by Kevin Kwan
“We could have taken the stairs,” Nick remarked wryly to the ladies. He stepped out of the elevator, half expecting to find the room filled with friends like Colin Khoo, Mehmet Sabançi, and some of his cousins, but instead found himself alone on what seemed to be the main deck of the yacht. The ladies led him through a series of sumptuous spaces, past sleek lounges paneled in golden sycamore, barstools upholstered in whale foreskin, and a salon with a ceiling that glowed like a James Turrell installation.
Nick began to have the sinking feeling that none of this had anything to do with a bachelor party. Just as he was beginning to consider his options for a hasty exit, they arrived at a pair of sliding doors guarded by two tall, strapping deckhands.*1 The men slid the doors apart, revealing a skylit dining deck. At the end of the deck, lounging on a dining settee in a white pique blazer, white jodhpurs, and camel-colored F.lli Fabbri riding boots, was none other than Jacqueline Ling.
“Ah, Nicky, just in time for the soufflé!” she said.
Nick approached his old family friend, feeling equally amused and exasperated. He should have clued in earlier that all this Scandinavian silliness had something to do with Jacqueline, whose longtime partner was the Norwegian billionaire Victor Normann.
“What kind of soufflé is it?” Nick asked nonchalantly, taking a seat across from the legendary beauty dubbed “the Chinese Catherine Deneuve” by the society pages.
“I believe it’s kale and Emmentaler. Don’t you think all the sudden hype about kale is getting a bit much? I want to know who’s been doing all the PR for the kale industry—they should really get an award. Now, aren’t you the least bit surprised to see me?”
“Actually, I’m rather disappointed. For a while I thought I’d been kidnapped and forced to be an extra in a James Bond movie.”
“Didn’t you enjoy meeting Alannah and Mette Marit? I knew you wouldn’t come if I had just called up and invited you to lunch.”
“Of course I would have, but at a more normal time—I hope you’re going to find me a new job when NYU fires me for abandoning my class in the middle of a lecture.”
“Hiyah, don’t be such a spoilsport! You have no idea how hard it was to find a place to dock this beast. Now, I thought New York was supposed to be such a world-class city, but do you know your biggest marina can only hold up to a hundred and eighty feet? Where is anyone supposed to park their yacht?”
“Well, this is quite a beast. Lürssen, I presume?”
“Fincantieri, actually. Victor did not want his baby built anywhere near Norway, with those pesky journalists always scrutinizing his every move, so he chose an Italian shipyard instead. Of course, Espen*2 designed this one, like he has all our boats.”
“Auntie Jacqueline, I don’t think you summoned me here to talk about shipbuilding. Why don’t you say what you really came to say?” Nick said, breaking off a corner of a still-warm baguette and dipping it into his soufflé.
“Nicky, I told you never to call me ‘Auntie.’ You make me feel like I’m past my sell date!” Jacqueline said in mock horror as she flicked a lustrous lock of black hair behind her shoulders.
“Jacqueline—you don’t need me to tell you that you don’t look a day over forty,” Nick said.
“Thirty-nine, Nicky.”
“Okay, thirty-nine.” Nick laughed. He had to admit that even as she sat across from him in the bright sunlight with only a touch of makeup on, she was still one of the most stunningly attractive women he had ever known.
“There’s that handsome smile of yours! For a while I was afraid you were beginning to get surly. Don’t ever get surly, Nicky, it’s most unbecoming. My son, Teddy, always has the most surly, supercilious look about him—I should never have sent him to Eton.”
“I don’t think Eton had anything to do with it,” Nick offered.
“You’re probably right. He has those snobby recessive Lim genes from my late husband’s side. Now, you should know that all of Singapore was talking about you over the Chinese New Year.”
“I highly doubt that all of Singapore was talking about me, Jacqueline. I haven’t lived there in over a decade and I really don’t know many people.”
“You know what I mean. I hope you don’t mind my being frank. I’ve always been very fond of you, so I don’t want to see you do the wrong thing.”
“And what’s the ‘wrong thing’?”
“Marrying Rachel Chu.”
Nick rolled his eyes in frustration. “I really don’t want to be drawn into a discussion about this with you. It would be a waste of your time.”
Ignoring him, Jacqueline continued. “I saw your Ah Ma last week. She summoned me to visit her, and we had tea on her veranda. She is very distressed by your estrangement from her, but at this point she is still willing to forgive you.”
“Forgive me? Oh, that’s rich.”
“I see you are still reluctant to see her side of things.”
“I’m not reluctant at all. I can’t even begin to see her side of things. I don’t know why my grandmother can’t be happy for me, why she cannot trust me to make a decision about who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
“It has nothing to do with trust.”
“Then what is it about?”
“It’s a matter of respect, Nicky. Your Ah Ma cares for you dearly, and she has always had your best interests at heart. She knows what is best for you, and only asks that you respect her wishes.”
“I used to respect my grandmother, but I’m sorry, I can’t respect her snobbery. I’m not going to roll over and marry into one of the five families in Asia deemed acceptable by her.”
Jacqueline sighed and shook her head slowly. “There is so much you don’t know about your grandmother, about your own family.”
“Well, why don’t you tell me? Let’s not keep it a mystery.”
“Listen, there is only so much I can say. But I will tell you this: If you choose to go through with your wedding next month, I can assure you that your grandmother will take necessary measures.”
“Meaning what? Meaning she’s going to cut me out of her will? I thought she did that already,” Nick said mockingly.
“Forgive me if I sound patronizing, but the arrogance of youth has led you astray. I don’t think you truly realize what it means for the gates of Tyersall Park to be closed to you forever.”
Nick laughed. “Jacqueline, you sound like some character out of a Trollope novel!”
“Laugh all you want, but you’re being rather foolhardy about this. There is this sense of entitlement that was bred into you, and you are letting that affect your decisions. Do you really know what it means to be cut off from your fortune?”
“I’m doing just fine.”
Jacqueline gave Nick a patronizing smile. “I’m not talking about the twenty or thirty million your grandfather left you. That’s just teet toh lui.*3 You can’t even buy a proper house in Singapore with that these days. I’m talking about your real legacy. Tyersall Park. Are you prepared to lose it?”
“Tyersall Park is going to be left to my father, and one day it will pass to me,” Nick said matter-of-factly.
“Let me give you some news—your father long ago gave up any hope of inheriting Tyersall Park.”
“That’s just idle gossip.”
“No it’s not, Nicky. It’s a fact, and aside from your grandmother’s lawyers and your great-uncle Alfred, I am probably the only person on the planet who knows this.”
Nicky shook his head in disbelief.
Jacqueline sighed. “You think you know everything. Do you know I was with your grandmother the day your father announced that he was going to immigrate to Australia? No, because you were away at boarding school during that time. Your grandmother was furious at your father, and then she was brokenhearted. Imagine, a woman of her generation, a widow, having to suffer the indignity of this. I remember she cried to me, ‘What’s the use of having this house and all these things, when my only son is abandoning me?’ That’s w
hen she decided to change her will and leave the house to you. She skipped over your father and put all her hopes in you.”
Nick couldn’t mask his look of surprise. For years, his busybody relatives had engaged in covert speculation over the contents of his grandmother’s will, but this was one twist he hadn’t imagined.
“Of course, your recent actions have sabotaged those plans. I have it on good authority that your grandmother is preparing to change her will again. How will you feel if Tyersall Park goes to one of your cousins?”
“If Astrid gets it, I’d be happy for her.”
“You know how your grandmother is—she will want the house to go to one of the boys. It won’t go to any of the Leongs, because she knows that they already have too many properties, but it could very well go to one of your Thai cousins. Or one of the Chengs. How would you feel if Eddie Cheng became lord and master of Tyersall Park?”
Nick looked at Jacqueline in alarm.
Jacqueline paused for a moment, carefully considering what she wanted to say next. “Do you know anything about my family, Nicky?”
“What do you mean? I know your grandfather was Ling Yin Chao.”
“In the 1900s my grandfather was the richest man in Southeast Asia, revered by all. His house on Mount Sophia was bigger than Tyersall Park, and I was born in that house. I grew up much like your family did, in a kind of luxury that hardly exists today.”
“Wait a minute…you’re not going to tell me that your family lost all their money?”
“Of course not. But my grandfather had too many damn wives and too many children, so the fortune’s been dispersed. Collectively, we’d still rank high on the Forbes list, but not when there are so many of us feeding from the pot these days. But look at me, I’m a girl. My grandfather was an old-fashioned man from Amoy, and for people like him, girls weren’t supposed to inherit—they were just married off. Before he died, he put all his holdings in a labyrinthine family trust, stipulating that only males born with the Ling surname could benefit. I was expected to marry well, and I did, but then my husband died much too young, and I was left with two small children and some teet toh lui. Do you know how it feels to live among some of the richest people in the world and feel like you have nothing compared to them? Take it from me, Nicky—you have no idea what it’s like to come from everything and then lose it all.”
“You’re not exactly hurting.” Nick gestured at their surroundings.
“True, I’ve managed to maintain certain standards, but it has not happened with the sort of ease that you might imagine.”
“I appreciate your story, but the difference between you and me is that I don’t require all that much. I don’t need a yacht or a plane or a huge estate. I spent half my life in houses that were far too big, and it’s such a relief to live the way I do in New York. I’m perfectly content with my life just the way it is.”
“I think you misunderstand me. How can I put it to you more clearly?” Jacqueline pursed her lips for a moment and considered her finely painted manicure, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say. “You know, I grew up thinking that I was born into a certain world. My whole identity was wrapped up in the notion that I belonged to this family—that I was a Ling. But the moment I got married, I found out that I was not considered a Ling anymore. Not in the truest sense. All my brothers, half brothers, and idiot male cousins would inherit hundreds of millions each from the Ling Trust, but I wouldn’t be entitled to a cent. But then I realized it wasn’t really the loss of money that was affecting me the most. It was the loss of the privilege. To suddenly realize that you are inconsequential even within your own family. If you go through with this marriage, I promise you will feel a seismic shift. You can act self-righteous in front of me right now, but believe me, when it is all taken away, you won’t know what hit you. Doors that have been open to you all your life will suddenly be closed, because in everyone’s eyes, you are nothing without Tyersall Park. And I would hate to see that happen. You are the rightful heir. How much is that land worth today? Sixty of the most prime acres in the heart of Singapore…it’s like owning Central Park in New York. I can’t even begin to fathom the value. If Rachel only knew what you were giving up.”
“Well, I’m certainly not interested in having any of it if I can’t share my life with her,” Nick said adamantly.
“Who said you couldn’t be with Rachel? Why don’t you live with her as you have been? Just don’t get married now. Don’t rub it in your grandma’s face. Go home and make peace with her. She is in her nineties, how many years does she have left? After she goes, you can do anything you want.”
Nick considered her words in silence. There was a gentle knock on the door, and a steward bearing a tray of coffee and desserts entered.
“Thank you, Sven. Now try some of this chocolate cake. I think you’ll find it to be quite interesting.”
Nick took a bite, recognizing immediately that it tasted exactly like the airy yet rich chocolate chiffon cake made by the cook at his grandmother’s house. “How did you manage to pry the recipe out of Ah Ching?” he asked in surprise.
“I didn’t. I smuggled a slice into my handbag when I had lunch with your grandmother last week and had it flown straight to Marius, the genius chef we have aboard. He spent three days doing his own forensics on the cake, and after about twenty attempts, we got it just right, don’t you think?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Now, how would you feel if you could never have this chocolate cake again?”
“I’ll just have to be invited back to your yacht.”
“This isn’t my yacht, Nicky. None of this is mine. And don’t think I’m not reminded of this every day of my life.”
* * *
*1 Also blond, most likely Swedish.
*2 She’s naturally referring to Espen Oeino, one of the world’s leading naval architects, who has designed superyachts for the likes of Paul Allen, the Emir of Qatar, and the Sultan of Oman.
*3 Hokkien for “play money.”
7
BELMONT ROAD
SINGAPORE, MARCH 1, 2013
The man with the machine gun tapped on the tinted glass of Carol Tai’s Bentley Arnage. “Lower your window, please,” he said gruffly.
As the window came down, the man peered in, carefully scrutinizing Carol and Eleanor Young in the backseats.
“Your invitations, please,” he said, extending a Kevlar-gloved hand. Carol handed over the engraved metal cards.
“Please have your handbags open and ready for inspection when you get to the entrance,” the man instructed, gesturing for Carol’s chauffeur to drive on. They passed through the security roadblock, only to find themselves bumper-to-bumper with other fancy sedans trying to make their way toward the house with the red lacquered front door on Belmont Road.
“Aiyah, if I knew it was going to be this lay chay,*1 I wouldn’t have come,” Carol complained.
“I told you it wouldn’t be worth the headache. It never used to be like this,” Eleanor said, glaring at the traffic jam and thinking back to the earlier days of Mrs. Singh’s jewelry tea party. Gayatri Singh, the youngest daughter of a maharaja, possessed one of Singapore’s legendary jewelry collections, said to rival that of Mrs. Lee Yong Chien or Shang Su Yi. Every year, she would return from her annual trip to India with another stash of heirlooms spirited away from her increasingly senile mother, and starting in the early 1960s, she had begun inviting her dearest friends—women hailing from Singapore’s elite families—to come over for tea to “celebrate” her latest baubles.
“Back when Mrs. Singh was running the show, it was such a relaxed affair. It was just a bunch of nice ladies in beautiful saris sitting around the living room. Everyone took turns fondling Mrs. Singh’s jewels while gossiping and gobbling down Indian sweets,” Eleanor recalled.
Carol scrutinized the long queue trying to get through the front door. “This looks anything but relaxed. Alamak, who are all these women all dressed up li
ke they are going to a cocktail party?”
“It’s all the new people. The whoest-who of Singapore society that no one has ever heard of—mainly Chindos,”*2 Eleanor sniffed.
Ever since Mrs. Singh lost interest in counting her carats and began spending more time in India studying Vedic scriptures, her daughter-in-law Sarita—a former minor Bollywood actress—had taken over the affair, and the homey ladies’ tea party evolved into a high-profile charity exhibition to raise money for whatever happened to be Sarita’s cause du jour. The event was breathlessly chronicled by all the glossy magazines, and anyone who could pay the exorbitant entry fee had the privilege of traipsing through the Singhs’ elegant modernist bungalow and gawking at the jewelry, which nowadays consisted of some specially themed exhibition.
This year’s show was devoted to the works of the acclaimed Norwegian silversmith Tone Vigeland, and as Lorena Lim, Nadine Shaw, and Daisy Foo peered into the glass vitrines in what was now the “gallery,” converted from the former table-tennis room, Nadine could not help but register her dismay. “Alamak, who wants to see all this Scandinavian gow sai*3? I thought we would get to see some of Mrs. Singh’s jewels.”
“Keep your voice down! That ang moh*4 over there is the curator. Apparently she is some hotshot from the Austin Cooper Design Museum in New York,” Lorena warned.
“Aiyah, I don’t care if she’s Anderson Cooper! Who wants to pay five hundred dollars a ticket to see jewelry made of rusty nails? I came to see rubies the size of rambutans!”
“Nadine has a point. This is such a waste of money, even though we got these free tickets from my banker at OCBC,” Daisy said.
