Dealings in Vermeer

Sabel & Glass

I was a fool to think that Mom wasn't taking note of my employment status. Seeing me in a three-piece suit holding my Charles & Keith interview bag, she gave a satisfied grunt and handed me a thick list of questions and model answers.

I ground avocado and buttered toast between my molars. Mom's interview prep material was left next to the salt, unread. It was too late for me to memorize the answers anyway.

"Not so nervous as to lose our appetite, are we?" was how Mom bid me good morning.

She was rocking a pair of airtight slacks with a silky blouse and matching jacket. Going by the thick layer of red eyeliner she was attending one of her office drinking parties. The Chanel scarf was draped gracefully around her neck, every fold carefully curated. Like the art pieces she worked with.

"Good that you're getting some experience." What she really meant is: I was a fool not to have applied to the top auction houses when they were still hiring for spring internships.

"I've got time. The interview is at four."

"Then read the notes I gave you. I've arranged Pranesh to take you."

Pranesh was my mom's – and by extension my – driver. I imagined him humming to Bollywood songs in the driver's seat, the tip-tapping of his Brogues in sync with the swing of a baby Ganesha dangling from the front mirror.

"Also," Mom paused.

She handed me a glass of fat-free milk and hesitated. I raised an eyebrow and slipped into a more neutral tone. "What is it?"

Mom's eyes softened. "All the best."

She opened her yoga-toned arms and I obliged. My butter knife slipped from the edge of the plate and clattered onto the floor.

We're pretty much the same height but she towers over me in her heels. As her arms circled my shoulders, a wall of her Victoria's Secret perfume embraced me.

The hug was brief, for both our sakes. She was too busy to be kept at home and I resented her occasional tantrums which made her tear down the art around our house I had been quite attached to.

For that moment, though, I knew that she understood what I was going through. She had been an art history student, a professional, and a working mother. I knew that –

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I'll be good."

Mom's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Remember, you are my daughter."

That, I am. I didn't look up from my breakfast toast again as she head out the door in hastened steps, and of course, she never did.

—

Pranesh glanced back at me, his voice streaked with doubt. "This is the place."

I looked up from Mom's interview bible, knees jumping. I looked out the window expecting to see sleek glass faced offices and skyscrapers. What I actually see are narrow, rain-streaked faces of old European-style buildings.

Singapore's Chinatown was known for its rich cultural heritage, but fine art wasn't one of them. Chinese restaurants of hundred years and bedazzling murals showing off their vibrancy under the hot Southeast Asian sun scrolled past me as Pranesh circled the area, trying to find a signpost for Sabel & Glass's office.

I drop a quick email to Brenda letting her know that I'm near. She instructs me to pull up by the local breakfast place in the corner and soon enough, I see a stout woman dressed in a white silk dress and matching platform heels clip-clopping towards us.

Pranesh's doubtful gaze behind me, I got off the car and was immediately greeted with a firm handshake. Despite being about a head shorter than me and clad in all white (even her pearls and phonecase was white, a scripted color scheme?), she seemed to push out some dark force around her that I could not define.