WRIT LARGE: Ch 3, Part 2
We clear Customs on board the jet. Leann takes a small purse with her, everything else handled by the flight attendant. I hoist my overnight bag onto my shoulder and keep the disposable camera in my hand.
“What is that?” asks Leann, her eyes narrowed.
I tell her that I always like to carry a disposable camera with me when I travel. As a child, I loved photographs in the way that other children loved stickers. My parents bought me a Polaroid camera and I spent all my pocket money on developing photographs of spiders, frogs, and lizards. It is something that I have carried with me through to adulthood: a love of capturing images of my surroundings, capturing smiles, and greetings, and yes, still spiders.
“You were a strange child,” she says, and it is more an observation than a question.
I snap a picture of her as she peers out of the window.
A black Mercedes E Class is waiting on the tarmac for us. The chauffeur is cool in white slacks and a white linen shirt and greets us with a smile. He holds open the door and nods at Leann as she climbs in. The air conditioned interior is a welcome contrast to the heavy Singaporean heat.
Out of inbuilt curiosity, I ask the chauffeur about his life. He says that he has two teenage sons both of whom attend the international academy in Singapore. They are bright boys. One wants to be an author, and the other wants to be a heart surgeon. I could tell him that both careers are close to my heart, but instead I ask if he, or his son, have read any of my books.
“I am sorry,” he peers at me in the rear-view mirror. “I haven’t.”
“You should,” says Leann. “I will ask Lucas to sign a copy for you.”
I tell the chauffeur that I was only joking. I go on to explain how shocked I was when JK Rowling admitted that she had read my work.
“You met JK Rowling?” asks Leann.
I nod and tell her how we swapped autographs and she even presented me with a Harry Potter bookmark. I reach into my bag and pull the bookmark from my current read, marking the page with my finger.
She shakes her head. “The great author uses a Harry Potter bookmark.”
I ask her to describe her own.
“It is white gold with a ‘J’ made from sapphires. Very classy,” she adds. “It was a gift from my husband.” But her eyes still follow the black hair and wizarding cloak of my bookmark as I slide it back between the pages of my current read.
Leann points out some landmarks as we drive through Singapore. The famous Raffles hotel where the Singapore Sling was created. Singapore Zoo, home of the Night Safari, a popular tourist attraction. The sculpture of The Five Boys by the River. The Gardens by the Bay.
I am mesmerised by the Supertrees in the Gardens, craning my neck to keep them in sight as we drive past.
“At night they are most spectacular,” says Leann. “You can take the raised walkway between the Supertrees if you are not afraid of heights.”
I ask if Leann has visited the Gardens herself and she replies, “Not for some years now.”
The chauffeur approaches the Marina Bay Sands, the hotel where I am staying for the night. Nothing quite prepares you for the vision of the three towers with the ship perched on top. I know almost nothing about construction, but even I can see that this must have been no easy feat.
Leann shrugs as she peers up at the ship.
“You should check in and meet me at the rooftop infinity pool. We cannot go anywhere else until we have viewed Singapore from the fifty-seventh floor. I would love to see it through your eyes,” she says.
How can I resist? I almost wonder if Leann is easing into her childhood mask, showing me the enthusiasm for an attraction that she assumes, as a tourist, I want to see.
And it never fails to disappoint.
The illusion of the pool spilling into the horizon from the ship balanced on the three towers, is breath-taking. I grip the edge of my lounger waiting for my heartbeat to regulate itself before I snap a picture on my disposable camera. Leann watches me, a smile on her face.
A lifeguard walks along the far edge of the pool, and it has the effect of him balancing on the very edge of the elevated ship.
“It is deceiving, but there is a wall between the water and the rest of the world. No one ever died from falling over the edge of an infinity pool.” says Leann.
I raise my camera and suggest that we go and join him, because there is no point in enjoying an experience half-heartedly.
She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
I insist several times, during which I reach for her hand and she pulls it away before she finally relents.
“You are a crazy, bad influence on me,” she says, but there is laughter behind her voice.
The lifeguard jogs along the narrow channel between the water’s edge and the wall to join us. He will not permit us to follow him, but he poses cheerily for a selfie with us. The view takes some adjusting to, something I am certain my heart would rather have avoided, but it is worth it to see the pink spots appear on Leann’s perfect cheeks as she looks out over her beloved Singapore.
Leann is waiting for me outside the hotel reception in her red Aston Martin. She does not look out of place behind the steering wheel, but rather gives the impression that I hadn’t expected anything less. She talks in the car about her friends whom we are meeting for dinner: Jasmine, an artist and philanthropist; and Cheng, a thriller-writer who has spent a considerable amount of time on the New York Times bestseller list.
“We have started our own version of the ‘round table’,” she says, manoeuvring the traffic with ease. “Creatives, authors, artists – we often meet at the Tippling Club, or Raffles, to discuss our projects and support each other.”
I nod along and toss in the occasional question about our proposed evening and company. My input is quite unnecessary though as Leann has already become the masked version of herself that she spoke about during our flight.
We are shown to our table at the exclusive Tippling Club, where everyone is well-schooled in the art of knowing which knife and fork to use, and which drink should be supped with which course. I have never been one to worry about what people think of me, or whether I am dressed appropriately for the occasion. I dress for comfort. I wear what I like and eat what I enjoy.
Jasmine and Cheng join us shortly after we are seated, and although I notice them eying up my slightly creased grey linen shirt, they hide it well.
Introductions are made and we shake hands with firm grips. The conversation flows, guided by Leann. She is like a blossom who was folded in on herself during our journey from Paris to Singapore and has now opened up to the light inside these elegant surroundings. It is simultaneously a pleasure to watch, and slightly disconcerting, a little like watching a toy with new batteries inserted.
I can tell that Cheng is waiting for the opportunity to steer the conversation towards writing. My writing. “So, where does your inspiration come from?” he asks. “What inspired your first novel?”
I sip my water, dab my mouth with a crisp white napkin, explain that I find it far easier to speak about other people’s writing than my own, and that I came to fame quite by accident and am still learning to wear that mantle.
Cheng raises his glass of red. “Leann is the complete opposite,” he says. “She wears the mantle and waits for fame to catch her up.”
Leann tilts her head in acknowledgement. “You have all heard of telling the universe what you want from life and manifesting your desires. Well, that is what I am doing. I am pre-empting Lucas’s offer for me to join his Writer’s Guild.”
“How can you refuse her now?” asks Jasmine. She is as classy and well-groomed as Leann, but in a Hollywood kind of way. Silver-blonde curls, understated, but expensive, jewellery, designer labels.
Cheng watches me with author-eyes. “We may travel along different roads, but the achievement is no less the triumph when we look backwards.”
I surmise he is hinting at Leann’s obvious wealth and status in Singaporean society when he adds, “I am guessing this wonderful lady has not told you that, when she is away from the spotlight, she is working with disadvantaged children in far less fortunate societies.”
I inform Cheng that he is correct and that he knows Leann too well.
I omit to tell him that he knows the version that he has been allowed to see and that I have a feeling there is far more still to be revealed.
I am thoroughly enjoying reading this! This section left me wanting to know more about Leann. Can't wait to read more!