The Cult of Following, Book Two

by Barbara Jaques

  *

  Another person aside from Joyann had waved for Norm to join her, and been acutely disappointed when he’d chosen to sit beside Percy. The disappointment was two-fold; firstly she would have liked Norm with her, and secondly, had she spotted the free space next to Percy herself, she might have plucked up the courage and used it.

  Trudy was British and middle-aged, holding the status of Permanent Resident. An utterly bored housewife, she hadn’t realised quite how bored she’d become until joining The Discussion Group. Her initial visit was because her forceful friend and mentor, Hester, had insisted she go, though somewhere along the way Hester’s memory of this event had altered somewhat. Hester, Trudy noticed, did occasionally forget what she had said.

  Hester was a friend-of-a-friend of Joyann Tan’s, a friend-of-a-friend who, after attending a meeting once, never went again. But unlike her, and very much like Hester, Trudy found something positive there; something different from what life had been offering of late.

  The idea of new friendship provided Trudy with an appealing challenge, inviting her embrace at a time when such things had come to represent a negative. Apart from Hester, who like Trudy was a long-term expat, the people she formed relationships with necessarily moved on. It was this inevitably that overtime increasingly weighed upon her, the seemingly endless cycle of loss. There had been two or three friends who were half Singaporean, increasing the chance they would stay, and they did, but those relationships were of the variety never likely to move beyond the school gates. With little in common, contact faded, and the only route Trudy had ever come across, offering entry to the world of the truly local and therefore permanent, closed. The fact was, Trudy would have been more likely to retain friends from across the world, had she herself also moved on. This would have provided some commonality. She occasionally mourned the perceived rejection, and looked with envy upon those who had left, certain they were still in touch with each other; lost companions appearing as threads forming some far-flung social tapestry. But to leave Singapore was something Trudy feared.

  The Discussion Group had taken her neat chin in its collective, warm grip, and made her turn to face a different truth; that loss and rejection are rarely equivalents, and length of term is not the only measure of friendship. She began to find perspective and make sense of what had been, looking back over the scarring years gone by with fresh and healing eyes.

  Sitting in her little foldout chair next to Hester, half listening to someone she didn’t know very well talk about a place where they had contracted malaria but until then experienced the most amazing holiday, Trudy thought about her own travels. Where had she been, in those earlier times living in South East Asia? China. Hong Kong. Cambodia. Laos. Vietnam. Thailand. Brunei. Nepal. Australia. Japan. New Zealand. Where else? Ah yes. She had even been to Bhutan. But something had changed. The last fifteen times time she had flown anywhere it was to Lombok, Indonesia, to lounge around the pool of a villa she and her husband had bought.

  Once upon a time she was a doer, Trudy reflected, as the voice continued with tales of fever and delirium. She was a woman whose feet barely touched the ground, even within the confines of Singapore. Years before, when first there, fascinating cultural tours and endless school functions filled the long hours at her disposal. In many ways, it was a whirlwind of fun and interest, equal to that stirred through her travels. But even then the warning signs regarding relationships were there. She’d met people who declined to be her friend; strangely selfish expats espousing the notion that developing a relationship with someone who might not stay was pointless. One woman, met at a party, asked openly how long Trudy planned to remain in Singapore. Then, Trudy thought only two years, and said so. The woman replied by saying she wasn’t interested in talking if that was the case. At the time, it was offensive. Overtime, Trudy’s view of this form of rejection softened. The woman wasn’t the only filter-feeder she’d met, but Trudy had learned to live with it.

  After a while, school activities dropped away and life gradually filled with tennis and lunches, massages and pedicures. This meant friends, of course, but since treats feel special only when taken occasionally, life grew dull despite the company. Before long, the company left anyway. So came the job marketing a line of handbags imported from Vietnam by a friend. Trudy made a few trips there herself; helped open a boutique in a shopping mall favoured by expats, on Orchard Road; drank too much Champagne too often, and gave more and more of her time to pursuing success on behalf of her friend. And Trudy was good, really good, but one day she realised the job had all but killed spontaneity, a freedom once taken for granted and missed as if it were hers by right. With the position abandoned, the increasingly tenuous friendship went next; one of the few that at first seemed it might last.

  ‘Trudy?’

  Trudy’s attention was pulled back to The Discussion Group meeting. Hester, whose round body was filling the fold out chair next to her, was speaking.

  ‘Trudy! I said, you’ve been to Borneo haven’t you?’

  ‘Uh, no. Nearly, but not. Why?’

  ‘We were just talking about malaria.’

  Trudy smiled but chose not to expand the conversation. She’d developed a minor infection after one of her breast augmentations and couldn’t go. This was not a holiday story she was inclined to share.

  Hester patted her arm, as if sympathetic to whatever it was she wasn’t disclosing. ‘We went to Sabah once, a very long time ago, to the orang-utan reserve. Beautiful creatures,’ she said.

  Trudy listened as Hester did what she did best, demanding the attention of others with her fabulous tales. She began recounting the story of a large stinging insect that had flown into her ear and stung in defence as Hester tried to flick it away. The animal’s body was so fragmented it was impossible to tell what it was, she said. The terrible pain lasted for the rest of the day, but eased considerably once she’d returned to her hotel, because who should also be staying there but Sir David Attenborough himself. Hester said he was delightful, and very interested in her ear problem. He had eased it with a secret treatment whose ingredients she’d sworn never to reveal.

  Trudy felt that Hester had so many lovely stories it made up for the lack of her own, because despite being widely travelled she could never think of anything to say. She could make small talk, but only the sort that anyone could learn to make.

  Her gaze wandered from her own group to another. Meera, a young and attractive Indian-Singaporean, was talking and laughing with a man Trudy knew to be called Phrike. It was an odd name, and she didn’t know anything about the name or where the man himself was from. He and Meera often sat together, and rumours abounded regarding what this meant. The sight of Meera sometimes brought on a strange feeling inside Trudy’s chest, as if a tiny person were playing tug-o-war with her confidence, dragging at it mercilessly. Today was no different. It was envy. Whenever she looked at Meera’s full mouth, Trudy saw it was as natural as the day she was born. Meera’s eyes were the shape nature intended; her sculpted jaw line defied gravity; and her breasts were her own. Plainly, this youthful woman had never set foot inside the offices of a plastic surgeon. Of course, she was younger than Trudy by a good decade or more, and still very silly in some ways. But she retained her beauty without effort while Trudy felt her own would escape if she became distracted from it for a single moment.

  4. POOLSIDE

  ‘Hello Uncle Percy.’

  Reluctantly opening his eyes, Percy came face to face with a guinea pig; a bald genetic mutation owned by his boy neighbour. He closed them again.

  ‘Wake up Uncle Percy.’

  Percy could hear that the boy was talking through tight lips, in an effort to project his voice into the animal he was cradling.

  ‘Wake up, Uncle Percy. Your house is on fire.’

  Percy shot upright, the words, what the fuck, falling from his mouth before he had time to think.

  ‘Language, Uncle Percy.’

  Percy stared at the bo
y and his pet, ‘Are you serious?’ he quickly began gathering his towel and phone, plus a novel Joyann had recommended that was proving not just dull, but senseless.

  ‘Yes, swearing is bad, Uncle Percy.’

  ‘Not that, you moron, the house!’ Percy yelled, as he hurried away.

  ‘What about the house, Uncle Percy?’

  Percy couldn’t be bothered to look back, instead shouting over his shoulder, ‘On fire!’

  ‘That was a joke, Uncle Percy,’ the boy squeaked.

  Percy stopped dead, and turned. His neighbour was lying on the newly vacated lounger, the guinea pig, Kojak, resting on the boy’s flat young tummy.

  The boy grinned. ‘Never trust a guinea pig.’

  If the boy was alone, without Kojak, Percy would have picked him up and thrown him into the pool. This, he’d worked out, was often all the child wanted, and was a good way to get rid of him and his incessant chatter. Uncle Percy what do you like best, turtles or polar bears; Uncle Percy, in a fight who would win if they were the same size, an ant or superman; Uncle Percy, if you were a tiger would you eat brown bread if it was all there was?

  But the boy wasn’t alone, and though Percy was no fan of pets, either large or small, he wasn’t the sort to inflict distress. He opted for a different approach.

  He returned his belongings to the small table beside the lounger, before diving into the water. Then, inspired by the boy’s own regular behaviour, he climbed out and perched on the lounger next to the lad. He felt the boy shift a little, away from Percy’s wet bum. Percy stroked Kojak’s bare skin, wet arms dripping onto the boy’s dry body. He then shook his head vigorously, like a dog shaking to dry its fur. Cool droplets flew everywhere. Next, Percy feigned a yawn and stretched, reaching up and across until his hand was in line with the boy’s face, before releasing the used sticking plaster he had the good fortune to find at the bottom of the pool. It landed in the boy’s mouth.

  The boy spluttered and leapt up, half laughing, half disgusted, a now damp Kojak clamped between his hands.

  Quickly, Percy snatched the piggy from him and put it on the table. Then he grabbed the boy and threw him into the pool. Within seconds, Percy was back in his previous position, stretched out on the lounger.

  Looking as if nothing had happened and without remark, the boy clambered from the pool, picked up his pet, and wandered off. One of the few things Percy admired about this boy was the grace with which he accepted defeat. He was a tough one.

  Percy thought back to the day he’d been able to pass on to him the most inappropriate gift he, Percy, had ever received; the day the allergic boy acquired a hair free pet. A delusional Norm had decided it would somehow make a decent replacement for Percy’s wife. Norm could not have known what lay ahead when he made this lunatic decision, yet somehow the natural course of events that followed meant a bereaved boy was able to feel some quiet comfort after the loss of his mother. He’d carried the animal around ever since.

  A frown formed as Percy closed his eyes. If only the boy would stop calling him Uncle Percy. It was an impossible situation because there was no way Percy could prevent the words coming from the boy’s mouth. Perhaps he would threaten to barbecue Kojak. Perhaps not.

  Percy began to relax once more. Even by Singapore standards, the day was exceptionally hot and humid, so the quick dip into the pool had been a welcome one. He contemplated picking up the novel, since he’d accidentally implied to Joyann that he’d already finished it, but Percy decided his wet fingers would only warp the pages. Though he was not a great reader, he didn’t like it when pages became too thick for a cover to shut. More importantly, the novel so far made for a terrible read. It was set in Singapore and allegedly written by an expat, as if this were enough to qualify it for a solid Singapore readership. Somehow or another, it had found a way onto the shelves of Kinokuniya, the huge Japanese bookstore on Orchard Road. Maybe it would get better. Maybe it would suddenly transform into a fast-paced tale with an invincible male hero? Whatever lay ahead in the bafflingly boring tale, Percy assumed that it wasn’t going to suddenly become politically edgy, for books of that nature – if they ever made it into the Singaporean literary arena – generally had a shelf life of a single day, before mysteriously disappearing. Shame it wasn’t political, he then reflected.

  This was the strange thing Percy had noticed about the country in which he now lived. It was free yet not free, and the not free part didn’t seem to bother many people. He considered his homeland, England, with its rolling pastures and pretty villages, winding roads lined with sandwich packets chucked from car windows; shredded plastic bags waving gently in leafy branches, shit covered loo paper decorating lay-bys. Now that was freedom.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Percy opened his eyes. The voice belonged to a woman of around forty years of age, wearing a tiny black bikini over what Percy could only observe was a marvellously toned body.

  ‘Hi, Sorry to bother you. You don’t know me, but I just saw what you did to that boy. I’m sorry if I seem like I am making a fuss…’

  Percy put up a hand to stop her from speaking. Clearly, this was not going to be a speech congratulating him on his throwing prowess.

  She tried again, but Percy’s hand held the silence.

  Observing her shoulders slump a little, and so feeling the job was done, he lowered the hand to his side. He closed his eyes once more, shutting out the beauty.

  ‘I mean…’

  Instantly, Percy resurrected his signal, and briefly, the woman paused, before continuing regardless, ‘Look,’ she said, levelly, ‘I am sorry if this is not what you want to hear, but you…’

  Percy raised his hand higher but this time she persisted. He sighed and let her words run their course. Eyes still shut, he tuned in his ears; was she Australian or Kiwi? His experience of both wasn’t great enough for him to immediately determine the difference. However, she had apologised several times even though she was on the attack, a trait commonly found in Brits and Kiwis, but not, Percy deemed, the average Australian. New Zealanders were to Australians as Canadians were to Americans.

  ‘I am telling you that what you did was dangerous. The boy was clearly not expecting it, and he nearly landed on my friend’s kid. The impact popped one of his inflatable fush, for Christ’s sake.’

  Ah, thought Percy. There it was. Fush not fish. Definitely Kiwi. He opened his eyes, ‘Uz theera problum?’ His accent had morphed into hers. He wasn’t sure why.

  She shook her head, ‘Taking the piss, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He had meant to say no, but her body distracted him. He sat up and swung his legs round so he could sit and face her, because lying down was making him feel unusually vulnerable. Again he noticed how attractive her body was. Then he noticed her face was nice too.

  ‘I know you,’ she said, shaking her head a little.

  ‘Do you?’

  The woman turned to her friend, sitting on the far side of the pool, helping a toddler walk up and down the steps of the shallow end. If that was the kid whose fush he’d popped, thought Percy, then it was well deserved, wearing a hat like a bee with outstretched wings and armbands shaped like snakes. What the hell was wrong with the kid? It was appalling. And it can’t have mattered too much, since there was not the least sorry sniffle to be heard.

  ‘Hey, Amanda, it’s that wanker from your group thing. You know, the one you took me to, in the Botanical Gardens.’

  Botanic, Percy thought.

  ‘You mean The Discussion Group? Is it?’ The friend, Amanda, peered across at Percy, who allowed himself to be inspected. ‘Oh yeah. Hi Percy.’ Percy nodded. ‘He’s alright,’ she added.

  The woman standing beside Percy shook her head a little, face serious, ‘Be careful in future.’ Indicating the book on the table, she said, ‘Good book that.’

  Percy said nothing, but watched with pleasure as she slid into the water and swam towards her friend.

  He settled again, once more stretched out on th
e lounger, fully shaded by the large parasol assigned to each one. He was not feeling particularly ruffled by the encounter but nor was he feeling as relaxed as he had been. Why couldn’t he be left in peace? First the boy and now this lecturing Kiwi. He watched her, standing a little way out, talking with her friend who remained on the steps. She turned, and briefly her eyes met his. Percy quickly looked away, the splashing toddler with the stripy hat suddenly his focus.

  But something else caught his eye. On the lounger next to him were four brown pellets of guinea pig dung. The weight of the world pressed upon him. All he wanted was to relax in peace on a clean lounger. He grimaced and moved his leg away but the dung rolled after it, following the depression in the mesh. Cursing, Percy carefully picked them up, and relieved to find they were entirely dry he tossed them away, aiming for the drain that circuited the pool. The four landed in the water, floating for a short time before slowly sinking.

  ‘Oops,’ he said, quietly, noticing then two pairs of observant Kiwi eyes upon him.

  He lay back. Too often the pool had kiddie shit in it, so what was a little more? His afternoon really was becoming spoiled. He picked up the book and then threw it back down, before deciding to email his good friend, Art. But then could he even be bothered to do that?

  What he actually needed now was a beer. Not the sort he and Art enjoyed back home, warm and flat, or warm and heady, but cold. Ice cold lager straight from the bottle. Percy checked himself. Cold lager straight from the bottle? Who was this man he was becoming? He frowned. Despite himself he wanted that cold beer. His favourite bar, The Tired Turtle, beckoned.

  After gathering his things while avoiding the gaze of the two women, Percy began the short walk to his house, realising only when he was home and changing, that three brown pellets were squashed into his wet shorts, right in the middle of his bottom.

  5. FUELLED BY HAM CHIM PENG

  Trudy left without exchanging pleasantries, not seen to the door by anyone. The friendship with Hester was a relaxed one, and Hester never stood on ceremony for any person whoever they were, or whoever they believed themselves to be.

  The afternoon had passed by agreeably, the two sitting in the shade of Hester’s old veranda, cooled by a slow fan fixed to the inside of its roof. The air shifted lightly about, lifting the loose strands of grey bundled onto Hester’s head, while barely causing Trudy’s groomed coiffure to move even a hair’s breadth. Their talk was unhurried and amiable, discussing nothing and everything, one a relic from a bygone age swathed in cloth and ethnic jewellery, the other a modern expat in every sense; the latter a remodelling of the former.

  After finishing a bottle of chilled white wine, a label that neither woman bothered to observe, a lethargic Trudy had stretched and yawned and only then noticed the time.

  With her face buried in a book, Hester looked up only to say goodbye.

  She was not unhappy that Trudy was leaving, for Hester’s eyelids had been drooping for a while. Reading a book was a ruse, an excuse to allow her a less visible snooze. Trudy often overstayed, but, in the way of old friends living a lazy life, this minor imposition was barely recognised as such.

  With Trudy finally gone, Hester put down the book; a newly released novel set in Singapore and suggested by the keenest member of her book club. She settled for a nap. But sleep wouldn’t come; rather, Hester fell into a satisfying stupor in which she was aware of life continuing around her without the urge to rejoin it. The movements of her maid, Girlie, as she cleared the table, the sound of a bird calling from a nearby tree, the front door opening and closing with the return of her husband, all were ignored in favour of the sublime slumber. She lay there, blue and red-veined legs stretched across the mattress of the wicker-framed sofa, shoulders and head propped on soft cushions, old eyes closed, thin mouth slack, face motionless; appearing to sleep while inside thoughts moved coherently. With her consciousness comforted by the sounds of life and not guided by them, Hester was thinking about The Discussion Group.

  For some time, life had been steady but also dull, pepped up here and there for no reason other than occasionally it just seemed to pep up. Excitement was difficult to find. That was, until she joined The Discussion Group.

  In The Discussion Group, Hester discovered that people with differing views and very differing backgrounds from her own still existed. For her, at some point, this other sort of person had become part of a distant past, a memory of what had been and no longer was, rather than simply her past. Reality had shifted. Now, thanks to The Discussion Group, it had in some small way realigned. Cosseted from the world at large for many years, Hester’s life could not be as the lives of other people. Her life was of course real, because it was the life she was actually living, but very few of the world’s population would ever come to know such a reality. To find people different from her was a delight; more, it was something of a revelation. Too long she had been sheltered by advantage. And too long a desire to be challenged had simmered unseen beneath her placid exterior.

  Bearing the easy manner that comes with privilege, Hester was quietly influential. With the exception of Trudy, whose wealth was extreme only in the eyes of family members – all left behind in Britain and rarely visited – Hester’s friends were mostly affluent Singaporeans. She had achieved that which Trudy could not, because time cannot be bought. And if time could be bought, then Hester could have afforded it.

  She was not a lonely person and had no noticeable insecurities. Married life had always been easy, friendships and acquaintances pleasurable. Though easy going, she was also a strong-minded sort, and outwardly not classically vulnerable. But neither did she appear to be a person inclined to fantasy, when fantasy was exactly her game. Big fat fantasies, otherwise known in the wider world as lies. It started when she was young.

  Resting easily, aware now that all sounds of home life had ceased, because her maid was in the kitchen making dinner and her husband was resting on their bed, Hester’s thoughts moved back in time. Her mouth rose a little, tightening into a small smile. Fabricating the truth remained one of her most pleasurable pastimes.

  The instances warranting a lie varied, and sometimes a few years might pass between these occasions; other times just a few days. The tale might take the form of a long discussion on a plane with her neighbour about the fictional brother she was visiting, because he’d just discovered his girlfriend was a man and he couldn’t cope, not for a second time. Or she might make a short remark suggesting she was a member of British aristocracy, a comment normally aimed at American tourists, who loved that sort of thing and definitely could not detect the very occasional, and very slight, Australian twang Hester retained. Sometimes she would promote herself to fully fledged member of the Royal family. The longest running lie was now rarely mentioned, a claim that her mother’s younger sister had stripped for the Duke of Edinburgh, before he’d met Elizabeth. He’d tucked a few coins in her knicker elastic and the money had slipped through, so he’d picked it up and kept it. Many people had heard the story and all accepted its truth.

  Trudy was not party to Hester’s lies, for no one was. Remembering a lie she had played on Trudy – for no friend was ever exempt – she thought again about this reliable companion. Trudy did not fit with Hester’s usual crowd, though she’d never been given any real opportunity to try, because Hester suspected they would find her unappealing; that even in view of Trudy’s international lifestyle, they would think her provincial. So, Hester reflected, it was nice that she and Trudy were finally able to share in something, and together enjoy The Discussion Group.

  Hester liked Trudy very much, because she represented something of a novelty, but more recently because she had helped Hester talk with new people by coming along to The Discussion Group. It was a welcome surprise to find Trudy was keen to expand her friendship base. Hester liked Norman Sullivan, also, finding his optimism contagious. And there were others in The Discussion Group that she was also fond of; Meera, a local beautician, and Phrike, a
huge, hard looking man with a soft core. Neither of these two would be of any use to her, however, in the coming scheme involving both Trudy and Norm, and also one very significant other. The part of Hester’s brain responsible for concocting plots had restarted operations.

  The key player in the coming drama was a man Hester was particularly fond of: Percy Field. In Percy, Hester saw absolute truth. With him, there was no wondering what was meant by any remark, no questioning of this attitude or that, no searching for motive. He said it like it was and at times could be cripplingly truthful. Though she made a first class liar and he was not, in one sense she and Percy were the same. Dishonest to the core she might be, but on a social level Hester was as honest as they came. Frankness appealed to her lazy nature, because it saved her the effort of pondering deeper meaning. Manoeuvring through the maze of amusing fabrication was quite unlike deciphering the significance of other people’s reaction to whatever had been said or done, of pandering to cloying emotion. Hester did have a gift for reading others, but it was not ever something she applied beyond her own needs. Most of all, being forthright provided an excellent cover.

  Percy’s character had inspired Hester’s already awakening sense of game. He offered something previously not thought of, something so unimaginable that when the idea revealed itself to Hester she’d had to laugh. She laughed again now, lying on the wicker sofa, her soft grey eyes opening to the equally soft grey shades of dusk. Percy Field presented the greatest challenge of Hester’s long life, because in him lay the possibility of illustrious eminence. This was not to overstate things. This level of attainment really was the only thing Hester felt she had not already acquired. She recognised in Percy an opportunity, because she had observed in him a latent tendency to lead, and in others a willingness to follow. This ability to correctly assess the traits of others was the secret of Hester’s creative success.

  Everything was made easier because Percy was a man she genuinely admired and often amused her, entertained as she was by his morose bearing as much as the strange way he had of drawing people in without seeming to enjoy it; to notice it, even. In the past, she’d occasionally dealt with men whom she’d hated, lying to exact revenge for some perceived injustice, forced to be nice when her skin crawled against the hypocrisy of it. Refreshing then, to have someone she was partial to at the centre of things.

  And Norm and Trudy fitted their roles perfectly, both were people who would allow another’s view to become their own, should it suit their subconscious; a pair so easily manipulated it might seem cruel. Hester, master of illusion and artifice, ate manipulation for breakfast.

  This opportunity to fire up change was too much for Hester to resist. She was growing old, and wearying of the half measures that ageing seemed to entail; moderating her drinking of alcohol and eating of sweet foods, taking moderate exercise, enjoying moderate rest. Moderate, moderated, moderately! There was nothing moderate about a doctor’s unsolicited advice.

  She remembered the moment the idea had come to the fore and the excitement she’d felt. She’d been sitting where she was lying now, except it was late morning rather than early evening. She’d been enjoying a second cappuccino after eating three ham chim peng, her favourite deep fried doughy treat filled with red bean paste, after rebelling against her diet. She recalled feeling guilty and then feeling cross, irritated by all things moderate.

  ‘To hell with moderate! Radical is what I want!’ At that moment, the half considered notion of Percy as some kind of leader had exploded into a fully fledged idea

  Sleepiness gone, in the half-light Hester slowly eased her legs to the ground. She needed a cup of tea and a biscuit, the memory of ham chim peng making her peckish. ‘Girlie!’ she called. ‘Girlie!’

  Hester smiled, thinking about things. The whole plot should be easy, for when summarised what lay before her was the winning hand: an unsuspecting lonesome hero and two needy people searching for something.

  Would it matter if Percy refused to accept his elevated status? Probably not, because all that was needed for anyone to be viewed as leader was one other person willing to validate that viewpoint. This was never truer than when accepting a Prophet. Wasn’t it the words of John the Baptist that lifted Jesus from son of Joseph to Son of God? Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world. Percy was no lamb, but nor was he woolly.

  The veranda lights flickered on and Girlie appeared, wiping floury fingers on her apron. Hester requested tea and biscuits. Girlie said dinner would soon be ready. Hester again asked for tea and biscuits. Girlie retreated to the kitchen. Hester waited.

  With long hair roughly bundled, an open face, a genteel yet ethnic manner of dressing her comfortable frame, she picked up the book she had set aside, thinking if she were to claim an opinion on it then she should at least read it all. If she ever managed to get into the story, she’d be honest and say that at first she’d struggled but then enjoyed it. If it continued to prove too much she would give up, and scan her way to the end. A lesser liar would read only the blurb.

  6. TONIGHT’S TOPIC

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ Percy asked, looking down at his petit Singaporean friend, whom he thought looked utterly beautiful in her fitted silk dress, with its fine oriental patterns of gold and red.

  Joyann looked back at him squarely, her pretty face stern. ‘We are doing this because you and I started this group and I am not yet prepared to give up on it. I thought I was, but I was wrong.’

  ‘You and I? You started it in honour of your grandmother’s group.’

  ‘Why do you always say this? It is our discussion group. I started the group for you, with the memory of my grandmother in my heart. ’

  Heart. There it was, that way of saying things, so it sounded like hat. Just like the word hard in hardware store, when he’d first met her. ‘How’s business?’ Percy asked. ‘The expansion?’

  Joyann grimaced, ‘Sometimes I think we should have stayed in hardware only, and left dog boutiques to dog lovers. It is very competitive, but…’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘But it is going very well, thank you for asking. Hard work, but yes, it will be quite successful I think.’

  Hard work. Percy smiled. Joyann was very lovely.

  ‘You look handsome tonight, Percy.’

  Percy looked down at himself, ‘I look like an idiot. Christ knows how long I have had this penguin suit.’ He opened the front of it, revealing the inner panel behind the buttons. ‘And look at this,’ he said, pointing, ‘bloody moths have eaten it. Singaporean moths.’

  ‘I suppose you mean to suggest they used chopsticks?’

  ‘Can you say that?’ Percy said, ever uncertain as to what was acceptable and what was not.

  She dismissed the question with the shake of her head. ‘Come on. We should find out which table we are on and sit down.’

  Percy and Joyann were at Singapore’s highly regarded Tanglin Club, for a formal dinner and meeting arranged by Vlad the Impala. The invitation and topic had been issued on thick card, embossed with gold. At first, Percy had refused to go, but Joyann set about gaining help in persuading him, and with Norm, Meera and Phrike by her side, he had given in. The evening Joyann had achieved this, over a drink in Holland Village, a small cluster of bars and restaurants near Percy’s condo, Meera was by far the most excited by what lay ahead.

  ‘At last,’ she’d declared, ‘I can go shopping for something truly magnificent. I love dressing up, don’t you?’ She’d been speaking directly to Joyann, her eyes bright, manner animated.

  ‘Sometimes, yes.’

  ‘Women,’ Phrike had commented.

  ‘Women what?’ Joyann questioned.

  ‘Nothing. That’s it. Just women.’

  Meera had laughed and hugged Phrike’s thick arm, ‘He is being grumpy. He is jealous, wishing he too could wear a luxurious dress.’ She’d giggled. ‘I think you would suit… hmm… turquoise maybe.’

  Phrike had smiled down at her, affectionat
ely.

  ‘Does your wife like to dress smartly, Phrike?’ asked Joyann.

  He’d said nothing in reply, instead calling for a waiter and ordering a round of drinks.

  Meera had fallen silent, the beautician known for her vivacity as much as her groomed beauty, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Joyann had said nothing that might ease the atmosphere she had intentionally or otherwise created, instead she continued talking about the meeting at the Tanglin Club. ‘I am glad you are coming, Percy. Do you own a suit?’

  ‘Yeah. An old one.’

  Meera had managed a smile, ‘Buy a new one. I will come with you, if you would like me to.’

  ‘Why bother?’ asked Phrike, arms folded, waiting for his next beer. ‘If he has one already it’ll be fine. I’m not buying anything new.’

  Briefly, Meera leaned against him a little, and though discreetly, she smiled more widely.

  It was Meera who caught Percy’s eye once the Tanglin Club evening was underway, and he nudged Joyann. Joyann immediately went to her. In a long sleek black dress with fine straps and a high split, Meera was breathtaking.

  ‘You look so beautiful, Meera,’ Joyann enthused. ‘Really, so very elegant.’

  ‘Thank you, Joyann, and so do you. The fabric suits you well.’

  Joyann slipped an arm through hers. ‘We should parade a little, and show ourselves off,’ she laughed. ‘At least, we should find a glass of champagne before we finally sit down.’

  While Joyann and Meera occupied themselves with this, Norm, who was wearing a finely tailored black dinner suit, crisp white shirt and dark silver bow tie, approached Percy.

  ‘What do you think of the topic, Percy?’ he asked, open hand placed across the buttons of his jacket, as if someone were on his arm.

  ‘Hi Norm. I think the topic is almost as terrible as this evening. You?’

  ‘I like it all; it makes a nice change. Big turn out.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Percy. ‘Clearly not much on TV tonight.’

  Norm laughed, a little too hard, and persuaded Percy to walk with him and find the seating plan.

  ‘Verity around at the moment?’ Percy asked him.

  ‘She’s not around much at all at the moment. They’ve a new office opening somewhere or another, Guangzhou, maybe, so she’s caught up in all of that.’

  ‘Shame. She might have enjoyed this.’

  ‘Do you think? I’m not sure partners were invited anyway.’

  Percy shrugged. He had no idea if partners were invited or not, since he felt this kind of detail was no longer relevant to him. As Norm moved towards a large board specifying who was sitting where, Percy reflected on the most recent conversation he’d shared with Sal regarding their coming divorce. They’d moved to Singapore barely a year ago, and yet she talked of the island as if Singapore had always been her home. He supposed for her it would be, if she went ahead and married Ethan Tan. His gaze fell upon Joyann, and his brow knitted at the coincidence of looking at her as he thought of her husband; she spoke little of the affair these days, which Percy found something of a relief. Other people’s grief did not suit him.

  ‘You’re sitting with Joyann, Trudy and myself, plus two I don’t know,’ Norm said, brightly.