China Rich Girlfriend

by Kevin Kwan

  At Connaught Street in Mayfair, Eleanor emerged in front of a smart row of townhouses. Nothing about the red-and-white-brick Georgian façade or the glossy black door hinted at what awaited beyond. She pressed the intercom button, and a voice responded almost immediately: “May I help you?”

  “It’s Eleanor Young. I have a ten o’clock appointment,” she said in an accent that was suddenly much more British. Even before she had finished speaking, several bolts clicked open, and an intimidatingly thickset man in a pinstripe suit opened the door. Eleanor entered a bright, stark antechamber, where an attractive young woman sat behind a cobalt blue Maison Jansen desk. The woman smiled sweetly and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Young. It won’t be a minute—we’re just calling up.”

  Eleanor nodded. She knew the procedure well. The entire back wall of the antechamber consisted of steel-framed glass doors leading into a private garden courtyard, and she could already see a bald man in a black suit crossing the garden toward her. The pinstripe-suited doorman ushered her toward the bald man, saying simply, “Mrs. Young for Mr. D’Abo.” Eleanor noticed that both of them sported barely visible earpieces. The bald fellow escorted her along the glass-canopied walkway that bisected the courtyard, past some neatly trimmed shrubbery, and into the adjoining building, this one an ultramodern bunker clad in black titanium and tinted glass.

  “Mrs. Young for Mr. D’Abo,” the man repeated into his earpiece, and another set of security locks clicked open smoothly. After a short ride in the elevator, Eleanor felt a sense of relief for the first time that morning as she at last stepped into the richly appointed reception room of the Liechtenburg Group, one of the world’s most exclusive private banks.

  Like many high-net-worth Asians, Eleanor maintained accounts with many different financial institutions. Her parents, who had lost much of their first fortune when they were forced into the Endau concentration camp during the Japanese occupation of Singapore in World War II, had instilled in their children a key mantra: Never put all of your eggs in one basket. Eleanor remembered the lesson over the next few decades as she amassed her own fortune. It didn’t matter that her hometown of Singapore had become one of the world’s most secure financial hubs; Eleanor—like many of her friends—still kept money distributed among various banks around the globe, in safe havens that would prefer to remain unnamed.

  The Liechtenburg Group account, however, was the jewel in her crown. They managed the biggest chunk of her assets, and Peter D’Abo, her private banker, consistently provided her with the highest rate of return. At least once a year, Eleanor would find some excuse to come to London, where she relished her portfolio reviews with Peter. (It did not hurt that he resembled her favorite actor, Richard Chamberlain—around the time he was in The Thorn Birds—and on many an occasion Eleanor would sit across Peter’s highly polished macassar ebony desk and imagine him in a priest’s collar while he explained what ingenious new scheme he had put her money in.)

  Eleanor checked her lipstick one last time in the tiny mirror of her Jim Thompson silk lipstick case as she waited in the reception lounge. She admired the huge glass vase filled with purple calla lilies, their bright green stems twisted into a tight spiral formation, and thought about how many British pounds to withdraw from her account on this trip. The Singapore dollar was on a weakening trend this week, so it would be better to spend more in pounds at the moment. Daisy had paid for lunch yesterday, and Lorena covered dinner, so it was her turn to treat today. The three of them had made a pact to take turns paying for everything on this trip, knowing how tight things were for poor Nadine.

  The silver-edged double doors began to open, and Eleanor rose in anticipation. Instead of Peter D’Abo, however, a Chinese lady came walking out, accompanied by Eddie Cheng.

  “My goodness, Auntie Elle! What are you doing here?” Eddie blurted out before he could stop himself.

  Eleanor knew of course that her husband’s nephew worked for the Liechtenburg Group, but Eddie was head of the Hong Kong office, and never would she imagine running into him here. She had specifically opened her account at the London office so that she would never run the risk of bumping into anyone she might know. Turning scarlet in the face, she stammered, “Oh…oh, hi. I’m just meeting a friend for breakfast.” Aiyoh aiyoh aiyoh I’ve been caught!

  “Ah, yes, breakfast,” Eddie replied, realizing the awkwardness of the situation. Well of course the crafty bitch would have an account with us.

  “I got here two days ago. I’m here with Nadine Shaw—you know, visiting Francesca.” Now the whole damn family will know I have money stashed away in England.

  “Ah yes, Francesca Shaw. Didn’t I hear she married some Arab?” Eddie asked politely. Ah Ma is always worried Uncle Philip doesn’t have enough to live on. Wait till she hears THIS!

  “He’s an Iranian Jew, very handsome. They just moved into a flat at 2 Hyde Park,” Eleanor replied. Thank goodness he can never know my sixteen-digit account number.

  “Wah—he must do very well,” Eddie said in mock awe. My God, I’m going to have to grill Peter D’Abo about her account, not that he’ll tell me anything—that stuffed shirt.

  “I would imagine he does very well—he’s a banker just like you,” Eleanor retorted. She noticed that the Chinese woman looked rather anxious to leave and wondered who she might be. For a Mainlander, she was dressed in an elegant, understated manner. Must be one of his bigwig clients. Of course, Eddie was doing the proper thing by not introducing her. What were the both of them doing in London?

  “Well, I hope you enjoy your breakfast,” Eddie said with a smirk as he took off with the lady.

  • • •

  Later that day, after Eddie had taken Bao Shaoyen to the intensive care unit of St. Mary’s Paddington to see Carlton, he brought her to dinner at Mandarin Kitchen on Queensway, thinking the lobster noodles*7 might cheer her up, but apparently women lost their appetites when they couldn’t stop crying. Shaoyen had been utterly unprepared for the sight of her son. His head had swollen to the size of a watermelon, and there were tubes sticking out everywhere—from his nose, his mouth, his neck. Both of his legs were broken, there were second-degree burns on his arms, and the part that remained unbandaged looked as if it had been completely smashed in, like a plastic bottle that had been stepped on. She wanted to stay with him, but the doctors wouldn’t let her. Visiting hours were over. No one told her it had been this bad. Why didn’t someone tell her? Why didn’t Mr. Tin? And where was her husband? She was furious with him. She was mad that she had to face this all alone, while he was off cutting ribbons and shaking hands with Canadians.

  Eddie squirmed awkwardly in his seat as Shaoyen sobbed uncontrollably in front of him. Why couldn’t she just get a grip? Carlton had survived! A few rounds of plastic surgery and he would be as good as new. Maybe even better. With Peter Ashley, the Michelangelo of Harley Street working his magic, her son would probably turn out looking like the Chinese Ryan Gosling. Before arriving in London, Eddie assumed that he could clean up this mess in a day or two and still have time to get fitted for a new spring suit at Joe Morgan’s and maybe a couple new pairs of Cleverleys. But big cracks were beginning to show in the dam. Someone had tipped off the Asian press, and they were sniffing around furiously. He needed to meet with his inside man at Scotland Yard. He needed to get to his Fleet Street contacts. Things were in danger of bursting wide open, and he did not have time for hysterical mothers.

  Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Eddie saw a familiar flash out of the corner of his eye. It was damn Auntie Elle again, entering the restaurant with Mrs. Q. T. Foo, that woman what’s her name from the L’Orient Jewelry family, and that tacky Nadine Shaw. Fucky fuck, why must all the Chinese visiting London dine at the same three restaurants?*8 Just what he needed—Asia’s biggest gossip queens witnessing Bao Shaoyen having a meltdown. But wait—maybe this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. After this morning at the bank, Eddie knew he had Eleanor by her proverbial balls. He could get her to
do almost anything. And right now, he needed someone he could really trust to handle Bao Shaoyen while he handled the cleanup. If the lady was seen having a marvelous dinner in London with Asia’s leading socialites, it could actually work to her advantage and get the ravenous reporters off their trail.

  Eddie got up and strutted over to the round table in the middle of the dining room. Eleanor was the first to see him approaching, and her jaw tightened in annoyance. Of course Eddie Cheng would come here. The idiot better not say anything about seeing me this morning or I will sue Liechtenburg Group till kingdom come!

  “Auntie Elle, is that you?”

  “Oh my goodness, Eddie! What are you doing in London?” Eleanor gasped, giving a look of utter surprise.

  Eddie grinned broadly, leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek. My God, somebody hand her the Oscar now. “I’m here on business. What a lovely surprise to see you here, of all places!”

  Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he’s playing along. “Ladies, you all know my nephew from Hong Kong? His mother is Philip’s sister, Alix, and his father is the world-famous heart surgeon Malcolm Cheng.”

  “Of course, of course. Such a small world, lah!” the women chirped excitedly.

  “How is your dear mother these days?” Nadine asked eagerly, even though she had never in her life met Alexandra Cheng.

  “Very well, very well. Mum is in Bangkok at the moment visiting Auntie Cat.”

  “Yes, yes, your Thai auntie,” Nadine answered in a slightly awed tone, knowing that Catherine Young had married into Thai aristocracy.

  Eleanor had to resist the temptation to roll her eyes. That Eddie didn’t waste any opportunity to do some name-dropping.

  Switching to Mandarin, Eddie said, “May I introduce all you lovely ladies to Mrs. Bao Shaoyen?”

  The women nodded politely at the newcomer. Nadine noted immediately that she was wearing a Loro Piana cashmere cardigan, a beautifully cut pencil skirt from Céline, sensible low-heel pumps from Robert Clergerie, and a pretty patent leather handbag of indistinguishable brand. Verdict: Boring, but unexpectedly classy for a Mainlander.

  Lorena zeroed in on her diamond ring. That rock was between 8 and 8.5 carats, D color, VVS1 or VVS2 grade, radiant cut, flanked by two triangular yellow diamonds of 3 carats apiece, set in platinum. Only Ronald Abram in Hong Kong had that particular setting. Verdict: Not too vulgar, but she could have gotten a better stone if she’d bought from L’Orient.

  Daisy, who didn’t care one bit about how someone looked and was rather more interested in bloodlines, asked in Mandarin, “Bao? Might you be related to the Baos of Nanjing?”

  “Yes, my husband is Bao Gaoliang,” Mrs. Bao said with a smile. At last, someone who speaks proper Mandarin! Someone who knows who we are.

  “Aiyah, what a small world—I met your husband the last time he was in Singapore with the Chinese delegation! Ladies, Bao Gaoliang is the former governor of Jiangsu Province. Come, come, you should both join us. We were just about to order dinner!” Daisy graciously offered.

  Eddie beamed. “You’re much too kind. Actually, we could use some company. You see, it’s been quite a distressing time for Mrs. Bao. Her son was injured in a car accident two days ago in London—”

  “Oh my GOD-ness!” Nadine cried.

  Eddie continued, “I’m afraid I can’t stay, as I have to take care of some pressing matters for the Bao family, but I am quite sure Mrs. Bao would enjoy your company. She doesn’t know London well, so she’s at quite a loss here.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her!” Lorena offered charitably.

  “I’m so relieved. Now, Auntie Elle, can you point me to the best spot to catch a taxi?”

  “Of course,” Eleanor said, walking her nephew out of the restaurant.

  While the ladies consoled Bao Shaoyen, Eddie stood outside the restaurant giving Eleanor the lowdown. “I know this is a big favor I’m asking of you. Can I count on you to keep Mrs. Bao occupied and entertained for a while? More important, can I count on your absolute discretion? We need to ensure that your friends do not ever discuss Mrs. Bao with the press, especially the Asian press. I will be in your debt.”

  “Aiyah, you can trust us one hundred percent. My friends would never gossip or anything,” Eleanor insisted.

  Eddie nodded solicitously, knowing full well that all the ladies would be texting the news back to Asia at warp speed the minute he was gone. Those pesky gossip columnists would be sure to mention it in their daily reports, and everyone would think Shaoyen was just in London to shop and eat.

  “Now, can I count on your discretion?” Eleanor asked, looking him straight in the eye.

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Auntie Elle,” Eddie said with a smirk.

  “I’m talking about my breakfast…this morning?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I already forgot about that. I took an oath of secrecy when I joined the world of private banking, and I wouldn’t dream of ever betraying it. At the Liechtenburg Group, what can we offer but discretion and trust?”

  Eleanor returned to the restaurant, feeling rather relieved by this strange turn of events. She was getting to even the score with her nephew. A huge platter upon which lay the most enormous lobster over a bed of steaming hot noodles sat in the middle of the table, but no one was eating. The ladies all looked up at Eleanor with rather peculiar expressions on their faces. She figured they must be dying to know what Eddie had told her outside.

  Daisy smiled brightly as Eleanor sat down and said, “Mrs. Bao was just showing us some pictures of her handsome son on her phone. She is so worried about his face, and I was just assuring her that the plastic surgeons in London are some of the best in the world.”

  Daisy handed over the phone, and Eleanor’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she locked onto the image.

  “Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Daisy asked in an almost too cheery tone.

  Eleanor looked up from the phone and said, ever so nonchalantly, “Oh yes, very handsome.”

  None of the other ladies said anything else about Mrs. Bao’s son for the rest of the dinner, but all of them were thinking the same thing. There was no way it could be a coincidence. Bao Shaoyen’s injured son looked just like the woman who had caused the great estrangement between Eleanor and her son, Nicholas.

  Yes, Carlton Bao was the spitting image of Rachel Chu.

  * * *

  *1 Unfortunately for Eddie, only Emirates, Etihad Airways, and Singapore Airlines have private cabins aboard their Airbus A380s. Emirates even has two Shower Spa bathrooms with sumptuous shower stalls for first-class travelers. (Mile High Club members take note.)

  *2 Hokkien for “Wash your bottom.”

  *3 According to Cassandra Shang aka “Radio One Asia.”

  *4 Women of Eleanor’s background would rather camp out six to a room or sleep on the floor of anyone they remotely know than spend money on hotels. These are the same women who wouldn’t blink at shelling out $90,000 on a South Sea pearl “trinket” while on holiday.

  *5 Hokkien for “nosy” or “meddlesome.”

  *6 Eleanor, who normally didn’t wear pricey designer clothes and made a point of bragging that she “started getting brand-name fatigue back in the seventies,” kept a few choice pieces reserved specifically for special occasions like today.

  *7 Never mind that the restaurant inexplicably resembles a 1980s Greek taverna, with its whitewashed barrel vault ceilings, Asian foodies will fly to London just to savor Mandarin Kitchen’s signature dish, because nowhere else in the world can one get Chinese hand-pulled egg noodles braised in an intoxicating ginger scallion sauce, served with giant lobsters caught daily from the Scottish Sea.

  *8 The Holy Trinity are Four Seasons for the roast duck, Mandarin Kitchen for the aforementioned lobster noodles, and Royal China for the dim sum.

  PART ONE

  Everyone claims to be a billionaire these days. But you’re not really a billionair
e until you spend your billions.

  —OVERHEARD AT THE HONG KONG JOCKEY CLUB

  1

  THE MANDARIN

  HONG KONG, JANUARY 25, 2013

  In early 2012, a brother and sister clearing out their late mother’s attic in the London neighborhood of Hampstead discovered what appeared to be a cluster of old Chinese scrolls at the bottom of a steamer trunk. By chance, the sister had a friend who worked at Christie’s, so she dropped them off—in four Sainsbury’s grocery sacks—at the auctioneer’s salesroom on Old Brompton Road, hoping they might “take a look and tell us if they’re worth anything.”

  When the senior specialist of Chinese Classical Paintings opened up one of the silk scrolls, he nearly went into cardiac arrest. Unfurled before him was an image so remarkably rendered, it immediately reminded him of a set of hanging scroll paintings long thought to be destroyed. Could this be The Palace of Eighteen Perfections? The artwork, created by the Qing dynasty artist Yuan Jiang in 1693, was believed to have been secretly removed from China during the Second Opium War in 1860, when many of the royal palaces were ransacked, and lost forever.

  As staffers scurried around unrolling the scrolls, they discovered twenty-four pieces, each almost seven feet tall and in immaculate condition. Placed side by side, they spanned thirty-seven feet, almost filling the floor space of two workrooms. At last, the senior specialist could confirm that this was undoubtedly the mythical work described in all the classical Chinese texts he had spent much of his career studying.

  The Palace of Eighteen Perfections was an opulent eighth-century imperial retreat in the mountains north of modern-day Xi’an. It was said to be one of the most magnificent royal residences ever built, with grounds so vast that one had to travel between the halls on horseback. On these ancient silk scrolls, the intricate pavilions, courtyards, and gardens that meandered through a dreamlike blue-and-green mountain landscape were painted in colors so vibrantly preserved, they seemed almost electric in their iridescence.