Tales From A Broad (6 page)

There are even a few ‘plain' women in attendance (a coarser sort, a cattier person, not me, might toss out the phrase ‘butt ugly'). Hmmm, take a look at
this
one, would you? Now, she could be American … or maybe British. How in the world did her grandmother preserve that bathing suit so well? It's a little dress down to mid-thigh, green with small blue flowers, and she wears a matching hat and shoes.
Now
I'm thinking British. Very white. Looks like someone who'd enjoy cream teas and blue Stilton on digestives. I see two kids – a boy and girl about my kids' ages struggling toward the pool, shackled with arm floats and ankle floats, and each wearing an inflatable vest and an inner tube around their waist. What isn't covered with life-preserving garments is hidden beneath a plastering of sunscreen. I think you could even call it sun-repellent. I wait around to see who the mother is. Maybe she'll pull out blow-up hats or something. You know, in case everything else pops and the kids just start sputtering away. Yep, there she comes. She sticks little plugs of silly putty into each of their ears and goes over to sit in the shade with a book. Occasionally she looks up to say, ‘Jason, don't splash' or ‘Zooey, put them back in'. She has a sweet face, curls, freckles. American.

There are four other women – three golden blondes and a strawberry blonde, all of whom I've seen before. I throw Sadie and Huxley's toys into the middle of the pool, hoping to entice some of the other kids. No one is attracted to our garbage. The others have watering cans and super soakers, boats and swimmer Dans. We have margarine containers and shoe liners (I thought they'd float and Barbie could pretend she was on a raft). Undefeated, I cautiously inch closer to the crowd and lob a universal icebreaker: ‘Where can you get a Diet Coke around here?' The general opinion is: ‘I dunno' and ‘Never thought about it'. Thick ice. But the lady with the book bolts up and offers, ‘Prestons has them cold and Liberty has them warm. Either way, you'll need to go early on Friday.' I sidle over to her and tell her my stats: ‘from New York, here for three months'. She lounges back, turns a page of her book and says, ‘We all thought we were here for three months.' A moment or two later, she calls over to me, ‘I'm Caroline. Do you want a Diet Coke?'

‘Sure,' I answer.

‘Okay.' She pulls out a little keep-cold bag and gives me her only can, then goes back to her book, after shouting, ‘Jason, don't you dare run.'

Around 11, Jennifer, from Australia, a truly Olivia Newton-John fresh, minty beauty, pulls out a splendid array of homemade cookies and coffee cake. Yenna, from Sweden, with thick rings of blonde hair, high cheekbones and a gorgeous bustline, lays out a dozen cups and produces some tea. Tess, from South Africa, with silky, shimmering blonde hair and an impossibly flat stomach, pops open soft drinks. My compatriot has a Tupperware container of devilled eggs (no doubt a real crowd pleaser in the searing mid-morning heat). I offer up Cheez-It crackers and no one objects or even notices. At noon, the kids are called out of the pool and the eating begins.

I don't feel quite invited and a few cheesy crackers that have flown from America probably don't amount to admission.

‘Well, nice meeting you all.'

Nothing.

‘We're off to do some sightseeing,' I say, walking away but still facing them.

‘Have fun,' someone says and a few others giggle.

I add, ‘Then I have to come back and
work
. Yeah, can you believe? I've kept my job. I'm a literary agent … Yeah … okay … well, see you tomorrow.'

I'm humiliated. I stop in the ladies room to change Sadie's and Huxley's diapers. When I look in the mirror, I see myself at 13 losing David Satosky to Paula Levin. I also see that my eyes have deep rims around them in the exact shape of my goggles – dreaded goggle eyes – and my forehead is beet-red. I look butt ugly.

But, it would have been worse if I hadn't exercised.

While the kids and I were out conquering the world, making friends, sightseeing and absorbing the culture, Frank was ducking into doorways, talking into his shoephone and drawing down the cone of silence. Level-headed Frank was taking the whole Sebastiantrigue pretty hard. He was hurt and he was angry. No one was beyond suspicion now. He still had a job to do and a new director to hire on top of everything else. I didn't know where he was finding the time. He was making late-night calls to New York City and frantically bashing out follow-up emails. He was busy debugging his life – serious pest control. Nothing was straightforward any more; everything had an angle, no matter how bizarre. He rarely greeted me. I was afraid to say much to him. One conversation was aborted because, well, I
tend
to think it was one of God's creatures, but …

‘Oh, you think that's a spider, do you, Fran? And I suppose that's a web, too? Haven't you heard of
fiber optics, Fran
?'

Then there was the time I was clumsy and careless when I asked, ‘How are you?' I actually spoke before all the windows were shut and the television volume cranked up to 11.

‘Frank, aren't you getting carried away?' I asked as he hacked at the butter and peeked under the bread … just in case.

‘Are you fucking blind, Fran? You act like you don't want me to make a go of it here. You want me to fall on my face, is that it? You want four years of work to go down the fucking toilet? Why don't I just walk under a goddamned bus, Fran? You'd like that, huh? Get all that insurance money and find yourself a nice Jewish boy. Why don't you just go, go out that door, 'cause I don't want you, I don't want you any more. After all I've given …'

I banged out loudly, taking Sadie and Huxley with me. I took them off to the playground while they still had a few good years left. With a manic mother and paranoid father, I could see their shameful lives pass before me. First, they'd be picked last for all teams because no one had taught them how to catch: the roundness of a ball depressed Mom, and Dad thought the ball was out to git 'em. In a few years, they'd be making powerful little bombs in the basement – Mom loves big noises and Dad believes our zip code needs its own arsenal. Or, worse, they'd get into scouting.

Before long, I wasn't mad any more. More to the point, I found myself sort of wanting to hear the next riveting instalment. Last night, I learned that besides the car, Sebastian is now demanding a ton of cash and a letter of recommendation. He told Frank that he already had one lunch with the defendant's counsel, at which he only said they must wait. It sounds a lot like his stint at Frank's company: ‘Be patient … I have the goods …
Feed me
.'

I should mention that owning a car in Singapore is as expensive as owning a house in Singapore. First, you have to purchase a document saying you have the right to own a car, and that costs about 150 per cent of the car's worth, then, the base price of the most modest set of wheels is about $80,000. After ten years, you have to give it up because there is a no-clunker law. In fact, you could get a ticket here for driving a vehicle that has a couple of mud stains. What Sebastian was driving was worth $130,000 plus.

‘Come on, Frank, call his bluff,' I whispered. ‘I could use some wheels 'cause tomorrow we're going …'

Frank's eyes darted from side to side. He took up a pen and paper and wrote:
Shhh
.

I laughed.

He didn't.

He furiously scrawled:
He might tell them who we're targeting and blow the raid!

‘What a sexy business you're in, Frank. Raids, bugs – what's next?' I leaned closer and asked in a low voice. ‘Fly swatters? Why not put a nibble of cheese out for him?

‘I'll tell you why not,' Frank said, shoving me into the safe room, which happens to be in the stairwell, in another apartment building, ‘but then, I'll have to kill you.'

I can make fun of Frank all day, for sure, but the truth is he finally has my attention. I mean, the whole time Frank and I have been together, we've talked about me. Certainly in all work-related discussions. Really, honestly, by and large, most of our other discussions have had a way of revolving around me too, but work-talk in particular has always been me, me, me. It was ever thus. I'm the more entertaining, engaging one, undeniably, and my job provides better stories. If I let him, Frank could be really boring.

I knew where he worked and his title, but any time he tried to tell me more, I'd wave my hands, like, ‘Oh, I just couldn't …', as if I were being offered a second scone. ‘Too full from all that stuff about Lexington Avenue and some cross street in midtown … A VP, did you say? Do you make good money?'

Now, all of a sudden, I'm listening. Frank is full of energy. The stress is revving him up, taking him a few crayons away from his place among the pointy-headed beige set. I believe he is starting to feel burnt-umberish.

There is also a tacit understanding that we are here because of me. I folded from the vicissitudes of life; I let everything get to me. I prayed for time to get in touch and slow down. To start breathlessly bemoaning the day's events on the job while wearing a wet bathing suit, arms and legs bronzed and shapely, would have really been like a picnic at the beach where you never actually get out of the car, like leaving the wrapper on the sofa, like seeing the glass as I tend to see it. A reason for Frank to say, for the bazillionth time, ‘You are never happy.' At which point I usually start bawling and say, ‘I am too!'

Plus, starting every tale of office drama with ‘I just got an email …' quite lacks the same punch as the sort of stuff I used to bring home, eg ‘You'll never guess who hung up on me today' or ‘Fucking so and so just fired me' (at which point we'd open a bottle of something yummy we'd been saving and toast good riddance to bad rubbish, and
then
I'd start to bawl).

But, I'll tell you, listening, well, that's an art form. It's hard.

‘I hate to interrupt,' I say one night when I am truly starving for the sound of my own voice.

‘Sure, sure,' Frank responds magnanimously.

‘Do you know that they don't have shakes at the McDonald's here?'

‘No.'

Enough for me. ‘Yeah,' I say, getting excited about the chance to spin a yarn. ‘And when we ordered the Happy Meal, it was like a Monty Python sketch. I said to the lady at the register … and they aren't pimply high-school losers in the place, either, they're prim old ladies who have found a way to be useful in society … they
respect
this job. I think they were all recruited at some church function where Ronald McDonald snuck in and waved a fry around. Now, they
believe
. They got McJesus in their hearts and grease in their souls. Anyway, I get to the register … and let me tell you, the way people around here line up … if your nose isn't touching the back of a head, you just aren't in line. Someone will come between that half inch and claim a space.'

Frank interjects, ‘That's a very ingrained Chinese incentive: if you aren't first, you're last.' He says the motto in Chinese,
kiasu
.

‘Whatever. And, when I get up there, they ask, “Meals for you?” Like, “Cripes, I don't know. I just found myself waiting in line with two small, starving kids because I wanted to get close to you.
Kiss me, you fool
. No? Okay, then I'll order something. I want a hamburger Happy Meal, a fish burger, fries and a toy. But instead of Coke, I want milk.”

‘Madame barks at me as if I need to learn my catechism. “Cheeseburger Happy Meals. No toy with fish. Large fries for one dollar more.” Softening, she asks, “Super Guzzler today?” I say, “I don't want a cheeseburger, just a plain hamburger, and I'll buy the toy. Regular fries and I'll pay extra for the milk.” She repeats: “Cheeseburger Happy Meal, no fish Happy Meal. McFlurry for you?” I repeat louder, “Why don't you just grab a hamburger instead of the cheeseburger and let me know what I owe you for an extra toy. Give me a side order of milk.” The manager appears and they go into a conference. Meanwhile, the kids have pushed down on the straw dispenser enough times to splice together a hollow plastic bridge from here to Timbuktu. After a bit, she calls into the mike, “Cheeseburger without the cheese.” She puts the fish, fries, drinks and toy on a tray – it was the exact same Ronald-McDonald-in-his-spaceship toy I had when I was a kid hooked on Happy Meals. “Where's the burger?” I asked. “Gone already.” Frank, they didn't
have
hamburgers in stock after all that!' Hoo whee, I'm cracking myself up.

‘Frank,' I look up. ‘Frrraaannk,' I shout. He's slinking out of the room. ‘I got more … Haw Par Villa, we went there, too.'

But he's somewhere else, morse-coding messages to the home office.

I spend another morning swimming, being the invisible lady at the baby pool, and the afternoon pushing the double stroller through another sightseeing mission. I wish the book had a page or ten that said ‘Stay home'.