Chapter 2: Huyen and Vang first fight

This can be read and enjoyed as a stand-alone story, but deeper character depth and the effects of the plots, rivalries, twists and turns will be found by reading the the chapters in order.

Huyen Nguyen glanced around the lift as it ascended to the 16th floor of the 20 story, grey concrete Govt. housing commission building in Napier Street Fitzroy Melbourne. Her mouth curled with disdain. It hadn’t changed since she lived in another similar building on the six-building site 25 years ago.

Her eyes took in an empty wine flagon, used condoms, vomit, graffiti, discarded syringes, one fluorescent tube spluttering trying to start, her nostrils the stench of stale urine, fetid air, and the stench of despair. In the broken mirror, she saw the reflection of an immaculately made-up, sensually attractive 40-year-old Vietnamese woman.

She looked about 30, with her high cheekbones, dark captivating eyes and long, black, silk-like hair just permed enough to give it body and bounce. Her 5ft 3, 32 22 31 body was covered by an Adeline André skin-tight, knee-length black silk crêpe skirt and blazer and cream camisole. Adeline had begun her career in the House of Christian Dior and now dressed Parisian actresses and society ladies in her fluid creations, and Huyen preferred her clothes to those of the other nine Haute Couture houses of Paris.

Even though this outfit was prêt-à-porter and not custom made, it had still cost Hong Kong dollars 33,5000 ($4300 USA) on her 6 monthly shopping visit there as she found they had a larger range in petite sizes than Australia. Her 4-inch heels and sunglasses were Gucci while her large shoulder bag was the Loius Vuitton Vivienne at USA$1500.

Her perfume was Jean-Paul Gaultier Classique (produced by a division of Japan’s Shiseido). She could also see the outline of Duc, her bodyguard, who carried a 20-inch machete in a battered sport bag as insurance against any drug addict who would try to take her jewellery and knew his brother Tuan similarly armed, sat guarding the waiting, parked, black Merc limo. She knocked at room 166 and an 18-year-old Vietnamese teenage girl Anh answered.

Her eyes widened as she took in the woman and her clothing, jewellery and accessories. Telling Duc to wait outside Huyen said “Wow. What’s your name? You’re a pretty little one, aren’t you? Yes, you’ve got taste. That’s right; these clothes you are looking at are real, not fake. Take this jacket and hang it up properly, and then tell your mother Huyen has come to see her.”

As a shy Anh reverentially covered the blazer in a plastic dry cleaner’s bag before hanging it the closet, Huyen took in the room. Things had not changed in 25 years since she had left for better things. Vinyl tiles, pale green concrete walls, exposed hot water heating system, the noise of a Juki industrial sewing machine coming from the second bedroom. 25 years previously Huyen was living in a similar situation trying to study and helping her mother sew 18 hours a day to meet the quotas of the English speaking Vietnamese refugee now middleman who dealt with the manufacturers, department stores and shops.

She later became the 18-year-old mistress of that 40-year-old Vietnamese who had learnt his English translating for the USA army, and 6 months later she dumped him and started as a middleman herself. Now 90% of the Vietnamese home sewing business in Melbourne was channelled through her and she was ruthless. She squeezed the lowest prices from her sewers, with payments like 30 cents a tracksuit top: they provided their thread, she paid late, she put on unreasonable time limits, but she was the only game in town that allowed shops and manufactures to put Australian made labels on clothes that competed with Chinese made prices.

And now Anh’s mother Vang was stirring up trouble in the building trying to organize the sewers to go slow unless Huyen paid more. Normally Duc and Tuan dealt directly with the sewers delivering, picking up and paying, but dissent was like a cancer. It spread fast and it had to be nipped in the bud personally and quickly. The 35-year-old Vang entered the lounge.

She had been sewing and was wearing cheap, pink, shapeless pyjamas and had the badge of a home sewer, her dusk mask, around her neck. She was about 2 inches shorter than Huyen and about 6 kilos (13 pounds) heavier at 53 kilo(116 pounds) and was a 35C 29 36. She was taken aback to see Huyen preening herself in the lounge, her tight camisole showing her flat firm belly, and with no bra, her still firm tits and hard nipples.

One leg was thrust forward forcing the mid-thigh split in her skirt to its widest. “Where’s your respect. I give losers like you, single mothers who can’t speak English, a job and you try and bankrupt me by wanting me to pay you more,” Huyen accused going on the attack. “Fuck you,” Vang yelled back. “You exploit your own. We were being paid more 5 years ago. We want to get our fair share and we will get it.”

The two exchanged increasingly more angry accusations and insults. Finally, Huyen had enough. “Ok, I’ll give you a chance. Take me on with the “Contract Maker” and if you win, I pay you 10% more. Lose and you and the others stay on these rates for 3 years. Although I have to say I’m lowering my standards as I’ve never taken on an uglier looking woman.

“I see from your accent you come from the middle of Vietnam and they say the women from Hue are the most beautiful, but you are the exception that proves the rule. Though I see your daughter takes after your ex-husband and has the beauty you don’t,” goaded Huyen.