The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set

by Kevin Kwan

  “Well, it doesn’t really matter, Mom, because it seems like everyone here is rich. I think I’m still in a bit of a culture shock, or maybe it’s cash shock. The way these people spend money—the houses and the planes and the dozens of maids—you need to see it with your own eyes. It’s as if the recession isn’t happening here. Everything is ultramodern and sparkling clean.”

  “That’s all I hear from friends who visit Singapore. That it’s clean, too clean.” Kerry paused for a moment, her voice taking on a tone of concern. “Daughter, you need to watch out.”

  “What do you mean, Mom?”

  “I know how those families can be, and you don’t want to give them the impression that you are after Nick’s money. From now on, you need to be extra-careful how you present yourself.”

  Too late for that, Rachel thought. “I’m just being myself, Mom. I’m not going to change how I behave.” She wanted so much to tell her mother about the dreadful weekend, but she knew it would only worry her needlessly. She had done the same thing with Nick, sharing only the vaguest details. (Besides, they had spent most of the afternoon in a marathon lovemaking session, and she hadn’t wanted to spoil their postcoital bliss with any horror stories.)

  “Is Nick being good to you?” her mother asked.

  “Of course, Mom. Nick is a sweetheart, as always. He’s just rather distracted right now with his friend’s wedding coming up. It’s going to be the biggest wedding Asia has ever seen, Mom. All the newspapers have been covering it.”

  “Really? Should I get one of the Chinese newspapers when I go into San Francisco tomorrow?”

  “Sure, you can try. The bride is Araminta Lee, and the groom is Colin Khoo. Look out for their names.”

  “What are Nick’s parents like?”

  “I don’t know. I’m meeting them tonight.”

  “You have been there for almost one week and you still haven’t met his parents?” Kerry remarked, warning lights flashing in her head.

  “They were out of the country last week, Mom, and then we were away this weekend.”

  “So you are going to meet his parents today?”

  “Yes, dinner at their house.”

  “But why aren’t you staying with them?” Kerry asked, her concern growing. There were so many little signs that her Americanized daughter did not understand.

  “Mom, stop overanalyzing this. Nick’s friend owns the hotel, so we’re staying here during the wedding period for the convenience. But we’re moving to his grandmother’s house next week.”

  Kerry didn’t buy her daughter’s explanation. In her mind, it still made no sense that the only son of a Chinese family would be staying in a hotel with his girlfriend instead of at his parents’ house. Unless he was ashamed of Rachel. Or even worse, maybe the parents had forbidden him to bring her home.

  “What are you bringing to his parents? Did you get the Estée Lauder gifts like I told you to?”

  “No, I figured it would be too personal to give Nick’s mom cosmetics without having even met her. There’s a terrific florist in the hotel, and—”

  “No, daughter, never bring flowers! Especially not those white ones you love. White flowers are only for funerals. You should bring them a big basket of mandarin oranges, and hand it to them with both hands. And make sure that you bow your head very deeply when you greet his mother and father for the first time. These are all gestures of respect.”

  “I know, Mom. You’re acting like I’m five years old. Why are you suddenly getting so worried?”

  “This is the first time you have been serious with a Chinese man. There is so much you don’t know about the proper etiquette with these families.”

  “I didn’t realize you could be so old-fashioned,” Rachel teased. “Besides, Nick’s family doesn’t seem really Chinese at all. They seem more British if anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You are Chinese, and you still need to behave like a properly brought-up Chinese girl,” Kerry said.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. It’s just dinner,” Rachel said lightly, even though her anxiety was beginning to build.

  18

  The Youngs

  SINGAPORE

  With its prime position atop Cairnhill Road, the Residences at One Cairnhill was a striking marriage of architectural preservation and real estate wizardry. Originally the home of prominent banker Kar Chin Kee and built during the late-Victorian period, the house had long been a landmark. But as land values skyrocketed over the decades, all the other big houses gave way to the developers and high-rise towers sprang up around the graceful mansion like overgrown bamboo. By the time the great man died in 2006, the house was deemed far too historic to tear down, yet far too valuable to remain a single residence. So Kar Chin Kee’s heirs decided to preserve the original structure, converting it into the base of a sleek thirty-story glass tower where Nick’s parents now lived (when they were in Singapore, that is).

  As the taxi climbed the hill toward the imposing Corinthian-columned portico, Nick explained its history to Rachel. “Uncle Chin Kee was a friend of my grandmother’s, so we used to visit every Chinese New Year, and I would be made to recite some elaborate poem in Mandarin. Then the old man, who reeked of cigars, would give me a hong bao* stuffed with five hundred dollars.”

  “That’s insane!” Rachel exclaimed. “The biggest hong bao I ever got in my life was fifty dollars, and that was from this asshole dating my mom who was really trying to win me over. What did you do with all that money?”

  “Are you kidding? My parents kept it, of course. They kept all my New Year money—I never saw a cent of it.”

  Rachel looked at him in horror. “That’s just wrong! Hong baos are as sacred as Christmas presents.”

  “Don’t get me started on what they did with my presents on Christmas morning!” Nick laughed. As they entered the elevator, Rachel inhaled deeply as she prepared to meet Nick’s parents—these hong bao snatchers—for the first time.

  “Hey, don’t forget to breeeeathe,” Nick said, massaging her shoulders gently. On the thirtieth floor, the elevator opened directly into the penthouse’s foyer and they were greeted by an enormous pane of glass that framed a panoramic view of the Orchard Road shopping district. “Wow!” Rachel whispered, marveling at the deep purple dusk settling over the skyline.

  A woman appeared from around the corner and said, “Aiyah, Nicky, why is your hair so long? You look like a ruffian! You better get it cut short before Colin’s wedding.”

  “Hi, Mum,” Nick said simply. Rachel was still reeling from the abruptness of this encounter when Nick continued, “Mum, I’d like you to meet Rachel Chu, my girlfriend.”

  “Oh, hello,” Eleanor said, as if she had no idea who the girl might be. So this is the girl. She looks better than in that school yearbook picture obtained by the detective.

  “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Young,” Rachel found herself saying, although her mind was still trying to accept the notion that this woman could actually be Nick’s mother. Rachel had been expecting an imperious grande dame with a powdered white face and a tight perm dressed in some Hillary Clinton–esque pantsuit, but before her stood a striking woman in a trendy scoop-neck top, black leggings, and ballet flats, looking far too young to have a thirty-two-year-old son. Rachel bowed her head and presented her gift of oranges.

  “How lovely! Aiyah, you really shouldn’t have!” Eleanor replied graciously. Why in the world did she bring mandarin oranges—does she think it’s Chinese New Year? And why is she bowing like some stupid Japanese geisha? “Have you been enjoying Singapore so far?”

  “Yes, very much,” Rachel replied. “Nick’s taken me to have the most fantastic hawker food.”

  “Where did you take her?” Eleanor looked at her son dubiously. “You’re practically a tourist yourself—you don’t know all the secret holes-in-the-wall like I do.”

  “We’ve been to Lau Pa Sat, Old Airport
Road, Holland Village—” Nick began.

  “Alamak! What is there to eat in Holland Village?” Eleanor exclaimed.

  “Plenty! We had the best rojak for lunch,” Nick said defensively.

  “Nonsense! Everyone knows that the only place to go for rojak is that stall on the top floor of Lucky Plaza.”

  Rachel laughed, her nerves quickly dissipating. Nick’s mother was so funny—why had she been so nervous?

  “Well, this is it,” Eleanor said to her son, gesturing at the space.

  “I don’t know what you were talking about, Mum, the place looks perfect.”

  “Alamak, you don’t know how much of a headache this flat has caused me! We had to re-stain the floors six times to get the right finish.” Nick and Rachel stared down at the beautiful gleaming white oak floors. “And then some of the custom furniture in the guest bedrooms had to be redone, and the automatic blackout curtains in my bedroom aren’t dark enough. I’ve had to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms on the other side of the flat for more than a month now because the curtains are on back order from France.”

  The entry foyer opened into a great room with thirty-foot ceilings and a grid-like pattern of skylights that drenched the room with light. The space was made even more dramatic by a sunken oval pit in the center, with sleek Hermès-orange sofas perfectly contoured around both sides of the oval. From the ceiling, a spiral chandelier of sculptured gold and glass teardrops pirouetted down until it almost touched the oval driftwood coffee table. Rachel could hardly believe that Nick’s parents lived in such a space—it looked more like the lobby of some impossibly hip hotel. A phone rang in another room, and a maid peered out of a doorway to announce, “It’s Mrs. Foo and Mrs. Leong.”

  “Oh, Consuelo, please send them up,” Eleanor said. At last, the reinforcements are here.

  Nick looked at his mother in surprise. “You invited other people? I thought we were going to have a quiet family dinner.”

  Eleanor smiled. We would have, if it were just our family. “It’s only the regular crowd, lah. The cook made laksa, and it’s always better to have more people for that. Besides, everyone wants to see you, and they can’t wait to meet Rachel!”

  Nick smiled at Rachel in an attempt to cover up his dismay. He had wanted his parents to give their undivided attention to Rachel, but his mother was always springing last-minute surprises like this.

  “Go wake your father, Nick—he’s napping in his media room down that hall,” Eleanor instructed.

  Nick and Rachel walked toward the media room. The sounds of gunfire and explosions could be heard from within. As they approached the open door, Rachel could see Nick’s father asleep on a Danish ergonomic recliner while Battlestar Galactica played on the flat-screen television built into the sandblasted oak wall. “Let’s not disturb him,” Rachel whispered, but Nick entered anyway.

  “Wakey, wakey,” he said softly.

  Nick’s father opened his eyes and looked up at Nick in surprise. “Oh, hello. Is it dinnertime?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  Nick’s father got up from the chair and looked around, spotting Rachel standing shyly in the doorway.

  “You must be Rachel Chu,” he said, smoothing down the back of his hair.

  “Yes,” Rachel replied, coming into the room. Nick’s father extended his hand. “Philip Young,” he said with a smile, shaking her hand firmly. Rachel liked him instantly, and she could at last see where her boyfriend got his looks. Nick’s large eyes and elegantly shaped mouth were exactly like his mother’s, but the thin nose, prominent jawline, and thick jet-black hair were unmistakably his father’s.

  “When did you get in?” Nick asked his father.

  “I caught the morning flight from Sydney. I wasn’t planning to come until later in the week, but your mum insisted that I fly up today.”

  “Do you work in Sydney, Mr. Young?” Rachel asked.

  “Work? No, I moved to Sydney not to work. It’s far too beautiful a place for work. You get distracted by the weather and the sea, the long walks and the good fishing.”

  “Oh, I see,” Rachel said. She noticed that his accent was a unique fusion of British, Chinese, and Australian.

  Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Astrid peeked in. “I’m under strict orders to corral all of you,” she announced.

  “Astrid! I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Nick said.

  “Well, your mum wanted it to be a surprise. Surprise!” Astrid said, fluttering her fingers and giving him an ironic smile.

  Everyone made their way back to the living room, where Nick and Rachel were surrounded by a flurry of dinner guests. Lorena Lim and Carol Tai shook Rachel’s hand, while Daisy Foo embraced Nick. (It did not escape Rachel that Daisy was the first person who had hugged him all night.)

  “Aiyah, Nicky, why have you been hiding your beautiful girlfriend for so long?” Daisy said, greeting Rachel with an effusive hug as well. Before Rachel could respond, she felt someone grabbing her arm. She looked down at the bing-cherry-size ruby ring and long red manicured claws before looking up in shock at a woman with teal-green eye shadow and rouge painted heavier than a drag queen’s.

  “Rachel, I’m Nadine,” the woman said. “I’ve heard so much about you from my daughter.”

  “Really? Who’s your daughter?” Rachel asked politely. Just then, she heard a high-pitched squeal right behind her. “Nicky! I’ve missed you!” a distinctive voice exclaimed. A chill came over Rachel. It was Francesca Shaw, greeting Nick with a tight bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. Before she could react, Francesca put on her biggest smile and swooped down on Rachel with another double-cheek kiss. “Rachel, lovely to see you so soon again!”

  “Oh, were you at Araminta’s bachelorette party?” Nick asked.

  “Of course I was. We all had such a gloooorious time, didn’t we, Rachel? Such a beautiful island, and wasn’t the food marvelous? I heard you particularly enjoyed the fish course.”

  “Yes, it was quite an experience,” Rachel replied slowly, stunned by Francesca’s remarks. Was she admitting responsibility for the mutilated fish? She noticed that Francesca’s lipstick had left a bright red imprint on Nick’s cheek.

  “I’m not sure if you remember my cousin Astrid,” Nick said to Francesca.

  “Of course!” Francesca rushed to greet her with a hug. Astrid stiffened up, taken aback by how familiar Francesca was being. Francesca scrutinized Astrid from head to toe. She was wearing a white drape-front silk georgette dress with navy blue trim. The cut is so perfect, it must be couture. But who’s the designer?

  “What a fantastic dress!” Francesca said.

  “Thank you. You look lovely in red,” Astrid responded.

  “Valentino, of course,” Francesca replied, pausing to wait for Astrid to reveal the designer of her outfit. But Astrid did not reciprocate. Without missing a beat, Francesca turned to Nick’s mother and gushed, “What a fabulous place, Auntie Elle! I want to move in right now. It’s all so Morris Lapidus, so Miami Modern! It makes me want to throw on a Pucci caftan and order a whiskey sour.”

  “Wah, Francesca, you hit it right on the head,” Eleanor said in delight. “Everybody, we’re going to do something different tonight—we’re all going to makan in my little kitchen,” she announced as she led her guests into a kitchen that to Rachel seemed anything but little. The cavernous space looked like a gourmand’s idea of what heaven might be—a gleaming temple of white Calacatta marble, stainless-steel surfaces, and state-of-the-art appliances. A chef in white uniform stood by the commercial-grade Viking stove, busy monitoring bubbling copper pots, while three kitchen maids scurried around making final preparations. At the far end was an alcove with an art deco diner-style banquette.

  As they took their seats, Carol glanced over at the chef deftly ladling crimson broth into large white clay soup bowls. “Wah, Eleanor—I feel like I’m dining at the chef’s table of some
chichi restaurant,” she said.

  “Isn’t it fun?” Eleanor said merrily. She looked at Rachel and said, “I was never allowed to set foot in the kitchen at my mother-in-law’s house. Now I get to eat in my own kitchen, and actually watch the food being cooked!” Rachel smiled in amusement—here was a woman who obviously had never cooked a meal in her life but seemed to relish the novelty of being inside a kitchen.

  “Well, I love to cook. I can only dream of one day having a kitchen as beautiful as yours, Mrs. Young,” Rachel said.

  Eleanor smiled graciously. I’m sure you can—with my son’s money.

  “Rachel is an amazing cook. Without her, I’d probably be eating ramen noodles every night,” Nick added.

  “That would be just like you,” Daisy commented. She looked at Rachel and said, “I used to call Nicky my ‘Noodle Boy’—he was always so crazy over noodles as a kid. We would take him to the top restaurants in Singapore, and all he ever wanted was a plate of fried noodles with extra gravy.”

  As she said this, three maids entered the dining alcove and placed large steaming bowls of laksa noodle soup in front of each guest. Rachel marveled at the beautiful composition of butterfly shrimp, fried fish cake, pillowy tofu puffs, and hard-boiled egg halves beautifully arranged over the thick rice vermicelli and fiery soup. For a few minutes, the room lapsed into silence as everyone slurped down the distinctive noodles and savored the rich broth.

  “I can taste the coconut milk in the soup, but what gives it the slightly tart, spicy kick? Is it Kaffir?” Rachel asked.

  Show-off, Eleanor thought.

  “Good guess. It’s tamarind,” Daisy answered. This girl wasn’t bullshitting—she does know how to cook.

  “Rachel, it’s so impressive that you know your way around a spice rack,” Francesca chirped, her fake-friendly tone barely masking her disdain.

  “Apparently not as well as you know how to gut a fish,” Rachel commented.

  “You girls went fishing?” Philip looked up from his laksa in surprise.