Crazy Rich Asians (33 page)

“Serena Oh told me that she ran into them at Lung King Heen last week, and Kitty was
in Gucci, head to toe. Gucci purse, Gucci halter top, Gucci satin mini-shorts, and
Gucci python boots,” Chloé said. “She kept her Gucci sunglasses on all through dinner,
and apparently even made out with him at the table with her sunglasses on.”

“
Alamaaaaak
, how tacky can you get!” Wandi hissed, patting her diamond-and-aquamarine tiara.

Parker suddenly addressed Rachel from across the table. “Wait a minute, have
you
met them yet?”

“Who?” Rachel asked, since she was trying to tune the girls out rather than listen
in on their salacious gossip.

“Alistair and Kitty!”

“Sorry, I wasn’t really following … who are they?”

Francesca glanced at Rachel and said, “Parker, don’t waste your time—it’s obvious
Rachel doesn’t know anybody.”

Rachel didn’t understand why Francesca was being so icy toward her. She decided to
ignore the comment and took a sip of her Pinot Gris.

“So Rachel, tell us how you met Nicholas Young,” Lauren asked loudly.

“Well, it’s not a very exciting story. We both teach at NYU, and we were set up by
a colleague of mine,” Rachel answered, noticing that all eyes at the table were fixed
on her.

“Oh, who is the colleague? A Singaporean?” Lauren asked.

“No, she’s Chinese American, Sylvia Wong-Swartz.”

“How did she know Nicholas?” Parker asked.

“Um, they met on some committee.”

“So she didn’t know him very well?” Parker continued.

“No, I don’t think so,” Rachel replied, wondering what these girls were getting at.
“Why the interest in Sylvia?”

“Oh, I love setting up my friends too, so I was just curious to know what motivated
your friend to set the two of you up, that’s all.” Parker smiled.

“Well, Sylvia’s a good friend, and she was always trying to set me up. She just thought
Nick was cute and a total catch …” Rachel began, instantly regretting her choice of
words.

“It sure sounds like she did her homework on
that
, didn’t she?” Francesca said with a sharp laugh.

After dinner, while the girls took off for the disco marquee precariously erected
on a jetty, Rachel headed alone to the beach bar, a picturesque gazebo overlooking
a secluded cove. It was empty except for the tall, strapping bartender who grinned
broadly when she entered. “Signorina, can I make you something special?” he asked
in an almost comically seductive accent.
Hell, did Araminta’s mother only hire dashing Italians?

“I’ve actually been craving a beer. Do you have any beer?”

“Of course. Let’s see, we have Corona, Duvel, Moretti, Red Stripe, and my personal
favorite, Lion Stout.”

“That’s one I’ve never heard of.”

“It’s from Sri Lanka. It’s creamy and bittersweet, with a rich tan head.”

Rachel couldn’t help giggling. It sounded like he was describing himself. “Well if
it’s your favorite, then I have to try it.”

As he poured the beer into a tall frosted glass, a girl whom Rachel
hadn’t previously noticed strolled into the bar and slipped onto the stool next to
her.

“Thank God there’s someone else here who drinks beer! I am so sick of all those pissy
low-cal cocktails,” the girl said. She was Chinese, but spoke with an Australian accent.

“Cheers to that,” Rachel replied, tipping her glass at the girl. The girl ordered
a Corona, and grabbed the bottle from the bartender before he could pour it into a
glass. He looked personally wounded as she tilted her head back and downed her beer
in full-bodied gulps. “Rachel, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. But if you’re looking for the Taiwanese Rachel Chu, you’ve got the
wrong girl,” Rachel shot back preemptively.

The girl smiled quizzically, a little baffled by Rachel’s response. “I’m Astrid’s
cousin Sophie. She told me to look out for you.”

“Oh, hi,” Rachel said, disarmed by Sophie’s friendly smile and deep dimples. Unlike
the other girls sporting the latest resort fashions, she was dressed plainly in a
sleeveless cotton shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She had a no-nonsense pageboy
haircut, and wore no makeup or jewelry except for a plastic Swatch on her wrist.

“Were you on the plane with us?” Rachel asked, trying to remember her.

“No, no, I flew in on my own and just arrived a little while ago,”

“You have your own plane too?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Sophie laughed. “I’m the lucky one who flew Garuda Airlines,
economy class. I had some hospital rounds to do, so I couldn’t get away until later
this afternoon.”

“You’re a nurse?”

“Pediatric surgeon.”

Once again, Rachel was reminded that one could never judge a book by its cover, especially
in Asia. “So you’re Astrid and Nick’s cousin?”

“No, just Astrid’s, on the Leong side. Her father is my mum’s brother. But of course
I know Nick—we all grew up together. And you grew up in the States, right? Where did
you live?”

“I spent my teenage years in California, but I’ve lived in twelve different states.
We moved around quite a bit when I was younger.”

“Why did you move around so much?”

“My mom worked in Chinese restaurants.”

“What did she do?”

“She usually started out as a hostess or a waitress, but she always managed to get
promoted quickly.”

“So she took you everywhere with her?” Sophie asked, genuinely fascinated.

“Yes—we lived the Gypsy life until my teenage years, when we settled down in California.”

“Was it lonely for you?”

“Well, it was all I knew, so it seemed normal to me. I got to know the back rooms
of suburban strip-mall restaurants very well, and I was pretty much a bookworm.”

“And what about your father?”

“He died soon after I was born.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sophie said quickly, regretting that she had asked.

“That’s fine—I never knew him.” Rachel smiled, trying to put her at ease. “And anyway,
it wasn’t all bad. My mom put herself through night school, got a college degree,
and has been a successful real estate agent for many years now.”

“That’s amazing,” Sophie said.

“Not really. We’re actually one of the many clichéd ‘Asian immigrant success stories’
that politicians love to trot out every four years during their conventions.”

Sophie chuckled. “I can see why Nick likes you—you both have the same dry wit.”

Rachel smiled, looking away toward the disco marquee on the jetty.

“Am I keeping you from the dance party? I hear Araminta flew in some famous DJ from
Ibiza,” Sophie said.

“I’m enjoying this, actually. It’s the first real conversation I’ve had all day.”

Sophie glanced at the girls—most of whom were now writhing wildly with several of
the Italian waiters to the pounding eurotrance-disco music—and shrugged. “Well, with
this crowd, I can’t say I’m surprised.”

“Aren’t these your friends?”

“A few, but most of these girls I don’t know. I recognize them, of course.”

“Who are they? Are some of them famous?”

“In their own minds, perhaps. These are the more
social
girls,
the type that are always appearing in the magazines, attending all the charity galas.
Far too glamorous a crowd for me. I’m sorry, but I work twelve-hour shifts and don’t
have the time to go to benefit parties in hotels. I have to benefit my patients first.”

Rachel laughed.

“Speaking of which,” Sophie added, “I’ve been up since five, so I’m going to turn
in now.”

“I think I will too,” Rachel said.

They walked down the jetty toward their bungalows.

“I’m in the villa at the end of this walkway if you need anything,” Sophie said.

“Good night,” Rachel said. “It’s been lovely talking with you.”

“Likewise,” Sophie said, flashing that deep-dimpled smile again.

Rachel entered her villa, gladly returning to some peace and quiet after a draining
day. None of the lights were on in the suite, but the bright silvery moonlight glimmered
through the open screen doors, casting serpentine ripples along the walls. The sea
was so still that the sound of the water lapping slowly against the wood stilts had
a hypnotic effect. It was the perfect setting for a night swim in the ocean, something
she’d never done. Rachel padded toward the bedroom for her bikini. As she passed the
vanity table, she noticed that the leather satchel she’d left hanging on the chair
seemed to be leaking some sort of liquid. She walked toward the bag and saw that it
was completely drenched, with brownish water dripping out of the corner into a large
puddle on the bedroom floor. What the hell happened? She turned on the lamp by the
table and opened the front flap of her bag. She screamed, jerking backward in horror
and knocking over the table lamp.

Her bag was filled with a large fish that had been badly mutilated, blood seeping
out from its gills. Violently scrawled on the vanity mirror above the chair in fish
blood were the words “CATCH THIS, YOU GOLD-DIGGING CUNT!”

Eleanor

“Thirty thousand yuan? That’s ridiculous!” Eleanor seethed at the man in the poly-blend
gray jacket seated across from her in the lounge off the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton.
The man looked around to make sure that Eleanor’s outburst wasn’t attracting too much
attention.

“Trust me, it will be worth your money,” the man said quietly in Mandarin.

“Mr. Wong, how can we be sure your information has any value when we don’t even know
what it is exactly?” Lorena asked.

“Listen, your brother explained to Mr. Tin what the situation was, and Mr. Tin and
I go way back—I have worked for him for more than twenty years. We are the best at
this sort of thing. Now, I’m not sure what exactly you’re planning, and I don’t want
to know, but I can assure you that this information will be
extremely
beneficial to whoever possesses it,” Mr. Wong said confidently. Lorena translated
his response for Eleanor.

“Who does he think we are? There isn’t any sort of information that’s worth thirty
thousand yuan to me. Does he think I’m made of money?” Eleanor was indignant.

“How about fifteen thousand?” Lorena asked.

“Okay, for you, twenty thousand,” Mr. Wong countered.

“Fifteen thousand, and that’s our last offer,” Lorena insisted again.

“Okay, seventeen thousand five hundred, but that’s
my
last offer,” the man said, getting frustrated by all the bargaining. Mr. Tin had
told him that these ladies were millionaires.

“No—ten thousand, or I leave,” Eleanor suddenly declared in Mandarin. The man glared
at her as if she had insulted all of his ancestors. He shook his head in dismay.

“Lorena, I’m done with this extortion,” Eleanor huffed, getting up from her red velvet
club chair. Lorena stood up as well, and both women began to walk out of the lounge
into the soaring three-story atrium lobby, where there was a sudden traffic jam of
men in tuxedos and women in black, white, and red ball gowns. “Must be some sort of
big function going on,” Eleanor noted, scrutinizing a woman ablaze with diamonds around
her neck.

“Shenzhen is not Shanghai, that’s for sure—all these women are dressed in fashions
from three years ago,” Lorena observed wryly as she tried to navigate her way through
the crowd. “Eleanor, I think you’ve gone too far with your bargaining tactics this
time. I think we’ve lost this guy.”

“Lorena, trust me—keep walking and don’t turn around!” Eleanor instructed.

Just as the ladies reached the front entrance of the hotel, Mr. Wong suddenly came
running out of the lounge. “Okay, okay, ten thousand,” he said breathlessly. Eleanor
beamed in triumph as she followed the man back to the table.

Mr. Wong made a quick phone call on his cell, and then said to the ladies, “Okay,
my informer will be here very soon. Until then, what would you ladies like to drink?”

Lorena was a little surprised to hear this—she had assumed that they would be taken
to some other place to meet the informer. “Is it safe to meet right here?”

“Why not? This is one of the best hotels in Shenzhen!”

“I mean, it’s so public.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll see that it will be just fine,” Mr. Wong said, grabbing a handful
of macadamia nuts from the silver bowl on the table.

A few minutes later, a man entered the bar, walking with trepidation toward their
table. Eleanor could tell just by looking at him that he was from some rural area
and that it was the first time he had set foot in a hotel as fancy as this. He wore
a striped polo shirt and ill-fitting
dress pants, and carried a metallic-silver briefcase. It looked to Lorena like he
had just picked up the suitcase an hour ago from one of those cheap luggage stalls
at the train station, to make himself seem more professional. He looked nervously
at the women as he approached the table. Mr. Wong had a short exchange with him in
a dialect that neither woman could understand, and the man set his briefcase onto
the granite-top table. He fiddled with the combination and clicked the locks on each
side in unison before opening the briefcase lid ceremoniously.