by Kevin Kwan
“Did you arrange this?” Scheherazade asked wide-eyed.
“Well, I couldn’t take you on a sweltering sunset hike and not provide you with sunset drinks.”
Three of the men whipped out a bass, a saxophone, and a small drum set and began to play a Miles Davis tune.
“Can I offer you a Negroni, signora?” the bartender said, handing Scheherazade a highball glass filled with Campari, gin, and red vermouth over ice with an orange peel elaborately curled over the rim.
“Grazie mille,” Scheherazade replied.
“Salute!” Carlton said, clinking her glass with his Negroni.
“How in the world did you know this was my favorite drink?” Scheherazade asked as she sipped her aperitif.
“Um…I might have done some Instagram stalking.”
“But my Instagram account is locked.”
“Um…I might have been on Nick’s Instagram,” Carlton confessed.
Scheherazade laughed, utterly charmed.
Carlton looked in her eyes, and then glanced over her shoulder at her security guards loitering at the end of the bridge. “Would it be crazy if I kissed you? I mean, would your guards have me on the ground in under two seconds?”
“It would be crazy if you didn’t,” Scheherazade said, leaning in to kiss him.
After a long, lingering kiss, the two of them stood wrapped in each other’s arms in the middle of the bridge, watching as the setting sun glimmered over the treetops, casting a glow of flaming amber over the horizon.
—
It was almost seven thirty by the time Carlton pulled up to the driveway of Scheherazade’s home. He didn’t want to drop her off just yet, and wished he could whisk her off to dinner and spend the whole evening with her. But his sense of decorum took over, and he wanted her to set the pace of how things should go.
Scheherazade smiled at him, and it was obvious that she didn’t want their date to end just yet either. “Why don’t you come up? My parents usually have drinks around this time.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Not at all. I think they’d like to meet you properly. They’ve been rather curious about you.”
“Well, if you don’t think I’m unpresentable right now in my soiled hiking gear.”
“Oh, you’re fine. It’s all very casual.”
Carlton handed off the keys to his vintage 1975 Toyota Land Cruiser to the valet in the driveway and they strolled through the elegant lobby of the sleek glass tower. For a family that arguably controlled the majority of the country’s GDP, the Shangs lived modestly when they were in Singapore. Alfred had long ago divested all of his landed properties on the island, but he had built this exceedingly discreet private apartment tower on Grange Road, where each of his children had been given several floors.
“Good evening, Miss Shang,” the guards at the reception desk said in unison. One of them escorted them to the elevators, reaching inside to enter a security code into a keypad. They zoomed up to the penthouse, and when the doors opened, Carlton could hear the murmur of voices just off the entrance foyer.
The two of them strolled into a circular, atrium-like sunken living room, and then Carlton stopped dead in his tracks. Standing in the middle of the room in a shimmering peacock blue cocktail dress was his ex-girlfriend Colette. He had not spoken to or seen her in almost two years, not since he discovered that she was responsible for poisoning Rachel.
“Oh hello. Looks like we have more guests than I thought,” Scheherazade said.
Her father turned to them and said, “Ah, at last, the prodigal daughter returns! Scheherazade, come meet Lucien and Colette, the Earl and Countess of Palliser.”
Scheherazade strolled over to greet them and then she proceeded to introduce Carlton to everyone. Still in shock, Carlton shook hands numbly with Leonard and India Shang, who were dressed to the nines and gave Carlton’s hiking attire a rather disapproving once-over. Then the unavoidable moment came when he was face-to-face with Lucien and Colette. She looked different. Her hair was pulled into an elegant ballerina’s knot at the nape of her neck and she wore far less makeup than he remembered, but he was surprised at how all his anger toward her suddenly came flooding back. The last time they had seen each other, he had accused her of trying to poison his sister.
“Hello, Carlton,” Colette said, perfectly composed.
“Colette,” Carlton murmured back, trying valiantly to stay calm.
“Oh, you two know each other?” India Shang said in surprise. “But of course, you lived in Shanghai for a period.”
“For a period,” Colette said.
“Well then, you must stay for dinner,” India insisted.
“Yes, do stay,” Colette said sweetly.
Carlton forced a smile at his hostess. “It would be a pleasure to join you for dinner, Mrs. Shang.”
Soon they were all seated around the table in a dining room enjoying a twelve-course tasting menu prepared by Marcus Sim, the Shangs’ personal chef. Carlton looked around at the exquisite minimalist paintings surrounding them and commented, “Are these works by Agnes Martin?”
“Indeed they are,” Leonard Shang replied, impressed that Carlton recognized the artist.
“Do you collect?” India asked.
“Not really, no,” Carlton replied.
“Carlton collects cars,” Colette said, with a gleam in her eye.
“Oh really? What sort? I’m restoring an MG Midget at the moment,” Lucien said.
“I do love MGs, but I actually have a car import business in China. We specialize in exotics like McLarens, Bugattis, and Koenigseggs.”
“My goodness, those are awfully fast cars, aren’t they?” India commented.
“They are incredibly engineered automobiles—works of art, really—and yes, they are built for speed,” Carlton answered calmly.
“Carlton likes to go very fast. He used to race.” Colette took a bite of her grilled octopus and gave him an innocent look across the table.
Scheherazade glanced at Carlton, noticing the tension on his face.
“Oh dear. Have you ever been in an accident?” India asked, making up her mind right then that Scheherazade should never ride in this young man’s car again.
“Actually, I have,” Carlton replied.
“What happened? Hope you didn’t wreck one of those million-dollar sports cars.” Lucien laughed.
“It was a very unfortunate accident. But it taught me to be extremely careful. I don’t race anymore,” Carlton said.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Scheherazade said with a little smile.
“Well,” Colette interjected with a glint in her eye, “when you kill one girl and paralyze another from the waist down, it’s probably best not to, isn’t it?”
While Leonard Shang choked on his chardonnay and his wife froze as if she had just been turned into a pillar of salt, Colette flashed a smile at Carlton. It was a smile he knew only too well, and at that moment he realized that Colette Bing might call herself the Countess of Palliser these days, but she hadn’t changed one fucking bit.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PEAK, HONG KONG
Chloe made the call from her bathroom, with the shower turned on full blast. “Dad, you said to call…you know…if Mum was ever acting weird again.”
Charlie felt his gut tighten. “What happened? Are you and Delphine okay?”
“Um, we’re fine. But maybe you should come over.”
Charlie looked at his watch. It was just past eleven at night. “I’m leaving my office right this second. Be there in fifteen minutes! Do me a favor, honey. Stay with your mother?”
“Um, okay.”
Charlie could hear the fear in her voice. He raced to the house in his Porsche 911, the sports car careening dangerously along the hairpin curves and steep
hills all the way up to The Peak. He speed-dialed Isabel’s lead security officer, Jonny Fung, from his Bluetooth but it went straight to voice mail. All the while, his heart was beating a mile a minute as he dreaded what he would find when he arrived at the house. Isabel had been doing so well. Was this really another breakdown, or did she stop taking her meds again?
A few blocks from the house, Charlie got caught in a traffic jam as cars waited bumper to bumper. He leaned on his horn anxiously, and then decided, fuck it, he would cut onto the oncoming traffic lane. He raced past the line of cars and discovered that they were all trying to go to the same place—Isabel’s house. There was a cluster of people in front of the gates as Charlie pulled up. He jumped out of the car and approached the security guards stationed by the gate. “What the hell is happening?”
“Private party,” one of the guards said in Cantonese.
“Party? Tonight? I’m going in.”
“Wait a second, are you on the list? What’s your name?” the baby-faced guard asked, holding an iPad with a list of names glowing on the screen.
“My name? Jesus, get out of my face!” Charlie seethed, pushing past him and running down the driveway. Just as he reached the porte cochere of the house, three bodyguards in black suits suddenly appeared out of nowhere and jumped on top of him. “Got the crasher!” One of the guards said into his earpiece as he pinned Charlie’s face to the ground.
“Get off me! This is my house!” Charlie grunted as one of the guards held him in a knee-lock.
“Yeah right,” the guards laughed mockingly.
“Get Mr. Fung out here now! I’m Charlie Wu and this is my house! I sign all your paychecks!”
At the mention of their boss’s name, one of the guards started talking urgently into his earpiece. Moments later, the head of security came out of the house and began shouting, “That’s Mr. Wu! Get off him, you fucking morons!”
Charlie got up from the ground and brushed the dirt off his face. “Jonny, what the fuck is going on here? Why aren’t you picking up your phone?”
“Sorry, I was inside, and it’s very loud in there,” Jonny apologized. “Mrs. Wu decided to have the party just this afternoon. It’s a benefit for the earthquake victims in Yunnan Province.”
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Charlie muttered as he entered the house. There were at least fifty people crowded in the foyer, and a man suddenly grabbed him from behind and gave him a full-on bear hug. “Charlie! You’re here!” It was Pascal Pang, his face inexplicably powdered white, with rouge on his cheeks. “I was just telling Tilda that I’ve never seen such a pleasant divorce as you and Isabel had. Look, he even comes to her parties! My ex-wives won’t even take my calls, hahaha.”
Charlie was bewildered as a pale, thin woman with uniquely androgynous features dressed in a silver jumpsuit smiled at him sweetly. “So you’re Charlie! Astrid’s told me so much about you,” she said in a lilting British accent.
“Has she? Excuse me, I just need to find someone.” Charlie squeezed through the crowded foyer and into the sprawling formal room, which had been utterly transformed into a dark, funereal space. All of Isabel’s pretty French furniture had been covered in black fabric, and even the walls were draped in black. Guests sat at little black bistro tables lit with red votive candles, and a woman dressed in a long deep red velvet dress lay on top of the grand piano with a microphone in her hand. As the pianist tickled the keys, she sang in a deep, throaty voice,
“Fawwwwwwl-ling in love again, never wanted to,
what am I to do, I can’t help it…”
Charlie spotted Isabel at one of the front tables, dressed in a man’s tuxedo with her hair slicked back, sitting on the lap of a male model who looked to be no older than twenty-five. Chloe and Delphine stood behind her, dressed in matching outfits of black vests, black shorts with garter belts, and black bowler hats, looking extremely uncomfortable. Chloe’s face lit up in relief the moment she saw her father.
Charlie marched up to Isabel’s table and demanded, “Can we talk?”
“Shh! Ute Lemper’s singing!” Isabel said, waving him off.
“We really need to talk now,” Charlie said as calmly as possible, grabbing her arm and leading her to the back of the room.
“What is your problem? We have one of the greatest chanteuses in the world right here, and you’re interrupting!” Isabel’s breath reeked of vodka, and Charlie looked into her eyes, trying to figure out if she was just drunk or having a manic episode.
“Isabel, it’s Thursday night. Why are you hosting a party for two hundred people right now, and what on earth did you make the girls put on?”
“Don’t you get it? This is the Weimar Republic. It’s 1931 Berlin and we’re at the Kit Kat Club. Chloe and Delphine are both dressed like Sally Bowles!”
Sighing deeply, he said, “I’m going to take them home with me right now. It’s past midnight on a school night and they can hardly keep their eyes open.”
“What are you talking about? The girls are having the time of their lives! I especially invited Hao Yun Xiang to the party because Chloe’s got a crush on him!” Isabel gestured to the strapping male model whose lap she had been keeping warm. “You’re just jealous, aren’t you? Don’t worry, I think you’ve got a bigger cock.”
At that moment, Charlie knew she was out of her mind. Isabel could do some outrageous things, but she was never profane. “I’m not jealous—” he began calmly.
“Well then, stop spoiling all the fun for the rest of us!” Isabel declared, going back to her chair. She straddled her male model this time and began swaying to the music.
It was obvious to Charlie that Isabel was in the midst of a manic high, and sooner or later she was going to come crashing down, and who knows what she would do. It was useless to argue with her like this. He grabbed Chloe and Delphine by their hands and marched them toward the exit. At the front door, he whispered to Jonny Fung, “You don’t let Isabel out of your sight, you hear me? And don’t let her leave the house until I come back tomorrow morning with her doctors.”
“Of course,” the head of security nodded.
—
At 3:00 a.m., Charlie was woken up by a phone call. Seeing it was Isabel, he rolled over onto his back with a sigh and answered.
“Where are my girls?” Isabel said, sounding preternaturally calm.
“They’re here with me. Fast asleep.”
“Why did you drag them off like that?”
“I didn’t drag them off. They were only too happy to leave the freak show and come home with me.”
“You know, you deprived them of seeing Ute’s full performance. She sang three encores. She sang ‘Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien.’ And I wanted Chloe to meet Tilda Swinton. When will she ever get a chance like this again?”
“I’m sorry, Isabel. I’m sorry Chloe didn’t get a chance to meet Tilda. But apparently she’s friends with Astrid, so maybe she’ll have another chance—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck about Astrid! Don’t you see that there are people suffering in the world? Do you know we raised two million dollars tonight for the earthquake victims? Think of all the children we are helping!”
Charlie gave an exasperated laugh. He knew it was pointless to argue with her when she was having one of these episodes, but he couldn’t help himself. “You could start with your own children.”
“So you think I’m a bad mother,” Isabel said, suddenly sounding very sad.
“I don’t think that. I think you’re a wonderful mother, but you’re just having a bad night.”
“I am NOT having a bad night! I am having a fantabulous evening! I am a charity fund-raiser par extraordinaire, and I am trying to help our children.” Isabel began to sing in a slow, soulful voice: “I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and leeeeeet them lead the way…”
“Izzie, it’s three in the morning. Can we stop with the Whitney Houston?” Charlie said wearily.
“I’ll never stop! Those bastards crushed Whitney’s spirit, but they will never crush mine, do you hear me?”
“Izzie, I’m going to sleep now. I will see you tomorrow morning first thing. I’ll bring the girls home before school so they can change into their uniforms.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Charlie Wu!” Isabel demanded. But it was too late. Charlie had hung up. He had hung up on her in the way that he never used to. Isabel’s mind went into a roller-coaster dip as she stared out the window onto the crashing waves of the ocean. Unbeknownst to Charlie, she had been sitting in the bedroom of his new house in Shek O during the entire call. Foiling her security crew, she had swapped outfits with Ute Lemper after her second encore and slipped unnoticed out of her own party in a deep red velvet dress. She had taken the first car in the valet line and driven in a manic rage all the way to Charlie’s house. She had punched in the code she remembered: 110011. And now she was wandering through the empty Tom Kundig–designed house, spiraling into greater and greater rage.
So this is what it’s going to be like now. This is how it is now that you have your new life in this perfect glass house by the sea. This boring bourgeois Architectural Digest fantasy, with all your boring mid-century furniture and that boring little decorative object you wake up next to every morning. Because that’s what she is. That Astrid Leong and her sham aesthetics. Just because she wears Alexis Mabille to lunch she thinks she’s hot shit, she thinks she’s an original. She’s nothing but a perfectly bred decorative doll with no substance and no grit. Everyone thinks she’s soooo exquisite and soooo elegant, but I know the truth. I know what kind of woman she really is.
Isabel leaned against the dining table, took out her cell phone, and swiped around the screen furiously until she found what she was looking for. It was a video clip she had saved in a locked folder. It was the video of Charlie and Astrid making love, and as she played the video, the sound of their moans echoed through the vast, empty house. Look at her. She’s no better than a whore. Look at the way she straddles him, commanding his invading prick like she’s riding one of her Thoroughbreds. This isn’t a woman who will just settle for being “friends” with Chloe and Delphine. This is a woman who wants it all. And because of all her money she thinks she can buy whatever she wants. She bought Charlie and now she wants to buy my children and buy their love and turn them into little carbon copies of herself, with long ballerina necks and perfect couture outfits. She wants to sit in this perfect house and look out at the perfect view of the sea with my daughters and stroke their hair in the golden sunlight and twirl them around the garden like they are all in some goddamn Terrence Malick movie and convince them that this is the only life they should ever want. “You’ll always be welcome here,” she says. Like hell I will. The day after her wedding she’s going to shut me out forever. I just know it. She thinks she’s going to erase me from their lives, but I will never let this happen. Never never never! With trembling fingers, Isabel jammed out a message on the gossip columnist Honey Chai’s WeChat message board: