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China Rich Girlfriend by Kevin Kwan (48)

PROLOGUE

BEIJING CAPITAL INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

SEPTEMBER 9, 2012, 7:45 P.M.

“Wait a minute—I’m in first class. Take me to first class,” Edison Cheng said contemptuously to the flight attendant escorting him to his seat.

“This is first class, Mr. Cheng,” the man in the crisp navy uniform informed him.

“But where are the cabins?” Eddie asked, still confused.

“Mr. Cheng, I’m afraid British Airways does not have private cabins in first class. But if you’d allow me to show you some of the special features of your seat—”

“No, no, that’s fine.” Eddie tossed his ostrich leather briefcase onto the seat like a petulant schoolboy. Fucky fuck—the sacrifices I have to make for the bank today! Edison Cheng, the pampered “Prince of Private Bankers”—famous in Hong Kong society pages for his bon vivant lifestyle, his dapper wardrobe, his elegant wife (Fiona), his photogenic children, and his superb lineage (his mother is Alexandra Young, of the Singapore Youngs)—was unaccustomed to such inconveniences. Five hours ago he had been interrupted during a luncheon at the Hong Kong Club, rushed aboard the company jet bound for Beijing, and then hustled onto this flight to London. It had been years since he had suffered the indignity of flying commercial, but Mrs. Bao was on this godforsaken plane, and Mrs. Bao needed to be accommodated.

But where exactly was the lady? Eddie expected to find her seated nearby, but the chief purser informed him that there was no such person by that name in the cabin.

“No, no, she’s supposed to be here. Can you check the flight manifest or something?” Eddie demanded.

Minutes later, Eddie found himself being led to row 37, seat E of the aircraft—economy class—where a petite woman in a white vicuña turtleneck and gray flannel slacks sat sandwiched between two passengers.

“Mrs. Bao? Bao Shaoyen?” Eddie inquired in Mandarin.

The woman looked up and smiled wanly. “Are you Mr. Cheng?”

“Yes. So glad to meet you, but I’m sorry we had to meet like this.” Eddie smiled in relief. He had spent the past eight years managing the Bao family’s offshore accounts, but they were such a secretive lot, he had never met any of them until today. Even though she looked rather tired at the moment, Bao Shaoyen was much prettier than he had imagined. With alabaster skin, large eyes that slanted upward at the edges, and high cheekbones accentuated by the way she wore her jet-black hair—pulled into a tight, low ponytail—she did not look old enough to have a son in grad school.

“Why are you seated here? Was there some mix-up?” Eddie asked urgently.

“No, I always fly economy class,” Mrs. Bao replied.

Eddie couldn’t hide his look of surprise. Mrs. Bao’s husband, Bao Gaoliang, was one of Beijing’s top politicians, and what’s more, he had inherited one of China’s biggest pharmaceutical firms. The Baos weren’t just one of his regular clients; they were his ultra-high-net-worth clients.

“Only my son flies first class,” Bao Shaoyen explained, catching Eddie’s look. “Carlton can eat all the fancy Western food and, being a student under so much pressure, he needs all the rest he can get. But for me, it’s not worth it. I don’t touch airplane food, and I can never sleep on these long flights anyway.”

Eddie had to resist the urge to roll his eyes. Typical Mainlanders! They lavished every penny on their Little Emperor and suffered in silence. Well, look where that got them. Twenty-three-year-old Carlton Bao was supposed to be at Cambridge finishing his master’s dissertation, but had instead spent the previous evening doing his best Prince Harry impersonation—running up a £38,000 bar tab at half a dozen London nightspots, wrecking his brand-new Ferrari, destroying public property, and almost getting himself killed. And that wasn’t even the worst of it. The worst of it Eddie had been explicitly instructed not to reveal to Bao Shaoyen.

Eddie faced a conundrum. He urgently needed to go over the plans with Mrs. Bao, but he would sooner endure a colonoscopy than spend the next eleven hours slumming it in coach. God in heaven, what if someone recognized him? A picture of Edison Cheng crammed into an economy-class seat would go viral within seconds. Yet Eddie grudgingly realized that it would be unseemly for one of his bank’s most important clients to remain here in steerage while he was up front, stretched out on a flatbed recliner, sipping twenty-year-old cognac. He eyed the spiky-haired youth slouching dangerously close to Mrs. Bao on one side, and the elderly woman clipping her nails into the air sickness bag on her other side, a solution springing to mind.

Lowering his voice, Eddie said, “Mrs. Bao, I would of course be happy to join you in this cabin, but as there are some highly confidential matters we need to discuss, would you allow me to arrange a seat for you up front? I’m certain the bank would insist that I upgrade you to first class—at our expense, of course—and we will be able to talk much more privately there.”

“Well, I suppose—if the bank insists,” Bao Shaoyen replied a little hesitantly.

After takeoff, when aperitifs had been served and they were both comfortably ensconced in the sumptuous, pod-like seats facing each other, Eddie wasted no time updating his client.

“Mrs. Bao, I was in contact with London just before boarding. Your son has been stabilized. The surgery to repair his punctured spleen was completely successful, and now the orthopedic team can take over.”

“Oh thank all the gods.” Bao Shaoyen sighed, easing back in her seat for the first time.

“We’ve already lined up the top reconstructive plastic surgeon in London—Dr. Peter Ashley—and he will be in the operating room alongside the orthopedic team attending to your son.”

“My poor boy,” Bao Shaoyen said, her eyes getting moist.

“Your son was very lucky.”

“And the British girl?”

“The girl is still in surgery. But I’m sure she will pull through just fine,” Eddie said, putting on his peppiest smile.

• • •

Barely thirty minutes earlier, Eddie had been on another plane parked in a private hangar at Beijing Capital International Airport, taking in the grim details during a hastily arranged crisis-management meeting with Mr. Tin, the gray-haired head of security for the Bao family, and Nigel Tomlinson, his bank’s Asia chief. The two men had climbed aboard the Learjet as soon as it landed, huddling over Nigel’s laptop while an associate in London gave the latest update via secure-feed videoconference.

“Carlton is out of surgery now. He was quite a bit banged up, but being in the driver’s seat with his airbag and everything, he actually suffered the least injuries. But with the English girl, it’s touch and go—she’s still in a coma, and they’ve relieved the swelling in the brain, but that’s all they can do for now.”

“And the other girl?” Mr. Tin asked, squinting at the small pixilated pop-up window.

“We’re told she died on impact.”

Nigel sighed. “And she was Chinese?”

“We believe so, sir.”

Eddie shook his head. “What a fucky, fucky mess. We need to track down the next of kin immediately, before they are contacted by the authorities.”

“How do you even fit three people into a Ferrari?” Nigel asked.

Mr. Tin twirled his phone nervously on the lacquered walnut console. “Carlton Bao’s father is on a state visit to Canada with the premier of China, and nothing must interrupt him. My orders from Mrs. Bao are that no hint of any scandal must ever reach his ears. He must never know about the dead girl. Do you understand? There is too much at stake—given his political position—and it is an especially sensitive time with the big once-in-a-decade changeover in party leadership happening right now.”

“Of course, of course,” Nigel assured him. “We will say that the white girl was his girlfriend. As far as the father is concerned, there was only one girl in the car.”

“Why does Mr. Bao even need to know about the white girl? Don’t worry, Mr. Tin. I have handled much worse dealing with some of those sheikhs’ children,” Eddie boasted.

Nigel shot Eddie a warning glare. The bank prided itself on the utmost discretion, and here was his associate blabbing away about other clients.

“We have a tactical response team in place in London that I am personally directing, and I can assure you we will do everything to contain this,” Nigel said, before turning to Eddie. “How much do you think it will take to keep Fleet Street quiet?”

Eddie inhaled deeply, trying to do some quick calculations. “It’s not just the press. The policemen, the ambulance drivers, the hospital staff, the families. There’s going to be an assload of people to shut up. I would suggest ten million pounds for starters.”

“Well, the minute you land in London, you need to take Mrs. Bao straight to the office. We need her to sign off on the withdrawal before you take her to the hospital to see her son. I’m just wondering what we should say if Mr. Bao asks us why we needed so much,” Nigel pondered.

“Just say the girl needed some new organs,” Mr. Tin suggested.

“We can also say we needed to pay the boutique,” Eddie added. “Those Jimmy Choos are bloody pricey, you know.”

2 HYDE PARK

LONDON, SEPTEMBER 10, 2012

Eleanor Young sipped on her morning tea, crafting her little white lie. She was holidaying in London with three of her closest friends—Lorena Lim, Nadine Shaw, and Daisy Foo—and after two days of being with the ladies nonstop, she desperately needed a few hours on her own. The trip was a much-needed distraction for all of them—Lorena was recovering from a Botox allergy scare, Daisy had gotten into yet another fight with her daughter-in-law over the choice of kindergartens for her grandchildren, and Eleanor herself was depressed that her son, Nicky, had not spoken to her for more than two years. And Nadine—well, Nadine was appalled by the state of her daughter’s brand-new apartment.

Alamaaaaaaak! Fifty million dollars and I can’t even flush the toilet!” Nadine screeched as she entered the breakfast room.

“What do you expect, when everything is so bloody high-tech?” Lorena laughed. “Did the toilet at least help you suay kah-cherng?”

“No, lah! I waved and waved at all the stupid sensors but nothing happened!” Feeling defeated, Nadine plopped down into an ultramodern chair that appeared to be constructed out of a tangled pile of red velvet ropes.

“I don’t want to criticize, but I think this apartment of your daughter’s is not only hideously modern, it’s hideously overpriced,” Daisy commented between bites of toast topped with pork floss.

Aiyah, she’s paying for the name and the location, nothing more,” Eleanor sniffed. “Personally, I would have chosen a unit with a nice view of Hyde Park, rather than the view facing Harvey Nichols.”

“You know my Francesca, lah! She could care less about the park—she wants to fall asleep staring at her favorite department store! Thank God she finally married someone who can pay her overdraft.” Nadine sighed.

The ladies kept quiet. Things hadn’t been easy for Nadine ever since her father-in-law, Sir Ronald Shaw, woke up from a six-year coma and turned off the money spigot on his family’s free spending. Her profligate daughter, Francesca (once voted one of the Fifty Best Dressed Women by Singapore Tattle), did not respond well to being put on a clothing budget, and decided that her best solution was to embark on a brazen affair with Roderick Liang (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs), who had only just married Lauren Lee. Singapore’s social set was scandalized, and Lauren’s grandmother, the formidable Mrs. Lee Yong Chien, retaliated by making sure every old-guard family in Southeast Asia shut their doors firmly on the Shaws and the Liangs. In the end, a severely chastened Roderick chose to crawl back to his wife rather than run off with Francesca.

Finding herself a social pariah, Francesca fled to England and quickly landed on her feet by marrying “some Iranian Jew with half a billion dollars.” Since moving into 2 Hyde Park, the obscenely expensive luxury condominium backed by the Qatari royal family, she was finally on speaking terms with her mother again. Naturally, this gave the ladies an excuse to visit the newlyweds, but of course they just wanted to check out the much-publicized apartment and, more important, have a free place to stay.

As the women discussed the day’s shopping agenda, Eleanor launched into her white lie. “I can’t go shopping this morning—I’m meeting those boooring Shangs for breakfast. I need to see them at least once while I am here, or else they will be terribly insulted.”

“You shouldn’t have told them you were coming,” Daisy chided.

Alamak, you know that Cassandra Shang will find out sooner or later! It’s like she has some special radar, and if she knew I was in England and didn’t pay my respects to her parents, I would never hear the end of it. What to do, lah? This is the curse of being married to the Youngs,” Eleanor said, pretending to bemoan her situation. In reality, even though she had been married to Philip Young for more than three decades, his cousins—“the Imperial Shangs,” as they were known to all—had never extended her any courtesies. If Philip had come with her, they would surely have been invited to the Shangs’ palatial estate in Surrey, or at the very least to dinner in town, but whenever Eleanor came to England on her own, the Shangs remained as silent as tombs.

Of course, Eleanor had long since given up trying to fit in with her husband’s snobbish, insular clan, but lying about the Shangs was the only way to stop her girlfriends from prying too much. If she was seeing anyone else, her kay poh friends might surely want to tag along, but the mere mention of the Shangs intimidated them from asking too many questions.

While the ladies decided to spend the morning sampling all the free gourmet delicacies at Harrods’ famed Food Halls, Eleanor, discreetly dressed in a chic camel-colored Akris pantsuit, racing green MaxMara swing coat, and her signature gold-rimmed Cutler and Gross sunglasses, left the swanky building on Knightsbridge and walked two blocks east to the Berkeley hotel, where a silver Jaguar XJL parked in front of a row of perfectly round topiaries awaited her. Still paranoid that her friends might have followed her, Eleanor glanced around quickly before getting into the sedan and being whisked off.

At Connaught Street in Mayfair, Eleanor emerged in front of a smart row of townhouses. Nothing about the red-and-white-brick Georgian façade or the glossy black door hinted at what awaited beyond. She pressed the intercom button, and a voice responded almost immediately: “May I help you?”

“It’s Eleanor Young. I have a ten o’clock appointment,” she said in an accent that was suddenly much more British. Even before she had finished speaking, several bolts clicked open, and an intimidatingly thickset man in a pinstripe suit opened the door. Eleanor entered a bright, stark antechamber, where an attractive young woman sat behind a cobalt blue Maison Jansen desk. The woman smiled sweetly and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Young. It won’t be a minute—we’re just calling up.”

Eleanor nodded. She knew the procedure well. The entire back wall of the antechamber consisted of steel-framed glass doors leading into a private garden courtyard, and she could already see a bald man in a black suit crossing the garden toward her. The pinstripe-suited doorman ushered her toward the bald man, saying simply, “Mrs. Young for Mr. D’Abo.” Eleanor noticed that both of them sported barely visible earpieces. The bald fellow escorted her along the glass-canopied walkway that bisected the courtyard, past some neatly trimmed shrubbery, and into the adjoining building, this one an ultramodern bunker clad in black titanium and tinted glass.

“Mrs. Young for Mr. D’Abo,” the man repeated into his earpiece, and another set of security locks clicked open smoothly. After a short ride in the elevator, Eleanor felt a sense of relief for the first time that morning as she at last stepped into the richly appointed reception room of the Liechtenburg Group, one of the world’s most exclusive private banks.

Like many high-net-worth Asians, Eleanor maintained accounts with many different financial institutions. Her parents, who had lost much of their first fortune when they were forced into the Endau concentration camp during the Japanese occupation of Singapore in World War II, had instilled in their children a key mantra: Never put all of your eggs in one basket. Eleanor remembered the lesson over the next few decades as she amassed her own fortune. It didn’t matter that her hometown of Singapore had become one of the world’s most secure financial hubs; Eleanor—like many of her friends—still kept money distributed among various banks around the globe, in safe havens that would prefer to remain unnamed.

The Liechtenburg Group account, however, was the jewel in her crown. They managed the biggest chunk of her assets, and Peter D’Abo, her private banker, consistently provided her with the highest rate of return. At least once a year, Eleanor would find some excuse to come to London, where she relished her portfolio reviews with Peter. (It did not hurt that he resembled her favorite actor, Richard Chamberlain—around the time he was in The Thorn Birds—and on many an occasion Eleanor would sit across Peter’s highly polished macassar ebony desk and imagine him in a priest’s collar while he explained what ingenious new scheme he had put her money in.)

Eleanor checked her lipstick one last time in the tiny mirror of her Jim Thompson silk lipstick case as she waited in the reception lounge. She admired the huge glass vase filled with purple calla lilies, their bright green stems twisted into a tight spiral formation, and thought about how many British pounds to withdraw from her account on this trip. The Singapore dollar was on a weakening trend this week, so it would be better to spend more in pounds at the moment. Daisy had paid for lunch yesterday, and Lorena covered dinner, so it was her turn to treat today. The three of them had made a pact to take turns paying for everything on this trip, knowing how tight things were for poor Nadine.

The silver-edged double doors began to open, and Eleanor rose in anticipation. Instead of Peter D’Abo, however, a Chinese lady came walking out, accompanied by Eddie Cheng.

“My goodness, Auntie Elle! What are you doing here?” Eddie blurted out before he could stop himself.

Eleanor knew of course that her husband’s nephew worked for the Liechtenburg Group, but Eddie was head of the Hong Kong office, and never would she imagine running into him here. She had specifically opened her account at the London office so that she would never run the risk of bumping into anyone she might know. Turning scarlet in the face, she stammered, “Oh…oh, hi. I’m just meeting a friend for breakfast.” Aiyoh aiyoh aiyoh I’ve been caught!

“Ah, yes, breakfast,” Eddie replied, realizing the awkwardness of the situation. Well of course the crafty bitch would have an account with us.

“I got here two days ago. I’m here with Nadine Shaw—you know, visiting Francesca.” Now the whole damn family will know I have money stashed away in England.

“Ah yes, Francesca Shaw. Didn’t I hear she married some Arab?” Eddie asked politely. Ah Ma is always worried Uncle Philip doesn’t have enough to live on. Wait till she hears THIS!

“He’s an Iranian Jew, very handsome. They just moved into a flat at 2 Hyde Park,” Eleanor replied. Thank goodness he can never know my sixteen-digit account number.

“Wah—he must do very well,” Eddie said in mock awe. My God, I’m going to have to grill Peter D’Abo about her account, not that he’ll tell me anythingthat stuffed shirt.

“I would imagine he does very well—he’s a banker just like you,” Eleanor retorted. She noticed that the Chinese woman looked rather anxious to leave and wondered who she might be. For a Mainlander, she was dressed in an elegant, understated manner. Must be one of his bigwig clients. Of course, Eddie was doing the proper thing by not introducing her. What were the both of them doing in London?

“Well, I hope you enjoy your breakfast,” Eddie said with a smirk as he took off with the lady.

• • •

Later that day, after Eddie had taken Bao Shaoyen to the intensive care unit of St. Mary’s Paddington to see Carlton, he brought her to dinner at Mandarin Kitchen on Queensway, thinking the lobster noodles might cheer her up, but apparently women lost their appetites when they couldn’t stop crying. Shaoyen had been utterly unprepared for the sight of her son. His head had swollen to the size of a watermelon, and there were tubes sticking out everywhere—from his nose, his mouth, his neck. Both of his legs were broken, there were second-degree burns on his arms, and the part that remained unbandaged looked as if it had been completely smashed in, like a plastic bottle that had been stepped on. She wanted to stay with him, but the doctors wouldn’t let her. Visiting hours were over. No one told her it had been this bad. Why didn’t someone tell her? Why didn’t Mr. Tin? And where was her husband? She was furious with him. She was mad that she had to face this all alone, while he was off cutting ribbons and shaking hands with Canadians.

Eddie squirmed awkwardly in his seat as Shaoyen sobbed uncontrollably in front of him. Why couldn’t she just get a grip? Carlton had survived! A few rounds of plastic surgery and he would be as good as new. Maybe even better. With Peter Ashley, the Michelangelo of Harley Street working his magic, her son would probably turn out looking like the Chinese Ryan Gosling. Before arriving in London, Eddie assumed that he could clean up this mess in a day or two and still have time to get fitted for a new spring suit at Joe Morgan’s and maybe a couple new pairs of Cleverleys. But big cracks were beginning to show in the dam. Someone had tipped off the Asian press, and they were sniffing around furiously. He needed to meet with his inside man at Scotland Yard. He needed to get to his Fleet Street contacts. Things were in danger of bursting wide open, and he did not have time for hysterical mothers.

Just when things couldn’t get any worse, Eddie saw a familiar flash out of the corner of his eye. It was damn Auntie Elle again, entering the restaurant with Mrs. Q. T. Foo, that woman what’s her name from the L’Orient Jewelry family, and that tacky Nadine Shaw. Fucky fuck, why must all the Chinese visiting London dine at the same three restaurants? Just what he needed—Asia’s biggest gossip queens witnessing Bao Shaoyen having a meltdown. But wait—maybe this wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. After this morning at the bank, Eddie knew he had Eleanor by her proverbial balls. He could get her to do almost anything. And right now, he needed someone he could really trust to handle Bao Shaoyen while he handled the cleanup. If the lady was seen having a marvelous dinner in London with Asia’s leading socialites, it could actually work to her advantage and get the ravenous reporters off their trail.

Eddie got up and strutted over to the round table in the middle of the dining room. Eleanor was the first to see him approaching, and her jaw tightened in annoyance. Of course Eddie Cheng would come here. The idiot better not say anything about seeing me this morning or I will sue Liechtenburg Group till kingdom come!

“Auntie Elle, is that you?”

“Oh my goodness, Eddie! What are you doing in London?” Eleanor gasped, giving a look of utter surprise.

Eddie grinned broadly, leaning over to give her a peck on the cheek. My God, somebody hand her the Oscar now. “I’m here on business. What a lovely surprise to see you here, of all places!”

Eleanor breathed a sigh of relief. Thank God he’s playing along. “Ladies, you all know my nephew from Hong Kong? His mother is Philip’s sister, Alix, and his father is the world-famous heart surgeon Malcolm Cheng.”

“Of course, of course. Such a small world, lah!” the women chirped excitedly.

“How is your dear mother these days?” Nadine asked eagerly, even though she had never in her life met Alexandra Cheng.

“Very well, very well. Mum is in Bangkok at the moment visiting Auntie Cat.”

“Yes, yes, your Thai auntie,” Nadine answered in a slightly awed tone, knowing that Catherine Young had married into Thai aristocracy.

Eleanor had to resist the temptation to roll her eyes. That Eddie didn’t waste any opportunity to do some name-dropping.

Switching to Mandarin, Eddie said, “May I introduce all you lovely ladies to Mrs. Bao Shaoyen?”

The women nodded politely at the newcomer. Nadine noted immediately that she was wearing a Loro Piana cashmere cardigan, a beautifully cut pencil skirt from Céline, sensible low-heel pumps from Robert Clergerie, and a pretty patent leather handbag of indistinguishable brand. Verdict: Boring, but unexpectedly classy for a Mainlander.

Lorena zeroed in on her diamond ring. That rock was between 8 and 8.5 carats, D color, VVS1 or VVS2 grade, radiant cut, flanked by two triangular yellow diamonds of 3 carats apiece, set in platinum. Only Ronald Abram in Hong Kong had that particular setting. Verdict: Not too vulgar, but she could have gotten a better stone if she’d bought from L’Orient.

Daisy, who didn’t care one bit about how someone looked and was rather more interested in bloodlines, asked in Mandarin, “Bao? Might you be related to the Baos of Nanjing?”

“Yes, my husband is Bao Gaoliang,” Mrs. Bao said with a smile. At last, someone who speaks proper Mandarin! Someone who knows who we are.

Aiyah, what a small world—I met your husband the last time he was in Singapore with the Chinese delegation! Ladies, Bao Gaoliang is the former governor of Jiangsu Province. Come, come, you should both join us. We were just about to order dinner!” Daisy graciously offered.

Eddie beamed. “You’re much too kind. Actually, we could use some company. You see, it’s been quite a distressing time for Mrs. Bao. Her son was injured in a car accident two days ago in London—”

“Oh my GOD-ness!” Nadine cried.

Eddie continued, “I’m afraid I can’t stay, as I have to take care of some pressing matters for the Bao family, but I am quite sure Mrs. Bao would enjoy your company. She doesn’t know London well, so she’s at quite a loss here.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of her!” Lorena offered charitably.

“I’m so relieved. Now, Auntie Elle, can you point me to the best spot to catch a taxi?”

“Of course,” Eleanor said, walking her nephew out of the restaurant.

While the ladies consoled Bao Shaoyen, Eddie stood outside the restaurant giving Eleanor the lowdown. “I know this is a big favor I’m asking of you. Can I count on you to keep Mrs. Bao occupied and entertained for a while? More important, can I count on your absolute discretion? We need to ensure that your friends do not ever discuss Mrs. Bao with the press, especially the Asian press. I will be in your debt.”

Aiyah, you can trust us one hundred percent. My friends would never gossip or anything,” Eleanor insisted.

Eddie nodded solicitously, knowing full well that all the ladies would be texting the news back to Asia at warp speed the minute he was gone. Those pesky gossip columnists would be sure to mention it in their daily reports, and everyone would think Shaoyen was just in London to shop and eat.

“Now, can I count on your discretion?” Eleanor asked, looking him straight in the eye.

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about, Auntie Elle,” Eddie said with a smirk.

“I’m talking about my breakfast…this morning?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I already forgot about that. I took an oath of secrecy when I joined the world of private banking, and I wouldn’t dream of ever betraying it. At the Liechtenburg Group, what can we offer but discretion and trust?”

Eleanor returned to the restaurant, feeling rather relieved by this strange turn of events. She was getting to even the score with her nephew. A huge platter upon which lay the most enormous lobster over a bed of steaming hot noodles sat in the middle of the table, but no one was eating. The ladies all looked up at Eleanor with rather peculiar expressions on their faces. She figured they must be dying to know what Eddie had told her outside.

Daisy smiled brightly as Eleanor sat down and said, “Mrs. Bao was just showing us some pictures of her handsome son on her phone. She is so worried about his face, and I was just assuring her that the plastic surgeons in London are some of the best in the world.”

Daisy handed over the phone, and Eleanor’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she locked onto the image.

“Don’t you think he’s handsome?” Daisy asked in an almost too cheery tone.

Eleanor looked up from the phone and said, ever so nonchalantly, “Oh yes, very handsome.”

None of the other ladies said anything else about Mrs. Bao’s son for the rest of the dinner, but all of them were thinking the same thing. There was no way it could be a coincidence. Bao Shaoyen’s injured son looked just like the woman who had caused the great estrangement between Eleanor and her son, Nicholas.

Yes, Carlton Bao was the spitting image of Rachel Chu.


Unfortunately for Eddie, only Emirates, Etihad Airways, and Singapore Airlines have private cabins aboard their Airbus A380s. Emirates even has two Shower Spa bathrooms with sumptuous shower stalls for first-class travelers. (Mile High Club members take note.)

Hokkien for “Wash your bottom.”

According to Cassandra Shang aka “Radio One Asia.”

Women of Eleanor’s background would rather camp out six to a room or sleep on the floor of anyone they remotely know than spend money on hotels. These are the same women who wouldn’t blink at shelling out $90,000 on a South Sea pearl “trinket” while on holiday.

Hokkien for “nosy” or “meddlesome.”

Eleanor, who normally didn’t wear pricey designer clothes and made a point of bragging that she “started getting brand-name fatigue back in the seventies,” kept a few choice pieces reserved specifically for special occasions like today.

Never mind that the restaurant inexplicably resembles a 1980s Greek taverna, with its whitewashed barrel vault ceilings, Asian foodies will fly to London just to savor Mandarin Kitchen’s signature dish, because nowhere else in the world can one get Chinese hand-pulled egg noodles braised in an intoxicating ginger scallion sauce, served with giant lobsters caught daily from the Scottish Sea.

The Holy Trinity are Four Seasons for the roast duck, Mandarin Kitchen for the aforementioned lobster noodles, and Royal China for the dim sum.