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 welclass="underline" 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.
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