by Kevin Kwan
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 turn
ing 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* 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.
* * *
* The Straits Chinese, also known as the Peranakans, are the descendants of late-fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Chinese immigrants to the Malaya region during the colonial era. They were the elites of Singapore, English-educated and more loyal to the British than to China. Often intermarried with the native Malays, the Straits Chinese created a unique culture that is a hybrid of Chinese, Malay, English, Dutch, and Indian influences. Peranakan cuisine, long the cornerstone of Singaporean and Malaysian cooking, has become all the rage with foodies in the West, although visiting Asians are dumbstruck by the outrageous prices charged in trendy restaurants.
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.
