“Well, you’re in good company,” Carlton remarked, as they finally arrived at the TreeTop Walk, a 250-meter suspension bridge that stretches from Bukit Peirce to Bukit Kalang, the two highest points of the preserve. As they traversed the narrow bridge, it began to sway slightly, but then the view opened up and suddenly it felt as though they were floating above the trees.
They reached the middle of the bridge and stood in silence for a while, taking in the remarkable view. The tropical-forest canopy stretched all around them as far as the eye could see, and the sounds of cackling birds echoed through the breeze.
“Unbelievable! Thanks for bringing me here,” Scheherazade said.
“It doesn’t feel like we’re in Singapore anymore, does it?”
“Sure doesn’t. This is the first place I’ve been to in a long while that’s reminded me of my childhood. I mean, it’s quite a relief to see that all this nature still exists here.” Scheherazade stared at the calm reservoir in the distance, the water glinting in the late-afternoon sun.
“Has the island changed that much? I only started coming here about five years ago.”
“Carlton, you can’t even imagine. Every time I’m back I hardly recognize it anymore. So much of the old atmosphere has just been wiped clean.”
“I guess that’s why you like living in Paris?”
“Partly. Paris is great because every street you walk down is like an unfolding novel. I actually love it because even though there’s history everywhere, it’s not my history. Does that make any sense?”
“Sure. Shanghai is my hometown, but it doesn’t feel like home anymore. Whenever I’m back it feels I can never escape my past. Everyone remembers everything about you—your family history, your mistakes,” Carlton said, his face clouding for a moment before he turned back to her. “But that’s not what you meant, was it?”
“Not really. For me, Paris is like neutral territory becaus
e it’s neither Singapore nor England. You know, even though I was born in Singapore and lived here until I was ten, I never felt like I truly belonged. Maybe it was because of how I looked—my hair was almost blond back then—it seemed like most people just assumed I was ang mor. And my mum inadvertently reinforced this by pretty much raising me as though I was British. Aside from my Chinese cousins, everyone else we knew was part of the British set. I don’t blame her at all—she felt awfully homesick and was overwhelmed at first by my father’s family. So we sort of existed in this English expat bubble, and for the first ten years of my life I went along thinking of myself as completely English.”
Carlton gave her a knowing smile. “Bit of a shock when you actually got to England, wasn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. When we finally moved to Surrey, I realized that the English didn’t really see me as I saw myself. I was this exotic, half-Chinese girl to them. So I felt like I was just absolutely screwed on both ends—I wasn’t Singaporean enough, but neither was I English enough.”
Carlton nodded in agreement. “I was sent away to school in England for most of my life, and now I can’t really relate to the Chinese back home. In Shanghai, I’m seen as too Westernized. Here in Singapore, I’m seen as an uncivilized Mainlander. But in London, even though I’m clearly an outsider, I feel like I can just be myself and no one’s judging my every move. I guess that’s what Paris does for you. You feel liberated.”
“Exactly!” Scheherazade said, flashing Carlton a smile so alluring, he had to stop himself from staring.
A group of men entered the bridge from the other end, and as they came closer Scheherazade couldn’t help but notice that they all looked Italian and were impeccably dressed in white jackets and bow ties.
“Looks like we’re being joined by extras from a Fellini movie,” Scheherazade joked.
“Yes, La Dolce Vita. And right on time,” Carlton said. The men began setting up an elaborate bar right in front of them, taking out a mixture of spirits, cocktail implements, and glassware.
“Did you arrange this?” Scheherazade asked wide-eyed.
“Well, I couldn’t take you on a sweltering sunset hike and not provide you with sunset drinks.”
Three of the men whipped out a bass, a saxophone, and a small drum set and began to play a Miles Davis tune.
“Can I offer you a Negroni, signora?” the bartender said, handing Scheherazade a highball glass filled with Campari, gin, and red vermouth over ice with an orange peel elaborately curled over the rim.
“Grazie mille,” Scheherazade replied.
“Salute!” Carlton said, clinking her glass with his Negroni.
“How in the world did you know this was my favorite drink?” Scheherazade asked as she sipped her aperitif.
“Um…I might have done some Instagram stalking.”
“But my Instagram account is locked.”
“Um…I might have been on Nick’s Instagram,” Carlton confessed.
Scheherazade laughed, utterly charmed.