by Kevin Kwan
† 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 and 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?”
“Um, my mother is a real estate agent in the Palo Alto area. Who are these Taipei Plastics people everyone keeps talking about?”
Parker simply smirked. “I’ll tell you, but excuse me for just one moment.” She unbuckled her seat belt and made a beeline for the back cabin. It was the last time Rachel would see her during the entire flight.
“Girls, I have the scoop of all scoops!” Parker burst in on the girls crowded into the master cabin. “I was just sitting next to that Rachel Chu girl, and guess what? She isn’t related to the Taipei Chus! She hasn’t even heard of them!”
Francesca Shaw, lounging in the middle of the bed, gave Parker a withering look. “Is that all? I could have told you that months ago. My mother is best friends with Nicky Young’s mother, and I know enough about Rachel Chu to sink a ship.”
“Come on, lah—give us all the dirt!” Wandi pleaded, bouncing up and down on the bed in anticipation.
After a dramatic landing on a perilously short runway, Rachel found herself on a sleek white catamaran, the salty ocean breeze whipping through her hair as they sped toward one of the more remote islands. The water was an almost blinding shade of turquoise, interrupted by tiny islands dropped onto the calm surface here and there like dollops of fresh cream. Soon the catamaran made a sharp turn toward one of the bigger islands, and as they approached, a striking series of wooden buildings with undulating thatched canopies came into view.
This was the paradise dreamed up by Araminta’s hotelier mother, Annabel Lee, who spared no expense in creating the ul
timate retreat according to her exacting vision of what chic, modern luxury should be. The island, actually just a quarter-mile-long spit of coral, consisted of thirty villas built on stilts that extended out over the shallow coral reefs. As the boat pulled up to the jetty, a line of waiters in saffron-colored uniforms stood stiffly at attention holding Lucite trays of mojitos.
Araminta was helped out of the boat first, and when all the girls were assembled on the dock with cocktails in hand, she announced, “Welcome to Samsara! In Sanskrit, the word means ‘to flow on’—to pass through states of existence. My mum wanted to create a special place where you could experience rebirth, where you could pass through different levels of bliss. So this island is ours, and I hope you will find your bliss with me this weekend. But first, I’ve arranged a shopping spree at the resort’s boutique! Girls, as a gift from my mum, each of you can pick out five new outfits. And to make this just a little more fun, and also because I don’t want to miss cocktails at sunset, we’re going to make this a challenge. I’m giving you only twenty minutes to shop. Grab whatever you can, because in twenty minutes, the boutique closes!” The girls shrieked in excitement and began a mad dash down the jetty.
With its soothing mother-of-pearl varnished walls, Javanese teak floors, and windows overlooking a lagoon, the Samsara Collection was normally a haven of civilized tranquillity. Today it was like Pamplona during the running of the bulls as the girls charged in and ransacked the place in search of outfits that would outdo one another. A fashionista tug-of-war broke out as they began clawing over the most coveted pieces.
“Lauren, let go of this Collette Dinnigan skirt before you tear it to pieces!”
“Wandi, you bitch, I saw that Tomas Maier top first and you’ll never fit into it with your new boobs!”
“Parker, put down those Pierre Hardy flats or I’ll poke your eyes out with these Nicholas Kirkwood stilettos!”
Araminta perched on a counter savoring the scene, adding more tension to her little game by calling out the remaining time at one-minute intervals. Rachel tried to steer clear of the rampage, taking refuge at a rack overlooked by the rest of the girls, probably because there weren’t any quickly recognizable labels on any of the garments. Francesca stood at a nearby rack picking through the clothes as if she was surveying medical photos of genital deformities. “This is impossible. Who are all these no-name designers?” she called out to Araminta.
“What do you mean ‘no-name’? Alexis Mabille, Thakoon, Isabel Marant—my mum personally selects the hottest designers for this boutique,” Araminta said defensively.
Francesca tossed back her long, wavy black locks and sniffed. “You know I only wear six designers: Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Etro, my dear friend Stella McCartney, and Brunello Cucinelli for country weekends. I wish you’d told me we were coming here, Araminta. I could have brought my latest Chanel resort wear—I bought this season’s entire collection at Carol Tai’s Christian Helpers fashion benefit.”
“Well, I guess you’ll just have to slum it for two nights without your Chanel,” Araminta retorted. She gave Rachel a conspiratorial wink and whispered, “When I first met Francesca in Sunday school, she had a plumpish round face and was wearing hand-me-downs. Her grandpa was a famous miser, and the whole family lived crammed together in an old shop house on Emerald Hill.”
“That’s hard to picture,” Rachel said, glancing over at Francesca’s perfectly executed makeup and ruffled emerald-green wrap dress.
“Well, her grandpa had a massive stroke and went into a coma, and her parents finally got control of all the money. Almost overnight, Francesca got herself new cheekbones and a wardrobe from Paris—you won’t believe how fast she and her mother transformed themselves. Speaking of fast, the minutes are running out, Rachel—you should be shopping!”
Even though Araminta had invited everyone to pick out five pieces, Rachel didn’t feel comfortable taking advantage of her generosity. She picked out a cute white linen blouse with tiny ruffles along the sleeves and came across a couple of summery cocktail dresses made out of the lightest silk batiste, which reminded her of the simple shift dresses Jacqueline Kennedy wore in the sixties.
As Rachel was trying on the white blouse in the dressing room, she overheard two girls in the next dressing room chatting away.
“Did you see what she was wearing? Where did she get that cheap-looking tunic top—Mango?”
“How can you expect her to have any style? Think she gets it from reading American Vogue? Hahaha.”
“Actually, Francesca says that she’s not even ABC—she was born in Mainland China!”
“I knew it! She’s got that same desperate look that all my servants have.”
“Well here’s a chance for her to get some decent clothes at last!”
“Just you watch, with all that Young money she’s going to upgrade pretty damn quick!”
“We’ll see—all the money in the world can’t buy you taste if you weren’t born with it.”
Rachel realized with a start that the girls were talking about her. Shaken, she rushed out of the dressing room, almost colliding into Araminta.
“Are you okay?” Araminta asked.
Rachel quickly recovered. “Yes, yes, just trying not to get caught up in the panic, that’s all.”
“It’s the panic that makes it so much fun! Let’s see what you found,” Araminta said excitedly. “Ooh, you have a great eye! These are done by a Javanese designer who hand-paints all of the dresses.”
“They’re so lovely. Let me pay for these—I can’t possibly accept your mom’s generosity. I mean, she doesn’t even know me,” Rachel said.
“Nonsense! They are yours. And my mum is so looking forward to meeting you.”
“Well, I have to hand it to her—she’s created quite a shop. Everything is so unique, it reminds me of the way Nick’s cousin dresses.”
“Ah, Astrid Leong! ‘The Goddess,’ as we used to call her.”
“Really?” Rachel laughed.
“Yes. All of us absolutely worshipped her when we were schoolgirls—she always looked so fabulous, so effortlessly chic.”
“She did look amazing last night,” Rachel mused.
“Oh, you saw her last night? Tell me exactly what she was wearing,” Araminta asked eagerly.
“She had on this white sleeveless top with the most delicately embroidered lace panels I’ve ever seen, and a pair of skinny Audrey Hepburn-esque gray silk pants.”
“Designed by …?” Araminta prodded.
“I have no idea. But oh, what really stood out were these show-stopping earrings she had on—they sort of looked like Navajo dream catchers, except that they were made entirely of precious gems.”
“How fabulous! I wish I knew who designed those,” Araminta said intently.
Rachel smiled, as a cute pair of sandals at the bottom of a Balinese cupboard suddenly caught her eye. Perfect for the beach, she thought, walking over to take a better look. They were slightly too big, so Rachel returned to her section, only to discover that two of her outfits—the white blouse and one of the hand-painted silk dresses—had vanished. “Hey, what happened to my—” she began to ask.
“Time’s up, girls! The boutique is now closed!” Araminta declared.
Relieved that the shopping spree was finally over, Rachel went in search of her room. Her card read “Villa No. 14,” so she followed the signs down the central jetty that wound into the middle of the coral reef. The villa was an ornate wood-crafted bungalow with pale coral walls and airy white furnishings. At the back, a set of wooden screen doors opened onto a deck with steps leading straight into the sea.
Rachel sat on the edge of the steps and dipped her toes into the water. It was perfectly cool and so shallow she could sink her feet into the pillowy white sand. She could hardly believe where she was. How much must this bungalow cost per night? She always wondered if she would be lucky enough to visit a resort
like this once in her life—for her honeymoon, perhaps—but never did she expect to find herself here for a bachelorette party. She suddenly missed Nick, and wished he could be here to share this private paradise with her. It was because of him that she had suddenly been thrust into this jet-set lifestyle, and she wondered where he could be at this very moment. If the girls went to an island resort in the Indian Ocean, where in the world did the boys go?
9
Nick
MACAU
“Please tell me we’re not riding in one of those,” Mehmet Sabançi grimaced to Nick as they disembarked from the plane and saw the fleet of matching white stretch Rolls-Royce Phantoms awaiting them.
“Oh, this is typical Bernard,” Nick smiled, wondering what Mehmet, a classics scholar who hailed from one of Istanbul’s most patrician families, made of the sight of Bernard Tai emerging from a limo in a mint-green chalk-striped blazer, orange paisley ascot, and yellow suede loafers. The only son of Dato’ Tai Toh Lui, Bernard was famed for his “brave sartorial statements” (as Singapore Tattle so diplomatically put it) and for being Asia’s biggest bon vivant, perpetually hosting wild parties at whatever louche jet-set resort was in fashion that year—always with the hippest DJs, the chillest drinks, the hottest babes, and, many whispered, the best drugs. “Niggas in Macauuuuw!” Bernard exulted, raising his arms rapper style.
“B. Tai! I can’t believe you made us fly in this old sardine can! Your G5 had a time-to-climb I could grow a beard in! We should have taken my family’s Falcon 7X,” Evan Fung (of the Fung Electronics Fungs) complained.
“My dad’s waiting for the G650 to launch into service, and then you can kiss my ass, Fungus!” Bernard retorted.
Roderick Liang (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs) chimed in, “I’m a Bombardier man myself. Our Global 6000 has such a big cabin, you can do backflips down the aisle.”