~ For Which The First was Made ~
by eToh
Copyright and Disclaimers: This is an orignal work by eToh and she reserves all rights to it. It is a work of fiction and the characters and events here are not intended to describe real persons and events. The novel takes place in Singapore and there are references to events which bear some connection to real events but the writer makes no claim to historical accuracy. It's just a story, guys!
Copyright March, 2004
This novel is alternative and contains explicit descriptions of sex between adults of the same gender.
Write the Bard: etoh1@mac.com
CHAPTER 1-Then
The papers in the sink are burning blood red, spurting reflected flames on the kitchen window. She has her back to me, framed in crimson.
I wonder if, in her haste to destroy it all, she might have mixed a love letter in the pile. A note on tissue that I had scribbled, perhaps. Seated at a roadside cafe, waiting for the first glimpse of her purposeful stride, her blonde hair glinting in the harsh noon-day sun. Knowing that the Chinese men near the entrance would look on in curious envy as she ignored them all and came straight to me, the insignificant girl at the corner table. Anticipating the rush of wet that still had not yet learnt to control itself. Savoring the sting of desire that always came. Gleefully writing it down, just to fuck with my own brain twice. Once in the pre-saging. And then again when she would actually appear.
I know she wouldn't burn my words intentionally, wouldn't lose them if she could. But she's in a hurry. We're only into the second box. The first took so long to sink into ash. And there are three more on the floor.
If they came now, driving up in their unmarked cars with the QX plates (as if everybody didn't know that all unmarked police cars carried QX plates), banging on the door with their warrants, they would catch us red-handed. Bathed, bathed in red. Desperately trying to destroy the evidence that might destroy the life we had so recently built for ourselves.
She turns then, fear radiating from her. Grotequely, perversly like sex. Pulsing. I take her breasts suddenly, hard, twisting. I can see that it has happened for her too. The terror turned to aggressive desire. We both understand. We forgive. At that moment, pain seems the only thing that might reassure us that we are alive and vital still. Not some defeated dream waiting to drain away.
Her mouth is warm and wet through my thin t-shirt. My nipples tighten and stand up. I push her away so that I can lift the shirt, hungry to feel her tongue without the veil of cotton. She knows what I need even before I pull her back to me. Her teeth nip and I almost come immediately. Behind us, the crackle of paper crumbling arrests our heated fumbling for a second. In the pause, I want to tell her I love her. That if tonight they came for her and we never had more than these last few weeks, my body would not forget, my heart would not heal, my soul would never accept the imprint of another.
She groans my name. "Please. Now. Inside." My hand is grabbed, thrust against her shorts, so quickly soaked through. I forget all thought and slide in, I am barely there when her walls stretch taut and ridged. She is so close to the edge. I try to slow my fingers but she won't let me, pushing against my hand until I give in. Give in to her, to the rhythmn of her orgasm, to my own incoherent cresting.
We hold each other as we sob and pretend the tears are happy. After I take her again, still standing in the middle of the kitchen, we return to feeding the blaze. We say no other words to each other that night. It takes us till dawn to burn it all.
Two days later, they serve the notice. They go to her office in the day. There is no drama. Just a police order served on a foreign journalist who is viewed as a trouble-maker for commenting on matters of domestic politics. They revoke her work permit and order her to leave the country within 24 hours. They take her notes and files, and even her precious laptop, but we know they won't find what they want. Her editor, from the safety of Lexington Avenue, N.Y., N.Y., makes a half-hearted protest. As if this little Asian experiment in controlled democracy cares that the liberal Western media might trash it further. The magazine promises to pursue all available remedies on her behalf, but by then the deadline is upon us.
Isn't it funny that when the moment actually comes, we concentrate on practicalities and logistics? I booked her flight to New York. She packed incredibly efficiently. We weren't even late getting to the airport.
When you might as well be dead, everything becomes simple again.
CHAPTER 2 - Now
The peanuts were stale but the stewardess rocked. The one, salted Chinese. The other, sweet Thai (possibly Vietnamese). Her cross and her consolation.
Kris sighed. What was she doing on a flight to Singapore chasing down a new property when she had several documentary projects by proven houses waiting for her sign-off back in New York? True, the lure of Asian mystique probably had a year or two left before it went the way of Mafia exposes. And the proposal that ASEAN HQ emailed her did have potential - a no-holds-barred biography of a prominent local public personality. Who happened to be lesbian and, until now, semi-closetted. ASEAN HQ assured her that the subject was willing to co-operate. Fully. In this conservative Asian society, if the story really panned out, it would be a major coup for her network. Well, at least, that was the pitch.
But then again, she'd never seen anything from this particular Asian country that wasn't earnestly sincere and stiltedly careful. Even Switzerland was sexier than Singapore. By a long shot.
Kris sighed again, popping a stale Chinese peanut in her mouth. And consoled herself with contemplating sweet Thai.
******
The humidity was like a burlap sack descending on her as she left the plane. After all her trips to this part of the world, she was still never prepared when it hit her, literally taking her breath away for a while. She could feel the flood of sweat run down the back of her blouse. She was going to need a shower. Quick.
Changi Airport was smooth and unobtrusive. She barely noticed the time it took to get from plane to cab rank. Although the country heavily taxed cigarettes and alcohol in its bid to maintain its puritanical image, it was always willing to milk the tourist buck for all it was worth. The duty-free shop was a well-oiled machine with pre-packaged sets of alcohol at the checkout counter featuring every conceivable combination of rum, vodka and chablis which met the total quota. Kris bought one just for good measure. Twenty minutes after the plane landed, seated comfortably in the back of a taxi speeding into the city, Kris had to admit grudgingly that Singapore did airports well. JFK at the best of times had been trying. After 9/11, it was an obstacle course.
The taxi driver chattered on in the local polyglot, a slightly guttural, clipped version of English that constantly slipped into other languages which Kris did not recognise. "You come from Hong Kong?" he asked anxiously.
"Do I look like I come from Hong Kong?" Kris teased. But when he simply blinked anxiously again, she obliged "America."
" Direct? No transit in Hong Kong?" he insisted.
"Frankfurt. Why the interest?"
"Sick people come from Hong Kong." he explained rather cryptically.
Kris shook her head in amusement. If there was a conspiracy theory to be had, trust a taxi driver to acquaint you with it. She checked her mobile for messages and smiled at the one from her mother.
"Go 4 spicy, honey. Don't 4get pkge for E." Her mother had almost seemed more excited about this trip, her first to Singapore, than her. Breaking the unspoken rule of many years, she had driven into the city on a weekend night to have dinner with Kris the night before Kris's flight.
"Why must you always pick steak and country music, dear? There's a new Burnese restuarant on 78th that's gotten great reviews, you know. Excellent curries, it seems." Cass Bretton, at 55, was always determinedly trying to get her oldest daughter to expand her cultural horizons. Admittedly, her elegant mother looked 40 and was the only person Kris knew who could carry off a Chinese cheongsam - the tight silk dress setting off her fair coloring and long legs. She was also the only person Kris knew who could wear a Chinese cheongsam to Harry's Meathook and not look entirely out of place when Deana Carter crooned "I'm just a girl."
"I have an aversion to unidentifiiable vegetable matter in murky stews. I prefer my protein in openly bleeding muscle."
"You are an incorrigible throwback. You must get it from your Dad. He sends love. As do Damon and Cindy."
"I just saw you guys last weekend."
"That doesn't mean we love you any less, silly."
"Yes, Mom," Kris grinned, settling goodnaturedly into the usual routine of affectionate chiding.
After ribeye (Kris's) and sirloin (lean, Cass's), her mother had dug into her bag.
"This is for your Auntie Ellen. The address and mobile are on the package. You can just get the hotel to send it to her if she's too busy to meet up." If Kris didn't know Cass better, she'd have sworn her mother was nervous. "Ellen can be very busy." Cass repeated for emphasis.
"Don't worry. I shall stay out of her hair. Call. Arrange delivery. Send love. You can trust me."
"I know how you are, Kris."
"Really. And how's that? Shy and retiring like you?"
"Just make sure she gets this. Please?"
Kris leaned across then and gave her fretful mother a quick hug. "I live to deliver. Stop worrying. Auntie Ellen will receive her Chrismas present as instructed. 9 months early this year."
All her life, Kris remembered, the box that would come in mid-December, bearing the Singapore postmark and colorful stamps. There would be gifts for her mom and dad, and something for each of the kids. Interestingly, the gifts were always appropriate, as if her mother's friend, whom she had never met, knew what was happening in her life. At 15, the chunky early-model digital camera had seemed an unlikely extravagance even for someone who was obviously a close family friend but her mother had simply smiled and said, "Take some pictures of Cindy." That first shot had sucked her into a career fascinated with the capture and manipulation of images, the chronicling of visual tales. Her first short documentary had garnered her recognition as an up and comer in an industry of tyros. She had risen so quickly that she'd been press-ganged into management at the tender age of 26. She missed being behind the lens but she enjoyed nurturing new work. And she had an uncanny ability to pick the stories that stirred hearts, stimulated minds and picked up audience share. It was hard to argue against that kind of success.
Kris patted the small book-sized package in her back pack. She hoped Auntie Ellen wouldn't be too busy to meet.
The taxi lurched to a sudden stop, jerking her from contemplation.
Jo was waiting for her curbside when the cab drew up to the tall, anonymous building in which her local office was housed. The taxi had barely stopped before she threw open the back door and plonked her lanky frame next to Kris's.
"Change of plans. The local production company we're working with can't make it this afternoon. Power breakfast tomorrow instead." "Hyatt," she barked at the taxi driver, without pausing. Then turned back to Kris, "You must be tired. I'll get you settled in at the hotel and brief you on the Bangkok financials over a beer. There's a party tonight. You up to it, mate?"
An Australian who had lived in Singapore for close to 10 years, Jo was talented, resourceful and almost embarrasingly enthusiastic about Asian women. Kris and Jo had met several times, typically in Thailand, where their company had several active projects. Jo's constant invitations to Singapore were peppered with descriptions from what appeared to be an extensive catalog of female companions whom Jo was sure Kris would like. Even without asking, Kris had a pretty good idea what kind of party Jo was talking about.
"Private, exclusive. Held just twice a month. Can you believe your luck? Good music. Really cute chicks. I guarantee you've never have seen so many Asian dykes in one place."
"I'll take your word for it." Kris remarked drily.
"No joshing. And a few of them look like Joan Chen."
"In Wild Things or Crouching Tiger?"
"Wild Sides. And that was Michelle Yeoh in Crouching Tiger. Also very hot. You should brush up on your Asian cinema."
"I should get a good shower and some profit margins on the Thai property."
"I can promise you at least one out of two," grinned Jo.
"You're not getting into my bathroom."
"But I know some nubile young things who might..." Jo teased back, launching into an unlikely story that involved orchids, red peppers, two Indian girls and many sexual positions that Kris suspected were anatomically impossible.
Kris relaxed into her seat, letting the blonde go on.
Welcome to Singapore!
CHAPTER 3 - Just a Bit Later
By the time Kris and Jo were sipping latte and Heineken at the hotel coffee house, Kris was exhausted by the sexual possibilities that apparently lay beneath the surface of repressed probity. As Jo geared up for another account of tropical island lust, Kris leaned back in the plush leather armchair and surveyed her surroundings. Like so many five star hotels in Asian countries, this one tried to help the discerning Western traveller discern practically nothing. The objective was obviously to make a North American guest feel as if she had never stepped out from the midtown Hyatt in New York. If not for the ethnicity of the extremely attractive women at the front desk, Kris might have imagined that the 24 hour flight she'd just taken had brought her full circle to yet another American city. Even the sushi bar fronting the very expensive-looking restaurant featuring fusion cuisine was discretely designed for (oh just say it, Kris) white sensibilities.
Kris wondered what really went on underneath the bland welcome. Apparently, sex, sex and more sex, if Jo was to be believed.
"She conveniently had her tongue in my ear at that point. And she would announce the positions before demonstrating them. ... " Jo paused. "Are you listening to me?"
"I think so. You were talking about positions. Still. "
"The Karma Sutra, honey. Familiar with every single permutation. All eight hundred bloody over of them. She got me so hot just talking about them, I was creaming in my pants. It was fucking amazing. And she's got friends."
Jo looked so eager, Kris didn't have the heart to disabuse her. But the truth of the matter was that, for all her outward confidence and poise, Kris had never really been, well, sexually adventurous. Her career had kept her passionately engaged for most of her adult life. And the two women who had sexually engaged her, one while she was still at NYU film school during a hazily drunken encounter and the other whom she'd dated to please her group of well-meaning friends, had never really held her passion. So although Kris had known, without too much trauma, from a fairly early age, which team she batted for, she had come to accept that she was unlikely to ever make MVP.
"Look. I really am a little tired from the flight," she gave as an excuse. "I think I'll just go up to my room, maybe take a nap. We can go over the Thai numbers over dinner."
"Why didn't you say so earlier? And here I was thinking that you might be bored, coming from the Big Apple, with our piddling outback escapades." For the barest second, Jo's cheery blue eyes darkened and Kris suddenly spied the uncertainty in them and understood.
How fragile we all are. So insecure behind the bravado. Ten years in what must seem to her to be an insignificant posting. How we all crave validation.
Kris leaned across the table impulsively and held Jo's hands, "Hey. Sounds pretty hip to me. Don't believe everything you read. Most of my friends would kill to have half the excitement you seem to be getting out here. "
The shadow lifted from Jo's eyes, "Really, huh? You mean it's not all dancing and debauchery in New York?"
"Hardly, my dear."
"Well, it's definitely not boring here."
"I can tell. " Kris couldn't stop the yawn that slipped through then. She shook her head, trying to dislodge the haze, and the ache she suddenly felt in her shoulders.
"OK. OK. Let's get you to your room. I'll head back to the office, pull together those numbers you keep harping on about and come get you later for the evening's revelries." Jo signalled for the check and the handsome Malay waiter who had been standing discreetly by their table quickly and quietly melted away to get it.
"By the way, I highly recommend the sauna in the hotel. Work out those cricks in the neck."
A sauna. That sounded heavenly.
"Sounds like bliss," Kris admitted.
"Oh you bet." Jo's natural exuberance had returned in full force as had her irrepressible talents as sexual tour guide. "By the way, the gym here has a real reputation."
"Oh?"
Jo nodded sagely signing the bill with a flourish, "The Tai-tais sometimes hunt there. Rich society women, usually Chinese. Looking for something on the side while their business conglomerate husbands play golf and keep mistresses. It's an open secret. As long as you're discrete, they're often up to a little afternoon delight. It's a nice arrangement. They get some fun. No obligations on either side. Too much to lose if it gets out. The other day, I heard ...."
Kris closed her eyes and let Jo sweep her along.
******
After Jo deposited her in the luxurious room, Kris decided to take a quick swim. The Hyatt's pool was on the fifth floor, in a beatifully landscaped open-air garden that almost made you forget you were in the middle of a big city until you heard the background hum and honk of street traffic. There was no one else around except the buff pool attendant and a middle-aged Caucasian man who was unduly interested in listening to the pool attendant describe the hotel's gymn facilities. Kris was content to let them flirt while they ignored her. The little pool didn't really test her but it was good to get her limbs moving and the taut knot in her back had loosened up after 30 mini-laps. Some quality time in a sauna seemed a fitting way to wrap up the session, Kris thought as she towelled her thick straight dark hair.
The attendants at the sauna facilities were as pleasant, efficient and unobtrusive as all the other staff she'd met so far.
"Just one other person here, miss," smiled the girl with the unlikely name of "Camelia" on her tag as she showed Kris to the sauna, with its two heated pools and narrow stalls. "Let me know if you need anything."
The other person was a small, slim, Chinese woman who sat quietly, her face turned towards the wooden slatted walls, in one corner of the sauna. She might be asleep, she was so still.
Respecting her privacy, Kris chose a spot as far away as she could and settled in. She wondered if the woman was one of Jo's tai-tais. The lazy heat soon calmed and overwhelmed her. She closed her eyes.
******
The feel of sweat seeping between her eyelashes made Kris open her eyes to wipe them. She'd almost dozed off in the warm, damp cabin, the hot steam rising off the coals. Jo had been right, at least in part. The Hyatt had a very nice sauna indeed.
Floating in that pleasurable no-mans-land between consciousness and sleep, Kris slowly became aware that her companion was no longer still nor asleep. Her face was not turned to the wall anymore. Heartshaped and delicate, the skin flawless, the bones fine, it was ageless. With her eyes closed, without any window to her experience or soul to give Kris any clues, she could have been 15. Or 40. She was beautiful.
It also gradually became uncomfortably clear that the woman thought Kris was asleep and herself unnoticed. Kris knew she shouldn't stare but there was something hynoptic about the slow, spiral movement of the woman's hand underneath her towel, the thigh golden-tanned against fluffy white cotton. In the cocooned silence of the sauna, Kris could hear every catch of breath, could sense every twitch of pleasure, could feel every tightening.
The painful release of moisture caught Kris by surprise. Unable to stop herself, drawn in some warped way to want to share the moment with this stranger, she slid her fingers under the flap of her own towel and found herself ready. In some faraway part of her brain, she registered the thought that she was never ready like this. It usually took quite a bit of foreplay to prime her and even then she preferred to bring her partner to orgasm first, letting the thrill of that moment bring her closer to the point from which she could fall. Sex had always been somewhat deliberate for Kris.
Now, suddenly, just looking at a stranger touch herself had made her wet. Not just wet. But slick, thick and urgent. Her clitoris so hard and grown so large that she didn't recognise her own body when she touched it. Just catching a shadow of pleasure rush across the woman's face made her walls start to clench of their own accord, her buttocks rubbing against the wooden seat now slippery with her juice. She started to match her movements to the woman's, their hands moving in rhythm. Now faster. Now slowing down. Kris was so aroused that, within seconds, she was poised to fall. She wanted to come so badly, she had to will herself to stay with her companion. And still the sensuous spiral continued its slow teasing torture.
It occured to Kris in one of the few moments when her mind managed to re-assert itself that Jo had been entirely right. These Asian women were hot. And that she owed Jo an apology for doubting, even for a second, the veracity of her sexual exploits. But her mind quickly lost the struggle and Kris left all the thinking behind. Left it behind to follow the beautiful stranger as her pace quickened, her hips thrusting, her head thrown back. Close now.
God, let it be soon. Give me permission to surrender.
Almost. Almost.
"Please." Kris whispered. Or was it just in her own head? I can't hold on any longer. Please. Let me.
She must have heard her. Her hand thrust in. Hard. Once. Twice. Deep. Kris joined her. Oh God.
They both stilled at the same moment, the current of orgasm passing like electricity from one to the other. Joined. Then the tremors began. Simultaneously. Uncontrollably. From deep within them both. Kris had never felt so abandoned and unrestrained before. It took everything she had not to scream. She couldn't stop herself from shaking. The bench shook.
The stranger's eyes flew open at the movement and locked on Kris'. Unguarded and uncertain, mindful of Jo's advice that these tai-tais wanted nothing more than fun (God knows, what just happened feels too raw to be fun!) , Kris gave what she hoped was a nonchalent smile.
She was totally unprepared for the response.
In one glance, the stranger took everything in. The rape of her privacy. Her cruel exposure. Kris' hand still inside herself. Not yet withdrawn from their connection.
The dark orbs filled with seering desolation. They are sloe-eyed. Kris thought.
She caught the quick flash of angry tears. And a deep pain so abraded that Kris knew. This woman was not 15. This woman had already lived a lifetime of agony. Kris lowered her eyes in shame. When she raised them again, the woman was gone, leaving a faint scent of jasmine and arousal behind.
Chapter 4 - That Evening
CNN brought a whiff of home but the local station provided answers to cryptic remarks by taxi drivers.
Kris woke from a restless nap (during which her dreams were splashed with erotic, surreal images of flesh and fever) to find that she had left the TV turned on and the evening news playing.
The headlines on the local channels were uniformly concerned with a mysterious ailment which had struck down 3 travelling companions recently returned from Hong Kong. They had suffered from symptoms that initially merely indicated an aggressive strand of the influenza virus - high fever, dry cough, breathing difficulties. But, within days, their condition had deteriorated. The three women had checked themselves into Singapore's leading communicable disease hospital several days ago. Two had died within 24 hours, their lungs collapsing. The third was in the intensive care unit and unlikely to last the night. That news alone would have been tragic. The terror came in the suggestion that the disease was highly contagious and that several other persons who had come into contact with the 3 were exhibiting early signs of infection. The government statements were cautious and measured but tension was apparent.
The World Health Organization had put a name to the disease. Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, SARS, had come to Singapore. It was already killing in Vietnam, China and Hong Kong.
Kris frowned to herself as she dressed for dinner, drawing the tight singlet over her lean torso. She wondered if she should give Cass a call just to reassure her that everything was fine. Kris knew her mother. For someone whose own life was a study in independance and devil-may-care, Cass had remarkably dubious double standards when it came to her children. Not that Kris had ever given Cass cause for much concern. The family joke was that Kris was born an adult. Always considered and measured. Even the few scraps she got herself into, in hindsight, were despairingly mild - the sort that parents might view with indulgent amusement rather than panic. So, with her usual good sense, Kris had come to accept Cass's apparent inconsistencies with good grace. She suspected that she would be equally schizophrenic if she ever had kids. Lord knows her younger siblings had chafed at what they saw to be her own over-protective attitude towards them. Comes with the territory when you're the over-achieving, always correct, older sister, she acknowledged.
The hotel phone rang. It was Jo.
"Lobby in 5 minutes, you slouch. Cab meter's running."
"On my way."
Kris grabbed a jacket and decided to postpone her call to Cass. No point worrying her about nothing.
The lift descended smoothly down the floors. She felt an involuntary twinge of excitement as the number 5 lit up for a second. Her pulse quickened, and she saw again the stranger's face in orgasm - the ridged muscles of her slender neck standing out against the delicate, golden complexion. It was fanciful and out of character. It was disturbingly exhilerating. It was that damned photographer's eye of hers. Too vivid by far. She was thankful that there was no one else in the lift to see the flush and feel the quickened heartbeat, and very grateful as well for Jo's persistent normalcy, greeting her as the doors slid open, with a quick hug and detailed agenda, saving her from further embarassment.
Or so she hoped.
She tried to ignore the throb of revived desire which suggested otherwise. And the underlying sensation of anticipation for which she could find no reason that she was prepared to admit to.
It's just the heat. She told herself crossly. And, stepping into the sweaty dusk, almost believed it.
******
Kris didn't know if it was the jet lag or sexual haze but the evening seemed to pass in a blur. Jo must have been her mother's doppelganger because she too believe in going for spicy when it came to food. The taxi whisked them to a popular hawker center - an outdoor food court where the cuisine reflected the island's multi-cultural heritage. There were soups and noodles from different provinces of China which confirmed that the Chinese knew how to eat practically every single part of any animal unfortunate enough to get within cooking range. There was Indian prata - a pizza like pancake eaten with curry - and Malay satay - caramelized meat slices on skewers grilled over an open coal fire. All this consumed in 40° heat (Celsius not Fahrenheit). The tangy lime juice did nothing to soothe the numbing bite of the chilli peppers that featured in all the cuisines and the local desserts topped with mounds of shaved ice barely took a degree or two off the sea of heat in which she was submerged.
By 10.30 pm, Kris was literally wilting but Jo was just getting started. "One Fullerton," she barked at yet another obliging taxi driver. Kris considered countermanding the order with a request to be let off at her hotel but she was too busy leaning forward into the noisy air conditioner in the car. By the time she felt human again, the taxi had reached its destination, a harborfront building which housed restaurants and clubs. The promenade overlooked Singapore's busy port where, further offshore, twinkled the lights from tankers, liners, containers and smaller boats anchored for the evening. Behind them the city's business district loomed, some of its occupants only now leaving their offices to stroll down to the water's side for beer or coffee.
"There's often a long waiting line at eleven. That's when the show starts," Jo explained, "so it's good to get here a little earlier."
Kris's sluggish senses slowly awoke to the fact that there was indeed a line snaking from a discreet entrance. Singapore's lesbian population, invisible for the most part during the day (or at least quietly low-key), was obviously not averse to displaying itself in the evenings. Most of the women in the queue were Asian but a few were caucasions, presumably expatriates like Jo or visitors like Kris. Many of them seemed to know each other well. Quite a few waved hello to Jo. They chatted happily while the line inched its way. The atmosphere was suggestive without being cruisy. Passers-by gave curious, sometimes knowing, glances but mostly left the group alone.
"Some nights the police come and watch. Just to let us know they know. Homosexual sex is still technically illegal and every few years, law enforcement takes it into its head to entrap some luckless chap and prosecute him. But in between, the government mostly lets us alone and, more recently, there's a pragmatic acceptance that the country needs to shed its anti-gay attitude if it is to attract talented foreigners to live and work here. It's a bizarre seesaw between intolerance and symbiosis."
"You're plugged in. No pun intended!" Kris qualified when she saw Jo's lascivious smile.
"It's a small community. The saliva trail rarely exceeds a couple of degrees of separation. To mix my metaphors."
"Unforgiveably." Kris agreed.
"I'll make it up to you with a drink upstairs. Come on. I know the organizers."
Jo whisked Kris to the front of the line where they endured a little good-natured heckling by the crowd behind them for jumping queue.
Upstairs, it could have been generic club. The air dark and smoky. The drinks flowing. The music trans. Except that everywhere Kris looked she saw Asian women. Of all shapes and sizes. Some indeed looked remarkably like modern versions of the demure Chinese heroine in a Hong Kong martial arts flick. Others had turned the stereotype of Asian androgyny on its head and walked around like young teenage boys, in their loose shirts and baggy jeans. Some of the younger couples exhibited extreme polarity, the femme in tight, skimpy sun dresses, the butch barely distinguishable as a woman. In a corner of the club was a small group that kept to themselves. Their dressing and demeanour suggested that they were slightly older than the frenetic crowd on the dance floor.
Jo pressed a beer into Kris's hands.
"Come on. Drink up. Then, let's wake you up."
Against her better judgment, Kris downed the mug in one swallow and allowed Jo to lead her into the middle of the gyrating mass. Jo was a sensuous dancer who teased with just the right amount of irony to keep things on the right side of friendly. Ordinarily, Kris would have enjoyed the uncomplicated exercise and harmless titillation. But tonight was different. Like a bad movie track, her mind kept replaying the afternoon's encounter. As she bumped into bodies and pushed against flesh on the packed floor, her unusually hyperactive libido flared to attention. Every touch, however innocent, made her breath catch. What is the matter with me?
After several dances, which included an enthusiastic rendition of Lady Marmalade and two remixes of Don't Call me Baby, Kris was swimming through a pervasive fog of sensation. Her singlet was soaked with perspiration and rivulets of sweat coursed down her face. The feeling of being slightly out of control, unable to predict what she might do next and reckless of the consequences was so unfamiliar as to seem irresistible. When Jo swapped her for a petite femme dancing next to them, she found herself grinding hips with a tall, muscular butch who took her dazed passivity as an invitation to slide her hard thigh betwen Kris's and initiate some dirty dancing. Kris gave in to her imagination and let herself believe that the hand which had found its way to her breasts belonged to a slim beauty with haunted eyes. Her body arched and she ached for closer contact, much to the satisfaction of her companion. Her companion bent towards her neck, licking the moisture in slow, deliberate strokes.
Then, Kris had the strangest sensation that someone was watching her.
She raised her eyes.
In the quiet corner where the older women were, her afternoon lover (could she really call her that?) stood, looking straight at her. Unlike most of the other women in the club, she was casually dressed. As if she had just put on the pair of black jeans and white shirt carelessly, without any need or desire to be noticed. Yet her very simplicity and indifference to appearance were stunning. Kris wondered how she could have ever mistaken this woman for an empty socialite.
Their eyes caught on a glance and held. The stranger's look contained bitterness, contempt and something that felt, unaccountably, like hurt. Kris groaned at how she must look to the woman - first the voyeuristic sexual encounter and now for all intents and purposes she was practically making out on the dance floor. She felt a deep need to explain herself and wondered where that came from. She opened her mouth in a futile attempt to reach the woman above the deafening din of the bass beat. She wasn't sure what she was hoping for. Conciliation. Forgiveness. Connection. She just knew that some part of her soul was rending at the accusation in the stranger's face.
I can't let her believe it was ... What? Meaningless? Anonymous?
Her dance companion chose that moment to grab her and pivot her around. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the stranger turn and try to head for the exit. Her friends caught hold of her. Intense words were exchanged. She shook them free. That moment's delay gave Kris the chance she needed. Answering the impulses she could not recognise, she excused herself and headed after the woman. Her tiredness and confusion, the alcohol and smoke, all conspired together. As she weaved her way through the milling crowd, intent on keeping the slight white-shirted frame in sight, she was light-headed.
She saw a flash of white turn left at the exit and push past a door in the dark corridor. She followed unheedingly, tripping in her hurry, falling through the door onto a startled body. In her final lucid moment, she registered where she was. Oh God, we're in a washroom. Can this get any tackier? Then the woman turned and they were face-to-face, and Kris lost all comprehension.
Up close, Kris could see the lines of strain that belied her youthful appearance, the dark rings of exhaustion under her eyes, and the sheathed, lithe power that contradicted the earlier impression of frailty.
The silence between them stretched. From outside, the dancebeat penetrated into the narrow cubicle. Not heard as such. Rather, like a pounding on her heart. Its regularity contrasted with the erratic cadence of her own heartbeat. And still no words would come.
Finally, as if tried beyond endurance, the woman spoke first.
"Aren't you satisfied? What more can you take?" Her voice, llike everything else about her, was unexpected. Low, husky, impeccably accented.
"I'm so sorry." Kris blurted out wretchedly.
"Why? Was I not good enough for you?" Cutting. Bitter.
"I didn't mean... I didn't think..."
"You surprise me. Surely thinking has nothing to do with this." In one quick move, the stranger locked the cubicle behind Kris and pinned her against the door. Her head only came up to Kris's eyes but Kris felt overpowered. "Or this." A demanding hand pushed between her legs. The contact shot through Kris's body. Her legs spread. Awkwardly. She felt herself sliding down against the door, her hands stretched back to support herself, her lower back muscles tightening painfully in the effort to keep herself from falling. Totally undone. Or so she thought. Until she saw the barely contained desire in her lover's eyes, and shattered entirely.
"I... " There were so many things she needed to explain before this went any further.
"Yes?" Quizzically. The hand now teasing. Lightly feathering down her zipper, creating ripples that radiated through her center. The other hand (Oh God!) slipping under the wet shirt, brushing the goose bumps alive in a trail that led tantalizingly close to her nipples and then meandered frustratingly away. (Touch them.). The harsh scrape of the zip being pulled down burst like a bright halo in her head, as Kris lost track of which sense was feeling what. Then there was only one feeling, concentrated in her clit, as the stranger eased her fingers past the band of her panties into the welcoming warmth. She played with her. Choosing her strokes with agonizing calculation. The frisson of almost-touch. The ambush of flick-pain. The lull of comfort-caress. And then the demand for control - squeezing, milking her shaft. Kris heard a voice begging for them all. It was weak and needy. It had to be someone else. She never yielded like this.
The stranger's face was a breath away. Throughout, she had not touched Kris with her lips. Distancing herself, it appeared, deliberately. Why? Kris could bear no more. She leaned forward and kissed the woman. The connection was immediate and compelling. It lit a flame between them that flared in the touch of tongue on tongue. It ate up all the air, till they were gasping. Kris let go first, the taste of salt, cigarettes and something like cloves still in her mouth.
"Take me," Kris whispered brokenly, finally admitting her own devastation.
And as suddenly as the storm of passion descended it seemed to dissipate, leaving only contrition. The fingers gentled. Compassionate. Steady thrusts offering her the release she sought. In seconds, she claimed it. Screaming. Or something like that. Almost hitting her head against the door but not before the other fingers, also gentle now, shielded the blow, pulling her face to rest on a shoulder. Where she could feel the pulse beating frantically as she collapsed.
"Shh."
Her hands fumbled weakly, wanting to pleasure, but spent and inept. Like the rest of her.
"Shh. It's okay."
They stayed there for a long time. She, cradled. The fever draining from them gradually. After what seemed forever, the stranger pulled back and caressed her face tenderly (Tenderly. What an incongruous word for this.)
"We should go." She said, smiling sadly. She started to say something else. But stopped. "Can you take care of yourself?"
How can I ever know anything with certainty again?
Kris nodded.
The stranger released her hold on Kris. The deprivation was palpable. The stranger opened the door to a line of curious women. The blast of music shook Kris. Was it her imagination again? Or did she really hear the words?
"I'm sorry too."
CHAPTER 5 - The Morning After
Be merciful. Kill me now.
Kris was usually disgustingly cheerful in the morning but, on this particular one, she would have preferred disembowelment to consciousness. Her head throbbed, her body ached and her jumbled state of mind galled her. And that was leaving aside her jangled nerves, including some she never knew she possessed, all of which hadn't stopped standing on end.
Jo had been subdued when Kris emerged from the toilet, disheveled and disassembled.
"It's the project. There may be a slight hitch."
"Oh?" asked Kris, thankful for a conversational subject that didn't involve sharp questioning about her prolonged absence. Her body still tingled, like it was alight. She marveled that no one could see the sparks. "What's happened?"
"Jay was here." Jo offered, unhelpfully.
"Jay?" her bewilderment was real, even if it wasn't related to anything Jo was saying.
"Don't worry. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Ready to go?"
The ride back to the hotel had been quiet, both women caught up in their own thoughts. Kris had stumbled into her room, stripped off the clothes that smelled of sex, taken a cold shower that did nothing to douse the heat inside her and fallen into a troubled sleep.
And now, hardly four hours later, she had to drag herself awake. At least there were problems to deal with, deal to make. Anything to take her mind off the subject of her dreams.
The Starbucks cafe along the main shopping drag was yet another "Am I still in Kansas, Toto?" touch. Unsettling evidence of universal sameness even as Kris struggled to steady her emotional bearings.
Jo was drinking a Grande Moccachino and reading the Straits Times from behind her Nike sunglasses. "The third one died," she announced as Kris eased her tender frame into the rattan chair. "Overnight. The third SARS patient died. The Health Ministry is talking quarantine and drastic nation-wide measures. Apparently, there are quite a few new cases. Several healthcare workers who had been in the same wards as the patients before everyone realized how contagious they were. It may get intense. We're all supposed to check our temperatures. First sign is a high fever."
Kris shrugged, wincing at the sudden movement. Maybe that's it? I have SARS? Lord knows, there's no other rational explanation.
Jo's mobile beeped and she checked the incoming message with the manual dexterity of a pro. "Shireen is on her way. Parking. Latte for you?"
Kris nodded. She didn't want to challenge her brain to come up with any sentences, complete or otherwise, in its current state. If her track record over the past 24 hours was anything to go by, her vocal chords were likely to betray her and beg for sexual favors inappropriate to a business meeting. She checked her own messages, pleased to see that Auntie Ellen had replied. "Come for dnr and conversatn! We r excited to finally meet you." We? Cass had never mentioned a husband or family and for some reason Kris had always assumed that her mother's friend was single. She hit the reply button "Will be there. 6.30."
The big mug of latte went down like much-needed comfort food.
*****
Shireen Pereira was long and lanky. Her family was second generation Singaporean, originally hailing from Northern India. That accounted for her relatively fair complexion and Aryan features. Kris wasn't sure what accounted for the slight blush as she gave Jo a decorous peck on the cheek in response to Jo's big bear hug.
Shireen was the creative force behind a small TV production company, eager to break into the international market. The local market for documentary work was limited. There were only two major media groups licensed to broadcast in the country. They had their own production facilities but sometimes commissioned independent companies for programmes. The independents often went for months without a live project in the pipeline. It kept them lean and hungry, and it wasn't a formula for expansion. A contract with a Discovery or Nat Geo or a company like Kris's could make all the difference. But only the best local houses made the leap.
Kris found herself taking an immediate liking to the cool, poised woman.
Jo set the stage. "Kris will need a detailed proposal from you before she can give a final go-ahead but we like what we have seen so far. Maybe you can tell us what the current state of play is."
"The proposed subject of this documentary is a prominent Singaporean." The slight accent, a little British, a little Indian, was musical. "She is a lawyer who has dedicated her career to public service. She was active in starting up various pro bono programmes that help ordinary citizens with limited financial means gain access to legal advice, especially in disputes against the various government-linked entities that dominate our property, utilities and employment markets. Although the tradition of providing free legal assistance to the poor is well established in North American legal systems, it was quite an achievement here. She's also been a vocal but savvy critic of government policy and is as seen as one of the few trusted independents, whose views are respected by both civil society and the establishment. There's some talk that she is being considered for the bench. It would be quite remarkable if she were indeed made a judge, given her personal circumstances. Singapore is big on its public servants conforming to a conservative vision of model family - husband, wife, two kids. As a single woman, and one who hasn't exactly advocated a conventional lifestyle, she would be an unusual candidate." Shireen grinned, "She also photographs well and is an animated speaker. She'll make a very attractive subject."
"And she wants to come out? Now?" Kris asked.
"She's never actively projected herself as straight, unlike some other public figures I won't mention. And there's always been talk. But she's also guarded her private space jealously. However, with the judicial appointment possibly in the works, she feels it's time to be clear about herself. It's a hugely courageous move, in my view. I know that many of her friends have cautioned her against it."
"She doesn't have a partner?"
Shireen hesitated slightly. "Not as far as I know." Jo and Shireen exchanged glances. "She originally intended to write a book. In fact, I have a draft of some early chapters. But when I pitched this idea, she was open to it. A TV programme, broadcast on an international station, would have a great impact."
"Well, as Jo said, it sounds promising. Of course, we'll need a better sense of your intended treatment and a rough storyboard."
Shireen patted her briefcase. "It's all here."
"So? Let me have it," Kris smiled "New York would love to see this."
Shireen paused. "There is a slight hitch."
Kris sighed. "Tell me."
"She needs a bit more time. To get permission."
"Uh huh?"
"She wants to do this right and that means naming names, hiding nothing. She had expected, initially, to get all the consents by now."
Kris laughed. "She's definitely a lawyer. Probably has a form for this?"
Shireen smiled. "A very good one actually."
"But?"
"I heard from Jay last night." Jay again.
Jo nodded. "There's apparently one important person who is still thinking about this. She won't go ahead unless she gets this final consent."
"And?"
"She expects it soon. Maybe a week or two?" Shireen nodded at Jo's question. "Thereabouts."
Kris felt the letdown "So we can't do much else on this trip?"
Shireen was apologetic. "I'm sorry. We really expected everything to be sewed up by now. And we both only learnt what was happening last night, when it was too late to re-schedule."
Jo gave Kris a smile "It's an excuse for you to come visit again? You seemed to be having a good time last night." She said half-playfully but with a slightly watchful expression. Kris shook her head warningly. I should have known it was just a temporary reprieve. She's going to be on to me with questions like a limpet.
Shireen reached into her briefcase. "Look. I made a copy of her book for you. She's used pseudonyms and glossed over some details so it won't give you a full flavor of the whole story. But it's a cracking read even as it is."
"I don't suppose you could arrange for us to meet. I might be able to persuade her."
Shireen shook her head firmly. "She's a friend. I know it complicates things but I can't in good conscience pressure her into exposing herself before she is really ready. She has a lot to lose here. I'm not sure you understand..."
Kris thought about everything she had seen since arriving. She acknowledged the fairness of Shireen's position. "A girl's got to try...," she conceded wryly.
"Doesn't she?" Shireen agreed contemplatively, looking at Jo.
Kris took the slim binder that Shireen had placed on the table and dropped it into her knapsack. Something to read on the plane home.
Shireen got up to go.
"I guess we'll stay in touch? Through Jo?"
"Yup. And I'll give the book a read first chance I get."
Jo walked Shireen to her car.
When she returned, the Mochacappucino seemed to have kicked in and she was her usual bouncy self. "What a babe, huh?"
Kris had to laugh. Jo's transparent good spirits were a welcome respite from deeper ruminations. "You are incredible, you know that?"
"All my women say so," winked Jo. "Now how about hauling out that laptop and going over those Excel spreadsheets I emailed you on the Thai project budget."
The rest of the morning passed in a straightforward session of operating expenses, capital investment and profit shares. It was good to be back on terra firma.
CHAPTER 6 - Then, When it Began
The year I was saved from an invisible life, I fell in love with Kay.
Growing up gay in Singapore is about standing outside yourself and watching a simulacrum inhabit your body, your actions, your words. You are never really inside yourself. You can't afford to be. Your love is illegal. Your society condemns it. Unlike minorities of ethnicity or disability or poverty, you can hide. And so you do. Invisible.
My simulacrum did a pretty good job of projecting a me that everyone might love. I came from a solid middle-class background. My parents were teachers during an era when the government's mantra of meritocracy still worked. Their own relatively poor backgrounds had not stood in the way of their advancement as young professionals, once they demonstrated their academic abilities. Theirs was the rising professional class in the early years of independence. We had a nice house with a garden, today a luxury in land-scarce Singapore, and books on every shelf.
I had inherited their intelligence and excelled at schoolwork, topping my class every year, building a portfolio of acceptability. I was active in extra-curricular activities and just naughty enough not to be boring. I was also secretly in love with the every member of our all-girl school's competition-winning singing group. There was Karen who played the piano like an angel and Tina, Serene, Mei Ching and Shan who had the voices to match. That was when I was in Secondary 1 and they in their final year of Secondary School. The next year, it was the debating club president.
My parents were evangelical Christians and I was damned. I knew this with a certainty that laced every youthful crush with poison. Self-loathing would be the wrong word to describe my existence because loathing requires some acknowledgement. Instead I hid myself even from myself.
What you may have read in the public record is true. I got a government scholarship to the national Law School and graduated near the top of that class too, playing basketball for the University and converting my obsession with lyrical sopranos into a decent stint as the University's choir leader. Upon graduation, I joined one of the country's top law firms, hefting papers for one of our most talented litigators whose silver tongue and aggressive tactics were always in demand.
Chronicled only in my unpublished record was the destructive pattern of constrained loving that continued throughout my growing up years. Always inappropriate. Never declared. Except in halting poems that hinted at a fire no one would assume from meeting me. I had become expert at invisibility. I even let my mother persuade me to grow my hair long and get it permed. It went with the cheap suit, black pumps and brandless cosmetics I wore to work. Those days, catching my reflection in mirrors would throw me, sometimes.
My boss was representing a tycoon accused of insider trading in his company's shares. The case attracted a lot of media attention because it was the first brought by a newly-set-up crack investigative unit tasked with regulating our fledgling securities market. The tycoon was outwardly unassuming. And filthy rich. Underneath the veneer of humility, he threw his money into his defense and some of his weight as well. We young associates pretended we didn't hear the screamed obscenities muffled behind the heavy teak doors of the partner's palatial office. I had to wonder if the funds he was pouring into our law firm had indeed come from some monkey business on the stock market. My boss didn't mind, of course.
She was a reporter for a foreign magazine and every day she sat in the front row of the "viewing section" while the tycoon's trial got bogged down by forgetful prosecution witnesses and artful applications by my boss. The courts press corps was a friendly bunch. The local newspapers usually assigned young rookies to cover the snatch thefts and molests. Multi-million-dollar commercial crime cases and murder called for the big guns. The older, gray-haired newsmen. Kay seemed very young among them, her fair head always craned forward in focused attention. I noticed her, of course, from the very beginning. In my other heart.
Her wrap-up piece on the tycoon was incisive but fair. The tycoon didn't like the suggestion that his acquittal had been more technical than substantive. "Ball-busting bitch," was one appellation. She contacted our law firm for some details before publishing that story. My boss was too busy to entertain her questions and told me to handle her.
On such little moments, our lives turn.
She asked to meet me for coffee. She had quite a few questions. I brought a briefcase of court documents with me, mindful of the need to be accurate. "Watch these foreign journalists. They can be tricky. They have their own agenda." my boss warned. "Client needs to come out looking good in this one. He's already being crucified in the local papers."
We met at a cafe just around the corner from my office. Later we would meet there often. I remember how she looked as she walked up that first day, her blonde bob swinging, the khakis and shirt unrepentantly casual, for that time.
We ended up talking for hours. Her questions were sharp but never crossed the line of professionalism. She told me later that I played my cards just right, helpful with information, careful with positioning, articulate with justifications. I honestly do not remember much. I certainly do not remember when the conversation slid beyond work into more personal matters. But I do remember that I was captivated.
She was American. Just 25, older than me by a mere year. A scholarship student too, who had distinguished herself so well that the top international magazine had snapped her up and sent her overseas. In the last two years, she had covered everything from fashion trends to political changeovers in neighboring ASEAN countries. She had taken part in political marches, once at the risk of some personal physical danger. To my naive ears, it sounded glamorous and exciting. She challenged my easy assumptions about my own life. Questioned the political price paid for the economic miracle that was independent Singapore. She had so many thoughts. They weren't exactly new. But they had never been so close. Growing up in Singapore is also about being de-politicized. Until Kay, that had seemed an acceptable compromise for the undeniable creature comforts provided by a strong government.
She felt so adult to my child.
I was very late getting back to work that afternoon. And caught all the flak when the article came out and didn't really whitewash the tycoon. "What the hell were you doing with that cunt all that time?" screamed the tycoon. Somehow from the moments with Kay, I found the courage to stand my ground. "I would prefer you didn't use that kind of language." I said grimly, to the consternation of my partner.
A few weeks later, in the course of a routine review, he gave me the requisite notice under the terms of my employment. I had been cut loose from the life I had expected for myself.
But by then, it didn't matter. Kay had seen me.
*******
Kris thoughtfully closed the manuscript on that first chapter. Well. There's definitely a story there. She couldn't wait to get to the rest but she had to get going or she would be late for tea.
When she realized that her business that trip had been curtailed, Kris had gotten on the phone and re-scheduled her plans. The hotel concierge had booked her on a very late flight out that evening and she had moved forward her appointment with Auntie Ellen to tea. Her bags were packed. She'd checked out and left the luggage with the bellhop. With a little judicious time management, she'd easily wrap up all her chores and be on her way by midnight.
Right on schedule, the taxi drew up and smoothly ferried her to the small walk-up apartment that corresponded to the address meticulously written by her mother on the package. During the ride, she felt a sudden pang of longing. But she shook it off. Maybe I'll find myself having hot sex all the time from now on! Yeah. Riiight.
The door was opened on just one buzz. Auntie Ellen was a handsome older woman in her mid-50s, with strong features and an unmistakable air that didn't require the shorts and oxford button-down for confirmation. Auntie Ellen's a dyke! Maybe that's why Mom was a little weird that night at dinner. She's never said anything about this. Cass had never had any problems with her daughter's sexuality but they had never talked much about the subject. Kris had put it down to Cass's innate confidence that Kris knew how to take care of herself and the low likelihood that Kris would indulge in anything other than the safest of sexual practices.
The older woman wrapped Kris in a warm hug. "Welcome to Singapore! I'm so sorry you're running off tonight. But I hope you don't intend this to be your first and last trip to our shores."
She led Kris into the modest living room that was sparsely but elegantly furnished in natural woods and graced with plants. On the far wall was a bank of bookshelves, crammed double deep with books.
"We've looked forward to this ever since Cass emailed that you might be visiting. " She turned to what appeared to be the bedrooms and called. "Honey. Stop working. Get off the phone. Kris is here."
Kris followed her movement and froze.
"Kris. This is my housemate. Janice."
All the breath left her.
Standing in the doorway, equally stunned, was the stranger from the sauna.
CHAPTER 7 - Late Afternoon Tea
Tea was actually coffee. Done local-style, roasted with sugar and margarine and brewed sludge-thick.
Tea was uncomfortable.
Somewhere between catching Auntie Ellen up on what Cindy and Damon were doing these days and conveying her mother's warm regards, Kris ran out of reasons to keep her eyes fixedly on the black coffee in her cup. Her only consolation was that Janice was equally distracted. She sat out the conversation, leaning back in the loveseat and paying a lot of attention to her mobile, which was constantly flashing incoming messages. On the sofa, with her body ostensibly turned towards Ellen, Kris could nevertheless feel the hairs on her neck standing whenever there was the slightest movement from the loveseat beside her. The worst thing was that, even when confronted with this conclusive evidence of the total impropriety of her actions (She's Auntie Ellen's lover for God's sake), she knew her discomfort could only partially be attributed to embarrassment. She squirmed. And regretted it, when her arousal rubbed against her jeans.
There was also something else. A vague unease that wasn't directed at her but flowed between the other two women. Shit. Don't tell me she knows about yesterday but doesn't realize it was me? Do they have an open relationship? Something felt wrong about her assumptions. But she couldn't work it out. It wasn't just the age difference. Almost twenty years, she would guess. There was something in the dynamic between them, close like partners but not intimate. Nothing added up.
"Chocolate cake?" Ellen offered, oblivious to Kris's confused thoughts. She got up, shifting the sofa. The movement rubbed Kris's clit against her jeans again. Kris almost jumped off the seat. The tensing beside her indicated that her reaction had not escaped notice. Kris wanted to curl up somewhere and die.
Tea was very uncomfortable
*****
After half an hour of deadly, stilted conversation, Kris feared that Auntie Ellen must think her unmannered and inarticulate. She certainly would have. They had exhausted the convenient topics of polite conversation much too quickly. She learnt that Ellen's little solo legal practice was doing well ("Enough so I could close early for the afternoon!"), and that Ellen and Janice were not planning to visit the U.S. anytime soon. They heard how the entire Bretton family had spent the last Christmas in Hawaii.
Interestingly, neither woman asked about the TV project that had brought her to Singapore. The one time Ellen seemed to be heading in that direction, Kris thought she felt Janice shake her head very slightly. Kris didn't mind. In fact, she was somewhat relieved. She wasn't sure how much she could say about the project without giving away information that might inadvertently identify its subject. And after this morning's discussion, she didn't want to complicate matters further.
So after half an hour, they were stuck in awkward silence, treading water. The only question she really wanted to ask would have gotten her thrown out or worse. Does she make you scream too, when you come?
It was excruciating.
Suddenly, Janice rose from her seat, without any excuse, and made towards the bedroom.
Kris felt a thick, choking surge of anger. She was the one who had knowingly cheated on her partner. She was the one who should have held back last night. She was the one looking for God knows what kind of honey at the Hyatt Hotel in the middle of the afternoon on a workday. Did she even work, for crying out loud!
And here she was now. Looking cool and delectable in a soft silk blouse and drawstring cotton slacks. Sensuous beyond any earthly entitlement. And she obviously intended to leave her, Kris, alone. To face Ellen. And to try to conceal the fact that she was shaking with desire.
Ellen smiled apologetically at Kris. "I'm sorry. The hospital has been messaging her non-stop. She just got off 3 straight days without sleep yesterday afternoon but... well, you know ... what with the whole ...situation ... this has been a tough week for virologists. And this one just won't stop pushing herself. Even when she's bone tired." The loving criticism, directed at the departing Janice, was something the woman was obviously familiar with. She stopped at the sofa behind Ellen and laid a hand on her shoulder. Ellen reached up to clasp the hand. A look of complete understanding passed between them.
Kris's red-hot anger erupted into green jealousy. I should be there.
It was time to go. Kris knew her control was close to breaking. It would serve no purpose, except shame and humiliation, for her to stay any longer. She only had one more thing to do, then she could escape. She quickly rummaged in her knapsack for the gift her mother had entrusted to her.
"From Mom."
A curious stillness came over Ellen as she accepted the package. Janice's grip on her shoulder tightened.
"Please thank Cass for this. Tell her it means a lot to me."
"You haven't even opened it."
"I don't need to." Touched by the gift, it would seem, Ellen was uncharacteristically teary. Amazingly, Kris spied tears in Janice's eyes too. And even more surprising, they were not tears of gratitude or happiness but of pain and apprehension. The wave of tenderness that washed over Kris in response to that pain scared her more than anything that had come before.
Kris got up. "I should be going. Leave you two to get on with things... Don't want to get in the way...." She was blabbering, she knew. But it was too late for dignity. Simple survival would suffice.
"There's no hurry, is there? What time's your flight?" asked Ellen, shooting her partner an annoyed glance. "You mustn't mind Janice. She's a workaholic."
"Yes. Don't leave on my account."
It was the longest two sentences she had spoken since the awkward greeting formalities a lifetime ago. Which wasn't saying very much. Kris searched her eyes for sarcasm or guilty shame. There was none. Only sincerity. And a flicker of regret. She really couldn't figure this woman out.
"No. I better be going. Got to pack." She lied. "That sort of thing."
"We'll see you out then," Ellen got up, motioning to Janice to join in the farewells.
Janice's phone, which had been beeping throughout this time, rang harshly in the awkward silence.
"Hallo. Yes?" Listening intently. "Oh fuck." She turned to Ellen, "He's gone into a coma. We need to talk." And then directly at Kris, "You have to stay." It wasn't a request. It was an order. And Kris recognized something else in the look. She had seen that agony once before. Only the last time, they had both been naked, and she had been weak with come.
She hadn't been able to refuse her then, either.
CHAPTER 8 - Evening's Fall
Kris sat in the living room and tried not to eavesdrop. The other two women had been in the bedroom for a while now. Every now and then she caught a snippet, when they raised their voices. At one point, she thought Ellen asked, "Is there something else you're not telling me?" and almost bolted for the door. But forced herself to remain seated, cursing her imagination. And almost ran again when she heard Janice say, "She should never have been here." The remark twisted her insides with rejection, even though she knew the woman could not possibly have known who she was before they saw each other that afternoon. The shock on her face had been genuine. Almost comical, Kris allowed. If I ever care to laugh again.
While she waited, she took the time to look around her. Ellen and Janice lived well. The deceptive simplicity of their home had not been purchased cheaply. And it was clear that every item had been chosen with care. But alongside the expensive pieces were those that equally clearly had been acquired in modest circumstances. It was the same duality she had sensed in Janice. The easy comfort in the plush surroundings of the very up-market Hyatt against the nonchalant indifference to appearances in the club.
Everywhere, there were photographs of the two women together. In contexts formal and social. Vacation shots. Party pix with friends. Some of whom she recognized as having been at the quiet table in the club the previous night. There was also one picture of a teenage Janice standing between two adults whom Kris assumed were her parents. The background suggested zoo. The toothy grin was so unrestrained that Kris wondered what had transpired to create the woman who had touched her with such cruel intent before holding her with such gentleness.
Plunged back into remembrance, Kris almost missed the one small portrait that occupied pride of place on the upright piano and that turned out, on closer inspection, to be her mother. Much younger, the golden hair cropped short. A very serious expression on her face. Looking straight into the camera. It was not a side of Cass, the laughing, openhearted mother, she had ever seen.
Things were complicated.
*****
When the women returned to the living room, Janice was carrying a weathered leather laptop bag, head bowed, rapidly tapping out messages on her phone. Kris's heart sank. Are you leaving now? After making me stay. For you?
Even as the thoughts entered her mind, she saw Janice jerk up, as if the woman had heard her recriminations. This psychic connection thing is getting ridiculous.
"I'm sorry." She mouthed. The phone beeped again. She made a sound under her breath. Of frustration. Irritation. Is she resenting this parting as much as I? The eyes said yes.
Aloud, she said, "I have to go. Now. Ellen will tell you what's happening." She paused a while. The next few sentences might have been about now. Or not. "I would not have wanted things to turn out this way. I need you to stay and hear us out."
I am one crazy mushball. She says "I need you" and I melt.
Janice smiled at that.
And then was out the door.
The energy left the room with her. For someone who said very little and stayed so still, her presence was tangible, and its absence eviscerating.
Ellen and Kris looked at each other. By unspoken agreement, they walked silently into the cheery kitchen and topped up their coffees. Back in the living room, Kris took the loveseat vacated by Janice and waited.
"Janice was one of the physicians attending the first 3 cases." Ellen began heavily.
At Kris's raised eyebrows, she elaborated, "The women who came back from Hong Kong with SARS."
As the implications of this revelation hit her, Kris sagged against the cushion.
"I'm sorry. Maybe we should have told you when you arrived. I know she thinks I should have asked you not to come. But I wanted so much to meet you. And she thought... we both thought.... that the hospital had taken adequate precautions."
Ellen shook her head, trying to take it all in herself. "She is a virologist. They consulted her only after it was clear that the disease was extremely contagious and the hospital had instituted stringent requirements. Her direct contact with the patients was minimal. Most of the time, her work was in a lab. The initial conclusions were that the virus is not air-borne. It only spreads through actual contact with fluid secretions from infected persons. Cough droplets. Maybe sweat. For someone like Janice, the risk was low."
"But?"
"One of her colleagues who had been involved in the cases earlier started showing symptoms a day ago. They isolated him. We just learnt that he went into a coma. The prognosis is very poor. They now think that the contagion may be more virulent than expected. Or that it stays active in tiny water droplets much longer. Meaning that it might be transported through air-conditioning vents or on contaminated surfaces that have not been thoroughly disinfected. Some pre-schoolers have come down with symptoms. The Mnistry of Education is about to announce the closure of all schools. They'll send children home until we get a better handle of the problem. The fear is that it has spread into the general population. Healthcare workers are particularly at risk, of course."
"Jesus. Is she feeling .... alright?"
"Janice?" Ellen smiled slightly. "Strong as an ox. A skinny ox. But strong." The humor cut through the fear a little. Kris wondered if Ellen also felt the strange affinity - both of them caring, in her case inexplicably, for this driven woman.
"It's just that this latest news raises so many questions they don't have answers to. And the clock keeps running against them."
Kris wanted to comfort Ellen, sitting there so obviously worried but putting such a brave front on things. But there were other considerations that loomed between them, considerations that might never allow her to reach out to this new friend.
Kris waited. There must be something more.
"Janice thinks ... " Ellen rubbed her eyes tiredly. "She thinks you should postpone your departure."
"What?"
"They know that the incubation period is ten days. After that, if you don't develop symptoms, chances are you're safe or immune or just plain lucky. The government is already considering forcing a 10-day quarantine on anyone who might directly or indirectly have come into contact with a patient."
"10 days?"
"There's also the worry that we might be exporting the disease. The responsible thing to do is to try to contain it within our borders if we can."
"10 days??"
"That's what she thinks. Or at least a few more days until she can sort out whether this latest case indicates a real defect in their analysis of the virus' effect or was due to human error."
Kris forced herself to calm down. The logic was undeniable. It would be foolhardy to leave if she was a possible source of contagion. And some small part of her leapt in excitement at the thought that she would see Janice again. Might be with her. It was such a stupid, unrealistic, selfish response. Kris felt like slapping herself.
"You probably think she's over-reacting," Ellen agreed, mistaking the reason for Kris's grim silence, "after all, we barely spent any time together this afternoon. But, with all the uncertainty.... She just thinks it would be safer....."
The memory of her tongue forcing its way into Janice's mouth came to Kris. The sagging defeat in her lover's voice as she had walked away. "I'm sorry, too."
"She's right." Kris acknowledged, hoping the guilt did not show. "It's the correct thing to do. I'll push back my flight a couple of days. I wasn't due to leave till the weekend anyway, initially. ... Shit!" as another thought struck her, "I'm all checked out. I better start making arrangements if I'm going to stay on."
Ellen halted her. "There's one more thing."
"Yes?"
"Janice would prefer that you stay here."
"Here?!"
"We don't know if it would be prudent for you to be at the Hyatt. It's a public place with a high concentration of local and tourist traffic. If you are contagious, which is highly unlikely of course, that's the last kind of place you should be. We have a guest room at the back. It makes sense." Ellen paused uncertainly, not sure how Kris would take this advice.
It was all wrong, wrong, wrong! With everything else that was happening, she shouldn't be hoping to catch a glimpse of Janice. Perhaps in the early morning? Sleep-dazed, soft and wanting.
"I really don't think that's such a good idea. I can be careful at the Hyatt. What if I keep to my room? And ask for one on a less occupied floor?" Even as she threw out the options, she knew she would lose. There were too many imponderables. Already, although Ellen had no way of knowing this, there were other people involved. She'd hugged Jo goodnight in the cab the previous night, moist with sweat and after-sex. What on earth was she going to tell her?
The setting sun cut a swathe of vermillion across the coffee table. For a few minutes, the entire room was bright with urgency. Then the grey of dusk started to seep in. There really wasn't much time. She had to decide.
"Alright." She conceded. "I'll stay."
"Good." Ellen got up, all matter-of-fact action, now that the decision had been made. "I imagine you're going to want to use the phone," indicating the handset near the piano.
"No point incurring costs on that mobile of yours. I know how those telcos charge you an arm and a leg by routing your calls via some server in India just to get back to Singapore! I represent some of them," she twinkled. "There's also a line in the guest room, if you prefer some privacy. We're not quite five-star luxury but I'll see if we have some dinner mints to put on your pillow with the evening turn-down service."
"Ellen?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you."
"Whatever for? We're the ones that got you into this mess. The least we can do is make you comfortable." She gave Kris an indefinable look. It might have been understanding. Or empathy. Then bustled out of the room.
Kris soon heard her humming to herself as she shuttled bed linen, towels and toiletries to what Kris assumed was the guest room. The tune sounded like Love is in the Air. But that would have been weirder than even this nightmare permitted.
CHAPTER 9 - Dinnertime
By eight, there were only two more calls to make and Kris wasn't looking forward to either of them.
The Hyatt had been curious but accommodating.
"Certainly, Ms. Bretton. We shall send a car over immediately with your bags. Just buzz the doorbell and leave them on the doorstep?" A pause. Then smoothly. "Certainly. Without delay."
Kris wondered if she was being paranoid. Better safe than sorry. Now that was a motto she should have listened to earlier.
The airline had been just as efficient.
"Your booking this evening has been cancelled. There's a confirmed seat for next week and a standby this Saturday. You can pick up the tickets at the airport on the day of the flight. Will there be anything else?"
How about redemption?
"No. That will be all for now. Thank you very much."
"Our pleasure, Ms. Bretton."
Kris put the phone down and stared at the last two items on her list. Jo first. Cass when Eastern Standard Time hit nine in the morning. At least I've got a plan.
Jo took a while answering. "Hallo? That you, Kris? Last lap, mate. Almost finished." She opened without ceremony. Kris heard a slap. "Bloody mozzies! Dispatched that one to hell. But at least the stadium's almost deserted at this time of night." Jo's breathing slowed as she came to a gradual halt. "So? You done? Mysterious personal errands finished? Dinner? Indian? Shireen might join us later and see you off at the Airport too."
"Er, Jo?"
"Yup?" Shouting to someone else, "Join you in a second." Back to Kris, "Sorry about that. Someone I just met here at the track." When Kris was silent, "Don't worry. I shan't bring her to dinner. At least not to yours!"
Kris sighed. Here goes nothing.
"Jo. I'm not leaving tonight after all."
That stopped her.
"Is something wrong?"
You could say that.
Kris quickly explained the situation. She'd met up with an old friend of her mother's whose partner happened to be involved in the fight against SARS.
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"I can't leave the country for the next few days. In fact, I don't think I can leave this house."
"And exactly where is this house that this couple is imprisoning you? Are you sure this isn't typical Singaporean risk aversion? You know some of them wouldn't say boo to a mouse if it crawled up their crack!" Jo cackled at her own joke.
Kris hurriedly read out the address to forestall further laughter. She was really too frazzled to deal with Jo's distinctive brand of humor right then.
There was a sudden meaningful silence at the other end of the phone.
"Ellen and Janice are your old family friends??"
"Ellen's the old family friend. Janice is...." Kris stopped. "You know them?"
"Everyone knows everyone here, Kris." There was another pregnant pause. "Did you talk to them about the production?"
What a funny question.
"No. Of course not. I know better than to blow your subject's cover before Shireen gets the go ahead."
"Hmmm." Jo mused. After a while, "what does the doc say about all this?" she asked.
The doc? Oh, she meant Janice.
"You guys are close?"
"You know how it is. We mix in the same circles. It's a very small island. And an even smaller community."
"Huh."
"So? What's doc's take on this? You can't go far wrong listening to that one. She's about as thoughtful as they come."
"What does thinking have to do with this?"
"She's the one who insisted I postpone my flight and stay here to minimize any risk of spreading this thing around."
"Then that's that." Jo concluded, the contemplative tone still in her voice. "Look on the bright side. Maybe we can actually close this deal while you're here, if Shireen gets back to me soon. I suppose we could come visit you and sit in the verandah while you talk to us through the sliding glass doors." Jo joked.
"Ah. Well, that's the other problem."
"There's more?"
Kris checked the sounds coming from the kitchen where Ellen was busy putting together a quick meal.
Making sure she was out of earshot, Kris continued, in a hushed voice, "Janice was at the club last night." She felt like she was engaged in some illicit activity. Damn it. She was engaged in some illicit activity.
"Yah. I saw her. And we exchanged a couple of SMSs. Don't tell me this thing travels through phone lines."
"I ... erm... spent some time with her. Right before we left."
The pause went from pregnant to labor and delivery.
"Does Ellen know?" Jo asked flatly.
Kris cringed from the disapproval in her friend's voice.
"No."
"Christ, this is a right mess."
"I know." Kris was so dejected she wanted to cry.
"And because you and I shared a cab back together...."
"Yes. I am so sorry."
"Do we need to worry about the cab driver?"
"Oh God. I hope not. He was in the front. It was a very short ride." Kris's voice broke. She didn't think she had ever botched anything up so badly.
Jo heard the catch. "Hey. We're unlikely to be able to trace him even if we tried. We'll just have to hope it all turns out. Okay?"
"OK." Kris sniffed, hating this unraveled stranger she seemed to have become lately.
"And, erm, leave Shireen to me... I mean.... I'll let her know. You just take care of yourself, right?"
"Right."
"Kris?"
"Huh?"
"Do you need me to come over? Are both of them there? . ... I imagine it's gotta be awkward as an Indian playing cricket for Pakistan. "
"That's the understatement of the year!" Kris burst out in slightly hysterical laughter. She wiped the tears from her eyes. "I'll be fine. It's just me and Ellen. Janice..." It was such a relief talking about her to someone who knew. "....is back at the hospital."
"'Right. Well. Call me if there's anything I can do, huh?"
"Count on it."
Kris could hear the crackle of Jo's phone as she walked into some building and the reception grew faint. Jo's final words were forlorn, but reassuringly Jo-like. "So much for a little shag in the shower after a sweaty run. Bugger."
Then the phone went dead in Kris's hands.
******
The call to Cass had to wait till after dinner, a simple salad and omelet that Ellen had whipped up. Halfway through the meal, which was mostly quiet but not uncompanionable, Kris's luggage arrived. Ellen eyes crinkled with laughter when she realized that the couriers had been instructed to flee the scene immediately after depositing their load.
"The blood shall be a sign for you, upon the houses where you are; and when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall fall upon you to destroy you, when I smite the land of Egypt." She recited. Which Kris took to be Ellen's way of saying "Silly you."
Despite everything, Kris found herself relaxing and enjoying the company of her mother's friend. Ellen was warm and direct, with a little bone of wry sarcasm that she displayed to good effect at strategic moments. The conversation was peppered with literary allusions. "Mother taught English literature," she offered at one point. "Accounts for the lurid poetry-writing phase during adolescence."
The goat cheese and mushroom omelet was delicious and unthreatening. "Don't tell me. Cass suggested you eat raw chili peppers while you were here, didn't she?"
And when dinner was done, Kris washed while Ellen dried, falling into a rhythm so natural it reminded Kris of childhood and Cass.
So it shamed Kris when, after having retrieved the luggage on the doorstep, Ellen finally showed her down the narrow corridor to her room and, passing two doors side by side before her destination, she was churlish enough to wonder whether they still slept together. And small enough to wish they didn't.
The guest room was plain but comfortable. The queen-sized bed faced the window. Ellen had switched on the desk lamp by the small writing table earlier and it cast a cozy glow across the room.
"There's a bathroom just down the corridor. I'm sorry it's not connected to the room. But Jan and I hardly ever use it so you can claim exclusive rights while you're here. I'll help you set up your laptop in the morning so you can log into the wireless network." When Kris looked surprised at that, Ellen grinned, "She doesn't know an RJ connector from firewire. I'm the techno-geek in the family. Don't let the gray hairs fool you."
"How long...?" have you been together? How long has she touched you? How long have you savored what I would give anything to taste just once?
"How long have you and Janice lived here?"
"I got the place soon after I returned from New York. 30 and homeless." Cass never told me about that either. "By then, everyone else in my cohort was a junior partner and had 2 properties, one to live in, one to rent out and wait for the property boom to make them millionaires. I was such a child." She stopped a little. Remembering. "Janice ... moved in a few years later."
Kris's head ached trying to do the math. They've been together forever.
"You need anything, call. We're just a door away." We. It hurt.
Kris suddenly felt very alone and too tired to face the task still to come. She did need something. Could she really ask?
Ellen stopped at the door, hearing the unspoken plea. She came back and put her hands on Kris's upper arms, looking deep into her eyes. She gave Kris a quick squeeze.
"You'd like me to talk to her for you?"
Kris let out the breath she didn't realize she had been holding. "Please?"
"You only have to ask. Anytime."
It was as if a huge weight, one of many, had been lifted from her.
"Thank you. Again."
"What's family for?" Ellen asked, quite seriously, before walking out the door. Kris heard her in the living room making the international call. If anyone could handle Cass, Ellen could. Maybe. Kris decided she'd had enough eavesdropping for the day and closed the door. But not before she heard Ellen warmly greet her mother. Blade. That was a funny nickname for Cass.
She plonked on the bed, almost squishing the After Eights mint on the pillow.
It was a sin that torment could feel so right.
CHAPTER 10 - Deep Night
Kris couldn't sleep.
The brisk shower had refreshed and relaxed her. After a very long call, Ellen had returned to report that Cass was anxious, but not getting on the first flight to Singapore to rescue her daughter. Ellen seemed re-energized too. Talking to Cass could be a high voltage thing. They'd chatted a little more while Ellen insisted on getting Kris's laptop set up right then and there. At eleven, Ellen had triumphantly displayed Kris' company's familiar VPN log-in screen. "You're all set," she'd said heartily. Adding "Janice messaged to say she'll be starting home in half an hour," making Kris wonder if she really ought to read more into Ellen's statements.
So now, near midnight, Kris was lying in the slightly squeaky bed, trying without any success to sleep. The hum of the air conditioner, alternating between compression and fan cycles, jolted her whenever it cranked subtly into compression. She could hear bullfrogs in the drains and, she swore, something that sounded like a woodpecker in a near-by tree. Kris acknowledged that she'd been living on a noisy city block too long. What sick person prefers the raucous cacophony of traffic to this peace?
It was so quiet she sensed the car even before it got anywhere near the driveway. The turn of the key in the front door was deafening. She could tell that Janice hesitated in the living room, trying to decide whether to turn the lights on. She left them off. The chink of glass from the kitchen. The crick of a lighter. The same waft of tobacco and cloves she had tasted on her lips the previous night. The light footsteps started down the corridor, past the first two rooms. And stopped outside her door. For a long time. Then the door shifted in slightly. Just a fraction. The way it would if someone placed a hand or a forehead against it. The cigarette smoke snaked under the door into the room.
Kris forgot to breathe.
The moment passed. The pressure on the door eased. The steps were about to head away.
Kris lost control.
When she jerked the door open, Janice was still in the corridor, the red glow of the cigarette tip and the slash of moonlight on her face the only light by which Kris could drink the sight of her in.
She wasn't the only one slaking her thirst.
They stood there staring at each other greedily. Parched.
Janice gestured, almost helplessly. "We need to put this out," she whispered, and Kris might have thought she just meant the cigarette except for the way her eyes were fixed on Kris's breasts.
Kris took the two steps between them then. She removed the cigarette from her lover's unresisting hand and miraculously, in the dark, found an ashtray in the living room where she stubbed it out. When she turned back, Janice had not moved at all. She leaned against the wall outside Kris's room, on the brink of entry. But not yet in.
Kris came up behind her and held her shoulders. Trembling. She's trembling. There was so little fight left in her.
Kris waited. Very much aware that Ellen slept, unsuspecting, nearby.
Finally, Janice seemed to make a decision. She twisted weakly out of Kris's grasp, away from the open doorway. Kris almost groaned in frustration. And then Janice brushed against her nipples in the haste to escape, and there was no way Kris could hold back the groan that started in her cunt and screamed through her body till it felt like every part of her was weeping.
She pulled Janice. Roughly. Into her room. Into her arms.
"Don't make me stay just to want you and never have you." When will it stop being like this? When will I stop begging?
"Oh God," Janice cried, cratering, collapsing.
And now Kris could see that it wasn't just desire that made her lover breathe raggedly and sag into her. It was exhaustion. Deep, numbing, despairing tiredness. Under the sheer silk, Janice was shaking, the thin frame truly brittle for the first time since they had met.
"You need to rest." Kris said, drawing back at tremendous cost. She set Janice gently down on the bed. And then put as much distance between them as she could. Her head spun. Her teeth ached with the strain of denying herself. She looked out the window and tried to hear the woodpecker again. Anything but the throb of her want.
Just when she wondered if Janice had fallen asleep. "We shouldn't do this. It's not safe. It's not right." The voice was firm again. "I shouldn't be this close to you."
Kris didn't turn.
"Why?"
"You know why."
"No. I mean. Why yesterday? Or whenever it was that you took me. I don't even know anymore. You've taken the meaning from time."
She could hear Janice sigh. She's debating how to come up with some convenient lie.
"I won't pretend. I used you last night."
How is it possible for me to hurt more than I already do?
"You used me too."
"I didn't know. I thought..."
"You thought I was some inconsequential playmate you could toy with. So? Are we even?"
"No."
Janice sighed again.
"Why, Janice?"
"She died at noon. The third index case. The hospital didn't announce it till later in the day but she was dead by noon. Nothing we tried worked. It didn't even slow the bastard down. Peter was standing right next to me when we got the news. The next moment he was on the floor and they were wheeling him into the ICU. My only thought was that I might be next. He was gasping like a fish on the floor. And all I could think of was my own skin." Her voice was bitter, inviting Kris's disgust, steeled against it.
"I didn't know."
"They let the rest of us off for the afternoon. I was frightened and angry. I couldn't bear the thought of bringing that stain here. I didn't know where else to go. Where I could be alone. And anonymous. Where I could fuck myself to feel alive. Now are you satisfied?"
Kris's breath caught in her throat.
"And in the night? Was that just getting back at me?"
"In part."
"What else?"
"Let it go."
"Not till you help me understand."
"I can't."
"You won't. I'm begging. And you won't."
"Ah sweetheart, I can't." The endearment so whispered she almost let it float into nothing before she could claim it.
Kris turned then. Janice had already opened the door and stepped beyond her reach.
"Last night, I watched someone else hold you and felt rage. Last night, you came after me and, against every good sense, I had to have you. How can I help you understand something I don't myself?"
Into the empty room, finally, when it could do Kris no good at all, because her want had become unbearable, came the tap, tap, tap of the woodpecker.
CHAPTER 11 - Waiting, Now...
The next few days passed quicker than Kris could have expected and slower than she'd hoped.
That first morning, waking disoriented to the sound of birds (birds), Kris found the smell of coffee waiting. Ellen was already up and about, dispensing advice as effectively from the living room sofa as from her office, occasionally refueling from the large pot of coffee on the kitchen counter.
"Help yourself," she nodded and turned back to the phone. "Carol. Tell Chacko to send a copy of the draft bill around as soon as it's read. They're so jumpy they're liable to ask for the power to shoot anyone who coughs. We need to think about the longer-term impact of these proposals and get some comments in, even if we know they're unlikely to listen."
The headlines felt like deja vu. The Ministry of Education had indeed closed the schools down, and Parliament was meeting in an emergency session to pass compulsory quarantine laws in a single seating, an unprecedented move. Singaporeans were urged to avoid crowded public places and to stay home if possible. Pharmacies were doing a brisk trade in face masks and malls were deserted. There was no mention of Janice's colleague in the papers.
"They'll want to be very sure what happened before they go public on that one. They've learnt that Jan's colleague was secretly dating a nurse who had been assigned to one of the wards where the first three women were. She is Malay. A Muslim. She came down with a mild form of SARS quite early on but did not name Peter as someone who might have been in contact with her, for fear of family disapproval She's now recovering, and they'll be talking to her to confirm the possible chain of contagion. If she confirms their guess, then Peter's case was not an anomaly." Ellen said.
"Is he better too?"
Ellen shook her head. "They're expecting the worst."
"And ...."
"Jan's team? They're taking extra measures. She wouldn't have come home last night if she hadn't thought there was a better than even chance that the explanation would hold."
Kris looked at the front page, which listed the mounting number of confirmed and suspected cases.
Ellen shrugged at her lifted eyebrow, "I know. It's not exactly full disclosure but they're caught between a rock and a hard place right now. Either way, no one's going to be fully satisfied with their decisions. I don't envy them."
Kris nodded, acknowledging the dilemma. The trite arguments for and against governmental transparency were easy to make but so hard to apply in an emergency like this, when information was changing every second and the implications of disclosure unclear. She herself had become a practitioner of deceit and half-truths these past few days.
She sat there, next to the woman she had been prepared just hours ago to betray, knowing that she continued to betray her, every moment, in her heart.
Janice had apparently been up before dawn and out the house, leaving only the hint of cloves behind. Ellen caught Kris's surreptitious look at the ashtray. "Doctors are the worst, aren't they? She tells everyone to quit, sensibly. And she's never been able to give them up herself."
"They have an interesting aroma," Kris commented, ignoring the accusing voice inside.
"They're kretek. Indonesian clove cigarettes. Sometimes, if you're not careful, the bits of clove mixed in with the tobacco catch fire, and spark."
You're telling me.
"Just little ones." Ellen assured.
I wouldn't be so sure.....
Ellen considered Kris somewhat curiously. "She said she'd try to make it back for dinner tonight, provided the all-clear is still valid."
Kris's heart lurched. "Oh."
"Grateful for small mercies, huh?" Ellen smiled, a little ruefully. And turned back to the sheaf of papers on her lap.
*****
Left to her own devices, Kris returned to her room. She couldn't stop herself from peeping, voyeur-like, into the two open rooms. Both obviously well-lived-in. She guessed that the one with the untidy piles of books on the floor was Ellen's. But she had no confidence anymore that her assumptions would stand up to scrutiny. So many of them had been confounded in the last 48 hours.
They have separate bedrooms, her traitorous, hopeful heart murmured. But her mind, slowly returning to service, she was glad to see, banked the emotions down. Let it go, Janice had said. Let it go.
There were 104 unread emails in her inbox, two attaching new concepts for her urgent review. She settled down to work. It was better than dwelling on longing.
*****
The idea came to her in the afternoon. Jo said she liked it too, when Kris called to propose it, although her mind didn't seem to be entirely on their conversation.
"Since I'm stuck here for a little while, how about we develop a piece on how Singapore is dealing with SARS?"
"Great fucking minds... I was just thinking the same thing. By the way, I'm going stir crazy stuck here, you shit. Jenny was very amused when I called in this morning with the news that I would be working from home for a couple of days. She called me a scaredy-cat, the piker." Jo was strangely out of breath.
"Are you on the treadmill??"
"Nope. Grounded. .. umph."
"Who do you think we should get working on it? Can Shireen's outfit handle this?"
"Shireen? Ahh... Sure. I can ask her."
"There'd be no real hurry. I'm looking for a reflective piece, something that comes from the distance of time and perspective. We're not competing with the news networks on this one."
"I'll ask her and get back to you."
Kris could hear a noise in the background and something that sounded suspiciously like a yelp from Jo.
"Jo!?"
"Yes?" Again, that breathlessness.
"You don't have someone there with you, do you?"
"Well...." the embarrassed silence told its own story.
"Are you out of your mind? The whole point of this voluntary quarantine is to get you out of circulation. Couldn't you keep your brain out of your pants just this once?"
"It's not what you're thinking."
"You have no idea what I'm thinking," Kris fumed.
"You're a fine one to talk."
That shut Kris up for a while.
"Look. It's not as if I went out there spreading my love around last night...." There was a bump at that. "Ouch."
"Oh?"
Kris heard some muffled whispering and then a loud sigh.
"I guess you would have found out sooner or later. It's ... erm... Shireen."
How could I have missed that? "Ohhhh." Your own brains were in your pants, idiot.
"We've been seeing each other for a few months now."
"Josephine Blackburn! All that talk...."
"Ancient history. Or at least, archived. Not current affairs." There was another strangled yelp. "Look. About the SARS documentary, I'm pretty sure Shireen will say yes."
"I bet you are." Kris remarked drily.
"We'll ... er... (yelp) ... work up a proposal, plug in some numbers ...."
"You do that."
"Tell you what. I'llcallyoubackinhalfanhour..."
The handset didn't quite find its way securely to the cradle, but Kris decided to be charitable and to hit the hang-up button on her own phone before she intruded any further.
******
Jo was as good as her word and called back about 20 minutes later.
"That was quick."
"Fuck off."
"You're the one that called."
"True. And I bring creative suggestions for your consideration, master."
"Go ahead," Kris absently scrolled down her inbox. Cindy had sent her a video clip from the CNN website that hysterically suggested that Singaporeans were dropping like flies.
"Shireen thinks we should focus on one or two really strong human stories."
"Yup. Makes sense."
"She has her team sussing some prospects out. Singaporeans from all walks of life. We can follow them through the next few weeks. Show how this affects them in different ways. She also thinks it would be good to get input from some non-Singaporeans. She thinks you would make a good profile."
Kris clicked her laptop shut.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. You came here on business, expecting to spend a week nailing down deals, before moving right along. Through a bizarre coincidence, you come into intimate contact...."
"Knock it off, Jo."
"... you come into contact with someone on the frontlines of the fight against SARS. You can't leave. You don't know if you might have been infected. You're apprehensive, you're pissed off, you're banging the good doctor."
"Jo!"
"Oh come on. It's a good story, even without the sex, and you know it. Admit it."
"No."
"No? Just like that?"
"Yes, just like that. I don't do front-of-camera."
"Be a sport now."
"I'm serious. I'm not comfortable being the story, Jo. And that's that. "
"You admit it's a good idea."
"Yes," Kris sighed. "It's a good idea. And your very capable Shireen should be able to find someone else with a similar experience to profile. Like half the businessmen in the Hyatt coffee house."
"You're sure you won't reconsider?"
"Nope."
"You know what your problem is, Bretton?"
"I'm sure you're about to tell me."
"You like sitting on the sidelines and observing other people's lives. You'll use their nakedness but you won't show any flesh of your own. That's what we call a peeping tom where I come from." The affection in Jo's voice took the sting out of the words. "It's time you started believing that your own story's worth living and telling."
There was a short silence. Is it true? Have I never really lived in my own life? Well, if so, the last few days have certainly been a break from routine.
"Real deep, Jo."
"It's Shireen. She's got me reading up on yoga even, would you believe?"
"You are so busted."
"As if you're not," Jo chuckled. "Oh. By the way. The other project? The subject said yes. Shireen just has to tie up a few loose ends and then we can get you a detailed storyboard. Are you done reading the book? Tell me earlier rather than later if you have any ideas for angles. No rest for the wicked, as my mum used to say. Ta!"
It only struck Kris later, after she had sent off several more emails and retrieved the folder from her knapsack to resume reading, that Jo hadn't really given her grief about Janice after all.
CHAPTER 12 - Arriving, Then....
I don't want this to be about sex. But there is no way I can be honest without talking about the sex.
Without the sex, we can pretend that these are friendships or arrangements for economic convenience. Two withered spinsters sharing a home together because they never got married, Or two former schoolmates staying over at each other's homes every night, long after graduation, unable to move out because of the societal assumption that filial children lived with their families till they left to set up legitimate families of their own.
In a culture where we don't talk of these things, it is remarkably easy for the blind eye to be turned. Because we are too polite to confront, we content ourselves with gossiping behind backs. The more inquisitive (or clueless) auntie at the check-out counter will ask, "Are you two sisters?" when our shopping cart contains only one box of toothpaste but two brands of brush. She vaguely senses the connection but attributes it to family resemblance, calling on a standard category for assistance. She probably doesn't even know a noun or adjective to use for what we have. And we prefer not to enlighten her. Older family members nod approvingly when she gives us a lift to the annual family dinner, then drives off, uninvited. "Such a good friend you have."
It is paradoxically easier for the gay and lesbian community to stay invisible and get on with our comfortable second-class lives here, than in societies where our flimsy disguises would have been made from the word go. We buy our day-to-day happiness with the currency of longer-term full recognition. How can we possibly continue this way and not disappear for good, eventually?
I know that there are many in the community who point to the gradual, creeping trickle of acceptance. They are not wrong. I too remember the time when the bi-monthly party was a weekly rendezvous in a dance-club. When only the eight (or 12, if you were lucky) women who knew of the clandestine assignation would turn up at the designated area near the serving bar and pretend they fit in with the other clubbers. I remember how grateful I was to find out I was not alone - eight others, oh joy! The growth of social gatherings, email lists, and gay-themed entertainment in the last decade must seem like progress compared to those times. It would. To someone who has come to believe that she deserves nothing.
This utter failure of self-acceptance permits the studious avoidance of glaring omissions, like the continued existence and application of sodomy laws, the unapologetic statements of our political leaders that such laws will not be repealed because they reflect the (correct, moral, right) norms of our Asian cultures, and the open (accepted) discrimination we would face in most work-places if we declared ourselves.
Kay seemed to allow no such fences around her entitlements.
She talked of sex openly. She had been with men and women. Not promiscuously, but without embarrassment. Some of her younger experiments had been accompanied by the use of narcotic substances. Acts that would be punishable with internment here. Or, if one was unlucky enough to be caught with specified quantities that raised irrebuttable assumptions of trafficking, possibly the death sentence. It was mind-blowing to someone with my sheltered story-book pretense of life.
She'd laughed at my bemusement and hero-worship. "Oh Boo." (we had our nicknames for each other). "I'm not suggesting you run right out and shoot up, darling. I'm not even proud of the fact that we did a little pot now and then. If I had those times to relive, I think I would prefer my senses unclouded and clear-eyed. But I'm not ashamed either. There's a thinner line between tobacco or alcohol and prohibited drugs than your government might admit. But the line's thicker than we sometimes fool ourselves too. The only distinction is that I refuse to let commercial interests decide where the line should be drawn for me. Some might argue it's a distinction without a difference, but at least it's mine."
It still seemed mind-blowing to me.
She brought sex up in the second week. "You do know where this is heading, don't you?" I blushed crimson and moved the uneaten pieces of steak around my plate. All evening, there had been a building throb of anticipation. She had invited me to dinner at a very nice restaurant, one I could not have afforded on my meager associate's pay but which posed no problems for Kay, her salary calculated in the strong US currency and, again to my unworldly perceptions, including an astronomical "local adjustment" to compensate her for what was viewed as a "hardship posting" in an undeveloped country. In hindsight I know that this, like so many other assumptions I made during that heady period, was vastly exaggerated.
Work had been an emotional strain. It was the day after my outburst at the tycoon and everyone was avoiding me, careful not to be associated with my leprous rebellion. Early in the morning, the partner had given me the dirtiest job in a trial. "Collate all the documents for filing. I want it done by the weekend." It was work you gave a paralegal, or an associate you wanted to punish.
I had been late getting to the restaurant, histaminic from document dust and nursing a headache that only grew as the night progressed. I had no appetite. I couldn't concentrate on what Kay was saying. My gaze would light upon some insignificant part of her anatomy and minutes would pass before I realized that I had been gaping. Her short, clipped fingernails, lightly tapping to her voice (she seldom kept totally still), had me dumb and drooling for hours. Or so it seemed. And all the time, the throb, throb, throb got worse, until I couldn't tell where it coming from.
I had never even come close to this sort of physical melt-down. It would have been terrifying, if I had any sensation left to devote to analysis.
"You do know where this is heading, don't you?" she repeated tenderly. "But we don't have to, if you don't want to."
Want? What an inadequate, mealy word for the hunger inside me.
"I can't say where we will be in a month, a year." She was always so careful to be honest, to be fair. "I don't know where I'll be. The magazine could post me out tomorrow. I'm not saying I can't see more for us. I can. But I don't want you to do anything on the basis of promises I'm not in a position to make."
The hammering only increased.
"Hey," she said. "Look at me."
I did.
There is romantic drivel that we feed ourselves and then there is honest need. All my life till then, I had excused my inaction with the sentimental notion that my feelings for women were too pure and honorable to sully with physical expression. It was the sort of high romance celebrated in intellectual literature. The swain who yearned from afar, never touching love's object, faithful in self-imposed exile. It had been convenient to couch cowardice in those terms.
Kay wasn't a coward.
"I want you," she said. "I want your self-effacing humor and your inscrutable Asian punch-lines that I'm still not sure I understand. I want your lyrical sentimentality and your innocent idealism. But I also want to touch you, and give you pleasure, and have you touch me back."
"I can't finish this." I choked, the fork clanging so loudly as it dropped on the plate that I was sure everyone was looking at us, in that discreet upper-class restaurant where we might have been the only two lovers in the world or a pair among many.
"Leave it, then," she said. "And come with me?"
There was a time I was very shy about how quickly I came that night, unable to bring any sophistication or grace to that first real orgasm. But in this account, though it expose my naiveté, I now know I should be plain.
We walked up the hill to her apartment, the night air thankfully breezy. It cleared some of the headache. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline surging through me. I'm told it can have that effect.
Her rental three-room was bare in parts and furnished by some landlord without any aesthetic appreciation in others. I was so keyed up by then that the streetlamps seemed to cast psychedelic patterns on the walls, and I don't doubt I would have fallen but for her arm around me. We went straight to her bedroom, my consent long ago ceded. When she first kissed me, the buzzing in my head clamored into feverish hallucination. Through the fog, the crawling, crawling fog, I could see her lay me down, still fully clothed, on the bed. She started to unbutton my cheap work-shirt, the synthetic material slippery with sweat. I remember wondering if she would think my plain cotton underwear, a pair I had owned since university, laughable. Not sexy and sheer. Too childish. Then she moaned as she released the clasp and finally touched the soft skin on the side of my left breast. I arched up, forgetting to make any more excuses for myself, as I came.
She later joked that I was the easiest virgin she ever had. I can truly say, now, that I feel no shame in agreeing to that. Love should never have to.
CHAPTER 13 - Time Passing
How does one describe that state of hazy stupor when one is falling in love? When some moments cling and coalesce in your gut (when she's near, when she's there) and others just slough unheeded into oblivion.
For three nights, Kris floated.
Janice kept her word, returning each day in time for the evening meal. Something had changed between them. The visceral connection was still there. The desire. The flame that always smoldered underneath the civilized interaction. But Kris found, to her surprise, that there were many other communions. A common love for music. An eye for art. A deep commitment to social justice. A sly, sly humor.
They talked into the night, until Ellen would get sleepy and excuse herself first, leaving them alone. "It's okay. You two carry on. Don't let my old bones hold you back." Looking at Janice, "We'll speak in the morning, dear?" Janice's nod and loving smile a knife in Kris's heart.
The first night, Kris watched Ellen's door close with dread, not knowing if she had the discipline to honor the values she still held dear, suspicious of her own resolve. She kept her gaze from Janice, her breathing so shallow she might faint. Then she felt the gentle clasp on her hands.
"Tell me about it. The documentary that set you off on this brilliant career," Janice smiled, the teasing very welcome in the midst of all the self-reproach. "It will be alright," she continued, answering the thought Kris had not spoken, in that uncanny way of hers. "Tell me. I want to know everything about you."
And it was. Alright. Against every logical prediction.
It was alright, and magical, and torture.
They didn't kiss, even though Kris could see (so attune now) that Janice wanted her too. Just as desperately. They knew, without speaking, that there were some lines they had to respect, or risk being consumed. But it would have been too much to expect their eyes to refrain from touching. their words to eschew embrace. And the control did slip at times. When Janice would brush a lazy fingertip along her arm and flood her. Or when Kris's thigh would press accidentally against Janice's bare legs. And Janice would close her eyes, clench her fists and wait. Holding. Holding. Till the madness passed. For the moment.
Hours after midnight, the candles had burnt into waxy puddles and they were still sitting in the darkness. Kris could sense the change in the rhythm of Janice's heartbeat. Quickened. Unsteady. All night, they had talked openly of how they felt about many things. Kris learnt that Janice found solace in Bach, "I know. Most people accuse him of being cold and clinical. Too much thinking in those three-part inventions. But when the harmonies sing, I am... elevated... as if on a different plane." She mocked her own sentimentality with a hand gesture that came so close to Kris's cheek that Kris could have simply leaned into it and been lost.
And yet they had not really spoken. They had not talked of the present, nor of what the present meant for Janice's past with Ellen. They really must have an open relationship, Kris thought. How else could Janice sit there, the thin grasp on longing always threatening to surrender, without seeming to feel any guilt? Shyness, yes. Caution, yes. But not guilt.
Kris felt she had no standing to ask. And Janice, the quiet reserve maddeningly in place, did not volunteer.
So Kris sat, reining her own heartbeat in, responding to Janice in that mindless way she now accepted as inevitable. One hand pressed against the spreading damp in her shorts, trying to contain herself, knowing she should walk away.
"Gosh. Look at the time. It's been fun but I guess I should turn in." She pretended to yawn, keeping her tone light, accenting "fun", breaking the shared rhythm. "I don't know how you do this. Have you slept at all since we met?"
She felt Janice flinch and withdraw. The response held irony, "Actually sleep, you mean?" she asked. "Not much."
I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I've lain awake wanting you too. But I'm so afraid of what that means.
Kris got up.
"I think I'll stay here just a little longer. Unwind a bit." The invisible sheath which had held Janice's exhaustion at bay all evening had disintegrated in an instant. She was slumped now, the eyelids fluttering imperceptibly, the hands that lit the cigarette unsteady.
Kris only turned when she heard the faint cough, quickly silenced. The plume of smoke was silver in the faint moonlight, but Janice's face looked grey.
******
The second night, Jo and Shireen came to dinner too, Jo bursting into the room wearing a surgical mask and making silly. Probably to hide her embarrassment from having her backside pinched, very deliberately, by the merciless Shireen, who seemed to be having a lot less trouble with the fact that their cover had been blown than her fair-haired partner.
"You don't mind if we have Jo and Shireen over, do you?" Ellen had asked at five, looking incongruously domestic with an apron on and her handsfree earpiece clipped to her collar so that she should still take phone-calls while cooking.
"Do you need any help with that?" Kris stuttered, unsure how to deal with Ellen's easy knowledge, worried what other information she might be hiding behind the open gaze.
"Of course not. It's been years since I've had the luxury of cooking dinner three nights in a row. I'm having a blast. You go read your scripts."
Over chicken stew and rice, Jo told some good Janice stories.
"What about the time the doc screwed up on directions and ended up in an outlying housing estate instead of the pub where we were supposed to meet?"
Janice threw her hands up in surrender while Kris, beside her, resisted the urge to cup the small, perfect breast outlined under the tattered old t-shirt. "Guilty. Everyone knows I'm directionally challenged."
"When we tracked her down hours later, she was at the neighborhood community centre and had agreed to give free clinical consultations for the old folks in the area...."
"She's a sucker for hard luck cases." Ellen butted in.
"... for the next 3 years!" Jo concluded.
Everyone laughed and Kris made the mistake of slapping Janice on the back affectionately. And had to bite her tongue till it bled when the shock of that simple touch pierced through her groin and almost sent her into orgasm. Janice had a sudden coughing fit and the others teased Kris about her violent behavior. So she had some reason, at least, for the purple blush that stayed on her face and that had nothing to do with the teasing and everything to do with Janice's hand, camouflaged by table-cloth, taut with warning and understanding, resting on her inner thigh.
She didn't want to think too deeply about whether Jo and Shireen were really taken in. Nor did she feel up to analyzing the carefully neutral look on Ellen's face as Jo dredged up yet one more tale to regale them with.
There was another awkward moment when Kris asked Ellen what should have been an uncomplicated question, "Was it tough work all these years running a law firm on your own?"
Everyone went still and, for the first time since that afternoon when it all began, she felt something like anger coming from Janice.
Then Shireen smoothly interjected, "Ah. Ellen's been modest again." The laughter, from Ellen and Jo but, conspicuously, not Janice, was slightly strained. "This lady is something of a legend in the legal community. She built up, from scratch, one of our most successful firms. At last count, there were 65 lawyers at her beck and call."
"And boy, did she beck and call," Jo winked.
"Not huge by American standards, of course," Shireen continued, "but pretty decent here. "
"This year," Ellen explained, "I ... erm.... decided to take an early retirement and slow the pace down slightly. Pick the kinds of cases I wanted to do and only those. My partners and I agreed that they should buy me out and keep the goodwill in the firm's name, as well as the more conventional clients. You know, the price-gouging telcos I was telling you about?"
"No one wanted her to leave," Janice said, and it wasn't clear she meant Ellen's partners.
"It was for the best." Ellen said firmly. "I'm enjoying the flexibility. Don't complain just because you secretly hate having to eat the meals I have the time to cook now."
Janice didn't answer, which was just as well because Kris didn't think she could have borne it if she'd given voice to the hurt in her eyes.
Later, Kris excused herself and, in the bathroom, almost died of embarrassment and longing when she saw the dark stain of her desire on her underwear. She was so messed up. The constant tug between uncontrolled hunger and even less controllable tenderness was tearing her up inside.
When she returned, the others were clearing the dishes. Jo was deep in conversation with Ellen in the kitchen. Janice and Shireen were setting the living room coffee table for tea and dessert. They both started, looking a little guilty when Kris walked in. From the kitchen, Kris thought she heard Jo ask, "How much have you told her?", before Ellen put a cautioning hand on her forearm.
"Ice-cream or cheesecake?" Shireen asked. And the little gathering returned to safer ground.
******
The third night, Friday, Ellen was yawning by ten.
Dinner had started late because Janice had been held up at work. When she'd returned, long after the food was cold from waiting, the now familiar silk shirt was more crumpled than usual, the frown on the forehead more deep-etched, taking longer to ease. Still, Kris could see that other intent, never far away, take shape in her eyes, as she gave Kris a piercing look, making hurried apologies on her way to her room, "Go ahead. You shouldn't have waited. I'll just freshen up and be right out."
Kris wanted to throw her down on the floor and rip the clothes from her, drawing the bow undone on the soft, flowing pants, pulling them off.
She helped Ellen reheat the spicy lamb curry in the microwave instead.
"Jo is setting up a meeting with my subject next week." Kris informed El