by Kevin Kwan
“Are you Jerry?” Carol asked in Mandarin. She squinted at the boy in the scorching noonday sun, noticing that he was playing a computer game on his cell phone.
The young man scrutinized the group of ladies for a minute, making sure they weren’t undercover police. Yes, these were obviously a bunch of rich wives and, judging from the way they looked, they were from Singapore. These Singaporeans dressed in their own distinct hodgepodge of styles and wore less jewelry since they were always so scared of being robbed. Hong Kong women tended to dress alike and sport huge rocks, while the Japanese ladies with their sun visors and fanny packs looked like they were on the way to the golf course. He gave them a big toothy grin and said, “Yes, I’m Jerry! Welcome, ladies, welcome. Follow me, please.”
He led them through the smoked-glass doors of the building, down a long corridor, and through a back door. They were suddenly outdoors again on a side street, across from which stood a smaller office tower that looked like it was either still under construction or about to be condemned. The lobby inside was pitch-black, its only source of light coming from the door that Jerry had just propped open. “Be careful, please,” he warned, as he led them through the dark space littered with boxes of granite tiles, plywood, and construction equipment.
“Are you sure this is safe, Carol? I wouldn’t have worn my new Roger Vivier heels if I knew we were coming to a place like this,” Nadine complained nervously. At any moment she felt like she was going to trip over something.
“Trust me, Nadine, nothing is going to happen. You will be thanking me in a minute,” Carol replied calmly.
A doorway finally led to a dimly lit elevator vestibule, and Jerry jabbed repeatedly at the decayed elevator call button. Finally the service elevator arrived. The ladies all crammed in, cowering together to avoid accidentally brushing against the dusty walls. On the seventeenth floor, the elevator opened to reveal a bright, fluorescent-lit vestibule. There were two steel double doors on either end of the space, and Eleanor couldn’t help but notice two sets of closed-circuit cameras installed on the ceiling. A very skinny girl in her early twenties emerged from one of the doors. “Hello, hello,” she said in English, nodding at the ladies. She inspected them briefly, and then said in a surprisingly stern, staccato tone, “Please turn off phone, no camera allowed.” She moved toward an intercom, which she spoke into in a rapid-fire dialect that none of them could discern, and a set of secure locks clicked open loudly.
The ladies walked through the door and abruptly found themselves in a sumptuously designed boutique. The floor was polished pink marble, the walls upholstered in pale pink moiré fabric, and from where they stood, they could peer down the corridor into some of the adjacent showrooms. Each room was devoted to a different luxury brand, with floor-to-ceiling display cabinets crammed full of the most current handbags and accessories. The designer treasures seemed to glow under the carefully positioned halogen spotlights, and well-attired shoppers filled each showroom, eagerly perusing the merchandise.
“This place is known for the very best fakes,” Carol declared.
“Holy Jesus!” Nadine shrieked excitedly, while Carol glared at her for using the Lord’s name in vain.
“Italy this side, French the other side. What you want?” the skinny girl asked.
“Do you have any handbags by Goyard?” Lorena asked.
“Hiyah! Yes, yes, everybody want Goya right now. We have best Goya,” she said, leading Lorena into one of the showrooms. Behind the counter were rows and rows of the latest must-have Goyard tote bag in every color imaginable, and a Swiss couple stood in the middle of the room testing the wheels on one of the Goyard carry-on suitcases.
Daisy whispered into Eleanor’s ear, “See, the only people shopping here are tourists like us. These days, the Mainlanders only want the real thing.”
“Well, for once I agree with the Mainlanders. I’ve never understood why anyone would want a fake designer handbag. What is the point of pretending to carry one if you can’t afford it?” Eleanor sniffed.
“Aiyah, Eleanor, if you or I carried one of these, who would ever think it was fake?” Carol said. “Everyone knows we can afford the real thing.”
“Well, these are absolutely identical to the real thing. Not even the people who work at Goyard would be able to tell,” Lorena said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just look at the stitching, the embossing, the label.”
“They look so real because they practically are real, Lorena,” Carol explained. “These are what they call ‘real fakes.’ The factories in China are commissioned by all the luxury brands to manufacture the leather. Say the company places an order for ten thousand units, but they actually make twelve thousand units. Then they can sell the remaining two thousand off the books on the black market as ‘fakes,’ even though they are made with the exact same material as the real ones.”
“Hey ladies, guei doh say, ah!‡ These aren’t bargains at all,” Daisy warned, scrutinizing one of the price tags.
“It’s still a bargain. This bag is forty-five hundred in Singapore. Here it’s six hundred, and it looks exactly the same,” Lorena said, feeling the distinctive texture of the bag.
“My God, I want one in every color!” Nadine squealed. “I saw this handbag on British Tatler’s ‘It List’ last month!”
“I’m sure Francesca would want a few of these bags too,” Lorena said.
“No, no, I dare not buy anything for that fussy daughter of mine—Francesca will only carry originals, and they have to be from next season,” Nadine replied.
Eleanor wandered into the next room, which was filled with racks and racks of clothing. She scrutinized a fake Chanel suit, shaking her head in disapproval at the gold buttons with interlocking Cs running up the sleeves of the jacket. She had always felt that wearing a stiffly tailored designer dress of this sort, as women of her age and social milieu might be inclined to do, only served to reinforce one’s age. Eleanor’s style was a deliberate one—she preferred the more youthful, trendy clothes that she found in the boutiques of Hong Kong, Paris, or wherever she happened to be traveling, as this achieved three goals: she always wore something distinctive that no one else in Singapore had, she spent far less money on clothes than the rest of her friends, and she looked at least a decade younger than her real age. She tucked the sleeve of the Chanel suit back into its rack properly and walked into what appeared to be a room devoted to Hermès, finding herself face-to-face with none other than Jacqueline Ling. Speak of age-defying, this one had made some pact with the devil.
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor asked in surprise. Jacqueline was one of her least favorite people, but even she would never have imagined that Jacqueline might carry a designer fake.
“I just flew in this morning and a friend insisted that I come here and pick up one of these ostrich-leather purses for her,” Jacqueline said, a little flustered to be seen by Eleanor at a place like this. “How long have you been here? No wonder I didn’t see you at Tyersall Park last night.”
“I’m here for a spa weekend with some girlfriends. So, you were at my mother-in-law’s for Friday-night dinner?” Eleanor asked, not entirely surprised. Jacqueline was always sucking up to Nicky’s grandmother whenever she visited Singapore.
“Yes, Su Yi decided to have a little party at the last minute because her tan huas were in bloom. She had quite a few people over. I saw your Nicky … and I met the girl.”
“Well, what was she like?” Eleanor asked impatiently.
“Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” Jacqueline thought that Eleanor would surely want to assess the interloper as early as possible. “You know, she’s typical ABC. Overconfident and overfamiliar. I would never have thought that Nicky would go for someone like that.”
“They are just dating, lah,” Eleanor said a little defensively.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you. This girl is already best friends with Astrid and Oliver, and you should have seen the way she was staring openmouthed a
t everything around the house,” Jacqueline said, even though she had witnessed nothing of the sort.
Eleanor was taken aback by Jacqueline’s comment, but it soon dawned on her that on this score at least, their interests were uniquely aligned. “How is your Mandy doing these days? I hear she’s dating some Jewish banker twice her age.”
“Oh, you know that’s really just idle gossip,” Jacqueline replied quickly. “The press over there is so fascinated by her, and they try to link her with all the eligible men in New York. Anyway, you can ask Amanda yourself—she’ll be back for the Khoo wedding.”
Eleanor looked surprised. Araminta Lee and Amanda Ling were archrivals, and two months ago, Amanda had caused something of a mini-scandal when she told the Straits Times that “she didn’t understand what all the fuss was over the Khoo wedding—she was far too busy to come rushing back to Singapore for every social climber’s wedding.”§
At that moment, Carol and Nadine entered the Hermès room. Nadine recognized Jacqueline immediately, having seen her from afar many years ago at a gala movie premiere. Here was her chance to get an introduction. “Look at you, Elle, always running into people you know everywhere you go,” she said cheerily.
Carol, who was much more interested in the fake Hermès Kelly bags, smiled at them from across the room but carried on shopping, while Nadine made a beeline for the ladies. Jacqueline glanced at the woman coming toward her, taken aback by the sheer volume of makeup she was wearing. Oh my God, this was that awful Shaw woman whose pictures were always in the society pages, preening away with her equally vulgar daughter. And Carol Tai was the wife of that scoundrel billionaire. Of course Eleanor would be hanging around with this crowd.
“Jacqueline, so nice to meet you,” Nadine said effusively, extending her hand.
“Well, I must be off,” Jacqueline said to Eleanor, not making eye contact with Nadine and stepping toward the exit nimbly before the woman could claim a proper introduction.
When Jacqueline had left the room, Nadine began to gush. “You never told me you knew Jacqueline Ling! Wow, she still looks stunning! How old must she be by now? Do you think she had a face-lift?”
“Alamak, don’t ask me such things, Nadine! How would I know?” Eleanor said, feeling irritated.
“You seemed to know her quite well.”
“I’ve known Jacqueline for years. I even made a trip to Hong Kong with her a long time ago, where she couldn’t stop making a spectacle of herself, and all these idiotic men kept following us everywhere, proclaiming their love for her. It was a nightmare.”
Nadine wanted to keep talking about Jacqueline, but Eleanor’s mind was already elsewhere. So Amanda had changed her mind and was coming home for Colin’s wedding after all. How very interesting. As much as she detested Jacqueline, she had to admit that Amanda would be a superb match for Nicky. The stars were beginning to align, and she could hardly wait for whatever lay in store with Lorena’s secret informer tonight.
* * *
* What was formerly a sleepy fishing village on the Guangdong coast is now a metropolis crammed with tragically gaudy skyscrapers, gargantuan shopping malls, and rampant pollution—in other words, Asia’s version of Tijuana. Shenzhen has become a favorite cheap getaway for its richer neighbors. Tourists from Singapore and Hong Kong, in particular, enjoy the thrill of feasting on gourmet delicacies like abalone and shark-fin soup, shopping until midnight at bargain-basement emporiums filled with fake designer goods, or indulging in hedonistic spa treatments—all at a fraction of what they would have to pay back home.
† Malay slang for “contact.”
‡ Cantonese for “so expensive I could die.”
§ Yes, the Khoos and the Lings are related by marriage as well.
8
Rachel
SINGAPORE
The first hint that Araminta’s bachelorette party was going to be no ordinary affair occurred when Rachel’s taxi dropped her off at the Jet Quay CIP Terminal, which served the private-jet crowd. The second hint came when Rachel walked into the sleek lounge and came face-to-face with twenty girls who looked as if they had spent the last four hours in hair and makeup. Rachel thought that her outfit—a seafoam blue tunic top paired with a white denim skirt—was rather cute, but now it seemed a little shabby compared to the girls in their fresh-off-the-catwalk ensembles. Araminta was nowhere to be seen, so Rachel just stood around smiling at everyone as snippets of conversation drifted her way.
“I searched the world for that handbag, and even L’Eclaireur in Paris couldn’t get it for me …”
“It’s a three-bedroom in that old complex on Thompson Road. I have a gut feeling it’s going to go en bloc and I’ll triple my money …”
“OMG, I found the best new place for chili crab, you won’t believe where …”
“I like the Lanesborough’s suites more than Claridge’s, but really, the Calthorpe is where you want to be …”
“Nonsense, lah! No Signboard Seafood still has the best chili crab …”
“This isn’t cashmere, you know. It’s baby vicuña …”
“Did you hear Swee Lin sold her Four Seasons flat for seven-point-five mil? A young Mainland Chinese couple, paid in cash …”
Yep, this was definitely not her crowd. Suddenly an overly tan girl with fake blond hair extensions came into the lounge, shouting, “Araminta just pulled up!” The room got quiet as everyone craned their necks toward the sliding glass door. Rachel hardly recognized the girl who entered. In place of the schoolgirl in pajama pants of a few nights ago was a woman in a matte-gold jumpsuit with gold stiletto boots, her wavy dark brown hair piled into a loose beehive. With a light dusting of expertly applied makeup, her girlish features were transformed into that of a supermodel. “Rachel, I’m so glad you made it!” Araminta said excitedly, giving her a big hug. “Come with me,” she said, taking Rachel by the hand and leading her to the center of the room.
“Hello, everyone! First things first—I want to introduce all of you to my fabulous new friend Rachel Chu. She’s visiting from New York, as the guest of Colin’s best man, Nicholas Young. Please give her a very warm welcome.” All eyes were on Rachel, who flushed a little and could do nothing but smile politely at the assembled crowd that was now dissecting every inch of her. Araminta continued. “You are all my dearest friends, so I wanted to give you a special treat.” She paused for effect. “Today we’re heading to my mum’s private island resort in eastern Indonesia!” There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd. “We’re going to dance on the beach tonight, feast on delish low-calorie cuisine, and pamper ourselves silly with spa treatments all weekend! Come on, girls, let’s get this party started!”
Before Rachel could fully process what Araminta had said, they were ushered on board a customized Boeing 737-700, where she found herself in a dramatically chic space with streamlined white saddle-stitched leather sofas and glistening shagreen console tables.
“Araminta, this is just too much! Is this your dad’s new plane?” one of the girls asked incredulously.
“Actually it’s my mum’s. Bought from some oligarch in Moscow who needed to lower his profile and go into hiding, from what I hear.”
“Well, let’s hope no one blows this plane up by mistake, then,” the girl joked.
“No, no, we had it repainted. It used to be cobalt blue, and of course my mom had to do her Zen makeover thing. She had it repainted three times before she was satisfied with the right shade of glacier white.”
Rachel wandered into the next cabin and encountered two girls chattering animatedly.
“Told you it was her!”
“She’s not at all what I was expecting. I mean, her family is supposed to be one of the richest in Taiwan, and she shows up looking like some—”
Upon noticing Rachel, the girls abruptly went silent and smiled sheepishly at her before fleeing down the corridor. Rachel hadn’t paid any attention to their exchange—she was far too distracted by the dove-gray leather banquettes a
nd handsome polished-nickel reading lamps extending down from the ceiling. One wall was lined with a bank of flat-screen televisions, while the other consisted of silver ladder racks hung with the latest fashion magazines.
Araminta entered the cabin, leading some girls on a tour. “Here is the library-slash-media room. Don’t you love how cozy it is? Now let me show you my favorite space on the plane, the yoga studio!” Rachel followed the group into the next room, in utter disbelief that there were people rich enough to install a state-of-the-art Ayurvedic yoga studio with inlaid pebble walls and heated pine floors in their private jet.
A group of girls came in squealing with laughter. “Alamak, Francesca has already cornered that hunky Italian steward and commandeered the master bedroom!” the overly bronzed girl exclaimed in her singsongy accent.
Araminta frowned in displeasure. “Wandi, tell her the bedroom is off-limits, and so is Gianluca.”
“Maybe we should all get inducted into the mile-high club with these Italian stallions,” one of the giggly girls said.
“Who needs to be inducted? I’ve been a member since I was thirteen,” Wandi boasted, tossing back her blond-streaked hair.
Rachel, at a loss for words, decided to buckle herself into the nearest armchair and prepare for takeoff. The demure-looking girl sitting beside her smiled. “You’ll get used to Wandi. She’s a Meggaharto, you know. I don’t think you need me to tell you how that family is. By the way, I’m Parker Yeo. I know your cousin Vivian!” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a cousin named Vivian,” Rachel replied in amusement.
“Aren’t you Rachel Chu?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t your cousin Vivian Chu? Doesn’t your family own Taipei Plastics?”
“Afraid not,” Rachel said, trying not to roll her eyes. “My family is originally from China.”
“Oh sorry, my mistake. So what does your family do?”
