Sarong Party Girls (31 page)

“Shouldn't we send him home or something?” I said.

“No need lah—­you see how bloody heavy he is?” Seng said. Which was true. His friend was not say, damn fucking fat but he also confirm was not skinny. Seng had really been staggering.

“Plus, he lives all the way up north, near the Malaysian ­causeway—­do you know how expensive the taxi ride there and back will be?” Seng added, reaching into his pocket to pull out his ciggies, plucking one out and lighting it. “I'll just drop off his stuff tomorrow. I want to make sure you get home soon and safe, Ah Huay. Now what time already? Your mum is really going to worry if you're out much later.”

I stood there for a moment, looking down at the guy, still curled up. A ring of cigarette butts and crumpled tissue paper made a halo around his bench. Fucker was even smiling a bit.

“Come,” Seng said, holding out his free hand. “Let me send you home.”

I had to think for a moment. Was this it?

“Actually,” I said, “I'm waiting for someone.”

I could see Seng's upper lip curl. He rolled his eyes and said, “Your choice.” Then he threw up his hands and walked away.

Alone—­really alone, it felt—­I wondered what to do next. Next to the bus stop, there was a hive of bright lights and noise—­McDonald's. I tell you, at this time of night, McDonald's is the most happening place in town. Post-­clubbing hours are a big moneymaking time for them. Even though guniang here didn't want to go and eat with the Ah Bengs inside, smelling the place reminded me that tonight I didn't have supper. If I eat something here now, it's also not bad—­chances are, nobody I know (or care about) will spot me here. And by the time I finish, I'm sure the taxi queue would be gone.

I was standing outside looking in, considering, when I noticed the face looking back at me in the glass. After such a long night out, my hair had deflated; long strings of it were whipped haphazardly around my face. My lipstick was mostly gone, chewed off; the mascara was still in place, though I looked a little like a raccoon from the smudges under my eyes. I missed Sher, who always carried around makeup remover towelettes in her handbag and would drag me to the loo when she thought I needed a touch-­up. Where was Sher tonight? Sher always knew the right thing to do. Always. She may have married an Ah Beng, but, I realized, at least this was an Ah Beng who was there sleeping by her side at this very moment—­maybe even spooning.

Sher had popped by the office one day this week to take me out to lunch. It was a quick one, but sweet. She told me all the toot stories of her Ah Beng honeymoon and I realized I hadn't laughed that much in months—­yes, even if some of it was laughing at her precious Ah Huat. Sher was good-­natured about it all. I got the sense that she knew what he was and what he wasn't and she was just A-­OK with it. I guess there really was nothing left for me to say on the subject at the end of the day. Sher had even hugged me super tightly as she left, asking me once again if I would consider helping Ah Huat at work. “As if!” I had said. Sher just smiled and shrugged as she left.

The lights inside McDonald's were so bright I couldn't see my skin clearly, but from how papery it felt, I knew it was sallow. I suddenly heard my mum's voice in my head: “A young girl's face is her jewel, Ah Huay—­take good care of it. Get lots of rest, eat healthily, don't go out so late. The fire in your body increases the later you are up—­if you're up too late, the fire will burn you up. Listen to your, Ma—­please.”

My mum, perhaps, was right all along.

The sky was a pale pinkish blue now; the sun wasn't too far behind. The gigantic shopping malls that lined Orchard Road were towering black blocks against this rapidly lightening canvas. I could barely make out the Prada store sign just across the street.

Something about this dawn was reassuring, even if all around me was an army of mascara-­streaked dolls staggering about, occasionally breaking into scuffles whenever a taxicab trundled by. I saw what I should have known all along. I didn't need Seng, or Kelvin, or Louis and most certainly not Roy—­not to send me home or fuck me or even to marry me. I didn't need Sean or Albert. And thank god I didn't need Alistair.

I may not know the future but I do know myself. I am Jazzy—­and Jazzy doesn't lose! I realized then that I had actually made my decision sometime before, even though I hadn't wanted to admit it.

Taking my phone out, I started typing. “Sher,” I said. “OK lah. You can tell your Ah Huat—­yes.”

 

Acknowledgments

This book would not have been possible without these people and I give them immense thanks:

To my extraordinary agent, Jin Auh, who believed in and loved Jazzy from the very beginning. Much appreciation to Mike Hale for his encouragement during the early writing of
SPG
. To Gordon Dahlquist, for reading closely each step of the way—Jazzy's world was all the better for having him know it early on. And to John “Nonny” Searles, for his enormous heart.

I am also grateful to the following:

My parents, Tan Soo Liap and Cynthia Wong, and sister, Daphne Tan—their love buoys me each day. And my incredible and always inspiring family in Singapore.

The wonderful team at William Morrow: my amazing editor Rachel Kahan, Tavia Kowalchuk, Lynn Grady, Kelly Rudolph, Shelby Meizlik and Mumtaz Mustafa. As well as Jessica Friedman at the Wylie Agency.

Friends whose love and nudges kept me going: Simpson Wong, Henry Wu, Julia Glass, Drew Larimore, Judy Blume, Jeanette Lai, Kevin Cheng, Regina Jaslow, Brian Fidelman, S.J. Rozan, Sachin Shenolikar, Robert Sabat, Charles Chris Chiang, Hillary Jordan, Willin Low, Diane Cook, A.J. Ashworth, Albert Forns, Chandrahas Choudhury, Bill Goldstein, Emily Miller, Peter Fortunato, Marie-Atina Goldet, Christy Funsch, Theresa Wong, Jonathan Santlofer, Gretchen Somerfeld, Rachel Cantor, Sari Wilson, ­Camille DeAngelis, Tony Eprile, Noa Charuvi Shai, Robinson McClellan, Paula Whyman, Natalie Wainwright, Pam Loring, Greg Morago, Clifford Pugh, Donna Kato, Debra Bass, Joe Amodio, Anne Bratskeir, Lauren Young, Monica Drake, Laura Sullivan, Stephanie Desmon, Laura Smitherman, Rachelle Pestikas, Abe Kwok, Robert Christie, Ryan Page, Bobby Caina Calvan, Susan Bolin-Wright, Susan Segrest, Marcus Brauchli and Paul Steiger. And thanks to TalkingCock.com's Colin Goh for Singlish consultation.

Artist colonies that provided havens for writing: Yaddo, Hawthornden Castle, Djerassi Resident Artists Program, The Studios of Key West, Ragdale Foundation, VCCA Le Moulin à Nef and Art OMI's Ledig House, as well as Elaina Richardson, Candace Wait, Margot Haliday Knight, Jed Dodds, Elena Devers, Erin Stover-­Sickmen, Cheryl Fortier, Camille Durin, DW Gibson, Skip Gianocca, Georgina Goodall and Mrs. Drue Heinz. Colony chefs who fed me terribly well: Ruth Shannon, Linda Williams, Dan Tosh, Mike Hazard, Rita Soares-Kern.

To the National Arts Council of Singapore.

And Hamish Robinson.

 

About the Author

Born and raised in Singapore,
CHERYL LU-LIEN TAN
is a New York–based journalist and author of
A Tiger in the Kitchen: A Memoir of Food and Family
, and edited the fiction anthology
Singapore Noir
. She has been a staff writer at the
Wall Street Journal
,
InStyle
magazine, and the
Baltimore Sun
.

Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
hc.com
.

 

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

SARONG PARTY GIRLS.
Copyright © 2016 by Cheryl Lu-­Lien Tan. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Harper­Collins books may be purchased for educational, business, or sales promotional use. For information please e-­mail the Special Markets Department at [email protected].

FIRST EDITION

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-­0-­06-­244896-­5

EPub Edition JULY 2016 ISBN: 9780062448989

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