by Kevin Kwan
She just didn’t know what to think anymore. Who exactly was this girl? It looked like the affair must have been going on since before their wedding, but then why had Michael married her? It clearly wasn’t for money—her husband had always been so rabidly insistent about not wanting to benefit from her family’s wealth. He had readily signed the hundred-and-fifty-page prenuptial agreement without so much as a blink, as well as the postnuptial her family’s lawyers had insisted on after Cassian was born. Her money, and Cassian’s money, was more secure than the Bank of China’s. So what was it that motivated Michael to have a wife in Singapore, and a mistress in Hong Kong?
Astrid looked out her car window and noticed a Rolls-Royce Phantom next to her. Enthroned in the backseat was a couple, probably in their early thirties, dressed to the nines. The woman had short, smartly coiffed hair and was immaculately made up and dressed in a purple blouse with an enormous diamond-and-emerald floral brooch pinned to her right shoulder. The man at her side was sporting a florid Versace silk bomber jacket and Latin dictator–style dark sunglasses. Anywhere else in the world, this couple would have looked completely absurd—they were at least three decades too young to be chauffeured around so ostentatiously. But this was Hong Kong, and somehow it worked here. Astrid wondered where they came from, and where they were going. Probably off to lunch at the club. What secrets did they keep from each other? Did the husband have a mistress? Did the wife have a lover? Were there any children? Were they happy? The woman sat perfectly still, staring dead ahead, while the man slouched slightly away from her, reading the business section of the South China Morning Post. The traffic began to move again, and suddenly they were in Mong Kok, with its dense, hulking sixties apartment blocks crowding out the sunlight.
Before she knew it, Astrid was being led out of the car, flanked by four security men in dark suits. She looked around nervously as they escorted her to an old block of flats and into a small fluorescent-lit elevator with avocado-green walls. On the tenth floor, they emerged into an open-air hallway that skirted along an inner courtyard where lines of laundry hung from every available window. They walked past apartments with plastic slippers and shoes by the doorways, and soon they were in front of the metal-grille door of flat 10-07B.
The tallest man rang the doorbell once, and a moment later, Astrid could hear a few latches being undone. The door opened, and there he was. Her husband, standing right in front of her.
Michael glanced at the security detail surrounding Astrid and shook his head in disgust. “Let me guess, your father hired these goons to track me down.”
13
Cameron Highlands
MALAYSIA
Nick borrowed his father’s 1963 Jaguar E-Type roadster from the garage at Tyersall Park, and he and Rachel headed onto the Pan Island Expressway, bound for the bridge that linked Singapore to the Malay Peninsula. From Johor Bahru, they drove up the Utara-Selatan Highway, detouring to the seaside town of Malacca so that Nick could show Rachel the distinctive crimson-hued façade of Christ Church, built by the Dutch when the town was part of their colonial empire, and the charmingly ornate Peranakan row houses along Jalan Tun Tan Cheng Lock.
Afterward, they stayed on the old road that skirted along the Negeri Sembilan coast for a while. With the top down and the warm ocean breeze on her face, Rachel began to feel more relaxed than she had since arriving in Asia. The trauma of the past few days was dissipating, and at last it felt like they were truly on holiday together. She loved the wildness of these back roads, the rustic seaside hamlets that seemed untouched by time, the way Nick looked with day-old stubble and the wind whipping through his hair. A few miles north of Port Dickson, Nick turned down a dirt road thick with tropical vegetation, and as Rachel looked inland, she could glimpse miles and miles of uniformly planted trees.
“What are those perfect rows of trees?” Rachel asked.
“Rubber—we’re surrounded by rubber plantations,” Nick explained. They pulled up to a spot right by the beach, got out of the car, took off their sandals, and strolled onto the hot sand. A few Malay families were scattered about the beach having lunch, the ladies’ colorful head scarves flapping in the wind as they bustled around canteens of food and children who were more interested in frolicking in the surf. It was a cloudy day, and the sea was a mottled tapestry of deep green with patches of azure where the clouds broke.
A Malay woman and her son came toward them, hauling a big blue-and-white Styrofoam cooler. Nick began talking animatedly with the woman, buying two bundles from her Igloo before bending down and asking the boy a question. The boy nodded eagerly and ran off, while Nick found a shady spot underneath the low-hanging branches of a mangrove tree.
He handed Rachel a still-warm banana-leaf packet tied with string. “Try Malaysia’s most popular dish—nasi lemak,” he said. Rachel undid the string and the glossy banana leaf unfolded to reveal a neatly composed mound of rice surrounded by sliced cucumbers, tiny fried anchovies, roasted peanuts, and a hard-boiled egg.
“Pass me a fork,” Rachel said.
“There’s no fork. You get to go native on this—use your fingers!” Nick grinned.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, that’s the traditional way. Malays believe the food actually tastes better when you eat with your hands. They only use the right hand to eat, of course. The left hand is used for purposes better left unmentioned.”
“But I haven’t washed my hands, Nick. I don’t think I can eat like this,” Rachel said, sounding a little alarmed.
“Come on, Miss OCD. Tough it out,” Nick teased. He scooped some of the rice into his fingers and began eating the nasi lemak with gusto.
Rachel gingerly scooped some of the rice into her mouth, instantly breaking into a smile. “Mmmm … it’s coconut rice!”
“Yes, but you haven’t even gotten to the good part yet. Dig a little deeper!”
Rachel dug into her rice and discovered a curry sauce oozing out from the middle along with big chunks of chicken. “Oh my God,” she said. “Does it taste this good because of all the different flavors or because we’re sitting on this gorgeous beach eating it?”
“Oh, I think it’s your hands. Your grotty hands are giving the food all the added flavor,” Nick said.
“I’m about to slap you with my grotty curry hands!” Rachel scowled at him. Just as she was finishing her last bite, the little boy from earlier ran up with two clear-plastic drinking bags filled with rough chunks of ice and freshly squeezed sugarcane juice. Nick took the drinks from the boy and handed him a ten-dollar bill. “Kamu anak yang baik,”* he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. The boy’s eyes widened in delight. He tucked the money into the elastic band of his soccer shorts and scrambled off to tell his mother about his windfall.
“You never cease to amaze me, Nicholas Young. Why didn’t I know you spoke Malay?” Rachel said.
“Only a few rudimentary words—enough to order food,” Nick replied modestly.
“That conversation you had earlier didn’t sound rudimentary to me,” Rachel countered, sipping the icy sweet sugarcane through a thin pink straw tucked into the corner of the plastic bag.
“Trust me, I’m sure that lady was cringing at my grammar.” Nick shrugged.
“You’re doing it again, Nick,” Rachel said.
“Doing what?
“You’re doing that annoying self-deprecating thing.”
“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
Rachel sighed in exasperation. “You say you don’t speak Malay when I hear you yapping away. You say, ‘Oh, this old house,’ when we’re in a friggin’ palace. You downplay everything, Nick!”
“I don’t even realize when I’m doing it,” Nick said.
“Why? I mean, you downplay things to the point that your parents don’t even have a clue how well you’re doing in New York.”
“It’s just the way I was brought up, I guess
.”
“Do you think it’s because your family is so wealthy and you had to overcompensate by being super-modest?” Rachel suggested.
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I was just trained to speak precisely and never to be boastful. Also, we’re not that wealthy.”
“Well then, what are you exactly? Are you guys worth hundreds of millions or billions?”
Nick’s face began to redden, but Rachel wouldn’t let up.
“I know it makes you uncomfortable, Nick, but that’s why I’m prodding you. You’re telling me one thing, but then I hear other people speaking as if the entire economy of Asia revolves around your family, and you’re, like, the heir to the throne. I’m an economist, for crying out loud, and if I’m going to be accused of being a gold digger, I’d like to know what I’m supposedly digging for,” Rachel said bluntly.
Nick fidgeted with the remnant of his banana leaf nervously. Since he was old enough to remember, it had been ingrained into him that any talk of the family wealth was off-limits. But it was only fair that Rachel know what she was getting herself into, especially if he was (very shortly) going to ask her to accept the canary diamond ring hidden in the lower right pocket of his cargo shorts.
“I know this may sound silly, but the truth is I really don’t know how rich my family is,” Nick began tentatively. “Now, my parents live very well, mostly due to the legacy my mum received from her parents. And I have a private income that’s not too shabby, mainly from stocks left to me by my grandfather. But we don’t have the kind of money that Colin’s or Astrid’s family does, not even close.”
“But how about your grandmother? I mean, Peik Lin says that Tyersall Park must be worth hundreds of millions just for the land alone,” Rachel interjected.
“My grandmother has always lived in the manner that she has, so I can only presume that her holdings are substantial. Three times a year Mr. Tay, an elderly gentleman from the family bank, comes up to Tyersall Park in the same brown Peugeot he’s driven ever since I was born and pays a visit to my grandmother. She meets with him alone, and it’s the only time her lady’s maids have to leave the room. So it’s never crossed my mind to ask her how much she’s worth.”
“And your father never talked to you about it?”
“My father has never once brought up the subject of money—he probably knows even less than I do. You know, when there’s always been money in your life, it’s not something you spend much time thinking about.”
Rachel tried to wrap her mind around that concept. “So why does everyone think you’ll end up inheriting everything?”
Nick bristled. “This is Singapore, and the idle rich spend all their time gossiping about other people’s money. Who’s worth how much, who inherited how much, who sold their house for how much. But everything that’s said about my family is pure speculation. The point is, I’ve never presumed that I will one day be the sole inheritor of some great fortune.”
“But you must have known that you were different?” Rachel said.
“Well, I sensed that I was different because I lived in this big old house with all these rituals and traditions, but I never thought it had anything to do with money. When you’re a kid, you’re more concerned with how many pineapple tarts you’re allowed to eat or where to catch the best tadpoles. I didn’t grow up with a sense of entitlement like some of my cousins did. At least, I hope not.”
“I wouldn’t have been attracted to you if you went around acting like some pompous prick,” Rachel said. As they walked back to the car, she slipped her arm around his waist. “Thank you for opening up. I know it wasn’t easy for you to talk about these things.”
“I want you to know everything about me, Rachel. I always have, which is why I invited you here in the first place. I’m sorry if it has felt like I wasn’t forthcoming—I just didn’t think any of this money talk was relevant. I mean, in New York, none of this really matters to our life, does it?”
Rachel paused for a while before answering. “It doesn’t, especially now that I have a better understanding of your family. I just needed to be sure that you’re the same person I fell in love with back in New York, that’s all.”
“Am I?”
“You’re way cuter now that I know you’re loaded.”
Nick laughed and pulled Rachel tightly into his arms, giving her a long, lingering kiss.
“Ready for a complete change of scenery?” he asked, kissing her chin and then moving down to the tender spot on her throat.
“I think I’m ready to get a room. Any motels close by?” Rachel breathed, her fingers still entangled in his hair, not wanting him to stop.
“I don’t think there are any motels you’d want to be in. Let’s race to Cameron Highlands before it gets dark—it’s only about three hours away. And then we can pick up where we left off on the most ginormous four-poster bed you’ve ever seen.”
They made good time on the E1 highway, passing through the capital city of Kuala Lumpur toward Ipoh. When they reached the town of Tapah—the gateway to the Cameron Highlands—Nick turned onto the picturesque old road and they began the ascent up the mountain. The car climbed the steep hill, with Nick expertly negotiating the twists and turns, honking the horn at every blind curve.
Nick was anxious to get to the house before sunset. He had called ahead and given explicit instructions to Rajah, the majordomo. There were going to be votive candles in white paper bags lining the way down to the lookout point at the end of the lawn, and a stand with chilled champagne and fresh mangosteens right next to the carved wooden bench where they could sit and take in the scenic view. Then, just as the sun was sinking behind the hills and thousands of tropical birds descended into the treetops, he would get down on one knee and ask Rachel to be his forever. He wondered which was the correct knee to get down on? Right or left?
Rachel, meanwhile, found herself clutching at her seat-belt buckle tightly as she gazed out the window at sheer drops down into jungle-like ravines. “Uh, I’m in no hurry to die,” she announced anxiously.
“I’m only going forty miles per hour. Don’t worry, I can drive this road blindfolded—I used to come here almost every weekend during the summer holidays. Plus, don’t you think it would be a glamorous way to die—careening down the side of a mountain in a classic Jag convertible?” Nick cracked, trying to diffuse the tension.
“If it’s all right with you, I’d rather live a few days longer. Annnnd, I’d rather be in an old Ferrari, like James Dean,” Rachel quipped.
“Actually, it was a Porsche.”
“Smart-ass!”
The hairpin curves soon gave way to a breathtaking view of undulating green hills punctuated by bright swaths of color. In the distance, Rachel could make out flower orchards tucked along the hillsides and quaint little cottages.
“This is Bertam Valley,” Nick said with a flourish. “We’re about twelve hundred meters above sea level now. Back in the colonial days this was where British officers would come to escape the tropical heat.”
Just past the town of Tanah Rata, they turned onto a narrow private road that snaked its way up a lushly planted hill. Behind another curve, a stately Tudor-style manor house on its own hillock suddenly reared into view. “I thought you promised you weren’t going to take me to some luxury hotel,” Rachel said in a half-chiding tone.
“This isn’t a hotel, this is my grandmother’s summer lodge.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Rachel said, gazing at the beautiful structure. The lodge wasn’t nearly as big as Tyersall Park, but it still looked formidably grand with its gabled roofs and black-and-white timbered woodwork. The whole place was aglow with lights blazing from the casement windows.
“Looks like we’ve been expected,” Rachel said.
“Well, I called ahead for them to prepare for our arrival—there’s a full staff all year round,” Nick replied. The house was situated halfway up a gentle sl
ope, with a long, paved stone path leading up to the front door. Its façade was partially covered in ivy and wisteria, and lining both sides of the slope were rosebushes that grew almost up to eye level.
Rachel sighed, thinking she had never seen such a romantic mountain haven in her life. “What enormous roses!”
“These are special Cameronian roses that only grow in this climate. Isn’t the scent intoxicating?” Nick chatted on nervously. He knew he was only minutes away from one of the seminal moments of his life.
A young Malay butler wearing a crisp white dress shirt tucked into a gray-patterned sarong opened the door, bowing gallantly at them. Nick wondered where Rajah, the longtime butler, was. Rachel stepped into the front foyer and felt as if she had been transported once again into another era, to the colonial Malaya of a Somerset Maugham novel, perhaps. Anglo Raj wooden benches in the front hall were interspersed with wicker baskets brimming with freshly picked camellias, mica-shade lanterns hung from the mahogany-paneled walls, and a long, faded Tianjin silk carpet drew the eye straight back to the French doors and the glorious view of the highlands.
“Er, before I show you the rest of the house, let’s, um, take in the sunset view,” Nick said, feeling his throat go dry with anticipation. He led Rachel across the foyer and reached for the handle of the French doors leading out onto the terrace. Then suddenly he halted. He blinked a few times just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. Standing at the edge of the expansive formal lawn having a smoke was Ahmad, his mother’s chauffeur.
