She packed a bag with all her brushes, an extra change of clothes, and a toolbox full of make-up. One of her friends, Honey, had recently left the country to go live with her boyfriend in England. Honey, who was a full-time sex worker and part-time make-up artist, had bequeathed her kit to Marina, after giving her a few sessions in professional make-up application.

Marina had never seen so many kinds of brushes in her life, nor had she seen such a range of blusher, foundation and concealer. It was such fun, learning how to contour the human face, play with colour, highlighter, blush and brush.

She got into the taxi and a few minutes later, they were stuck in a massive traffic jam.

“Apa ni?” the taxi driver muttered.

The taxi was on Jalan Tun Perak, heading towards Dataran Merdeka and there was a slight drizzle. She saw a group of teenage boys emerge from behind the taxi, they were carrying placards. Marina strained her head to see what the placards said.

Mahathir Undur! Mahathir Resign!

A large caricature of Mahathir had been cut out. It made the prime minister look like a rogue, with a misshapen nose and dark-rimmed eyes. The taxi inched forward and they heard a roar of voices, shouting in unison.

“Reformasi! Reformasi! Reformasi!”

“Protes lagi,” the taxi driver complained.

“Protests are important,” Marina said emphatically. “We have the right, don’t you know. This is a democracy.”

The taxi driver snorted. “Hmmph. Not until this man goes to jail.” He gestured at the placard.

When the traffic light turned green, the taxi finally moved and they stared in silence at the sea of people who had turned up.

“So many,” Marina muttered.

The roar became a hum, people were straining to listen to a speaker with a loudhailer. Marina rolled the window down. She felt the energy from the crowd, the anger, the surge of hope, the air of optimism.

“Reformasi!” she shouted.

The taxi driver was startled. And he too shouted, “Reformasi!”

They smiled and chatted, barriers broken. The sky had cleared and the sun was starting to peek out.

When she arrived at the house, there were a few cars parked along the road. The security guard waved her in, smiling. Tents had already been set up for the reception, chairs and tables covered in cream-coloured fabric. Bouquets of white roses and tuberoses on tables. Fake chandeliers dangled precariously from the tent tops.

Omar’s mother greeted her, and ushered her into a large bedroom. Del was seated and already dressed in silk sarong and a kebaya top of fine French lace.

Del ran to her. “I feel sick.”

“Aduh, kenapa sayang?”

“Too many people, I can’t do this.”

“It’s just you and Omar, okay? This is your wedding day.”

“Yeah, yeah. I just feel sick. Want to throw up.”

“Throw up then. You’ll feel better.”