Price Label

For those of you who came in late, my flatmate Amanda is Singapore’s undisputed – though admittedly, uncrowned – Queen of Labels. Open any one of her cupboards and it’s likely you’ll see a flash of Salvatore Ferragamo here, a whiff of Prada there, a fleeting glimpse of Giorgio Armani perhaps, and a big eyeful of Hermès. Her handbags are from Chanel and Bottega Veneta. Her jewellery is from Van Cleef & Arpels, and Tiffany’s. Her shoes are by Jimmy Choo and Christian Louboutin, whilst her underwear is from Agent Provocateur and Carine Gibson.

            When we first moved in together, Saffy decided to rifle through Amanda’s underwear drawer. Apparently, this is a thing that girls do when they live together, though, at the time, my mother, who has never been seen even by her children without her makeup, insisted she’d never heard of such ritual. “Why do the young have no boundaries?” she moaned over the clatter of tiles to all her mahjong kakis. 

            “At least those girls are straight,” Auntie Ching-ling sighed, her youngest daughter Mavis having come out to the whole family at the recent Chinese New Year festivities.

            Her sisters said nothing and kept swirling the tiles.

            Anyway, during her inspection, Saffy pulled out a Carine Gibson thong. “I’ll just never understand how people wear these things,” she observed. “It’s like a dirty piece of dental floss! Seriously, what is the point?”

            Amanda who was folding her laundry paused. “Excuse me,” she said icily, “but please don’t speak ill of my Carine Gibsons. That thong costs, like, two hundred, OK?”

            Saffy coughed and lifted the thong. “This costs two hundred? What, rupiah?”

            Amanda sniffed. “You wish! You-essdollars!”

            “But it doesn’t cover anything!”

            According to Saffy, that was the moment she knew that she’d never be able to borrow any of Amanda’s clothes the way, apparently, other female flatmates do. “Can you imagine?” she told Sharyn, the next day. “If her underwear costs that much, what must her outer wear cost? What if I spilled some laksa on her Miu Miu dress?”

            “You die, lor!” Sharyn said. “You sell your body in Geylang for tree month oh-so cannot pay back, ah!”

            Saffy stiffened. “I beg your pardon, but I’m sure men would pay a lot of money for this body!” she snapped, at which point I suggested that surely, she was getting outraged about the wrong issue. 

            Over the years, we’ve become used to the sight of Amanda swanning home with bags and bags of the latest season clothes and accessories. Old stuff, and by old, I mean anything more than two seasons, she pulls out to make way for the new. She pays one of her office interns to come over on the weekends to catalogue, photograph and post on Carousel all the stuff she is no longer interested in. 

            Originally, Saffy wheedled a few items for herself, thrilled to be wearing genuine Prada and Gucci. But after years of telling everyone that she only shops at G2000 sales, all her friends refused to believe she was, for instance, swinging an actual Fendi bag.

            “That is so not a real Ferragamo!” Lynette told her. “Look, the stitching is all wrong!”
            “Chanel got this colour, meh?” Sharyn said, completely forgetting the fact that when Amanda carried the very same bag to dinner two weeks before, she, Sharyn, had fallen instantly in lust with it and had obsessed about it for days. 

            “It’s so ridiculous,” Saffy muttered. “If Amanda wears it, it’s fabulous. If I wear it, it’s a cheap Patpong knock-off! How is it that I actually cheapen an expensive accessory just by putting it nearmy body?”

            Then, a few days ago, Sharyn spotted an article on the web and immediately forwareded it to Saffy and Amanda. It said that a good number of the garment and accessories factories of the major luxury houses in Italy are staffed and run by Chinese immigrants. Which means that when a label reads “Made in Italy”, whilst that’s technically correct, the item might as well be made in China because no Italian hands ever touched it. 

            “Wah lau!” Sharyn’s message read.

            Amanda has been outraged by this conundrum. “What is the point then?” she fumed this morning. “I might as well schlep to Shenzhen and get a knock-off.” 

            “And still have enough extra cash for a down-payment on a car!” Saffy pointed out without a trace of sarcasm in her voice, though privately, she confided to me that if Amanda stops buying branded goods, all of Italy will shut down and even the Chinese workers will go out of business.