Crazy Rich Asians (29 page)

Araminta frowned in displeasure. “Wandi, tell her the bedroom is off-limits, and so
is Gianluca.”

“Maybe we should all get inducted into the mile-high club with these Italian stallions,”
one of the giggly girls said.

“Who needs to be inducted? I’ve been a member since I was thirteen,” Wandi boasted,
tossing back her blond-streaked hair.

Rachel, at a loss for words, decided to buckle herself into the nearest armchair and
prepare for takeoff. The demure-looking girl sitting beside her smiled. “You’ll get
used to Wandi. She’s a Meggaharto, you know. I don’t think you need me to tell you
how that family is. By the way, I’m Parker Yeo. I know your cousin Vivian!” she said.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a cousin named Vivian,” Rachel replied in amusement.

“Aren’t you Rachel Chu?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t your cousin Vivian Chu? Doesn’t your family own Taipei Plastics?”

“Afraid not,” Rachel said, trying not to roll her eyes. “My family is originally from
China.”

“Oh sorry, my mistake. So what does your family do?”

“Um, my mother is a real estate agent in the Palo Alto area. Who are these Taipei
Plastics people everyone keeps talking about?”

Parker simply smirked. “I’ll tell you, but excuse me for just one moment.” She unbuckled
her seat belt and made a beeline for the back cabin. It was the last time Rachel would
see her during the entire flight.

“Girls, I have the scoop of all scoops!” Parker burst in on the girls crowded into
the master cabin. “I was just sitting next to that Rachel Chu girl, and guess what?
She isn’t related to the Taipei Chus! She hasn’t even
heard
of them!”

Francesca Shaw, lounging in the middle of the bed, gave Parker a withering look. “Is
that all? I could have told you that months ago. My mother is best friends with Nicky
Young’s mother, and I know enough about Rachel Chu to sink a ship.”

“Come on,
lah
—give us all the dirt!” Wandi pleaded, bouncing up and down on the bed in anticipation.

After a dramatic landing on a perilously short runway, Rachel found herself on a sleek
white catamaran, the salty ocean breeze whipping through her hair as they sped toward
one of the more remote islands. The water was an almost blinding shade of turquoise,
interrupted by tiny islands dropped onto the calm surface here and there like dollops
of fresh cream. Soon the catamaran made a sharp turn toward one of the bigger islands,
and as they approached, a striking series of wooden buildings with undulating thatched
canopies came into view.

This was the paradise dreamed up by Araminta’s hotelier mother, Annabel Lee, who spared
no expense in creating the ultimate retreat according to her exacting vision of what
chic, modern luxury should be. The island, actually just a quarter-mile-long spit
of coral, consisted of thirty villas built on stilts that extended out over the shallow
coral reefs. As the boat pulled up to the jetty, a line of waiters in saffron-colored
uniforms stood stiffly at attention holding Lucite trays of mojitos.

Araminta was helped out of the boat first, and when all the girls were assembled on
the dock with cocktails in hand, she announced, “Welcome to Samsara! In Sanskrit,
the word means ‘to flow on’—to pass through states of existence. My mum wanted to
create a special place where you could experience rebirth, where you could pass through
different levels of bliss. So this island is ours, and I hope you will find your bliss
with me this weekend. But first, I’ve arranged a shopping spree at the resort’s boutique!
Girls, as a gift from my mum, each of you can pick out five new outfits. And to make
this just a little more fun, and also because I don’t want to miss cocktails at sunset,
we’re going to make this a challenge. I’m giving you only twenty minutes to shop.
Grab whatever you can, because in twenty minutes, the boutique closes!” The girls
shrieked in excitement and began a mad dash down the jetty.

With its soothing mother-of-pearl varnished walls, Javanese teak floors, and windows
overlooking a lagoon, the Samsara Collection was normally a haven of civilized tranquillity.
Today it was like Pamplona during the running of the bulls as the girls charged in
and ransacked the place in search of outfits that would outdo one another. A fashionista
tug-of-war broke out as they began clawing over the most coveted pieces.

“Lauren, let go of this Collette Dinnigan skirt before you tear it to pieces!”

“Wandi, you bitch, I saw that Tomas Maier top first and you’ll never fit into it with
your new boobs!”

“Parker, put down those Pierre Hardy flats or I’ll poke your eyes out with these Nicholas
Kirkwood stilettos!”

Araminta perched on a counter savoring the scene, adding more tension to her little
game by calling out the remaining time at one-minute intervals. Rachel tried to steer
clear of the rampage, taking refuge at a rack overlooked by the rest of the girls,
probably because there weren’t any quickly recognizable labels on any of the garments.
Francesca stood at a nearby rack picking through the clothes as if she was surveying
medical photos of genital deformities. “This is impossible. Who are all these no-name
designers?” she called out to Araminta.

“What do you mean ‘no-name’? Alexis Mabille, Thakoon, Isabel Marant—my mum personally
selects the hottest designers for this boutique,” Araminta said defensively.

Francesca tossed back her long, wavy black locks and sniffed. “You know I
only
wear six designers: Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Etro, my dear friend Stella McCartney,
and Brunello Cucinelli for country weekends. I wish you’d told me we were coming here,
Araminta. I could have brought my latest Chanel resort wear—I bought this season’s
entire collection at Carol Tai’s Christian Helpers fashion benefit.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to slum it for two nights without your Chanel,” Araminta
retorted. She gave Rachel a conspiratorial wink and whispered, “When I first met Francesca
in Sunday school, she had a plumpish round face and was wearing hand-me-downs. Her
grandpa was a famous miser, and the whole family lived crammed together in an old
shop house on Emerald Hill.”

“That’s hard to picture,” Rachel said, glancing over at Francesca’s perfectly executed
makeup and ruffled emerald-green wrap dress.

“Well, her grandpa had a massive stroke and went into a coma, and her parents finally
got control of all the money. Almost overnight, Francesca got herself new cheekbones
and a wardrobe from Paris—you won’t believe how fast she and her mother transformed
themselves. Speaking of fast, the minutes are running out, Rachel—you should be shopping!”

Even though Araminta had invited everyone to pick out five pieces, Rachel didn’t feel
comfortable taking advantage of her generosity. She picked out a cute white linen
blouse with tiny ruffles along the sleeves and came across a couple of summery cocktail
dresses made out of the lightest silk batiste, which reminded her of the simple shift
dresses Jacqueline Kennedy wore in the sixties.

As Rachel was trying on the white blouse in the dressing room, she overheard two girls
in the next dressing room chatting away.

“Did you see what she was wearing? Where did she get that cheap-looking tunic top—Mango?”

“How can you expect her to have any style? Think she gets it from reading American
Vogue
? Hahaha.”

“Actually, Francesca says that she’s not even ABC—she was born in Mainland China!”

“I knew it! She’s got that same desperate look that all my servants have.”

“Well here’s a chance for her to get some decent clothes at last!”

“Just you watch, with all that Young money she’s going to upgrade pretty damn quick!”

“We’ll see—all the money in the world can’t buy you taste if you weren’t born with
it.”

Rachel realized with a start that the girls were talking about her. Shaken, she rushed
out of the dressing room, almost colliding into Araminta.

“Are you okay?” Araminta asked.

Rachel quickly recovered. “Yes, yes, just trying not to get caught up in the panic,
that’s all.”

“It’s the panic that makes it so much fun! Let’s see what you found,” Araminta said
excitedly. “Ooh, you have a great eye! These are done by a Javanese designer who hand-paints
all of the dresses.”

“They’re so lovely. Let me pay for these—I can’t possibly accept your mom’s generosity.
I mean, she doesn’t even know me,” Rachel said.

“Nonsense! They are yours. And my mum is
so
looking forward to meeting you.”

“Well, I have to hand it to her—she’s created quite a shop. Everything is so unique,
it reminds me of the way Nick’s cousin dresses.”

“Ah, Astrid Leong! ‘
The Goddess
,’ as we used to call her.”

“Really?” Rachel laughed.

“Yes. All of us absolutely worshipped her when we were schoolgirls—she always looked
so fabulous, so effortlessly chic.”

“She
did
look amazing last night,” Rachel mused.

“Oh, you saw her last night? Tell me exactly what she was wearing,” Araminta asked
eagerly.

“She had on this white sleeveless top with the most delicately embroidered lace panels
I’ve ever seen, and a pair of skinny Audrey Hepburn-esque gray silk pants.”

“Designed by …?” Araminta prodded.

“I have no idea. But oh, what really stood out were these show-stopping earrings she
had on—they sort of looked like Navajo dream catchers, except that they were made
entirely of precious gems.”

“How fabulous! I wish I knew who designed
those
,” Araminta said intently.

Rachel smiled, as a cute pair of sandals at the bottom of a Balinese cupboard suddenly
caught her eye. Perfect for the beach, she
thought, walking over to take a better look. They were slightly too big, so Rachel
returned to her section, only to discover that two of her outfits—the white blouse
and one of the hand-painted silk dresses—had vanished. “Hey, what happened to my—”
she began to ask.

“Time’s up, girls! The boutique is now closed!” Araminta declared.

Relieved that the shopping spree was finally over, Rachel went in search of her room.
Her card read “Villa No. 14,” so she followed the signs down the central jetty that
wound into the middle of the coral reef. The villa was an ornate wood-crafted bungalow
with pale coral walls and airy white furnishings. At the back, a set of wooden screen
doors opened onto a deck with steps leading straight into the sea.

Rachel sat on the edge of the steps and dipped her toes into the water. It was perfectly
cool and so shallow she could sink her feet into the pillowy white sand. She could
hardly believe where she was. How much must this bungalow cost per night? She always
wondered if she would be lucky enough to visit a resort like this once in her life—for
her honeymoon, perhaps—but never did she expect to find herself here for a bachelorette
party. She suddenly missed Nick, and wished he could be here to share this private
paradise with her. It was because of him that she had suddenly been thrust into this
jet-set lifestyle, and she wondered where he could be at this very moment. If the
girls went to an island resort in the Indian Ocean, where in the world did the boys
go?

Nick

“Please tell me we’re not riding in one of
those
,” Mehmet Sabançi grimaced to Nick as they disembarked from the plane and saw the
fleet of matching white stretch Rolls-Royce Phantoms awaiting them.

“Oh, this is typical Bernard,” Nick smiled, wondering what Mehmet, a classics scholar
who hailed from one of Istanbul’s most patrician families, made of the sight of Bernard
Tai emerging from a limo in a mint-green chalk-striped blazer, orange paisley ascot,
and yellow suede loafers. The only son of
Dato’
Tai Toh Lui, Bernard was famed for his “brave sartorial statements” (as
Singapore Tattle
so diplomatically put it) and for being Asia’s biggest bon vivant, perpetually hosting
wild parties at whatever louche jet-set resort was in fashion that year—always with
the hippest DJs, the chillest drinks, the hottest babes, and, many whispered, the
best drugs. “Niggas in Macauuuuw!” Bernard exulted, raising his arms rapper style.