Rich People Problems (38 page)

*
The Yang di-Pertuan Agong, or Agong for short, is the monarch of Malaysia. The Nine Malay states each have their own hereditary rulers and royal families, and the Agong is elected from among these rulers every five years.

MACRITCHIE RESERVOIR, SINGAPORE

It had been a long, hot, mosquito-ridden hike, and as Carlton pounded his way up another sloping hill, he wondered what the hell he had been thinking when he suggested this plan to Scheherazade. His shirt was drenched in sweat, and he was certain that no amount of Serge Lutens cologne could mask how he smelled at this point. He turned around to check on Scheherazade and saw that she was crouched on the ground, staring at something. At a discreet distance, three of her bodyguards in jogging clothes stood watching them.

“Look! It's a monitor lizard!” She pointed.

“He's a pretty big fella,” Carlton said as he caught sight of the three-foot-long reptile resting under a clump of bushes.

“It's a she, I believe,” Scheherazade corrected. “We had quite a big menagerie of pets when I was growing up. Reptiles were my thing.”

“This was in Surrey?”

“Actually, this was when we were in Bali. My family lived there for about three years when I was a little girl. I was a bit of a wild child then, going barefoot everywhere around the island.”

“That explains why you're not even breaking a sweat right now,” Carlton said, trying his best not to stare too hard at her goddess-like physique shown off to perfection in her mesh paneled leggings and stretch knit sports bra.

“You know it's funny—I never sweat. Ever. I'm told that Queen Elizabeth doesn't either.”

“Well, you're in good company,” Carlton remarked, as they finally arrived at the TreeTop Walk, a 250-meter suspension bridge that stretches from Bukit Peirce to Bukit Kalang, the two highest points of the preserve. As they traversed the narrow bridge, it began to sway slightly, but then the view opened up and suddenly it felt as though they were floating above the trees.

They reached the middle of the bridge and stood in silence for a while, taking in the remarkable view. The tropical-forest canopy stretched all around them as far as the eye could see, and the sounds of cackling birds echoed through the breeze.

“Unbelievable! Thanks for bringing me here,” Scheherazade said.

“It doesn't feel like we're in Singapore anymore, does it?”

“Sure doesn't. This is the first place I've been to in a long while that's reminded me of my childhood. I mean, it's quite a relief to see that all this nature still exists here.” Scheherazade stared at the calm reservoir in the distance, the water glinting in the late-afternoon sun.

“Has the island changed that much? I only started coming here about five years ago.”

“Carlton, you can't even imagine. Every time I'm back I hardly recognize it anymore. So much of the old atmosphere has just been wiped clean.”

“I guess that's why you like living in Paris?”

“Partly. Paris is great because every street you walk down is like an unfolding novel. I actually love it because even though there's history everywhere, it's not
my
history. Does that make any sense?”

“Sure. Shanghai is my hometown, but it doesn't feel like home anymore. Whenever I'm back it feels I can never escape my past. Everyone remembers everything about you—your family history, your mistakes,” Carlton said, his face clouding for a moment before he turned back to her. “But that's not what you meant, was it?”

“Not really. For me, Paris is like neutral territory because it's neither Singapore nor England. You know, even though I was born in Singapore and lived here until I was ten, I never felt like I truly belonged. Maybe it was because of how I looked—my hair was almost blond back then—it seemed like most people just assumed I was
ang mor.
And my mum inadvertently reinforced this by pretty much raising me as though I was British. Aside from my Chinese cousins, everyone else we knew was part of the British set. I don't blame her at all—she felt awfully homesick and was overwhelmed at first by my father's family. So we sort of existed in this English expat bubble, and for the first ten years of my life I went along thinking of myself as completely English.”

Carlton gave her a knowing smile. “Bit of a shock when you actually got to England, wasn't it?”

“Uh-huh. When we finally moved to Surrey, I realized that the English didn't really see me as I saw myself. I was this exotic, half-Chinese girl to them. So I felt like I was just absolutely screwed on both ends—I wasn't Singaporean enough, but neither was I English enough.”

Carlton nodded in agreement. “I was sent away to school in England for most of my life, and now I can't really relate to the Chinese back home. In Shanghai, I'm seen as too Westernized. Here in Singapore, I'm seen as an uncivilized Mainlander. But in London, even though I'm clearly an outsider, I feel like I can just be myself and no one's judging my every move. I guess that's what Paris does for you. You feel liberated.”

“Exactly!” Scheherazade said, flashing Carlton a smile so alluring, he had to stop himself from staring.

A group of men entered the bridge from the other end, and as they came closer Scheherazade couldn't help but notice that they all looked Italian and were impeccably dressed in white jackets and bow ties.

“Looks like we're being joined by extras from a Fellini movie,” Scheherazade joked.

“Yes,
La Dolce Vita
. And right on time,” Carlton said. The men began setting up an elaborate bar right in front of them, taking out a mixture of spirits, cocktail implements, and glassware.

“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.