‘People?’
‘They from the newspaper, also others, they got television camera. Miss Karlene, she big shot on the television, Simon. They all, they ask they can see you? How I tell them?’ I felt sure there were lots of switchboard operators in Singapore with perfect diction whom we could have hired, but Alice Ho had been with the Wings since the beginning and they trusted her implicitly. She wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone, and even Sidney and Johnny greeted her when they came in. While her loyalties clearly lay with the Wings, she wasn’t a bad old stick.
‘Alice, please tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes. Something urgent has come up. Thank them for their patience.’
‘I think Miss Karlene this urgent, Simon.’
‘Ten minutes, Alice.’
‘I tell,’ she replied with a sigh.
Even the implacable Alice Ho was thrown by a phalanx of reporters with cameras crowding into her reception area; the TV crew, in particular, would have freaked her out. Miss Karlene, a name that could have belonged to a Kings Cross transvestite stripper, was obviously well known. I admit I wasn’t much looking forward to facing the press, but my most urgent and immediate task was to get a note of apology to Mercy B. Lord. I sat down to write it, knowing I had little or no time to think it out. But first I called Connie Song at Corona Flowers in Orchard Road.
‘Connie, do you have a dozen yellow roses?’ Yellow, because Chairman Meow, despite disastrously sending the pink roses to Charles Brickman, the chairman of the agency in Australia, had always maintained that yellow roses indicate friendship.
‘No, Simon,’ she said, recognising my voice, ‘white, red or pink.’
White was for Chinese funerals, red meant romance, and pink wasn’t quite right under the circumstances, but would have to do. ‘The pink, then. Are they long-stemmed?’
‘Yes, fresh off the plane from Taiwan, first flight in this morning.’
‘I’ll have a dozen. Can you do them up nicely but not lovey-dovey, and I’ll send a messenger boy around to pick them up.’ ‘Lovey-dovey’ was Connie’s term for a wide pink silk shantung ribbon with a crimson silk heart, half the size of a female fist, attached. The flowers were nestled in white tissue and shiny chocolate-brown paper. All my previous floral entreaties had been sent with ribbon and heart attached, and while they never appeared on the boomeranged bunches in the foyer, I secretly wondered if Alice Ho had a reception desk drawer that held a collection of red hearts and a couple of hundred feet of pink silk shantung ribbon.
My dear Mercy B. Lord,
How can I possibly apologise? You will no doubt have seen this morning’s newspaper and be justifiably angry. You must believe me when I say I never harboured the slightest hope that I would win. If, as I suspect, I have hurt or upset you, then I most humbly beg your forgiveness. That was never and could never be my intention.
Simon
It wasn’t much of a note but I sealed it and yelled over the partition for Louis Fi, the young dispatch boy, whom I called Louie da Fly because he seemed always to be buzzing around, sticking his nose into other people’s business. It was the name of a character from a famous Australian animated TV commercial for a popular brand of insecticide.
Louie da Fly appeared seemingly out of nowhere, as flies are wont to do. ‘Yes, boss?’
I instructed him to pick up the roses and to deliver them along with the note to the Beatrice Fong Agency, urging him to hurry and handing him the money for a taxi, aware he would keep most of it and take a rickshaw instead.
Reluctantly, I went down to meet the press, who by this time filled the reception area and spilled outside, a veritable babble of reporters and photographers, as well as a television crew of a woman and two men. The TV guys, both tall and good-looking, were on camera and sound, and the woman – well put together, tall, blonde and athletic – was obviously the interviewer. She pushed her way forward, calling ‘Mr Koo!’, protected on either side by the TV cameraman with his heavy camera on his shoulder and the sound technician with boom and sound-sock, who was also wielding the camera tripod.
‘Yes, good morning, ma’am.’
‘Karlene Stein, Karlene’s People. Congratulations! Well done!’ Her voice was nicely modulated, with what was known as a mid-Atlantic accent – you couldn’t quite place it, but it was much favoured by Australian broadcasters who hadn’t yet come to terms with their own accent and generally thought the way we spoke was ill-suited to radio and television. The same went for TV commercials. The accent was phoney but everyone used it and nobody ever questioned it. That is, until an ad man named John Singleton used ‘fair dinkum’ voices in his commercials and the mid-Atlantic accent sank slowly beneath the waves and drowned.
‘Thank you, Miss Stein. Please call me Simon.’
Karlene Stein extended her hand, gripped mine firmly and said as she released it, ‘We’d like to do a five-minute interview for tonight’s show, Simon.’
‘Bit noisy,’ I grinned, indicating the reporters with a nod.
To Alice Ho’s and my astonishment, Karlene Stein stepped out of her court shoes and jumped up onto the reception desk. While the desk wasn’t that high, it was a pretty impressive feat. ‘Basketball,’ she said, laughing down at me. Then, smiling broadly, she held up her hand and addressed the other reporters, her accent now clearly Australian. ‘Righto, everyone, your attention, please!’ Her leap onto the desk had brought everyone to instant silence and now she stood, bare-foot, legs apart, totally in command, with Alice Ho’s round face framed between her tanned calf muscles. ‘Just give me ten minutes and we’re out of here. If you’ll now please wait outside very quietly, I’ll buy you all an ice-cream.’ This brought a roar of laughter, and the reporters and photographers good-humouredly trooped out of reception to wait outside. Karlene Stein was obviously a woman of character and one who, I imagined, usually got her way. ‘Please don’t let me down, Simon. I’ve now more or less promised they’ll all get time with you,’ she said, looking down at me.
I nodded. ‘Do I get an ice-cream, Miss?’ I noticed her toenails were painted bright pink.
‘Of course, vanilla and chocolate,’ she laughed. She wasn’t just a pretty face. Hopping off the desk to land lightly on her toes, she accepted the microphone from the sound man, and I noted that the camera and tripod were now set up and the cameraman was ready to go. This was an efficient outfit. Alice Ho beamed at me; Karlene Stein had obviously won her heart.
Suddenly all business, Karlene Stein explained that she would do the background in the studio that evening and then go to this interview. ‘Okay, I’ll start by congratulating you and we’ll take it from there.’
If I appeared to be enjoying this, I wasn’t. But what could I do under the circumstances? I suppose I could have played the temperamental artist and told them all to go to buggery, but I wasn’t the type to spit the dummy. It was Chairman Meow’s conditioning, I guess. I could hear her now: ‘Simon, everyone knows we’re filthy rich. They expect us to be rude, to flaunt our wealth, so always be very polite.’ Then she’d add, ‘Not everyone can be rich, but we are all capable of good manners.’ They were only doing their jobs and Sidney Wing had provided enough aggression in what, I was beginning to realise, was going to be a very long and tiring day.
Karlene lifted the microphone and began the interview. ‘Mr Koo, firstly, my congratulations. You are the first Singaporean to win this very prestigious prize.’ She smiled. ‘How does it feel?’ She pushed the handheld microphone close to my mouth.
‘Well, first of all, I’m Australian, and I guess I’m somewhat bemused.’
‘Cut!’ Karlene snapped. ‘No, no, Simon, that’s not what I want.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ I said.
She looked at me sternly. ‘This is Singapore television for Singaporeans. Someone in our community has just been greatly honoured and he promptly gives away all the glory to another country? No, we simply can’t have it.’
‘Well, you’re an Australian, aren’t you?’
<
br /> ‘Not on television! Here I’m Singapore’s Karlene Stein. Karlene’s People is local and loyal. The prime minister likes it that way and so do I. By the way, “bemused” is not a word I’d choose myself.’
‘Well, what do you want me to say?’ My first interview had got off to a bad start. Karlene Stein was no purring pussycat with an ego to stroke.
‘Just say how proud you are, the usual blah, blah. Now, shall we begin again?’ She nodded to the men on sound and camera. ‘Mr Koo, firstly, my congratulations! You are the first Singaporean to win this very prestigious art prize.’ She smiled. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Please call me Simon. How does it feel?’ I smiled and shook my head. ‘Very surprising. I haven’t won an art prize since primary school.’
Karlene nodded her approval. ‘And now the big one! The Hong Kong International Portraiture Prize is, I believe, the third biggest in the world. Only London and Venice are bigger.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know that.’
‘Now, let’s talk about your gorgeous model, the Thursday Girl.’ A Singapore girl, I take it – and, I must say, very beautiful.’
I grinned. ‘Yes, true on both counts: born and raised here, stunning looks and, may I add, also very intelligent.’
She laughed. ‘Just a typical local girl then.’ Karlene Stein certainly knew which side her bread was buttered. I could almost hear the canned laughter.
‘Yes, truly lovely.’
‘And her name?’
The question was reasonable enough but nonetheless came as a surprise. I was conscious of wanting to protect Mercy B. Lord and now I was faced with a direct question that would expose her. I hesitated then said, ‘This has all been very sudden and I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to her. She may not wish to reveal her name.’ I looked appealingly at Karlene. ‘Would you mind if I left it for her to decide?’
‘Ah, a real gentleman, of course not.’ She smiled a TV smile. ‘We’ll just call her the Thursday Girl, shall we?’ I sensed that Karlene wasn’t happy and her next question sounded a tad sharp. ‘Why have you named your portrait “Thursday Girl”? Is she a real person?’
‘I beg you pardon?’
‘Well, perhaps she is a composite of several women …’
Keep your cool, Simon. ‘Ah, I can’t think why anyone would do that. I’m an artist, I love women, but I love them just the way God made them: fat, thin, old, young, however they come. The way Thursday Girl came was how I painted her.’ I spread my hands and shrugged. ‘Simple. As for the name, again, simple enough, I first met her on a Thursday.’
‘And just how did you two meet?’
If I was supposed to be a local Singaporean, I couldn’t very well explain that she’d been my guide for my first two weeks here. ‘Ah, we met through business,’ I said. It was the best I could do.
‘And it started from there?’ Her question was obviously loaded, her eyebrow just slightly raised.
‘Started? I asked her if I could paint her portrait, yes. We agreed to three sittings.’ I paused. ‘It was very kind of her to indulge me, to give me that much of her time.’
‘And that is all there is to it?’ Bang, the loaded pistol fired. ‘You know, artist and model?’ She smiled knowingly.
‘I wish!’ I exclaimed, pretending to laugh. ‘Look at me! I’m not exactly God’s gift to women and my subject is a particularly beautiful one. It was privilege enough just to be allowed to paint her.’
‘Nicely put, and thank you, Simon Koo. Well, I do hope we all get to meet the mystery Thursday Girl on this program soon.’ She laughed again. ‘That would be a real Koo!’ Canned laughter would follow that pun as sure as God made little apples. Karlene Stein was a true professional and it wasn’t any surprise that Karlene’s People ran in a prime-time slot: the half-hour leading up to the evening news. While there was only one camera and it was positioned on me throughout, I knew that they’d do close-up takes afterwards of her asking the same questions or showing her reactions to my answers. Karlene struck me as someone who liked the camera, and the camera, I imagined, would like her.
It took another hour to get the other interviews done and I was emotionally pretty whacked by the time they were all over. Alice handed me at least a dozen messages from calls that had come in asking me to make contact. ‘Very happy day for me, Simon. I meet Miss Karlene!’ she exclaimed.
I detoured to Dansford’s office on the way back to my own, which, since the demise of my relationship with Mercy B. Lord, had been rechristened ‘The Coffee Percolator’ due to the number of cups of black coffee I’d taken to drinking.
Dansford leaned back in his chair as I entered. ‘Well, what can I say? Do I congratulate you or what?’
‘Don’t,’ I sighed, taking a seat.
‘Awkward. Does she know? Of course she would. Has anyone contacted you?’
‘Sidney read me the riot act and threw me out of his office.’
‘Oh dear, that wasn’t very smart of him.’
‘Yeah, he practically imploded, banged his first on the table, both fists – “She’s mine, you hear? She’s my property!” he screamed at me.’
‘Well, that certainly lets the cat out of the bag. Not very Chinese, eh? He must have been pretty mad.’
‘Mad as a cut snake! What shall I do? Should I resign?’
‘Hardly seems worth it, with so little time to go on your contract. What you did was careless, but that’s strictly between you and her. Now that he’s cooled down, he’ll be furious with himself for handing you the advantage.’
‘Advantage? Believe you me, I know I’ve been a complete idiot. It never occurred to me I could possibly win the bloody competition. Never entered my mind! It was just … you know, a deadline to work to … the Hong Kong thing, take my mind off … you know. Then, having to repaint the panels for the convention, I was pushing shit uphill with a broken stick and hardly had time to think.’
Dansford grinned. ‘Very colourful metaphor. How’d you go with the press? In particular, Singapore’s own Karlene Stein? She’s no lightweight.’
‘Okay, I think. At least I managed to keep Mercy B. Lord’s name out of it.’
‘She’ll have it by tonight, Simon.’
‘Yeah, but not from me.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Do? What, threaten them? They’re our only TV station. As it is we have to beg for time.’
‘You’re right,’ Dansford said, not explaining further.
I rose, sighed heavily and said, ‘Well, I guess I’m just going to have to cop it sweet. My own fault entirely … Shit! Shit! Shit!’ I was feeling decidedly sorry for myself again.
Dansford gave me a sympathetic smile. ‘If it helps, know that I’m on your side, Simon. It might help to keep me in the loop. A friend in need and all that.’
‘Thanks, mate, I appreciate it.’
It was almost midday when I got back to my office. I went through my phone messages: one from Mrs Sidebottom, the remainder from Hong Kong newspapers and magazines asking me to call urgently, and one from Chairman Meow, also from Hong Kong. I concluded that as she was due here in two days she’d stopped off for a bit of shopping, something she occasionally did. The last message was from Molly Ong, the ex-Miss Singapore and my client at the Tourist Promotion Board. I dialled the number and she answered herself.
‘Hi, Molly. Simon returning your call. Sorry it took so long. It’s been one of those days.’
‘Simon, wonderful news! Congratulations. We’re all terribly chuffed. How do you feel?’
I tried to sound normal. ‘Weird. Not at all what I expected. It came as a shock, really.’
‘A nice one, I hope.’
I laughed. ‘I’m not sure. The place has been crawling with reporters all morning.’
‘Oh, dear, I know what you mean. After I won the you-know-what, I grew very weary of smiling, looking suitably modest and answering the same questions over and over again for months. That’s the hardest part, making it se
em as if you’re hearing the question for the first time!’ She laughed. ‘I was actually quite pleased when I missed out on Miss Universe. Everyone here was happy that I’d entered, and it finally stopped the questions.’ She paused then said, ‘Simon, Long Me and I have been talking. I mean, this morning, on the phone. He’s staying with Long Long Saw in Hong Kong and he saw this morning’s South China Morning Post. We have an idea. A good one, I think.’
‘What, for the Tourist Board?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Okay,’ I said, hesitantly.
‘It fits in perfectly with our slogan, “The Magic of People”, but gives it a different slant. Not just waiters, bus boys, cheerful taxi drivers, boat people, rickshaw drivers, cooks, kids, friendly people but also glamour. Your winning picture being the inspiration.’
‘Oh? How’s that?’
‘Well, what if every year the Tourist Promotion Board picks someone we name the Singapore Girl, a young Singaporean who is not only beautiful but also has brains, someone with enormous presence. Her job would be to travel all over the world, running seminars and acting as an ambassador representing Singapore tourism.’
My heart was beating faster almost from the first sentence. It was a great idea but I knew what was coming.
‘We’d launch with your portrait of Mercy B. Lord, and she’d be our first Singapore Girl. The job would carry a good salary and afterwards, if she chooses, a career in tourism, maybe even a scholarship to study tourism at an American university. At the end of the year we’d have you, or some famous portrait painter, paint her picture. Even more publicity.’ She paused, clearly excited. ‘What do you think?’
It was only just past noon and now the day I’d been desperately attempting to hold together was finally blown to smithereens. Just then, Louie da Fly tapped on the glass, holding up an envelope. I nodded for him to come in and accepted it silently, then took a deep breath before answering Molly Ong.
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