CHAPTER 8
Dana Lee at home, 5pm.
Dana is flat on her chintz chaise (faded cabbage roses), wrapped in a linen robe from Morocco (puce stripes). Cordelia
Theresa Cheng (denim dungarees), facialist to the stars, was working her magical fingers on Dana Lee's lymph nodes, rubbing and stabbing her face into submission in
readiness for dinner with Adam Tan. It’s been a tough, white-knuckled period
at work with Pulp Productions, which was putting Flair
online (at last!) and in an App. This immense digital project, which seemingly
involved a cast of thousands (fraught), and a multitude of copyright issues, has
certainly taken its toll on Dana. The digital project came on top of running
the paper version of Flair, on top of
keeping to the trappings and routine of being a fashion figure (which were as
rigorous and as demanding as a geisha’s in training) – of which this facial in
a darkened room (black-out roller blinds faced in Thai silk) formed part. And above everything else, Dana also struggled to fit into
her corset-tight schedule the now regular covert dates with Eli Kee – too much
for a girl to do, surely?
What's romance without one or two challenges to make things more interesting? Dana and Eli were going on proper dates at last, and no
longer meeting (slyly) on platonic pretext. Over the months, Dana had come to rely on Eli’s
simple habits and good nature: his idealism and optimism, balanced by pragmatism
and common sense provided perspective, and his natural manners provided an escape
from, and a reality check for, the high pressure bubble of glamour publishing.
Eli was like a prayer answered, and Dana Lee wasn’t about to give him up for
anything in the world.
“Dana Lee, you actually look radiant,” declared Cordelia Theresa (behind a hygiene mask). “I don’t know why you
wanted this emergency facial when you’re only due next Tuesday. You hardly look
stressed, really. You almost have the glow of youth – did you do something at
Dr Chong’s?”
“Cordelia
Theresa Cheng! You are super kind,” said Dana, her eyes hidden by cotton
pads (witch hazel). “It’s been months since I saw Dr Chong; It can only be the Bach I’ve been
listening to,” added Dana, almost giggling under the salt mask (Dead Sea). “And thanks
to your weekly facials too, sweetie! But now you really must let yourself out
and let me lie quiet for another 15 minutes and then I have to run! Turn on the
bath for me will you my sweet?”
At Dinner with Adam Tan in a Private Dining
Room with a View, 8pm.
Dana Lee’s
dinners with Adam Tan were partly routine, cozy catch-ups with an old friend and
business partner made charming by a bat squeak of flirtation. And Adam had just
come back from another of his mysterious business trips (Seoul, Tokyo),
brimming with news and projections. Adam’s wide business associations placed him
squarely in the increasingly diminishing map of the real world, and as the young mogul sat
across the table talking about world finance trends, the competitive world of
LCD screen makers and the rise of commodities and the fall of property, the
hurdles of e-retail, etc, Dana’s thoughts drifted (unwittingly, but very pleasurably) to Eli. This was
uncharacteristic. Dana Lee usually sat rapt, some would say "geisha-like", as
everything Adam Tan said bore relevance to her work and reflected her world.
But tonight, Adam sounded insignificant, a dog barking in the night in an empty
house down the street. Only Eli seemed real and alive, his smiling image
flitting in the sparkle of the wine glasses and his breath warm in Adam’s cigar
fumes (Havana).
Then
Adam broke into Brooke’s reverie: “Are you alright dear girl? You seem
distracted, which is unlike you.”
“Ooops. I'm sorry Adam, I’m
perfectly alright. Maybe I should have skipped the dessert and I'm more than a little drunk?
Maybe it’s time to call it a night, actually,” said Dana, suppressing a yawn (a struggle).
“Dana…”
Adam said with uncharacteristic hesitation, for it was ever his habit to
bulldoze his way into any given topic with the confidence of self-made
millions, “Dana, I don’t quite know how to say this but I…”
“Oh
Adam, you Silly Billy, out with it,” said Dana Lee, still dreamy, unaware.
“We are such old friends now, you can say anything to me… just that I’m so-o-o
sleepy.”
“Dana,
is this true?” Suddenly Adam was all business. “What I hear about you seeing
this young musical protégé of yours? This jazz singer, is it true?”
Dana said, suddenly snapping into the present: “What can you mean Adam Tan?
Whatever can you mean?”
And
it was at that moment that Snowdrop Catherine Yeo Lay Leng’s world came
crashing into Dana Lee’s. Over the snow white tablecloth strewn with the
glittering detritus of an expensive meal, one that Snowdrop had never eaten,
Adam handed Dana his iPhone (4S), on whose screen displayed, in grainy colour, a
picture of Eli, with stars in his eyes, and a chick, in a vintage brocade Yves
Saint Laurent dress - a chick who bore a complete resemblance to herself.
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