China Rich Girlfriend (7 page)

Three weeks before the New Year, the chefs from the Young, Shang, and T'sien households would gather at Tyersall Park's cavernous kitchen to begin the marathon production of New Year delicacies. Marcus Sim, the Shang family's acclaimed pastry chef based at their estate in England, would fly in to prepare all manner of
nyonya
desserts—rainbow-hued
kueh lapis
, delicately sculpted
ang koo kueh
, and of course, his famous
kueh bangkit
cookies with Marcona almonds. Ah Lian, the T'siens' longtime cook, would supervise the team responsible for the labor-intensive preparation of pineapple tarts, sinfully sweet
nien gao
, and savory
tsai tao kueh
radish cakes. And Ah Ching, the chef at Tyersall Park, would oversee the New Year's Day luncheon where a gigantic baked ham (with her famous pineapple brandy sauce) would make its annual appearance.

But for the first time in as many years as she could remember, Eleanor did not enjoy her lunch. She hardly touched any of the ham that Geraldine Tan proclaimed to be “even juicier than last year's,” and she couldn't even face her favorite
neen gao
. She loved the way the sticky-rice-flour dessert cake was prepared here—cut into half-moon slices, dipped in egg batter, and fried to a golden brown so that the outer layer of the cake was light and crisp, yet sweet and gooey the minute you bit into it. But today, she just didn't have the appetite for anything. Following strict seating protocol, she was trapped next to Bishop See Bei Sien, and she glared at her husband on the other side of the table who was tucking into another helping of ham as he chatted with the bishop's wife.
How could he eat at a time like this?
An hour ago, she had asked Philip whether he had heard anything regarding Nicky and a wedding, and he had shocked her by saying, “Of course.”

“WHAAAT? Why didn't you tell me,
lah
?”

“There was nothing to tell. I knew we weren't going to go.”

“What do you mean? TELL ME EVERYTHING!” Eleanor demanded.

“Nicky called me in Sydney and asked me if I wanted to come to his wedding. I asked if you were invited, and he said no. So I told him, Good luck chap, but I won't be coming if your mother doesn't,” Philip calmly explained.

“Where is the wedding? When is it?”

“I don't know.”

“
Alamak!
How can you not know when he invited you?”

Philip sighed. “I didn't think to ask. It wasn't relevant since we weren't going.”

“Why didn't you tell me about the conversation in the first place?”

“Because I knew you were going to be unreasonable about it.”

“You are a moron! An absolute moron!” Eleanor screeched.

“See, I knew you were going to be unreasonable.”

Eleanor played with her braised noodles, seething on the inside as she pretended to listen to the bishop complain about some pastor's wife who was spending millions trying to become a famous pop star. At the children's table, Cassian's au pair was trying to coax him into finishing his lunch. “I don't want noodles! I want ice cream!” the boy fussed.

“It's Chinese New Year. No ice cream for you today,” his au pair said firmly.

Suddenly, an idea came to Eleanor. She whispered to one of the serving maids, “Can you please tell Ah Ching that I have a sore throat from all this heaty food and I'm desperately craving some ice cream?”

“Ice cream, ma'am?”

“Yes, any flavor. Anything you might have in the kitchen. But don't bring it to me here—I'll meet you in the library.”

Fifteen minutes later, after having paid off Cassian's au pair with five crisp hundred-dollar bills, Eleanor was sitting at the black lacquered scholar's table in the library, watching the little boy devour an ice-cream sundae out of a large silver bowl.

“Cassian, when your mummy is away, you just tell Ludivine to call me, and my driver will come and pick you up and take you for ice cream anytime you like,” Eleanor said.

“Really?” Cassian said, wide-eyed.

“Absolutely. It will be our little secret. When is your mother going away? Did she tell you she is getting on an aeroplane and going to America soon?”

“Uh-huh. In March.”

“Did she tell you where she was going? Is she going to Cupertino? Or San Francisco? Los Angeles? Disneyland?”

“LA,” Cassian said while gulping down another spoonful.

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. March gave her enough time. She patted the boy on the head and smiled as he stained the entire front of his Bonpoint dress shirt with hot fudge.
Serves Astrid right for trying to keep things from me!

NEW YORK

FEBRUARY 10
,
2013 18:38 PM PST

ASTRID:
Yr mum found out about the wedding. Happy New Year.

NICK:
WTF! How did she find out?

ASTRID:
Not sure who leaked. She confronted me @Ah Ma's. Things got ugly.

NICK:
Really?!?

ASTRID:
Yes. She went nuts and made a scene when I wouldn't give her any details.

NICK:
So she doesn't know when, where, etc.?

ASTRID:
No, but I'm sure she'll find out eventually. Get ready.

NICK:
I'll double down on security at the venue. Will hire ex-Mossad.

ASTRID:
Make sure they are all from Tel Aviv. With good tans, lots of stubble, and great abs.

NICK:
No, we need really sinister guards. Maybe I should call Putin and see whom he can recommend.

ASTRID:
Miss u. Gotta run. Ling Cheh's ringing the lunch gong.

NICK:
Please wish Ling Cheh gong hei fat choy, and save me some tsai tao kueh.

ASTRID:
I'll save you all the crispy bits.

NICK:
My favorite!

FEBRUARY 10
,
2013 9:47 AM EST

FEBRUARY 11
,
2013 8:02 AM EST

FEBRUARY 12
,
2013 11:02 AM EST

It was Rachel who heard the messages first. They had just arrived home from California, and after setting the luggage down, Nick had run out to grab some sandwiches at La Panineria while Rachel unpacked and checked the voice mails on the home line.

“They were out of mortadella so I got a prosciutto and fontina with fig mustard and a mozzarella, tomato, and pesto panini—I thought we could share both,” Nick announced upon returning to the apartment. Handing the paper sack to Rachel, he sensed that something was off. “You okay?”

“Um, you need to listen to the voice mails,” Rachel said, handing him the cordless phone. While Nick listened, Rachel went into the kitchen and began unwrapping the sandwiches. She noticed that her fingers were trembling, and she found herself unable to decide whether to leave the sandwiches on the wax paper or put them on plates. For a moment, she became angry with herself. She hadn't thought that hearing Eleanor Young's voice again after all this time would have this effect on her. What was it she was feeling? Anxiety? Dread? She wasn't quite sure.

Entering the kitchen, Nick said, “You know, I think that's the first time in my life my dad's
ever
left me a voice mail. I'm always the one who calls him. My mum must be giving him hell.”

“Looks like the cat's out of the bag.” Rachel forced a smile, trying to mask her nerves.

Nick grimaced. “Astrid sent a text warning me while we were at your uncle's, but I didn't want to mention anything while we were all celebrating New Year's. Things were tense enough with all the talk about your father. I should have known this was coming.”

“What do you think you'll do?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“You're really going to ignore her calls?”

“Of course. I'm not going to play her game.”

Rachel felt relieved at first, but then a little conflicted about whether this was the right way for Nick to handle things. Ignoring his mother had gotten them into all that trouble the first time around. Was he making a big mistake again? “Are you sure you don't want to at least speak to your father…maybe try to clear the air before the wedding?”

Nick thought about it for a moment. “You know, there's really nothing
to clear. My dad already gave us his blessing when I spoke to him last month.
He's
happy for us, at least.”

“But what if the messages have nothing to do with our wedding?”

“Listen, if there was anything truly important my parents needed to tell me, they would have just told me on the voice mail. Or Astrid would have told me. This is just some new scheme my mother has cooked up in her last-ditch effort to prevent us from marrying. I gotta hand it to her—she's like a rabid dog that just won't let go of your leg,” Nick said, fuming.

Rachel walked into the living room and sank down onto the sofa. Here she was, a girl who had grown up never knowing her father. As much as she detested Eleanor Young, she couldn't help but feel sad that Nick had become so estranged from his mother. She knew it wasn't her fault, but she hated that she was part of why it happened. She gathered her thoughts for a few minutes before finally speaking. “I wish things didn't have to be this way. I never thought I'd ever put you in a position like this.”

“You didn't put me in any position. This was my mother's own doing. She only has herself to blame.”

“I just never imagined I'd be at a place where my future husband's parents weren't invited to our wedding, and most of his family won't be there…”

Nick took a seat beside Rachel. “We talked about this already. It's going to be fine. Astrid and Alistair will be there, and they are my closest cousins. You know I've always hated those traditional Chinese weddings where everyone and their cat is invited. We're going to have an intimate ceremony surrounded by your family and our closest friends. Just you, me, and our chosen family. No one else matters.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm more than sure,” Nick said as he began to kiss the tender spot at the nape of her neck.

Sighing softly, Rachel closed her eyes and hoped he really meant what he said.

A couple of weeks later, the students enrolled at New York University in the course Britain Between the Wars: The Lost Generation Rediscovered, Deconstructed, and Restored were treated to the most curious
spectacle. In the middle of Professor Young's lecture, two extremely tan, extremely blond women of Amazonian proportions entered the classroom. Dressed in identical outfits of figure-hugging navy-blue cashmere sweaters, immaculately pressed white linen slacks, and white nautical caps with gold piping on the brims, the pair sauntered up to the front of the classroom and addressed the professor.

“Mr. Young? The favor of your presence has been requested. If you would please come with us,” one of the blondes said in a thick Norwegian accent.

Not sure what to make of this, Nick replied, “My class isn't over for another twenty-five minutes. If you'd care to wait outside, we can speak when it's over.”

“I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Young. The matter is extremely urgent and we've been requested to collect you immediately.”

“Immediately?”

“Yes, immediately,” the other blonde replied. This one had an Afrikaans accent that made her sound much sterner than the Norwegian. “Please come with us now.”

Nick was starting to get a little annoyed by the disruption when suddenly it hit him—this had to be some pre-wedding prank, most likely courtesy of his best friend Colin Khoo. He had assured Colin that he didn't care for a bachelor party or any sort of fuss, but it sure looked like these two leggy blondes were part of some elaborate ploy.

“And what if I don't go with you?” he said with a playful grin.

“Then you will give us no choice but to resort to extreme measures,” the Norwegian replied.

Nick found himself fighting to keep a straight face. He hoped these women were not about to bust out a boom box and start stripping. His classroom would descend into total chaos and he would lose control of these already attention-deficient kids. Not to mention all his hard-earned credibility, since he hardly looked older than most of his students.

“Give me a few minutes to wrap things up,” Nick finally said.

“Very well.” The women nodded in unison.

Ten minutes later, Nick exited the classroom as his students excitedly whipped out their phones and began texting, tweeting, and insta-gramming pictures of their instructor being led away by two statuesque blondes in nautical-inspired outfits. Waiting in front of the building on University Place was a silver BMW SUV with tinted windows. Nick got in a little reluctantly, and as the sedan began speeding across Houston
Street and onto the West Side Highway, he wondered where in the world he was being taken.

At Fifty-second Street, the car merged into one of the exit lanes leading toward the Manhattan Cruise Terminal, where the cruise ships that visited New York all docked. Moored at Pier 88 was a superyacht that looked like it had at least five levels of decks.
The Odin
, it was called.
Good God, Colin has way too much time and money on his hands!
Nick thought, staring up at the gargantuan vessel, which seemed to sparkle as shards of sunlight reflecting off the water danced across its midnight-blue hull. He climbed up the gangway and entered the grand foyer of the yacht, a soaring atrium with a circular glass elevator in the middle that looked like it could have been stolen from an Apple store. The blondes escorted Nick into the lift, which rose just one floor before opening up again.

“We could have taken the stairs,” Nick remarked wryly to the ladies. He stepped out of the elevator, half expecting to find the room filled with friends like Colin Khoo, Mehmet Sabançi, and some of his cousins, but instead found himself alone on what seemed to be the main deck of the yacht. The ladies led him through a series of sumptuous spaces, past sleek lounges paneled in golden sycamore, barstools upholstered in whale foreskin, and a salon with a ceiling that glowed like a James Turrell installation.

Nick began to have the sinking feeling that none of this had anything to do with a bachelor party. Just as he was beginning to consider his options for a hasty exit, they arrived at a pair of sliding doors guarded by two tall, strapping deckhands.
^*1
The men slid the doors apart, revealing a skylit dining deck. At the end of the deck, lounging on a dining settee in a white pique blazer, white jodhpurs, and camel-colored F.lli Fabbri riding boots, was none other than Jacqueline Ling.

“Ah, Nicky, just in time for the soufflé!” she said.

Nick approached his old family friend, feeling equally amused and exasperated. He should have clued in earlier that all this Scandinavian silliness had something to do with Jacqueline, whose longtime partner was the Norwegian billionaire Victor Normann.

“What kind of soufflé is it?” Nick asked nonchalantly, taking a seat across from the legendary beauty dubbed “the Chinese Catherine Deneuve” by the society pages.

“I believe it's kale and Emmentaler. Don't you think all the sudden
hype about kale is getting a bit much? I want to know who's been doing all the PR for the kale industry—they should really get an award. Now, aren't you the least bit surprised to see me?”

“Actually, I'm rather disappointed. For a while I thought I'd been kidnapped and forced to be an extra in a James Bond movie.”

“Didn't you enjoy meeting Alannah and Mette Marit? I knew you wouldn't come if I had just called up and invited you to lunch.”

“Of course I would have, but at a more normal time—I hope you're going to find me a new job when NYU fires me for abandoning my class in the middle of a lecture.”

“Hiyah, don't be such a spoilsport! You have no idea how hard it was to find a place to dock this beast. Now, I thought New York was supposed to be such a world-class city, but do you know your biggest marina can only hold up to a hundred and eighty feet? Where is
anyone
supposed to park their yacht?”

“Well, this is quite a beast. Lürssen, I presume?”

“Fincantieri, actually. Victor did not want his baby built anywhere near Norway, with those pesky journalists always scrutinizing his every move, so he chose an Italian shipyard instead. Of course, Espen
^*2
designed this one, like he has all our boats.”

“Auntie Jacqueline, I don't think you summoned me here to talk about shipbuilding. Why don't you say what you really came to say?” Nick said, breaking off a corner of a still-warm baguette and dipping it into his soufflé.

“Nicky, I told you never to call me ‘Auntie.' You make me feel like I'm past my sell date!” Jacqueline said in mock horror as she flicked a lustrous lock of black hair behind her shoulders.