China Rich Girlfriend

by Kevin Kwan

  “What are you doing? Get back in formation!” Roxanne screamed, as the convoy of black Audi SUVs came speeding up the driveway.

  The doors on the lead SUV flung open, and several men in black suits and dark sunglasses emerged, one of them approaching the middle car and opening the door. Judging by how thick the door was, Nick surmised it was a reinforced bombproof model. A short, stocky man in a bespoke three-piece suit was the first to emerge.

  Roxanne, who was standing next to Nick, let out a barely audible gasp.

  Seeing that the man appeared to be no older than his mid-twenties, Nick asked, “I take it that’s not Colette’s father?”

  “It’s not,” Roxanne said curtly, before stealing a quick glance at Carlton.

  * * *

  *1 A body-hugging one-piece Chinese dress for women, created in the 1920s in Shanghai and perennially fashionable since Suzie Wong famously seduced Robert Lomax in one. In Singapore and Hong Kong, it is known by its Cantonese name—the cheongsam.

  *2 Mattress makers to the Swedish royal family since 1852; the basic Hästens mattress starts at $15,000, and their top-of-the-line 2000T will set you back $120,000. But how much is it worth to you to sleep on a mattress that aficionados claim can actually prevent cancer?

  *3 Not only is she China’s most renowned contemporary folk singer, she’s also the First Lady, being married to President Xi Jinping.

  9

  MICHAEL AND ASTRID

  SINGAPORE

  “Is that all you’re wearing?” Michael asked, lurking by the doorway of Astrid’s dressing room.

  “What do you mean? Am I too scantily clad for you?” Astrid joked as she struggled to fasten the delicate clasp on her sandals.

  “You look so casual.”

  “I’m not that casual,” Astrid said, standing up. She was wearing a short black tunic dress with crochet panels and black fringe.

  “We’re going to one of the best restaurants in Singapore, and it’s with the IBM people.”

  “Just because André is a top restaurant doesn’t mean it’s formal. I thought this was just a casual business dinner with a few of your clients.”

  “It is, but the bigwig is flying in and he’s bringing his wife, who’s supposedly very chic.”

  Astrid shot Michael a look. Had aliens secretly abducted her husband and replaced him with some finicky fashion editor? In the six years they had been married, Michael had never made a single comment about what she wore. He had, on certain occasions, grunted that something looked “sexy” or “pretty” on her, but he had never used a word like “chic.” Until today, it wasn’t part of his vocabulary.

  Astrid dabbed a little rose essential oil onto her neck and said, “If the wife is as chic as you say, she will probably appreciate this Altuzarra dress—it’s a runway look that never went into production, which I’m wearing with Tabitha Simmons silk stripe sandals, Line Vautrin gold earrings, and my Peranakan gold bracelet.”

  “Maybe it’s all the gold. It looks a bit kan chia*1 to me. Couldn’t you swap it out for diamonds or something?”

  “There’s nothing kan chia about this bracelet—it’s actually part of an heirloom suite that my great-aunt Matilda Leong bequeathed to me, which is now on loan to the Asian Civilisations Museum. They are dying for me to let them display this piece too, but I held on to it for sentimental reasons.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend your auntie. And I’m not a fashion guerrilla or whatever like you. This is one of the most important business deals I’ve ever been involved in, but please wear what you want. I’ll be downstairs waiting,” Michael said in a patronizing tone.

  Astrid sighed. She knew all this fuss had something to do with that silly Hong Kong gossip columnist’s barb about Michael needing to upgrade his wife’s jewelry. Even though he denied it, the comment must have gotten under his skin. She made her way to the vault, punched in the nine-digit code to open the door, and peered inside. Damn, the earrings she was thinking of were at the big vault at OCBC Bank. The only thing she had of any significant size at home was a pair of gargantuan Wartski diamond-and-emerald pendant earrings that her grandmother had inexplicably handed her after mah-jongg at Tyersall Park the other day. The emeralds on each side were almost the size of walnuts. Apparently the last time her grandmother had worn them was at King Bhumibol of Thailand’s coronation in 1950. Well, if Michael really wants a Busby Berkeley showstopper, that’s what he’s going to get. But what outfit could possibly go with these earrings?

  Astrid scanned her closet and pulled out a black Yves Saint Laurent jumpsuit with a drawstring waist and jet beaded sleeves. This was just dressy and yet simple enough to complement a pair of outrageously bling earrings. She would wear them with a pair of Alaïa ankle boots to give the whole look an extra edge. Astrid felt a little lump in her throat as she put the jumpsuit on—she had never worn it before because it was too precious to her. It was from Yves’s final couture collection in 2002, and though she was only twenty-three when she had her fitting for this, it still draped against her body more perfectly than almost anything else she owned. God, I miss Yves.

  Astrid headed downstairs to the nursery, where she found Michael keeping Cassian company at the children’s dining table while he ate his spaghetti with meatballs.

  “Wow, vous êtes top, madame!” Cassian’s nanny exclaimed as Astrid entered.

  “Merci, Ludivine.”

  “Saint Laurent?”

  “Qui d’autre?”

  Ludivine placed her hand on her chest and shook her head in awe. (She could not wait to try it on as soon as madame left the house tomorrow.)

  Astrid turned to Michael. “Is this good enough to impress your IBM bigwig?”

  “Where on earth did you get those earrings? Tzeen or keh?”*2 Michael exclaimed.

  “Tzeen! My grandmother just gave them to me,” Astrid replied, slightly annoyed that Michael only noticed the earrings and failed to appreciate the subtle genius of her jumpsuit.

  “Wah lan!*3 Van Cleef and Ah Ma strikes again.”

  Astrid winced. Michael had punished Cassian for using cuss words, and yet here he was swearing like a sailor right in front of him.

  “Look—doesn’t Mummy look pretty tonight?” Michael said to Cassian, pinching a meatball from his bowl and popping it into his mouth.

  “Yes. Mummy always looks pretty,” Cassian said. “And stop stealing my meatballs!”

  Astrid melted instantly. How could she be annoyed at Michael when he looked so cute sitting in the little chair next to Cassian? Things had gotten much better between father and son since she returned from Venice. After kissing Cassian goodbye, the two of them headed outside to the front driveway, where their chauffeur, Youssef, was doing a final polish on the chrome work of Michael’s 1961 red Ferrari California Spyder.

  Jesus, he’s really out to impress tonight, Astrid thought.

  “Thanks for changing, hon. It really means a lot to me,” Michael said as he held open the car door.

  Astrid nodded as she climbed in. “If you think it makes any difference, I’m happy to help.”

  They drove in silence at first, enjoying the balmy breeze through the open top, but as he turned onto Holland Road, Michael picked up the conversation again. “How much do you think your earrings are worth?”

  “Probably more than this car.”

  “I paid $8.9 mil for this ’Rari. You really think your earrings are worth more? We should get them valued.”

  Astrid found his line of questioning slightly tacky. She never thought of jewelry in terms of prices and wondered why Michael even brought it up. “I’m never going to sell them, so what’s the point?”

  “Well, we do want to insure them, don’t we?”

  “It all goes under my family’s umbrella policy. I just add it to a list that Miss Seong keeps at the family office.”

  “I didn’t know about this. Can my vintage sports cars get on the policy too?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s just for Leo
ngs,” Astrid blurted out, before regretting her choice of words.

  Michael didn’t seem to notice and continued chattering away. “You’re really getting all of your Ah Ma’s biggest jewels, aren’t you? Your cousins must be envious as hell.”

  “Oh, there’s plenty to go around. Fiona got the Grand Duchess Olga sapphires, and my cousin Cecilia got some superb imperial jade. My grandmother is very discerning—she gives the right pieces to whomever she knows will appreciate them the most.”

  “Do you think she feels she’s going to conk off soon?”

  “What a thing to say!” Astrid exclaimed, giving Michael a look of horror.

  “Come on, lah, it must be going through her mind, which is why she’s begun divesting all her stuff. Old people can sense when they are going to die, you know.”

  “Michael, my grandmother has been around all my life, and I can’t even begin to imagine the day when she won’t be here.”

  “Sorry—I was just making conversation.”

  They lapsed into silence again, Michael focusing on the client dinner and Astrid contemplating their disagreeable conversation. Michael had always shied away from anything to do with money when they first got married, especially if it involved her family, and went to great pains to show that he had absolutely no interest in her financial affairs. Indeed, their marriage had been rocked to its core by his insecurities over her fortune and his ill-conceived attempt to set her free, but thankfully that awful period was well behind them.

  But ever since his business had exploded into a huge success, he had become the proverbial mouse that roared. It dawned on Astrid that at family gatherings these days, her husband always seemed to be at the center of the financial debates with the men. Michael relished being the go-to guy for advice about the tech industry and the newfound respect he was forging with her father and brothers, who had for years treated him with barely veiled condescension. He had also discovered his acquisitive side, and Astrid had watched in wide-eyed wonder as his tastes had upgraded faster than you could say “Do you take Amex?”

  She glanced over at him now, cutting such a dashing figure in his dark gray Cesare Attolini suit and his perfectly knotted Borrelli tie, the face of his Patek Philippe Nautilus Chronograph glinting under the flash of streetlamps as he shifted gears forcefully on his iconic automobile, the one that every hot-blooded male from James Dean to Ferris Bueller had coveted. She was proud of all he had achieved, but part of her missed the old Michael, the man who was happiest lounging at home in his soccer kit enjoying his plate of tau you bahk*4 with white rice and his Tiger beer.

  As they drove along palm-tree-lined Neil Road, Astrid gazed at all the colorful heritage shophouses. Then she realized they had just sped past the restaurant. “Hey, you missed the turn. That was Bukit Pasoh we just passed.”

  “Don’t worry, I did that on purpose. We’re going to circle the block for a while.”

  “Why? Aren’t we already late?”

  “I’ve decided to give them a little more time to cool their heels. I instructed the maître d’ to make sure they get drinks at the bar first, and that they are seated right by the window so that they will have the best view of us pulling up. I want all the guys to see me get out of this car, and then I want them to see you getting out of this car.”

  Astrid almost wanted to laugh. Who was this man next to her talking this way?

  Michael continued, “We’re playing this game of chicken right now, and I know they want to see who blinks first. They have raging hard-ons to acquire this new proprietary technology that we’ve developed, and it’s really important that I am able to convey the right image to them.”

  They finally pulled up outside the elegant white colonial-era shophouse that had been converted into one of the island’s most acclaimed restaurants. As Astrid got out of the car, Michael looked her over and said, “You know, I think you made a mistake changing out of that first cocktail dress. It showed off your sexy legs. But at least you have those earrings. That’s really going to make their jaws drop, especially the wife. It’ll be great—I want them to know that I’m not going to be a cheap date.”

  Staring at him in disbelief, Astrid stumbled for a moment on the pristine wooden deck leading to the front door.

  Michael grimaced. “Shit, I hope they didn’t see you do that. Why the hell are you wearing those ridiculous boots anyway?”

  Astrid breathed in deeply. “What’s the wife’s name again?”

  “Wendy. And they have a dog named Gizmo. You can talk about the dog with her.”

  A wave of nausea churned like acid at the base of her throat. For the first time in her life, she had a true appreciation of how it felt to be treated like a cheap date.

  * * *

  *1 The literal translation is “pull vehicle,” but this Hokkien term refers to rickshaw pullers or anything that is deemed low class. (Of course, Michael has never been to Manhattan, where pedicab drivers tend to be out-of-work male models who charge more than Uber Black Cars.)

  *2 “Real or fake?” in Hokkien.

  *3 Literally “My cock!,” this Hokkien swear is comparable to the American “Fucking hell!”

  *4 Pork belly cooked in soy sauce, a simple Hokkien dish.

  10

  THE BINGS

  SHANGHAI

  Nick, Rachel, Carlton, and Roxanne stood on the wide stone steps of the Bing estate, watching Colette give a warm hug to the man that had just stepped out of the convoy of SUVs.

  “Who’s that?” Nick asked Roxanne.

  “Richie Yang,” Roxanne replied, before adding in a whisper, “one of Colette’s suitors, who’s based in Beijing.”

  “He’s rather dressed up for tonight.”

  “Oh, he is always very fashionable. Noblest Magazine ranked him the best-dressed man in China, and his father is ranked the fourth richest man in China by The Heron Wealth Report, with a net worth of US$15.3 billion.”

  A short, slight man in his early fifties emerged from the armored SUV. His face had a slightly punched-in look, something that his neatly trimmed Errol Flynn mustache only served to accentuate. “Is that Colette’s father?” Nick asked.

  “Yes, that is Mr. Bing.”

  “What’s he ranked?” Nick asked in jest. He found these rankings to be rather ridiculous and more often than not wildly inaccurate.

  “Mr. Bing is ranked fifth richest, but The Heron is wrong. At current share prices, Mr. Bing should be ranked higher than Richie’s father. Fortune Asia has it correct—it ranks Mr. Bing at number three,” Roxanne said earnestly.

  “What an outrage. I should write a letter to The Heron Wealth Report to protest the error,” Nick joked.

  “Oh no need, sir, we already have,” Roxanne replied.

  Mr. Bing helped a woman with shoulder-length bouffant hair, dark-tinted sunglasses, and a blue surgical mask over her face out of the car.

  “That’s Mrs. Bing,” Roxanne whispered.

  “I figured. Is she ill?”

  “No, she is just an extreme germaphobe. This is why she spends most of her time on the Big Island of Hawaii, where she thinks the air is freshest, and why this estate has a state-of-the-art air-purifying system.”

  Everyone watched as Colette gave her parents polite half hugs, after which the maid bearing the chest of hot towels prostrated herself in front of them as if she were offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Colette’s parents, who wore matching navy blue cashmere Hermès tracksuits, took the steaming towels and began wiping their hands and faces methodically. Mrs. Bing then stretched out her hands, and another maid rushed up and squirted hand sanitizer onto her eager palms. After they had finished, Wolseley offered his greetings, and then Colette gestured for the group to approach.

  “Papa, Mama, meet my friends. You know Carlton, of course. This is his sister, Rachel, and her husband, Nicholas Young. They live in New York, but Nicholas is from Singapore.”

  “Carlton Bao! How is your father doing these days?” Colette’s father said as he
clapped him on the back, before turning to Nick and Rachel. “Jack Bing,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously. He eyed Rachel with much interest, saying in Mandarin, “You look unmistakably like your brother.” Colette’s mother, by contrast, did not extend her hands but nodded quickly as she peered at them from behind her surgical mask and Fendi sunglasses.

  “Richie’s plane was parked next to ours when we landed,” Jack Bing said to his daughter.

  “I just flew in from Chile,” Richie explained.

  “I insisted he join us for dinner,” Colette’s father said.

  “Of course, of course,” Colette said.

  “And look who’s here—Carlton Bao, the man with nine lives!” Richie cracked.

  Rachel noticed Carlton’s jaw tense up the same way hers did whenever she was annoyed, but he laughed politely at Richie’s comment.

  Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.

  “Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.

  Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father the services of a child prostitute.

  “Ah Baptiste, thank you,” Jack Bing said in heavily accented English as he grabbed the heavy cut-glass tumbler from the tray.

  Mrs. Bing removed her surgical mask, headed for the nearest sofa, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.

  “No, Mother, let’s not sit here. Let’s sit on the sofa by the windows,” Colette said.

  “Aiyah, I’ve been flying all day and my feet are so swollen. Why can’t you just let me sit here?”