The Expat

In spite of the fact that it was still the rainy season, which started around December and lasted through March, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. This was a rare occurrence because Singapore had 271 thunderstorms per year. And these weren’t anything like the silly little rain showers typical in the Netherlands; no, these were brute-force thunder-and-lightning shows with raindrops as big as ping-pong balls. The streets could be flooded in a matter of seconds. With an average humidity of eighty percent and a temperature of thirty de

degrees, the heat felt heavier and more unbearable than 40 degrees in the desert. Expat women always complained about their hair here, how frizzy it always was, and how it felt like a bale of hay. As Carice always said, ‘In Singapore, every day is a bad hair day.’

company.’
‘Watch out for that housekeeper of yours. Before you know it–’
‘Mum,’ Julia interrupted.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and checked his watch again. Taxis carrying passengers arrived and left again. He figured that they must have already come through customs by now. It usually went pretty quickly when you only had hand luggage with you. Just when he was about to grab his mobile from the centre console, someone rapped on his window. A man in uniform gestured with his forefinger. As his window slid down, the parking attendant said, ‘You can’t park here this long, sir.’
‘Five minutes.’ He smiled, held up five fingers, and then rolled the window up again. They shouldn’t moan so much, these uptight civil