Crazy Rich Asians

1 Nicholas Young and Rachel Chu

NEW YORK, 2010

“You sure about this?” Rachel asked again, blowing softly on the surface of her steaming cup of tea. They were sitting at their usual window table at Tea & Sympathy, and Nick had just invited her to spend the summer with him in Asia.

“Rachel, I’d love it if you came,” Nick reassured her. “You weren’t planning on teaching this summer, so what’s your worry? Think you won’t be able to handle the heat and humidity?”

“No, that’s not it. I know you’re going to be so busy with all your best-man duties, and I wouldn’t want to distract you,” Rachel said.

“What distraction? Colin’s wedding is only going to take up the first week in Singapore, and then we can spend the rest of the summer just bumming around Asia. Come on, let me show you where I grew up. I want to take you to all my favorite haunts.”

“Will you show me the sacred cave where you lost your virginity?” Rachel teased, arching an eyebrow playfully.

“Definitely! We can even stage a reenactment!” Nick laughed, slathering jam and clotted cream onto a scone still warm from the oven. “And doesn’t a good friend of yours live in Singapore?”

“Yes, Peik Lin, my best friend from college,” Rachel said. “She’s been trying to get me to come visit for years.”

“All the more reason. Rachel, you’re going to love it, and I just know you’re going to flip out over the food! You do realize Singapore is the most food-obsessed country on the planet?”

“Well, just watching the way you fawn over everything you eat, I figured it’s pretty much the national sport.”

“Remember Calvin Trillin’s New Yorker piece on Singapore street foods? I’ll take you to all the local dives even he doesn’t know about.” Nick took another bite of his fluffy scone and continued with his mouth full. “I know how much you love these scones. Just wait till you taste my Ah Ma’s—”

“Your Ah Ma bakes scones?” Rachel tried to imagine a traditional Chinese grandmother preparing this quintessentially English confection.

“Well, she doesn’t exactly bake them herself, but she has the best scones in the world — you’ll see,” Nick said, turning around reflexively to make sure no one in the cozy little spot had overheard him. He didn’t want to become persona non grata at his favorite café for carelessly pledging allegiance to another scone, even if it was his grandmother’s.

At a neighboring table, the girl huddled behind a three-tiered stand piled high with finger sandwiches was getting increasingly excited by the conversation she was overhearing. She suspected it might be him, but now she had absolute confirmation. It was Nicholas Young. Even though she was only fifteen at the time, Celine Lim never forgot the day Nicholas strolled past their table at Pulau Club[6] and flashed that devastating grin of his at her sister Charlotte.

“Is that one of the Leong brothers?” their mother had asked.

“No, that’s Nicholas Young, a cousin of the Leongs,” Charlotte replied.

“Philip Young’s boy? Aiyah, when did he shoot up like that? He’s so handsome now!” Mrs. Lim exclaimed.

“He’s just back from Oxford. Double-majored in history and law,” Charlotte added, anticipating her mother’s next question.

“Why didn’t you get up and talk to him?” Mrs. Lim said excitedly.

“Why should I bother, when you swat away every guy who dares come near,” Charlotte answered curtly.

“Alamak, stupid girl! I’m only trying to protect you from fortune hunters. This one you’d be lucky to have. This one you can cheong!”

Celine couldn’t believe her mother was actually encouraging her big sister to snatch this boy. She stared curiously at Nicholas, now laughing animatedly with his friends at a table under a blue-and-white umbrella by the pool. Even from afar, he stood out in high relief. Unlike the other fellows with their regulation Indian barbershop haircuts, Nicholas had perfectly tousled black hair, chiseled Cantonese pop-idol features, and impossibly thick eyelashes. He was the cutest, dreamiest guy she’d ever seen.

“Charlotte, why don’t you go over and invite him to your fund-raiser on Saturday?” their mother kept on.

“Stop it, Mum.” Charlotte smiled through gritted teeth. “I know what I’m doing.”

As it turned out, Charlotte did not know what she was doing, since Nicholas never showed up at her fund-raiser, much to their mother’s eternal disappointment. But that afternoon at Pulau Club left such an indelible mark on Celine’s adolescent memory that six years later and on the other side of the planet, she still recognized him.

“Hannah, let me get a picture of you with that delicious sticky toffee pudding,” Celine said, taking out her camera phone. She pointed it in the direction of her friend, but surreptitiously trained the lens on Nicholas. She snapped the photo and immediately e-mailed it to her sister, who now lived in Atherton, California. Her phone pinged minutes later.

Nick gazed out the café window, marveling at the people with tiny dogs parading along this stretch of Greenwich Avenue as if it were a catwalk for the city’s most fashionable breeds. A year ago, French bulldogs were all the rage, but now it looked like Italian grey hounds were giving the Frenchies a run for their money. He faced Rachel again, resuming his campaign. “The great thing about starting out in Singapore is that it’s the perfect base. Malaysia is just across a bridge, and it’s a quick hop to Hong Kong, Cambodia, Thailand. We can even go island-hopping off Indonesia—”

“It all sounds amazing, but ten weeks … I don’t know if I want to be away that long,” Rachel mused. She could sense Nick’s eagerness, and the idea of visiting Asia again filled her with excitement. She had spent a year teaching in Chengdu between college and grad school but couldn’t afford to travel anywhere beyond China’s borders back then. As an economist, she certainly knew enough about Singapore — this tiny, intriguing island at the tip of the Malay Peninsula, which had transformed within a few short decades from a British colonial backwater into the country with the world’s highest concentration of millionaires. It would be fascinating to see the place up close, especially with Nick as her guide.

Yet something about this trip made Rachel a little apprehensive, and she couldn’t help but ponder the deeper implications. Nick made it seem so spontaneous, but knowing him, she was sure he had put far more thought into it than he let on. They had been together for almost two years, and now he was inviting her on an extended trip to visit his hometown, to attend his best friend’s wedding, no less. Did this mean what she thought it did?

Rachel peered into her teacup, wishing she could divine something from the stray leaves pooled at the bottom of the deep golden Assam. She had never been the sort of girl who longed for fairytale endings. Being twenty-nine, she was by Chinese standards well into old-maid territory, and even though her busybody relatives were perpetually trying to set her up, she had spent the better part of her twenties focused on getting through grad school, finishing her dissertation, and jump-starting her career in academia. This surprise invitation, however, sparked some vestigial instinct within her. He wants to take me home. He wants me to meet his family. The long-dormant romantic in her was awakening, and she knew there was only one answer to give.

“I’ll have to check with my dean to see when I’m needed back, but you know what? Let’s do this!” Rachel declared. Nick leaned across the table, kissing her jubilantly.

Minutes later, before Rachel herself knew for certain her summer plans, the details of her conversation had already begun to spread far and wide, circling the globe like a virus set loose. After Celine Lim (Parsons School of Design fashion major) e-mailed her sister Charlotte Lim (recently engaged to venture capitalist Henry Chiu) in California, Charlotte called her best friend Daphne Ma (Sir Benedict Ma’s youngest daughter) in Singapore and breathlessly filled her in. Daphne texted eight friends, including Carmen Kwek (granddaughter of Robert “Sugar King” Kwek) in Shanghai, whose cousin Amelia Kwek had gone to Oxford with Nicholas Young. Amelia simply had to IM her friend Justina Wei (the Instant Noodle heiress) in Hong Kong, and Justina, whose office at Hutchison Whampoa was right across the hall from Roderick Liang’s (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs), simply had to interrupt his conference call to share this juicy tidbit. Roderick in turn Skyped his girlfriend Lauren Lee, who was holidaying at the Royal Mansour in Marrakech with her grandmother Mrs. Lee Yong Chien (no introductions necessary) and her aunt Patsy Teoh (Miss Taiwan 1979, now the ex-wife of telecom mogul Dickson Teoh). Patsy made a poolside call to Jacqueline Ling (granddaughter of philanthropist Ling Yin Chao) in London, knowing full well that Jacqueline would have a direct line to Cassandra Shang (Nicholas Young’s second cousin), who spent every spring at her family’s vast estate in Surrey. And so this exotic strain of gossip spread rapidly through the levantine networks of the Asian jet set, and within a few hours, almost everyone in this exclusive circle knew that Nicholas Young was bringing a girl home to Singapore.

And, alamak! This was big news.

2 Eleanor Young

SINGAPORE

Everyone knew that Dato’[8]Tai Toh Lui made his first fortune the dirty way by bringing down Loong Ha Bank in the early eighties, but in the two decades since, the efforts of his wife, Datin Carol Tai, on behalf of the right charities had burnished the Tai name into one of respectability. Every Thursday, for instance, the datin held a Bible study luncheon for her closest friends in her bedroom, and Eleanor Young was sure to attend.

Carol’s palatial bedroom was not actually in the sprawling glass-and-steel structure everyone living along Kheam Hock Road nicknamed the “Star Trek House.” Instead, on the advice of her husband’s security team, the bedroom was hidden away in the pool pavilion, a white travertine fortress that spanned the swimming pool like a postmodern Taj Mahal. To get there, you either had to follow the footpath that wound along the coral rock gardens or take the shortcut through the service wing. Eleanor always preferred the quicker route, since she assiduously avoided the sun to maintain her porcelain-white complexion, and also, as Carol’s oldest friend, she considered herself exempt from the formalities of waiting at the front door, being announced by the butler, and all that nonsense.

Besides, Eleanor enjoyed passing through the kitchens. The old amahs squatting over enamel double boilers would always open the lids for Eleanor to sniff the smoky medicinal herbs being brewed for Carol’s husband (“natural Viagra,” as he called it), and the kitchen maids gutting fish in the courtyard would fawn over how youthful Mrs. Young still looked for sixty, what with her fashionably shagged chin-length hair and her unwrinkled face (before furiously debating, the moment she was out of earshot, what expensive new cosmetic procedure Mrs. Young must have endured).

By the time Eleanor arrived at Carol’s bedroom, the Bible study regulars — Daisy Foo, Lorena Lim, and Nadine Shaw — would be assembled and waiting. Here, sheltered from the harsh equatorial heat, these longtime friends would sprawl languorously about the room, analyzing the Bible verses assigned in their study guides. The place of honor on Carol’s Qing dynasty Huanghuali[9] bed was always reserved for Eleanor, for even though this was Carol’s house and she was the one married to the billionaire financier, Carol still deferred to her. This was the way things had been since their childhood as neighbors growing up on Serangoon Road, mainly because, coming from a Chinese-speaking family, Carol had always felt inferior to Eleanor, who was brought up speaking English first. (The others also kowtowed to her, because even among these exceedingly well-married ladies, Eleanor had trumped them all by becoming Mrs. Philip Young.)

Today’s lunch started off with braised quail and abalone over hand-pulled noodles, and Daisy (married to the rubber magnate Q. T. Foo but born a Wong, of the Ipoh Wongs) fought to separate the starchy noodles while trying to find 1 Timothy in her King James Bible. With her bobbed perm and her rimless reading glasses perched at the tip of her nose, she looked like the principal of a girls’ school. At sixty-four, she was the oldest of the ladies, and even though everyone else was on the New American Standard, Daisy always insisted on reading from her version, saying, “I went to convent school and was taught by nuns, you know, so it will always be King James for me.” Tiny droplets of garlicky broth splattered onto the tissue-like page, but she managed to keep the good book open with one hand while deftly maneuvering her ivory chopsticks with the other.

Nadine, meanwhile, was busily flipping through her Bible — the latest issue of Singapore Tattle. Every month, she couldn’t wait to see how many pictures of her daughter Francesca — the celebrated “Shaw Foods heiress”—were featured in the “Soirées” section of the magazine. Nadine herself was a fixture in the social pages, what with her Kabuki-esque makeup, tropical-fruit-size jewels, and over-teased hair. “Aiyah, Carol, Tattle devoted two full pages to your Christian Helpers fashion gala!” Nadine exclaimed.

“Already? I didn’t realize it would come out so quickly,” Carol remarked. Unlike Nadine, she was always a bit embarrassed to find herself in magazines, even though editors constantly fawned over her “classic Shanghainese songstress looks.” Carol simply felt obligated to attend a few charity galas every week as any good born-again Christian should, and because her husband kept reminding her that “being Mother Teresa is good for business.”

Nadine scanned the glossy pages up and down. “That Lena Teck has really put on weight since her Mediterranean cruise, hasn’t she? It must be those all-you-can-eat buffets — you always feel like you have to eat more to get your money’s worth. She better be careful — all those Teck women end up with fat ankles.”

“I don’t think she cares how fat her ankles get. Do you know how much she inherited when her father died? I heard she and her five brothers got seven hundred million each,” Lorena said from her chaise lounge.

“Is that all? I thought Lena had at least a billion.” Nadine sniffed. “Hey, so strange Elle, how come there’s no picture of your pretty niece Astrid? I remember all the photographers swarming around her that day.”

“Those photographers were wasting their time. Astrid’s pictures are never published anywhere. Her mother made a deal with all the magazine editors back when she was a teenager,” Eleanor explained.

“Why on earth would she do that?”

“Don’t you know my husband’s family by now? They would rather die than appear in print,” Eleanor said.

“What, have they become too grand to be seen mingling with other Singaporeans?” Nadine said indignantly.

“Aiyah, Nadine, there’s a difference between being grand and being discreet,” Daisy commented, knowing full well that families like the Leongs and the Youngs guarded their privacy to the point of obsession.

“Grand or not, I think Astrid is wonderful,” Carol chimed in. “You know, I’m not supposed to say, but Astrid wrote the biggest check at the fund-raiser. And she insisted that I keep it anonymous. But her donation was what made this year’s gala a record-breaking success.”

Eleanor eyed the pretty new Mainland Chinese maid entering the room, wondering if this was another one of the girls that the dato’ had handpicked from that “employment agency” he frequented in Suzhou, the city reputed to have the most beautiful women in China. “What do we have today?” she asked Carol, as the maid placed a familiar bulky mother-of-pearl chest beside the bed.

“Oh, I wanted to show you what I bought on my Burma trip.”

Eleanor flipped open the lid of the chest eagerly and began methodically taking out the stacked black velvet trays. One of her favorite parts of Thursday Bible study was looking at Carol’s latest acquisitions. Soon the bed was lined with trays containing a blinding array of jewels. “What intricate crosses — I didn’t realize they did such good setting work in Burma!”

“No, no, those crosses are Harry Winston,” Carol corrected. “The rubies are from Burma.”

Lorena got up from her lunch and headed straight for the bed, holding up one of the lychee-size rubies to the light. “Aiyah, you have to be careful in Burma because so many of their rubies are synthetically treated to boost the redness.” Being the wife of Lawrence Lim (of the L’Orient Jewelry Lims), Lorena could speak on this topic with authority.

“I thought rubies from Burma were supposed to be the best,” Eleanor remarked.

“Ladies, you need to stop calling it Burma. It’s been called Myanmar for more than twenty years now,” Daisy corrected.

“Alamak! You sound just like Nicky, always correcting me!” Eleanor said.

“Hey, speaking of Nick, when does he arrive from New York? Isn’t he the best man at Colin Khoo’s wedding?” Daisy asked.

“Yes, yes. But you know my son — I’m always the last to know anything!” Eleanor complained.

“Isn’t he staying with you?”

“Of course. He always stays with us first, before heading to Old Lady’s,” Eleanor said, using her nickname for her mother-in-law.

“Well,” Daisy continued, lowering her voice a bit, “what do you think Old Lady will do about his guest?”

“What do you mean? What guest?” Eleanor asked.

“The one … he’s bringing … to the wedding,” Daisy replied slowly, her eyes darting around at the other ladies mischievously, knowing they all knew to whom she was referring.

“What are you talking about? Who is he bringing?” Eleanor said, a little confused.

“His latest girlfriend, lah!” Lorena revealed.

“No such thing! No way Nicky has a girlfriend,” Eleanor insisted.

“Why is it so hard for you to believe that your son has a girlfriend?” Lorena asked. She had always found Nick to be the most dashing young man of his generation, and with all that Young money, it was such a pity her good-for-nothing daughter Tiffany never managed to attract him.

“But surely you’ve heard about this girl? The one from New York,” Daisy said in a whisper, relishing that she was the one breaking the news to Eleanor.

“An American girl? Nicky wouldn’t dare do such a thing. Daisy, your information is always ta pah kay!”[10]

“What do you mean? My news is not ta pah kay—it comes from the most reliable source! Anyway, I hear she’s Chinese,” Daisy offered.

“Really? What’s her name, and where is she from? Daisy, if you tell me she’s from Mainland China, I think I’ll have a stroke,” Eleanor warned.

“I heard she’s from Taiwan,” Daisy said carefully.

“Oh my goodness, I hope she’s not one of those Taiwanese tornadoes!” Nadine cackled.

“What do you mean by that?” Eleanor asked.

“You know how notorious those Taiwanese girls can be. They swoop in unexpectedly, the men fall head over heels, and before you know it they are gone, but not before sucking up every last dollar, just like a tornado,” Nadine explained. “I know so many men who have fallen prey — think about Mrs. K. C. Tang’s son Gerald, whose wife cleaned him out and ran off with all the Tang heirlooms. Or poor Annie Sim, who lost her husband to that lounge singer from Taipei.”

At this moment, Carol’s husband entered the room. “Hello, hello, ladies. How is Jesus time today?” he said, puffing away on his cigar and swirling his goblet of Hennessy, looking every portly inch the caricature of an Asian tycoon.

“Hello, Dato’!” the ladies said in unison, hurriedly shifting themselves into more decorous positions.

“Dato’, Daisy here is trying to give me a stroke! She’s telling everyone that Nicky has a new Taiwanese girlfriend!” Eleanor cried.

“Relax, Lealea. Taiwanese girls are lovely—they really know how to take care of a man, and maybe she’ll be prettier than all those spoiled, inbred girls you try to matchmake him to.” The dato’ grinned. “Anyway,” he continued, suddenly lowering his voice, “if I were you, I would be less worried about young Nicholas, and more worried about Sina Land right now.”

“Why? What’s happening to Sina Land?” Eleanor asked.

“Sina Land toh tuew. It’s going to collapse,” the dato’ declared with a satisfied grin.

“But Sina Land is blue-chip. How can that be? My brother even told me they have all these new projects in western China,” Lorena argued.

“The Chinese government, my source assures me, has pulled out of that huge new development in Xinjiang. I just unloaded my shares and I’m shorting a hundred thousand shares every hour until market closes.” With that, the dato’ expelled a big puff of smoke from his Cohiba and pressed a button next to the bed. The vast wall of glass facing the sparkling swimming pool began to tilt forty-five degrees like an enormous cantilevered garage door, and the dato’ lumbered out into the garden toward the main house.

For a few seconds, the room went absolutely still. You could almost hear the wheels in each woman’s head whirling into overdrive. Daisy suddenly jumped up from her chair, spilling the tray of noodles onto the floor. “Quick, quick! Where’s my handbag? I need to call my broker!”

Eleanor and Lorena both scrambled for their cell phones as well. Nadine had her stockbroker on speed dial and was already screaming into her phone, “Dump all of it! SINA LAND. Yes. Dump it all! I just heard from the horse’s mouth that it’s gone case!”

Lorena was on the other end of the bed, cupping her phone close to her mouth. “Desmond, I don’t care, please just start shorting it now.”

Daisy began to hyperventilate. “Sum toong, ah![11] I’m losing millions by the second! Where is my bloody broker? Don’t tell me that moron is still at lunch!”

Carol calmly reached for the touch-screen panel by her bedside table. “Mei Mei, can you please come in and clean up a spill?” Then she closed her eyes, lifted her arms into the air, and began to pray aloud: “Oh Jesus, our personal lord and savior, blessed be your name. We come to you humbly asking for your forgiveness today, as we have all sinned against you. Thank you for showering your blessings upon us. Thank you Lord Jesus for the fellowship that we shared today, for the nourishing food we enjoyed, for the power of your holy word. Please watch over dear Sister Eleanor, Sister Lorena, Sister Daisy, and Sister Nadine, as they try to sell their Sina Land shares …”

Carol opened her eyes for a moment, noting with satisfaction that Eleanor at least was praying along with her. But of course, she couldn’t know that behind those serene eyelids, Eleanor was praying for something else entirely. A Taiwanese girl! Please God, let it not be true.

3 Rachel Chu

NEW YORK

It would be just after dinnertime in Cupertino, and on the nights she wasn’t at Nick’s, it became Rachel’s habit to call her mother right as she was getting into bed.

“Guess who just closed the deal on the big house on Laurel Glen Drive?” Kerry Chu boasted excitedly in Mandarin as soon as she picked up the phone.

“Wow, Mom, congratulations! Isn’t that your third sale this month?” Rachel asked.

“Yes! I broke last year’s office record! You see, I knew I made the right decision to join Mimi Shen at the Los Altos office,” Kerry said with satisfaction.

“You’re going to make Realtor of the Year again, I just know it,” Rachel replied, re-fluffing the pillow under her head. “Well, I have some exciting news too … Nick invited me to come with him to Asia this summer.”

“He did?” Kerry remarked, her voice lowering an octave.

“Mom, don’t start getting any ideas,” Rachel warned, knowing that tone of her mother’s so well.

“Hiyah! What ideas? When you brought Nick home last Thanksgiving, everyone who saw you two lovebirds together said you were perfect for each other. Now it’s his turn to introduce you to his family. Do you think he’s going to propose?” Kerry gushed, unable to contain herself.

“Mom, we’ve never once talked about marriage,” Rachel said, trying to downplay it. As excited as she was about all the possibilities that hung over the trip, she wasn’t going to encourage her mom for the time being. Her mother was already far too invested in her happiness, and she didn’t want to get her hopes up … too much.

Still, Kerry was brimming with anticipation. “Daughter, I know men like Nick. He can act the bohemian scholar all he wants, but I know deep down he is the marrying kind. He wants to settle down and have many children, so there is no more time to waste.”

“Mom, just stop!”

“Besides, how many nights a week do you already spend at his place? I’m shocked you two haven’t moved in together yet.”

“You’re the only Chinese mom I know who’s actually encouraging her daughter to shack up with a guy.” Rachel laughed.

“I’m the only Chinese mother with an unmarried daughter who’s almost thirty! Do you know all the inquiries I get almost every day? I’m getting tired of defending you. Why, even yesterday, I ran into Min Chung at Peet’s Coffee. ‘I know you wanted your daughter to get her career established first, but isn’t it time that girl got married?’ she asked. You know her daughter Jessica is engaged to the number-seven guy at Facebook, right?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know the whole story. Instead of an engagement ring, he endowed a scholarship in her name at Stanford,” Rachel said in a bored tone.

“And she’s nowhere as pretty as you,” Kerry said indignantly. “All your uncles and aunties gave up on you a long time ago, but I always knew you were waiting for the right one. Of course, you had to choose a professor just like yourself. At least your children will get a discount on tuition — that’s the only way the two of you can afford to put them through college.”

“Speaking of uncles and aunties, promise me you won’t go telling everyone right away. Please?” Rachel pleaded.

“Hiyah! Okay, okay. I know you are always so cautious, and you don’t want to be disappointed, but I just know in my heart what’s going to happen,” her mother said merrily.

“Well, until something happens, there’s no point making a big deal out of it,” Rachel insisted.

“So where will you be staying in Singapore?”

“At his parents’ place, I guess.”

“Do they live in a house or an apartment?” Kerry asked.

“I have no idea.”

“You must find out these things!”

“Why does it matter? Are you going to try to sell them a house in Singapore?”

“I’ll tell you why it matters — do you know what the sleeping arrangements will be?”

“Sleeping arrangements? What are you talking about, Mom?”

“Hiyah, do you know if you will be in a guest bedroom or sharing a bed with him?”

“It never occurred to me—”

“Daughter, that is the most important thing. You mustn’t assume that Nick’s parents are going to be as liberal-minded as I am. You are going to Singapore, and those Chinese Singaporeans are the most uptight of all the Chinese, you know! I don’t want his parents to think I didn’t raise you properly.”

Rachel sighed. She knew her mother meant well, but as usual she had managed to stress her out about details Rachel never would have imagined.

“Now, we must plan what you will bring as a present for Nick’s parents,” Kerry continued eagerly. “Find out what Nick’s father likes to drink. Scotch? Vodka? Whiskey? I have so many spare bottles of Johnny Walker Red left over from the office Christmas party, I can send you one.”

“Mom, I’m not going to cart over a bottle of booze that they can get there. Let me think of the perfect present to bring them from America.”

“Oh, I know just the thing for Nick’s mother! You should go to Macy’s and buy her one of those pretty gold powder compacts from Esteé Lauder. They are having a special offer right now, and it comes with a free gift — an expensive-looking leather pouch with lipstick and perfume and eye-cream samples. Trust me, every Asian woman loves those free gifts—”

“Don’t worry, Mom, I’ll take care of it.”

4 Nicholas Young

NEW YORK

Nick was slouched on his battered leather sofa grading term papers when Rachel casually brought it up. “So … what’s the story when we’re staying at your parents’ place? Are we sharing a bedroom, or would they be scandalized?”

Nick cocked his head. “Hmm. I suppose we’ll be in the same room—”

“You suppose or you know?”

“Don’t worry, once we arrive everything will get sorted.”

Get sorted. Normally Rachel found Nick’s Britishy phrases so charming, but in this instance it was a tad frustrating. Sensing her unease, Nick got up, walked over to where she was sitting, and kissed the top of her head tenderly. “Relax — my parents aren’t the kind of people who pay any attention to sleeping arrangements.”

Rachel wondered if that was really true. She tried to go back to reading the State Department’s Southeast Asia travel advisory website. As she sat there in the glow of the laptop, Nick couldn’t help but marvel at how beautiful his girlfriend looked even at the end of a long day. How did he get so lucky? Everything about her — from the dewy just-back-from-a-morning-run-on-the-beach complexion to the obsidian-black hair that stopped just short of her collarbone — conveyed a natural, uncomplicated beauty so different from the red-carpet-ready girls he had grown up around.

Now Rachel was absentmindedly rubbing her index finger back and forth over her upper lip, her brow slightly furrowed. Nick knew that gesture well. What was she worrying about? Ever since he had invited Rachel to Asia a few days ago, the questions had been piling on steadily. Where were they staying? What gift should she bring for his parents? What had Nick told them about her? Nick wished he could stop that brilliant analytical mind of hers from overthinking every aspect of the trip. He was beginning to see that Astrid had been right. Astrid was not only his cousin, she was his closest female confidant, and he had first fielded the idea of inviting Rachel to Singapore during their phone conversation a week ago.

“First of all, you know you’ll be instantly escalating things to the next level, don’t you? Is this what you really want?” Astrid asked point-blank.

“No. Well … maybe. This is just a summer holiday.”

“Come on, Nicky, this is not ‘just a summer holiday.’ That’s not how women think, and you know it. You’ve been dating seriously for almost two years now. You’re thirty-two, and up till now you have never brought anyone home. This is major. Everyone is going to assume that you’re going to—”

“Please,” Nick warned, “don’t say the m-word.”

“See — you know that is precisely what will be on everyone’s mind. Most of all, I can guarantee you it’s on Rachel’s mind.”

Nick sighed. Why did everything have to be so fraught with significance? This always happened whenever he sought the female perspective. Maybe calling Astrid was a bad idea. She was older than him by just six months, but sometimes she slipped into big-sister mode too much. He preferred the capricious, devil-may-care side of Astrid. “I just want to show Rachel my part of the world, that’s all, no strings attached,” he tried to explain. “And I guess part of me wants to see how she’ll react to it.”

“By ‘it’ you mean our family,” Astrid said.

“No, not just our family. My friends, the island, everything. Can’t I go on holiday with my girlfriend without it becoming a diplomatic incident?”

Astrid paused for a moment, trying to assess the situation. This was the most serious her cousin had ever gotten with anyone. Even if he wasn’t ready to admit it to himself, she knew that on a subconscious level, at least, he was taking the next crucial step on the way to the altar. But that step needed to be handled with extreme care. Was Nicky truly prepared for all the land mines he would be setting off? He could be rather oblivious to the intricacies of the world he had been born into. Maybe he had always been shielded by their grandmother, since he was the apple of her eye. Or maybe Nick had just spent too many years living outside of Asia. In their world, you did not bring home some unknown girl unannounced.

“You know I think Rachel is lovely. I really do. But if you invite her to come home with you, it will change things between you, whether you like it or not. Now, I’m not concerned about whether your relationship can handle it — I know it can. My worry is more about how everyone else is going to react. You know how small the island is. You know how things can get with …” Astrid’s voice was suddenly drowned out by the staccato scream of a police siren.

“That was a strange noise. Where are you right now?” Nick asked.

“I’m on the street,” Astrid replied.

“In Singapore?”

“No, in Paris.”

“What? Paris?” Nick was confused.

“Yep, I’m on rue de Berri, and two police cars just whizzed by.”

“I thought you were in Singapore. Sorry for calling so late — I thought it was morning for you.”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s only one thirty. I’m just walking back to the hotel.”

“Is Michael with you?”

“No, he’s in China for work.”

“What are you up to in Paris?”

“Just my annual spring trip, you know.”

“Oh, right.” Nick remembered that Astrid spent every April in Paris for her couture fittings. He had met her in Paris once before, and he could still recall the fascination and tedium he felt sitting in the Yves Saint Laurent atelier on avenue Marceau, watching three seamstresses buzz around Astrid as she stood Zen-like, swathed in an airy confection for what seemed like ten hours, guzzling down Diet Cokes to fight off her jet lag. She looked to him like a figure from a baroque painting, a Spanish infanta submitting to an archaic costuming ritual straight out of the seventeenth century. (It was a “particularly uninspired season,” Astrid had told him, and she was buying “only” twelve pieces that spring, spending well over a million euros.) Nick didn’t even want to imagine how much money she must be blowing on this trip with no one there to rein her in.

“I miss Paris. It’s been ages since I’ve been. Remember our crazy trip there with Eddie?” he said.

“Aiyoh, please don’t remind me! That’s the last time I ever share a suite with that rascal!” Astrid shuddered, thinking she would never be able to erase the image of her Hong Kong cousin with that amputee stripper and those profiteroles.

“Are you staying in the Penthouse at the George V?”

“As always.”

“You’re such a creature of habit. It would be super-easy to assassinate you.”

“Why don’t you try?”

“Well, next time you’re in Paris, let me know. I might just surprise you and hop the pond with my special assassin’s kit.”

“Are you going to knock me out, put me in a bathtub, and pour acid all over me?”

“No, for you there will be a far more elegant solution.”

“Well, come and get me. I’ll be here till early May. Don’t you get some sort of spring break soon? Why not bring Rachel to Paris for a long weekend?”

“Wish I could. Spring break was last month, and we interim-adjunct-sub-associate professors don’t get any extra vacation days. But Rachel and I have the whole summer off, which is why I want her to come home with me.”

Astrid sighed. “You know what will happen the minute you land at Changi Airport with this girl on your arm, don’t you? You know how brutal it was for Michael when we first started going out publicly. That was five years ago, and he’s still getting used to it. Do you really think Rachel is ready for all that? Are you ready for it?”

Nick remained silent. He was taking in everything Astrid had to say, but his mind was already made up. He was ready. He was absolutely head over heels in love with Rachel, and it was time to show her off to the whole world.

“Nicky, how much does she know?” Astrid asked.

“About what?”

“About our family.”

“Not much. You’re the only one she’s met. She thinks you’ve got great taste in shoes and that your husband spoils you rotten. That’s about it.”

“You probably want to prepare her a bit,” Astrid said with a laugh.

“What is there to prepare her for?” Nick asked breezily.

“Listen, Nicky,” Astrid said, her tone getting serious. “You can’t just throw Rachel into the deep end like this. You need to prep her, do you hear me?”

5 Astrid Leong

PARIS

Every May 1, the L’Herme-Pierres — one of France’s great banking families — would host Le Bal du Muguet, a sumptuous ball that was the highlight of the spring social season. This year, as Astrid entered the arched passageway leading into the L’Herme-Pierres’ splendid hôtel particulier on Île Saint-Louis, she was handed a delicate sprig of flowers by a footman in smart black-and-gold livery. “It’s after Charles IX, you know. He would present lilies of the valley to all the ladies at Fontainebleau every May Day,” a woman wearing a tiara explained to her as they emerged into the courtyard where hundreds of miniature eighteenth-century hot-air balloons floated among the topiaries.

Astrid barely had time to take in the delightful sight when the Vicomtesse Nathalie de L’Herme-Pierre pounced on her. “I’m so glad you could make it,” Nathalie effused, greeting Astrid with quadruple cheek kisses. “My goodness, is that linen? Only you could get away with wearing a simple linen dress to a ball, Astrid!” The hostess laughed, admiring the delicate Grecian folds of Astrid’s buttercup-yellow gown. “Wait a minute … is this an original Madame Grès?” Nathalie asked, realizing that she had seen a similar dress at the Musée Galliera.

“From her early period,” Astrid replied, almost embarrassed to have been found out.

“But of course. My goodness, Astrid, you’ve outdone yourself once again. How on earth did you get your hands on an early Grès?” Nathalie asked in awe. Recovering herself, she whispered, “I hope you don’t mind, but I have put you next to Grégoire. He is being a beast tonight, as he thinks I am still fucking the Croatian. You are the only person I can trust next to him at dinner. But at least you’ll have Louis on your left.”

“Don’t worry about me. I always enjoy catching up with your husband, and it will be a treat to sit next to Louis — I just saw his new film the other day.”

“Wasn’t it a pretentious bore? Hated the black-and-white, but at least Louis looked edible with his clothes off. Anyway, thank you for being my savior. Are you sure you have to leave tomorrow?” the hostess asked with a pout.

“I’ve been gone almost a month! I’m afraid my son will forget who I am if I stay one more day,” Astrid answered as she was ushered along into the grand foyer, where Nathalie’s mother-in-law, the Comtesse Isabelle de L’Herme-Pierre, presided over the receiving line.

Isabelle let out a small gasp when she caught sight of Astrid. “Astrid, quelle surprise!”

“Well, I wasn’t sure that I would be able to attend until the last minute,” Astrid said apologetically, smiling at the stiff-looking grande dame standing beside Comtesse Isabelle. The woman did not smile back. Rather, she tilted her head ever so slightly as if appraising every inch of Astrid, the gigantic emerald earrings fastened to her long earlobes swaying precariously.

“Astrid Leong, permit me to present my dear friend Baronne Marie-Hélène de la Durée.”

The baronne nodded curtly, before turning back to the comtesse and resuming their conversation. As soon as Astrid had moved on, Marie-Hélène said to Isabelle, sotto voce, “Did you notice that necklace she was wearing? I saw it at JAR last week. It’s unbelievable what these girls can get their hands on nowadays. Tell me, Isabelle, whom does she belong to?”

“Marie-Hélène, Astrid is not a kept woman. We’ve known her family for years.”

“Oh? Who is her family?” Marie-Hélène asked in astonishment.

“The Leongs are a Chinese family from Singapore.”

“Ah yes, I’ve heard that the Chinese are getting quite rich these days. In fact, I read that there are now more millionaires in Asia than in all of Europe. Who would have ever imagined?”

“No, no, I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. Astrid’s people have been wealthy for generations. Her father is one of Laurent’s biggest clients,” Isabelle whispered.

“My dear, are you giving away all my secrets again?” Comte Laurent de L’Herme-Pierre remarked as he rejoined his wife in the receiving line.

“Not at all. Merely enlightening Marie-Hélène about the Leongs,” Isabelle replied, flicking away a speck of lint on her husband’s grosgrain lapel.

“Ah, the Leongs. Why? Is the ravishing Astrid here tonight?”

“You just missed her. But don’t worry, you have all night to ogle her across the dinner table,” Isabelle teased, explaining to Marie-Hélène, “Both my husband and my son have been obsessed with Astrid for years.”

“Well, why not? A girl like Astrid only exists to feed obsession,” Laurent remarked. Isabelle smacked her husband’s arm in mock outrage.

“Laurent, tell me, how is it possible that these Chinese have been rich for generations?” Marie-Hélène inquired. “I thought they were all penniless Communists in drab little Mao uniforms not too long ago.”

“Well, first of all, you must understand that there are two kinds of Chinese. There are the Chinese from Mainland China, who made their fortunes in the past decade like all the Russians, but then there are the Overseas Chinese. These are the ones who left China long before the Communists came in, in many cases hundreds of years ago, and spread throughout the rest of Asia, quietly amassing great fortunes over time. If you look at all the countries in Southeast Asia — especially Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia — you’ll see that virtually all the commerce is controlled by the Overseas Chinese. Like the Liems in Indonesia, the Tans in the Philippines, the Leongs in—”

His wife cut in. “Let me just say this: we visited Astrid’s family a few years ago. You can’t imagine how staggeringly rich these people are, Marie-Hélène. The houses, the servants, the style in which they live. It makes the Arnaults look like peasants. What’s more, I’ve been told that Astrid is a double heiress — there’s an even more enormous fortune on her mother’s side.”

“Is that so?” Marie-Hélène said in astonishment, staring across the room at the girl with renewed interest. “Well, she is rather soignée,” she conceded.

“Oh, she’s incredibly chic — one of the few from her generation who gets it right,” the comtesse decreed. “François-Marie tells me Astrid has a couture collection that rivals the Sheikha of Qatar’s. She never attends the shows, because she loathes to be photographed, but she goes straight to the ateliers and snaps up dozens of dresses every season as if they were macarons.”

Astrid was in the salon admiring the Balthus portrait over the mantelpiece when someone behind her said, “That’s Laurent’s mother, you know.” It was the Baronne Marie-Hélène de la Durée, this time attempting a smile on her tightly pulled face.

“I thought it might be,” Astrid replied.

“Chérie, I must tell you how much I adore your necklace. In fact, I had admired it at Monsieur Rosenthal’s a few weeks ago, but sadly, he informed me it was already spoken for,” the baronne gushed. “I can see now that you were clearly meant to wear it.”

“Thank you, but you’ve got the most magnificent earrings,” Astrid replied sweetly, rather amused by the woman’s sudden about-face.

“Isabelle tells me that you are from Singapour. I have heard so much about your country, about how it’s become the Switzerland of Asia. My granddaughter is making a trip to Asia this summer. Perhaps you will be kind enough to give her some advice?”

“Of course,” Astrid said politely, thinking to herself, Wow — it took only five minutes for this lady to go from snooty to suck-up. It was quite disappointing, really. Paris was her escape, and here she strove to be invisible, to be just another of the countless Asian tourists who crammed eagerly into the boutiques along the Faubourg-Saint-Honoré. It was this luxury of anonymity that made her love the City of Lights. But living here several years back had changed all that. Her parents, concerned that she was living alone in a foreign city with no proper chaperone, made the mistake of alerting friends in Paris, like the L’Herme-Pierres. Word had gotten out, and suddenly she was no longer just the jeune fille renting a loft in the Marais. She was Harry Leong’s daughter, or Shang Su Yi’s granddaughter. It was soooo frustrating. Of course, she should be used to this by now, to people talking about her as soon as she left the room. It had been going on practically since the day she was born.

To understand why, one had to first consider the obvious — her astonishing beauty. Astrid wasn’t attractive in the typical almond-eyed Hong Kong starlet sort of way, nor was she the flawless celestial-maiden type. One could say that Astrid’s eyes were set too far apart, and her jawline — so similar to the men on her mother’s side — was too prominent for a girl. Yet somehow with her delicate nose, bee-stung lips, and long naturally wavy hair, it all came together to form an inexplicably alluring vision. She was always that girl stopped on the street by modeling scouts, though her mother fended them off brusquely. Astrid was not going to be modeling for anyone, and certainly not for money. Such things were far beneath her.

And that was the other, more essential detail about Astrid: she was born into the uppermost echelon of Asian wealth — a secretive, rarefied circle of families virtually unknown to outsiders who possessed immeasurably vast fortunes. For starters, her father hailed from the Penang Leongs, a venerable Straits Chinese[12] family that held a monopoly over the palm oil industry. But adding even more oomph, her mother was the eldest daughter of Sir James Young and the even more imperial Shang Su Yi. Astrid’s aunt Catherine had married a minor Thai prince. Another was married to the renowned Hong Kong cardiologist Malcolm Cheng.

One could go on for hours diagramming all the dynastic links in Astrid’s family tree, but from any angle you looked at it, Astrid’s pedigree was nothing short of extraordinary. And as Astrid took her place at the candlelit banquet table in the L’Herme-Pierres’ long gallery, surrounded by the gleaming Louis XV Sèvres and rose-period Picassos, she could not have suspected just how extraordinary life was about to become.

6 The Chengs

HONG KONG

Most people driving past the squat grayish-brown building on a busy intersection of Causeway Bay would likely assume it was some sort of government health office, but the Chinese Athletic Association was actually one of Hong Kong’s most exclusive private clubs. Despite its rather perfunctory name, it was the first Chinese-founded sports facility in the former British Crown colony. It boasted the legendary gambling tycoon Stanley Lo as its honorary president, and its restrictive membership had an eight-year waiting list open only to the most established families.

The CAA’s public rooms were still firmly entrenched in late-seventies chrome-and-leather decor, since members voted to spend all the money on updating the sports facilities. Only the acclaimed restaurant had been revamped in the last few years into a plush dining room with pale-rose brocade walls and windows overlooking the main tennis courts. The round tables were strategically aligned so that everyone was seated with a view of the restaurant’s main door, allowing its esteemed members to make a grand entrance in their après-sport outfits and making mealtimes a prime spectator sport.

Every Sunday afternoon, the Cheng family would come together without fail for lunch at the CAA. No matter how busy or hectic the week had been, everyone knew that Sunday dim sum at the Clubhouse, as they called it, was mandatory attendance by all family members who were in town. Dr. Malcolm Cheng was Asia’s most esteemed heart surgeon. So prized were his skilled hands that he was famous for always wearing lambskin gloves — made specially for him by Dunhill — to protect his precious hands whenever he ventured out in public, and he took additional measures to safeguard them from the wear and tear of driving, opting instead to be chauffeured in his Rolls-Royce Silver Spirit.

This was something his well-brought-up wife, the former Alexandra “Alix” Young of Singapore, felt to be overly ostentatious, so she preferred to call for a taxi wherever possible and allow her husband the exclusive use of his car and driver. “After all,” she was keen to say, “he’s saving people’s lives every day and I’m just a housewife.” This self-deprecation was standard behavior for Alexandra, even though she was the true architect of their fortune.

As a bored doctor’s wife, Alexandra began channeling every cent of her husband’s considerable earnings into properties just as the Hong Kong housing boom was taking off. She found that she had a preternatural talent for timing the market, so beginning in the oil-recession days of the seventies, through the Communist-panic sell-off of the mid-eighties and the Asian financial crisis of 1997, Alexandra was always snapping up properties when they hit rock bottom and selling at the peak. By the middle of the first decade of the new century, with Hong Kong property going for more money per square foot than anywhere else in the world, the Chengs found themselves sitting on one of the largest privately held real estate portfolios on the island.

Sunday lunch gave Malcolm and his wife a chance to inspect their children and grandchildren on a weekly basis, and it was a duty they undertook with utter seriousness. For in spite of all the advantages the Cheng children had growing up, Malcolm and Alexandra were constantly worrying about them. (Actually, Alexandra was the one doing most of the worrying.)

Their youngest son, Alistair, “the hopeless one,” was the pampered ne’er-do-well who had just barely scraped through Sydney University and was now doing something or other in the Hong Kong film industry. He had recently become involved with Kitty Pong, a soap-opera star who claimed she was from “a good Taiwanese family,” even though everyone else in the Cheng family doubted it, since her spoken Mandarin took on a distinctive northern China accent rather than the more cutesy inflections of Taiwanese Mandarin.

Their daughter, Cecilia, “the horsey one,” had developed a passion for dressage at an early age and was constantly dealing with her temperamental horse or her temperamental husband, Tony, an Australian commodities trader whom Malcolm and Alexandra secretly nicknamed “the Convict.” A “full-time mother,” Cecilia actually spent more time on the international equestrian circuit than raising their son, Jake. (Due to all the hours he spent with their Filipino maids, Jake was becoming fluent in Tagalog; he could also do a brilliant impression of Sinatra’s “My Way.”)

And then there was Eddie, their firstborn. To all appearances, Edison Cheng was “the perfect one.” He had breezed through Cambridge Judge Business School with distinction, done a stint at Cazenove in London, and was now a rising star in Hong Kong’s private banking world. He had married Fiona Tung, who hailed from a politically connected family, and they had three very studious, well-behaved children. But privately, Alexandra worried the most about Eddie. In the last few years, he was spending far too much time hanging around with these dubious Mainland Chinese billionaires, flying all over Asia every week to attend parties, and she worried how this might be affecting his health and his family life.

Today’s lunch was especially important since Alexandra wanted to plan the logistics of the family trip next month to Singapore for the Khoo wedding. It was the first time the entire family — parents, children, grandchildren, servants, and nannies included — was traveling together, and Alexandra wanted to make sure everything went off perfectly. At one o’clock, the family began filtering in from all corners: Malcolm from a mixed-doubles tennis match; Alexandra from church with Cecilia, Tony, and Jake; Fiona and her children from their weekend tutors; and Alistair from rolling out of bed fifteen minutes ago.

Eddie was the last to arrive, and as usual he was on his phone, coming to the table and ignoring everyone, chattering loudly in Cantonese on his Bluetooth earpiece. When he finally finished his call, he flashed his family a self-satisfied grin. “It’s all sorted! I just spoke with Leo, and he wants us to use his family jet,” Eddie declared, referring to his best friend Leo Ming.

“For all of us to fly to Singapore?” Alexandra asked, a bit confused.

“Yes, of course!”

Fiona raised an immediate objection. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. First, I really don’t think the entire family should be traveling together on the same plane. What would happen if there was an accident? Second, we shouldn’t be asking such a favor of Leo.”

“I knew you were going to say that, Fi,” Eddie began. “That’s why I came up with this plan: Daddy and Mummy should go a day earlier with Alistair; Cecilia, Tony, and Jake can fly with us the next day; and later in the day, the nannies can bring our children.”

“That’s outrageous. How can you even think of taking advantage of Leo’s plane like that?” Fiona exclaimed.

“Fi, he’s my best friend and he couldn’t care less how much we use the plane,” Eddie retorted.

“What kind of jet is it? A Gulfstream? A Falcon?” Tony asked.

Cecilia dug her nails into her husband’s arm, annoyed at his eagerness, and cut in. “Why do your kids get to fly separately while my son has to travel with us?”

“What about Kitty? She’s coming too,” Alistair asked quietly.

Everyone at the table glared at Alistair in horror. “Nay chee seen, ah!”[13] Eddie snapped.

Alistair was indignant. “I already RSVP’d for her. And Colin told me that he couldn’t wait to meet her. She’s a big star, and I—”

“In the New Territories maybe a couple of idiots watching trashy soap operas might know who she is, but trust me, nobody in Singapore has ever heard of her,” Eddie cut in.

“That’s not true — she’s one of Asia’s fastest-rising stars. And that’s beside the point — I want all our relatives in Singapore to meet her,” Alistair said.

Alexandra considered the implications of his declaration quietly, but decided to pick her battles one at a time. “Fiona is right. We can’t possibly borrow the Ming family plane two days in a row! In fact, I think it would look very inappropriate for us to fly in a private plane at all. I mean, who do we think we are?”

“Daddy’s one of the most famous heart surgeons in the world! You are Singaporean royalty! What’s wrong with flying on a private plane?” Eddie shouted in frustration, his hands gesticulating so wildly that he almost hit the waiter behind him, who was about to place a huge stack of bamboo steamers on the table.

“Uncle Eddie, look out! There’s food right behind you!” his nephew Jake shouted.

Eddie glanced around for a second and continued on his tirade. “Why are you always like this, Mummy? Why do you always behave so provincial? You are filthy rich! Why can’t you be a little less cheap for once and have more a sense of your own self-worth?” His three children looked up momentarily from their math practice test books. They were used to his rages at home but had rarely seen him so upset in front of Gong Gong and Ah Ma. Fiona pulled at his sleeve, whispering, “Lower your voice! Please don’t talk about money in front of the children.”

His mother shook her head calmly. “Eddie, this has nothing to do with self-worth. I just feel this sort of extravagance is completely unnecessary. And I am not Singaporean royalty. Singapore has no royalty. What a ridiculous thing to say.”

“This is so typical of you, Eddie. You just want all of Singapore to know that you flew in on Ming Kah-Ching’s plane,” Cecilia interjected, reaching for one of the plump roast-pork buns. “If it was your own plane, that would be one thing, but to have the audacity to borrow a plane for three trips in two days is just unheard of. I personally would rather pay for my own tickets.”

“Kitty flies private all the time,” Alistair said, though no one at the table paid him any attention.

“Well, we should get our own jet. I’ve been saying it for years. Dad, you spend practically half the month in the Beijing clinic, and since I plan to expand my presence into China in a big way in the coming year—” Eddie began.

“Eddie, I have to agree with your mother and sister on this one. I just would not want to be indebted to the Ming family in this way,” Malcolm finally said. As much as he enjoyed flying private, he could not stomach the thought of borrowing the Ming jet.

“Why do I keep trying to do this ungrateful family so many favors?” Eddie huffed in disgust. “Okay, you all do what you want. Squeeze into economy on China Airlines for all I care. My family and I are taking Leo’s plane. And it’s a Bombardier Global Express. It’s huge, state-of-the-art. There’s even a Matisse in the cabin. It’s going to be amazing.”

Fiona gave him a disapproving look, but he glared at her so forcefully that she retreated from any further objection. Eddie shoveled down a few rolls of shrimp cheong fun, got up, and announced imperiously, “I’m off. I have important clients to attend to!” And with that, Eddie stormed out, leaving a rather relieved family in his wake.

Tony, mouth full of food, whispered to Cecilia, “Let’s see their entire family plunge into the South China Sea on Leo Ming’s fancy-ass plane.”

As much as she tried to, Cecilia couldn’t stifle her laugh.

7 Eleanor

SINGAPORE

After a few days of strategically placed phone calls, Eleanor finally nailed down the source of the disturbing rumor involving her son. Daisy confessed hearing it from her daughter-in-law’s best friend Rebecca Tang, who in turn revealed that she’d heard it from her brother Moses Tang, who had been at Cambridge with Leonard Shang. And Moses had this to report to Eleanor:

“I was in London for a conference. At the last minute, Leonard invites me down to dinner at his country estate in Surrey. Have you been there, Mrs. Young? Aiyoh, what a palace! I didn’t realize it was designed by Gabriel-Hippolyte Destailleur, the architect who built Waddesdon Manor for the English Rothschilds. Anyway, we were dining with all these ang mor[14] VIPS and MPs[15] visiting from Singapore and as usual Cassandra Shang is holding court. And then out of nowhere Cassandra says loudly across the table to your sister-in-law Victoria Young, ‘You’ll never guess what I heard … Nicky has been dating a Taiwanese girl in New York, and now he’s bringing her to Singapore for the Khoo wedding!’ And Victoria says, ‘Are you sure? Taiwanese? Good grief, did he fall for some gold digger?’ And then Cassandra says something like, ‘Well, it might not be as bad as you think. I have it on good authority that she’s one of the Chu girls. You know, of the Taipei Plastics Chus. Not exactly old money, but at least they are one of the most solid families in Taiwan.”

Had it been anyone else, Eleanor would have dismissed all this as nothing but idle talk among her husband’s bored relatives. But this came from Cassandra, who was usually dead accurate. She hadn’t earned the nickname “Radio One Asia” for nothing. Eleanor wondered how Cassandra obtained this latest scoop. Nicky’s big-mouthed second cousin was the last person he would ever confide in. Cassandra must have gotten the intel from one of her spies in New York. She had spies everywhere, all hoping to sah kah[16] her by passing along some hot tip.

It did not come as a surprise to Eleanor that her son might have a new girlfriend. What surprised her (or, more accurately, annoyed her) was the fact that it had taken her until now to find out. Anyone could see that he was prime target number one, and over the years there had been plenty of girls Nicky thought he had kept hidden from his mother. All of them had been inconsequential in Eleanor’s eyes, since she knew her son wasn’t ready to marry yet. But this time was different.

Eleanor had a long-held theory about men. She truly believed that for most men, all that talk of “being in love” or “finding the right one” was absolute nonsense. Marriage was purely a matter of timing, and whenever a man was finally done sowing his wild oats and ready to settle down, whichever girl happened to be there at the time would be the right one. She had seen the theory proven time and again; indeed she had caught Philip Young at precisely the right moment. All the men in that clan tended to marry in their early thirties, and Nicky was now ripe for the plucking. If someone in New York already knew so much about Nicky’s relationship, and if he was actually bringing this girl home to attend his best friend’s wedding, things must be getting serious. Serious enough that he purposely hadn’t mentioned her existence. Serious enough to derail Eleanor’s meticulously laid plans.

The setting sun refracted its rays through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the recently completed penthouse apartment atop Cairnhill Road, bathing the atrium-like living room in a deep orange glow. Eleanor gazed at the early-evening sky, taking in the colonnade of buildings clustering around Scotts Road and the expansive views all the way past the Singapore River to the Keppel Shipyard, the world’s busiest commercial port. Even after thirty-four years of marriage, she did not take for granted all that it meant for her to be sitting here with one of the most sought-after views on the island.

To Eleanor, every single person occupied a specific space in the elaborately constructed social universe in her mind. Like most of the women in her crowd, Eleanor could meet another Asian anywhere in the world — say, over dim sum at Royal China in London, or shopping in the lingerie department of David Jones in Sydney — and within thirty seconds of learning their name and where they lived, she would implement her social algorithm and calculate precisely where they stood in her constellation based on who their family was, who else they were related to, what their approximate net worth might be, how the fortune was derived, and what family scandals might have occurred within the past fifty years.

The Taipei Plastics Chus were very new money, made in the seventies and eighties, most likely. Knowing next to nothing about this family made Eleanor particularly anxious. How established were they in Taipei society? Who exactly were this girl’s parents, and how much did she stand to inherit? She needed to know what she was up against. It was 6:45 a.m. in New York. High time to wake Nicky up. She picked up the telephone with one hand, and with the other she held at arm’s length the long-distance discount calling card[17] that she always used, squinting at the row of tiny numbers. She dialed a complicated series of codes and waited for several beeping signals before finally entering the telephone number. The phone rang four times before Nick’s voice mail picked up: “Hey, I can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Eleanor was always a little taken aback whenever she heard her son’s “American” accent. She much preferred the normal Queen’s English he would revert to whenever he was back in Singapore. She spoke haltingly into the phone: “Nicky, where are you? Call me tonight and let me know your flight information, lah. Everyone in the world except me knows when you’re coming home. Also, are you staying with us first or with Ah Ma? Please call me back. But don’t call tonight if it’s after midnight. I am going to take an Ambien now, so I can’t be disturbed for at least eight hours.”

She put down the phone, and then almost immediately picked it up again; this time dialing a cell-phone number. “Astrid, ah? Is that you?”

“Oh, hi, Auntie Elle,” Astrid said.

“Are you okay? You sound a bit funny.”

“No, I’m fine, I was just asleep,” Astrid said, clearing her throat.

“Oh. Why are you sleeping so early? Are you sick?”

“No, I’m in Paris, Auntie Elle.”

“Alamak, I forgot you were away! Sorry to wake you, lah. How is Paris?”

“Lovely.”

“Doing lots of shopping?”

“Not too much,” Astrid replied as patiently as possible. Did her auntie really call just to discuss shopping?

“Do they still have those lines at Louis Vuitton that they make all the Asian customers wait in?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t been inside a Louis Vuitton in decades, Auntie Elle.”

“Good for you. Those lines are terrible, and then they only allow Asians to buy one item. Reminds me of the Japanese occupation, when they forced all the Chinese to wait in line for scraps of rotten food.”

“Yes, but I can sort of understand why they need these rules, Auntie Elle. You should see the Asian tourists buying up all the luxury goods, not just at Louis Vuitton. They are everywhere, buying everything in sight. If there’s a designer label, they want it. It’s absolutely mad. And you know some of them are just bringing it back home to resell at a profit.”

“Yah lah, it’s those fresh-off-the-boat tourists that give us a bad name. But I’ve been shopping in Paris since the seventies — I would never wait in any line and be told what I can buy! Anyway Astrid, I wanted to ask … have you spoken to Nicky recently?”

Astrid paused for a moment. “Um, he called me a couple of weeks ago.”

“Did he tell you when he was coming to Singapore?”

“No, he didn’t mention the exact date. But I’m sure he’ll be there a few days before Colin’s wedding, don’t you think?”

“You know lah, Nicky doesn’t tell me anything!” Eleanor paused, and then continued cautiously. “Hey, I’m thinking of throwing him and his girlfriend a surprise party. Just a small party at the new flat, to welcome her to Singapore. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“Sure, Auntie Elle. I think they would love that.” Astrid was quite taken aback that her aunt was being so welcoming to Rachel. Nick must have really worked his charm overtime.

“But I don’t really know what she would like, so I don’t know how to plan this party properly. Can you give me some ideas? Did you meet her when you were in New York last year?”

“I did.”

Eleanor seethed quietly. Astrid was in New York last March, which meant this girl had been in the picture for at least a year now.

“What’s she like? Is she very Taiwanese?” she asked.

“Taiwanese? Not at all. She seems completely Americanized to me,” Astrid offered, before regretting what she’d said.

How horrible, Eleanor thought. She had always found Asian girls with American accents to be quite ridiculous. They all sounded like they were faking it, trying to sound so ang mor.

“So even though the family is from Taiwan, she was raised in America?”

“I didn’t even know she was from Taiwan, to tell you the truth.”

“Really? She didn’t talk about her family back in Taipei?”

“Not at all.” What was Auntie Elle getting at? Astrid knew that her aunt was prying, so she felt like she had to present Rachel in the best possible light. “She’s very smart and accomplished, Auntie Elle. I think you’ll like her.”

“Oh, so she’s the brainy type, like Nicky.”

“Yes, definitely. I’m told she’s one of the up-and-coming professors in her field.”

Eleanor was nonplussed. A professor! Nicky was dating a professor! Oh my, was this woman older than him? “Nicky didn’t tell me what her specialty was.”

“Oh, economic development.”

A cunning, calculating older woman. Alamak. This was sounding worse and worse. “Did she go to university in New York?” Eleanor pressed on.

“No, she went to Stanford, in California.”

“Yes, yes, I know Stanford,” Eleanor said, sounding unimpressed. It’s that school in California for those people who can’t get into Harvard.

“It’s a top school, Auntie Elle,” Astrid said, knowing exactly what her aunt was thinking.

“Well, I suppose if you are forced to go to an American university—”

“Come on, Auntie Elle. Stanford is a great university for anywhere. I believe she also went to Northwestern for her master’s. Rachel is very intelligent and capable, and completely down-to-earth. I think you’ll like her very much.”

“Oh, I’m sure I will,” Eleanor replied. So, her name was Rachel. Eleanor paused. She just needed one more piece of information — the correct spelling of the girl’s surname. But how was she going to get it without Astrid getting suspicious? Suddenly she had a thought. “I think I’m going to get one of those nice cakes from Awfully Chocolate and put her name on it. Do you know how she spells her surname? Is it C-H-U, C-H-O-O, or C-H-I-U?”

“I think it’s just C-H-U.”

“Thank you. You’ve been so helpful,” Eleanor said. More than you’ll ever know.

“Of course, Auntie Elle. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help out for your party. I can’t wait to see your spectacular new flat.”

“Oh, you haven’t seen it yet? I thought your mother bought a unit here as well.”

“She may have, but I haven’t seen it. I can’t keep up with all of my parents’ property juggling.”

“Of course, of course. Your parents have so many properties around the world, unlike your poor uncle Philip and me. We just have the house in Sydney and this small little pigeonhole.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s anything but small, Auntie Elle. Isn’t it supposed to be the most luxurious condo ever built in Singapore?” Astrid wondered for the millionth time why all her relatives constantly tried to outdo each other in proclaiming their poverty.

“No, lah. It’s just a simple flat — nothing like your father’s house. Anyway, I’m sorry to wake you. Do you need something to get back to sleep? I take fifty milligrams of amitriptyline every night, and then an extra ten milligrams of Ambien if I really want to sleep through the night. Sometimes I add a Lunesta, and if that doesn’t work, I get out the Valium—”

“I’ll be fine, Auntie Elle.”

“Okay then, bye-bye!” With that, Eleanor hung up the phone. Her gamble had paid off. Those two cousins were thick as thieves. Why didn’t she think of calling Astrid sooner?

8 Rachel

NEW YORK

Nick brought it up so nonchalantly, as he was sorting the laundry on the Sunday afternoon before their big trip. Apparently Nick’s parents had only just been informed that Rachel was coming with him to Singapore. And oh, by the way, they had just been made aware of her existence too.

“I don’t quite understand … you mean your parents never knew about me in all this time?” Rachel asked in astonishment.

“Yes. I mean, no, they didn’t. But you need to know this has absolutely nothing to do with you—” Nick began.

“Well, it’s a little hard not to take it personally.”

“Please don’t. I’m sorry if it seems that way. It’s just that …” Nick swallowed nervously. “It’s just that I’ve always tried to keep clear boundaries between my personal life and my family life, that’s all.”

“But shouldn’t your personal life be the same as your family life?”

“Not in my case. Rachel, you know how overbearing Chinese parents can be.”

“Well, yeah, but it still wouldn’t keep me from telling my mom about something as important as my boyfriend. I mean, my mom knew about you five minutes after our first date, and you were sitting down to dinner with her — enjoying her winter melon soup — like, two months later.”

“Well, you have a very special thing with your mum, you know that. It’s not that easy for most other people. And with my parents, it’s just …” Nick paused, struggling for the right words. “We’re just different. We’re much more formal with each other, and we don’t really discuss our emotional lives at all.”

“What, are they cold and emotionally shut down or something? Did they live through the Great Depression?”

Nick laughed, shaking his head. “No, nothing like that. I just think you’ll understand when you meet them.”

Rachel didn’t know what to think. Sometimes Nick could be so cryptic, and his explanation made no sense to her. Still, she didn’t want to overreact. “Anything else you want to tell me about your family before I get on a plane and spend the whole summer with you?”

“No. Not really. Well …” Nick paused for a bit, trying to decide if he should mention the housing situation. He knew he had screwed things up royally with his mother. He had waited too long, and when he called to break the news officially about his relationship with Rachel, his mother had been silent. Ominously silent. All she asked was, “So where will you be staying, and where will she be staying?” It suddenly dawned on Nick that it would not be a good idea for the both of them to stay with his parents — not initially, at least. Nor would it be appropriate for Rachel to stay at his grandmother’s house without her explicit invitation. They could stay with one of his aunts or uncles, but that might incite his mother’s wrath and create even more of an internecine war within his family.

Not sure how to get out of this quagmire, Nick sought the counsel of his great-aunt, who was always so good at sorting out these sorts of matters. Great-aunt Rosemary advised him to book into a hotel first, but emphasized that he must arrange to introduce Rachel to his parents on the day of his arrival. “The very first day. Don’t wait until the next day,” she cautioned. Perhaps he should invite his parents out to a meal with Rachel, so they could meet on neutral territory. Someplace low-key like the Colonial Club, and better to make it lunch instead of dinner. “Everyone is more relaxed at lunchtime,” she advised.

Nick was then to proceed to his grandmother’s by himself and formally request permission to invite Rachel to the customary Friday-night dinner that Ah Ma hosted for the extended family. Only after Rachel had been properly received at Friday-night dinner should the topic of where they might stay be broached. “Of course your grandmother will have you to stay, once she meets Rachel. But if worse comes to worst, I will invite you to stay with me, and no one will be able to say anything then,” Great-aunt Rosemary assured him.

Nick decided to keep these delicate arrangements from Rachel. He didn’t want to give her any excuse to back out of the trip. He wanted Rachel to be prepared to meet his family, but he also wanted her to create her own impressions when the time came. Still, Astrid was right. Rachel needed some sort of primer on his family. But how exactly could he explain his family to her, especially when he had been conditioned his whole life never to speak about them?

Nick sat on the floor, leaning against the exposed-brick wall and putting his hands on his knees. “Well, you probably should know that I come from a very big family.”

“I thought you were an only child.”

“Yes, but I have lots of extended relatives, and you’ll be meeting lots of them. There are three intermarried branches, and to outsiders it can seem a bit overwhelming at first.” He wished he hadn’t used the word outsiders as soon as he said it, but Rachel seemed not to notice, so he continued. “It’s like any big family. I have loudmouth uncles, eccentric aunts, obnoxious cousins, the whole nine yards. But I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of meeting them. You met Astrid, and you liked her, didn’t you?”

“Astrid is awesome.”

“Well, she adores you. Everyone will adore you, Rachel. I just know it.”

Rachel sat quietly on the bed beside the pile of towels still warm from the dryer, trying to soak in everything Nick had said. This was the most he had ever talked about his family, and it made her feel a little more assured. She still couldn’t quite fathom the deal with his parents, but she had to admit that she had seen her fair share of distant families — especially among her Asian friends. Back in high school, she had endured dreary meals in the fluorescent-lit dining rooms of her classmates, dinners where not more than five words were exchanged between parent and child. She had noticed the stunned reactions from her friends whenever she randomly hugged her mother or said “I love you” at the end of a phone call. And several years ago, she had been e-mailed a humorous list entitled “Twenty Ways You Can Tell You Have Asian Parents.” Number one on the list: Your parents never, ever call you “just to say hello.” She didn’t get many of the jokes on the list, since her own experience growing up had been entirely different.

“We’re so fortunate, you know. Not many mothers and daughters have what we have,” Kerry said when they caught up on the phone later that evening.

“I realize that, Mom. I know it’s different because you were a single mom, and you took me everywhere,” Rachel mused. Back when she was a child, it seemed like every year or so her mother would answer a classified ad in World Journal, the Chinese-American newspaper, and off they would go to a new job in some random Chinese restaurant in some random town. Images of all those tiny boarding-house rooms and makeshift beds in cities like East Lansing, Phoenix, and Tallahassee flashed through her head.

“You can’t expect other families to be like us. I was so young when I had you — nineteen — we were able to be like sisters. Don’t be so hard on Nick. Sad to say, but I was never very close to my parents either. In China, there was no time to be close — my mother and father worked from morning till night, seven days a week, and I was at school all the time.”

“Still, how can he hide something as important as this from his parents? It’s not like Nick and I have only been going out for a couple of months.”

“Daughter, once again you are judging the situation with your American eyes. You have to look at this the Chinese way. In Asia, there is a proper time for everything, a proper etiquette. Like I said before, you have to realize that these Overseas Chinese families can be even more traditional than we Mainland Chinese. You don’t know anything about Nick’s background. Has it occurred to you that they might be quite poor? Not everyone is rich in Asia, you know. Maybe Nick has a duty to work hard and send money back to his family, and they wouldn’t approve if they thought he was wasting money on girlfriends. Or maybe he didn’t want his family to know that the two of you spend half the week living together. They could be devout Buddhists, you know.”

“That’s just it, Mom. It’s dawning on me that Nick knows everything there is to know about me, about us, but I know almost nothing about his family.”

“Don’t be scared, daughter. You know Nick. You know he is a decent man, and though he may have kept you secret for a while, he is doing things the honorable way now. At last he feels ready to introduce you to his family — properly — and that is the most important thing,” Kerry said.

Rachel lay in bed, calmed as always by her mother’s soothing Mandarin tones. Maybe she was being too hard on Nick. She had let her insecurities get the better of her, and her knee-jerk reaction was to assume that Nick waited so long to tell his parents because he was somehow embarrassed about her. But could it be the other way around? Was he embarrassed of them? Rachel remembered what her Singaporean friend Peik Lin had said when she Skyped her and excitedly announced that she was dating one of her fellow countrymen. Peik Lin came from one of the island’s wealthiest families, and she had never heard of the Youngs. “Obviously, if he comes from a rich or prominent family, we would know them. Young isn’t a very common name here — are you sure they’re not Korean?”

“Yeah, I’m sure they’re from Singapore. But you know I couldn’t care less how much money they have.”

“Yes, that’s the problem with you,” Peik Lin cracked. “Well, I’m sure if he passed the Rachel Chu test, his family’s perfectly normal.”

9 Astrid

SINGAPORE

Astrid arrived home from her Paris sojourn in the late afternoon, early enough to give three-year-old Cassian his bath while Evangeline, his French au pair, looked on disapprovingly (Maman was scrubbing his hair too forcefully, and wasting too much baby shampoo). After tucking Cassian into bed and reading him Bonsoir Lune, Astrid resumed the ritual of carefully unpacking her new couture acquisitions and hiding them away in the spare bedroom before Michael got home. (She was careful never to let her husband see the full extent of her purchases every season.) Poor Michael seemed so stressed out by work lately. Everyone in the tech world seemed to work such long hours, and Michael and his partner at Cloud Nine Solutions were trying so hard to get this company off the ground. He was flying to China almost every other week these days to supervise new projects, and she knew he would be tired tonight, since he had gone straight to work from the airport. She wanted everything to be perfect for him when he walked through the door.

Astrid popped into the kitchen to chat with her cook about the menu, and decided they should set up dinner on the balcony tonight. She lit some fig-apricot-scented candles and set a bottle of the new Sauternes she had brought back from France in the wine chiller. Michael had a sweet tooth when it came to wines, and he had taken a liking to late-harvest Sauternes. She knew he was going to love this bottle, which had been specially recommended to her by Manuel, the brilliant sommelier at Taillevent.

To the majority of Singaporeans, it would seem that Astrid was in store for a lovely evening at home. But to her friends and family, Astrid’s current domestic situation was a perplexing one. Why was she popping into kitchens talking to cooks, unpacking luggage by herself, or worrying about her husband’s workload? This was certainly not how anyone would have imagined Astrid’s life to be. Astrid Leong was meant to be the chatelaine of a great house. Her head housekeeper should be anticipating every one of her needs, while she should be getting dressed up to go out with her powerful and influential husband to any one of the exclusive parties being thrown around the island that night. But Astrid always confounded everyone’s expectations.

For the small group of girls growing up within Singapore’s most elite milieu, life followed a prescribed order: Beginning at age six, you were enrolled at Methodist Girls’ School (MGS), Singapore Chinese Girls’ School (SCGS), or the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus (CHIJ). After-school hours were consumed by a team of tutors preparing you for the avalanche of weekly exams (usually in classical Mandarin literature, multivariable calculus, and molecular biology), followed on the weekends by piano, violin, flute, ballet, or riding, and some sort of Christian Youth Fellowship activity. If you did well enough, you entered the National University of Singapore (NUS) and if you did not, you were sent abroad to England (American colleges were deemed substandard). The only acceptable majors were medicine or law (unless you were truly dumb, in which case you settled for accounting). After graduating with honors (anything less would bring shame to the family), you practiced your vocation (for not more than three years) before marrying a boy from a suitable family at the age of twenty-five (twenty-eight if you went to med school). At this point, you gave up your career to have children (three or more were officially encouraged by the government for women of your background, and at least two should be boys), and life would consist of a gentle rotation of galas, country clubs, Bible study groups, light volunteer work, contract bridge, mah-jongg, traveling, and spending time with your grandchildren (dozens and dozens, hopefully) until your quiet and uneventful death.

Astrid changed all this. She wasn’t a rebel, because to call her one would imply that she was breaking the rules. Astrid simply made her own rules, and through the confluence of her particular circumstances — a substantial private income, overindulgent parents, and her own savoir faire — every move she made became breathlessly talked about and scrutinized within that claustrophobic circle.

In her childhood days, Astrid always disappeared from Singapore during the school holidays, and though Felicity had trained her daughter never to boast about her trips, a schoolmate invited over had discovered a framed photo of Astrid astride a white horse with a palatial country manor as a backdrop. Thus began the rumor that Astrid’s uncle owned a castle in France, where she spent all her holidays riding a white stallion. (Actually, it was a manor in England, the stallion was a pony, and the schoolmate was never invited again.)

In her teen years, the chatter spread even more feverishly when Celeste Ting, whose daughter was in the same Methodist Youth Fellowship group as Astrid, picked up a copy of Point de Vue at Charles de Gaulle Airport and came upon a paparazzi photograph of Astrid doing cannonballs off a yacht in Porto Ercole with some young European princes. Astrid returned from school holidays that year with a precociously sophisticated sense of style. While other girls in her set became mad for head-to-toe designer brands, Astrid was the first to pair a vintage Saint Laurent Le Smoking jacket with three-dollar batik shorts bought off a beach vendor in Bali, the first to wear the Antwerp Six, and the first to bring home a pair of red-heeled stilettos from some Parisian shoemaker named Christian. Her classmates at Methodist Girls’ School strove to imitate her every look, while their brothers nicknamed Astrid “the Goddess” and anointed her the chief object of their masturbatory fantasies.

After famously and unabashedly flunking every one of her A levels (how could that girl concentrate on her studies when she was jet-setting all the time?), Astrid was shipped off to a preparatory college in London for revision courses. Everyone knew the story of how eighteen-year-old Charlie Wu — the eldest son of the tech billionaire Wu Hao Lian — bade a tearful goodbye to her at Changi Airport and promptly chartered his own jet, ordering the pilot to race her plane to Heathrow. When Astrid arrived, she was astonished to find a besotted Charlie awaiting her at the arrival gate with three hundred red roses. They were inseparable for the next few years, and Charlie’s parents purchased a flat for him in Knightsbridge (for the sake of appearances), even though the cognoscenti suspected Charlie and Astrid were probably “living in sin” at her private quarters in the Calthorpe Hotel.

At age twenty-two, Charlie proposed on a ski lift in Verbier, and though Astrid accepted, she supposedly refused the thirty-nine-carat diamond solitaire he presented as far too vulgar, flinging it onto the slopes (Charlie did not even attempt to search for the ring). Social Singapore was atwitter over the impending nuptials, while her parents were aghast at the prospect of becoming connected to a family of no particular lineage and such shameless new money. But it all came to a shocking end nine days before the most lavish wedding Asia had ever seen when Astrid and Charlie were sighted having a screaming match in broad daylight. Astrid, it was famously said, “chucked him like she chucked that diamond outside Wendy’s on Orchard Road, throwing a Frosty in his face,” and took off for Paris the next day.

Her parents supported the idea of Astrid having a “cooling-off period” away, but try as she might to maintain a low profile, Astrid effortlessly enchanted le tout Paris with her smoldering beauty. Back in Singapore, the wagging tongues resumed: Astrid was making a spectacle of herself. She was supposedly spotted in the front row at the Valentino show, seated between Joan Collins and Princess Rosario of Bulgaria. She was said to be having long, intimate lunches at Le Voltaire with a married philosopher playboy. And perhaps most sensational, rumor had it that she had become involved with one of the sons of the Aga Khan and was preparing to convert to Islam so that they could marry. (The Bishop of Singapore was said to have flown to Paris on a moment’s notice to intervene.)

All these rumors came to naught when Astrid surprised everyone again by announcing her engagement to Michael Teo. The first question on everyone’s lips was “Michael who?” He was a complete unknown, the son of schoolteachers from the then middle-class neighborhood of Toa Payoh. At first her parents were aghast and mystified by how she could have come into contact with someone from “that kind of background,” but in the end they realized that Astrid had made something of a catch — she had chosen a fiercely handsome Armed Forces Elite Commando who was a National Merit Scholar and a Caltech-trained computer systems specialist. It could have been much worse.

The couple married in a very private, very small ceremony (only three hundred guests at her grandmother’s house) that garnered a pictureless fifty-one-word announcement in the Straits Times, even though there were anonymous reports that Sir Paul McCartney flew in to serenade the bride at a ceremony that was “exquisite beyond belief.” Within a year, Michael left his military post to start his own tech firm and the couple had their first child, a boy they named Cassian. In this cocoon of domestic bliss one might have thought that all the stories involving Astrid would simmer down. But the stories were not about to end.

A little after nine, Michael arrived home, and Astrid rushed to the door, greeting him with a long embrace. They had been married for more than four years now, but the sight of him still sent an electric spark through her, especially after they had been apart for a while. He was just so startlingly attractive, especially today with his stubble and the rumpled shirt that she wanted to bury her face in — secretly, she loved the way he smelled after a long day.

They had a light supper of steamed whole pomfret in a ginger-wine sauce and clay-pot rice, and stretched out on the sofa afterward, buzzed from the two bottles of wine they had polished off. Astrid continued to recount her adventures in Paris while Michael stared zombielike at the sports channel on mute.

“Did you buy many of those thousand-dollar dresses this time?” Michael inquired.

“No … just one or two,” Astrid said breezily, wondering what would happen if he ever realized that two hundred thousand per dress was more like it.

“You’re such a bad liar,” Michael grunted. Astrid nestled her head on his chest, slowly stroking his right leg. She brushed the tips of her fingers in one continuous line, tracing his calf, up the curve of his knee, and along the front of his thigh. She felt him get hard against the nape of her neck, and she kept stroking his leg in a gentle continuous rhythm, moving closer and closer toward the soft part of his inner thigh. When Michael could stand it no longer, he scooped her up in one abrupt motion and carried her into the bedroom.

After a frenzied session of lovemaking, Michael got out of bed and headed for the shower. Astrid lay on his side of the bed, deliriously spent. Reunion sex was always the best. Her iPhone let out a soft ping. Who could be texting her at this hour? She reached for the phone, squinting at the bright glare of the text message. It read:

Makes no sense at all. Who sent me this? Astrid wondered, gazing in half amusement at the unfamiliar number. It looked like a Hong Kong number — was this one of Eddie’s pranks? She peered at the text message again, realizing all of a sudden that she was holding her husband’s phone.

10 Edison Cheng

SHANGHAI

It was the mirror in the closet that did it. The closet in Leo Ming’s brand-new triplex penthouse in the Huangpu district really put Eddie over the edge. Ever since Shanghai became Asia’s party capital, Leo had been spending more time here with his latest mistress, a Beijing-born starlet whose contract he had to “buy over” from a Chinese film company at the cost of nineteen million (one million for every year of her life). Leo and Eddie had flown up for the day to inspect Leo’s new super-luxe apartment, and they were standing in a hangarlike two-thousand-square-foot closet that boasted an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, Macassar ebony cupboards, and banks of mirrored doors that parted automatically to reveal cedar-lined suit racks.

“It’s all climate controlled,” Leo noted. “The closets on this end are maintained at fifty-five degrees specifically for my Italian cashmere, houndstooth, and fur. But the shoe-display cabinets are kept at seventy degrees, which is optimal for leather, and the humidity is regulated to a constant thirty-five percent, so my Berlutis and Corthays never break a sweat. You gotta treat those babies right, hei mai?”[18]

Eddie nodded, thinking that it was time to redo his own closet.

“Now let me show you the pièce de résistance,” Leo said, pronouncing “pièce” like “peace.” With a flourish, he glided his thumb over a mirrored panel and its surface instantly transformed into a high-definition screen that projected the life-size image of a male model in a double-breasted suit. Above his right shoulder hovered the brand names of each item of clothing, followed by the dates and locations where the outfit was previously worn. Leo waved a finger in front of the screen as if he were flicking a page, and the man now appeared in corduroy pants and a cable-knit sweater. “There’s a camera embedded in this mirror that takes a picture of you and stores it, so you can see every single thing you’ve ever worn, organized by date and place. This way you’ll never repeat an outfit!”

Eddie stared at the mirror in amazement. “Oh, I’ve seen that before,” he said rather unconvincingly as the envy began to coarse through his veins. He felt the sudden urge to shove his friend’s bloated face into the pristine mirrored wall. Once again, Leo was showing off another shiny new toy he did fuck-all to deserve. It had been like this since they were little. When Leo turned seven, his father gave him a titanium bicycle custom-designed for his pudgy frame by former NASA engineers (it was stolen within three days). At sixteen, when Leo aspired to become a Canto hip-hop singer, his father built him a state-of-the-art recording studio and bankrolled his first album (the CD can still be found on eBay). Then in 1999, he funded Leo’s Internet start-up, which managed to lose more than ninety million dollars and go belly-up at the height of the Internet boom. And now this — the latest in a countless collection of homes around the globe showered upon him by his adoring father. Yes, Leo Ming, charter member of Hong Kong’s Lucky Sperm Club, got everything handed to him on a diamond-encrusted platter. It was just Eddie’s shitty luck to have been born to parents who never gave him a cent.

In what is arguably the most materialistic city on earth, a city where the key mantra is prestige, the tongue-waggers within Hong Kong’s most prestigious chattering circles would agree that Edison Cheng lived a life to be envied. They would acknowledge that Eddie was born into a prestigious family (even though his Cheng lineage was, frankly, a bit common), had attended all the prestigious schools (nothing tops Cambridge, well … except Oxford), and now worked for Hong Kong’s most prestigious investment bank (though it was a pity he didn’t follow in his father’s footsteps and become a doctor). At thirty-six, Eddie still retained his boyish features (getting a bit plump, but never mind — it made him look more prosperous); had chosen well by marrying pretty Fiona Tung (Hong Kong old money, but what a shame about that stock-manipulation scandal her father had gotten into with Dato’ Tai Toh Lui); and his children, Constantine, Augustine, and Kalliste, were always so well-dressed and well-behaved (but that younger son, was he a bit autistic or something?).

Edison and Fiona lived in the duplex penthouse of Triumph Towers, one of the most sought-after buildings high on Victoria Peak (five bedrooms, six baths, more than four thousand square feet, not including the eight-hundred-square-foot terrace), where they employed two Filipino and two Mainland Chinese maids (the Chinese were better at cleaning, while the Filipinos were great with the kids). Their Biedermeier-filled apartment, decorated by the celebrated Hong Kong-based Austro-German decorator Kaspar von Morgenlatte to evoke a Hapsburg hunting schloss, had recently been featured in Hong Kong Tattle (Eddie was photographed preening at the bottom of his marble spiral staircase in a forest-green Tyrolean jacket, his hair slicked back, while Fiona, sprawled uncomfortably at his feet, wore a claret-colored gown by Oscar de la Renta).

In the parking garage of their building, they owned five parking spots (valued at two hundred and fifty thousand each), where their fleet consisted of a Bentley Continental GT (Eddie’s weekday car), an Aston Martin Vanquish (Eddie’s weekend car), a Volvo S40 (Fiona’s car), a Mercedes S550 (the family car), and a Porsche Cayenne (the family sport-utility vehicle). At Aberdeen Marina, there was his sixty-four-foot yacht, Kaiser. Then there was the holiday condo in Whistler, British Columbia (the only place to be seen skiing, since there was semi-decent Cantonese food an hour away in Vancouver).

Eddie was a member of the Chinese Athletic Association, the Hong Kong Golf Club, the China Club, the Hong Kong Club, the Cricket Club, the Dynasty Club, the American Club, the Jockey Club, the Royal Hong Kong Yacht Club, and too many private dining clubs to recount. Like most upper-crust Hong Kongers, Eddie also possessed what was perhaps the ultimate membership card — Canadian Permanent Resident Cards for his entire family (a safe haven in case the powers that be in Beijing ever pulled a Tiananmen again). He collected watches, and now possessed more than seventy timepieces from the most esteemed watchmakers (all Swiss, of course, except for a few vintage Cartiers), which he installed in a custom-designed bird’s-eye maple display console in his private dressing room (his wife did not have her own dressing room). He had made Hong Kong Tattle’s “Most Invited” list four years in a row, and befitting a man of his status, he had already gone through three mistresses since marrying Fiona thirteen years ago.

Despite this embarrassment of riches, Eddie felt extremely deprived compared to most of his friends. He didn’t have a house on the Peak. He didn’t have his own plane. He didn’t have a full-time crew for his yacht, which was much too small to host more than ten guests for brunch comfortably. He didn’t have any Rothkos or Pollocks or the other dead American artists one was required to hang on the wall in order to be considered truly rich these days. And unlike Leo, Eddie’s parents were the old-fashioned type — insisting from the moment Eddie graduated that he learn to live off his earnings.

It was so bloody unfair. His parents were loaded, and his mother was set to inherit another obscene bundle if his Singapore grandmother would ever kick the bucket. (Ah Ma had already suffered two heart attacks in the past decade, but now she had a defibrillator installed and could go on ticking for God only knows how long.) Unfortunately his parents were also in the pink of health, so by the time they keeled over and the money was split up between himself, his bitchy sister, and his good-for-nothing brother, it wouldn’t be nearly enough. Eddie was always trying to guesstimate his parents’ net worth, much of which was gleaned from information his real estate friends leaked to him. It became an obsession of his, and he kept a spreadsheet on his home computer, diligently updating it every week based on property valuations and then calculating his potential future share. No matter how he ran the numbers, he realized he would most likely never make Fortune Asia’s list of “Hong Kong’s Top Ten Richest” with the way his parents were handling things.

But then his parents were always so selfish. Sure, they raised him and paid for his education and bought him his first apartment, but they failed him when it came to what was truly important — they didn’t know how to flaunt their wealth properly. His father, for all his fame and celebrated skill, had grown up middle class, with solidly middle-class tastes. He was happy enough being the revered doctor, driven around in that shamefully outdated Rolls-Royce, wearing that rusty Audemars Piguet watch, and going to his clubs. And then there was his mother. She was so cheap, forever counting her pennies. She could have been one of the queens of society if she would just play up her aristocratic background, wear some designer dresses, or move out of that flat in the Mid-Levels. That goddamn flat.

Eddie hated going over to his parents’ place. He hated the lobby, with its cheap-looking Mongolian granite floors and the old-lady security guard who was forever eating stinky tofu out of a plastic bag. Inside the flat, he hated the peach-colored leather sectional sofa and white lacquered consoles (bought when the old Lane Crawford on Queen’s Road was having a clearance sale in the mid-1980s), the glass pebbles at the bottom of every vase of fake flowers, the random collection of Chinese calligraphy paintings (all presents from his father’s patients) clustering the walls, and the medical honors and plaques lined up on the overhead shelf that ran around the perimeter of the living room. He hated walking past his old bedroom, which he had been forced to share with his little brother, with its nautical-themed twin beds and navy blue Ikea wall unit, still there after all these years. Most of all, he hated the large walnut-framed family portrait peeking out from behind the big-screen television, forever taunting him with its smoky brown portrait-studio backdrop and the gold-embossed SAMMY PHOTO STUDIO in the bottom right corner. He hated how he looked in that photograph — he was nineteen, just back from his first year at Cambridge, with shoulder-length feathered hair, wearing a Paul Smith tweed blazer he thought was so cool at the time, his elbow arranged jauntily on his mother’s shoulder. And how could his mother, born to a family of such exquisite breeding, be completely devoid of taste? Over the years, he had begged her to redecorate or move, but she had refused, claiming that she “could never part with all the happy memories of my children growing up here.” What happy memories? His only memories were of a childhood spent being too embarrassed to invite any friends over (unless he knew they lived in less prestigious buildings), and teen years spent in the cramped toilet, masturbating practically underneath the bathroom sink with two feet against the door at all times (there was no lock).

As Eddie stood in Leo’s new closet in Shanghai, looking out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the Pudong financial district shimmering across the river like Xanadu, he vowed that he would one day have a closet so cool, it would make this one look like a fucky little pigsty. Until then, he still had one thing that even Leo’s crisp new money could not buy — a thick, embossed invitation to Colin Khoo’s wedding in Singapore.

11 Rachel

NEW YORK TO SINGAPORE

“You’re kidding, right?” Rachel said, thinking Nick was pulling a prank when he steered her onto the plush red carpet of the Singapore Airlines first-class counter at JFK.

Nick flashed a conspiratorial grin, relishing her reaction. “I figured if you were going to go halfway around the world with me, I should at least try to make it as comfy as possible.”

“But this must have cost a fortune! You didn’t have to sell a kidney, did you?”

“No worries, I had about a million frequent-flier miles saved up.”

Still, Rachel couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about the millions of frequent-flier points that Nick must have sacrificed for these tickets. Who even flew first class anymore? The second surprise for Rachel came when they boarded the hulking two-story Airbus A380 and were promptly greeted by a beautiful stewardess who looked as if she had materialized straight out of a soft-focus ad from a travel magazine. “Mr. Young, Ms. Chu, welcome aboard. Please allow me to show you to your suite.” The stewardess sashayed down the aisle in an elegant, figure-hugging long dress,[19] ushering them to the front section of the plane, which consisted of twelve private suites.

Rachel felt as if she was entering the screening room of a luxurious TriBeCa loft. The cabin consisted of two of the widest armchairs she had ever seen — upholstered in buttery hand-stitched Poltrona Frau leather — two huge flat-screen televisions placed side by side, and a full-length wardrobe ingeniously hidden behind a sliding burled-walnut panel. A Givenchy cashmere throw was artfully draped over the seats, beckoning them to snuggle up and get cozy.

The stewardess gestured to the cocktails awaiting them on the center console. “An aperitif before takeoff? Mr. Young, your usual gin and tonic. Ms. Chu, a Kir Royale to get you settled in.” She handed Rachel a long-stemmed glass with chilled bubbly that looked like it had been poured just seconds ago. Of course they would already know her favorite cocktail. “Would you like to enjoy your lounge chairs until dinner, or would you prefer us to convert your suite into a bedroom right after takeoff?”

“I think we’ll enjoy this screening-room setup for a while,” Nick replied.

As soon as the stewardess was out of earshot, Rachel declared, “Sweet Jesus, I’ve lived in apartments smaller than this!”

“I hope you don’t mind roughing it — this is all rather lowbrow by Asian hospitality standards,” Nick teased.

“Um … I think I can make do.” Rachel curled up on her sumptuous armchair and began fiddling with her remote control. “Okay, there are more channels than I can count. Are you going to watch one of your bleak Swedish crime thrillers? Oooh, The English Patient. I want to see that. Wait a minute. Is it bad to watch a film about a plane crash while you’re flying?”

“That was a tiny single-engine plane, and wasn’t it shot down by Nazis? I think it should be just fine,” Nick said, placing his hand over hers.

The enormous plane began to taxi toward the runway, and Rachel looked out the window at the planes lined up on the tarmac, lights flashing on the tips of their wings, each one awaiting their turn to hurtle skyward. “You know, it’s finally sinking in that we’re going on this trip.”

“You excited?”

“Just a bit. I think sleeping on an actual bed on a plane is probably the most exciting part!”

“It’s all downhill from here, isn’t it?”

“Definitely. It’s all been downhill since the day we met,” Rachel said with a wink, entwining her fingers with Nick’s.

NEW YORK CITY, AUTUMN 2008

For the record, Rachel Chu did not feel the proverbial lightning-bolt strike when she first laid eyes on Nicholas Young in the garden of La Lanterna di Vittorio. Sure, he was terribly good-looking, but she had always been suspicious of good-looking men, especially ones with quasi-British accents. She spent the first few minutes silently sizing him up, wondering what Sylvia had gotten her into this time.

When Sylvia Wong-Swartz, Rachel’s colleague at New York University’s Department of Economics, walked into their faculty suite one afternoon and declared, “Rachel, I just spent the morning with your future husband,” she dismissed the declaration as another of Sylvia’s silly schemes and didn’t even bother to look up from her laptop.

“No, seriously, I’ve found your future husband. He was at a student governance meeting with me. It’s the third time I’ve met him, and I’m convinced he’s the one for you.”

“So my future husband is a student? Thanks — you know how much I like jailbait.”

“No, no — he’s the brilliant new prof in the history department. He’s also the faculty adviser to the History Organization.”

“You know I don’t go for professor types. Especially from the history department.”

“Yeah, but this guy is different, I’m telling you. He’s the most impressive guy I’ve met in years. So charming. And HOT. I would be after him in a second if I wasn’t already married.”

“What’s his name? Maybe I already know him.”

“Nicholas Young. He just started this semester, a transfer from Oxford.”

“A Brit?” Rachel looked up, her curiosity piqued.

“No, no.” Sylvia put her files down and took a seat, inhaling deeply. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, but before you write him off, promise you’ll hear me out.”

Rachel couldn’t wait for the other shoe to drop. What fabulously dysfunctional detail had Sylvia left out?

“He’s … Asian.”

“Oh God, Sylvia.” Rachel rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer screen.

“I knew you were going to react like this! Hear me out. This guy is the total package, I swear—”

“I’m sure,” Rachel said, dripping with sarcasm.

“He has the most seductive, slightly British accent. And he’s a terrific dresser. He had the most perfect jacket on today, rumpled in all the right places—”

“Not. Interested. Sylvia.”

“And he looks a bit like that Japanese actor from those Wong Kar-wai movies.”

“Is he Japanese or Chinese?”

“What does it matter? Every single time any Asian guy so much as looks in your direction, you give them the famous Rachel Chu Asian freeze-out and they wither away before you give them a chance.”

“I do not!”

“Yes, you do! I’ve seen you do it so many times. Remember that guy we met at Yanira’s brunch last weekend?”

“I was perfectly nice to him.”

“You treated him as if he had ‘HERPES’ tattooed on his forehead. Honestly, you are the most self-loathing Asian I’ve ever met!”

“What do you mean? I’m not self-loathing at all. How about you? You’re the one who married the white guy.”

“Mark’s not white, he’s Jewish — that’s basically Asian! But that’s beside the point — at least I dated plenty of Asians in my time.”

“Well, so have I.”

“When have you actually ever dated an Asian?” Sylvia arched her eyebrows in surprise.

“Sylvia, you have no idea how many Asian guys I’ve been set up with over the years. Let’s see, there was the MIT quantum-physics geek who was more interested in having me as a twenty-four-hour on-call cleaning lady, the Taiwanese frat-boy jock with pecs bigger than my chest, the Harvard-MBA Chuppie[20] who was obsessed with Gordon Gekko. Should I go on?”

“I’m sure they weren’t as bad as you make it sound.”

“Well, it was bad enough for me to institute a ‘no Asian guys’ policy about five years ago,” Rachel insisted.

Sylvia sighed. “Let’s face it. The real reason you treat Asian men the way you do is because they represent the type of man your family wishes you would bring home, and you are simply rebelling by refusing to date one.”

“You are so far off base.” Rachel laughed, shaking her head.

“Either that, or growing up as a racial minority in America, you feel that the ultimate act of assimilation is to marry into the dominant race. Which is why you only ever date WASPs … or Eurotrash.”

“Have you ever been to Cupertino, where I spent all my teenage years? Because you would see that Asians are the dominant race in Cupertino. Stop projecting your own issues onto me.”

“Well, take my challenge and try to be color-blind just one more time.”

“Okay, I’ll prove you wrong. How would you like me to present myself to this Oxford Asian charmer?”

“You don’t have to. I already arranged for us to have coffee with him at La Lanterna after work,” Sylvia said gleefully.

By the time the gruff Estonian waitress at La Lanterna came to take Nicholas’s drink order, Sylvia was whispering angrily into Rachel’s ear, “Hey, are you mute or something? Enough with the Asian freeze-out!”

Rachel decided to play along and join in the conversation, but it soon became apparent to her that Nicholas had no idea that this was a set-up and, more disturbingly, seemed far more interested in her colleague. He was fascinated by Sylvia’s interdisciplinary background and peppered her with questions about how the economics department was organized. Sylvia basked in the glow of his attention, laughing coquettishly and twirling her hair with her fingers as they bantered. Rachel glared at him. Is this dude completely clueless? Doesn’t he notice Sylvia’s wedding ring?

It was only after twenty minutes that Rachel was able to step outside of her long-held prejudices and consider the situation at hand. It was true — in recent years, she hadn’t given Asian guys much of a chance. Her mother had even said, “Rachel, I know it’s hard for you to relate properly to Asian men, since you never knew your father.” Rachel found this sort of armchair analysis much too simplistic. If only it were that easy.

For Rachel, the problem began practically the day she hit puberty. She began to notice a phenomenon that occurred whenever an Asian of the opposite sex entered the room. The Asian male would be perfectly nice and normal to all the other girls, but special treatment would be reserved for her. First, there was the optical scan: the boy would assess her physical attributes in the most blatant way — quantifying every inch of her body by a completely different set of standards than he would use for non-Asian girls. How big were her eyes? Were they double-lidded naturally, or did she have that eyelid surgery? How light was her skin? How straight and glossy was her hair? Did she have good child-birthing hips? Did she have an accent? And how tall was she really, without heels on? (At five foot seven, Rachel was on the tall side, and Asian guys would sooner shoot themselves in the groin than date a taller girl.)

If she happened to pass this initial hurdle, the real test would begin. Her Asian girlfriends all knew this test. They called it the “SATs.” The Asian male would begin a not so covert interrogation focused on the Asian female’s social, academic, and talent aptitudes in order to determine whether she was possible “wife and bearer of my sons” material. This happened while the Asian male not so subtly flaunted his own SAT stats — how many generations his family had been in America; what kind of doctors his parents were; how many musical instruments he played; the number of tennis camps he went to; which Ivy League scholarships he turned down; what model BMW, Audi, or Lexus he drove; and the approximate number of years before he became (pick one) chief executive officer, chief financial officer, chief technology officer, chief law partner, or chief surgeon.

Rachel had become so accustomed to enduring the SATs that its absence tonight was strangely disconcerting. This guy didn’t seem to have the same MO, and he wasn’t relentlessly dropping names. It was baffling, and she didn’t quite know how to deal with him. He was just enjoying his Irish coffee, soaking in the atmosphere, and being perfectly charming. Sitting in the enclosed garden lit by colorful, whimsically painted lampshades, Rachel gradually began to see, in a whole new light, the person her friend had been so eager for her to meet.

She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but there was something curiously exotic about Nicholas Young. For starters, his slightly disheveled canvas jacket, white linen shirt, and faded black jeans were reminiscent of some adventurer just returned from mapping the Western Sahara. Then there was his self-deprecating wit, the sort that all those British-educated boys were so well known for. But underlying all this was a quiet masculinity and a relaxed ease that was proving to be infectious. Rachel found herself being pulled into his conversational orbit, and before she even realized it, they were yakking away like old friends.

At a certain point, Sylvia got up from the table and announced that it was high time she went home, before her husband starved to death. Rachel and Nick decided to stay for one more drink. Which led to another drink. Which led to dinner at the bistro around the corner. Which led to gelato in Father Demo Square. Which led to a walk through Washington Square Park (since Nick insisted on escorting her back to her faculty apartment). He’s the perfect gentleman, Rachel thought, as they strolled past the fountain and the blond-dreadlocked guitarist wailing a plaintive ballad.

And you’re standing here beside me, I love the passing of time, the boy sang plaintively.

“Isn’t this Talking Heads?” Nick asked. “Listen …”

“Oh my God, it totally is! He’s singing ‘This Must Be the Place,’ ” Rachel said in surprise. She loved that Nick knew the song well enough to recognize this bastardized version.

“He’s not half bad,” Nick said, taking out his wallet and tossing a few dollars into the kid’s open guitar case.

Rachel noticed that Nick was mouthing along to the song. He’s scoring some major bonus points right now, she thought, and then she realized with a start that Sylvia had been right — this guy who she’d just spent six straight hours engrossed in conversation with, who knew all the lyrics to one of her favorite songs, this guy standing here beside her was the first man she could truly imagine as her husband.

12 The Leongs

SINGAPORE

“At last, the golden couple!” Mavis Oon proclaimed as Astrid and Michael made their entrance into the Colonial Club’s formal dining room. With Michael in his crisp navy Richard James suit and Astrid in a long, flapper-style silk voile dress the color of persimmon, they made an exceedingly striking pair, and the room rippled with the usual hushed excitement from the ladies, who covertly scrutinized Astrid from hair to heels, and the men, who gazed at Michael with a mixture of envy and derision.

“Aiyah, Astrid, why so late?” Felicity Leong scolded her daughter as she arrived at the long banquet table by the trophy wall where members of the extended Leong family and their honored guests from Kuala Lumpur—Tan Sri[21] Gordon Oon and Puan Sri Mavis Oon — were already seated.

“So sorry. Michael’s flight back from China was delayed,” Astrid apologized. “I hope you didn’t wait for us to order? The food always takes ages here.”

“Astrid, come, come, let me look at you,” Mavis commanded. The imperious lady, who could easily have won an Imelda Marcos look-alike contest with her dramatically rouged cheeks and fat chignon, patted Astrid’s face as if she were a little girl and launched into her trademark gushing. “Aiyah you haven’t aged one bit since I last saw you how’s little Cassian when are you going to have another one don’t wait too long lah you need a little girl now you know my ten-year-old granddaughter Bella absolutely worships you ever since her last trip to Singapore she’s always saying ‘Ah Ma, when I grow up I want to be just like Astrid’ I asked why and she says ‘Because she always dresses like a movie star and that Michael is such a hunk!’ ” Everyone at the table roared with laughter.

“Yes, don’t we all wish we could have Astrid’s clothing budget and Michael’s eight-pack!” Astrid’s brother Alexander quipped.

Harry Leong looked up from his menu and, catching sight of Michael, beckoned him over. With his silvery hair and dark tan, Harry was a leonine presence at the head of the table, and as always, Michael approached his father-in-law with no small amount of trepidation. Harry handed him a large padded envelope. “Here’s my MacBook Air. There’s something wrong with the Wi-Fi connection.”

“What exactly is the problem? Is it not finding the right networks, or are you having log-in problems?” Michael asked.

Harry had already turned his attention back to the menu. “What? Oh, it just doesn’t seem to work anywhere. You’re the one who set it up, and I haven’t changed any of the settings. Thank you so much for taking a look at it. Felicity, did I have the rack of lamb here the last time? Is this where they always overcook the meat?”

Michael dutifully took the laptop with him, and as he made his way back to his seat at the other end of the table, Astrid’s eldest brother, Henry, grabbed him by his jacket sleeve. “Hey, Mike, hate to bother you with this, but can you stop by the house this weekend? There’s something wrong with Zachary’s Xbox. I hope you can fix it — it’s too mah fan[22] to send it back to the factory in Japan for repair.”

“I might have to go away this weekend, but if not, I’ll try to stop by,” Michael said flatly.

“Oh thank you, thank you,” Cathleen, Henry’s wife, cut in. “Zachary has been driving us absolutely crazy without his Xbox.”

“Is Michael good with gadgets or something?” Mavis inquired.

“Oh, he’s an absolute genius, Mavis, a genius! He’s the perfect son-in-law to have around — he can fix anything!” Harry proclaimed.

Michael smiled uncomfortably as Mavis fixed her gaze on him. “Now why did I think he was in the army?”

“Auntie Mavis, Michael used to work for the Ministry of Defense. He helped to program all the high-tech weapon systems,” Astrid said.

“Yes, the fate of our country’s ballistics defense is in Michael’s hands. You know, in case we get invaded by the two hundred and fifty million Muslims surrounding us on all sides, we can put up a fight for about ten minutes,” Alexander chuckled.

Michael tried to hide his grimace and opened up his heavy leather-bound menu. This month’s culinary theme was “Taste of the Amalfi,” and most of the dishes were in Italian. Vongole. That was clams, he knew. But what the heck was Paccheri alla Ravello, and would it have killed them to include an English translation? This was par for the course at one of the island’s oldest sporting clubs, a place so pretentious and buttoned-up in Edwardian-era tradition that women were not even allowed to peek into the Men’s Bar until 2007.

As a teenager, Michael had played soccer every week at the Padang, the immense green field in front of city hall that was used for all the national parades, and he often stared curiously at the august Victorian structure at the eastern edge of the Padang. From the goalie post, he could see the glittering chandeliers within, the silver-domed dishes set on crisp white tablecloths, the waiters in their black tuxedo jackets scurrying around. He would observe the important-looking people enjoying their dinners and wonder who they were. He longed to walk into the club, just once, to be able to look at the soccer field from the other side of those windows. On a dare, he had asked a couple of his friends to sneak into the club with him. They would go one day before soccer, when they were still dressed in their St. Andrew’s school uniforms. They could just stroll in casually, as if they were members, and who would stop them from ordering a drink at the bar? “Don’t even dream, Teo, don’t you know what this place is? It’s the Colonial Club! You either have to be ang mor, or you have to be born into one of those ultrarich families to get inside,” one of his buddies commented.

“Gordon and I sold our Pulau Club memberships because I realized I was only going there to eat their ice kacang,”[23] Michael overheard Mavis telling his mother-in-law. What he wouldn’t give to be back out on the field with his friends right now. They could play soccer until the sun went down, and then head to the nearest kopi tiam[24] for cold beers and some nasi goreng[25] or char bee hoon.[26] It would be so much better than sitting here in this tie that choked him half to death, eating unpronounceable food that was insanely overpriced. Not that anyone at this table ever noticed the prices — the Oons owned practically half of Malaysia, and as for Astrid and her brothers, Michael had never once witnessed any of them pick up a dinner check. They were all adults with children of their own, but Papa Leong always signed for everything. (In the Teo family, none of his brothers or sisters would even consider letting their parents pick up the check.)

How long would this dinner take? They were eating European style, so it would be four courses, and here that meant one course per hour. Michael stared at his menu again. Gan ni na![27] There was some stupid salad course. Who ever heard of serving salad after the main course? This meant five courses, because Mavis liked her desserts, even though all she ever did was complain about her gout. And then his mother-in-law would complain about her heel spurs, and the ladies would volley chronic health complaints back and forth, trying to outdo each other. Then it would be time for the toasts — those long-winded toasts where his father-in-law would toast the Oons for their brilliance in having been born into the right family, and then Gordon Oon would turn around and toast the Leongs for their genius in having been born into the right family as well. And then Henry Leong Jr. would make a toast to Gordon’s son Gordon Jr., the wonderful chap who was caught with the fifteen-year-old schoolgirl in Langkawi last year. It would be a miracle if dinner ended before eleven thirty.

Astrid glanced across the table at her husband. That ramrod-straight posture and tense half smile he was forcing himself to make as he spoke to Bishop See Bei Sien’s wife was a look she knew well — she had seen it the first time they were invited to tea at her grandmother’s, and when they had dinner with the president at Istana.[28] Michael clearly wished he were somewhere else right now. Or was it with someone else? Who was that someone else? Since the night she had discovered that text message, she couldn’t stop asking herself these questions.

MISS U NSIDE ME. For the first few days, Astrid tried to convince herself that there must be some rational explanation. It was an innocent mistake, a text to the wrong number, some sort of prank or private joke she didn’t understand. The text message had been erased by the next morning, and she wished it could just as simply be erased from her mind. But her mind would not let it go. Her life could not go on until she solved the mystery behind these words. She began calling Michael at work every day at odd times, inventing some silly question or excuse to make sure he was where he said he would be. She started checking his cell phone at every fleeting opportunity, feverishly scrolling through all the text messages in the precious few minutes that he was away from his phone. There were no more incriminating text messages. Was he covering his tracks, or was she just being paranoid? For weeks now, she had been deconstructing every look, every word, every move of Michael’s, searching for some sign, some evidence to confirm what she could not bring herself to put into words. But there had been nothing. Everything was seemingly normal in their beautiful life.

Until this afternoon.

Michael had just returned from the airport, and when he complained of being sore from cramming into a middle seat in the last, non-reclining row of an older China Eastern Airlines plane, Astrid suggested that he take a warm soak in the tub with Epsom salts. While he was out of commission, Astrid went snooping through his luggage, aimlessly looking for something, anything. Rifling through his wallet, she came upon a folded piece of paper hidden underneath the plastic flap that held his Singapore Identity Card. It was a receipt for dinner from the night before. A receipt from Petrus. For HK$3,812. Pretty much the price of dinner for two.

What was her husband doing having dinner at Hong Kong’s fanciest French restaurant when he was supposed to be working on some cloud-sourcing project in Chongqing in southwest China? And especially this restaurant, the sort of place he normally would have been dragged to kicking and screaming. There was no way his cash-strapped partners would approve this sort of expense, even for their top clients. (And besides, no Chinese clients would ever want to eat French nouvelle cuisine if they could possibly help it.)

Astrid looked at the receipt for a long time, staring at the bold strokes of his dark-blue signature against the crisp white paper. He had signed it with the Caran d’Ache fountain pen she had given him on his last birthday. Her heart was beating so fast it felt like it was going to jump out of her chest, and yet she felt completely paralyzed. She imagined Michael sitting in the candlelit room perched atop the Island Shangri-La hotel, staring out at the sparkling lights of Victoria Harbour, enjoying a romantic dinner with the girl who had sent the text message. They started off with a splendid Burgundy from the Côte d’Or and finished with the warm bitter-chocolate soufflé for two (with frosted lemon cream).

She wanted to burst into the bathroom and hold the receipt in his face while he was soaking in the tub. She wanted to scream and claw at his skin. But of course, she did no such thing. She breathed in deeply. She regained her composure. The composure that had been ingrained since the day she was born. She would do the sensible thing. She knew that there was no point making a scene, demanding an explanation. Any sort of explanation that could cause even the tiniest scratch on their picture-perfect life. She folded the receipt carefully and tucked it back into its hiding place, willing it to disappear from his wallet and from her mind. Just disappear.

13 Philip and Eleanor Young

SYDNEY, AUSTRALIA, AND SINGAPORE

Philip sat in his favorite metal folding chair on the dock that stretched out from his waterfront lawn, keeping one watchful eye on the fishing line that went straight into Watson’s Bay and the other eye on the latest issue of Popular Mechanics. His cell phone began to vibrate in the pocket of his cargo pants, disrupting the serenity of his morning. He knew it would be his wife on the line; she was practically the only person who ever called his cell. (Eleanor insisted that he keep the phone on his body at all times, in case she needed him in an emergency, although he doubted he could be of any help since he spent much of the year here in Sydney while she was constantly traveling between Singapore, Hong Kong, Bangkok, Shanghai, and God knows where else.)

He answered the phone and immediately the hysterical torrent from his wife began. “Calm down and speak slower, lah. I can’t understand a word you’re saying. Now, why do you want to jump off a building?” Philip asked in his usual laconic manner.

“I just got the dossier on Rachel Chu from that private investigator in Beverly Hills who Mabel Kwok recommended. Do you want to know what it says.” It wasn’t a question; it sounded like more of a threat.

“Er … who is Rachel Chu?” Philip asked.

“Don’t be so senile, lah! Don’t you remember what I told you last week? Your son has been dating some girl in secret for more than a year, and he had the cheek to tell us about it just days before he brings her to Singapore!”

“You hired a private investigator to check up on this girl?”

“Of course I did. We know nothing about this girl, and everyone is already talking about her and Nicky—”

Philip looked down at his fishing pole, which was beginning to vibrate a hair. He knew where this conversation was leading, and he wanted no part in it. “I’m afraid I can’t talk right now, darling, I’m in the middle of something urgent.”

“Stop it, lah! This is urgent! The report is even worse than my worst nightmare! Your stupid cousin Cassandra got it wrong — it turns out the girl is not one of the Chus from that Taipei Plastics family!”

“I always tell you not to believe a word out of Cassandra’s mouth. But what difference does it make?”

“What difference? This girl is being deceitful—she is pretending to be a Chu.”

“Well, if her last name happens to be Chu, how can you accuse her of pretending to be a Chu?” Philip said with a chuckle.

“Aiyah — don’t contradict me! I’ll tell you how she’s being deceitful. At first, the private investigator told me she was ABC, but then after more digging he found out that she’s not even truly American-born Chinese. She was born in Mainland China and went to America when she was six months old.”

“So?”

“Did you hear me? Mainland China!”

Philip was baffled. “Doesn’t everybody’s family ultimately originate from Mainland China? Where would you rather her be from? Iceland?”

“Don’t be funny with me! Her family comes from some ulu ulu[29] village in China that nobody has ever heard of. The investigator thinks that they were most likely working class. In other words, they are PEASANTS!”

“I think if you go back far enough, darling, all our families were peasants. And don’t you know that in ancient China, the peasant class was actually revered? They were the backbone of the economy, and—”

“Stop talking nonsense, lah! You haven’t heard the worst yet — this girl came to America as a baby with her mother. But where’s the father? There’s no record of the father, so they must have divorced. Can you believe it? Alamak, a child from some divorced no-name ulu family! I’m going to tiao lau!”[30]

“What’s wrong with that? There are plenty of people these days who come from broken homes and go on to have happy marriages. Just look at the divorce rate here in Australia.” Philip was trying to reason with his wife.

Eleanor sighed deeply. “These Aussies are all descended from criminals, what do you expect?”

“This is why you’re so popular down here, darling,” Philip joked.

“You are not seeing the big picture. This girl is obviously a cunning, deceitful GOLD DIGGER! You know as well as I do that your son can never marry someone like that. Can you imagine how your family is going to react when he brings this gold digger home?”

“Actually, I couldn’t care less what they think.”

“But don’t you see how this will affect Nicky? And of course your mother is going to blame me for this, lah. I always get blamed for everything. Alamak, surely you know how this will end.”

Philip sighed deeply. This was the reason he spent as much time as he possibly could away from Singapore.

“I’ve already asked Lorena Lim to use all her Beijing contacts to investigate the girl’s family in China. We need to know everything. I don’t want to leave a single stone unturned. We need to be prepared for every possibility,” Eleanor said.

“Don’t you think you’re going a bit overboard?”

“Absolutely not! We must put a stop to all this nonsense before it goes any further. Do you want to know what Daisy Foo thinks?”

“Not really.”

“Daisy thinks that Nicky is going to propose to the girl while they’re in Singapore!”

“If he hasn’t already,” Philip teased.

“Alamak! Do you know something I don’t? Has Nicky told you—”

“No, no, no, don’t panic. Darling, you are letting your silly girlfriends work you up for nothing. You just need to trust our son’s good judgment. I’m sure this girl is going to turn out just fine.” The fish was really tugging at the line now. Maybe it was a barramundi. He could ask his chef to grill it for lunch. Philip just wanted to get off the phone.

That Thursday, at Carol Tai’s Bible study, Eleanor decided that it was time to call in her ground troops. As the ladies sat around enjoying homemade bobo chacha and helping Carol organize her collection of Tahitian black pearls by color grade, Eleanor began her lament as she savored her chilled coconut-and-sago pudding.

“Nicky doesn’t realize what a terrible thing he is doing to us. Now he tells me he’s not even going to stay at our new flat when he arrives. He’s going to stay at Kingsford Hotel with that girl! As if he needs to hide her from us! Alamak, how is this going to look?” Eleanor sighed dramatically.

“So disgraceful! Sharing a hotel room when they aren’t even married! You know, some people might think they eloped and are coming here for their honeymoon!” Nadine Shaw chimed in, though secretly the thought of any potential scandal that might bring those high-and-mighty Youngs down a peg filled her with glee. She continued to fan Eleanor’s flames, not that they needed any further stoking. “How dare this girl think she can just waltz right into Singapore on Nicky’s arm and attend the social event of the year without your approval? She obviously has no clue how things work here.”

“Aiyah, children these days don’t know how to behave,” Daisy Foo said quietly, shaking her head. “My sons are just the same. You’re lucky that Nicky even told you he was bringing someone home. I would never be able to expect that from my boys. I have to find out in the newspapers what they’re doing! What to do, lah? This is what happens when you educate your children overseas. They become too Westernized and aksi borak[31] when they return. Can you imagine — my daughter-in-law Danielle forces me to make an appointment two weeks in advance just to see my grandchildren! She thinks that because she graduated from Amherst she knows better than me how to raise my own grandchildren!”

“Better than you? Everyone knows these ABCs are descended from all the peasants that were too stupid to survive in China!” Nadine cackled.

“Hey, Nadine, don’t underestimate them. These ABC girls can be tzeen lee hai,”[32] Lorena Lim warned. “Now that America is broke, all these ABCs want to come to Asia and sink their claws into our men. They are even worse that the Taiwanese tornadoes because they are Westernized, sophisticated, and worst of all, college educated. Do you remember Mrs. Hsu Tsen Ta’s son? That Ivy League-degreed ex-wife of his purposely introduced him to the girl who would become his mistress, and then used that silly excuse to get a huge divorce settlement. The Hsus had to sell so many properties just to pay her off. So sayang!”[33]

“My Danielle was so kwai kwai[34] at first, so dutiful and modest,” Daisy recalled. “Hiyah — the minute that thirty-carat diamond was on her finger, she transformed into the bloody Queen of Sheba! Nowadays she wears nothing but Prada, Prada, Prada, and have you seen how she makes my son waste money by hiring that whole security team to escort her everywhere she goes, as if she is some big shot? Who wants to kidnap her? My son and my grandchildren are the ones who should have the bodyguards, not this girl with the flat nose! Suey doh say!”[35]

“I don’t know what I would do if my son brought home a girl like that.” Eleanor moaned and put on her saddest expression.

“Come, come, Lealea, have some more bobo chacha,” Carol said, trying to soothe her friend as she ladled more of the fragrant dessert into Eleanor’s bowl. “Nicky is a good boy. You should thank the Lord that he isn’t like my Bernard. I gave up trying to get Bernard to listen to me long ago. His father lets him get away with everything. What to do? His father just pays and pays, while I just pray and pray. The Bible tells us we must accept what we cannot change.”

Lorena looked at Eleanor, wondering whether this was the right time to drop her bombshell. She decided to go for it. “Eleanor, you asked me to do a little investigating for you about this Chu girl’s family in China, and I don’t want you to get too excited, but I’ve just received the most intriguing tidbit.”

“So fast? What did you find out?” Eleanor perked up.

“Well, there’s a fellow who claims to have ‘very valuable’ info on Rachel,” Lorena continued.

“Alamak, what, what?” Eleanor asked, getting alarmed.

“I don’t know exactly, but it comes from a source in Shenzhen,” Lorena said.

“Shenzhen? Did they say what kind of information?”

“Well, they just said it was ‘very valuable,’ and they won’t talk over the phone. They will only give you the information in person, and it’s going to cost you.”

“How did you find these people?” Eleanor asked excitedly.

“Wah ooh kang tao, mah,”[36] Lorena said mysteriously. “I think you should go to Shenzhen next week.”

“That won’t be possible. Nicky and that girl will be here,” Eleanor replied.

“Elle, I think you should go precisely when Nicky and that girl arrive,” Daisy suggested. “Think about it — they are not even staying with you, so you have the perfect excuse not to be here. And if you are not here, you have all the advantage. You will show everyone that you are NOT rolling out the red carpet for this girl, and you won’t lose face if she turns out to be a total nightmare.”

“Plus you’ll have gained some vital new information,” Nadine added. “Maybe she’s already married. Maybe she already has a child. Maybe she’s running some huge scam and—”

“Aiyah, I need a Xanax,” Eleanor cried, reaching into her purse.

“Lorena, stop scaring Lealea!” Carol interjected. “We don’t know this girl’s story, maybe it’s nothing at all. Maybe God will bless Eleanor with a dutiful God-fearing daughter-in-law. ‘Judge not lest ye be judged.’ Matthew 7:1.”

Eleanor considered everything that her friends had to say. “Daisy, you’re always so smart. Lorena, can I stay at your beautiful flat in Shenzhen?”

“Of course. I was going to come with you. Also, I’ve been dying to go on another shopping marathon in Shenzhen.”

“Who else wants to come to Shenzhen this weekend? Carol, are you in?” Eleanor asked, hoping that Carol could be roped in and they would get to use her plane.

Carol leaned over from her bed and said, “I’ll check, but I think we can take the plane if we leave before the weekend. I know my husband has to fly to Beijing to take over some Internet company called Ali Baibai earlier in the week. And Bernard’s using the plane for Colin Khoo’s bachelor party on Saturday.”

“Let’s all go to Shenzhen for a ladies’ spa weekend!” Nadine declared. “I want to go to that place where they soak your feet in those wooden buckets and then massage them for an hour.”

Eleanor was beginning to get excited. “This is a good plan. Let’s go shop till we drop in Shenzhen. We’ll let Nicky and this girl manage on their own, and then I will return with my valuable information.”

“Your valuable ammunition,” Lorena corrected.

“Haha, that’s right,” Nadine cheered, digging into her handbag and beginning to text her stockbroker covertly. “Now Carol, what was the name of that Internet company the dato’ is planning to take over?”

14 Rachel and Nicholas

SINGAPORE

The plane banked sharply to the left, breaking out of the clouds as Rachel caught sight of the island for the first time. They had departed New York twenty-one hours ago, and after one refueling stop in Frankfurt, she was in Southeast Asia now, in the realm her ancestors called the Nanyang.[37] But the view she could glimpse from the plane did not resemble some romantic terrain swathed in mist — rather, it was a dense metropolis of skyscrapers glittering in the evening sky, and from six thousand feet Rachel could already feel the pulsating energy that was one of the world’s financial powerhouses.

As the electronic doors of the customs area slid open to reveal the tropical oasis that was the arrival hall of Terminal Three, the first thing Nick saw was his friend Colin Khoo holding up a large placard with BEST MAN printed on it. Beside him stood an exceedingly tan, willowy girl clutching a bunch of silver balloons.

Nick and Rachel rolled their luggage carts toward them. “What are you doing here?” Nick exclaimed in surprise as Colin squeezed him into a bear hug.

“Come on! Of course I had to welcome my best man properly! This is full service, man,” Colin beamed.

“My turn!” the girl beside him declared, leaning over and giving Nick a hug followed by a quick peck on the cheek. She turned next to Rachel, stretched out her hand, and said, “You must be Rachel. I’m Araminta.”

“Oh sorry, let me make proper introductions — Rachel Chu, meet Araminta Lee, Colin’s fiancée. And this, of course, is Colin Khoo,” Nick said.

“So nice to finally meet you.” Rachel smiled, shaking their hands vigorously. She wasn’t prepared for this welcoming party, and after all those hours on the plane, she could only imagine how she must look. She studied the cheery couple for a bit. People always looked so different from their pictures. Colin was taller than she imagined, roguishly handsome with dark freckles and an unruly shock of hair that made him look a bit like a Polynesian surfer. Behind her wire-frame spectacles, Araminta had a very pretty face, even without a stitch of makeup. Her long black hair was pulled into a rubber-banded ponytail that reached down to the small of her back, and she looked far too skinny for her tall frame. She was wearing what appeared to be a pair of plaid pajama pants, a pale orange tank top, and flip-flops. Though she was probably in her mid-twenties, she looked more like a schoolgirl than someone about to walk down the aisle. They were an unusually exotic couple, and Rachel wondered how their children might end up looking.

Colin began texting away on his cell phone. “The drivers have been circling around for a while. Let me just make sure they know we’re ready.”

“I can’t believe this airport — it makes JFK look like Mogadishu,” Rachel remarked. She stared up in wonder at the soaring ultramodern structure, the indoor palm trees, and the immense, lush vertical hanging garden that seemed to make up an entire length of the terminal. A fine mist of water began to spread over the cascading greenery. “Are they misting the entire wall? I feel like I’m at some upscale tropical resort.”

“This whole country is an upscale tropical resort,” Colin quipped as he led them toward the exit. Waiting at the curb were two matching silver Land Rovers. “Here, pile all your luggage into this one, it’s going straight to the hotel. We can all ride in the other one without being cramped.” The driver in the first car got out, nodded to Colin, and went to join the other driver, leaving an empty car for them. In her jet-lagged fog, Rachel didn’t know what to make of all this and just climbed into the backseat of the SUV.

“What a treat! I don’t think I’ve been welcomed at the airport like this since I was a little kid,” Nick said, recalling the times in his childhood when a large group of family members would gather at the airport. A visit to the airport back then was a thrilling event, since it also meant that his father would take him for a hot fudge sundae at the Swensen’s Ice Cream Parlor in the old terminal. People seemed to go away on longer trips back then, and there were always tears from the women saying goodbye to relatives heading overseas or welcoming home children who had spent the school year abroad. He once even overheard his older cousin Alex whisper to his father just before Harry Leong was about to board a plane, “Be sure to pick me up the latest Penthouse on your layover in Los Angeles.”

Colin settled behind the wheel and began adjusting the mirrors to fit his sightlines. “Where to? Straight to the hotel, or makan?”[38]

“I can definitely eat,” Nick said. He turned around to look at Rachel, knowing she probably wanted to go straight to the hotel and collapse into bed. “Feeling okay, Rachel?”

“I’m great,” Rachel replied. “Actually, I’m kinda hungry too.”

“It’s breakfast time back in New York, that’s why,” Colin noted.

“Did you have a good flight? Did you watch a lot of movies?” Araminta asked.

“Rachel went on a Colin Firth binge,” Nick announced.

Araminta squealed. “OMG — I love him! He’ll always be the one and only Mr. Darcy for me!”

“Okay, I think we can be friends now,” Rachel declared. She looked out the window, amazed by the swaying palm trees and profusion of bougainvillea that lined the sides of the brightly lit highway. It was almost ten o’clock at night, but everything about this city seemed unnaturally bright — effervescent, almost.

“Nicky, where should we take Rachel for her first local meal?” Colin asked.

“Hmm … should we welcome Rachel with a feast of Hainanese chicken rice at Chatterbox? Or should we head straight for chili crab at East Coast?” Nick asked, feeling excited and torn at the same time — there were about a hundred different eating places he wanted Rachel to experience right now.

“How about some satay?” Rachel suggested. “Nick is always going on and on about how you’ve never tasted decent satay until you’ve had it in Singapore.”

“That settles it — we’re going to Lau Pa Sat,” Colin announced. “Rachel, you’ll get to experience your first true hawker center. And they have the best satay.”

“You think so? I like that place in Sembawang better,” Araminta said.

“NOOOO! What are you talking about, lah? The fellow from the original Satay Club is still at Lau Pa Sat,” Colin said insistently.

“You’re wrong,” Araminta replied firmly. “That original Satay Club guy moved to Sembawang.”

“Lies! That was his cousin. An imposter!” Colin was adamant.

“Personally, I’ve always liked the satay at Newton,” Nick cut in.

“Newton? You’ve lost your mind, Nicky. Newton is only for expats and tourists — there aren’t any good satay stalls left,” Colin said.

“Welcome to Singapore, Rachel — where arguing about food is the national pastime,” Araminta declared. “This is probably the only country in the world where grown men can get into fistfights over which specific food stall in some godforsaken shopping center has the best rendition of some obscure fried noodle dish. It’s like a pissing contest!”

Rachel giggled. Araminta and Colin were so funny and down-to-earth, she liked them both instantly.

Soon they were on Robinson Road, in the heart of the downtown financial district. Nestled in the shadows of massive towers was Lau Pa Sat — or “old market” in the Hokkien dialect — an octagonal open-air pavilion that housed a bustling hive of food stalls. Walking from the car park across the street, Rachel could already smell the delicious spice-filled aromas wafting through the balmy air. As they were about to enter the great food hall, Nick turned to Rachel and said, “You’re going to go nuts for this place — it’s the oldest Victorian structure in all of Southeast Asia.”

Rachel stared up at the soaring cast-iron filigree arches that radiated out across the vaulted ceilings. “Looks like the inside of a cathedral,” she said.

“Where the masses come to worship food,” Nick quipped.

Sure enough, even though it was past ten, the place teemed with hundreds of fervent diners. Rows and rows of brightly lit food stalls offered up a greater array of dishes than Rachel had ever witnessed under one roof. As they walked around, peering at the various stalls where men and women were frenziedly cooking their delicacies, Rachel shook her head in awe. “There’s just so much to take in, I don’t know where to start.”

“Just point to whatever looks interesting and I’ll order it,” Colin offered. “The beauty of the hawker center is that each vendor basically sells just one dish, so whether it’s fried pork dumplings or fish-ball soup, they’ve spent a lifetime perfecting it.”

“More than one lifetime. A lot of these people are second- and third-generation hawkers, cooking old family recipes,” Nick chimed in.

A few minutes later, the four of them were seated just outside the main hall under a huge tree strung with yellow lights, every inch of their table covered with colorful plastic plates piled high with the greatest hits of Singaporean street cuisine. There was the famous char kuay teow, a fried omelet with oysters called orh luak, Malay rojak salad bursting with chunks of pineapple and cucumber, Hokkien-style noodles in a thick garlicky gravy, a fish cake smoked in coconut leaves called otah otah, and a hundred sticks of chicken and beef satay.

Rachel had never seen anything like this feast. “This is insane! Every dish looks like it came from a different part of Asia.”

“That’s Singapore for you — the true originators of fusion cuisine,” Nick boasted. “You know, because of all the ships passing through from Europe, the Middle East, and India in the nineteenth century, all these amazing flavors and textures could intermingle.”

As Rachel tasted the char kuay teow, her eyes widened in delight at the rice noodles flash-fried with seafood, egg, and bean sprouts in a dark soy sauce. “Why doesn’t it ever taste like this at home?”

“Gotta love that burned-wok flavor,” Nick remarked.

“I bet you’ll love this,” Araminta said, handing Rachel a plate of roti paratha. Rachel tore off some of the doughy golden pastry and dipped it into the rich curry sauce.

“Mmmm … heaven!”

Then it was time for the satay. Rachel bit into the succulent grilled chicken, savoring its smoky sweetness carefully. The rest of them watched her intently. “Okay Nick, you were right. I’ve never had decent satay until now.”

“To think you doubted me,” Nick tut-tutted with a smile.

“I can’t believe we’re pigging out at this hour!” Rachel giggled, reaching for another stick of satay.

“Get used to it. I know you probably want to go straight to bed, but we have to keep you up for a few more hours so that you’ll adjust better to the time change,” Colin said.

“Aiyah, Colin just wants to monopolize Nick for as long as possible,” Araminta declared. “These two are inseparable whenever Nick’s in town.”

“Hey, I have to make the most out of this time, especially since mommie dearest is away,” Colin said in his own defense. “Rachel — you’re in luck, not having to deal with Nicky’s mum the minute you arrive.”

“Colin, don’t you start scaring her,” Nick chided.

“Oh Nick, I almost forgot — I ran into your mum the other day at Churchill Club,” Araminta began. “She grabbed me by the arm and said, ‘Aramintaaaaa! Aiyoh, you’re too dark! You better stop going into the sun so much, otherwise on your wedding day you will be so black people will think you are Malay!’ ”

Everyone roared with laughter, except Rachel. “She was kidding, I hope?”

“Of course not. Nick’s mum doesn’t kid,” Araminta said, continuing to laugh.

“Rachel, you’ll understand once you meet Nicky’s mum. I love her like my own mother, but she’s one of a kind,” Colin explained, trying to put her at ease. “Anyway, it’s perfect that your parents are gone, Nick, because this weekend your presence is required at my bachelor party.”

“Rachel, you’ll have to come to my bachelorette party,” Araminta declared. “Let’s show the boys how it’s really done!”

“You bet,” Rachel said, clinking her beer with Araminta’s.

Nick gazed at his girlfriend, thrilled that she had so effortlessly charmed his friends. He could still hardly believe that she was actually here with him, and that they had the whole summer ahead of them. “Welcome to Singapore, Rachel,” he joyously declared, lifting up his bottle of Tiger beer in a toast. Rachel gazed into Nick’s sparkling eyes. She had never seen him as happy as he was tonight, and she wondered how she could possibly have been worried about coming on this trip.

“How does it feel to be here?” Colin asked.

“Well,” Rachel mused, “an hour ago we landed in the most beautiful, modern airport I’ve ever seen, and now we’re sitting under these huge tropical trees by a nineteenth-century food hall, having the most glorious feast. I don’t ever want to leave!”

Nick grinned broadly, not noticing the look Araminta had just given Colin.

15 Astrid

SINGAPORE

Whenever Astrid felt in need of a pick-me-up, she would pay a visit to her friend Stephen. Stephen had a small jewelry shop on one of the upper levels of the Paragon shopping center, tucked away from all the other high-end boutiques in a back hallway. While it lacked the visibility of high-profile local jewelers like L’Orient or Larry Jewelry, with their gleaming flagship stores, Stephen Chia Jewels was highly regarded by the island’s most discerning collectors.

Not to disregard his studied eye for spectacular gemstones, but what Stephen truly offered was absolute discretion. His was the sort of niche operation where, for instance, a society matron in need of a quick cash infusion to pay off her idiot son’s bad margin calls might go to dispose of an heirloom bauble without anyone finding out, or where a “very important piece” about to go on the block in Geneva or New York might be flown in for private inspection by a VIP client, away from the eyes of gossipy auction-house staffers. Stephen’s shop was said to be a particular favorite of the wives of Persian Gulf sheikhs, Malay sultans, and the Indonesian Chinese oligarchs, who had no need to be seen buying up millions of dollars’s worth of jewelry at the tony Orchard Road boutiques.

The shop consisted of a very small, rather stark front room where three French Empire vitrines displayed a small collection of moderately priced pieces, mainly by emerging artists from Europe. The mirrored door behind the Boulle desk, however, hid a vestibule where another security door opened to reveal a narrow corridor of individual chambers. It was here that Astrid liked to hide out, in the tuberose-scented private salon lined from floor to ceiling in pale blue velvet, with its plush velvet Récamier settee where she could curl up her feet, sip a soda with lemon, and gossip with Stephen as he came in and out of the room bearing trays and trays of glorious gems.

Stephen and Astrid had met years ago in Paris, when she wandered into the jewelry shop on rue de la Paix where he was doing his apprenticeship. Back then it was as rare to meet a teenage Singapore girl interested in eighteenth-century cameos as it was to see a young Chinese man behind the counter at a joaillier as distinguished as Mellerio dits Meller, so an immediate bond was struck. Astrid was grateful to find someone in Paris who understood her exacting tastes and was willing to indulge her capricious hunt for rare pieces that might have once belonged to the Princesse de Lamballe. Stephen, however, knew immediately that this girl had to be the daughter of some big shot, though it took him another three years of careful cultivating to figure out exactly who she was.

Like many of the world’s greatest jewelry dealers, from Gianni Bulgari to Laurence Graff, Stephen had over the years honed his skills in being perfectly attuned to the whims of the very rich. He had become a consummate soothsayer to the Asian billionaire set, and he had become an expert in recognizing Astrid’s many-faceted moods. He could tell, simply by observing her reactions to the types of pieces he would present to her, what sort of day she was having. Today he was seeing a side to Astrid he had never witnessed in fifteen years of knowing her. Something was clearly wrong, and her mood had worsened dramatically while he was showing her a new series of bracelets by Carnet.

“Aren’t these the most intricately detailed bracelets you’ve ever seen? They look like they could have been inspired by the botanical drawings of Alexander von Humboldt. Speaking of bracelets, did you like the charm bracelet your husband bought you?”

Astrid looked up at Stephen, confused by his question. “The charm bracelet?”

“Yes, the one Michael got you for your birthday last month. Wait a minute, didn’t you know he got it from me?”

Astrid averted her gaze, not wanting to look surprised. She had not received any sort of gift from her husband. Her birthday wasn’t until August, and Michael knew better than to ever buy her jewelry. She could feel all the blood rush to her face. “Oh yes, I forgot — it’s adorable,” she said lightly. “Did you help him pick it out?”

“Yes. He came in one night, all in a hurry. He had such a hard time making up his mind — I think he was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

“Well, of course I do. Thanks so much for helping him out,” Astrid said, keeping her face completely calm. Oh God oh God oh God. Was Michael actually stupid enough to buy jewelry for someone else from her close friend Stephen Chia?

Stephen wished he hadn’t brought up the bracelet. He suspected that Astrid had not been impressed with the gift from her husband. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure Astrid would ever wear something as quotidian as a bracelet with multicolored pavé diamond teddy bear charms, but it was one of the least expensive things he had in the shop, and he knew that Michael, a typically clueless husband, was making a great effort to find something within his budget. It was quite a sweet gesture really. But now, within twenty minutes of being at his shop, Astrid had already bought an extremely rare three-carat blue diamond set on a diamond eternity band that had just arrived from Antwerp, art deco cuff links that had once belonged to Clark Gable, a signed vintage Cartier platinum-and-diamond link bracelet, and she was seriously considering a fantastical pair of VBH earrings. It was a piece he had brought in to show her for the sheer folly of it, and he would never have imagined her to be interested.

“The pear-shaped stones are kunzites weighing forty-nine carats, and these remarkable sparkling disks are twenty-three-carat ice diamonds. A highly original treatment. Are you thinking of wearing something new to the Khoo wedding next weekend?” he asked, trying to make conversation with his unusually focused shopper.

“Um … maybe,” Astrid replied, staring into the mirror and scrutinizing the multicolored gemstones dangling off the enormous earrings, the bottoms of which were brushing against her shoulders. The piece reminded her of a Native American dream catcher.

“It’s such a dramatic look, isn’t it? Very Millicent Rogers, I think. What kind of dress are you planning to wear?”

“I haven’t really decided yet,” she said, almost mumbling to herself. She wasn’t really looking at the earrings. In her mind, all she could picture was a piece of jewelry from her husband hanging off some other woman’s wrist. First came the text message. Then the receipt from Petrus. Now there was an expensive charm bracelet. Three’s a charm.

“Well, I think you’d want to go with something dead simple if you wear these earrings,” Stephen added. He was getting a bit concerned. The girl was not being herself today. Usually she would breeze in and they would spend the first hour chatting and munching on the delicious homemade pineapple tarts she always brought before he took out anything to show her. After another hour or so of looking at pieces, she might hand one thing over to him and say, “Okay, I’m going to think about this one,” before blowing a kiss goodbye. She was not the sort of client who spent a million dollars in ten minutes.

And yet Stephen always cherished her visits. He loved her sweet nature, her impeccable manners, and her complete lack of pretension. It was so refreshing, not like the sort of ladies he usually had to deal with, the egos that required constant stroking. He enjoyed reminiscing with Astrid about their crazy younger days in Paris, and he admired the originality of her taste. She cared about the quality of the stones, of course, but she couldn’t have cared less about the size and was never interested in the ostentatious pieces. Why would she need to be, when her mother already had one of the grandest jewelry collections in Singapore, while her grandmother Shang Su Yi possessed a trove of jewels so legendary he had only ever heard them mentioned in hushed whispers. “Ming dynasty jade like you’ve never seen before, jewels from the czars that Shang Loong Ma cunningly bought from the grand duchesses fleeing into Shanghai during the Bolshevik Revolution. Wait till the old lady dies — your friend Astrid is the favorite granddaughter, and she’s going to inherit some of the most unparalleled pieces in the world,” Stephen had been told by the acclaimed art historian Huang Peng Fan, one of the few people who had ever witnessed the splendor of the Shang collection.

“You know what? I must have these earrings too,” Astrid declared, standing up and smoothing out her short pleated skirt.

“Are you leaving already? Don’t you want a Diet Coke?” Stephen asked in surprise.

“No, thank you, not today. I think I need to hurry off. So many errands. Do you mind if I take the cuff links now? Promise I’ll have the funds transferred to your account by the end of day.”

“My dear, don’t be silly, you can have everything now. Let me just get you some nice boxes.” Stephen left the room, thinking that the last time Astrid had been impulsive like this was after her breakup with Charlie Wu. Hmm … was there trouble in paradise?

Astrid walked back to her car in the parking garage of the mall. She unlocked the door, got in, and placed the black-and-cream-colored parchment shopping bag subtly embossed with STEPHEN CHIA JEWELS on the passenger seat beside her. She sat in the airless vehicle, which was getting more stifling by the second. She could feel her heart pounding so quickly. She had just bought a three hundred and fifty thousand dollar diamond ring she didn’t much care for, a twenty-eight thousand dollar bracelet she quite liked, and a seven hundred and eighty-four thousand dollar pair of earrings that made her look like Pocahontas. For the first time in weeks, she felt bloody fantastic.

Then she remembered the cuff links. She rummaged through the bag, searching for the box that contained the art deco cuff links she had purchased for Michael. They were in a blue velvet vintage box, and she stared at the pair of little silver-and-cobalt cuff links fastened against a satin lining that had long since become mottled with pale yellow spots.

These had once brushed against Clark Gable’s wrists, Astrid thought. The gorgeous, romantic Clark Gable. Hadn’t he been married several times? Surely he must have romanced many women in his time. Surely he must have cheated on his wives, even Carole Lombard. How could anyone ever want to cheat on a woman as beautiful as Carole Lombard? But sooner or later, it was bound to happen. Every man cheats. This is Asia. Every guy has mistresses, girlfriends, flings on the side. It’s a normal thing. A status thing. Get used to it. Great-grandpa had dozens of concubines. Uncle Freddie had that whole other family in Taiwan. And how many mistresses has cousin Eddie had by now? I’ve lost count. It was all meaningless. Guys just need a cheap thrill, a quick shag. They need to go on the hunt. It’s a primal thing. They need to spread their seed. They need to put their pricks inside things. MISS U NSIDE ME. No no no. It was nothing serious. Probably some girl he met on his work trip. A fancy dinner. A one-night stand. And he bought her off with a bracelet. A silly charm bracelet. So cliché. At least he was discreet. At least he went and screwed the girl in Hong Kong, not Singapore. Many wives have to put up with so much more. Think of some of my friends. Think of what Fiona Tung has to go through with Eddie. The humiliation. I am lucky. I am so lucky. Don’t be so bourgeois. It’s just a fling. Don’t make this a big deal. Remember, grace under pressure. Grace under pressure. Grace Kelly slept with Clark Gable while they were filming Mogambo. Michael is as handsome as Clark Gable. And now he will have Gable’s cuff links. And he will love them. They weren’t too expensive. He won’t get mad. He will love me. He still loves me. He hasn’t been that distant. He’s just stressed out. All that work pressure. We’ll be married five years this October. Oh my God. Not even five years and he is already cheating. He isn’t attracted to me anymore. I’m getting too old for him. He’s tired of me. Poor Cassian. What’s going to happen to Cassian? My life is over. It’s all over. This isn’t happening. I can’t believe this is happening. To me.

16 The Gohs

SINGAPORE

Rachel peered at the clock and figured that she’d only slept about five hours, but it was dawn and she was too excited to go back to sleep. Nick was snoring softly beside her. She looked around at the room, wondering how much this hotel must be costing Nick per night. It was an elegant suite decorated in understated pale wood, the only burst of color coming from the fuchsia orchids on the console table against the mirrored wall. Rachel got out of bed, put on a plush pair of terrycloth slippers, and padded quietly into the bathroom to splash some water on her face. Then she walked over to the window and peeked through the curtains.

Outside was a perfectly manicured garden with a large, inviting swimming pool lined with deck chairs. A man in a white-and-teal uniform was walking around the pool with a long pole and net, meditatively fishing out the stray leaves that had settled on the surface of the water during the night. The garden was set within a quadrangle of poolside rooms, and just beyond the serenity of the low-rise Victorian structure rose a cluster of high-rise buildings, reminding her that they were in the heart of Singapore’s fashionable Orchard Road district. Rachel could already feel the early-morning heat permeating through the double-pane windows. She closed the curtains and went into the sitting room to rummage for her laptop. After logging on, she began to draft an e-mail to her friend Peik Lin. Seconds later, an instant message popped up on her screen:

At noon sharp, Goh Peik Lin came walking up the wide staircase of the Kingsford Hotel, and heads turned as she entered the grand lobby. With her broad nose, round face, and slightly squinty eyes, she was not a natural-born raving beauty, but she was one of those girls who really knew how to make the most out of what she had. And what she had was a voluptuous body and the confidence to pull off bold fashion choices. Today she was wearing a very short white shift dress that hinted at her curves and a pair of strappy gold gladiator sandals. Her long black hair was pulled into a tight, high ponytail and a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses were clamped on her forehead like a headband. On her earlobes were three-carat diamond solitaire studs, and on her wrist a chunky gold-and-diamond watch. She finished off the look with a gold mesh tote bag, flung casually on her shoulder. She looked like she was ready for the beach club in Saint-Tropez.

“Peik Lin!” Rachel cried, running toward her with her arms out-stretched. Peik Lin squealed loudly upon seeing her, and the friends hugged tightly. “Look at you! You look terrific!” Rachel exclaimed, before turning to introduce Nick.

“Great to meet you,” Peik Lin said in a voice that was surprisingly loud for her tiny frame. She gave Nick the once-over. “So, it took a local boy to finally get her out here.”

“Glad to be of service,” Nick said.

“I know you’re playing wedding planner today, but when do I get to do my CIA debriefing on you? You better promise I’ll see you soon,” Peik Lin said.

“I promise.” Nick laughed and kissed Rachel goodbye. As soon as he was out of earshot, Peik Lin turned to Rachel and raised her eyebrows. “Well he was easy on the eyes. No wonder he managed to get you to stop working and take a holiday for once in your life.”

Rachel just giggled.

“Really, you have no right to poach one of our endangered species! So tall, so fit, and that accent—I normally find Singapore boys with posh English accents to be incredibly pretentious, but on him it just works.”

As they walked down the long flight of red-carpeted stairs, Rachel asked, “Where are we going for lunch?”

“My parents have invited you to our house. They are so excited to see you, and I think you’ll enjoy some traditional home cooking.”

“That sounds great! But if I’m going to be seeing your parents, should I change?” Rachel asked. She was wearing a white cotton blouse with a pair of khaki slacks.

“Oh, you’re fine. My parents are so casual, and they know you are traveling.”

Waiting for them at the entrance was a large metallic-gold BMW with tinted windows. The driver quickly got out and opened the door for them. As the car left the hotel grounds and turned onto a busy street, Peik Lin began to point out the sights. “This is the famous Orchard Road — tourist central. It’s our version of Fifth Avenue.”

“It’s Fifth Avenue on steroids … I’ve never seen so many boutiques and shopping malls, lined up as far as the eye can see!”

“Yes, but I prefer the shopping in New York or LA.”

“You always did, Peik Lin,” Rachel teased, remembering her friend’s frequent shopping jaunts when she was supposed to be in class.

Rachel always knew that Peik Lin came from money. They met during freshman orientation at Stanford, and Peik Lin was the girl who showed up to 8:00 a.m. classes looking as if she had just come from a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. As a newly arrived international student from Singapore, one of the first things she did was buy herself a Porsche 911 convertible, claiming that since Porsches were such a bargain in America “it’s an absolute crime not to have one.” She soon found Palo Alto to be too provincial, and tried at every opportunity to lure Rachel into skipping class and driving up to San Francisco with her (the Neiman Marcus there was so much better than the one at Stanford Shopping Center). She was generous to a fault, and Rachel spent most of her college years being showered with gifts, enjoying glorious meals at culinary destinations like Chez Panisse and Post Ranch Inn, and going on weekend spa trips all along the California coast courtesy of Peik Lin’s handy American Express black card.

Part of Peik Lin’s charm was that she made no apologies for being loaded — she was completely unabashed when it came to spending money or talking about it. When Fortune Asia magazine did a cover profile on her family’s property development and construction company, she proudly forwarded Rachel a link to the article. She threw lavish parties catered by the Plumed Horse at the town house she rented off campus. At Stanford, this did not exactly make her the most popular girl on campus. The East Coast set ignored her, and the low-key Bay Area types found her much too SoCal. Rachel always thought Peik Lin would have fit in better at Princeton or Brown, but she was glad that fate had sent her this way. Having grown up under far more modest circumstances, Rachel was intrigued by this free-spending girl, who, while being filthy rich, was never a snob about it.

“Has Nick filled you in on the real estate insanity here in Singapore?” Peik Lin asked as the car zipped around Newton Circus.

“He hasn’t.”

“The market is really hot at the moment — everyone’s flipping properties left and right. It’s practically become the national sport. See that building under construction on the left? I just bought two new flats there last week. I got them at an insider price of two point one each.”

“Do you mean two-point-one million?” Rachel asked. It always took her a while to get used to the way Peik Lin spoke about money — the numbers just seemed so unreal.

“Yes, of course. I got them at the insider price, since our company did the construction. The flats are actually worth three million, and by the time the building is completed at the end of the year I can sell each of them for three-point-five, four mil easy.”

“Now why would the prices shoot up so quickly? Isn’t that a sign that the market is in a speculative bubble?” Rachel inquired.

“We’re not in a bubble because the demand is real. All the HNWIs want to be in real estate these days.”

“Um, what are Henwees?” Rachel asked.

“Oh, sorry, I forgot you’re not up on the lingo. HNWI stands for ‘High Net Worth Individuals.’ We Singaporeans love to abbreviate everything.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed that.”

“As you may know, there’s been an explosion of HNWIs from Mainland China, and they are the ones really driving up the prices. They are flocking here in droves, buying up properties with golf bags stuffed full of hard cash.”

“Really? I thought it was the other way around. Doesn’t everyone want to move to China for work?”

“Some, yes, but the super-rich Chinese all want to be here. We’re the most stable country in the region, and Mainlanders feel that their money is far safer here than in Shanghai, or even Switzerland.”

At this point, the car turned off a main thoroughfare and drove into a neighborhood of tightly packed houses. “So there actually are houses in Singapore,” Rachel said.

“Very few. Only about five percent of us are lucky enough to live in houses. This neighborhood is actually one of the first ‘suburban-style’ developments in Singapore, begun in the seventies, and my family helped to build it,” Peik Lin explained. The car drove past a high white wall, over which peeked tall thick bushes of bougainvillea. A large gold plaque on the wall was engraved VILLA D’ORO, and as the car pulled up to the entrance, a pair of ornate golden gates parted to reveal an imposing façade that bore a not so accidental resemblance to the Petit Trianon at Versailles, except that the house itself took up most of the lot, and the front portico was dominated by a massive four-tiered marble fountain with a golden swan spouting water from its long upturned beak.

“Welcome to my home,” Peik Lin said.

“My God, Peik Lin!” Rachel gasped in awe. “Is this where you grew up?”

“This was the property, but my parents tore down the old house and built this mansion about six years ago.”

“No wonder you thought your town house in Palo Alto was so cramped.”

“You know, when I was growing up, I thought that everyone lived like this. In the States, this house is probably worth only about three million. Can you guess how much it’s worth here?”

“I won’t even try to guess.”

“Thirty million, easy. And that’s just for the land — the house itself would be a teardown.”

“Well, I can only imagine how valuable land must be on an island with, what, four million people?”

“More like five million now.”

The cathedral-size front door was opened by an Indonesian girl in a frilly black-and-white French maid’s uniform. Rachel found herself standing in a circular entrance foyer with white-and-rose marble floors radiating out in a sunburst pattern. To the right, an enormous staircase with gold balustrades wound its way to the upper floors. The entire curved wall going up the staircase was a frescoed replica of Fragonard’s The Swing, except that this re-creation was blown up to fill a forty-foot rotunda.

“A team of artists from Prague camped out for three months to paint the frescos,” Peik Lin said as she led Rachel up a short flight of steps into the formal living room. “This is my mother’s re-creation of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. Get ready,” she warned. Rachel ascended the steps and entered the room, her eyes widening a little. Aside from the red velvet brocade sofas, every single object in the cavernous formal living room appeared to be made of gold. The vaulted ceiling was composed of layers upon layers of gold leaf. The baroque console tables were gilt gold. The Venetian mirrors and candelabra lining the walls were gold. The elaborate tassels on the gold damask curtains were yet a deeper shade of gold. Even the tchotchkes scattered around every available surface were golden. Rachel was completely dumbstruck.

To make matters even more surreal, the middle of the room was dominated by an enormous oval pond-cum-aquarium sunken into the gold-flecked marble floor. The pond was brightly lit, and for a second Rachel thought she could make out baby sharks swimming in the bubbling water. Before she could process the scene fully, three golden-haired Pekingese ran into the room, their high-pitched yaps echoing loudly against the marble.

Peik Lin’s mother, a short, plumpish woman in her early fifties with a shoulder-length bouffant perm entered the room. She wore a tight shocking-pink silk blouse that stretched against her ample cleavage, belted with a chain of interlinked gold medusa heads and a tight pair of black trousers. The only thing incongruous about the outfit was the pair of cushioned pink slippers on her feet. “Astor, Trump, Vanderbilt, naw-tee naw-tee boys, stop barking!” she admonished. “Rachel Chu! Wel-kum, wel-kum!” she cried in her heavy Chinese-accented English. Rachel found herself crushed into a fleshy hug, the heady scent of Eau d’Hadrien filling her nose. “Aiyah! So long I haven’t seen you. Bien kar ah nee swee, ah!” she exclaimed in Hokkien, cupping Rachel’s cheeks with both hands.

“She thinks you’ve become very pretty,” Peik Lin translated, knowing that Rachel only spoke Mandarin.

“Thank you, Mrs. Goh. It’s so nice to see you again,” Rachel said, feeling rather overwhelmed. She never knew what to say when someone complimented her looks.

“Whaaat?” the woman said in mock horror. “Don’t call me Mrs. Goh. Mrs. Goh is my hor-eee-ble mah-der-in-law! Call me Auntie Neena.”

“Okay, Auntie Neena.”

“Come, come to the keet-chen. Makan time.” She clamped her bronze fingernails onto Rachel’s wrist, leading her down a long marble-columned hallway toward the dining room. Rachel couldn’t help but notice the enormous canary diamond flashing on her hand like a translucent egg yolk, and the pair of three-carat solitaires in her earlobes, identical to Peik Lin’s. Like mother, like daughter — maybe they got a two-for-one deal.

The baronial dining hall was somewhat of a respite after the rococo hell of the living room, with its wood boiserie walls and windows overlooking the lawn where a large oval swimming pool was encircled by Grecian sculptures. Rachel quickly registered two versions of the Venus de Milo, one in white marble, another in gold, of course. There was a huge round dining table that seated eighteen comfortably covered with a heavy Battenberg lace tablecloth and high-backed Louis Quatorze chairs that were, thankfully, upholstered in a royal blue brocade. Assembled in the dining room was the entire Goh family.

“Rachel, you remember my father. This is my brother Peik Wing and his wife, Sheryl, and my younger brother, Peik Ting, whom we call P.T. And these are my nieces Alyssa and Camylla.” Everyone went around shaking hands with Rachel, who couldn’t help but notice that not one of them happened to be over five foot five. The brothers were both much darker complexioned than Peik Lin, but they all shared the same pixieish features. Both were dressed in almost identical outfits of pale blue button-down dress shirts and dark gray slacks, as if they had adhered exactly to a company manual on how to dress for casual Fridays. Sheryl, who was much paler, stuck out from the rest of the family. She wore a pink floral tank top and a short denim skirt, looking rather frazzled as she fussed over her two young daughters, who were both being fed Chicken McNuggets, the paper boxes placed on heavy gold-rimmed Limoges plates along with the packets of sweet-and-sour dipping sauce.

Peik Lin’s father gestured for Rachel to take the seat next to him. He was a stocky, barrel-chested man in khaki trousers and a red Ralph Lauren shirt, the kind with the oversize Polo-player logo in dark navy emblazened across the front. His clothes, coupled with his short stature, made him appear incongruously boyish for a man in his late fifties. On his small wrist was a chunky Franck Muller watch, and he too was wearing a pair of cushioned slippers over his socks.

“Rachel Chu, long time no see! We are so very grateful for all the help you gave Peik Lin back in her uni days. Without you, she would have been gone case at Stanford,” he said.

“Oh, that’s not true! Peik Lin was a great help to me. I am so honored to be invited to your … incredible … house for lunch, Mr. Goh,” Rachel said graciously.

“Uncle Wye Mun, please call me Uncle Wye Mun,” he said.

Three maids entered, adding plates of steaming food to a table already laden with dishes. Rachel counted a total of thirteen different dishes laid out on the table.

“Ok, everybody ziak, ziak.[39] Don’t stand on ce-ree-moh-ny Rachel Chu, this is simple lunch, simple food lah,” Neena said. Rachel stared down at the heaving platters that looked anything but simple. “Our new cook is from Ipoh, so today you are getting some ty-pee-cal Malaysian dishes and Singapore dishes,” Neena continued, dishing a heaping portion of beef Rendang curry onto Rachel’s gold-rimmed plate.

“Mama, we are done eating. Can we go to the playroom now?” one of the little girls asked Sheryl.

“You are not done. I still see a few chicken nuggets left,” their mother said.

Neena looked over and scolded, “Aiyoooooh, finish everything on your plate, girls! Don’t you know there are children starving in America?”

Rachel grinned at the girls with their adorable twin ponytails and said, “I’m so happy to meet the whole family at last. Does nobody have to work today?”

“This is the advantage of working for your own company — we can take long lunch breaks,” P.T. said.

“Hey, not too long,” Wye Mun growled jovially.

“So all your children work for your company, Mr. Goh … I mean, Uncle Wye Mun?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, yes. This is a true family business. My father is still active as the chairman, and I’m the CEO. All my children have different management roles. Peik Wing is the VP in charge of project development, P.T. is VP in charge of construction, and Peik Lin is VP in charge of new business. Of course, we also have about six thousand full-time employees between all our offices.”

“And where are your offices?” Rachel inquired.

“Our main hubs are Singapore, Hong Kong, Beijing, and Chongqing, but we’re starting satellite offices in Hanoi, and very soon, Yangon.”

“Sounds like you’re really pushing into all the high-growth regions,” Rachel commented, impressed.

“For sure, for sure,” Wye Mun said. “Aiyah, you’re so smart — Peik Lin told me you are doing very well at NYU. Are you single? P.T., P.T., why aren’t you paying more attention to Rachel? We can add one more family member to the payroll!” Everyone at the table laughed.

“Papa, you’re so forgetful. I told you she was here with her boyfriend,” Peik Lin chided.

“Ang mor, ah?” he asked, looking at Peik Lin.

“No, Singapore boy. I met him earlier today,” Peik Lin said.

“Aiyaaaah, why isn’t he here?” Neena admonished.

“Nick wanted to meet you, but he had to help his friend with some last-minute errands. We’re actually here for his friend’s wedding. He’s going to be the best man,” Rachel explained.

“Who’s getting married?” Wye Mun asked.

“His name’s Colin Khoo,” Rachel replied.

Everyone abruptly stopped eating and stared at her. “Colin Khoo … and Araminta Lee?” Sheryl asked, trying to clarify.

“Yes,” Rachel said in surprise. “Do you know them?”

Neena slammed her chopsticks down on the table and stared at Rachel. “Whaaaaaat? You’re going to COLIN KHOO’S wedding?” she screeched, her mouth full of food.

“Yes, yes … are you going too?”

“Rachel! You didn’t tell me you were coming for Colin Khoo’s wedding,” Peik Lin said in a hushed tone.

“Um, you didn’t ask,” Rachel said uncomfortably. “I don’t understand … is there a problem?” She suddenly feared that the Gohs might be mortal enemies of the Khoos.

“Nooooo!” Peik Lin cried, suddenly getting very excited. “Don’t you know? It’s the wedding of the year! It’s been covered on every channel, in every magazine, and in about a million blogs!”

“Why? Are they famous?” Rachel asked, completely baffled.

“AH-LA-MAAAK! Colin Khoo is Khoo Teck Fong’s grandson! He comes from one of the reeee-chest families in the world! And Araminta Lee — she’s the supa-model daughter of Peter Lee, one of China’s reeee-chest men, and Annabel Lee, the luxury hotel queen. This is like royal weddeeeng!” Neena gushed.

“I had no idea,” Rachel said in astonishment. “I just met them last night.”

“You met them? You met Araminta Lee? Is she as beautiful in person? What was she wearing?” Sheryl asked, seemingly starstruck.

“She was very pretty, yes. But so simple — she was literally wearing pajamas when I met her. She looked like a schoolgirl. Is she Eurasian?”

“No. But her mum is from Xinjiang, so she has Uighur blood, so they say,” Neena said.

“Araminta is our most celebrated fashion icon! She has modeled for all the magazines, and she was one of Alexander McQueen’s favorite models,” Sheryl continued breathlessly.

“She’s a total babe,” P.T. chimed in.

“When did you meet her?” Peik Lin asked.

“She was with Colin. They picked us up at the airport.”

“They picked you up at the airport!” P.T. exclaimed in disbelief, laughing hysterically. “Was there an army of bodyguards?”

“Not at all. They came in an SUV. Actually, there were two SUVs. One took the luggage straight to the hotel. No wonder,” Rachel recalled.

“Rachel, Colin Khoo’s family owns the Kingsford Hotel! That’s why you’re staying there,” Peik Lin said, jabbing her arm excitedly.

Rachel didn’t quite know what to say. She found herself amused and a little embarrassed by all the excitement.

“Your boyfriend is Colin Khoo’s best man? What’s his name?” Peik Lin’s father demanded.

“Nicholas Young,” Rachel replied.

“Nicholas Young … how old is he?”

“Thirty-two.”

“That’s one year above Peik Wing,” Neena said. She looked up at the ceiling, as if racking through her mental Rolodex to see if she could recall a Nicholas Young.

“Peik Wing — ever heard of Nicholas Young?” Wye Mun asked his eldest son.

“Nope. Do you know which school he went to?” Peik Wing asked Rachel.

“Balliol College, Oxford,” she replied, hesitantly. She wasn’t sure why they were suddenly so interested in every minute detail.

“No, no — I mean which primary school,” Peik Wing said.

“Elementary school,” Peik Lin clarified.

“Oh, I have no idea.”

“Nicholas Young … sounds like an ACS[40] boy,” P.T. chimed in. “All those ACS boys have Christian names.”

“Colin Khoo went to ACS. Daddy, I already tried to check Nick out when Rachel first started dating him, but no one I know has ever heard of him,” Peik Lin added.

“Nick and Colin went to elementary school together. They have been best friends since childhood,” Rachel said.

“What is his father’s name?” Wye Mun asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, if you find out the parents’ names, we can tell you whether he comes from a good family or not,” Wye Mun said.

“Alamaaaaak, of course he’s from good family, if he’s best friends with Colin Khoo,” Neena said. “Young … Young … Sheryl, isn’t there a gyney named Richard Young? The one who practices with Dr. Toh?”

“No, no, Nick’s father is an engineer. I think he works in Australia part of the year,” Rachel offered.

“Well, see if you can find out more about his background, and we can help you,” Wye Mun finally said.

“Oh, you really don’t have to do that. It’s not important to me what sort of family he comes from,” Rachel said.

“Nonsense, lah! Of course it’s important!” Wye Mun was adamant. “If he’s Singaporean, I have a responsibility to make sure he’s good enough for you!”

17 Nicholas and Colin

SINGAPORE

Perhaps out of nostalgia, Nick and Colin liked to meet up at the coffee shop of their old alma mater on Barker Road. Located in the sports complex between the main pool and the basketball courts, the Anglo-Chinese School coffee shop served a motley selection of Thai and Singaporean dishes as well as such oddities as British beef pies, which Nick loved. Back when the two of them were on the swim team, they would always grab a bite after practice at the “tuck shop,” as they called it. The original cooks had long since retired, the legendary mee siam was no longer on the menu, and the coffee shop itself wasn’t even in the original space — having long since been torn down during the redevelopment of the sports center. But for Nick and Colin, it was still the place to meet whenever they were both in town.

Colin had already ordered his lunch by the time Nick arrived. “Sorry I’m late,” Nick said, patting him on the back as he got to the table. “I had to swing by my grandmother’s.”

Colin did not look up from his plate of salted fried chicken, so Nick continued. “So what else do we have to do today? The tuxes are in from London, and I’m just waiting to hear back from some of the last-minute people about the rehearsal next week.”

Colin clamped his eyes shut and grimaced. “Can we please talk about something besides this fucking wedding?”

“Okay then. What do you want to talk about?” Nick asked calmly, realizing that Colin had hit one of his down days. The cheerful, life-of-the-party Colin of the night before had vanished.

Colin didn’t respond.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” Nick asked.

Colin remained silent. There was no one else in the place, and the only sounds were the occasional muffled shouts of players on the basketball court next door and the clatter of dishes being washed every time the lone waiter walked in and out of the kitchen. Nick leaned back into his seat, patiently waiting for Colin to make the next move.

To the society pages, Colin was known as Asia’s billionaire bachelor jock. Famed not only for being the scion of one of Asia’s great fortunes but also as one of Singapore’s top-ranked swimmers back in his college days. He was celebrated for his exotic good looks and debonair style, his string of romances with local starlets, and his ever-expanding collection of contemporary art.

With Nick, however, Colin had the freedom to be his true self. Nick, who had known him since childhood, was probably the only person on the planet who didn’t give a damn about his money, and more important, the only one who was there during what they both referred to as “the war years.” For beneath the wide grin and the charismatic personality, Colin struggled with a severe anxiety disorder and crippling depression, and Nick was one of the few people allowed to witness this side of him. It was as if Colin bottled up all of his pain and anguish for months at a time, unleashing it on Nick whenever he was in town. To anyone else, this would have been an intolerable situation, but Nick was so used to this by now, he almost didn’t recall a time when Colin wasn’t swinging between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. This was just a prerequisite of being Colin’s best friend.

The waiter, a sweaty teenager in a soccer T-shirt who didn’t look old enough to pass child labor laws, approached the table to take Nick’s order.

“I’ll have the beef curry pie, please. And a Coke, extra ice.”

Colin finally broke his silence. “As always, beef curry pie and Coke, extra ice. You never change, do you?”

“What can I tell you? I know what I like,” Nick said simply.

“Even though you always like the exact same thing, you can always change your mind whenever you wish. That’s the difference between us — you still have choices.”

“Come on, that’s not true. You can choose.”

“Nicky, I haven’t been in the position to make a single choice since I was born, and you know that,” Colin said matter-of-factly. “It’s a good thing I actually want to marry Araminta. I just don’t know how I’ll make it through the Broadway production, that’s all. I have this perverse fantasy of kidnapping her, jumping on a plane, and marrying her at some little twenty-four-hour chapel in the middle of nowhere Nevada.”

“So why not do it? The wedding isn’t until next week, but if you’re already this miserable, why not call it off?”

“You know this merger has been choreographed down to the most minute detail, and this is how it’s going to be. It’s good for business, and anything that’s good for business is good for the family,” Colin said bitterly. “Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on the inevitable anymore. Let’s talk about last night. How was I? Sufficiently cheery for Rachel, I hope?”

“Rachel loved you. It was a nice surprise to be welcomed like that, but you know, you don’t ever have to put on a show for her.”

“I don’t? What have you told her about me?” Colin asked warily.

“I haven’t told her anything, besides the fact that you once had an unhealthy obsession with Kristin Scott Thomas.”

Colin laughed. Nick was relieved — it was a sign that the clouds were dissipating.

“You didn’t tell her about how I tried to stalk Kristin in Paris, did you?” Colin continued.

“Er, no. I wasn’t going to give her any more opportunities to back out of this trip by giving her full insight into my weird friends.”

“Speaking of weird, could you believe how nice Araminta was being to Rachel?”

“I think you’re underestimating Araminta’s ability to be nice.”

“Well, you know how she normally is with new people. But I think she wants to keep you on her side. And she could see that I liked Rachel instantly.”

“I’m so glad.” Nick smiled.

“To be quite honest, I thought I might be slightly jealous of her at first, but I think she’s great. She’s not clingy, and she’s so refreshingly … American. You do realize that everyone is talking about you and Rachel, right? Everyone is already taking bets on the wedding date.”

Nick sighed. “Colin, I’m not thinking about my wedding right now. I’m thinking about yours. I’m just trying to live in the here and now.”

“So speaking of the here and now, when are you going to introduce Rachel to your grandmother?”

“I was thinking tonight. That’s why I went to see my grandmother — to get Rachel invited to dinner.”

“I’ll say a little prayer,” Colin quipped as he finished his last chicken wing. He knew how momentous it was for Nick’s famously reclusive grandmother to invite a virtual stranger into her house. “You do realize that everything’s going to change the minute you take Rachel into that house, don’t you?”

“Funny, Astrid said the same thing. You know, Rachel is not expecting anything — she’s never put any pressure on me when it comes to marriage. In fact, we’ve never even discussed it.”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean.” Colin tried to clarify. “It’s just that the two of you have been living this idyllic fantasy, this simple ‘young lovers in Greenwich Village’ life. Up until now, you’ve been the guy struggling to get tenure. Don’t you think she’s in for quite a shock tonight?”

“What do you mean? I am struggling to get tenure, and I don’t see how Rachel meeting my grandmother will change things.”

“Come on, Nicky, don’t be naïve. The minute she walks into that house, it will affect your relationship. I’m not saying that things are going to be bad, necessarily, but an innocence will be lost. You won’t be able to go back to the way it was before, that’s for sure. No matter what, you’ll forever be transformed in her eyes, just like all my former girlfriends the minute they found out I was that Colin Khoo. I’m only trying to prepare you a bit.”

Nick pondered what Colin had just said for a while. “I think you’re wrong, Colin. First of all, our situations are so completely different. My family isn’t like yours. You’ve been groomed since day one to be the future CEO of the Khoo Organization, but nothing of the sort exists in my family. We don’t even have a family business. And yes, I might have well-to-do cousins and all that, but you know my situation isn’t like theirs. I’m not like Astrid, who inherited all her great-aunt’s money, or my Shang cousins.”

Colin shook his head. “Nicky, Nicky, this is why I love you. You are the only person in all of Asia who doesn’t realize how rich you are, or should I say, how rich you will be one day. Here, hand over your wallet.”

Nick was puzzled, but he took his well-worn brown leather wallet out of his back pocket and handed it to Colin. “You’ll see I have about fifty dollars inside.”

Colin fished out Nick’s New York State driver’s license and held it in front of his face. “Tell me what this says.”

Nick rolled his eyes but played along. “Nicholas A. Young.”

“Yes, that’s it. YOUNG. Now, out of your entire family, are there any other male cousins with this surname?”

“No.”

“My point exactly. Besides your father, you are the only Young left in the line. You are the heir apparent, whether you choose to believe it or not. What’s more, your grandmother adores you. And everyone knows your grandmother controls both the Shang and Young fortunes.”

Nick shook his head, partly in disbelief at Colin’s presumption, but more because speaking of such things — even with his best friend — made him rather uneasy. It was something that had been conditioned into him since an early age. (He could still remember the time when he was seven, coming home from school and asking his grandmother at teatime, “My classmate Bernard Tai says that his father is very very rich, and that we’re very very rich too. Is that true?” His aunt Victoria, immersed in her London Times, suddenly put her paper down and launched into him, “Nicky, boys with proper manners do not ever ask questions like that. You do not ever ask people if they are rich or discuss matters concerning money. We are not rich — we are simply well-off. Now, apologize to your Ah Ma.”)

Colin continued. “Why do you think my grandfather, who treats everyone so dismissively, treats you like a visiting prince every time he sees you?”

“And here I thought your grandfather just liked me.”

“My grandfather is an asshole. He only cares about power and prestige and expanding the fucking Khoo empire. That’s why he encouraged this whole thing with Araminta to begin with, and that’s why he’s always dictated whom I could be friends with. Even when we were kids, I remember him saying, ‘You be nice to that Nicholas. Remember, we are nothing compared to the Youngs.’ ”

“Your grandfather is going senile, I think. Anyway, all this inheritance nonsense is really beside the point, because, as you’ll soon see, Rachel is not the sort of girl who cares about any of that. She may be an economist, but she’s the least materialistic person I know.”

“Well, then, I wish you the best. But you do realize that even in the here and now, dark forces are at work plotting against you?”

“What is this, Harry Potter?” Nick sniggered. “That’s what you just sounded like. Yes, I am aware that even now dark forces are trying to sabotage me, as you put it. Astrid’s already warned me, my mother inexplicably decided to go to China right when I arrived, and I had to enlist my great-aunt to persuade my grandmother into inviting Rachel tonight. But you know what? I don’t really give a damn.”

“I don’t think it’s your mother you have to worry about.”

“Then whom should I be worried about, exactly? Tell me who is bored enough to waste their time trying to ruin my relationship, and why?”

“Practically every girl of marriageable age on the island and their mothers.”

Nick laughed. “Wait a minute — why me? Aren’t you Asia’s most eligible bachelor?”

“I’m a lame duck. Everyone knows that nothing in the world is going to stop Araminta from walking down that aisle next week. I hereby pass the crown on to you.” Colin chuckled, folding his paper napkin into a pyramid and placing it on Nick’s head. “Now you are a marked man.”

18 Rachel and Peik Lin

SINGAPORE

After they had finished lunch, Neena insisted on giving Rachel a complete tour of Villa d’Oro’s other wing (which, not surprisingly, was done up in the baroque-on-crack style Rachel had gotten a whiff of earlier). Neena also proudly showed off her rose garden and the Canova sculpture they had recently installed there (thankfully spared the gold treatment). With the tour finally over, Peik Lin suggested that they head back to the hotel to relax over afternoon tea, since Rachel was still feeling a bit jet-lagged. “Your hotel serves a terrific high tea, with fabulous nyonya kueh.”[41]

“But I’m still full from lunch,” Rachel protested.

“Well, you’ll just have to get used to the Singaporean eating schedule. We eat five times a day here — breakfast, lunch, tea, dinner, and late-night supper.”

“God, I’m going to put on so much weight while I’m here.”

“No you won’t. That’s the one good thing about this heat — you’ll sweat it all out!”

“You might be right about that — I don’t know how you guys deal with this weather,” Rachel said. “I’ll have tea, but let’s find the coldest spot inside.”

They made themselves comfortable in the terrace café, which had a view of the pool but was blessedly air-conditioned. Smartly uniformed waiters walked by with trays bearing a selection of tea cakes, pastries, and nyonya delicacies.

“Mmmm … you need to try this kueh,” Peik Lin said, putting a slice of glutinous rice-and-coconut custard on Rachel’s plate. Rachel took a bite, finding the juxtaposition of subtly sweet custard with almost-savory sticky rice to be surprisingly addictive. She looked around at the bucolic garden, most of the deck chairs now occupied by guests asleep in the late-afternoon sun.

“I still can’t believe Colin’s family owns this hotel,” Rachel said, taking another bite of the kueh.

“Believe it, Rachel. And they own a lot more besides — hotels all over the world, commercial properties, banks, mining companies. The list goes on and on.”

“Colin seems so modest. I mean, we went to one of those outdoor food markets for dinner.”

“There’s nothing unusual about that. Everyone here loves the hawker centers. Remember, this is Asia, and first impressions can be deceiving. You know how most Asians hoard their money. The rich are even more extreme. Many of the wealthiest people here make an effort not to stand out, and most of the time, you would never know you were standing next to a billionaire.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your family seems to enjoy their wealth.”

“My grandfather came over from China and started out as a bricklayer. He is a self-made man, and he’s instilled the same ‘work hard, play hard’ ethic in all of us. But come on, we’re not in the same league as the Khoos. The Khoos are crazy rich. They are always at the top of the Forbes ‘Asia Rich List.’ And you know that’s just the tip of the iceberg with these families. Forbes only reports on the assets they can verify, and these rich Asians are so secretive about their holdings. The richest families are always richer by billions than what Forbes estimates.”

A piercing electronic melody began to play. “What’s that sound?” Rachel asked, before realizing it was her new Singapore cell phone.

It was Nick calling. “Hey you,” she answered with a smile.

“Hey yourself! Having a nice afternoon catching up with your friend?”

“Absolutely. We’re back at the hotel enjoying high tea. What are you up to?”

“I’m standing here staring at Colin in his underwear.”

“WHAT did you say?”

Nick laughed. “I’m over at Colin’s. The tuxes just came in, and we’re having the tailor make some final adjustments.”

“Oh. How does yours look? Is it powder blue with ruffles?”

“You wish. No, it’s all rhinestones with gold piping. Hey, I completely forgot to tell you, but my grandmother always has the family over for dinner on Friday night. I know you’re still jet-lagged, but do you think you might be up for going?”

“Oh wow. Dinner at your grandmother’s?”

Peik Lin cocked her head at Rachel.

“Who all is going to be there?” Rachel asked.

“Probably just a handful of relatives. Most of my family are still out of the country. But Astrid will be there.”

Rachel was a little unsure. “Um, what do you think? Would you like me to come, or would you rather spend some time alone with your family first?”

“Of course not. I’d love you to come, but only if you’re up for it — I know it’s pretty short notice.”

Rachel looked at Peik Lin, deliberating. Was she ready to meet the family?

“Say yes!” Peik Lin prompted eagerly.

“I’d love to go. What time do we have to be there?”

“Seven thirty-ish is fine. Here’s the thing … I’m at Colin’s place in Sentosa Cove. The Friday-evening traffic is going to be horrible going back into town, so it’s much easier for me to meet you there. Would you mind taking a taxi to my grandmother’s? I’ll give you the address, and I’ll be at the door waiting for you when you arrive.”

“Take a taxi?”

Peik Lin shook her head, mouthing, “I’ll take you.”

“Okay, just tell me where it is,” Rachel said.

“Tyersall Park.”

“Tyersall Park.” She wrote it down on a piece of paper from her purse. “That’s it? What’s the number?”

“There’s no number. Look out for two white pillars, and just tell the driver it’s off Tyersall Avenue, right behind the Botanic Gardens. Call me if you have any problems finding it.”

“Okay, see you in about an hour.”

As soon as Rachel hung up, Peik Lin snatched the piece of paper from her. “Let’s see where Grandma lives.” She scrutinized the address. “No number, so Tyersall Park must be an apartment complex. Hmm … I thought I knew every condo on the island. I’ve never even heard of Tyersall Avenue. I think it’s probably somewhere on the West Coast.”

“Nick said it was right by the Botanic Gardens.”

“Really? That’s very close. Anyway, my driver can figure it out. We have much more important things to deal with — like what you’re going to wear.”

“Oh God, I have no idea!”

“Well, you want to be casual, but you also want to make a good impression, don’t you? Will Colin and Araminta be there tonight?”

“I don’t think so. He said it was just his family.”

“God, I wish I knew more about Nick’s family.”

“You Singaporeans crack me up. All this nosing around!”

“You have to understand. This is one big village — everyone is always in everybody’s business. Plus, you have to admit it’s become much more intriguing now that we know that he’s Colin’s best friend. Anyway, you need to look fabulous tonight!”

“Hmmm … I don’t know. I don’t want to make the wrong impression, like I’m high maintenance or something.”

“Rachel, trust me, no one would ever accuse you of being high maintenance. I recognize the blouse you’re wearing — you bought that in college, didn’t you? Show me what else you brought. It’s your first time meeting the family, so we need to be really strategic about this.”

“Peik Lin, you’re beginning to stress me out! I’m sure his family will be just fine, and they won’t care what I’m wearing as long as I don’t show up naked.”

After multiple costume changes supervised by Peik Lin, Rachel decided to wear what she had been planning to wear in the first place — a long, sleeveless chocolate-colored linen dress with buttons down the front, a simple cinched belt made out of the same fabric, and a pair of low-heeled sandals. She put on a fun silver bracelet that wrapped around her wrist several times and wore the only expensive piece of jewelry she owned — Mikimoto pearl studs that her mother had given her when she got her doctorate.

“You look a bit like Katharine Hepburn on safari,” Peik Lin said. “Elegant, proper, but not trying too hard.”

“Hair up or down?” Rachel asked.

“Just leave it down. It’s a little sexier,” Peik Lin replied. “Come on, let’s go or you’ll be late.”

The girls soon found themselves winding along the leafy back roads behind the Botanic Gardens, searching for Tyersall Avenue. The driver said he had driven past the street before but now could not seem to find it. “It’s strange that the street doesn’t show up on the GPS,” Peik Lin said. “This is a very confusing area because it’s one of the few neighborhoods with these narrow lanes.”

The neighborhood took Rachel completely by surprise, as it was the first time she had seen such large, old houses on sprawling lawns. “Most of these street names sound so British. Napier Road, Cluny Road, Gallop Road …” Rachel commented.

“Well, this is where all the colonial British officials lived — it isn’t really a residential area. Most of these houses are government-owned and many are embassies, like that gray behemoth with the columns over there — that’s the Russian embassy. You know, Nick’s grandma must live in a government housing complex — that’s why I’ve never heard of it.”

The driver suddenly slowed down, and veered left at a fork in the road, heading down an even narrower lane. “Look, this is Tyersall Avenue, so the building must be off this road,” Peik Lin said. Huge trees with ancient, serpentine trunks rose up on both sides of the road, layered with the dense undergrowth of ferns belonging to the primeval rain forest that once covered the island. The road began to dip and curve to the right, and they suddenly noticed two white hexagonal pillars framing a low iron gate that had been painted pale gray. Tucked into the side of the road, almost hidden by the wild foliage, was a rusty sign that read TYERSALL PARK.

“I have never been down this street in my life. It’s so strange to have apartments here,” was all Peik Lin could say. “What do we do now? Do you want to call Nick?”

Before Rachel could answer, an Indian guard with a fierce-looking beard, wearing a crisp olive-green uniform and a bulky turban, appeared at the gates. Peik Lin’s driver slowly inched forward, lowering his window as the man approached. The guard peered into the car and said in perfect Queen’s English, “Miss Rachel Chu?”

“Yes, that’s me,” Rachel answered, waving from the backseat.

“Welcome, Miss Chu,” the guard said with a smile. “Keep following the road, and stay to your right,” he instructed the driver before he proceeded to open the gates and wave them along.

“Alamak, do you know who that man was?” Peik Lin’s Malay driver said, turning around with a slightly awed expression.

“Who?” Peik Lin asked.

“That was a Gurkha! They are the deadliest soldiers in the world. I used to see them all the time in Brunei. The Sultan of Brunei only uses Gurkhas as his private protection force. What is a Gurkha doing here?” The car continued on the road and wound up a slight hill, both sides of the driveway a dense wall of clipped hedges. As it turned up a gentle curve, they came upon another gate. This time it was a reinforced steel gate, with a modern guardhouse attached. Rachel could see two other Gurkha guards staring out the window as the imposing gate silently rolled to the side, revealing yet another long driveway, this one paved in gravel. As the car rolled along, its tires crunching against the loose gray pebbles, the thick greenery gave way to a handsome avenue of tall palms that bisected rolling parklands. There were perhaps thirty palm trees perfectly lined up along both sides of the driveway, and someone had carefully placed tall rectangular lanterns lit with candles under each palm, like glowing sentinels leading the way.

As the car headed up the driveway, Rachel looked out in wonder at the flickering lanterns and the vast manicured grounds around her. “What park is this?” she asked Peik Lin.

“I have no idea.”

“Is this all one housing development? It looks like we’re entering a Club Med resort.”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never seen a place like this in all of Singapore. It doesn’t even feel like we’re in Singapore anymore,” Peik Lin said in amazement. The whole landscape reminded her of the stately country estates she had visited in England, like Chatsworth or Blenheim Palace. As the car rounded one last curve, Rachel suddenly let out a gasp, grabbing Peik Lin’s arm. In the distance, a great house had come into view, ablaze with lights. As they got closer, the enormity of the place truly became evident. It wasn’t a house. It was more like a palace. The front driveway was lined with cars, almost all of which were large and European — Mercedes, Jaguars, Citroëns, Rolls-Royces, many with diplomatic medallions and flags. A cluster of chauffeurs loitered in a circle behind the cars, smoking. Waiting by the massive front doors in a white linen shirt and tan slacks, hair perfectly tousled and hands pensively shoved into his pockets, stood Nick.

“I feel like I’m dreaming. This can’t be real,” Peik Lin said.

“Oh Peik Lin, who are these people?” Rachel asked nervously.

For the first time in her life, Peik Lin was at a loss for words. She stared at Rachel with a sudden intensity, and then she said, almost in a whisper, “I have no idea who these people are. But I can tell you one thing—these people are richer than God.”