The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy Box Set

by Kevin Kwan

  “I’m assuming someone’s talked to their mother?” Charlie’s wife—from whom he was estranged—lived in their house on The Peak, and the children spent every other week with her.

  “Isabel can’t be reached. She told the housekeeper that she was meeting her mother for lunch at the Kowloon Cricket Club, but her mother reports that they haven’t spoken all week.”

  Just then, the cell phone rang again and Alice quickly answered. She listened in silence, nodding her head every now and then. Charlie looked at her pensively. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. Ten years ago his brother Rob had been kidnapped by the Eleven Finger Triad. It was like déjà vu all over again.

  “Okay. Tor jeh, tor jeh,”*4 Alice said, hanging up. Looking at Charlie, she reported, “That was the leader of Team Angels. They now think that Isabel might have left the country. They spoke to the upstairs maid, and Isabel’s passport is missing. But for some reason she didn’t take any suitcases.”

  “Isn’t she in the middle of some new treatment?”

  “Yes, but apparently she didn’t show up at her psychiatrist appointment this week.”

  Charlie let out a deep sigh. This wasn’t a good sign.

  * * *

  *1 And if you happen to get invited, just know you’re still obliged to pay the $20,000 attendance fee unless you are one of the people listed in the next footnote. (Beautiful people never have to pay for anything.)

  *2 Leo, Brad, Angelina, and Bono have all attended.

  *3 The acronym for Informal Gathering of World Economic Leaders, the most exclusive inner sanctum of the conference, so secretive that their meetings take place at an undisclosed location deep within the Congress Centre.

  *4 Cantonese for “Thank you, thank you.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  FULLERTON HOTEL, SINGAPORE

  Every month, Rosalind Fung, the property heiress, hosted a Christian Fellowship Banquet for three hundred of her closest girlfriends in the opulent ballroom of the Fullerton Hotel. An invitation to this occasion was highly coveted by a certain segment of Singapore society regardless of their religious affiliation as it was a seal of approval from the old guard (there wasn’t a single Chindo or Mainlander in sight), and also because the food was heavenly—Rosalind brought in her personal chefs, who took over the hotel’s kitchens for one day and prepared an enormous buffet feast consisting of the most mouthwatering Singaporean dishes. Most important—this biblical bacchanal was completely free of charge thanks to Rosalind’s generosity, although guests were asked to contribute something to the offering basket immediately following the closing prayer.*1

  Having strategically chosen a table closest to the buffet area, Daisy Foo sighed as she watched Araminta Lee standing in line at the noodle station dishing out some mee siam. “Aiyah—that Araminta! Bein kar ani laau!”*2

  “She doesn’t look old. She just doesn’t have any makeup on, that’s all. Those supermodel types look like nothing on earth without makeup,” Nadine Shaw said as she tucked into her steaming bowl of mee rebus noodles.

  Dousing her mee goreng with more chili oil, Eleanor Young commented, “It has nothing to do with that. I used to see her swim at the Churchill Club, and even when she was coming out of the pool dripping wet, she looked beautiful without a stitch of makeup on. Her face has just taken a turn, that’s all. She has one of those faces that I always knew would age badly. What is she…twenty-seven, twenty-eight now? It’s all over for her, lah.”

  At that moment, Lorena Lim and Carol Tai arrived at the table with plates piled dangerously high with food. “Wait, wait…who’s aging badly?” Lorena inquired eagerly.

  “Araminta Lee. Over at that table with all the Khoo women. Doesn’t she look haggard?” Nadine said.

  “Alamak, bite your tongue, Nadine! Didn’t you know she just had a miscarriage?” Carol whispered.

  The ladies all stared at Carol, mouths agape. “Again? Are you joking? Who told you, lah?” Daisy demanded, still chewing on her mee pok.

  “Who else? Kitty, lor. Kitty and Araminta are the best of friends now, and ever since this latest miscarriage, she’s been spending a lot of time at Kitty’s house playing with Gisele. She’s completely heartbroken.”

  “How often do you see Kitty and Gisele?” Lorena asked, marveling that Carol could be so forgiving of her ex-daughter-in-law—the same woman who had cheated on her son, Bernard, with a man Kitty met at the funeral of Carol’s late husband and who subsequently dragged Bernard through a particularly acrimonious divorce and custody battle. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that Carol abhorred her son’s new lifestyle of yoga and “that ridiculous Jurassic diet,” both of which she considered to be satanic.)

  “I go over to Kitty’s at least once a week, and Gisele comes to church with me every Sunday,” Carol proudly reported.

  “Is it healthy for Araminta to be playing with your granddaughter when she just lost her own baby?” Nadine wondered out loud.

  “Aiyah, I’m sure old Mrs. Khoo must be giving Araminta soooo much pressure to produce a grandson! It’s been five years since she married Colin! My Nicky and Rachel have been married for two years now, and they still won’t give me a grandchild!” Eleanor complained.

  “But Araminta is still young. She has plenty of time, lah,” Nadine argued.

  “With all of Dorothy Khoo’s side disinherited, Puan’s side good-for-nothings, and Nigel Khoo running off and marrying that Russian cabaret singer, who is obviously too old to seh kiah,*3 Colin and Araminta are the last hope to carry on the Khoo name,” Daisy commented. Having been born a Wong, of the tin-mining Wongs, Daisy had an encyclopedic knowledge of Singapore’s social history.

  The ladies all shook their heads, casting pitiful glances at Araminta, who to anyone else but these women’s hypercritical eyes looked perfectly gorgeous and lovely in her yellow striped minidress from Jacquemus.

  “Well, Eleanor, your niece Astrid just arrived. There’s one girl who never seems to age,” Carol observed.

  All the women turned to look as Astrid descended the sweeping curved staircase with her mother, Felicity Leong; the society queen Mrs. Lee Yong Chien; and another elderly lady decked out in a cobalt blue sequined hijab.

  “Who is that Malay woman wearing that ginormous ruby choker? If that center stone looks as big as it does from here, it must be the size of a lychee up close!” Lorena exclaimed. Having been married into the L’Orient Jewelry family for more than three decades, she definitely knew her rocks.

  “Oh that’s the Dowager Sultana of Perawak. She’s staying with the Leongs, of course,” Eleanor reported.

  “Alamak, having royalty as houseguests is such a nuisance!” Daisy complained.

  Lorena, like most of the other women in the ballroom, scrutinized Astrid from head to toe as she walked to her table wearing what appeared to be a crisp men’s button-down shirt tucked into exquisitely cut navy-and-white gingham cigarette trousers. “It’s true, Astrid actually looks younger and younger every time I see her. Isn’t she in her late thirties by now? She looks like an MGS*4 girl coming off the school bus! I bet you she must be sneaking off somewhere and getting things done.”

  “I can tell you she hasn’t had a thing done. She’s not the type,” Eleanor said.

  “It’s how she puts it all together. The other girls her age are dressed up like Christmas trees but just look at Astrid…hair in a sleek ponytail, ballet flats, not a drop of jewelry except that cross…is it turquoise? And that outfit! She looks like Audrey Hepburn on the way to a screen test,” Daisy said approvingly as she fished around in her new Céline handbag for a toothpick. “Blah-dee-hell! See what my snobby daughter-in-law forces me to carry? She gave me this fancy handbag for my birthday because she’s embarrassed of being seen next to me when I’m carrying my no-name purse, but I can’t ever find anything in here! It’s so damn deep, and there are so many damn pockets!�
��

  “Daisy, will you please stop swearing? We are in the Lord’s presence tonight, you know,” Carol admonished.

  As if on cue, the Christian Fellowship Banquet’s hostess, Rosalind Fung, got up from her table and walked onto the stage. A short, plumpish woman in her mid-sixties with a frizzy spiral perm, Rosalind was dressed in what seemed to be the regulation uniform of every middle-aged old-money Singaporean heiress—a sleeveless floral blouse, probably purchased from the clearance rack at John Little, taupe elastic-waist pants, and orthopedic open-toe sandals. She smiled happily from the podium at her gathered friends.

  “Ladies, thank you all for coming tonight to join in fellowship with Christ. A quick warning to everyone before we start: I’m told that the laksa*5 is dangerously spicy tonight. I don’t know what happened, but even Mary Lau, who everyone knows has to have extra chili with everything, told me that she buey tahan*6 the laksa. Now, before we continue to nourish our stomachs and our souls, Bishop See Bei Sien will begin our program with a blessing.”

  As the bishop started one of his notoriously tedious prayers, bizarre noises could be heard coming from behind one of the ballroom’s side doors. It sounded as if there was a heated argument going on outside, followed by a series of muffled bangs and scrapes. Suddenly the door burst open. “NO, I SAID YOU CANNOT GO IN!” a female attendant shouted forcefully, breaking the silence.

  Something could be heard running along the side of the ballroom, wailing intermittently like an animal. Daisy prodded the woman at the next table who had stood up to get a better view. “What can you see?” she asked anxiously.

  “Dunno, lah—it looks like…like some crazy homeless person,” came the reply.

  “What do you mean ‘homeless’? There is no such thing as a homeless person in Singapore!” Eleanor exclaimed.

  Astrid, who was seated at the far end beside the stage, wasn’t fully aware of what was happening until a woman with extremely disheveled hair wearing stained yoga sweats suddenly appeared at her table, dragging two young girls in school uniforms behind her. Mrs. Lee Yong Chien let out a gasp and clutched her purse tightly to her chest, as Astrid realized in astonishment that the two girls were Chloe and Delphine, Charlie Wu’s daughters. And the deranged-looking woman was none other than Charlie’s estranged wife, Isabel! The last time Astrid had seen Isabel, she had been exquisitely attired in Dior couture at the Venice Biennale. Now she was completely unrecognizable. What were they doing here in Singapore?

  Before Astrid could properly react, Isabel Wu took her eldest daughter by the shoulders and turned her toward Astrid. “Here she is!” she screamed, spit forming at the corners of her mouth. “I want you to see her with your own eyes! I want you to see the whore that spreads her legs for your daddy!”

  Everyone at the table gasped, and Rosalind Fung immediately made the sign of the cross, as if it would somehow protect her ears from absorbing the obscenity. The hotel’s security guards came rushing up, but before Isabel could be properly restrained, she grabbed the nearest bowl of laksa and hurled it at Astrid. Astrid backed away reflexively, and the bowl ricocheted off the edge of the table, splashing scalding extra-spicy soup all over Felicity Leong, Mrs. Lee Yong Chien, and the Dowager Sultana of Perawak.

  * * *

  *1 Most of the guests left five or ten dollars each, except Mrs. Lee Yong Chien, who never left anything. “I do all my giving through the Lee Family Foundation” was what she always said.

  *2 Hokkien for “Gotten so old!”

  *3 Hokkien for “bear a child.”

  *4 Methodist Girls’ School, which we Anglo-Chinese School (ACS) boys used to call Monkey Girls’ School.

  *5 A spicy noodle soup dish served with cockles, fish cake, and thick rice noodles.

  *6 Singlish for “cannot endure it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  RADIO CITY MUSIC HALL, NEW YORK

  Patti Smith was in the middle of belting out “Because the Night” when Nicholas Young’s cell phone began lighting up like a firecracker in his jeans pocket. Nick ignored the call, but when the lights came up after the concert’s final encore, he glanced at the screen and was surprised to find one voice mail from his cousin Astrid, another from his best friend Colin Khoo, and five text messages from his mother. His mother never texted. He didn’t think she even knew how to text. The messages read:

  ELEANOR YOUNG: 4?Z Nicky#

  ELEANOR YOUNG: p lease cakk me at once! Where are y

  ELEANOR YOUNG: oy? Why don’t you answered any of your phines?

  ELEANOR YOUNG: Ah Ma had a massive heat attack!

  ELEANOR YOUNG: C allhome now!

  Nick handed the phone to his wife, Rachel, and sank into his seat. After the euphoric high of the concert, he felt like someone had suddenly knocked all the wind out of him.

  Rachel read the text messages quickly and looked up at Nick in alarm. “Don’t you think you’d better call?”

  “Yeah, I guess I should,” Nick replied. “Let’s get out of here first, though. I need some air.”

  —

  As the two of them exited Radio City Music Hall, they hurried across Sixth Avenue to avoid the crowds still milling under the famous marquee. Nick paced around the plaza outside the Time & Life Building to make his call. There was that familiar dead pause for a few seconds, usually followed by the distinctive Singapore ringtone, but today, his mother’s voice abruptly came onto the line before he was ready for it.

  “NICKY? Nicky, ah? Is that you?”

  “Yes, Mum, it’s me. Can you hear me?”

  “Aiyah, why did you take so long to call back? Where are you?”

  “I was at a concert when you called.”

  “A concert? Did you go to Lincoln Center?”

  “No, it was a rock concert at Radio City Music Hall.”

  “What? You went to see those Rockette girls with the kicking legs?”

  “No, Mum, it was a ROCK CONCERT, not the Rockettes.”

  “A ROCK CONCERT! Alamak, I hope you wore earplugs. I read that people are losing their hearing younger and younger now because they keep going to those rock-and-roll concerts. All those heepees with long hair are going stone-deaf. Serves them right.”

  “The volume was fine, Mum—Radio City has some of the best acoustics in the world. Where are you?”

  “I just left Mount E. Ahmad is driving me to Carol Tai’s—she’s having a chili crab party. I had to get out of that hospital ward because it was getting too chaotic. Felicity is being her usual bossy mother hen—she said I couldn’t go in to see Ah Ma because too many people had been to see her already and they had to start restricting the number of visitors. So I just sat outside for a while and nibbled away on the buffet with your cousin Astrid. I wanted to show my face so no one would dare say I didn’t do my duty as the wife of the eldest son.”

  “Well, how is Ah Ma?” Nick didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he was rather anxious to know whether his grandmother was dead or alive.

  “They managed to stabilize her, so she’s okay for now.”

  Nick looked up at Rachel and mouthed, “She’s okay,” as Eleanor continued her update: “They put her on a morphine drip so she’s sedated at the moment in the Royal Suite. But Prof Oon’s wife told me that it’s not looking good.”

  “Prof Oon’s wife is a doctor?” Nick asked, confused.

  “No, lah! But she’s his wife—she heard it straight from the horse’s mouth that Ah Ma’s not going to last long. Alamak, what do you expect? She has congestive heart failure and she’s ninety-six years old—it’s not like they can operate at this point.”

  Nick shook his head derisively—patient confidentiality was obviously not high on Francis Oon’s list. “What is Mrs. Oon even doing there?”

  “Don’t you know Mrs. Oon is the niece of Singapore’s First Lady? She brought along the First Lady, Great-aunt
Rosemary T’sien, and Lillian May Tan. The entire floor at Mount E has been sealed off to the public—it’s become a restricted VVIP floor because of Ah Ma, Mrs. Lee Yong Chien, and the Dowager Sultana of Perawak. There was a bit of a fuss over who would be put in the Royal Suite,*1 as the Malay ambassador insisted that the Dowager Sultana had to get it, but then the First Lady intervened and told the hospital’s chief officer, ‘This isn’t even up for discussion. Of course Shang Su Yi must have the Royal Suite.’ ”

  “Wait a minute, Mrs. Lee and the Sultana of Perawak? I’m not following you…”

  “Aiyoh, you didn’t hear what happened? Isabel Wu had a psychotic breakdown and kidnapped her children from school and flew them to Singapore and barged into Rosalind Fung’s Christian Fellowship Banquet and threw a bowl of extra-hot laksa at Astrid but missed and it landed all over the ladies but thank God Felicity was wearing one of her pasar malam*2 polyester dresses from that tailor of hers in Tiong Bahru so the soup did NOTHING to her and slid right off like Teflon but poor Mrs. Lee and the Dowager Sultana got drenched and are recovering from first-degree burns.”

  “Okay, you’ve completely lost me there.” Nick shook his head in exasperation, as Rachel gave him a questioning look.

  “I thought of all people you’d know. Isabel Wu accused Astrid of spreading her legs…I mean, having an affair with her husband, Charlie! Right in front of Bishop See Bei Sien and everyone in the banquet hall! Aiyoh, it’s so shameful—now it’s out in the open and all of Singapore is talking about it! Is it true? Is Astrid Charlie’s mistress?”

  “She’s not his mistress, Mum. That much I can tell you,” Nick said carefully.

  “You and your cousin—always keeping secrets from me! Poor Astrid looked completely shell-shocked at the hospital, but she was still trying to play the gracious hostess to all the visitors. Anyway, when are you coming home?”