Cheryl Tan: Sarong Party Girls

I think I am the only one in this whole building who knows that of all these books he actually has only read one: How to Win at EVERYTHING, which he squeezes into one of the dark corners of the bookshelf. (Ever since the Hong Kong tycoon who wrote that book got jailed last year for embezzling, it’s now quite not fashion to read this book anymore.) But sometimes when I pop into his office to tidy up before going home, this is the one book that will be on his desk. I always know to quickly hide it away so no one sees it.

The most valuable thing in Albert’s tall bookshelf is actually the cupboard he has at the bottom. Once you slide the heavy wooden door open—there’s a full bar inside! Chivas, Grey Goose, Hendrick’s—and if you want Japanese whiskey, he’s got all the expensive kinds.

“Jazzy, it’s raining a bit so let’s try something mellow,” he said. “Maybe some Yamazaki—the twelve-year-old one, not the eighteen. Today’s not anything special.”

After I filled half a crystal glass with Yamazaki and brought it over to Albert, I moved the two chairs in front of his desk to one side and went to sit on the sofa. When I first started, it took a few weeks before I figured this out—if I’m wearing heels and a tight or short skirt, then he wants me to sit on the sofa, not the chair. The sofa is lower. Albert always likes a good view.

Even though my skirt that day was not that short, it was bunching up near my backside because his sofa was so low. I’m sure Albert could see my red panties! But aiyah, I didn’t care. I just leaned back and opened my legs just a very little bit—not so much that it’s slutty, mind you. Just enough for a sneak preview. Let the boss look lah. Job security is always good, right? Besides, no matter what, I know Albert will never try anything funny with me. After having to deal with all the scandals from people pok-ing each other in his newsroom over the years, he is the first one to tell everyone: “Please, don’t shit where you eat.”

Even though Albert is damn lecherous with most girls, when it comes to me, I know that he just likes to window-shop. He might be quite old—although you can’t really tell since he dyes his hair boot-polish black all the time—he’s a guy lah, so if there are panties and legs for him to see, of course he’s damn happy. If you have to be stuck in an office doing some crap job, might as well try to have something nice to look at while you are doing it, after all. Some people hang nice art on their walls; others look at legs. Who can’t understand that? But at the end of the day, I know he actually feels protective of me, like he’s my uncle or something. Last year when some editor over at the Business Post kept bugging me to go out with him, the moment I mentioned it to Albert he went over to their newsroom upstairs, popped his head in and shouted across the whole office, “Hello, Cedric—please control yourself. Leave my girls alone!” Wah, the guy was so embarrassed he doesn’t even dare to say “Hallo” to me now even if we are both queuing up for kopi in the cafeteria at the same time.

From the squeaking of his chair, I could tell Albert was trying to lean back and relax a bit more. Since my desk had no window—or wasn’t even remotely near a window so I can sort of peek out—I didn’t even know it had started raining until I was in his office. Through the large wraparound windows of his spacious corner room, I could see that it was really coming down. All the sparkling glass condominium towers around were just blurry gray smears; fat ribbons of water were racing down Albert’s window. Despite the pounding machine-gun rain, I could hear him sigh a bit. Good. A calm Albert was always better than the hyperactive manic one that the newsroom usually saw. He seemed to be in a solid mood.

“Eh, boss—focus!” I said. “Next week, you’re very busy. Monday is your mum’s death anniversary but don’t worry I already called the temple and donated eighty-eight dollars for you. They said they would send their best sweeper to help your wife clean up her grave since you cannot make it. Just remember to mention it to Mrs. Lim later tonight so she knows you remembered. Wednesday is Mrs. Lim’s birthday—I already bought a pair of pearl earrings for you to give her and one of those romantic cards she likes. Do you also want me to buy some of those handmade chocolates she likes from the Four Seasons?”

“No need, no need!” he said. I could see his face suddenly turning black. In his mind, he’s probably kau-behing over how he must now spend Wednesday evening with his wife just because it’s her birthday. Poor guy.

“I tell you,” he said, really frowning now. “I don’t know what kind of food she’s spending her money on these days but that woman is really putting on weight. And not in the right places.”

I figured I’d better quickly move on to the next topic. “OK, then on Thursday you have that lunch with the new minister for the environment and water resources,” I continued. “I booked a table for you at Iggy’s…”

“Iggy’s? No, no, no—no need to take him somewhere so nice! He’s only in charge of the environment—not say, information and communications. Who cares?” Albert said. “Just book a table at the Shang and be done with it. Not the nice steak restaurant. Just do the Chinese one below it.”

I could see that Albert was getting a bit impatient because all of this was stressing him out and not letting him enjoy his whiskey. So I very quickly went over the rest of his schedule, being very careful to not mention any other appointments that might really stress him out, and closed my notebook. When I got up to leave, he wiggled his second finger at me, asking me to come to his desk. As I got closer he waved his hand to get me to come around to his side.

It felt weird to just stand there so I leaned back on his desk, which I guess was the right thing because he smiled and started to really look at my legs. So I decided to get even closer and half-sit on his desk. His smile got even bigger.

Albert took a slow sip of his whiskey and set down the glass, sighing again. He put his right hand on my thigh for a moment, thought for a minute, then removed it and took my hand instead.

“Jazzy, how old are you now? Twenty-four?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure where this was going but it didn’t feel good. Twenty-four is that age when he turns his assistants into pumpkins! Luckily I had two kopis that morning so I could still think quite quickly. No matter how bad twenty-four is, twenty-six is worse! So I just nodded and smiled as sweetly as I could. At that moment I really wished I had one of those Japanese-girl dimples. Everyone knows that Albert likes his girls fair, with big eyes and a cute smile—Japanese-y lah.

“What do you want in life?” Albert asked. He was still looking at my legs; I could feel his thumb stroking my fingers.

I started to feel a bit weird at this point. Sure, after too many drinks at Front Page, Albert sometimes got touchy-feely with the girls—at those times of the night, even I would sometimes get some of that, regardless of his big policy about not shitting where you eat. But whenever that happened, Albert was usually just very huggy, sometimes maybe kissing you on the cheek—you know, playful shit. But this time, he wasn’t drunk and he was looking quite serious. My god—would I actually have to consider whether I would have to say yes to my boss or not?

“Well, I like working for you…” I said.

“But Jazzy, you are a smart girl, you know—you must have bigger goals, right?” he asked.

This, I wasn’t sure how to handle. Of course I have a goal—but obviously I can’t tell him I am hoping to meet some expat Prince Charming and live a better life, right? Not that many Singaporean guys are so understanding about life ambitions like that. They think it’s some big insult to them that we don’t want to marry an Asian guy, like they’re not good enough or whatever fuck. (OK, that may be true. But even so, they really shouldn’t be so petty and take it personally. Life is just like that.)