Singapore Sling Shot - Andrew Grant [11]
Simone’s tan was the golden tan of the fair skinned, the colour of honey, while her hair was straw gold. There had to be some Scandinavian in her genetic mix. She was tall and looked very athletic. Her eyes, which tracked me as I came towards her, were clear and blue and very much alive. Sami had obviously described me, but the shorts were probably the giveaway.
In addition to the stupid shorts, both of us had on polo shirts; hers was lime green, mine was light blue. We were the damned Bobbsey Twins!
My outfit was completed by a wide-billed baseball cap bearing a BMW logo. It had been the least offensive of those I had been looking at. My striking companion didn’t have a hat on. With her mass of blonde curls tied back by a green ribbon that wasn’t an accidental match to her shirt, she didn’t need any sun protection. We were both wearing dark glasses. Mine were on my hat, hers pushed into her hair.
I noticed that Simone’s Nike trainers were not brand new. They’d seen some use. Judging by how trim her long body looked, she was into the gym or was a runner which, of course, probably accounted for the shoes. My own swooshes were straight out of the box. My usual footwear, my faithful boots, were in my wardrobe. Cowboy boots and shorts do not a match make. Not even for a hokum Aussie tourist.
Simone carried a camera slung over one shoulder and a leather bag over the other. I had the Sony in its case clipped to my belt. I’d added a sleeveless khaki vest over my shirt. My wallet, cigarettes and sundry other bits and pieces were all stowed in its many pockets. The vest was practical and, of course, it is just the sort of thing tourists like me seem to wear, especially in the tropics.
We made a show of greeting, and to a casual observer we were old friends or separated spouses meeting up. There were kisses and hugs. I must admit that I found it all most pleasant. Arm in arm we headed out front to snare a taxi.
Safely ensconced in the back of a blue Comfort cab en route to VivoCity and the Sentosa train, we dropped the charade momentarily.
“I feel like a right idiot,” I said.
“You look like a typical tourist,” came the reply. Simone’s English was perfect with just the bare trace of an accent. Dutch or South African, I couldn’t quite be sure. “Mr Somsak said you’d hate this bit.” She was smiling. It was a nice smile.
“Yeah,” I muttered. “He knows me too well. So, what’s on the agenda?”
“We’ll have breakfast at Vivo and get the monorail across to the island. No point in us going over there too early. Things don’t open until ten or so.”
“You’ve been there a lot?”
“Two kids. It’s Singapore’s playground,” she replied. The faint, flat touch of bitterness in her voice belied her smile. “When it’s the weekend or school holidays and the kids are restless and you’re trapped in an apartment block and you’re not filthy rich, you soon learn to love and hate the place.”
The obvious questions reared their heads. Was she married? How long had she been here, etc, etc? I bit them back. This was a one-day gig. The less I knew the better, in all probability. She had other ideas.
“Sorry,” she replied. “I’m divorced, two kids, girl, eleven, and a boy thirteen. I work for Stanley’s company, administration, nothing more. I know the company is actually owned by Mr Somsak.” Simone paused momentarily. “I have been in meetings with Mr Somsak and Stanley, so I know how things are. Were,” she corrected herself and pushed away the obviously less-than-pleasant thought that momentarily clouded her expression. “This is a welcome change,” she said, changing gear and putting on a patently false happy face. “I get the chance to play-act.”
“As payment for your performance I’ll be buying the best lunch we can find,” I added, “following an absolutely disgustingly rich and unhealthy breakfast.”
“Sounds good.” This time Simone DeLue smiled as if she meant it. Maybe, work aside, this would be a nice day all round. And hey, my mind was definitely above my belt on this one, and while that’s not a first, it’s a pleasant