looked a bit curious, I figured I should say something. “Just happy to be here.”

Roy smiled. “Good, I'm really glad, Jazzy,” he said, taking a long sip. “You know, I asked you out here today so we could maybe get to know each other in a slightly more relaxed setting. I was starting to think maybe we'd started out on a bit of an intense footing, with, you know . . .” He looked over at me, slightly embarrassed.

“I mean, don't get me wrong,” he continued, “it was lovely how things began. You were so lovely. But it's just not how I usually go about things. I'm really not like that back in England. I just . . . wanted to slow things down a little. See where things go.”

Interesting. In all my years of dating—­especially with ang mohs—­I had never heard such a speech before. Usually when guys reach the promised land, they like to stay there. No need to go anywhere else type. But here Roy was saying he wanted to get to know me outside of clubs and the bedroom? I wasn't quite sure how to respond to this piece of information. But then I remembered that he did just move to Singapore not too long ago. The scene probably hadn't corrupted him—­yet.

So I just smiled and said, “I'm glad.” From the slightly relieved smile on his face, I could tell it was the right response.

“You know,” Roy said, leaning back, draping his arm around my shoulder and looking out at the trees, the pond, the swans in front of us, “in some ways, I feel I was destined to come to Singapore. When I was ten, one of my dad's friends who had come here on a business trip gave me this Singapore five-­dollar bill and it had this drawing of the bulbul on it—­do you know what that is? No? It's a small tropical bird that you find in various parts of the world. It's nothing very special to look at but it's a songbird . . . Anyway, I was just getting really into bird-­watching at the time and had just been reading about the bulbul—­the idea of it being on a five-­dollar bill, wow. I couldn't get over it! I guess Singapore has been on my mind ever since . . .”