Sarong Party Girls E-Book

Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

• Herausgeber: Allen & Unwin
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 502

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Just before her twenty-seventh birthday, Jazzy hatches a plan. Before the year is out, she and her best girlfriends will all have spectacular weddings to rich ang moh - Western expat - husbands, with Chanel babies to follow. As Jazzy - razor-sharp and vulgar, yet vulnerable - fervently pursues her quest to find a white husband, the contentious gender politics and class tensions thrumming beneath the shiny exterior of Singapore's glamorous nightclubs are revealed. Desperate to move up in Asia's financial and international capital, will Jazzy and her friends succeed? Vividly told in Singlish - colourful Singaporean English with its distinctive cadence and slang - Sarong Party Girls brilliantly captures the unique voice of a young, striving woman caught between worlds. With remarkable vibrancy and empathy, Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan brings not only Jazzy, but her city of Singapore, to dazzling, dizzying life.

Leseprobe

Praise for Sarong Party Girls:

‘[A] very funny, irreverent, sharp-eyed debut … Jazzy’s voice is the heart and the soul of the book: tart, spirited, brazen, naïve, knowing.’ Slate

‘I fell in love with Jazzy’s fresh, exuberant voice and trenchant wit. In her debut novel, Tan is saying something profound and insightful about the place of women in our globalized, capitalized, interconnected world.’ Ruth Ozeki, author of A Tale for the Time Being

‘In Singapore, this satirical novel of predatory beauties would be regarded as deeply subversive – for the rest of us, and anyone familiar with the life in that little island city-state, it is hilarious and original.’ Paul Theroux

‘Scarlett O’Hara would have met her match in Jazeline Lim, the brazen, striving, yet ultimately vulnerable heroine of this bold debut novel.’ Julia Glass, National Book Award-winning author of Three Junes

‘Wildly original, daring, hilarious, and heartbreaking in equal measure – Sarong Party Girls is written in a unique and captivating voice unlike any I’ve read before. The unforgettable Jazzy will seduce you with her no-holds-barred account of what it’s like to be young and female in modern-day Singapore.’ John Searles, bestselling author of Help for the Haunted and Strange But True

‘Through the insouciant voice of her heroine, Tan delivers a stinging and deliciously subversive critique of Singapore’s patriarchal social system. You’ll be so busy laughing at Jazzy’s outrageous cheek, you won’t notice until it’s too late that your heart has been broken.’ Hillary Jordan, author of When She Woke

‘Darkly funny, Sarong Party Girls is one very determined woman’s journey through modern Singapore, an intoxicating crossroads of culture, money, and ambition. Her voice is utterly new and engaging, bringing her world to vivid life from the first sentence.’ Ayelet Waldman, author of Love and Treasure

Born and raised in Singapore, Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan is a New York-based journalist. She is also the author of A Tiger in the Kitchen: A Memoir of Food and Family, and edited the fiction anthology Singapore Noir. She has been a staff writer at the Wall Street Journal, InStyle magazine and the Baltimore Sun.

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Allen & Unwin

First published in the United States in 2016 by William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers, New York

Copyright © Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan, 2016

The moral right of Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

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Internal design by Leah Carlson-Stanisic

Paperback ISBN 978 1 91163 030 2

E-Book ISBN 978 1 76087 064 5

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FOR MY FATHER,TAN SOO LIAP

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This book is written in Singlish, which is the patois that most Singaporeans speak to one another. It’s a tossed salad of the different languages and Chinese dialects that the country’s multiethnic population speaks—English, Malay, Mandarin, Hokkien, Teochew and more. It’s packed with attitude and humor and often is deliciously vulgar. Despite its allure, it has been the target of the Singapore government’s “Speak Good English” campaigns in the past. Fortunately, Singlish has turned out to be like a weed—it lives on.

CHAPTER1

Aiyoh, I tell you. If we do nothing, we are confirm getting into bang balls territory. We have to figure out how to make this happen—and we have to do it now.

After all, we’ve wasted enough time already. And we don’t have any more time to waste! We are not young anymore, you know—Fann just turned twenty-seven, my twenty-seventh birthday is two months away and Imo’s is not far behind. If we don’t get married, engaged or even nail down a boyfriend soon—my god, we might as well go ahead and book a room at Singapore Casket because our lives would already be over. In many ways, in Singapore, our kind of age is already considered a bit left on the shelf. Ordinarily, I don’t heck care about such things. Hallo—Jazzy here knows she’s quite power. Usually, unless the guy is blind or stupid or some shit, whatever guy I have my eye on I also can get, even at my age. You ask any bookie out there—my odds are damn good.

But it’s true that Singaporean men are a bit fussy—especially when it comes to older girls. But luckily for us, we still have one big hope: ang moh guys. That’s what we need to be thinking about. These white guys—they really catch no ball about Asian ages. Us twenty-something-year-old Asian girls, if you wear a tight tight dress or short short skirt, these ang mohs will still steam over you. (Some of them even go for the really old ones—thirty-year-old women also have chance!)

Even so, we cannot waste time. And we must be serious, because once you manage to marry a white guy, then you are only one step away from the number one champion status symbol in Singapore—a half ang moh kid. The Chanel of babies! But, how to get an ang moh husband?

I used to think getting an ang moh husband was quite easy to do. I mean—hello, we girls are always out there, meeting ang mohs, letting them buy drinks for us, dance dance rubba rubba a bit, so surely one day we’ll just naturally end up with an ang moh husband, right? At least that was the thinking lah. Recently though, I realized something that started making me nervous about achieving our goal. And it only hit me on that super cock night—the one where we lost Sher.

I tell you, I cannot even talk about that night right now without vomiting blood. Sher is so pretty, so sweet, so thin, has such fair skin. She could have had any guy she wanted!

After that night, I realized that yes, we’ve been quite focused over the years. If you count up all the guys our group has dated since secondary school, most of them are ang mohs. Not always good quality ones—some of them, I have to admit, are the don’t-wear-suits-to-work type—but still, in this small country, to be able to say that most of our boyfriends and flings have come from England or some shit is quite good lah. Most girls here end up with local boyfriends the whole time. What nonsense. I tell you, if an SBS bus runs me over on the street tomorrow, Jazzy here will go up there with no regrets.

Once we lost Sher though, I realized that our ang moh husband strategy was not so good because . . . we had no strategy! You ask Sun Tzu or Lee Kuan Yew, they confirm will say that every important thing also must have strategy. I tell you—if only we had paid closer attention to all that shit during Chinese proverb classes. If we had, maybe Sher would still be with us today.

So, first things first—must call a meeting. After work: Wala Wala bar at Holland Village. Of the four of us, there were only three left—me, Fann and Imo. Time to get serious.

Long time ago when we were in secondary school, the four of us used to be quite shy about coming to Holland Village. This neighborhood is not say super atas—although the hawker center there is damn bloody expensive. One stupid plate of wanton mee can cost you four dollars and fifty cents! If your family is printing money and you have all the cash in the world to pay American prices for Singaporean food then OK lah, please—you just go ahead. Also, you know how things are around here sometimes. If you are not ang moh and don’t speak good English or wear a school uniform from one of the expat schools or at least one of the right kinds of schools, people will sometimes look at you a bit funny. Like, why are you hanging out here? Don’t you have your own kampong to squat in? That kind of cock attitude.

But once we got a bit older and started going on dates with ang mohs who sometimes brought us to Holland Village, we started to see the bar scene, get to know some of the waiters and bartenders, then OK lah, we started to fit in. Now, at all the tapas bars and happening Irish pubs along there, even if we’re not on dates and it’s just us girls hanging out, we feel more OK about showing our faces in Holland Village.

Since I was the first to arrive after work, judging from all the texts from Fann and Imo about being late, I decided to slowly slowly walk to Wala Wala. Never fun sitting there for too long before your girls show up, after all. If you sit there for too long with your one drink, just waiting and looking, waiting and looking—aiyoh, even if the bartenders don’t think you are pros, I tell you, someone confirm will come and sit down with you and ask “How much?”

Holland V was happening as usual for a Thursday night. Of course it was still a bit early—since our work shift is more normal we can knock off at five o’clock, so we can come out earlier and start our night. I know sometimes if you work for ang moh companies or those British law or banking firms, even if you are a receptionist or assistant, then still must work late. Sometimes my job at the New Times is also like that lah, since I’m assistant to the editor in chief and all. But luckily Albert didn’t keep me too long today, because even that early on a Thursday, the narrow street that most of Holland V was on was already quite packed. The tables outside the bars and restaurants jammed on the pavement were already filled with people drinking and smoking. And I could almost taste the smell of grilled meats coming from some of the fashion-fashion yakitori places on the street.

Because it’s so crowded—and sometimes filled with families and kids, that kind of crap—Holland V is not usually my favorite place to go. But it’s good to check out the scene and be a part of it at least once in a while, show face and all.

When I got to Wala, I ordered their super shiok chicken wings. If the girls are late, it’s their problem. More wings for me. But bang balls, man—Fann and Imo showed up just when Ahmad brought the wings to our table. Fann didn’t even wait to sit down before grabbing one and stuffing it into her mouth. This one, I tell you, if I didn’t know her better I would have said she confirm would end up marrying some lousy Ah Beng squatting by a longkang.

“OK, you all know there was a reason that I called this meeting,” I said, making sure when I paused to stare hard at Imo. This one as usual was not paying attention, searching through her bloody handbag for god knows what.

“This is a meeting? I thought we were just drinking tonight,” Imo said, finally taking out a gold Chanel compact to powder her nose. Fann signaled to Ahmad to bring a round of our usual drinks over. After coming here for so long, Ahmad knows lah—cheap white wine first, good stuff later, especially if by then we have met ang mohs who want to buy us rounds.

“Yes, yes—but there’s something we need to talk about . . .” I started to explain. “This is serious. Listen—I think we need a plan.”

Fann and Imo looked worried. I cannot blame them lah. We whole life never talk about serious things at all. Yes, when Fann’s dad died and Imo—aiyoh, Imo—when all that drama happened after junior college with her father and his second family, then, yes, we were serious. So they must have thought something really bad happened.

“Eh, you OK or not?” Fann said.

“OK, OK . . . but listen, I’ve been thinking, we don’t have much time. Look at us three—this is a happening Thursday night and the best plans we have are going out with each other. No husband, no two-carat diamond ring, not even a boyfriend. What kind of cock life is this? If we want to marry ang moh guys, we cannot go to SPG bars and just anyhow shoot arrow. No wonder we haven’t win yet. We must have a method!”

Imo looked skeptical. “If we just go to Chaplin’s or Hard Rock, meet people, dance dance dance, sing sing, hiau hiau a bit,” she said, “aren’t we just doing it because it’s fun?” Fann shrugged and nodded.

“Fun—your head lah!” I said. “Like that maybe for one night or a few nights, of course it will work. But if we want to get married, then we must be more strategy! So, listen—I came up with this idea. Got four parts.”

Imo leaned forward—I could tell she was a little curious. Of all of us, she’s the one who’s most focused on getting married. Her father—aiyoh, my god.

When we were in secondary school, we didn’t see Imo’s dad much. Uncle was always traveling for work—each week he would disappear for a few nights, often over the weekend. So every time we were at her house, it was mostly just us hanging out with Auntie. Auntie never seemed to mind though—whenever Uncle came back from his travels, he always brought something nice. Sometimes got duty-free perfume lah; other times if he disappeared for longer trips, he would actually come back with a Prada handbag, that kind of thing. But of course Imo always liked it best when he showed up with those big Toblerones—so big that each piece alone was the size of a McDonald’s hamburger! The few times we met him, he seemed nice, not anything special—people’s father is just people’s father after all. Unless you bump into them in a club or something—my god, later on, after our school years, that actually happened with some of our friends’ dads—you don’t really think about them that much.

And Uncle was so boring we definitely didn’t think about him at all. He was like my dad lah. Or Fann’s dad, who we didn’t really care about until he suddenly had a heart attack. But then right after we graduated from JC, like just the day after our final exam and we hadn’t even had time to go chionging to celebrate and all, Uncle and Auntie sat Imo down after dinner and said, “We have something to tell you.”

Imo said everything happened very quickly—once Uncle started talking, everything also just anyhow come out. Apparently, his job was actually not a traveling type of job. He works in a local insurance office! First, he said, Imogen, you know your Mummy and I love you very much, right? Everything you want, we also give you. (When Imo first heard this, at first she thought he was dying—at that time Fann’s dad had recently passed away, so we were all quite scared, wondering which Uncle is the next to go.) So Imo just nodded and kept quiet—when she told us about it, she said she was almost crying.

But then Uncle said, “Now that you’re old enough, almost a woman already, your mummy and I thought you should know something: You have two brothers.”

At first, Imo was quite confused. She didn’t know what he meant. “But how could my mum have two other kids that I don’t know about? Cannot be! She had me when she was so young and then I don’t remember her being pregnant anymore. Where got two sons?” She was still thinking hard about all this when Uncle continued talking.

“I have another family,” he said.

Imo looked across the dinner table at her mum, who was looking a bit blank-faced, except that her eyes were staring down. She said Auntie was blinking and looking hard at her fingers, which were pulling apart at one corner of the carefully ironed white tablecloth that she spent four months last year crocheting. This was the tablecloth that Auntie cared about so much that she even bought a special clear plastic cover for it for Chinese New Year so when people brought curry or whatever over, her tablecloth will still be Number One OK. So Imo knew that if her mum was actually cho cho-ing with this tablecloth—then, confirm: this conversation is really serious.

Uncle continued: “When I met your mum, I already had one son. And then just around the time you were born, I had my second son. They look a bit like you actually . . .”

Imo is usually quite toot lah. So at this point, when she told all of us about it, we thought the situation was pretty clear. But Imo was actually still confused! So she asked her dad, “But . . . you had your mistress before mum?” She still wasn’t getting anything or understanding what was going on. When she told me, Sher and Fann all this—my god—we all just wanted to reach over and slap her one time. Where got people so stupid?

That was when Uncle looked a little bit embarrassed. And she said her mum by this time couldn’t even look up from the tablecloth.

“Imo, I care about your mum very much. And I care about you very much. The two sons I have are with my wife. They live here—in . . . well, a town center quite far from here so you were definitely never in the same schools of course. But now that you are all grown up, have wings, can fly already, we wanted you to know you have brothers out there. Just keep that in mind whenever you meet new people. You just . . . aiyah, you just never know. And we were thinking now that you are getting older, going out and dating dating all, sekali something weird happens. Better be safe. So we might as well sit you down and tell you everything—just in case. So, um, if you ever have any news about new guys you are meeting, might be getting serious with, you just be sure to keep us informed ah? OK, come, come, let’s eat some oranges.”

And then after that Imo’s mum just got up, peeled two oranges for them, went to her room and turned on the TV to watch her Cantonese serial and they didn’t talk about it anymore.

Walao eh! Crazy lah!

When Imo told us, at first we weren’t quite sure what to say or think. We all hugged her of course. And then we just looked at each other. Finally, Sher smiled, reached over to squeeze Imo’s hand and said: “Eh, Imo—you are lucky you’re a sarong party girl. Like that, you confirm won’t end up snogging your brother by mistake. Even if your dad’s wife is white, her sons will only be half ang moh. As if you’ll even think of going home with a loser like that!” Even Imo had to laugh over that one. Sher always knew just the right thing to say.

So ever since then, Imo has been quite determined: Get an ang moh husband or bust, man!

“Come, set. Tell us your strategy,” Imo said. The guniang had even closed her mirror and put it away, so now I really knew she was listening.

“OK, number one,” I said. “Looks. Obviously we are quite chio, otherwise how come we have so many ang moh guys always chasing us? But girls, think about it. If you look carefully, the types of Singaporean girls that ang moh guys like to pok and the types that they end up marrying is quite different! So we must make ourselves look like those girls they want to marry.”

“But who?” Imo asked, already looking a bit lost.

Aiyoh, I tell you. I tried very hard not to roll my eyes though. Instead, I pulled out some of the pictures I looked up on my phone that morning. Best one: Maggie Cheung. “This one ah,” I said, “very power. Marry the best type of guy—European! French some more; sexy sexy one. Rich also.” Imo and Fann were nodding.

Actually, I was not really joking when I said that since we are so chio, why must we plan so hard? For starters, we were all quite skinny—Imo was the smallest of us, short short cute cute one. Got dimple on one side of her face so at least she looked half like the cute Japanese teenagers in those Kao Biore face soap advertisements. (But without that one big side tooth jutting out—my god. Those dentists in Japan, I also don’t know how they spend their time, man. Why are their girls’ teeth all so terok?) Imo’s skin was also very fair—so fair that she definitely didn’t need to buy SK-II whitening cream. Lucky girl. Also, right after school she worked at Robinson’s at the Shi seido counter for a while, so that girl really knows how to put makeup on and all. Her eyes are always nicely outlined so they look round round, big big one, like those Japanese anime girls that guys always want to pok. And since she now works at Club 21 boutique, she gets a 40 percent discount on everything they sell, so her clothing and handbags always quite designer, quite fashion one.

Fann, to be honest, is not so cute. Her nose is a bit big, her eyes only have a double eyelid on one side, so no matter how much she tries to put on eye makeup nicely, her face always ends up looking a bit crooked. And some more, even though since secondary school, she’s always carried around a packet of powdered blotting paper wherever she goes, her skin is always oily! My god, when it’s hot, like June or July type, her face—it’s a bloody blooming garden! Everywhere also got pimples opening flower. But still, she’s a very nice girl lah. And her job is quite serious—she opened a pet store with her uncle and all—so guys usually know she’s not after them for money or something funny. I think she gets extra points for that. Also, her backside is quite round and sexy, so confirm guys will always try to rubba her in clubs. And I guess she must be quite good in bed since usually, even when they wake up the next morning, the guys always take her out for breakfast, still ask for her phone number so they can text her again type.

Me, I think I’m OK lah. Can still make it. Not as sweet as Imo but luckily, not as bad as Fann. The ang moh guys I’ve met are always talking about how glossy and black my long hair is and how soft and smooth my skin is—so I guess I at least have two things going for me. Of us all though, Sher was the best looking—skin very fair like a Japanese princess, eyes not as big as Imo’s but beautiful almond-shape type. And she really knows how to put on eyeliner so the sides of her eyes look pulled out a bit, like those exotic Asian girls in ang moh movies. Also, she was the tallest of us all. But she wasn’t the skinny giraffe type—her breasts were small but quite nice (at least got cleavage, unlike Fann or Imo), and with her small small waist and legs long long and so shapely, my god, when she wears a miniskirt she almost looks like a Barbie doll. When she walks along Orchard Road, guys always steam. Even the atas guys also not shy—they stare until crazy.

Which is why, really, the way things turned out for Sher, it was damn bang balls to think about how everything was just so bloody wasted.

“You see ah,” I continued, before the girls could get distracted, “Maggie Cheung actually, her features are not so pretty. Her teeth are so big, got gap some more, her eyes are so small, cheeks a bit fat. But still, ang moh guys love her! Because, you know why? She’s quite mysterious. Joan Chen also same thing—her face flat flat also ang moh guys still steam. So we must learn—better to be mysterious a bit. When we meet a new possibility, cannot same night everything also whack.”

Fann waved at Ahmad for another round of drinks and took another chicken wing—typical, never pay attention. Imo on the other hand, had taken out a little notebook and was writing things down. Good. The way her fishnet mind works, I know if she doesn’t have anything written down she confirm won’t remember.

“Number two—is behavior. You see ah, ang mohs in Asia, step one for them is to look for girls to pok. This one is not hard lah. SPG bars, office . . . everywhere in this country is easy for them to find girls. But once they are used to this, it’s quite difficult to get them to think differently. So the best thing is to grab them FOB—if you snatch the ones who just moved here one or two weeks ago, then confirm is a win. But if you don’t manage to do that, when you meet them, you must act quite differently from those girls who just want to give them one–two nights good time type. Eh, Fann, I tell you ah, if you want to get married you better stop stuffing your face and write this down.” I pointed to her handbag and she fasterly opened it to pull out a pen and paper.

“OK, until now, we have been quite good at the laugh laugh drink drink wink wink type of thing. But if we want to be more serious, we must know what kind of things ang moh guys like—football, rugby, maybe things like rowing or tennis are also quite good. We don’t know much also must learn—so every day, we’d better read the Straits Times. English league, Italian league, German players, World Cup—everything also must know. If we know more, then we have more chance to talk more cock. If we talk more cock, then it becomes more like a relationship! Not just one night garabing garabung then everything is over already. If they think that we like what they like, then an actual relationship more likely is can.”

Even Fann was very seriously writing things down now. Imo, however, asked, “What about them learning about the things that we like?” Fann nodded. I tell you—sometimes Imo’s tootness is just really number one. “Hello,” I said. “If you are waiting for a guy who wants to hold your hand and have long conversations about the new Shiseido eye shadow then you’d better take off your shoes and sit down comfortably—because you are going to wait forever!” Fann started giggling; Imo just blinked at her.

“Next, we must understand the enemy. Cannot be like Jackie Chan in those kung fu movies—in the beginning he’s always the goondu, everything also don’t know, don’t understand then alamak, suddenly his balls get whacked! No, if we want to win, then we must know who we are fighting: number one: China girls. This one is the worst one. Since they come from China and are desperate not to go back, they anything will also do. No standards at all! Old old, ugly ugly, smelly smelly also they don’t care. But because they are so willing and so pretend-sweet, ang mohs like them! Some more they have no guilty conscience—if a guy has a wife, a girlfriend, is engaged, has kids, they don’t care. All, they will also whack. China girls, aiyoh. This one is the number one to watch.

“Number two: Filipinas—this one is quite dangerous because they are quite ang moh already, so it’s very easy for them to talk to ang moh guys. They have a lot in common. Some more they sing so well—if we see them in a karaoke lounge, I think we better just siam. No chance there. Better don’t fight.

“Number three: other SPGs—this one is quite easy to spot in a bar lah. But girls, we are all on the same side, all looking for the same thing, so if we see them, just show respect. No need to fight unless they try to potong your catch—if they potong, then we hantam them one time.

“Number four: ang moh girls. This one is actually not so dangerous because they’re all so fat and white chicken-skin type. Some more their hands and legs are usually damn hairy! If ang moh guys want that kind of thing, aiyoh, they know that if they go home there are better ones there lah. Down here in Singapore, these ang moh women know that Asian girls are better. But still, sometimes, the ang moh girls also can win. So it’s just better to keep an eye on them.”

At this point I was a bit hungry but Fann and Imo were so quiet I thought I’d better carry on. I was starting to feel like I was giving one of those opposition rally speeches you see on the Internet. My voice was getting louder and louder, Fann and Imo were both sitting up, leaning forward, listening carefully to each word. If I waved a flag, I tell you, they confirm will shout “Merdeka!” (At least, this is what I was thinking in my head lah.)

“Last one: This one is not hard,” I said. “We should just know the places to go. We already know the bars—Hard Rock, Studemeyer’s, Chaplin’s, these are all good places to spot ang mohs. But we also must try and see them in normal situations—for example, ang mohs like brunch! And hello, I’m not talking about going eat roti prata or prawn noodles type of brunch. Pancakes lah, eggs lah—that kind of thing. Even if we don’t really like to eat that crap, we must also whack brunch. Cannot just whack the bars and clubs. Sunday lunchtime—must try.

“OK? Now, we must be serious a bit. If this is what we want, then we must really understand all of this. Cannot anyhow anyhow anymore.”

The two of them were very quiet and looked at each other blankly. “Jazzy,” Fann finally said. “I think this plan—we cannot be like that lah. Love and relationships must be natural, not so calculative. We cannot plan plan plan until like this. Otherwise, what does it all mean? We might as well be like our parents.”

My god, when she said this—this really got me upset. The whole point of my plan, of us trying so hard on all this, is exactly so we won’t end up like our parents. Fann of all people should know—when her father dropped dead her mother was actually happy! No one to kau beh and fight with her for the TV when she wants to watch her Cantonese serials anymore. No one to sit on her sofa, smoking and peeling dried skin off his toes for hours each evening. Finally—after all those lousy years, peace inside her own house!

“Fann,” I said, blinking hard at her. “You wake up your own head! If we don’t follow this plan, we will end up like your parents, my parents or even worse—Imo’s parents!” Even though I was angry, I felt bad about saying that last part lah—hello, this guniang here isn’t heartless after all. But when I looked over at Imo and said, “Eh, sorry,” she just shrugged.

“It’s true,” Imo said very softly. “We can’t end up like them.”

All this, I know, was a lot for Fann and Imo to think about. But you look at us—now, we are still chio, still happening. But twenty-six and twenty-seven is not young already, you know. Fann has always been a bit cannot make it lah, and Sher is a gone case already, but Imo and I still have a chance! Even then, I can already see, sometimes when I look at our old photos, that last year and the year before that, we were even more chio. So if we carry on like this, that means next year we will be even less chio! This matter of getting an ang moh husband—if we are smart—it’s best to try and fasterly settle.

“In fact,” I added, “I think we actually must hurry up a bit. If you are serious about this, then, come, we set deadline. Today is Feb first—by end of month, must try and confirm something.”

“Like what?” Fann asked. “You want us to be married in a month? Be engaged?” Imo joined in. “Crazy, lah!” she said. “That’s only a month! I’m very busy at work, you know. Our big Club 21 sale is happening this month!”

Aiyoh, my god. These people! Hadn’t they been listening to anything I said?

“Look,” I said, “no one is asking you to hold a wedding banquet in thirty days. All I’m saying is, by the end of the month, we should at least have an ang moh boyfriend—a serious one. If we really focus and put our minds to it—and follow the strategy—this one, I tell you, is probably can. So how? Set?”

Imo looked at Fann, who looked back at her for a moment. “OK,” Imo said, raising her glass and waving her hand at Fann to follow. Together, we clinked our glasses and said, “Set!”

CHAPTER2

I still remember the night when everything went to shit.

Of course I didn’t want to go to the wedding banquet. Sher, if she could actually bring herself to give a flying shit about our donkey’s years of friendship, should have known that. After everything that happened, after everything we discussed over the years and everything we planned and tried for, and then everything just going to hell at the end because of some cock decision she suddenly made—just the fact that she was asking me to come to her wedding was damn bloody daring.

But then she texted me one day, and then that night, and then the next day asking—no, actually, begging—for one small favor. “I need you there, Jazzy. Sit at the reception desk, Jazzy. You don’t have to do anything, Jazzy. Just smile and greet people and be there for me, Jazzy. How long have we been good friends, Jazzy? You know you are practically my own sister.”

That last bit was the part that made me feel bad lah. I don’t have that many people I still know—or care about enough to actually text and see—who have been my kaki since primary school days. Or people who were there with me at Zambo until 3 A.M. in the morning on so many nights, holding my hair back as I’m throwing up into a longkang by the side of the road after a really good night out. At the end of the day, I have to honestly say I have never had a better friend than Sher. Friends like her are really A-plus-plus, man. Long long then will come one time. This, I always knew—and I always assumed we would be best friends until we were old fat aunties sitting in our rocking chairs looking out at our colorful English gardens, sipping tea or whatever it is they drink over there.

So, I felt a bit bad. After all, even though Sher changed her mind and abandoned the three of us in the end, I couldn’t ignore the fact that we used to be good friends.

I remember when we first started really hitting the SPG bars—Studemeyer’s was one of the first places everyone used to go. Right when the club first opened awhile ago it had all these good-looking ang moh guys hanging out there on weekends. But then very quickly all these Ah Bengs in their old-fashioned pleated baggy black pants, shiny silk shirts and overgelled blow-dried hair starting rushing in and taking over the club on weekends. Aiyoh—when I see those guys I just want to throw up. I know these Ah Bengs are Chinese-Singaporean guys who probably feel like they need to action a bit more to stand out—but I don’t understand how people can actually want to look so low-class! Even so, Sher wanted to see Studemeyer’s and we’d all never been. So somehow we ended up there on a Friday night—Louis had started reserving a table there on weekends the moment it opened, so we had a VIP spot. I didn’t mind going for that. Otherwise, I confirm won’t go.

When Louis saw me at Studemeyer’s, he was nice as usual, holding up the bottle of Chivas after we double-kissed. “Better faster get high,” he said, starting to pour even before I could find a place to put my handbag. “Where have you been? We’ve all been here since eleven drinking already. You’d better catch up. No fun being sober when we’re all so high.” After that, he just kept pouring. Every time my glass was even half-empty he would bring the Chivas over. I can’t remember whether he was also pouring so much for Sher, Fann and Imo. He must have—I think—but then in the end, it was only me, about one hour and six double-shot whiskey sodas later, who was suddenly feeling like not dancing anymore.

“Ehhh,” a voice came, so close to my ear I could feel a sticky hotness. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. I could feel him already, the front of his bulky jeans rubbing against my bum. Sher and Imo were convinced that Kelvin stuffed his crotch with socks—no way someone so short could be so big. “Aiyoh, please lah,” I said, turning my head around to shout so he could hear me. “Guniang here mabuk almost to the point of throwing up already and you still want to be like that.” But he just kept rubba-ing and didn’t go away. By the time I fully turned around so I could actually push him back, I could see from his saggy lids and big smile that he was quite gone. Kelvin just blinked and stumbled off to try his luck with some fresh girls near the next table.

“Jazz, you OK?” Sher had finally come back from wherever she’d gone. Neither of us had seen Imo—or Louis, for that matter—in a while.

“You look a bit . . . too high,” she said, cupping my face.

“No lah, I’m OK. Don’t worry. I just need some air.”

I turned back around again, leaning against the cool stainless steel railing that kept us from falling over onto the sprawling dance floor beneath. I could feel Sher rubbing my back. It felt good. Her face leaned in next to mine. We both looked over at the floor beneath us, filled with bodies jammed next to each other. I couldn’t remember the last time we went to a club and didn’t have a VIP table—we were all getting older already lah. Going clubbing on the main levels is for the youngsters—us old birds have no energy anymore to push and squeeze and get noticed in such a crowd. Sher was pointing at something below, a group of Ah Bengs in a small circle with one of them in the middle. Each one stood firmly in a spot, holding on to his pleated pants waistband with his right hand, as if trying to steady himself while he rocked violently from the waist upward. The other hand was raised up high waving above his head. Even though we were one floor up, we could hear them shouting, “Yo ah yo! Yo ah yo!”

Aiyoh—this phrase so old already still want to say! Back in the eighties everyone was lousy at dancing lah, so the main way was just to yo back and forth to the music and shout “Yo ah yo!” Nowadays, everyone knows much more about dancing, but these Ah Bengs somehow are still out there doing this nonsense.

“Oi!” Sher suddenly shouted, leaning over slightly as she waved and pointed at the group. “Yah—you, Ah Beng! This one not 1985 anymore, you know. You still Yo ah yo? Lau pok lah!” The Ah Bengs stared up, looking confused. When they saw Sher waving her third finger at them, they started to whisper to each other, holding their hands up to cover their mouths as they talked. Typical brainless type—we are so far up, how to hear anything?

My god. It was too much. I started laughing, at first just a little bit, but then when Sher started laughing also, we held on to each other and just started laughing louder and harder. I even slapped my hand on my thigh so hard I could feel it getting hot from how painful it was. But then suddenly I started to feel something else—it began in my chest. A burp, I thought? Next thing I knew I was leaning over the railing, shooting crap out of my mouth like one of those big fire engine hoses—I could taste Chivas, and some green tea mixed with bits of the noodles my mum made me eat before coming out.

I remember two things happening as it started—Sher’s left hand catching my shoulder as I bent over, and her right hand quickly grabbing and holding back my hair. She waited one minute for all of it to really finish before saying, “Eh, we’d better faster siam.” When I opened my eyes, I saw the Ah Bengs all staring up at us, pointing and shouting. A few of them were touching the tops of their heads and then pointing even more. I could hear myself start to laugh again as I wiped the corner of my mouth, making them point even harder. Then one of them pointed toward the staircase and they all started to move. Sher grabbed my hand, swiped my handbag from the booth and we both started running for the secret back VIP exit, not even stopping to see where Louis was so we could give him his two air kisses goodbye. We didn’t stop laughing until we reached the roti prata stall ten minutes away.

“Aiyoh, Jazzy,” Sher said as she clinked her mug of hot ginger tea to mine when we had laughed until there was no more sound coming out and we actually had to buy a twenty-cent packet of tissues to wipe our tears dry. “You tonight ah,” she said, “were really number one.”

So, when it came down to it, when Sher begged me to come to her wedding, after all the nights we’d been through over the years, how could I not give her face?

Outside the wedding banquet hall, Imo, Fann and I were standing around, looking chio and dressed in gold just like Sher texted us to, and saying hallo to her relatives all. “Auntie, congrats ah?” I said when I saw Sher’s mum.

Auntie looked like she’d lost some weight, maybe to fit into the turquoise and gold cheongsam she was wearing. She looked at me a little bit sad, like she wanted to say something. I felt bad lah. I had seen her almost every week since primary school, though I had been avoiding their place for months. But we both knew that now wasn’t the right time. So she just smiled sweetly and squeezed my hand. “I think Sher wants us all to line up right on the inside by the door,” she said, leading me through the large double doors to the ice-cold banquet hall and pointing to the area just to the right.

The music started the moment I took my spot. I almost started to cry—I only needed to hear five beats to know what it was: Richard Marx’s “Right Here Waiting.” Sher and I used to sing it all the time in secondary school. And then also after that lah—but by then the song was not so happening anymore, so we secretly sang it, like, only when we were in the house type. (Outside the house, if we hear people singing it, we’ll just blink and stare at them as if they are bloody kampong idiots. Which is true lah.)

After I didn’t do so well in my A levels and I applied to uni in Australia, Sher would always say, “Just think of Richard Marx and this song. We will always be best friends even if you go. Don’t cry, don’t cry.” In the end, something lucky happened—I failed the entrance test, so I kena stuck in Singapore anyway.

But why would Sher purposely play this song at this moment?

The lights dimmed and a small, sharp spotlight came on, swirling around the room in big loops before stopping at the doorway. The circle of light got larger and larger until suddenly two figures stepped into it. Everyone in the room started clapping.

Sher was glowing in the dress she had eyed for five years now, the one that was slim and silky, designed to look exactly like Carolyn Bessette Kennedy’s negligee-style wedding dress. “Marry an ang moh prince must have ang moh–style princess dress!” she had said when she showed the magazine photo to us a few years ago and we all told her the dress looked too plain.

In the end, Sher was right about the dress, of course—when I saw her stepping through the door to her wedding banquet, she looked just like a princess. Her hair was done exactly like the photos of Carolyn that she had cut out and stuck on her mirror—tied in a loose bun in the back with some of her fringe draping across the side of her face.

I saw her looking around the room to the sides of the door, looking for someone. Looking for me. But just before she caught my eye, I turned away.

Ang moh princess, my foot. I couldn’t see her husband yet but I knew who he was. Mr. Lim Beng Huat. Black spiky hair, oval wire-rim glasses when he wasn’t wearing contacts, bumpy button nose. Rolex watch, one gold tooth. Typical Chinese guy.

I couldn’t even look at Sher. I just kept thinking over and over, There goes her Chanel baby.

CHAPTER3

Of all the bosses in the world, Albert is not the worst.

He’s quite funny lah. But definitely not the worst. Sure, there was the time when he almost got in trouble for rubba-ing the neck of a new NUS grad when she was on deadline one day. It wasn’t even anything special—everybody knows he does that to everyone, after all. But this guniang happened to be one of those modern women types—you know, those girls you are hearing about more nowadays, those who cannot take a joke. When she got angry and said she wanted to file an official complaint, he just laughed and explained to her that aiyoh, that’s just the way he is—just being the fatherly uncle type, wanting to help people feel less stressed when they are on deadline so he just goes around the newsroom giving them neck massages. To make sure she wouldn’t really go and file a complaint, after that, for a while, Albert had to go around rubba-ing various people around deadline, just to prove that he’s not lying. Older women, ugly ones, even guys—everyone got his special neck rubba. My god, for a while we were all a bit uncomfortable, but really—we had no choice. In the end, the girl had no case lah. And Albert took us all out to Front Page for big drinks when she finally quit and it was all over.

That wasn’t even one of the funniest things he did. I still remember when I first started six years ago, he was a bit more daring then. One day, he was walking around the newsroom—slow news day, nothing happening, so he was feeling bored lah. He sent out an email calling for a meeting in the middle of the newsroom. Since he rarely does that, of course we all took it damn seriously. I even wondered whether he was going to announce his promotion! Everyone had been waiting for years for him to become the publisher of the company. But that day, when the meeting started, Albert just started naming people. If you got arrowed, then you had to come to the middle of the news hub. Of course we started to realize something was going on when we noticed that he was only calling girls’ names—moreover, he was calling up all the girls who were wearing a skirt that day. Once there were about ten girls up in the front he asked them all to turn around and said, “Eh, look at this. We have some of the most chio girls in the country working for us. We must show some appreciation—come, let’s vote. Tell me who you think has the most happening legs!” OK, even I have to admit it was just a little a bit weird, but Albert is such a good-natured guy that we all knew he meant no harm. It’s all good fun after all. So, the girls were all good sports, and in the end the whole thing was quite fun. (I don’t remember who won but we all had a good laugh about it at happy hour that night. That Albert really knows how to get everyone in a happy mood lah.) But these days, with more and more girls showing up like that NUS grad, even Albert knows he has to watch it a bit. So, life in the newsroom is not so much fun anymore.

Usually at the start of the day though, Albert is in a very good mood. After spending the night and early morning with his wife and their daughter doing all those boring-as-fuck family things, Albert always cannot wait to come into the office and bother all of us. Sometimes he’ll even take the lift to the skywalk and cross over to the next building to flirt with the bimbo girls in circulation. He has such a big title at the New Times that even though he’s not good-looking (mouse eyes, flat backside, a bit too skinny and walks a bit funny) the circulation girls always laugh at all his jokes and flirt back lah. I think one or two of them are a bit like his spare girlfriends, even though no one dares to talk about it too much. (No matter how good-natured he is, Albert is the boss after all. We should never forget that.) Girls in the newsroom—Albert knows they probably are a bit too smart for him to mess with. If you start going out with them, confirm will have trouble. When things don’t work out (and hallo, you know that is usually what happens), you still have to see the guniang’s face in your department every day. Like that, where’s the fun?

Plus, especially now, when we all have to go to sexual harassment seminars and all, trying to pok girls in the newsroom really is a lousy idea. But the circulation girls—they’re not as smart or bossy so you can count on them to not want or expect very much. (And I guess since they are technically not directly his staff members, it’s a bit more OK.) And his wife also doesn’t really seem to notice or care. He makes big bucks after all—and has the atas title along with it. So when he tells his wife he has to work really late, she also knows she doesn’t have anything to say. That’s why from Monday to Friday—those are Albert’s days for being really happening.

Even though I was his assistant, he had so much to catch up on—he always has to do a lot of hello hellos to the guniangs all over the building lah—that he didn’t even notice me that much until after tea. “Wah, Jazzy, tonight hot date is it?” he said, suddenly appearing next to my chair. He must have meant it because his rubbaing then was not just my neck—I could feel his hand going down the back of my red silk blouse. “No lah,” I said. “Hot date? As if!”

“Good,” Albert said, continuing his rubba-ing. “By the way, on Monday, wear something nice like this. That night, I have to entertain some people at Front Page—you come along too. Don’t worry, this will be early. I just need some pretty girls there for them to look at. Just drink, smile, listen, don’t interrupt—you know how to do it lah. Just be yourself, Jazzy.”

Even though Albert would never say so, I know that part of the reason he’s kept me on for so long is that I actually bother to show up at work looking nice. Before me, his assistants were all young young cute cute ones—they’ll join him at twenty-two years old; by the time they hit twenty-four, Albert will have already moved them on to some bumfuck job somewhere else at the New Times. No one seems to know where they go because nobody ever sees them again. It’s not as if they mattered before, when they were Albert’s assistants, but after he shoved them off somewhere else, they really didn’t matter to anyone anymore. The point is, Albert was done with them. And they were now out of the way.

Everyone knows that Albert likes his assistants young—partly because he likes to bring them to all these industry things he has to go to, or when he’s entertaining visiting media types, having a chio little girl to smile and laugh at all these bosses’ stupid jokes, is a confirm win situation. But this guniang here actually likes this job—and I know how to dress. And no matter how expensive those SK-II creams are, I always buy them—it’s an investment, after all. If I actually start getting wrinkles anywhere on my face, aiyoh, I know my job will be gone already. Also, whatever Albert asks me to do, I’ll always do it. No questions asked. I make sure that no matter what happens, he always knows that I have value.

Of course, it also helps that I am actually good at being his assistant. Guniang may not be smart enough to be a lawyer but I am very organized. And Albert always has so many appointments, so many people to think about, he knows that if he doesn’t have me around to help him keep track of everyone, his life will be one big problem.

“This week, you have a lot of things on, Albert,” I started to tell him.

“OK come come come, let’s talk inside,” he said, finally stopping the rubba-ing so he could quickly walk into his office and wave for me to follow. He’s very impatient, so whenever he moves I know I’d better fasterly move behind him. So I quickly grabbed my pen, notebook and his printed schedule and ran behind him.

“Close the door,” he said after sitting down in his black fake leather big boss chair and leaning back a bit to get comfortable.

Oh. It’s that kind of meeting.

I closed Albert’s heavy door and went over to the wide bookshelf by the sofa. It’s quite funny that Albert has such a big bookshelf with so many serious books because everyone who works with him knows that he hates to read. “That’s why I went into newspapers,” he always tells us at Front Page after he’s had a few. “The stories are all short!” In fact, since he took over as editor of the New Times ten years ago the stories in the paper have only gotten shorter and shorter. (Except for the sensational ones—anything involving politicians, rich men and sex, he’ll let reporters write as much as they can and he’ll put the stories all over the top of the front page.) But his strategy clearly works lah—circulation has only gone up and up since he was in charge. I can only imagine that his salary is also the same story.

I guess even though Albert doesn’t like books, he is the editor of the New Times after all, so his office must look respectable a bit. That’s why he has this gigantic bookshelf in his office with all the important books—Margaret Thatcher’s collected speeches, Quotations from Chairman Mao Zedong, and of course right in the middle, displayed facing outward, is Lee Kuan Yew’s The Singapore Story. One time, someone tried to give him that book that Hillary Clinton wrote about helping children or some shit but he just laughed and said to them, “Please. She’s a wife.” People should really know better lah: hallo, the editor of our country’s newspaper cannot look like he’s too open-minded. Display this kind of ladies’ book on his office shelf? He might as well start wearing panties.

I think I am the only one in this whole building who knows that of all these books he actually has only read one: How to Win at EVERYTHING, which he squeezes into one of the dark corners of the bookshelf. (Ever since the Hong Kong tycoon who wrote that book got jailed last year for embezzling, it’s now quite not fashion to read this book anymore.) But sometimes when I pop into his office to tidy up before going home, this is the one book that will be on his desk. I always know to quickly hide it away so no one sees it.

The most valuable thing in Albert’s tall bookshelf is actually the cupboard he has at the bottom. Once you slide the heavy wooden door open—there’s a full bar inside! Chivas, Grey Goose, Hendrick’s—and if you want Japanese whiskey, he’s got all the expensive kinds.

“Jazzy, it’s raining a bit so let’s try something mellow,” he said. “Maybe some Yamazaki—the twelve-year-old one, not the eighteen. Today’s not anything special.”

After I filled half a crystal glass with Yamazaki and brought it over to Albert, I moved the two chairs in front of his desk to one side and went to sit on the sofa. When I first started, it took a few weeks before I figured this out—if I’m wearing heels and a tight or short skirt, then he wants me to sit on the sofa, not the chair. The sofa is lower. Albert always likes a good view.

Even though my skirt that day was not that short, it was bunching up near my backside because his sofa was so low. I’m sure Albert could see my red panties! But aiyah, I didn’t care. I just leaned back and opened my legs just a very little bit—not so much that it’s slutty, mind you. Just enough for a sneak preview. Let the boss look lah. Job security is always good, right? Besides, no matter what, I know Albert will never try anything funny with me. After having to deal with all the scandals from people pok-ing each other in his newsroom over the years, he is the first one to tell everyone: “Please, don’t shit where you eat.”