by Kevin Kwan
CW: Not at all! These days, most of my clients are single twenty-two-year-old monosyllabic Zuckerbergs. And many of them are women! What’s up? I’m assuming Michael is trying to enlist your help with some clients?
ALT: It already happened.
CW: So why are you asking?
ALT: Well, it was a total disaster, the deal fell through, and guess who got the blame?
CW: Huh? Why would you get the blame for a botched deal? Last time I checked, you weren’t his employee. Did you spill scalding hot bak kut teh*1 onto the client’s lap or something?
ALT: It’s a long story. Pretty funny, actually. I’ll tell you about it when I see you in Hong Kong next month.
CW: C’mon, you can’t leave me hanging like this!
Astrid took her hands off the keyboard. For a moment, she debated whether to make some excuse and beg off or to continue with her story. She didn’t want to trash her husband to Charlie, knowing he already had a colored impression of Michael, but her need to vent got the better of her.
ALT: Michael has apparently been cultivating these clients for a while, and the bigwig and his whole team flew in to finalize the deal. He brought his wife, so Michael asked me to organize a nice dinner someplace that would impress all of them. The couple are really into food, so I chose André.
CW: Not bad. For out-of-towners I also like Waku Ghin.
ALT: I love Tetsuya’s cooking, but I felt it wouldn’t be right for this crowd. Anyway, for the first time ever, Michael was obsessing over what I wore to dinner. I had on what I felt to be the perfect outfit, but he wanted me to change into something more ostentatious.
CW: But that’s not your style!
ALT: I wanted to be a team player. So I wore this irresponsibly large pair of earrings—emeralds and diamonds that really should not be seen in public unless you’re going to a state dinner at Windsor Castle or a wedding in Jakarta.
CW: Sounds amazing.
ALT: Well, it ended up being the wrong choice. We get to the restaurant late, and Michael insisted on driving his new vintage Ferrari and parking it right outside. So everyone is already staring at us as we walked in. Then it turns out the bigwig is from Northern California. Lovely, low-key couple—the wife was chic but in an understated way. She was wearing a beautiful tunic dress, strappy sandals, and these artsy earrings that some kid had made for her. I looked outrageously overdressed by comparison and it made everyone uncomfortable. Everything went south from there, and today Michael came home pretty upset. They nixed the whole deal.
CW: And Michael blames YOU?
ALT: He blames himself more, but I do see it was partly my fault. I should have followed my gut and stuck to the first outfit. Truth be told, I was a little cheesed off that Michael was second-guessing my choice, so I really put my foot on the accelerator to up the bling quotient with the second outfit. But it was way too much, and it put off the client.
Astrid’s phone started to ring, and she picked it up when she saw it was Charlie on the line.
“Astrid Leong, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Clients don’t give a shit how the wives of their business partners are dressed, especially in the tech world. I’m sure there are many reasons why this deal did not work out, but trust me, your accessories had nothing to do with it. You see that, don’t you?”
“I get what you’re saying, and I agree…partly. But it was an unusual night, and a strange confluence of events. You just had to be there.”
“Astrid, that’s total BS. I’m mad at Michael that he would try to make you feel like you were in any way responsible!”
Astrid sighed. “I know I am not ultimately responsible, but I do see that if I had done things a little differently, the outcome might have been more positive. I’m sorry it’s upset you. I didn’t mean to do that—I guess I was just selfishly venting after Michael and I got into a fight. I feel bad for him, I really do. I know he worked so hard to try to get this deal off the ground.”
“Cry me a river! Michael’s company is still doing fantastic—his stock hasn’t lost a single point over this. But he’s somehow managed to make you feel bad about it, and that’s what worries me. You just don’t see how preposterous this whole line of reasoning is. You did nothing wrong, Astrid. NOTHING.”
“Thank you for saying that. Hey, I gotta run. Cassian is screaming about something.” Hanging up the phone, Astrid closed her eyes and let the tears seep out. She didn’t dare tell Charlie what Michael had really said when he came home that afternoon. He had come into Cassian’s bedroom, where Astrid was crouched under the desk with three chairs barricading her in, and she was wearing the emerald earrings, pretending to be a captured Guinevere to Cassian’s King Arthur.
“Those goddamn earrings again! You lost me the biggest deal because of those earrings!” Michael scoffed.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Astrid asked, peering out from her hiding place.
“The deal fell through today. They weren’t anywhere near my asking price.”
“I’m so sorry, hon.” Astrid emerged from underneath the desk and tried to give him a hug, but he pulled away after a second. She followed him down the hallway to their bedroom.
As Michael began changing out of his work clothes, he continued: “We really screwed up that client dinner. I don’t blame you, I blame me. I was the fool who asked you to change. Apparently, your look didn’t go over so well with everyone.”
Astrid couldn’t believe her ears. “I don’t understand why any of that would matter anyway. Who really cares what I was wearing?”
“In this business, perception is everything. And a crucial component of deal-making is the all-important client dinner with the wives.”
“I thought we had a lovely time. Wendy was raving about every dish, and we even swapped numbers.”
Michael sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands for a moment. “Don’t you see? It doesn’t really matter what the wife thinks. I was trying to show the guys that I run the leading tech company in Singapore. That we are the blue-chip choice, and we have the blue-chip lifestyle to match it. And they needed to pay us what we’re worth. But it all backfired.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have driven the Ferrari. Maybe that was too obvious,” Astrid said.
“No, that’s not it. Everyone loved the Ferrari. What they didn’t get was your style.”
“My style?” Astrid said incredulously.
“All this strange vintage stuff, no one gets it. Why can’t you just wear Chanel once in a while like everyone else? I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I think we need to make some big changes. I really need to revamp my image completely. People don’t take me seriously because of how we live. They think, ‘If he has one the most successful tech companies in Asia, why doesn’t he live in a bigger house? Why isn’t he in the press more? Why does his wife still drive an Acura, and why doesn’t she have better jewels?’ ”
Astrid shook her head in disbelief. “Every serious jewelry collector knows about my family’s collection.”
“That’s part of the problem, hon—no one outside of a tiny inbred circle has even heard of your family because they are so goddamn private! At dinner my client couldn’t imagine that those rambutan-size rocks you had on were real. So instead of making you look more expensive, it looked like you were wearing cheap costume jewelry. Do you know what their general counsel told Silas Teoh over drinks last night? He said that when we first walked into dinner, all the guys thought my date was some girl from Orchard Towers.”
“Orchard Towers?” Astrid was confused.
“That’s where all the escorts work. With those boots and earrings you were wearing the other night—the guys thought you were a high-class whore!”
Astrid stared at her husband, too stung to speak.
“We need to go big or go home. I need to hire a new PR consultant, and you need a new look. And I think tomorrow you should call that MGS friend of yours who is a realtor, what’s her name again? Mir
anda?”
“You mean Carmen?”
“Yes, Carmen. Tell her we need to start looking at new houses. I want a place that will make everyone who comes over lao nua*2 the moment they drive up.”
* * *
*1 Literally translated as “meat bone tea,” this is not the name of a summer event on Fire Island but rather a popular Singaporean soup that consists of melt-in-your-mouth pork ribs simmered for many hours in an intoxicatingly complex broth of herbs and spices.
*2 Literally translates as “dribble saliva” in Hokkien. In other words, to drool over something with envy.
13
SAVE THE SEAMSTRESS FASHION SHOW
JUNE 2013, PORTO FINO ESTATES, SHANGHAI
NOBLESTMAGAZINE.COM.CN—
Society columnist Honey Chai live-blogs from her front-row seat as two of China’s most influential fashion forces come together tonight for the worthiest of causes.
5:50 p.m.
I’ve just arrived at heiress and fashion blogger Colette Bing’s heavenly country estate, where she’s hosting a very special fall fashion preview with her best friend, superstar Pan TingTing. This is the coveted invitation that only three hundred of China’s chicest have received. Prêt-à-Couture has flown in the most decadent looks from the top fashion houses in Europe. As Asia’s top supermodels, including Du Juan and Liu Wen, strut the runway, the outfits will be auctioned off to benefit Save the Seamstress, a foundation started by Colette and TingTing that fights to improve working conditions for garment workers throughout Asia.
5:53 p.m.
As guests walk up the long pebble driveway to the house, a line of French waiters in black Napoleon-collared jackets welcome us with French Blonde cocktails*1 served in vintage Lalique stemware. Now that’s class.
6:09 p.m.
This place resembles the Puli Hotel, only much bigger. We are now inside the Bing Family Museum, and everywhere I look, I see Warhols, Picassos, and Bacons, and standing in front of them are some of China’s most fabulous living works of art: Lester Liu and his wife, Valerie, in a va-va-voom vintage Christian Lacroix pouf dress; Perrineum Wang sporting a Stephen Jones fascinator of glittery gold sunrays with a Sacai shredded dress; Stephanie Shi rockin’ it in royal blue Rochas; and Tiffany Yap as au courant as ever in Carven. Le tout Shanghai is here tonight!
6:25 p.m.
I just met Virginie de Bassinet, the chic founder of Prêt-à-Couture, who promises that we will be swooning in our seats when the fashion show starts. Carlton Bao just walked in with a pretty girl who looks a lot like him. Who could she be, and who is the hottie with them? OMG—is he that actor from the hit Korean TV series My Love from the Star?
6:30 p.m.
It’s not the guy from My Love from the Star. Turns out he’s some history professor friend of Carlton’s visiting from New York. How disappointing.
6:35 p.m.
Lester and Valerie Liu are standing in the gallery where some beautiful antique scrolls hang, and Valerie is sobbing on Lester’s shoulder. Whatever could be wrong?
6:45 p.m.
In the garden now, where seats have been arranged along the sides of an immense reflecting pool. Could this garden actually be air-conditioned? We’re in the middle of a June heat wave, and yet I feel a cold draft blowing and detect the scent of honeysuckle.
6:48 p.m.
There are iPads on every seat, with a special app installed so we can view close-ups of each outfit as it comes down the runway and place our bids. Now this is useful technology!
6:55 p.m.
Everyone awaits the arrival of Colette and Pan TingTing. What will they be wearing?
7:03 p.m.
Colette just made her entrance, with Richie Yang rushing up to take her arm and escort her to her seat. (Are the rumors that they are back together true?) This is what Colette has on: a Dior Couture daffodil strapless gown with a striking see-through panel at the thigh, worn with ridiculously sexy red Sheme heels that feature a heavily beaded snake winding around her ankles. You’re reading about it here FIRST, before she has time to blog about it herself!
7:05 p.m.
Roxanne Wang, Colette’s fabulous assistant, who is just killing it in a Rick Owens DRKSHDW black denim suit, just informed me that the beading on the snake is actually rubies. I DIE!!!!
7:22 p.m.
Still waiting for Pan TingTing, who is more than an hour late. We’re being told that her plane has just landed from London, where she has been filming some top-secret new movie with director Alfonso Cuarón.
7:45 p.m.
Pan TingTing is in da house! I repeat, Pan TingTing is in da house! She’s sporting a high ponytail and dressed in a white silk charmeuse jumpsuit and knee-high riding boots in distressed gray leather. Designer names to come the moment I find out. Jewelry: colorful beaded African Maasai Mara tribal earrings. Not much bling factor, but who cares—she looks beyond amazing, like she just came from a motorbike rally across the Gobi desert. The crowd is going crazy!!!
• • •
Observing the commotion on the other side of the reflecting pool, Rachel said to Carlton, “So that’s the Jennifer Lawrence of China?”
“Oh, she’s a much bigger star than Jennifer. She’s like Jennifer Lawrence, Gisele Bündchen, and Beyoncé put together,” Carlton declared.
Rachel laughed at the analogy. “Until tonight, I’d never heard of her.”
“Trust me, you will soon. Every director in Hollywood is trying to get her in their films, because they know it will mean hundreds of millions in box-office gold over here.”
Pan TingTing stood at the entrance to the garden as all eyes locked onto her. Every guest wanted to study the translucent marble complexion that Shanghai Vogue had likened to Michelangelo’s Pietà, those celebrated Bambi eyes, and her Sophia Loren–esque curves. TingTing put on the beatific smile she was so famous for and scanned the crowd quickly as the first camera flashes went off. No surprises tonight—it’s all the usual suspects. Why did I ever agree to leave London for this event? Good exposure, my agent says. Considering that I am already on six magazine covers this month, why do I need more exposure? I could be enjoying that amazing butternut squash salad at Ottolenghi right now and bicycling through Notting Hill totally unrecognized (except for the Chinese tourists shopping on Ledbury Road), but here I am, being dissected like an insect under a microscope. Speaking of insects, what in Guanyin’s name is Perrineum Wang wearing on her head? Don’t make eye contact. Oh look, here comes photographer Russell Wing. How does he manage to be at every party in Asia at the same time? Stephanie Shi just leaped out of her seat like an electrocuted poodle. Just watch, she’s going to try to stand on my right again so that when the photograph appears anywhere, the caption will read “Stephanie Shi and Pan TingTing.” She always wants her name to come first. Thank God her grandfather isn’t in power anymore. I hear that these days the old man has to use a colostomy bag. And of course, right behind Stephanie come two other Beijing princesses, Adele Deng and Wen Pi Fang. God help them, they’re both wearing those Balmain basket-weave dresses that make them look like a pair of walking rattan chairs.
The ladies greeted TingTing with cloying hugs and interlocked their arms around her as if they were the closest of friends while Russell snapped his pictures. My God, in the photo I’m going to look like the meat in a Balmain sandwich. Would these guanerdai*2 girls have even spit in my direction five years ago? God, the things I do in the name of charity!
As they returned to their seats, Adele whispered to Pi Fang, “I tried to look for the scars on her eyelids this time—I really don’t believe those huge raccoon eyes of hers can be real. The problem is she has fake eyelashes on, and she uses very good concealer. In pictures, she appears to have very little makeup on, but in reality she has gobs on in all the right places.”
Pi Fang nodded. “I looked at the nose. No one’s nostrils are that perfect! Ivan Koon swears that she used to be a KTV hostess in Suzhou until some tycoon there paid for her to go to Seo
ul to get everything redone. The plastic surgeon had to issue her one of those certificates with ‘before’ and ‘after’ pics because she looked nothing like her passport photo after all the bandages came off.”
“Pi hua!”*3 Tiffany Yap shot back. “Can’t you just accept the fact that she was born with natural beauty? Not everyone has gone to Seoul to get their noses broken on purpose like the both of you. And TingTing isn’t from Suzhou—she comes from Jinan. She’s very open about the fact that before Zhang Yimou discovered her, she sold makeup at an SK-II counter.”
“Well, I’m partly right then. This is how she has access to all the best concealers,” Adele declared.
TingTing arrived at her seat of honor, between Colette and Colette’s mother. She shook Mrs. Bing’s hands respectfully before taking her seat, and Colette leaned in to give her a double-cheek kiss. Colette looks fab, as always. People say she only looks good because she can afford anything on the planet, but I disagree. She’s got a style that money can’t buy. It’s funny how the press labels us “best friends,” when this is maybe the fifth time I’ve met her. Still, she’s one of the few out of this bunch that I can actually stand. She’s not predictable like the rest of them, and the way she keeps all these guys running laps around her like desperate gigolos—it’s pretty damn funny. Now I’m going to ignore the fact that Mrs. Bing just slathered on an entire bottle of hand sanitizer right after shaking my hand.
The lights in the garden suddenly went black. After a brief pause, the bamboo grove behind the reflecting pool lit up in a vibrant Yves Klein blue, while yellow-hued lights submerged deep in the water began pulsating dramatically like an airport runway. Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot’s “Bonnie and Clyde” began blaring on the sound system, as the first model in a golden gown with a long chiffon train glided across the vast pool, appearing to magically walk on water.
The crowd broke into rapturous applause, but Colette sat with her arms crossed and her head tilted appraisingly. As more models dressed in fancily embellished outfits continued to prance down the catwalk, several of the ladies in the front row started exchanging agitated looks. Valerie Liu shook her head disapprovingly, while Tiffany Yap raised her eyebrows at Stephanie Shi as a model in a biker jacket festooned with silk peonies stomped past. When a trio of girls in mermaid fishtail gowns with bejeweled bodices appeared, Perrineum Wang leaned over and whispered loudly to Colette, “Is this really a fashion show, or are we at the Miss Universe evening-wear competition?”
