“My mother said if I don’t at least show I’m serious about it and break up with you—for now—she’s going to take away my car. And cut my allowance. Do you know how hard that would be? I would have to take a bus to school! I won’t even have enough money to take a taxi to school! Do you understand?”
At that point, I finally did. I guess I had thought Gavin was different.
I folded my napkin, put it on the table and picked up my handbag.
“Jazz, please, don’t go. Don’t be so petty. I know you love me. Think about my future. Please?”
I just got up and walked away.
Gavin shouted behind me, “It’s just temporary!”
But of course it wasn’t.
And ever since then, even though now and then of course there will be some rich Singaporean guys who want to chase me, I never say yes. Date these spineless babies who at the end of the day will always kowtow to their snobby mums? No thank you. Please—waste time only.
Even though I hated Gavin, he still popped into my head now and then. Last I heard, he was in the States—California or some shit—studying business after he finished with his army training. Not married yet, but I can confirm I’ll never hear from him again. His mother would probably vomit blood and die if she ever heard the name “Jazeline” ever again, I’m sure. And boys like Gavin will always keep that in mind once they get close to marrying age.
Even so, kani nah—eight years later and I still think about him whenever I see a Gucci handbag. Damn pathetic, right?
I guess, since he was the first person who gave me branded gifts, I can’t help but think of him whenever I go to Paragon. There’s Bottega lah, Chanel lah, Gucci lah; the air-con is cold cold and all, the toilets so nice they have a sofa, pink carpet and must pay twenty cents to even enter type. All these things somehow make me think of Gavin. I guess I imagined that one day I would be able to come to Paragon and actually buy something for myself, not just look-see look-see.
Even though this mall makes me think of him and that cock time before Jazzy here smartened up, I still come. Just seeing all the logo handbags and big fashion show catwalk posters, the expensive lipsticks and thousand-dollar high heels—even if it’s through the window—can always cheer me up. And this evening I really needed cheering up.
“Jazzy?” I heard someone say. “Is that you?”
I didn’t recognize the voice but when I turned to look, I recognized the face—Sharon! God, I hadn’t seen her since secondary school. Her face was a bit fatter—and so were her hips. Must have had a kid already. But she still looked the same otherwise.
“Sharon! Eh, woman, you still look damn happening!” I said, giving her a hug.
“Talk rubbish!” she said. “You are the happening one—look at you!” (We both knew she was the only one not talking rubbish.)
We caught up a bit—she was always damn smart so she went to Raffles JC and then National University of Singapore after our secondary school days, even studied law and all. But then she fell in love with some ang moh barrister and had a kid right away, so she quit her job at Allen & Gledhill to be at home. I was a bit shy about telling her what I do exactly so I just said, “Oh, I work at the New Times.”
“Oh wow!” she said. “Everybody subscribes to the New Times! Good for you, Jazzy.”
I always liked Sharon, even though we didn’t keep in touch after she went to Raffles—no point lah. Why on earth would she want to mix with some Changi Junior College friend when she has her clever Raffles classmates to talk to? But bumping into her made me a bit nostalgic for our old school days. So I suggested that we go across the street and grab dinner to catch up more.
“You know that old beef ball noodles at Scotts Picnic that we used to go to after school?” I said. “It’s over at Ion now! Still damn shiok.”
I was never that close to Sharon—even in secondary school, Sher was my best friend—but she and I did always take the same bus home. So sometimes if we didn’t have lunch waiting for us at home, we would stop at Scotts for noodles. Sharon always tried to encourage me to study harder, aim higher and all that crap. I was thankful for that, yes, but I also knew that at the end of the day, my brain and her brain is not same same lah. She’s the type to be a future CEO, lawyer or maybe even minister of parliament! Me? I’d be lucky if she thought I had enough brains to be her future assistant. Beef ball noodles, though—that’s what we always had in common.
Sharon laughed and said, “I can’t believe that place is still around!”
When we got to the air-conditioned food court at Ion, the line for the stall was as long. And it turned out the noodles were as shiok as they used to be. And it was quite fun to chitchat and tell her about all the things that had happened recently—not last night, of course. But I filled her in on Sher getting married, Imo working at her power fashion job and Fann . . . I didn’t have much to say about Fann lah, but she understood.
“Eh, how’s the life of a married lady with a Chanel baby?” I asked. She had just taken out her phone and shown me many screens of her and her husband Alistair holidaying here and there—Greece lah, Paris lah. Even New York! And also photos of her daughter, who looked more British than Chinese. Aiyoh, when you have one of those types of Chanel babies—the really obvious ang moh ones—this one is really win.
“I guess I can’t complain . . .” Sharon said. And then she didn’t say anything more for a while.
After her noodles were gone, she took out a packet of tissue from her Givenchy tote—from this season some more! I just saw one in a window at Paragon.
Sharon took a tissue out, daintily dabbed the sides of her mouth—and started crying!
Guniang here was so stunned I didn’t know what to do.
“Oh Jazzy, I’m so sorry—I’m never like this,” Sharon said. (Usually when people say something like that, it’s when they start to slow down or stop crying. But she really had no shame—she was still crying!) I reached over and patted her shoulder.
“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I said. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Sharon kept crying for a few minutes—softly, thank god. But it was still so obvious that people around us were beginning to look over at us. A small boy even walked by our table very slowly so he could see what was going on. (I just told him, “Stare what stare? Got problem is it?” Fucker ran away.)
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she said when she finally stopped. “It’s just . . . I think my husband is having an affair.”
I looked at her again from head to toe—hair a bit messy, fat face, chubby hips, baggy dress, auntie-style Ferragamo flats and from the look of her skin I don’t think she’d had a facial in at least six months. OK lah, I can see it. Which ang moh wants to come home to this shit?
“No! I’m sure he’s not!” I said. “You are so happening!”
Even if these were all lies, at least I made her smile.
“You’re sweet, Jazzy,” Sharon said. “But I’m pretty certain. He’s started going out on weekends until the wee hours of the morning, coming home pissed—so pissed I sometimes have to wake up and help him up the steps to our bedroom. And he smells of perfume sometimes, even when he says he’s just been working late at the office or entertaining clients. I know the women he works with—they don’t wear perfume!”
I was trying to figure out how to tell her what I think she needs to know, but she kept going.
“And he was never like that, Jazzy! He’s never been that type of guy! But these few months—oh, I just don’t know what to do . . .” Sharon said, starting to cry again.
“Well . . .” I said. “Have you . . . have you thought about going shopping?”
“I beg your pardon?” Sharon said, putting her tissue down. She was still breathing damn hard but had stopped crying.
“Shopping—you
know, to get a makeover,” I said. “You’re still very pretty, you know—but maybe you just need a bit of a touch-up? Sharon—maybe it’s not my place to say this, but guys . . . guys, even after they are married, still care about looks. How their wives dress, whether they still wear lipstick and eye shadow, dye their hair, go for facials—you know, all the things you used to do before you got married. I mean, I know you recently had your daughter, but, I don’t know—maybe if you tried a bit?”
Sharon stopped her heavy breathing.
She was really looking at me now so I guess she was listening. So I decided to carry on. “You’ve probably put on a bit of weight since the baby so maybe that’s a factor also?” I said. “It’s unfair lah—but guys are just like that. Want to keep their attention then maybe you need to just look nicer a bit, maybe suggest romantic holiday to Bali or something to try and win him back or . . .”
“You’re right, Jazzy,” she said. Her voice got a bit sharp. (My mother and her wet market lectures suddenly popped into my head.) “You’re right that it’s not your place to say any of this. Please—look at who you are and who I am. Are you married? No. When was the last time you had a boyfriend who wasn’t a smelly Ah Beng? I don’t even know. And let’s not even get into success, smarts and all that jazz. Who are you to assume you can give me such shallow, self-loathing, misogynistic, pitiful advice like that?”
Wah. Some of those words I don’t even understand. But from the way she was staring at me, I knew they must mean damn bitchy things. When she paused, I thought Sharon was finished but she kept going on.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Wah—finally, I thought. She’s going to apologize for being a bloody chee bye to me. All I was doing was trying to help her!
“I guess I shouldn’t have said anything at all—I’m sorry I did,” she said. Then she just picked up her handbag and left.
Kani nah. I was so shocked I had to sit there for a while. When I got up to walk over to the bus stop, it suddenly occurred to me another piece of advice I should have given Sharon.
“Givenchy? Please. It’s been yonks since even anyone’s mother wanted to carry that brand.”
World War III had started by the time I got home.
All I did was not look at my phone between the MRT station and my bedroom and that was enough time for Fann and Imo to send seventy text messages. My god. What do they think? Texting is like air is it—free? (OK, actually it is free—I think—but you get the point.)
At first I was fucking annoyed. But after I read all the texts, I realized the situation was quite bad. Most of them went something like this: “I CAN’T BELIEVE Fann is such a fucking CHEE BYE!!!!” and so on. And some came from Fann too, trying to explain but then also calling Imo a fucking baby, etc. Apparently Louis kissed Fann goodnight or some fuck, when he dropped her off on Saturday night. And Imo finally heard about it because Fann was feeling bad about it and decided to tell her. All Imo’s texts were about how Fann should have slapped him or something. Although, from what I sort of remembered of last night, I think Fann was quite gone. Imo was too—which is why she should be understanding a bit! It’s not like Louis is hers, after all. The fucker can kiss whoever he wants. If Mary doesn’t care, why should she? Waste time only.
“GIRLS,” I texted. “Just shut the fuck up. Both of you are in the wrong. Both of you apologize. Louis is just Louis. Don’t forget our goal.”
My god, this day was never-ending. I was damn tired. Even though it was early, I needed to turn on the air-con and lie down a bit. Even though I was tired, I knew there was no danger of falling asleep. My bed since secondary school days was damn uncomfortable—lumpy lumpy one. Plus, it’s so small—my parents, I think, didn’t want to buy me a full or queen bed because they think I’ll bring guys home or some shit. (It’s true lah—I only did it once or twice and my god, it was really uncomfortable. My bed was so narrow—our hands and knees where to put, we also don’t know. Might as well be doing it in public toilet.)
Actually, I don’t know why my parents refuse to change my room. All the cupboards, shelves and desk and chair have all been around from not just secondary school, you know—some date back to primary school! I mean, they’re still in good condition, so I actually can understand a bit when they tell me no need to change, buy new furniture—waste money only. But hello, the desk even still has some of the Little Twin Stars stickers I stuck on it in primary school, man. People here are twenty-six years old already, you know—how can I still have cartoon stickers on my bedroom furniture? Apart from that, I admit that the rest of the shit in the room is my own fault. My photos from primary school, my sparkly gold piggy bank with the fat lipstick mouth, that hundred-meters medal I got on Primary 4 Sports Day. And even until recently I still had that poster of Christian Slater from Gleaming the Cube up on the wall. But that movie is damn power! Some more he was so cute in it! Cuter than now when he has that balding spot on one side all—aiyoh! Guniang had to go all over Far East Plaza to all those cheapo poster shops to find one you know. So of course I didn’t want to take down. (Until recently when the Scotch tape was so yellow and old that the poster just fell off. Then, OK lah, I thought, this is a sign.)
There’s one thing my mum always nags me to throw away—this big thing of dried flowers that yes, I know, is not fresh anymore. But it’s also quite crumbling and crackly, so much so that each time you try to pick up and move it, confirm will have petals falling off in pieces. But I think it still looks quite nice. Back when I first got them I made sure to preserve them carefully after just a few days, hanging them upside down to dry in the original plastic wrapping so the overall look is still quite can. (Even got red ribbon around it and all!) But every time my mum comes in to clean my room and I’m around, she confirm will shout “Aiyoh, AH HUAY! These ants are all coming into your room because of these flowers! Die so long ago already still want to keep . . .”
It’s not like they’re really pretty, I know. But this guy gave them to me a long time ago. At the time I was still only going out with Chinese-Singaporean guys—and maybe sometimes local Indian guys. Indian guys, after all, are quite like ang mohs in some ways—more gentlemanly. Not spoilt big babies like all these Chinese guys who, no matter how old they are, their mothers still pick out all the meat from crab shells for them at the dinner table. But with Indian guys, you must try to find the ones that have a China doll fetish—those will actually bother to take you out to nice dinner, treat you like a princess. It’s quite sad lah—those kinds are the ones who I think look down a bit on Indian girls and don’t want to date them. I also don’t know why because Indian girls, come to think of it, actually seem quite nice. One time I made friends with this one girl Sheela from the office—it’s not like we were close enough to say, go clubbing, but we were actually friendly enough to grab lunch together a few times. Once we even went for after-work drinks together, just the two of us. But even so, there are some Indian guys out there who, no matter what, just don’t want to date their own kind of girls, even nice guniangs like Sheela. Such a waste, you know. I think maybe they think Chinese girls are more high-class. Singapore sometimes is just like that one.
But then one day this guy from the States came to help my boss with some project. At that time I had just started working for Albert at the New Times. I was still quite new—and happening! Because I was the very young chio new girl in the office, my god, all these people kept asking me out. Even so, I wasn’t interested. What for? Guniang here just started work, OK—must at least try and act professional a bit.
Until this guy Nathan showed up in the office—wah, tall tall, white white, cute cute one. His smile was so big and friendly. He told me he came from some place called Savannah so that’s why when he talked he sounded a bit different from those people on Friends. I also don’t know where this Savannah is lah but hey, he’s ang moh—like that is can already. P
lus, he was very sweet—when taking me to see a movie, he’d always buy tickets in advance. When he took me out to drink coffee, it was always at nice air-con cafe and all. Not some sweaty kopitiam! No Ah Cheks sitting around scratching their balls and chain-smoking! So, yah lah. Is can.
But in the end, Nathan was only here for one month—to help my boss redesign the newspaper front page or some shit. And when he left, he left. I guess we could email and keep in touch lah, but in the end, for what fuck? Not say the States is very near, you know. Also, not say I know where this Savannah is. So, that was that.
Before he left, he took me out for one last nice dinner, showing up at my doorstep with that bouquet of flowers in hand. (Even my mum was damn stunned. Until cannot even open her mouth to say hello kind of stunned.) After he left, guniang actually cried. Not in front of him, of course. No matter what, I always know that in front of ang moh guys must act high-class a bit. Well, life is just like that. And my mum knows that if she dares to touch those flowers I’ll heck care respect and hantam her one time.
Which is why this Imo-Fann-Louis thing really made me angry. Waste time on Louis for what? Guys like that will only give you flowers once in a long time and only then if they have something to say sorry about. All that sweet crap is only for their wives. If you expect anything else, you are just a fucking goondu. No point.
No—we guniangs must focus!
chapter 10
Guniang here had already deleted Roy’s mobile number when the fucker texted me.
“U out tonight?”
Since I’d deleted his number, I of course had absolutely no idea who this was. (Plus, I’d actually gotten the first text on the KTV lounge night, so my mind was quite occupied.) When I saw the message the next morning, I had to think hard about who it might be. Maybe it was some lech anyhow texting, just shooting out random arrows to see whether some chio girl would respond? In any case, I didn’t answer, of course. Then I got another text. “Late night out last night? :)” My god—this was now getting too personal. So I ignored this too. Babi, if it happened one more time, I was going to call SingTel to block this number and see whether I could get the fucker’s number canceled or some shit.
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