Annabelle Thong Read online

  And the process of house hunting was so competitive too, kind of like a job interview, but with even higher stakes. The smart candidates would dress to the nines to show they could afford the rent, and look the part of a responsible tenant. They came with folders chock-full of documents—passports, residency permits, work permits, pay slips, parents’ pay slips, five years’ worth of tax returns, birth certificates, marriage certificates, degree certificates and—this one takes the cake—CVs. Anything to make a good impression with the landlord. And the landlord would appraise you, look you up and down, and, sensing your desperation, ask all sorts of rude and impertinent questions about your lifestyle and habits. You answer his stupid questions with a grovelling smile and give him your folder before you leave, telling him how much you look forward to hearing from him. He takes the folder and says he will call, but he never does, and you spend an inordinate amount of time staring at the phone, willing it to ring, and wondering what the right answer was when he asked if you preferred dogs to cats.

  But three days ago, I had a stroke of luck. I called an agent about an ad that I had seen, and she said the apartment viewing was taking place that very morning, 11am. Did I want to visit? YES! So I took my shower and rushed down to Château Rouge, which was not too far away from the hotel I was staying at.

  When I arrived, I was stunned to see that there was only one other person looking at the apartment. He looked like he earned masses of money (the type real estate agents love best). Damn. I tried to compensate for low income by looking hyper-enthusiastic and in love with the studio. I even made cooing noises about the toilet and the gas stove but the agent was not impressed.

  Mr Hotshot looked pensive the whole time we did the “tour” and finally said, “It’s just too small, have you got anything bigger?”

  I went in for the kill. “Well, it’s just PERFECT for me. I’ll take it.”

  The agent did not look too thrilled, but she had to earn her keep. The deal was sealed. I went down to the agency that very afternoon to do the paperwork to ensure that I would get the apartment. No time to lose. I went in at 2pm and only left at 4.30pm, after all had been explained and signatures were in place. I stumbled dizzily out of the agency and into the streets of Paris, clutching my rental agreement to my heart.

  I moved in the next day, and recall the feeling of utter bliss and happiness after I had unpacked my stuff and put everything in its place. My first “chez moi”! My own place, complete with a private toilet and kitchen and front door I can lock. The feeling is just so awesome. Now, all I need is electricity. I’ll have to go to EDF to get that fixed ASAP.

  I switch on my laptop to put some Sarah McLachlan on, then move to the window to look at the sea of Parisian roof tops. I love how the sunset lingers here in Paris; so much dreamier than the two-minute now-you-see-me-now-you-don’t affairs we have on the equator. I sit on the windowsill, watching the lights slowly come on in the apartments across the street, and for the first time in a long, long time, I feel a sense of freedom, like I could shape my own destiny. Create. Build something out of this life. Be happy. The possibilities seem endless. All I need to do is follow my 10-point action plan, to be adhered to at ALL times.

  10 Secrets of Beautiful Women

  1. Beauty sleep (a minimum of seven to eight hours a night).

  2. Moisturise, moisturise, moisturise (cannot remember which supermodel-sage said that).

  3. Carbs are not your friends.

  4. Go to the gym. It may be a chore, but it’s for your own good. (It’s like Sunday Mass, but with tangible rewards).

  5. When in doubt, wear black.

  6. Always take your time. The world can wait until you’re good and ready.

  7. Cultivate your inner beauty; European men like women of substance.

  8. Play up the exotica factor; speak with a Chinese accent if necessary to spark a conversation.

  9. Think that you’re beautiful. Once you become really good at this, graduate to point 10.

  10. KNOW that you’re beautiful—self-confidence is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

  It’s Sunday morning and since I still don’t have any electricity in the apartment, I go to the café downstairs for some breakfast and coffee. The interior of Café Roger is dark despite the abundance of sunlight outside, and everything has a depressing down-and-out feel about it, from the formica bar counter and PVC bar stools to the eponymous Roger himself. White-haired and unshaven, Roger wears a checked shirt over a grimy T-shirt that dreams of detergent, and chucks my croque monsieur in front of me rather unceremoniously before going back to the bar to continue a conversation with his only other customer, a large man with an anchor tattoo on his forearm. Roger says something about “foreigners” and how the neighbourhood has changed, and something else I don’t understand, but none of it sounds very welcoming. Oh dear. I bite politely into the croque monsieur, which looks about as freshly made as Roger, and try to tune them out.

  Just as I’m about to finish, my phone rings, and I’m glad for the human interaction, even if it’s only my mum. Mum has been uncharacteristically maternal since I left Singapore, calling me almost every other day to check if I’m settling in okay. And I appreciate the newfound attention; at least until the moment the conversation takes an acrimonious turn, as it invariably does.

  “Hello, dear, how are you doing? What time is it over there?” I hear every syllable clearly and crisply across the oceans because Mum does not speak, she e-nun-ciates.

  “Morning, Mum! It’s 9.30 here, I’m just finishing breakfast,” I say. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing’s up, dear. I’m just calling to make sure everything is okay, since you never call. Have you gone for Mass? Today’s Sunday, you know.”

  “Yes, I’ll be going later. The Basilica Sacré Coeur has one at 6pm. I’m actually looking forward to it—the place looks beautiful in the postcards I’ve seen.”

  “You mean you still haven’t gone for Mass since you set foot in France?” Mum says, scandalised.

  “Mum, I’ve only been here about a week…”

  “Eleven days, actually.”

  “Yes, but I’ve been really busy. And I’m going this evening, okay?”

  “All right, just don’t forget to go.”

  “How’s Crystal? Has she got any news about the promotion?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. My mum loves to talk about Crystal, who is obviously her favourite between the two of us. My sister and I have this theory that it’s Mum’s way of atoning ever since she realised, too late and with a crashing horror, the consequences of her actions circa Singapore 1981. Mum had wanted her youngest daughter to be pure, beautiful and delicate, and therefore christened her Crystal Thong. And you couldn’t blame her, really; the country was poor then, and panties still came in only one shape and three sizes.

  “Yes, yes she has!” Mum gushes excitedly. “She’s now an Assistant Senior Vice-President for Investment Banking… Or is it Senior Assistant Deputy President? Well, it’s one or the other at any rate. These bankers have such fancy titles these days!”

  “Wow! That’s great news! Bring her on the phone, I want to congratulate her.”

  “Oh she’s taking a nap, dear. Better not disturb her; she’s been under some stress lately. I’ll pass the message on when she wakes up. Which reminds me, Crystal says she’ll be giving me extra allowance from now on, since, well you know…since you’re not working any more.”

  There it is. The acrimonious turn. Today it comes in the shape of a massive guilt trip.

  “Mum, I’m really sorry that I’m not contributing. But it’s only this year. I promise, when I get back to Singapore, and I start working…”

  “Don’t worry about it, Belle, I’m sure I’ll manage just fine.” She heaves a big sigh, and follows it with a pause. “It’s funny how one’s children can grow up to be complete opposites.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I say darkly.

  “It means that the two of you are so different—she
likes sports, you like to read, she’s a banker, you’re a teacher—well you were a teacher—she’s more grounded and you’re so…what’s the word I’m looking for…airy fairy.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “Mum, I’m done with breakfast now, and I have to go. Send Dad and Crystal my love, okay?”

  “Where are you off to?”

  “I need to pick up my laundry. Talk to you later okay? Bye!”

  After Mass, I take a downhill stroll to the base of Montmartre, wending past bright, colourful shops decorated and decked with a mind-boggling array of tourist knick-knacks—T-shirts, posters, football jerseys, Eiffel Tower statues, Arc de Triomphe trinkets—you get the picture. I find myself on Boulevard Clichy and, unwilling to go home just yet, stop at a café to sit outside and enjoy the beautiful weather. Yes, I have finally understood the concept of “beautiful weather” and why people enjoy it so much. Back in Singapore, there is no “weather”. There’s only rain or heat—or, if you’re unlucky, both at the same time. Every. Single. Day. But here, the weather is so variable, so changeable; it can be so many different things. No wonder it’s a topic of conversation!

  I order a double espresso and watch people and traffic whiz by on the wrong side of the road. Carefully, I perch my Jackie O sunglasses on my head like an onyx tiara. Perfect. I’m now a Parisienne! Just need to stop grinning like Charlie, Chucky or similarly deranged dolls.

  I pick up my black leather tote bag and pull out my agenda. This is my must-do list, in order of priority:

  1. Open bank account

  2. Send emails to friends

  3. Complete university matriculation process

  4. Shop for autumn collection (can’t wait to have season- and weather-based wardrobe!)

  5. Get foreign student card from the police HQ (!!)

  6. Devise Annual Slogan

  Ah yes. My Annual Slogan. I need a new one, given that the objectives of last year’s “Operation French-or-Fry” have already been achieved and said slogan has therefore lost all motivational value. Hmm… I must give it a lot of thought, as success or failure in life is entirely dependent on the quality of one’s slogans, as proven time and again by the Singapore government. My aims for this academic year are to:

  a) Become a beautiful Asian temptress

  b) Find a gorgeous boyfriend

  c) Be a successful, glamorous and perfectly bilingual Sorbonne graduate

  It is obviously very hard to condense such complex and different ideas into a simple slogan, but with inspiration and a bit of luck, I’m sure I can come up with something. I tap my pen against my forehead and think really hard. Let’s see…

  I need a good female role model, someone who will best serve as this year’s moral compass.

  Pretty Woman? (Who wouldn’t want to be Julia Roberts and get it on with Richard Gere? But only Pretty Woman Richard Gere, NOT Chicago Richard Gere, who is a different person altogether, and honestly quite yucky.) But Julia Roberts/Pretty Woman is a prostitute and I’m not sure the Pope would back me on this one. If the Church were to have a say, I would no doubt have to be Maria from The Sound of Music, but this also doesn’t work, primarily because I don’t have her maternal instincts and cannot break into song at will.

  Bridget Jones? She’s a normal looking girl who snags a gorgeous, successful boyfriend. And she’s cute and funny and lovable. But how does that tie in with being a successful, bilingual Sorbonne graduate?

  A beautiful blonde lady in a brown leather jacket and boots walks past as I take another sip of my espresso. And then it hits me.

  My new life-shaping movie should be Legally Blonde! My life should be guided by the moral of the movie—to work hard and beat the academic system on its terms, while not losing sight of the real reason why I am back in school, which is to find the love of my life. And the slogan…the slogan…

  “Legally Blanche”! That’s it! Two words, yet so full of texture and hidden messages, i.e.:

  a) Spin on Legally Blonde—it even rhymes (sort of)!

  b) Instead of blonde, which has connotations of being stupid and flaky, my (metaphorical) hair colour will be blanche, signifying wisdom achieved from mugging for exams.

  c) The name Blanche is evocative of the Southern belle from A Streetcar Named Desire, and yet I am a legit manifestation of this persona and will not overstep boundaries—in other words, I will be a temptress with high moral standards.

  d) The slogan is in two languages—thus reflecting the ideal of perfect bilingualism.

  I can’t help smiling with complete satisfaction. With such a clearly articulated vision, I can now embark on a strategy of self-improvement. In order to become Legally Blanche (sexy, glamorous, international woman of substance with hunky boyfriend in tow), I must get back on an exercise and diet regime, work my ass off at the Sorbonne and find aforesaid hunky boyfriend. Right now, all three seem unlikely, but that’s the whole point of having a slogan, isn’t it?

  I think I’ll go home now, change, and go for a jog. Yes, a jog! I’m super motivated now. Either that, or it’s the double espresso talking. “Monsieur, cheque please!”

  It’s the last week of September and I’ve been spending the last few days navigating through interminable administrative hoops and hurdles, like getting my matriculation done (school fees cost only €300!), finalising subjects, getting my library card, foreign student card etc. Whenever possible, Gula—the Uzbek girl—and I sought each other out, because we figured two heads were better than one when dealing with the university administration. I was better able to understand instructions and what was going on generally, but Gula, coming from an ex-communist country, was much more streetwise at manoeuvring through the bureaucratic morass. Even so, we were still no match for the French bureaucracy, which is older than even communism and built on a solid tradition of inaction and inertia.

  Today I’ve decided to do something about my awful French—I’m going to look for a conversation exchange partner! It’s a brilliant way for me to improve quickly. I put up an ad on the university’s notice board to search for a native French speaker, specifically a “male between the age of 25 and 35”. You know, to optimise the chances of conversational success. Hee hee. In turn, he would get to practise his English with an “Anglophone Asian lady”.

  Another thing on my to do list is to locate the university’s swimming pool, because the Legally Blanche programme requires regular exercise. I really hope they have an Olympic-sized pool like the one at the National University of Singapore. I approach a group of appariteurs (sort of like security guards and receptionists rolled into one) and ask where the pool is but they just look at me like I’m raving mad.

  “There’s no pool here,” one of them says. He looks like he’s been working for the university since the Middle Ages.

  “Oui, Monsieur, I understand that,” I say patiently and slowly, as if to a child. “It is not in this building. Can you tell me where it is? In another building perhaps?”

  “I don’t know about the other buildings. I just know this one.”

  “All right,” I say through gritted teeth. “Do you know who I could ask?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Is there an office for student sports perhaps?”

  “Corridor D, third floor, second door on the left.”

  I cross the building, make my way through a maze of corridors, and climb three floors. When I reach the office, I see that it’s empty with the exception of a middle-aged lady sitting behind a huge desk.

  “Bonjour,” I say, approaching her desk.

  “Please take a seat, and wait for my call,” she says curtly. She continues to shuffle the papers on her desk, taking her time to arrange them into three neat stacks. And then, as if I’m not there, she picks up the phone and orders a pizza! “Yes, I would like to order a Sicilian Surprise please. One…with extra salami. Cerboutin. C-E-R-B… No, B as in borne… B, you know b!... Yes, Monsieur, B as in balls if you wish… O like…orange, U-T for t
ango, I, and N for ninja. And one diet Coke. Yes, the usual address. And please don’t be late like the last time. Yes…thank you…goodbye.” She then places the receiver down with a gentle click, looks up, and greets me as if I’ve just walked in.

  “Madame, bonjour!” she says with a smile as bright as it is fake.

  It feels ridiculous but I play along, “Bonjour. I would like to know where I could find the varsity swimming pool please.”

  “Sorry this is the office for student associations, not sports clubs.”

  Super. “Do you know where the office for sports clubs is?”

  “No, you’ll have to ask the appariteurs for that,” she replies.

  If I had been fresh off the boat from Singapore, I would have strangled her or broken down in tears or both, but after two weeks here, I am beginning to learn that French bureaucratic stonewalling is a fact of life. I must keep my cool. Keep zen. The idea is to go with the flow.

  “Well, since I am here, can I find out which student associations I can join?”

  “Of course. Here is the list of associations. For more information, you can call them up and ask for details.”

  I have an idea. “Can we check the university website for information?” I ask, giving a meaningful glance at her desktop.

  “You’ll have to ask the appariteurs for the library, where you can get an Internet connection,” she says, the plastic smile fixed firmly on her face.

  So I rush to the library, spend 20 minutes trying to configure the network connection on my laptop, and check the university website (no mention of sports facilities, but found the address for the sports clubs, yes!). Then I race up the road to the Panthéon building, get lost, ask for directions and finally arrive at the office. It’s closed for lunch. Back at 2.30pm!