Sarong Party Girls

by Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan

  I took out my wallet and left eighty dollars on the table, looked around at the girls and pretended to cough. “Sorry, Keira,” I said. “But I’d better not make your baby sick anyway. You take care ah?”

  Keira just nodded, so I fasterly got up and left. I looked back once as I was leaving—­the three girls on one side, back to oohing and aahing over the baby. Sher was the only one looking at me as I walked away. I bet she was wondering whether she should chase after me to make sure I could get home OK or just talk a bit.

  I just pretended I didn’t see her and quickly turned around.

  Once I left the restaurant I started to feel a bit better. But still not OK. Every time I closed my eyes or felt distracted, I could see Louis’s face on top of me, feel Louis in me, hear Louis talking to me. And the more it happened, the more I thought that I really was a damn shit friend to Imo. At least I know that’s what Sher would say. And I know that yes, I’m not friends with Sher anymore. But still, of all the ­people I know who truly understand any situation, she is the best. So, yes, I really was a damn shit friend.

  It’s not that I wanted to fuck Louis, you know. The exact opposite! But hallo, even if Sher was the one in that situation, I think she confirm would have said yes to him. You know how Louis is. No one is allowed to say no. No one. I mean, you can. But the consequences—­confirm is not fun. And I felt I couldn’t just think of myself in that moment, I had to think about the good of the group. You know, harmony, free drinks and all that shit.

  There was suddenly some music in the lobby—­soft, so it didn’t seem to be coming from within the lobby. I followed it outside and saw white ribbons and big bows all over the gazebo in the center of the garden. On one side there were these old Chinese guys in tuxedos, sitting up straight and playing violins or some shit. On the other side was a few rows of chairs. ­People were still talking talking among themselves so I guess the bride and groom weren’t coming down so soon yet.

  Quickly, I snuck over toward the side of the courtyard where I knew there were a few benches and picked one that confirm had a good view of the gazebo. The Shang’s garden is damn atas—­I mean, most hotels that charge these kinds of prices surely have atas gardens but this one was damn super atas. Each bush, each tree—­their gardeners spend every day trimming them until all perfectly round or oval type. Sometimes they might even make special shapes and all—­one time for Chinese New Year, there was even one with a giant dragon shape. Don’t anyhow play!

  Guniang was quietly sitting there, looking at the guests, trying to see who was wearing what, carrying what handbag, when all of a sudden someone was talking to me.

  “Jazzy?”

  Kani nah. Of course it was Sher. I didn’t say anything.

  “Come on, don’t be like that,” she said, sitting down next to me. Of course she would have figured out that I might come here. The first few times we came to the Shang, we always came to this garden. If there was a wedding happening, we would come and sit for a bit and stare, imagining. The thought of that made me feel a twinge. At least for me, now, I still have a chance to imagine. For Sher, her SPG life and dreams were over.

  “Jazzy, I think we need to talk,” Sher said, leaning out now, like she was trying to block my view. Babi.

  “Talk? About what?” I said. “Please, everything is OK. We have nothing to say.”

  Sher opened her mouth, as if she wanted to say something more. But then she closed it again. I didn’t want to look at her, but from the side of my eyes I could see her smoothing down her skirt over her knees—­walao, guniang married for such a short time only already started wearing these long auntie skirts, covering knees and all. If I didn’t already feel like throwing up, then now I confirm would start to feel it.

  I was considering getting up to leave, even though the wedding hadn’t even started yet. But then a waiter came up to us, holding a tray.

  “Ladies,” he said, bowing a bit and smiling. “Would you like a glass of champagne?”

  Aiyoh, maybe he thinks we’re here for the wedding! OK, maybe Sher’s auntie-­length skirt at least had some use. Sher just smiled at him and took two glasses off the tray, handing me one.

  “Cheers!” I said to the waiter as he bowed and walked away.

  I looked at Sher and Sher looked at me. Then we both clinked our glasses and laughed.

  After we stopped laughing—­and after a few sips—­Sher leaned back and crossed her legs.

  “Jazz,” she said. I could feel her watching me so I tried to keep smiling, even though I didn’t really want to anymore. I don’t know what she was about to say. But hallo, today the gardens were so nice, there was an atas wedding about to happen, the two of us had just laughed together for the first time in god knows how long, why did she have to ruin it?

  “Remember Eugene?” she said.

  Yah, Eugene. Once I thought of him I couldn’t help but smile a bit bigger. Who didn’t like Eugene? That guy—­my god, that guy—­he really was one of the best. We all knew him when we were quite young. I think, twelve or thirteen? He was a few years older—­I think fifteen or something at the time. And even though we—­and all the girls in the neighborhood—­were all damn steam for him, we were all so young, we all confirm had no chance with him. You know how it is when you’re that age lah—­even a year or two age difference feels like five or ten years sometimes.

  But we all lived in the same area, hung out in the same community center, went to the same kopitiam, and on Saturday, Sunday we would see each other with our mothers in the same wet market, that type of thing. So Eugene knew who we were. (He knew that we existed, anyway.) We actually even became friends. Sometimes if Sher and me were alone in the kopitiam he might ask us to join him and his friends, maybe even buy us a plate of chicken rice if we were feeling hungry.

  The funny thing about Eugene was that he was the biggest tough guy Ah Beng around. Not the hard-­core kind though—­just slightly enough of an Ah Beng that he was still cool. He was big on skateboarding then—­but since he was quite Ah Beng, he was part of Ah Beng skateboarding group, not the cool ang moh skateboarding teenagers we sometimes saw near Holland Village. And when he was with his gang, he would always be damn act tough—­throwing third finger and kani nah around all the time and shouting “Oi, brudder!” to his fellow Ah Bengs a lot. But when he was alone with me and Sher, buying us ice Milo or kaya toast at the kopitiam, he was totally different—­sweet sweet one. He always asked us how was school, which boys were trying to chase us, tell us toot jokes to make us smile, sometimes bringing us small boxes of those cute Japanese chocolate cookies shaped like pandas and shit like that. We all knew—­even though he’s a smelly Ah Beng, whoever ended up marrying Eugene is confirm win lottery one. This guy maybe to the outside world is a tough asshole but at home, no matter what, he will always treat you like a princess.

  At that time, Sher and I hoped one of us would end up being the lucky one. We were so young—­not SPGs yet. But then after Eugene went to the army, we never saw him again. I don’t know why.

  “Yeah,” I said. “That Eugene really was number one.”

  Sher smiled, but just a little bit. “Well,” she said. “I don’t expect you to understand, but Jazzy, Ah Huat is really my Eugene.”

  Wah, guniang here—­stunned. I guess I never really thought about it. In fact, I hadn’t thought about Eugene in many donkey’s years. And when I thought about it now, I guess I could understand. Back when we first became SPGs, Sher and I would discuss Ah Bengs and we always said yes, Ah Bengs are Ah Bengs but a guy like Eugene, is actually a sexy Ah Beng. He has the best of the Ah Beng qualities—­that swagger that makes him act tough to the rest of the world but at home, with ­people he really cares about? He’s just a big cuddly teddy bear. And the sexiest thing though is that you know that whoever he cares about, he cares about fiercely—­he’ll do anything to defend and protect them. When you think about it, tha
t really is damn bloody sexy.

  Although I still wasn’t fully convinced, I lifted my glass and smiled at Sher. I’d have to think about this a bit more but for now, sitting in the Shang, a glass of champagne in my hand, I really missed my old friend. I really missed our moments like this.

  “Cheers,” Sher said—­my god, her eyes were watering a bit and all. I figured I’d better fasterly change the subject before this turned into a Taiwanese soap opera.

  “So,” I said, sounding a bit serious—­which I was. “I don’t want you to worry. But something happened.”

  Sher’s face got damn serious. Obviously, Sher was now worrying like crazy. Since I almost never begin any conversations like that.

  “Are you sick?” she said, grabbing my knee.

  “Aiyoh, my god—­no!” I said. “Hallo, auntie, sometimes there are worse things than cancer and shit, OK! No, no, no. Just . . . there was this weird situation with this guy, and I couldn’t say no, I really couldn’t, and now I just feel damn . . .” I didn’t even know how to finish my sentence. But I looked over at Sher and I could see that she understood perfectly.

  Sher looked concerned. She sighed and took a long sip, then waved her index finger over at the nice waiter and made the “two” sign. The guy jumped up and brought his tray over, lowering it so we could pick up fresh glasses.

  “Are you OK?” Sher asked, looking worried. “Do you like this guy?”

  “No! I mean, it’s not that I don’t like him . . . I just don’t, I mean . . .” Aiyoh, this one I really didn’t know how to explain. If I say too much, Sher knows me and the group so well, she confirm will guess it’s Louis. And if I know Sher, she will insist on me doing the right thing and telling Imo about it. And if Imo knows then Louis will know. And the whole world will just go to shit. No more clubbing in atas clubs, no more VIP lounges and free drinks.

  “I mean,” I said, “it’s just awkward and weird and nothing can happen between us but I keep thinking about it and . . .” I realized I was probably explaining it terribly. The way I was talking about it, I could see Sher possibly guessing that I’m a bit embarrassed and maybe lovesick. My god, that confirm is not the case!

  Sher smiled. “Jazzy, don’t tell me you don’t remember the last-­penis theory!” she said.

  Wah, this one is confirm misunderstanding. Last-­penis theory is for when you really like the guy and you cannot forget him, pining pining for him, that kind of thing. We had read it in some ang moh magazine years ago lah and at first we laughed like crazy over it but then, it turned out, there’s probably some truth to it. The theory is that the one thing that can help you forget the guy is if you pok someone else—­the new penis in your life, even if you’re not a serious relationship, as long as it’s a fun fun one, confirm can help push the last penis you had out of your mind.

  I started to say something to correct Sher like, no, really, I’m not in love or anything. But then I thought—­actually, maybe she has a point. It doesn’t matter how I feel about Louis. If I can’t stop imagining him in my bed, then maybe . . .

  “True, true,” I said, winking at Sher. Come, I said, looking at my phone to see what time it was. “Bottoms up!”

  Sher didn’t walk all the way out with me because she was going to rejoin Keira and the girls. Before she left though, she gave me a hug—­one I didn’t want at first but feeling her arms fiercely wrapped around me, my chest started to hurt. I hugged her back.

  When Sher started to let go, she asked, “Are you still happy at work?”

  I paused, wondering what to say. That flicker of silence was enough for Sher to understand.

  “Ah,” she said. “Listen—­Ah Huat really could use a business manager at his place, someone to help him keep things running so he can focus on the classes.”

  I pulled away from Sher, trying to stop myself from making a face. It had been such a nice moment—­why did she have to spoil it with such nonsense? Yes, I was coming around to accepting that maybe it wasn’t complete craziness that she had married this Ah Beng—­but I sure as hell was never going to lower myself to work for him even so. Jazzy here has a good job with an atas boss! To leave that and work for an Ah Beng? Her husband can go and dream!

  “OK, OK,” Sher quickly said. “Forget I mentioned it, OK? But, if you ever . . .”

  “I’m fine—­don’t worry,” I said, giving her hand a quick squeeze. “Now go—­the girls will be waiting for you.”

  As I watched her walk back to the restaurant, away from me, I thought about our chat; the feeling of Sher sitting next to me again, two girls laughing.

  chapter 18

  Something very strange happened on Thursday.

  The week had passed by quite peacefully at work—­nothing more mentioned about circulation from Albert, who seemed to be in a good mood overall. On Thursday morning though, Sean, the foreign editor, came by to tell me he was having a drinks party at his house. Don’t know what cock reason he had for throwing the party lah but he’d never invited me before. So even though I don’t like him, I felt I had to go.

  At first, I thought Albert my boss was going to this party—­which is mostly the reason I thought I should go. If the boss is going, then I should be there. But when I asked Albert in the afternoon, “Eh, boss—­what time are you going to Sean’s party tonight?” he just looked at me blur.

  “Sean invited you to his party?” he said, frowning.

  Aiyoh—­am I not supposed to go? Is this one of those atas parties that only editors attend?

  “Boss, if you think I shouldn’t go, then of course I won’t go,” I quickly said. That weird conversation with Albert had only happened last week, after all. Guniang here was still trying to stay on Albert’s good side and keep him in happy mood. I confirm don’t want him to think I’m starting to think too highly of myself or anything.

  “No, no, no,” he said—­not frowning anymore but still not smiling. He looked like he was thinking hard. “I’m not going. But if he invited you, of course you should go ahead. Only if you want to, of course.” And then he didn’t say anything more about it for the rest of the day.

  Sean’s party only started at nine so guniang had time to go home, eat dinner with my mum, bathe and all. He said the party was not formal so I just picked one of my sleeveless casual black dresses—­not so short that it will zaogeng and let everyone see my panties, but something above the knee—­and nice heels. On the way there, I even had time to stop by a Wine Exchange to buy a nice bottle of red—­French, of course. First time at the foreign editor’s party—­better have manners a bit.

  Guniang was feeling good that evening. Alistair was texting less, perhaps starting to get the hint that hallo, he was probably never going to see me again. But the main thing was—­Roy finally texted! I hadn’t heard from him since our garden walk, which was making me start to wonder.

  When I saw his name pop up on my phone after dinner, I at first want to press DELETE without even reading. But OK lah, guniang at least wanted to see what his cock explanation was. It turns out that right after our date he had a big team of clients from the States fly in for a week, and he’s been so busy working and entertaining them that he’d had no time for fun. I knew it had to be something serious keeping him from contacting me!

  “In fact,” he texted, “are you free for dinner tomorrow? There’s a goodbye dinner and we’re allowed to bring a date if we want.”

  Wah—­dinner to meet not just his friends, but his colleagues? Set lah! This one—­confirm is very promising! I wondered what Fann would say. Dinner is better than brunch!

  Guniang acted tough a bit, waiting one hour before texting back: “OK.”

  So, by the time my taxi reached Sean’s house—­a really nice one near Bukit Timah Hill and all—­guniang was in a bloody good mood.

  “Jazeline—­ah, you’re here!” Sean said when he came out to open the tall iron
gate. Things felt a little funny right away—­Sean was wearing shorts! Nice shorts lah—­one of those knee-­length tailored berms, maybe even a branded pair, and his button-­down work shirt was still on, though it was untucked and his sleeves were rolled up. I guess when he said the party was not formal, he really meant it. I suddenly felt quite shy.

  “I suppose I’m overdressed!” I said, laughing a bit. My god—­my laugh was so high, surely Sean could hear that I was nervous.

  “No, not at all,” he said, leaning down to give me an air kiss. “You look just perfect.”

  After thanking me for the wine, he said, “Well come in, come in—­everyone’s inside already.” So I followed him down the short driveway, squeezing a bit past the big silver Lexus parked right in the middle, kicked off my heels and stepped into his house. It was quite an atas place—­a very big corner townhouse surrounded by a large bushy garden on all three sides. Damn quiet, since it’s so near Bukit Timah Hill and all those parks that old ­people like to do qigong in. I guess some ­people like that kind of thing—­for me, once I get married, I’ll prefer to live in a house in Holland Village. You still get the good schools there and some parks and playgrounds lah—­but at least nearby you have all those ang moh restaurants, bars and shops so even though you’re married, you at least still can be happening. Not dead yet.

  “Jazeline, I think you probably know everyone—­Serene, Su Fen and Vidya are all on the news desk, Shamini’s over in sports and that’s Lydia, my wife,” Sean said, pointing at the women one by one around the room. The news desk girls were squeezed together on one sofa; the other two were half-­lounging on fat glossy beanbags on the floor, loudly cracking peanuts and melon seeds open and throwing the shells into a bowl on the glass coffee table. At least they were getting most of them in. Only one or two women bothered to wave “Hallo” at me.

  I knew who they were—­everyone except Lydia, that is. I had seen them all in the newsroom before—­not Shamini so much because sports is on a different floor. But the other girls, I often see them purposely waving their backsides all over the newsroom when they walk so everyone can steam over them. Yah lah—­that’s the kind of girls they were. Their work is so-­so—­from what I hear; guniang here doesn’t read the newspaper, so how am I supposed to know?—­but even so, somehow they always get assigned to cover the front-­page stories.