The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set
Page 50
Eleanor thanked them again for the lavish gift and prepared to depart. Carlton rolled over to the entrance foyer and said, “Take the elevator this time, Mrs. Young. I’ll send your car down by itself, and it will be waiting for you when you reach the lobby.”
“Oh thank you so much, Carlton. I was thinking I might have a panic attack if I had to go in that car elevator again!”
Shaoyen and Carlton waved goodbye at the elevator vestibule. The doors closed, but instead of going down immediately, there was an unusual pause. On the other side of the door, Eleanor heard Carlton let out a sudden yell.
“Ow! Ooow! That one really hurt, Mother! What have I done?”
“BAICHI! *5 How dare you tell Eleanor Young so much of our business? Have you learned nothing?” Shaoyen screamed in Mandarin.
Then the elevator began its rapid descent, and Eleanor could hear no more.
* * *
*1 Oriental Garments, better known as OG, is a homegrown department store chain established in 1962. Offering value-for-money apparel, accessories, and household items, it’s the go-to place for old-money Singaporean ladies of a certain generation who claim that they only wear Hanro underwear but secretly buy all their discount Triumph bras and panties there.
*2 Mandarin for “thank you.”
*3 Cantonese for “to introduce.”
*4 “Happy New Year” in Mandarin.
*5 Mandarin for “Idiot!”
4
RIDOUT ROAD
SINGAPORE
From: Astrid Teo
Date: February 9, 2013 at 10:42 PM
To: Charlie Wu
Subject: HNY!
Hey you,
Just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year! I got home from the annual yee sang* dinner with my in-laws, and I suddenly remembered the year I came over to your house for the dish, and one of the ingredients was 24-carat gold-leaf shavings. I remember telling my mum about it, knowing it would scandalize her. (“Goodness gracious, those Wus have run out of ways to spend their money, so now they are literally eating it!” was what she had to say.)
Apologies for not writing in a while but these past few months have been rather insane. I’ve become a working girl of sorts…I’m now involved with the Fine Arts Museum, helping behind the scenes with some strategic next-phase acquisitions as the museum expands. (Please keep all this to yourself. They wanted to officially make me a trustee or name a wing for me but I declined both. No desire to see my name carved into a wall—I actually think it’s kind of morbid.)
Speaking of acquisitions, Michael’s new company has been on a tear! He bought two U.S.-based tech start-ups last year, giving me an excuse to accompany him on a couple of trips to California to visit my brother. Alex and Salimah now have three kids and live in a lovely home in Brentwood. This year my mum finally agreed to come with me to LA to meet her grandchildren (Dad still refuses to acknowledge Salimah and “those” kids). Of course Mum fell in love with them—they are adorable.
The same cannot be said for Cassian, who’s been more than a handful. I made it through the terrible twos but no one told me about the terrible fives! You ought to count your lucky stars that you have girls. We are now trying to decide whether to hold him back another year before he starts primary school at ACS. (Of course, Michael doesn’t think he should go to ACS at all and wants him to go to an international school. What do you think of that?)
Also, in October we moved to a new house on Ridout Road. Yes, finally! Although it didn’t take much to convince Michael to leave our little flat now that he could buy a house with his own money. It’s one of those lovely Kerry Hill–designed bungalows from the 1990s—classic tropical modern built around three courtyards with reflecting pools, etc. We hired a young local architect who had apprenticed with Peter Zumthor to do some updating, and a fantastic Italian landscape designer to make the grounds less Bali and more Sardinia. (Yes, I’m still inspired by our trip to Cala di Volpe all those years ago!)
So of course moving and setting up the new house became a full-time job, even though I supposedly had a whole design team at my disposal. But guess what? We’re already outgrowing 9,000 sq. ft. as Michael has become addicted to collecting historical artifacts and vintage Porsches. What was supposed to be our downstairs living room is now practically a car showroom. Can you believe it? Two years ago, I couldn’t even convince my husband to buy a new suit!
Anyway, how are you? I saw you on the cover of Wired last month—so proud of you! How are the girls? How’s Isabel? From your last e-mail it sounded like the two of you are in a really great place. What did I tell you? A week in the Maldives with no phones or Wi-Fi will reinvigorate any marriage!
If you’re coming to S’pore this year please let me know—I’ll give you a tour of my new car dealership!
xo,
A
From: Charlie Wu
Date: February 10, 2013 at 1:29 AM
To: Astrid Teo
Subject: Re: HNY!
Hi Astrid,
The museum work is perfect for you—I’ve always thought you’d make a great force in the cultural scene. Glad you finally have a home with enough room to swing a cat. Not sure if you’d consider me lucky these days: my younger one, Delphine (4), has become an exhibitionist (the other day she stripped off all her clothes and ran around Lane Crawford for ten minutes before the nannies caught her—I suspect they were too busy shopping the pre–New Year sale to notice), and her older sister, Chloe (7), is going through a major tomboy phase. She found my old Northern Exposure DVDs and for some reason has fallen in love with the show (even though I think she’s too young to get any of it). She now wants to be either a bush pilot or a sheriff. Isabel is not at all happy about this, but at least she’s much happier with me these days.
Happy Year of the Snake to you and your family!
Regards,
Charlie
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From: Astrid Teo
Date: February 10, 2013 at 7:35 AM
To: Charlie Wu
Subject: Re: Re: HNY!
God, I remember how we used to binge on Northern Exposure back in our London days! I was totally obsessed with John Corbett. Wonder what he’s up to these days? Remember that idea you had, inspired by Adam the chef’s stint at the Brick? You wanted to find an old truck-stop diner in the middle of nowhere—on some desolate road in the Orkney Islands or Canada’s Northwest Territories—and hire a genius chef who’d apprenticed in the best restaurants in Paris to work there. We’d serve the most exquisite, innovative food, but we would not redecorate the place one bit and still serve on the old plastic diner plates and charge diner prices. I would be the waitress and wear only Ann Demeulemeester. And you would be the bartender and serve only the finest single malt scotches and the rarest wines, but we’d scrape off all the labels so no one would know. People would just stumble in every once in a while by accident and be treated to the best food in the world. I still think it’s a brilliant idea! Don’t worry too much about your daughters. I think nudism is a beautiful thing in children (but maybe you ought to send her to Sweden for the summer), and my cousin Sophie went through a tomboy phase too. (Oh wait a minute, she’s over thirty now and I’ve still never seen her in makeup or a skirt. Oops.)
xo,
A
p.s. What’s up with your increasingly minimalist responses? Your last fe
w e-mails have been painfully short compared to my tomes. If I didn’t know how busy and important you are taking over the world, I would start to get offended!
From: Charlie Wu
Date: February 10, 2013 at 9:04 AM
To: Astrid Teo
Subject: Re: Re: Re: HNY!
John Corbett has been living with Bo Derek since 2002. I think he’s doing just fine.
Regards, C
p.s. I’m not taking over the world—your husband is. I’ve been busy on a hunt to find a genius chef who is willing to live in Patagonia and cook for six customers a month.
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* * *
* Eaten during Chinese New Year in Singapore, yee sang, or “raw fish,” consists of a huge plate piled with raw fish, shredded pickled vegetables, and a variety of spices and sauces. On cue, the diners at the table stand and toss the ingredients in the air with their chopsticks while wishing each other prosperity and abundance. Known as the “prosperity toss,” the belief is that the higher you toss, the higher your fortunes will grow.
5
TYERSALL PARK
SINGAPORE, CHINESE NEW YEAR, MORNING
Three Mercedes S-Class sedans in the identical shade of iridium silver bearing license plate numbers TAN01, TAN02, and TAN03 idled in the morning traffic on their way to Tyersall Park. In the lead car, Lillian May Tan, matriarch of the family with the surname so unabashedly flaunted on its vehicles, peered out at the red-and-gold Chinese New Year decorations that assaulted every façade along Orchard Road. Every year, the decorations seemed to get more and more elaborate and less and less tasteful. “What in God’s name is that?”
Seated in the front passenger seat, Eric Tan studied the ten-story LED billboard flashing an epileptic-seizure-inducing animation and let out a chuckle. “Grandma, I think it’s supposed to be a red snake…entering some…um, golden tunnel.”
“It’s a curious-looking snake,” Eric’s new wife, Evie, commented in her high-pitched voice.
Lillian May refrained from mentioning what she thought the engorged creature with the flared head resembled, but it reminded her of something she had seen a long time ago when her late husband—bless his soul—took her to a most peculiar live show in Amsterdam. “We should have taken Clemenceau Avenue! Now we’re stuck in all this Orchard Road traffic,” Lillian May said, fretting.
“Aiyah, no matter which way we go, it’s going to be jammed up,” her daughter Geraldine said.
Beginning on the first day of the Chinese New Year, Singaporeans participate in a most unique ritual. All over the island, people frantically dash around to the homes of family and friends to offer New Year greetings, exchange ang pows,*1 and gobble down food. The first two days of the New Year are most crucial, and a strict protocol is observed as people arrange their visits in specific order of seniority—paying respects to the oldest, most esteemed (and usually richest) relatives first. Adult children not living at home are expected to visit their parents, younger siblings have to visit each of their older siblings in descending order of age, second cousins twice removed visit first cousins once removed, and after spending all day driving around the city paying tribute to the paternal side, they have to repeat the whole process the next day on the maternal side.*2 In large families the whole affair would often involve complicated Excel flow charts, ang pow tracking apps, and plenty of Russian vodka to dull the migraine-inducing confusion of it all.
The Tans prided themselves on always being the first to arrive at Tyersall Park on New Year’s Day. Even though these descendants of the nineteenth-century rubber tycoon Tan Wah Wee were third cousins to the Youngs and technically not supposed to be the first visitors, they had established a tradition of showing up promptly at 10:00 a.m. since the 1960s (mainly because Lillian May’s late husband did not want to miss out on rubbing shoulders with all the VVIPs who tended to show up early).
As the convoy of vehicles finally reached Tyersall Avenue and made its way up the private gravel road of the sprawling estate, Geraldine gave Evie a last-minute crash course on her new relatives. “Now, Evie, be sure to greet Su Yi in Hokkien like I instructed you, and don’t address her unless you are spoken to first.”
“Okay.” Evie nodded, gaping at the elegant colonnade of palm trees leading to the most majestic house she had ever seen, getting more nervous by the second.
“And just avoid making any eye contact with her Thai ladies-in-waiting. Great-auntie Su Yi always has these two maids standing by her side who will give you the evil eye,” Eric remarked.
“Oh God—”
“Aiyah, stop scaring the poor girl,” Lillian May scoffed. As the family emerged from their cars and prepared to enter the house, Geraldine whispered a final warning to her mother. “Remember…DO NOT bring up Nicky again. You almost caused Auntie Su Yi to have a stroke last year when you asked where he was.”
“What makes you think Nicky won’t be here this year?” Lillian May asked as she crouched down by the Mercedes’s side mirror to rearrange the elaborate wisps of hair cascading down her neck.
Geraldine glanced around quickly before continuing. “Aiyah, you don’t even know the latest! Monica Lee told me that her niece Parker Yeo heard the most sensational tidbit from Teddy Lim: Apparently, Nicky’s all set to marry that girl next month. Instead of a grand wedding here they are getting married in California on a beach! Can you imagine?”
“Hiyah—what a disgrace! Poor Su Yi. And poor Eleanor. What a loss of face—all her efforts to position Nicky as the most favored grandson have been dashed.”
“Remember, Mummy, um ngoi hoi seh, ah.*3 Don’t say anything!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t say a thing to Su Yi,” Lillian May promised. She was glad to be here at Tyersall Park at last, in this oasis of splendor far removed from the garish New Year kitsch that adorned the rest of the island. To Lillian, there was this sense of being in an enchanted time warp the moment she passed through the front door. It was a house that adhered only to the traditions decreed by its exacting chatelaine, transforming for the festive season in its own subtle ways. The white phalaenopsis orchids that usually greeted visitors on the ancient stone table in the foyer were replaced by a towering arrangement of pink peonies. Upstairs in the drawing room, a twenty-foot-long calligraphy scroll bearing a New Year poem by Xu Zhimo—composed in tribute to Su Yi’s late husband, Sir James Young—would be unfurled against the silver- and lapis-inlaid wall, and the white voile curtains that usually flapped against the veranda doors would be swapped for watered-silk panels in the palest shimmering rose.
In the sun-soaked conservatory, the New Year tea ritual was just beginning. Su Yi, resplendent in a high-necked turquoise silk charmeuse dress and a single opera-length strand of cultured pearls, sat on a cushioned wicker chair by the French doors with her trusty Thai lady’s maids standing solemnly behind her, while three of her middle-aged children stood in a row before her like school kids waiting to turn in their homework. Felicity and Victoria watched as their brother, Philip, ceremoniously offered the little teacup to his mother with both hands and formally offered wishes of good health and prosperity. After Su Yi took a sip of the oolong tea infused with dried red dates, it was Eleanor’s turn. As Eleanor began pouring the steaming liquid from the ornately carved Qing dragon teapot, the first guests of the morning could be heard arriving.
“Hiyah, those Tans come earlier and earlier every year!” Felicity said irritatedly.
Victoria shook her head in disapproval. “That Geraldine is always worried that she’ll mi
ss out on the food. She gets fatter and fatter every year—I’m scared to imagine what her triglyceride level must be.”
“Now, didn’t that good-for-nothing Eric Tan just marry some Indonesian girl? I wonder how dark she is going to be,” Felicity said.
“She’s Indonesian Chinese—her mother is one of the Liem sisters, so I bet you she will be fairer than all of us put together. Now don’t say a thing, but Cassandra warned me that Auntie Lillian May just got back from America and is sporting a new wig. She thinks it makes her look younger, but Cassandra thinks she looks like a pontianak,”*4 Victoria muttered.
“Goodness gracious!” Felicity giggled.
Just then, Lillian May breezed into the room, followed by a retinue of sons and daughters, assorted spouses, and grandchildren. The matriarch of the Tan family approached Su Yi, bowed ever so slightly, and offered the traditional New Year greeting: “Gong hei fat choy!”*5
“Gong hei fat choy. And who are you?” Su Yi asked, peering at her through her trademark tinted bifocals.
Lillian May looked taken aback. “Su Yi, it’s me. Lillian May Tan!”
Su Yi paused for a moment before saying, completely deadpan, “Oh, I didn’t recognize you with your new hairstyle. I thought that wicked English woman from Dynasty had come to visit me.”
Lillian didn’t know whether to be pleased or offended, but everyone else in the room broke out in laughter.
Soon, more members of the extended Young–T’sien–Shang clan began to arrive, and everyone rushed around gongheifatchoying the hell out of each other, handing ang pows to the kids, complimenting one another’s outfits, commenting on who had put on weight or looked too skinny, trading reports on whose house just sold for how much, showing off pictures of their most recent holiday/grandchild/medical procedure, and stuffing their faces with pineapple tarts.