WRIT LARGE: The Emerald Seal

Ch 22, in which a surprise guest joins Lucas and Leann in Langkawi

Leann and I are waiting to board the helicopter, which will take us to the Four Seasons resort in Langkawi, a two-hour trip from Resorts World, Genting. Even though Leann is dressed in a pale blue cotton shirt and jeans, she still manages to resemble Audrey Hepburn in a scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. She laughs when I ask her how she does it.

“It is a state of mind. If you wake in the morning with the desire to wear pyjamas, watch movies, and eat popcorn, you will spend the entire day looking as though you rolled out of bed without dragging a comb through your hair no matter which designer outfit you choose to wear. If you wake believing that you are Holly Golightly in a silk dress and pearls, then that is the aura that you will achieve. Even in jeans and a cotton shirt.”

I ask if she ever has pyjama days and what would be her go-to movie.

She tilts her head to one side as though she is a parent trying to outwit a cheeky child. “Why do I feel as though you are researching a new character?” she asks with a smile. “Yes, I too have days when I choose not to face the world and enjoy my own company. Pretty Woman. I cannot tell you how many times I have watched that film and am still moved by the scene when she returns to the snooty women in the boutique with her shopping bags and tells them they made a mistake in not serving her. It is her journey that I enjoy …” she pauses, “… and Richard Gere, of course.”

I tell Leann that my movie-of-choice would be Lethal Weapon, and that I sometimes feel as though I was born a little too late. I can picture myself in my early twenties in the 80s, in my flares and tank top, sporting a mullet.

Leann nods. “Yes! It is your aura. I knew it when I saw the jacket you picked up from Paris, but I was unable to quite define it. You should grow your hair – it will complete the look.”

I suggest that it probably wouldn’t do much for my professional image.

“We all grow into ourselves,” she says. “If your inner young adult LAPD detective wants to be seen, it will find a way. And who knows how it will affect your writing.”

I suggest that it might bring out the unseen wild side of Bernard Arnault when writing his biography.

“The Netflix adaptation would certainly be an eye-opener,” adds Leann. “I can picture Woody Harrelson in the lead role.”

I suggest that if Monsieur Arnault could hear us now, the contract would be rescinded immediately in favour of a more traditional author.

“Oh, I truly doubt that. There is a bright man with a beating heart beneath the silk suits, a man who recognises a professional when he meets one.”

On board the loud helicopter, our headsets are connected so that we can speak to each other during the journey. Leann points out landmarks and resorts along the coasts. We spot a school of dolphins playing in the water and we are like children pointing out animals on a long car journey. The sea is holiday-brochure turquoise, and I feel the usual stab of regret that humans are so determined to destroy nature when there is nothing else in existence, and certainly nothing manufactured, that is so magical as views such as these.

I ask if Leann has visited the Langkawi resort before.

“Several times,” she says. “You may find it familiar as some scenes from Crazy Rich Asians were filmed there. It is quite beautiful.”

We discuss the film, and the book written by Kevin Kwan. I ask Leann if she has ever been tempted towards such an extravagant lifestyle as those depicted in the novel, or even whether such extravagances are commonplace amongst her circles. His books certainly appeal to our instinctive curiosity about how people of such considerable wealth live, whether we condone such lavishness or not.

“I am most fortunate,” says Leann, “that I am in a position to lead that lifestyle should I choose to do so, but I am also lucky to be able to help others who do not have the same security and stability in life. However,” – she turns away from the window to face me – “I am guilty of one such unnecessary luxury. Please don’t judge me, I simply couldn’t resist designing my personal bathroom with the ocean in mind. It is my happy place. I have always been fascinated by sea creatures and mermaids, and I have a mermaid created from Venetian tiles on the wall above my clawfoot bath.”

I say that it sounds wonderful and that there is nothing wrong with surrounding ourselves with things that make us happy – our mental wellbeing should be of paramount importance and disappointingly is so often overlooked or disregarded.

Leann smiles. “Would you still agree if I told you that the mermaid’s scales are decorated with emeralds?”

I ask if she means real emeralds.

“Are you disappointed in me? Emeralds are my downfall. They take me to the ocean in the same way as holding a conch shell to your ear allows you to hear the waves.” She shrugs. “Shells are best left in their natural habitat, but emeralds … emeralds are designed to be enjoyed.”

I ask Leann if she feels guilty about giving in to temptation.

“Not at all. I call her Leanntastic. She has helped me untangle many complicated storylines.”

In which case, I tell her, the mermaid is her equivalent of my disposable camera. It is a way of viewing things through a different lens, and we all need to observe the world from alternative angles at times, regardless of which method we use.

Leann is quiet for a while and I wonder if she is simply enjoying the serenity of the views or whether she thinks I am trying to soothe her conscience. It matters to me that Leann should not feel vulnerable in my company or question my admiration of her, which is wholly unspoilt by her love of jewels. I tell her that I am excited to introduce her to the other writers from the Syndicate who are arriving the following morning.

Her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Is there an initiation ceremony that you haven’t yet mentioned? Do you expect me to compose a haiku in five seconds or name the major characters from The Lord of the Rings in order of appearance to earn my place?” she asks playfully. “Or do we sit in a circle, prick our thumbs, and allow our blood to mingle?”

I tell her that she has spent far too long in Olivia’s company.

Leann nods. “Olivia is adorable. She is a star who has yet to understand how brightly she can shine, and when she does, she will rise higher and faster than anyone will ever have predicted. I know you don’t agree,” she continues, “but I think her suggestion of a Netflix biopic is a viable idea. You should give it some consideration at least.”

I tell her that I will give it some thought and add that we should all get together and recreate this tour should it ever make the big screen, each of us playing ourselves.

“We are certainly an eclectic bunch of characters,” she concedes.

I take this opportunity to mention the surprise guest with whom we will be having dinner this evening in Langkawi.

“I’m intrigued,” says Leann. “I assume you are not about to divulge this person’s name.”

I tell her that she is correct and return to gazing at the palm-tree lined shore through the window.

The resort in Langkawi feels like stepping into a rainforest where you expect a monkey or sun bear to appear in the leaves above your head or a chameleon to slither across your foot, while simultaneously being made to feel like royalty, greeted with a large glass laden with fruit juice and topped with slices of mango, passionfruit, and kiwi.

Leann and I are escorted from the helipad to the welcome courtyard, where our luggage is taken to our rooms, while we recline on large comfortable white seats and our feet are massaged. I am reminded of the film Die Hard in which John McClane likes to remove his shoes and walk around barefoot following a flight. The air is heavy and sweet. This is always my first impression of a new country, that first heady smell as you step off a flight and breathe in the life of a strange new land.

A glance at Leann and she is reclining in her seat, eyes closed, face peaceful almost as though she is deep in slumber. The therapist massages oil into my feet with her warm hands, paying particular attention to the soft pad beneath my big toe, my heel resting on her lap, but I find I am unable to fully relax the way Leann is doing, because it hurts. The therapist must feel my body tensing. Her hands move to my ankle and the bottom of my calf, her thumbs pressing hard into the flesh. I have never had a foot massage before, and I don’t understand why it is so painful, to the point where I am gripping the sides of the chair the way I would during a visit to the dentist.

The therapist speaks and Leann’s eyes open. “Relax,” she says. “It will be more painful if you are tensing your muscles.” I tell her that I didn’t expect a foot massage to feel quite like torture and she grins at me.

“Maybe your muscles are tight with the anticipation of your surprise dinner guest.”

It is a valiant attempt at teasing a name from me, I say, but it won’t work. I try to relax but have to confess that I am glad when the foot massage is over. It reaffirms my belief that eastern cultures are right to factor their health and wellbeing into their everyday lives, unlike westerners who work until they are forced to slow down.

After we have been shown to our rooms and unpacked, I meet Leann on the beach. She is already waiting for me, casually elegant in a peach floral sarong, a vibrant orange flower tucked into her hair. We stroll barefoot on the fine white sand, the calm turquoise sea rippling gently on the shore, the jungle enclosing us like a fortress wall, protecting us from the rest of the world and ensuring we experience nothing but peace and seclusion. I feel the tension of the journey draining away. Despite the luxury of a helicopter ride from one resort to another, and the welcome foot massage, I can never fully relax until I reach my destination and root myself into my new setting.

Leann tells me about the legend of Mahsuri and the Langkawi Curse. “Mahsuri was married to the island chief’s son. While he was away fighting the Siamese army, it is said that she befriended a travelling musician. The islanders believed that she was having an affair and when the chief heard the rumours, he sentenced her to be executed. Legend has it that, before she died, she uttered the curse that Langkawi would not prosper for seven generations for the injustices served against her. White blood is said to have poured from her lethal wound, which was proof of her innocence, but obviously too late for the poor girl and too late for the islanders.” She smiles at me, her eyes shielded by large dark sunglasses. “Aren’t legends fascinating? I hope that humans never stop believing in magic and dragons and curses.”

I agree with Leann that it is our imagination that allows us to escape reality, and that the human brain is itself magical with its endless ability to conjure up whole new worlds and universes and creatures.

Leann stoops to pick up a pale pink shell, which she holds in the palm of her hand to show me. “When I was a child, I was obsessed with shells,” she says. “I would collect them whenever we took a beach holiday, fill my mother’s suitcase with them, and sand of course. At home, I would spend hours lining them up in order of their beauty. It was a time-consuming occupation because my favourite shells would alter with my mood, and I filled many notebooks with lists, and diagrams, and scores out of ten.”

I ask if she still has any of these shells in her possession. “I do. I keep them in my sea-themed bathroom. I have always been drawn to water, as much as to books. I feel peaceful when I am near the sea, in a way that I never feel anywhere else.” I say that I too can relate to this. The sea is untamed, unfathomable, and alive with creatures that humans may never get to discover, so it is only natural that we are filled with a sense of awe whenever we are close.

I sense that Leann is taking the opportunity to unwind on this trip before she commences work on Cathie Wood’s biography; it is almost like she is taking a deep mental breath before everything speeds up again as she dives into her first commission as part of the Syndicate. I ask how she feels about the project.

“I am excited to get to know Cathie. I feel that the world has only seen the businesswoman and there is so much more to uncover about her. I hope – if I can do the biography justice – that the world will view her in a different light once the book is released.”

I have no doubts that Leann will do the book justice and I tell her that I stand by my decision that Leann was the right person for the job. She laughs, a gentle peaceful sound aided by the murmuring of the water at our feet.

“I get the feeling that you had a personal interest in passing the project to me.”

Her eyes are not visible behind the sunglasses, but I imagine them glancing at me sideways, awaiting my response. I hold my hands up in mock surrender. It wasn’t a project that I felt connected to, I tell her, that there was something missing between myself and Cathie Wood, which would have resulted in me missing the necessary cues to make the project shine.

“It is okay,” says Leann. “I understand. We are all different, and I am truly grateful for the opportunity. I sometimes wonder what I have done to deserve such fortune.”

I suggest that it might be something to do with her determination to succeed. The little girl who spent hours studying beautiful shells, was already on the path to truth and perfection.

We spend the afternoon on the resort’s sun loungers, the servers replenishing our drinks every hour. We talk about family, and homes, and our plans for the future, and by the time we return to our rooms to shower and dress for dinner, I am feeling so energised that I am almost tempted to grow the mullet we spoke about earlier.

I wait outside Leann’s room to escort her to dinner where we have a reservation at the resort’s Ikan-Ikan restaurant. She is looking fresh and tanned in a white halter-neck all-in-one suit, a single diamond on a white gold chain around her neck and matching diamonds in her ears.

I suggest that the relaxing afternoon has left us both feeling rejuvenated. She laughs when I mention the mullet temptation that evaporated when I looked in the mirror.

“Remember, it’s a state of mind. You don’t need a physical mullet to carry off the 80s look that you wear so naturally anyway.”

I ponder the idea as I link Leann’s arm with mine and ask if it is a pastime that she enjoys the way some people enjoy people watching or listening in on other people’s conversations: guessing their aura.

“Sometimes,” she says. “It is not always possible because some people do not recognise their own aura, and others choose to smother it because of whatever is going on in their life at a given moment. But I do find it fascinating.”

We enter the restaurant and while we are waiting to be shown to our table, I spot Ivana who winks at me. I haven’t seen her since Paris, but her presence is not easily missed. Surprisingly, Leann has not yet noticed her. It isn’t until we are following the Maitre d’ and Ivana rises, that Leann recognises her friend.

She drops my arm. “Ivana! What are you doing here? Are you filming?”

The two friends embrace and then Ivana hugs me and kisses my cheeks. “No, I am here to spend time with my friends,” she says.

Ivana is shrouded by a fine mist of exotic perfume, her earrings jiggling as she moves and sparkling in the overhead light. She is vibrant in a bold-patterned violet dress, her makeup immaculate, eyelashes long and thick with a sweep of black eyeliner elongating her already wide eyes. At average height, she has an aura that fills the room with energy and sound even when she is not speaking, as though her very presence speaks for her. I glance around and note that everyone is watching her, some surreptitiously, some openly, forks raised midway to their mouths.

Leann’s gaze flits between the two of us and the waiter pulls out a seat for her. “This is a surprise I never expected,” she says.

I say that it seemed fitting that Ivana should be here to celebrate Leann’s acceptance into the Syndicate when it was she who introduced us. Without Ivana’s connection, the Cathie Wood commission might never have left the ground.

“You see,” says Ivana, sipping champagne as the waiter places a menu in front of each of us, “did I not tell you she was wonderfully talented?”

I agree that she did, but that it was only a matter of time before our paths would have crossed without her intervention.

“So, who is this Cathie Wood?” asks Ivana, casting an eye over the wine menu. “Do I know her?”

Leann explains a little about Cathie’s background. “I follow her podcasts so it will be an honour for me to write her biography. But what about you? How long are you staying?”

Ivana doesn’t have a chance to answer before a young couple appear at her side, grinning and holding their phones in front of them.

“Oh my God,” says the woman, “may we please take a selfie with you?” Ivana politely places the menu on the table and smiles as the couple stand either side of her, phones held at arms’ length. “Thank you so much,” they gush. “Enjoy your meal and sorry for interrupting your evening.”

They walk away and Ivana continues the conversation as though the photograph never happened. “A couple of days. We were taking a break from filming anyway because Kable has gone home, so when I received the invitation to come, I thought, why not? I could do with some R&R and I get to see you at the same time. Tell me what’s been happening. Where are you going next? Your life is more of a whirlwind than mine.”

We chat comfortably about the past few days, while we choose our food and order. A waiter brings a jug of iced water to the table, filling tall tumblers for each of us.

Ivana and Leann have been friends since university, and I get the impression that Ivana was always the one who was destined to be queen of LA’s Asian set, on-screen, and in reality. I sit back, their conversation washing over me, and try to recognise Ivana’s aura, but all I can picture is a long jewel-bedecked evening dress swishing along a red carpet.

“Do you remember the masquerade ball?” Ivana asks.

Leann waits for her champagne flute to be filled, and a crisp white napkin to be placed across her lap before she answers. “We gate-crashed a ball – Ivana’s idea – because she wanted to get to know a young man who, until then, had not realised that she existed.”

“She makes it sound like I was a lovestruck teenager,” adds Ivana.

“You were,” says Leann.

“Okay, maybe I was, but I knew what I was doing.”

Leann nods. “I knew the man via business connections with my family, so Ivana thought that if we could sneak into the party, I would be the perfect person to introduce them to each other.”

I say that I admire her thought process.

“But my grandfather was there, so the costume had to be elaborate enough for him to not recognise me.”

“What she’s trying to say,” interrupts Ivana, “is that she wore a long golden wig and the sexiest emerald-green dress you’ve ever seen. She looked stunning.”

I ask what happened and Ivana flashes her wedding ring at me.

“The enterprise was a complete success, despite Leann getting her heel caught in the hem of her dress and almost tumbling headfirst into an ice sculpture … and I married the man a year later.”

This is an adventurous and playful side of Leann that I have not previously seen, and I am more grateful than ever that I have welcomed her into the Syndicate. I ask if her grandfather ever discovered her presence at the ball. “If he did, he was utterly discreet and never mentioned it,” says Leann.

I wait until dessert is served – a creamy chocolaty Cremeux – before I present the signet ring to Leann along with her welcome pack. Leann blinks with surprise and Ivana claps her hands with excitement. “Good choice!” she says.

“Is this one of the rings you bought from Boucheron in Paris?” asks Leann.

I confirm that it was indeed Ivana’s generous suggestion and one which I’d never got around to doing myself as it works so well for the Syndicate members. Leann slips it onto her middle finger and admires the massive emerald, set in the octagonally-shaped design of white gold, against a backdrop of champagne and gilt-edged china drizzled with chocolate.

“Look at that emerald! How can I not love it,” she says. She looks at my signet ring and her eyes well with tears. Ivana reaches across the table and squeezes her hand. I remind her that the ring and her place in the Syndicate are well-earned and well-deserved, and she must never forget that.

Leann sniffs and says, “I’m a real author.”

We clink our champagne glasses to toast Leann’s success, as the concierge appears with bouquets of elegant white, yellow, and orange flowers for Ivana and Leann. My final surprise.

My mobile vibrates in my pocket: a message from Ann.

Did Leann and Ivana like the flowers?

I respond with a smiley kiss face. Ann has the ability to think for everyone, the way a mother thinks for her children, and I can’t wait to see her. I am tempted to order her a bouquet to pick up on my way home from the airport when I return to Sydney in a couple of days.