Sarong Party Girls (27 page)

“Yah! Yah! The dice is always a good icebreaker,” Su Fen said. “Especially for newcomers!”

Newcomers? Lumpar lah!

I looked back at Lydia, who downed the rest of her shot and firmly put down the glass, grabbed my drink and walked back over. Good—­it was high time the woman came over here to set her husband and everyone else straight.

Lydia walked over and handed me the glass, not even looking at me. Then she sat back down on her beanbag and cleared her throat loudly.

“Just pick one lah,” she said. “Tomorrow is a working day—­let's not go too late this time.”

Walao! Guniang here was feeling a bit paralyzed, I have to admit. This kind of thing, I could never have imagined. KTV girls, yes. Prostitutes, yah, I can imagine. But this? Professional girls from my own office? With the foreign editor and his backside-­face lawyer-­banker wife? My god.

Just then, Sean said, “OK, come, come, come—­wifey said, ‘Let's go!' ” And he patted my backside again, harder this time.

Guniang jumped up right away. “Sean, I'm sorry—­but I really think I have to go,” I said.

I couldn't even look at any of the other girls or Lydia as I ran out of the door. As I was putting on my heels, Sean was suddenly standing next to me. He looked a bit confused.

“Jazeline—­are you OK?”

“Yah—­I just . . . I just need to go home,” I said.

“I'm sorry—­I thought . . .” he said. “Well, this is just a bit of fun we have around the office sometimes . . . it's a rather select group, actually. And it's nothing very serious—­just lighthearted games, really. I don't just invite everyone over. And I had assumed that, well, you seem to go out clubbing a lot and have a lot of fun, and well, I had just heard some things and . . .”

“And? And you thought I would be interested in being part of your sex-­toy
New Times
harem?”

Guniang here was getting a bit angry now. Which is not bad, I thought—­better than losing it inside there around all of them. I thought I had been damn patient all night already. But after ­everything that happened over the past week, guniang here honestly was losing patience with everything.

At this point, I could see Sean's eyes change a bit. He straightened up and said, “Should I call you a taxi?”

“No, no need,” I said. “The main road is nearby. I can just walk. Thank you though. And thank you for the drinks. Please also say thank you to Lydia for me.”

Before he could talk again, I quickly started walking to the gate.

“Jazeline?”

“Yah?” I said, turning around just as I opened it.

“I hear congratulations are in order, by the way,” he said. I could see him smiling. “When are you moving to circulation?”

 

chapter 19

Whole day long I was sitting at my desk, thinking about how to bring up the box of sex toys.

Not to Sean of course, but to Albert. I had managed to avoid Sean all day—­which wasn't hard because I'm sure he also wanted to avoid me. I did see Su Fen once or twice though and each time she not only didn't quickly look down or avoid me—­bloody hell, that girl is really not shy! Instead, she just stared at me, blinked once and then walked away.

Every time I tried to talk to Albert though, he just either rushed right past me and said he had a meeting to go to (even though I know it's lies—­hallo, I am the one who keeps his schedule after all) or really must go to the loo. After about the fifth time he did that, I figured out that he must be avoiding me too.

But like that, how? This was the first time guniang really needed his advice, man. Plus, what was this about circulation?

I decided to use my lunch break to kaypoh a bit.

Once Albert had safely disappeared to his business lunch in the financial district, I headed straight over to the next building—­the decrepit old one where no one in the newsroom, except Albert, ever went. To the right of the lobby, which looked like it was still firmly in the 1970s, was a big sign:
CIRCULATION.

A Malay receptionist greeted me the moment I pushed open the door. “Good afternoon, miss!” she said in a cheery singsong voice. “How can I help you?”

“Oh, I'm here from the news side,” I said, flashing my
New Times
pass. She smiled and nodded. “I just wanted to look-­see a bit,” I added. “Can?”

“Of course, of course,” she said, waving me in. “Just go right in.”

Past the reception area, there was a large cavernous room filled with neat rows of desks, all in a grid. Even though it was lunchtime, the room was filled with women, some eating sandwiches at their desks, others gathered together, chitchatting over cups of tea. At first I thought I didn't know anyone here but a youngish woman caught my eye in the far corner—­wasn't that Michelle? Albert's assistant before me? And that woman she was chatting with—­that was Pauline, the one before Michelle! I had met Michelle when I first arrived but knew Pauline from a photo Albert had once shown me. In another corner of the room, I spied a woman I sometimes saw having coffee with Albert in the cafeteria. Could she be another former assistant? I had thought all along that these women left for jobs elsewhere—­perhaps they became executive assistants to men higher up than Albert, or for CEOs along Shenton Way. But no, here they all were, in some apparent dumping ground for the assistants Albert had outgrown. As much as I'm sure Albert was going to paint this as a good career move, this was essentially a cemetery for aging women that the
New Times
—­or rather, Albert—­didn't want anymore!

I was so shocked I didn't even see that Michelle had spotted me. She was waving vigorously by the time I noticed.

I knew what I should do, but I simply couldn't. No, this was not a place for Jazzy—­not today and definitely not in the near future. I quickly turned around and walked out, back across the parking lot and into my shiny, clean building. My heart didn't stop racing until I was safely back in my plump swivel chair. “Jazzy,” I told myself. “You need to use your brain to think! This cannot happen to you. It simply cannot.”

Albert returned from lunch just slightly mabuk, though still ignoring me. He didn't say a word to me for most of the afternoon. Toward the end of the day though, just as I was starting to put files away and clean my kopi cup, Albert popped his head out of his office and said, “Jazz, can you come in for a minute?”

Finally! “Yes, boss!” I said, and quickly went in.

“Come, sit, sit,” he said, opening his drawer and taking out his specs.

Was he doing this to get a better view today? Oh, that's right. Guniang was wearing a skirt today. I started to walk over to his sofa, wondering if I should offer to mix him a drink first, when Albert said, “Not today, Jazz—­I'm late for drinks already, so I don't have much time. Just come sit on the chair over here.”

OK—­guniang today was actually wearing nice panties and all, since I had that dinner tonight with Roy and his company. If Albert didn't care about peeping, it's his own pasal. I just walked over and sat on one of the black metal chairs in front of his desk.

Albert was quiet and looked like he was thinking hard about something. I didn't want to interrupt him but I had decided last night when I got home—­if he doesn't know what is happening with Sean, he should know. This kind of shameful thing can be very bad for the
New Times,
you know. I may not read the newspaper but I always look at the headlines, so I know that the
New Times
really likes to splash stories about politicians and CEOs having scandalous affairs all over the front page. If word about Sean's sex-­box parties gets out—­die lah! The
New Times
will have no more face already. Besides, if Albert sees me as a valuable person who can give him information about his underlings in the newsroom, maybe I won't be moved to circulation after all?

No, Jazzy must be brave. Even if I might get in trouble for being the one to tell on Sean's parties, better to just do it.

“Albert, I really need to tell you something,” I said, starting to launch into the story I had been trying to tell him all day. But Albert cut me off!

“I know,” he said, looking a bit serious and sad. “No need to say. Actually, I really don't want to hear the details, but I know.”

Know? Know what? And how can he know? Babi . . . did that bitch Su Fen tell him something? What did she say?

“No, Albert, I really need to tell you . . .”

“I know, you went to Sean's party,” Albert said; his face looking a bit red, patches of it appearing all over his forehead even. Everyone knew whenever that happened, Albert was truly embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “Look—­I know what happens there. And I hear the party was a big success, everyone had a good time, et cetera, et cetera. Sean already told a few of us about it after the morning meeting. Wah, that Su Fen—­is she really as talented as he says? Wait, don't tell me. I want to find out myself.”

What? What did Sean say? What should I say? And then I realized: what can I say that Albert would believe over Sean's word?

“Hey, Albert, you know what kind of girl I am—­I didn't . . . I mean, I did go but I didn't . . . I can't . . .” I said. Damn bloody irritating. The story I had been thinking about telling him since I got home last night and practiced during all those hours when guniang couldn't fall asleep suddenly wasn't coming out.

“It's OK, Jazz,” he said, looking sad again. “These things happen. Sean is a very handsome guy—­and you know, once they move me upstairs he will probably be the one sitting in this chair. So it's good that you played your cards right. But I never doubted you—­Jazzy. You have a good head on your shoulders. You're going to be all right.”

I couldn't believe I was hearing any of this. I was still trying to think of how to explain and how to make him believe when Albert continued.

“Anyway, I didn't call you in to talk to you about any of this,” he said. “Remember our conversation last week? I'm glad we had it because it's so coincidental, I was talking to the head of circulation and he has a very good opening so I thought about you. We had some nice chitchats and it's all settled . . .”

Circulation? What nonsense is he talking?

“Albert, thanks for the offer but I'm very happy working for you—­really,” I said. “I don't want to move. I really really love working for you.”

“Come on, Jazzy—­there's no future for you here,” he said. “Don't make this difficult, OK? It's a very good job—­it even pays a bit more. Win-­win! Don't say I never take care of you.”

“But, Albert, I—­”

“Please. Jazzy, don't make this difficult—­be a pro, OK?” he said. “You've been working for me for how long? We've always had a good relationship. You've been great. But it's time.”

My mouth was still open but no words were coming out. I could see in Albert's eyes that he was starting to feel a bit bad. Of course he should—­I'm the best assistant he's ever had!

“Jazz, eh—­what time is it now? Aiyoh, I'm really late. Better make a move,” he said, taking off his specs, quickly folding them and putting them back in his drawer.

“Come, come—­it's time to knock off! Don't you young ­people have some big fun to get to on a Friday night?” he said, getting up and gesturing for me to quickly follow him. His face was starting to look impatient.

Quietly, I followed behind him.

“The new girl is coming on Monday, so pack up your desk this weekend,” he said. “But come here Monday morning and show her the ropes then report to Gerald Ho over in circulation by eleven. Don't be late. Oh, and since I have that meeting at the printing plant I won't be in until noon, so make sure she's all settled in and knows how to order my lunch before you go.”

Albert didn't look back at me as he said any of this. And he didn't turn around once the whole time I watched him walk all the way across the long newsroom and out the door.

The only time I had to think was the thirty-­minute taxi drive that evening from the office to Manhattan.

Usually it only takes fifteen or twenty minutes to get to that steak house near Raffles City, but thank god for Friday night clubbers and lovebirds. There were traffic jams everywhere, so at least I could delay things a bit and have more time to think. Taxi uncle was happy of course—­he was the kind that, when he sees a chio girl in a short skirt enter his taxi, wah, uncle purposely drives super slowly so he can talk cock a bit more and maybe see if he can get a phone number or not. (As if.) But the moment he started his rubbish chitchat I just said, “Uncle—­I've had a bloody hard day already. Please! Don't make it worse.” Uncle just stared at me a bit through his rearview mirror and then shut up his mouth for the rest of the drive.

Everything happened so quickly in Albert's office that I didn't have time to fully react until he was long gone. First of all, I still hadn't told him the real story yet about what happened at Sean's. He had been walking around all day thinking that I participated in Sean's sick games? After I thought about it a bit more, I guess I could imagine what Sean said about me. (Fucking chee bye—­probably just trying to save his own face so he doesn't have to explain to his work buddies why some peon from the office would rather run out into the darkness and walk to the main road in high heels than stay and suck his Eurasian cock.)

But second of all—­and this one was more important—­why am I moving to circulation and what can I do to stop it? When I thought about my career trajectory, if there was any job that I thought Albert would be kindhearted enough to help me get—­in fact, he even suggested it himself a few times—­it was as an events planner for the company or somewhere else. The guy has so many contacts—­if anyone can help me make that leap, it's him. And it seemed at some point that he was open to helping me down the road—­what happened? And circulation? I mean, yah, he still goes over there to say hello and flirt with his old assistants a bit every week but it's where he shoves ­people when he no longer has much use for them. How could I possibly be in that category? Jazzy has worked too damn hard for him all these years to end up like those other losers before me. I am not Michelle!

Perhaps I should try and explain the evening at Sean's to Albert a bit more? I know that on weekends, I'm really not allowed to contact him unless it's an emergency like the
New Times
building is burning down or his boss wants to give him company box seats for a soccer match. (And even then, I can make this emergency call only for some games—­Singapore versus Kelantan, can; Singapore versus Terengganu? If I dare to call him over that one, I confirm will get a scolding for at least two weeks.) But this issue with Sean's party and circulation—­even if it's not an emergency for him, it's an emergency for me! Or maybe I can send him an email or a text to try and explain a bit and beg for my job back?

Aiyoh, this one. How come I have ­people in my life to advise me on all sorts of things—­shopping lah, flirting lah, where to put your tongue on a guy's cock lah. But when I have a career problem, everybody in my life is all bloody goondu about this kind of thing?

I was still thinking about this, with no solution yet, when the taxi uncle pulled up to the Imperial Hotel.

“Well,” I thought, as I paid taxi uncle, giving him a twenty-­cents tip because he was so nice to keep quiet. (At least uncle couldn't say that guniang here was not appreciative.) “At least there's Roy.”

Before heading to the second floor where Manhattan was, even though I was a bit late, I made sure to stop in the loo to powder my nose first. After rinsing my face with some water and blotching it off with a tissue, I looked hard into the mirror. Pretty eyes, not bad nose, clear skin, nice smile. I even blew-­dry my hair this morning so it was a bit puffy, got volume and all. And I wore sweet dangly pearl earrings—­must look a bit classy for a work dinner after all—­to go with my black, slightly clingy silk dress, which was a little longer than the one last night but showed just a bit of cleavage. I even made sure to wear red lacy push-­up bra so Roy confirm could get a few small peeps here and there at dinner.

Tonight, I'm going to show him why he needs me! Especially with some new tricks I learned from Alistair last week, I confirm can make Roy more satisfied than any girl has ever even tried.

“Jazzy,” I mouthed into the mirror, pointing at my own face, “you are damn happening! Roy would be lucky to have you.”