Cheryl Tan - Sarong Party Girls

Usually it only takes fifteen or twenty minutes to get to that steak house near Raffles City, but thank god for Friday night clubbers and lovebirds. There were traffic jams everywhere, so at least I could delay things a bit and have more time to think. Taxi uncle was happy of course—he was the kind that, when he sees a chio girl in a short skirt enter his taxi, wah, uncle purposely drives super slowly so he can talk cock a bit more and maybe see if he can get a phone number or not. (As if.) But the moment he started his rubbish chitchat I just said, “Uncle—I’ve had a bloody hard day already. Please! Don’t make it worse.” Uncle just stared at me a bit through his rearview mirror and then shut up his mouth for the rest of the drive.

Everything happened so quickly in Albert’s office that I didn’t have time to fully react until he was long gone. First of all, I still hadn’t told him the real story yet about what happened at Sean’s. He had been walking around all day thinking that I participated in Sean’s sick games? After I thought about it a bit more, I guess I could imagine what Sean said about me. (Fucking chee bye—probably just trying to save his own face so he doesn’t have to explain to his work buddies why some peon from the office would rather run out into the darkness and walk to the main road in high heels than stay and suck his Eurasian cock.)

But second of all—and this one was more important—why am I moving to circulation and what can I do to stop it? When I thought about my career trajectory, if there was any job that I thought Albert would be kindhearted enough to help me get—in fact, he even suggested it himself a few times—it was as an events planner for the company or somewhere else. The guy has so many contacts—if anyone can help me make that leap, it’s him. And it seemed at some point that he was open to helping me down the road—what happened? And circulation? I mean, yah, he still goes over there to say hello and flirt with his old assistants a bit every week but it’s where he shoves people when he no longer has much use for them. How could I possibly be in that category? Jazzy has worked too damn hard for him all these years to end up like those other losers before me. I am not Michelle!

Perhaps I should try and explain the evening at Sean’s to Albert a bit more? I know that on weekends, I’m really not allowed to contact him unless it’s an emergency like the New Times building is burning down or his boss wants to give him company box seats for a soccer match. (And even then, I can make this emergency call only for some games—Singapore versus Kelantan, can; Singapore versus Terengganu? If I dare to call him over that one, I confirm will get a scolding for at least two weeks.) But this issue with Sean’s party and circulation—even if it’s not an emergency for him, it’s an emergency for me! Or maybe I can send him an email or a text to try and explain a bit and beg for my job back?

Aiyoh, this one. How come I have people in my life to advise me on all sorts of things—shopping lah, flirting lah, where to put your tongue on a guy’s cock lah. But when I have a career problem, everybody in my life is all bloody goondu about this kind of thing?

I was still thinking about this, with no solution yet, when the taxi uncle pulled up to the Imperial Hotel.

“Well,” I thought, as I paid taxi uncle, giving him a twenty-cents tip because he was so nice to keep quiet. (At least uncle couldn’t say that guniang here was not appreciative.) “At least there’s Roy.”

Before heading to the second floor where Manhattan was, even though I was a bit late, I made sure to stop in the loo to powder my nose first. After rinsing my face with some water and blotching it off with a tissue, I looked hard into the mirror. Pretty eyes, not bad nose, clear skin, nice smile. I even blew-dry my hair this morning so it was a bit puffy, got volume and all. And I wore sweet dangly pearl earrings—must look a bit classy for a work dinner after all—to go with my black, slightly clingy silk dress, which was a little longer than the one last night but showed just a bit of cleavage. I even made sure to wear red lacy push-up bra so Roy confirm could get a few small peeps here and there at dinner.

Tonight, I’m going to show him why he needs me! Especially with some new tricks I learned from Alistair last week, I confirm can make Roy more satisfied than any girl has ever even tried.

“Jazzy,” I mouthed into the mirror, pointing at my own face, “you are damn happening! Roy would be lucky to have you.”

After that, guniang was energy a bit already. No need iPhone music—in my head, I could already hear that Madonna song “Express Yourself.”

“Don’t go for second best, baby, put your love to the test!”

Guniang was mouthing the lyrics as I put on new lipstick, touched up my mascara and eye shadow, pinched my cheeks a bit to make them rosy, fluffed up my hair and blew a kiss into the mirror and all. (Of course it’s at that last moment that some old auntie walked into the loo and stared at me like I was mad.)

Roy was waiting outside Manhattan when I got off the escalator. Wah—he even had a big smile come on when he saw me. I tell you, after my bloody lousy day and the crazy night last night, seeing his smile made me happier than I’d felt in a long time.

“There you are!” he said, walking forward to hug me—tight. He pulled back a bit, kissed me very softly on the cheek and said, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I’ve missed you. Sorry that work has been so crazy. I’ve been dying for it all to be over so I could see you again.”

Aiseh. Guniang here was damn happy!

But must act cool a bit lah. “I’m glad,” I just said, smiling sweetly.

“Now, before we go in, I have to explain something,” Roy said. “This guy is a really big client so I have to be very nice to him. But he’s a little… unusual, Jazzy. It’s hard to explain but he may be a little surprising and I just have to beg you to be a little patient—OK? It’s just one dinner—we’ve just got to get through it.”

I was just so happy to be there I just nodded along. It was a work dinner—how bad could it be?

“Great—I’m starving,” Roy said, “and everyone’s already inside. Shall we?” He stuck out his arm, so I took it, feeling like a lady and all. (Not lady like Camilla—but Lady Diana, of course.)

I had never been to Manhattan before but I had always heard good things about it—Singapore’s number one steak house! So of course I had booked Albert dinner reservations there. But this restaurant is so expensive—all the steaks are flown in from New Zealand or New York, that kind of thing, so the starting price for one piece is ninety-six dollars, man. Kani nah! So of course even though Albert did occasionally take me along on his business lunches or dinners, he had never taken me here, not even when his dining companion’s company was paying. So when Roy texted that this was where the dinner is—guniang thought, no matter what happens tonight, confirm is a win already.

Lightly holding Roy’s arm, guniang here was almost floating as we walked through the restaurant. The burgundy carpeting was so thick that I could feel my heels sink in a bit each time I took a step—in fact, it was so deep and thick, I could feel the soft carpet tickling my toes with each step. The tables were all covered with nicely ironed tablecloths, the waiters all wore tuxedos and had hair combed back neatly, like those old butlers in British shows. And every time one of them was near us, he would stop walking, bow a bit and stick his hands out, as if he were ushering us to a church pew. There was even some kind of violin classical shit playing softly in the background.

This place—it was exactly as I had always imagined in my fantasies of actually being taken here for a meal.