by Kevin Kwan
“Which ones?” Augustine asked, his little voice almost a whisper.
“What? Speak up!” Eddie said.
“Which ones do I wear?” Augustine said again, not much louder.
“Sir, which pair of Gucci loafers? He has two,” Laarni, the Filipino nanny interjected.
“The burgundy ones with the red-and-green band, of course,” Eddie said, giving his six-year-old son a withering look. “Nay chee seen, ah? You can’t seriously think you can wear black shoes with khaki trousers, can you?” Eddie scolded. Augustine’s face reddened, close to tears. “Okay, that covers the tea ceremony. Now, go and change into your wedding outfits. Hurry up, I’m going to give you five minutes.” Fiona, the nanny, and the maid quickly ushered the children back to their bedrooms.
Ten minutes later, when Fiona came down the spiral stairs in a minimalist gray off-the-shoulder gown with one asymmetrical sleeve, Eddie could hardly believe his eyes. “Yau moh gau chor?* What on earth is that?”
“What do you mean?” Fiona asked.
“That dress! You look like you’re in mourning!”
“It’s Jil Sander. I love it. I showed you a picture and you approved.”
“I don’t remember seeing a picture of this dress. I never would have approved it. You look like some spinster widow.”
“There’s no such thing as a spinster widow, Eddie. Spinsters are unmarried,” Fiona said drily.
“I don’t care. How can you look like death warmed over when the rest of us look so good? See how nice and colorful your children look,” he said, gesturing to the kids, who cowered in embarrassment.
“I will be wearing my diamond-and-jade necklace with it, and the jade art deco earrings.”
“It will still look like you are going to a funeral. We’re going to the wedding of the year, with kings and queens and some of the richest people in the world and all my relatives. I don’t want people thinking that I can’t afford to buy my wife a proper dress.”
“In the first place, Eddie, I bought it with my own money, since you never pay for my clothes. And this is one of the most expensive dresses I’ve ever bought.”
“Well, it doesn’t look expensive enough.”
“Eddie, you are always contradicting yourself,” Fiona said. “First you tell me you want me to dress more expensively like your cousin Astrid, but then you criticize everything I buy.”
“Well, I criticize you when you’re wearing something that looks so cheap. It’s a disgrace to me. It’s a disgrace to your children.”
Fiona shook her head in exasperation. “You don’t have any idea what looks cheap, Eddie. Like that shiny tux you’re wearing. That looks cheap. Especially when I can see the safety pins holding your pants on.”
“Nonsense. This tux was six thousand euros. Everyone can see how expensive the fabric is and how well tailored it is, especially when they fix it properly. The pins are temporary. I’m going to button the jacket for the pictures and no one will see them.”
The doorbell made an elaborate, symphonically excessive chime.
“That must be Russell Wing. Kalliste, take off your glasses. Fi, go and change your dress—now.”
“Why don’t you just go to my closet and pick out whatever you want me to wear?” Fiona said, not wanting to argue with him anymore.
At that moment, the celebrity photographer Russell Wing entered the living room.
“Look at you Chengs! Wah, gum laeng, ah!”† he said.
“Hello Russell,” Eddie said, smiling broadly. “Thank you, thank you, we only look stylish for you!”
“Fiona, you look stunning in that dress! Isn’t it Raf Simons for Jil Sander, from next season? How in the world did you get your hands on it? I just photographed Maggie Cheung in this dress last week for Vogue China.”
Fiona said nothing.
“Oh, I always make sure my wife has the very best, Russell. Come, come, have some of your favorite cognac before we begin. Um sai hak hei,”‡ Eddie said cheerily. He turned to Fiona and said, “Darling, where are your diamonds? Go and put on your beautiful art deco diamond-and-jade necklace and then Russell can start his photo shoot. We don’t want to take up too much of his time, do we?”
As Russell was taking some of the final shots of the Cheng family posed in front of the huge bronze sculpture of a Lipizzan stallion in the front foyer, another worrying thought entered Eddie’s head. As soon as Russell was out the door with his camera equipment and a gift bottle of Camus Cognac, Eddie called his sister Cecilia.
“Cecilia, what colors will you and Tony be wearing at Colin’s wedding ball?”
“Nay gong mut yeah?”§
“The color of your dress, Cecilia. The one you’re wearing to the ball.”
“The color of my dress? How should I know? The wedding is a week away—I haven’t begun to think about what I’m going to wear, Eddie.”
“You didn’t buy a new dress for the wedding?” Eddie was incredulous.
“No, why should I?”
“I can’t believe it! What is Tony going to wear?”
“He will probably wear his dark blue suit. The one he always wears.”
“He’s not wearing a tux?”
“No. It’s not like it’s his wedding, Eddie.”
“The invitation says white tie, Cecilia.”
“It’s Singapore, Eddie, and no one there takes those things seriously. Singaporean men have no style, and I guarantee you half the men won’t even be in suits—they’ll all be wearing those ghastly untucked batik shirts.”
“I think you’re mistaken, Cecilia. It’s Colin Khoo and Araminta Lee’s wedding—all of high society will be there and everyone will be dressed to impress.”
“Well, you go right ahead, Eddie.”
Fucky fuck, Eddie thought. His whole family was going to show up looking like peasants. So bloody typical. He wondered if he could convince Colin to change his seating so that he didn’t have to be anywhere near his parents and siblings.
“Do you know what Mummy and Daddy are wearing?”
“Believe it or not, Eddie, I don’t.”
“Well—we still need to color coordinate as a family, Cecilia. There’s going to be a lot of press there, and I want to make sure we don’t clash. Just be sure you don’t wear anything gray to the main event. Fiona is wearing a gray Jil Sander ball gown. And she’s wearing a deep lavender Lanvin dress to the rehearsal dinner, and a champagne-colored Carolina Herrera to the church ceremony. Can you call Mummy and tell her?”
“Sure, Eddie.”
“Do you need me to SMS you the color scheme again?”
“Sure. Whatever. I have to go now, Eddie. Jake is having another nosebleed.”
“Oh, I almost forgot. What is Jake going to wear? My boys will all be wearing Ralph Lauren tuxedos with dark purple cummerbunds—”
“Eddie, I really have to go. Don’t worry, Jake is not going to wear a tuxedo. I’ll be lucky if I can get him to tuck in his shirt.”
“Wait, wait, before you go, have you talked to Alistair yet? He’s not still thinking of bringing that Kitty Pong, is he?”
“Too late. Alistair left yesterday.”
“What? No one told me he was planning to go early.”
“He was always planning to leave on Friday, Eddie. If you kept up with us more, you’d know that.”
“But why did he go to Singapore so soon?”
“He didn’t go to Singapore. He went to Macau for Colin’s bachelor party.”
“WHAAAT? Colin’s bachelor party is this weekend? Who the hell invited Alistair to his bachelor party?”
“Do you really need me to answer that?”
“But Colin is better friends with ME!” Eddie screamed, the pressure building in his head. And then he felt a strange draft from behind. His pants had split open at the ass.
* * *
* Cantonese for “Did you make a mistake?.”
† Cantonese for “how beautiful.”
‡ Cantonese for “no need to be
so polite.”
§ Cantonese for “What are you saying?” or, better yet, “What the hell are you talking about?”
11
Rachel
SAMSARA ISLAND
The bachelorettes were enjoying a sunset dinner at a long table set under a pavilion of billowing orange silk on the pristine white sand, surrounded by glowing silver lanterns. With dusk transforming the gentle waves into an emerald froth, it could have been a photo shoot straight out of Condé Nast Traveler, except that the dinner conversation put a damper on that illusion. As the first course of baby Bibb lettuce with hearts of palm in a coconut-milk dressing was served, the cluster of girls to Rachel’s left were busy skewering into the heart of another girl’s boyfriend.
“So you say he just made senior vice president? But he’s on the retail side, not the investment banking side, right? I spoke to my boyfriend Roderick, and he thinks that Simon probably makes between six to eight hundred thou base salary, if he’s lucky. And he doesn’t get millions in bonuses like the I-bankers,” sniffed Lauren Lee.
“The other problem is his family. Simon’s not even the eldest brother. He’s the second youngest of five,” Parker Yeo pontificated. “My parents know the Tings very well, and let me tell you, as respected as they are, they are not what you or I would consider rich—my mum says they have maybe two hundred million, max. You split that five ways and you’ll be lucky if Simon gets forty mil at the end of the day. And that won’t be for a loooong time—his parents are still quite young. Isn’t his father going to run for parliament again?”
“We just want what’s best for you, Isabel,” Lauren said, patting her hand sympathetically.
“But … but I really think I love him—” Isabel stammered.
Francesca Shaw cut in. “Isabel, I’m going to tell it to you like it is, because everyone here is wasting your time being polite. You can’t afford to fall in love with Simon. Let me break it down for you. Let’s be generous and assume that Simon is making a measly eight hundred thousand a year. After taxes and CPF,* his take-home is only about half a million. Where are you going to live on that kind of money? Think about it—you have to factor a million dollars per bedroom, and you need at least three bedrooms, so you are talking three mil for an apartment in Bukit Timah. That’s a hundred and fifty thousand a year in mortgage and property taxes. Then say you have two kids, and you want to send them to proper schools. At thirty thousand a year each for school fees that’s sixty thousand, plus twenty thousand a year each on tutors. That’s one hundred thousand a year on schooling alone. Servants and nannies—two Indonesian or Sri Lankan maids will cost you another thirty thousand, unless you want one of them to be a Swedish or French au pair, then you’re talking eighty thousand a year spent on the help. Now, what are we going to do about your own upkeep? At the very least, you’ll need ten new outfits per season, so you won’t be ashamed to be seen in public. Thank God Singapore only has two seasons—hot and hotter—so let’s just say, to be practical, you’ll only spend four thousand per look. That’s eighty thousand a year for wardrobe. I’ll throw in another twenty thousand for one good handbag and a few pairs of new shoes every season. And then there is your basic maintenance—hair, facials, mani, pedi, brazilian wax, eyebrow wax, massage, chiro, acupuncture, Pilates, yoga, core fusion, personal trainer. That’s another forty thousand a year. We’ve already spent four hundred and seventy thousand of Simon’s salary, which leaves just thirty thousand for everything else. How are you going to put food on the table and clothe your babies with that? How will you ever get away to an Aman resort twice a year? And we haven’t even taken into account your membership dues at Churchill Club and Pulau Club! Don’t you see? It’s impossible for you to marry Simon. We wouldn’t worry if you had your own money, but you know your situation. The clock is ticking on your pretty face. It’s time to cut your losses and let Lauren introduce you to one of those eligible Beijing billionaires before it’s too late.”
Isabel was reduced to a puddle of tears.
Rachel couldn’t believe what she had just heard—this crowd made Upper East Side girls look like Mennonites. She tried to shift her attention back to the food. The second course had just been served—a surprisingly tasty langoustine and calamansi lime geleé terrine. Unfortunately, the girls on her right seemed to be loudly fixating on some couple named Alistair and Kitty.
“Aiyah, I don’t understand what he sees in her,” Chloé Ho lamented. “With the fake accent and fake breasts and fake everything.”
“I know exactly what he sees in her. He sees those fake breasts, and that’s all he needs to see!” Parker cackled.
“Serena Oh told me that she ran into them at Lung King Heen last week, and Kitty was in Gucci, head to toe. Gucci purse, Gucci halter top, Gucci satin mini-shorts, and Gucci python boots,” Chloé said. “She kept her Gucci sunglasses on all through dinner, and apparently even made out with him at the table with her sunglasses on.”
“Alamaaaaak, how tacky can you get!” Wandi hissed, patting her diamond-and-aquamarine tiara.
Parker suddenly addressed Rachel from across the table. “Wait a minute, have you met them yet?”
“Who?” Rachel asked, since she was trying to tune the girls out rather than listen in on their salacious gossip.
“Alistair and Kitty!”
“Sorry, I wasn’t really following … who are they?”
Francesca glanced at Rachel and said, “Parker, don’t waste your time—it’s obvious Rachel doesn’t know anybody.”
Rachel didn’t understand why Francesca was being so icy toward her. She decided to ignore the comment and took a sip of her Pinot Gris.
“So Rachel, tell us how you met Nicholas Young,” Lauren asked loudly.
“Well, it’s not a very exciting story. We both teach at NYU, and we were set up by a colleague of mine,” Rachel answered, noticing that all eyes at the table were fixed on her.
“Oh, who is the colleague? A Singaporean?” Lauren asked.
“No, she’s Chinese American, Sylvia Wong-Swartz.”
“How did she know Nicholas?” Parker asked.
“Um, they met on some committee.”
“So she didn’t know him very well?” Parker continued.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rachel replied, wondering what these girls were getting at. “Why the interest in Sylvia?”
“Oh, I love setting up my friends too, so I was just curious to know what motivated your friend to set the two of you up, that’s all.” Parker smiled.
“Well, Sylvia’s a good friend, and she was always trying to set me up. She just thought Nick was cute and a total catch …” Rachel began, instantly regretting her choice of words.
“It sure sounds like she did her homework on that, didn’t she?” Francesca said with a sharp laugh.
After dinner, while the girls took off for the disco marquee precariously erected on a jetty, Rachel headed alone to the beach bar, a picturesque gazebo overlooking a secluded cove. It was empty except for the tall, strapping bartender who grinned broadly when she entered. “Signorina, can I make you something special?” he asked in an almost comically seductive accent. Hell, did Araminta’s mother only hire dashing Italians?
“I’ve actually been craving a beer. Do you have any beer?”
“Of course. Let’s see, we have Corona, Duvel, Moretti, Red Stripe, and my personal favorite, Lion Stout.”
“That’s one I’ve never heard of.”
“It’s from Sri Lanka. It’s creamy and bittersweet, with a rich tan head.”
Rachel couldn’t help giggling. It sounded like he was describing himself. “Well if it’s your favorite, then I have to try it.”
As he poured the beer into a tall frosted glass, a girl whom Rachel hadn’t previously noticed strolled into the bar and slipped onto the stool next to her.
“Thank God there’s someone else here who drinks beer! I am so sick of all those pissy low-cal cocktails,” the girl said. She was Chinese, but spoke with an
Australian accent.
“Cheers to that,” Rachel replied, tipping her glass at the girl. The girl ordered a Corona, and grabbed the bottle from the bartender before he could pour it into a glass. He looked personally wounded as she tilted her head back and downed her beer in full-bodied gulps. “Rachel, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But if you’re looking for the Taiwanese Rachel Chu, you’ve got the wrong girl,” Rachel shot back preemptively.
The girl smiled quizzically, a little baffled by Rachel’s response. “I’m Astrid’s cousin Sophie. She told me to look out for you.”
“Oh, hi,” Rachel said, disarmed by Sophie’s friendly smile and deep dimples. Unlike the other girls sporting the latest resort fashions, she was dressed plainly in a sleeveless cotton shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She had a no-nonsense pageboy haircut, and wore no makeup or jewelry except for a plastic Swatch on her wrist.
“Were you on the plane with us?” Rachel asked, trying to remember her.
“No, no, I flew in on my own and just arrived a little while ago,”
“You have your own plane too?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Sophie laughed. “I’m the lucky one who flew Garuda Airlines, economy class. I had some hospital rounds to do, so I couldn’t get away until later this afternoon.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“Pediatric surgeon.”
Once again, Rachel was reminded that one could never judge a book by its cover, especially in Asia. “So you’re Astrid and Nick’s cousin?”
“No, just Astrid’s, on the Leong side. Her father is my mum’s brother. But of course I know Nick—we all grew up together. And you grew up in the States, right? Where did you live?”
“I spent my teenage years in California, but I’ve lived in twelve different states. We moved around quite a bit when I was younger.”
