Chapter 12
12
Sunday 6 March
2:07 a.m.
Back from Valerie’s shindig with both my kidneys and my soul intact, so that’s a relief.
At 7:00 p.m. sharp, Valerie rolled up to Swissotel in Bugis. My jaw dropped when she popped out of a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, dressed in a black one-shoulder dress and making me look completely dowdy in comparison in my gray slacks, cap-sleeved cream silk blouse, and safe, gold ballerina flats.
“Sweeeeetheart!” she said, tottering out in silver heels tall enough to make a supermodel out of a gnome and holding two glasses of bubbly. Everyone was staring at her. I scrambled into the back of the car, dying to get away. “Why are you dressed so fancy?” I asked, flabbergasted.
“DeeDee, my friend the ex-actress, told me to dress nice!”
I shut the door as Valerie got in on the other side. “And you went straight for cocktail attire? What if she meant business casual?”
“When DeeDee says ‘nice,’ she means ‘fabulous.’ These people don’t work! We’re talking thin air, high altitude here, not your
working poor
!”
“Oh, excuse me,” I said sarcastically. “I’ll just go back to my corporate hovel with the gold-plated taps and the Molton Brown toiletries, and shit while overlooking the sea.”
Valerie patted my arm as though I were a troll with coal for brains. “Hush. The point is, you have to work. Ergo, poor.”
Valerie had no nuance. How she ended up eking out a comfortable living as a curator at one of the poshest, most respected art galleries in town, I had no idea.
“Well, if I’m poor, so are you,” I shot back.
“I’m not poor!” Valerie said in a deeply offended tone. She had been briefly married to the heir of a very wealthy Indo-Chinese family who, as it turned out, was gay. The dude was so deep in the denial closet that he was all the way in Narnia. Valerie literally had to catch him in the act of hoovering chauffeur dick for him to admit that, maybe, just maybe, he was gay. Heartbroken but not stupid, Valerie whipped out her phone and took as many photos of her husband and her naked chauffeur as she could before storming out of their marital home, intending to use them to secure a great divorce settlement. Not that her quick action made a big difference to her fortunes in the end: unfortunately, thanks to an iron-clad prenup, she divorced the man with little more to show (by billionaire divorce standards, that is) than a large River Valley penthouse and eighteen thousand dollars of spending money a month. Add that to the fact that she had had very little sex for the almost nine years that she was married, I thought she had done very badly for herself.
“It’s all a matter of perspective,” Valerie was saying. “I don’t need to work for a living if I don’t want to. I
like
my job.”
We decided that we would stop arguing in favor of drinking the champagne, a delectable 2002 Pol Roger rosé, which was fizzing dangerously flat. Priorities and all.
We each downed two glasses in quick succession, which was unusual for Valerie.
I soon found out why. “You know, I was joking about the devil-worship the last time we spoke, of course, but to be honest, given DeeDee’s swinger reputation, anything is possible tonight,” Valerie said as we wove our way through rush-hour traffic. “We could find ourselves in an
Eyes Wide Shut
situation later.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” I confided. “If this
turns out to be some kinky swingers event, I’m going home. I have on underwear so old that it can shrink an erection, and I’d rather nobody saw it tonight.”
“And the closest I’ve ever gotten to any group action was watching a National Geographic special on snakes!”
“What have we gotten ourselves into?” I said wildly. “We should turn around and go back now.”
“You can’t,” the Grab driver cut in.
“And why not?” Valerie demanded.
“Well, you have to reenter your destination into the app, plus I’m not turning around until I’ve seen this crazy hot party house. And also, we’ve arrived.”
So we had.
After we had passed through security, we were deposited in front of an imposing oak, ushered into a reception room by a maid in an actual uniform, and given a flute of champagne each. Then DeeDee Halim, former beauty queen, model, ex-actress, and alleged orgy buddy of a prince, greeted us herself at the door in a jeweled kaftan in flamingo pink and gold and an armful of gold Cartier Love and Frey Wille bangles, interspersed with bright turquoise bead bracelets. It was a breathtaking vision. She was still beautiful, with full, sensuous features, a shock of graying hair swept into a bun, and large, limpid eyes the color of sand.
“Darling,” she said, air-kissing Valerie. “Don’t you look
adorable
.” Even her voice was velvety.
“Don’t
you
!” Valerie cooed, not seeming to mind smashing her carefully honed, Janet Jackson–esque waxen cheekbones against DeeDee’s real ones.
DeeDee turned the full blare of those doe-like eyes to me and we exchanged air kisses. “And you must be Andrea, Valerie’s good friend.”
“I sure am,” I said in an unnatural high voice. I had to fight back the impulse to say “ma’am” like a school child.
“Pleased to meet you,” DeeDee said. “Follow me.” She sashayed away.
It was hard not to gawk as she led us past room after well-appointed room to the living hall. We were like Alice entering Wonderland—an extremely tastefully executed, designer Wonderland. You know those achingly beautiful houses you find in
Architectural Digest
,
Home & Design
, or Pinterest? Those gorgeous homes that have custom everything and never had an Ikea anything? This was that house. Hardwood floors, tasteful lighting, a brutalist chandelier that threw amber-gold light everywhere. Walls done in washes of ecru and pearl, hung with quiet art; a dining room with porcelain vases, brass sculptures, and a crystal chandelier almost as long as a table.
The living hall was the most colorful room in the house so far, thanks to the owner’s interesting collection of brightly colored, eclectic art: a trio of Mirós, what was maybe an Alphonse Mucha, framed Persian miniatures in dazzling detail, beautiful collages from an artist that neither of us knew, and a large, showstopping centerpiece by an artist called Ashley Bickerton that made Valerie gasp. Bouquets of burgundy tulips and lilies in crystal vases dotted the room.
I looked around, intimidated, as I understood what Valerie had been trying to tell me: I was underdressed. A dozen or so beautiful people in cocktail-appropriate attire were fanned out around the room, chatting gaily as two waiters in linen pants and white shirts circulated with flutes of champagne and platters of hors d’oeuvres. In one corner of the room was a large island of food: iced trays of oysters, mini quiches, an assortment of mini toasts, two different salads, bowls of olives, gorgeous platters of macarons and chocolate truffles, next to a bar where a smiling chef stood behind the counter, slicing sashimi that no one seemed to be asking for.
I tried to act nonchalant. Beside me Valerie’s eyes were glazed with desire and wonder, and she was possibly low-grade
hyperventilating. “OMG, that’s Wilson Lam!” she whispered excitedly. I had no idea who she was talking about, but before I could reply she had dashed off, Road Runner–style, to a man in a white suit with silver hair and more work done on his face than Valerie’s. A white suit! I shook my head, amused. But then I saw a good-looking man in his forties in a brocade
bleu de france
suit with a Hermès orange bow tie and matching pocket square walk in with a poodle on a monogrammed leash, followed by a woman in ripped acid-green jeans, a black long-sleeved top with large paillettes sewn into the collar and carrying a neon yellow patent leather bag, and that took all the wind from my sails. Maybe I was the one who was out of place, not them.
For a few minutes I stood there alone, sipping on champagne, unsure of what to do. All the guests were engaged in intimate conversations with unwelcoming body language. Twice or thrice, with different groups, I tried to insert myself into a conversation and was politely but so cleanly rebuffed that I gave up and wandered over to gorge on oysters. But when I saw that I was the only person eating I felt uncomfortable and stopped. I looked down at the table where nine empty oyster shells, mine, lay on the bone white porcelain bowl and I felt exposed by my peasant gluttony.
The living room’s glass sliding doors were open. I slipped out onto a sloping lawn with a long, lit oblong pool and an unobstructed view of the city. I spied a hillside deck on the edge of the manicured lawn and made my way toward it, eager to take in the magnificent view of the city with its blinking neon eyes. As I strolled I took in the large rain trees bordering the lawn, old, majestic, framing the starless night sky with their stark black boughs. Someone had strung fairy lights in the trees to make up for the missing stars; they needn’t have bothered. There were fireflies in the bushes and darting through the frangipani-scented night air.
I stepped gingerly onto the timber deck, nervous to be this close to the edge of a hill. But the view was worth it. Here was Singapore’s CBD, skyscrapers slashed with light. Standing there
on the deck I could hear the rustle of bird wings and the song of crickets. Crickets!
Tears sprang, unbidden, to my beady, plebeian eyes. That so much beauty was possible in the heart of this stone-and-concrete city, that it should be owned by one person, while I paid almost half my salary and almost all my waking hours for not even a hundredth of this space—it hurt. How could this be what my life had become about?
“Is this spot taken?” someone said in the darkness behind me.
Startled, I whirled around. Behind me was one of the waiters, leaning against the deck railing in a creased white linen shirt and an equally rumpled pair of tan linen khakis. He was older, in his late forties or early fifties, and had a kind face with intense eyes. “Not at all,” I said. “There’s enough deck space for a harem of dancing hippos.”
He chuckled. “Cute imagery.” He gestured at the view. “Isn’t this something special? I mean, the Singapore skyline is nowhere near as grand as Hong Kong’s and Shanghai’s, but I prefer it. It’s more . . . approachable, if that makes sense.”
“Hmmm,” I managed, noncommittal. I totally got what he meant.
I could feel him studying my profile. “You don’t sound very enthused. Are you not enjoying yourself?”
“It’s just . . . so . . . much, you know? These people.” I pointed at the beautifully rich cluster, visible through the glass doors. “This place. It’s a dream. I feel like I’ve just walked into a snow globe of magic rich-people glitter. It’s just a little too fabulous. But what do I know, I’m just a poor everyman.” I laughed a little self-consciously—what must this older man think of poor li’l entitled me moaning about life in my relatively pricey clothes and champagne and $350 cologne. I leaned toward him and adopted a conspiratorial tone. “Anyway, between you and me, I can’t figure out this evening. I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a book club, but
come on, we all know it’s really just an excuse for a bunch of super rich, obnoxious people to fellate each other’s egos, am I right?”
His eyes twinkled at me. “I’ve heard it said that ‘There are only two things wrong with money: too much or too little.’ I suppose you think these people have too much.”
“Yes. And I know where that quote’s from, that’s by Charles Bukowski.” I was full of admiration; he’d quoted it word for word. “Are you into poetry as well?”
“A little. I like the greats: Li Bai, Bai Juyi, Li Shangyin. Do you read Chinese poetry?”
I quoted a Meng Haoran poem in response.
*
“Beautiful.” He was studying me; I blushed. “I think an appreciation of poetry is a good foundation for any relationship. If you’re bored, you can just hang out with me. I promise I won’t talk about my fleet of Lambos or my watch collection. We can just talk about you.” He offered his right hand. “I’m Eric.” He had an unusual accent, unplaceable, with a raspy smoker’s voice.
“I’m sorry, where are my manners? I’m Andrea.” I extended my hand to shake his and he pressed it against his lips before releasing it gently. It was an unaffected, graceful gesture. It was then I realized that he wasn’t a waiter—he was one of the guests. Judging by his wrinkled clothing and his Apple Watch, this was a fellow interloper, one of the working poor, perhaps a friend of a richer friend.
We chatted comfortably for a bit until we were summoned by
a little dinner bell. I shook my head at Eric and made a face, which he chuckled at.
“The overlords await,” I said wryly.
“Come, fellow serf,” he said, taking my arm. “Let’s go eat some more
atas
*
mollusks.”
“A man after my own stomach,” I said, ecstatic. “What’s the point of having primo seafood if everyone is on some kind of diet? And those desserts!”
“I’ll ask Hiro to pack all the cupcakes and macarons to go. Most of the people in there are gluten intolerant anyway.”
I nodded, half-listening, my eyes on the island of food, especially the glistening ice tray of oysters. I was ready for action, but it was not to be. DeeDee was motioning for the group to be seated. Reluctantly, I strode past the beckoning food and took my seat with the rest of them on the large leather couches. Eric and I sat ourselves next to Valerie and a tall, emaciated blond woman in a silvery dress. There was an expectant buzz as copies of
A Little Life
were fished out of bags. I appeared to be the only one with a Kindle, which was surprising. I didn’t care. I turned the Kindle on and pulled out a two-pager cheat sheet of the book. Now, Valerie had told me to read the book, which obviously I hadn’t, but I had read the summary and made clever shorthand notes for each character; I had even taken down some choice quotes in case things got seriously granular. I knew how anal retentive the ultra-rich could be from dealing with them at work. When you’re not working, you probably have time to memorize quotes.
DeeDee began. “Welcome once again to the Baca Buku club. I believe we have two new guests tonight”—she smiled in Valerie’s and my direction—“so can everyone introduce themselves to the
room with your first name and a few words about yourself before we start the discussions?”
One by one, we complied. The introductions were pretty sober; no one made any jokey quips (the group knew each other too well, I supposed), so I was obliged to swallow mine about being an alcoholic desk-bound paper pusher. Instead I said, “Andrea, lawyer and oyster fan,” to the mirth of Eric, who followed with the simple, “Eric, entrepreneur.”
“I hope you’ve all read Hanya Yanagihara’s new tome,
A Little Life
, the book we will be discussing tonight. It’s such a gem and Michiko darling says—”
“Michiko who?” I whispered to Eric.
“Kakutani, the literary critic,” Eric whispered back. “You know, of the
New York Times
.”
“Ooh, are they friends?” I was dead impressed.
Eric smirked. “I think they met once at some New York soirée, and now she follows Miss Kakutani on Twitter.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Rashidah’s a good woman who’s unfortunately stricken with low self-esteem,” he said. It took me half a beat to realize he was talking about DeeDee.
DeeDee was prattling on. “But of course, I can’t go further without acknowledging the hospitality of our host, who not only allows me to throw such book appreciation parties and whatever fanciful fete my little heart desires, but is also generous enough to let me stay at his sumptuous summer residence for the months in which I must serve out my time as tax resident on this island”—a twitter of mirth from the audience, many of whom were no doubt doing the same—“until I return to New York, where, of course, the action is, as we all know.”
“Wow, what a sweet arrangement! I’ll bet she’s banging the brains out of that old fart,” I whispered.
“She does seem like the type to take advantage of a hapless
man,” Eric agreed, grinning. “Although I’m curious to know what makes you automatically assume that he is older, and not younger, than DeeDee, and more pertinently, what makes you think she’s his type at all?”
“—but enough moaning about the paltry art scene here. I’ve hardly been suffering in this gorgeous place in the company of such gracious folk, and none more gracious than my host and my old friend, the generous, inimitable, the one and only—Mister Eric Deng!”
I could feel the blood draining from my face as I swiveled once more to look at Eric, who was smiling down at me now as he stood and waved to acknowledge the cheering audience. As the applause died down he sat back down and whispered, “We should definitely have lunch together if I’m not too old for your tastes, what say you, Andrea?”