9
Astrid
•
SINGAPORE
Astrid arrived home from her Paris sojourn in the late afternoon, early enough to give three-year-old Cassian his bath while Evangeline, his French au pair, looked on disapprovingly (Maman was scrubbing his hair too forcefully, and wasting too much baby shampoo). After tucking Cassian into bed and reading him Bonsoir Lune, Astrid resumed the ritual of carefully unpacking her new couture acquisitions and hiding them away in the spare bedroom before Michael got home. (She was careful never to let her husband see the full extent of her purchases every season.) Poor Michael seemed so stressed out by work lately. Everyone in the tech world seemed to work such long hours, and Michael and his partner at Cloud Nine Solutions were trying so hard to get this company off the ground. He was flying to China almost every other week these days to supervise new projects, and she knew he would be tired tonight, since he had gone straight to work from the airport. She wanted everything to be perfect for him when he walked through the door.
Astrid popped into the kitchen to chat with her cook about the menu, and decided they should set up dinner on the balcony tonight. She lit some fig-apricot-scented candles and set a bottle of the new Sauternes she had brought back from France in the wine chiller. Michael had a sweet tooth when it came to wines, and he had taken a liking to late-harvest Sauternes. She knew he was going to love this bottle, which had been specially recommended to her by Manuel, the brilliant sommelier at Taillevent.
To the majority of Singaporeans, it would seem that Astrid was in store for a lovely evening at home. But to her friends and family, Astrid’s current domestic situation was a perplexing one. Why was she popping into kitchens talking to cooks, unpacking luggage by herself, or worrying about her husband’s workload? This was certainly not how anyone would have imagined Astrid’s life to be. Astrid Leong was meant to be the chatelaine of a great house. Her head housekeeper should be anticipating every one of her needs, while she should be getting dressed up to go out with her powerful and influential husband to any one of the exclusive parties being thrown around the island that night. But Astrid always confounded everyone’s expectations.
For the small group of girls growing up within Singapore’s most elite milieu, life followed a prescribed order: Beginning at age six, you were enrolled at Methodist Girls’ School (MGS), Singapore Chinese Girls’ School (SCGS), or the Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus (CHIJ). After-school hours were consumed by a team of tutors preparing you for the avalanche of weekly exams (usually in classical Mandarin literature, multivariable calculus, and molecular biology), followed on the weekends by piano, violin, flute, ballet, or riding, and some sort of Christian Youth Fellowship activity. If you did well enough, you entered the National University of Singapore (NUS) and if you did not, you were sent abroad to England (American colleges were deemed substandard). The only acceptable majors were medicine or law (unless you were truly dumb, in which case you settled for accounting). After graduating with honors (anything less would bring shame to the family), you practiced your vocation (for not more than three years) before marrying a boy from a suitable family at the age of twenty-five (twenty-eight if you went to med school). At this point, you gave up your career to have children (three or more were officially encouraged by the government for women of your background, and at least two should be boys), and life would consist of a gentle rotation of galas, country clubs, Bible study groups, light volunteer work, contract bridge, mah-jongg, traveling, and spending time with your grandchildren (dozens and dozens, hopefully) until your quiet and uneventful death.
Astrid changed all this. She wasn’t a rebel, because to call her one would imply that she was breaking the rules. Astrid simply made her own rules, and through the confluence of her particular circumstances—a substantial private income, overindulgent parents, and her own savoir faire—every move she made became breathlessly talked about and scrutinized within that claustrophobic circle.
In her childhood days, Astrid always disappeared from Singapore during the school holidays, and though Felicity had trained her daughter never to boast about her trips, a schoolmate invited over had discovered a framed photo of Astrid astride a white horse with a palatial country manor as a backdrop. Thus began the rumor that Astrid’s uncle owned a castle in France, where she spent all her holidays riding a white stallion. (Actually, it was a manor in England, the stallion was a pony, and the schoolmate was never invited again.)
In her teen years, the chatter spread even more feverishly when Celeste Ting, whose daughter was in the same Methodist Youth Fellowship group as Astrid, picked up a copy of Point de Vue at Charles de Gaulle Airport and came upon a paparazzi photograph of Astrid doing cannonballs off a yacht in Porto Ercole with some young European princes. Astrid returned from school holidays that year with a precociously sophisticated sense of style. While other girls in her set became mad for head-to-toe designer brands, Astrid was the first to pair a vintage Saint Laurent Le Smoking jacket with three-dollar batik shorts bought off a beach vendor in Bali, the first to wear the Antwerp Six, and the first to bring home a pair of red-heeled stilettos from some Parisian shoemaker named Christian. Her classmates at Methodist Girls’ School strove to imitate her every look, while their brothers nicknamed Astrid “the Goddess” and anointed her the chief object of their masturbatory fantasies.
After famously and unabashedly flunking every one of her A levels (how could that girl concentrate on her studies when she was jet-setting all the time?), Astrid was shipped off to a preparatory college in London for revision courses. Everyone knew the story of how eighteen-year-old Charlie Wu—the eldest son of the tech billionaire Wu Hao Lian—bade a tearful goodbye to her at Changi Airport and promptly chartered his own jet, ordering the pilot to race her plane to Heathrow. When Astrid arrived, she was astonished to find a besotted Charlie awaiting her at the arrival gate with three hundred red roses. They were inseparable for the next few years, and Charlie’s parents purchased a flat for him in Knightsbridge (for the sake of appearances), even though the cognoscenti suspected Charlie and Astrid were probably “living in sin” at her private quarters in the Calthorpe Hotel.
At age twenty-two, Charlie proposed on a ski lift in Verbier, and though Astrid accepted, she supposedly refused the thirty-nine-carat diamond solitaire he presented as far too vulgar, flinging it onto the slopes (Charlie did not even attempt to search for the ring). Social Singapore was atwitter over the impending nuptials, while her parents were aghast at the prospect of becoming connected to a family of no particular lineage and such shameless new money. But it all came to a shocking end nine days before the most lavish wedding Asia had ever seen when Astrid and Charlie were sighted having a screaming match in broad daylight. Astrid, it was famously said, “chucked him like she chucked that diamond outside Wendy’s on Orchard Road, throwing a Frosty in his face,” and took off for Paris the next day.
Her parents supported the idea of Astrid having a “cooling-off period” away, but try as she might to maintain a low profile, Astrid effortlessly enchanted le tout Paris with her smoldering beauty. Back in Singapore, the wagging tongues resumed: Astrid was making a spectacle of herself. She was supposedly spotted in the front row at the Valentino show, seated between Joan Collins and Princess Rosario of Bulgaria. She was said to be having long, intimate lunches at Le Voltaire with a married philosopher playboy. And perhaps most sensational, rumor had it that she had become involved with one of the sons of the Aga Khan and was preparing to convert to Islam so that they could marry. (The Bishop of Singapore was said to have flown to Paris on a moment’s notice to intervene.)
All these rumors came to naught when Astrid surprised everyone again by announcing her engagement to Michael Teo. The first question on everyone’s lips was “Michael who?” He was a complete unknown, the son of schoolteachers from the then middle-class neighborhood of Toa Payoh. At first her parents were aghast and mystified by how she could have come into contact with someone from “that kind of background,” but in the end they realized that Astrid had made something of a catch—she had chosen a fiercely handsome Armed Forces Elite Commando who was a National Merit Scholar and a Caltech-trained computer systems specialist. It could have been much worse.
The couple married in a very private, very small ceremony (only three hundred guests at her grandmother’s house) that garnered a pictureless fifty-one-word announcement in the Straits Times, even though there were anonymous reports that Sir Paul McCartney flew in to serenade the bride at a ceremony that was “exquisite beyond belief.” Within a year, Michael left his military post to start his own tech firm and the couple had their first child, a boy they named Cassian. In this cocoon of domestic bliss one might have thought that all the stories involving Astrid would simmer down. But the stories were not about to end.
A little after nine, Michael arrived home, and Astrid rushed to the door, greeting him with a long embrace. They had been married for more than four years now, but the sight of him still sent an electric spark through her, especially after they had been apart for a while. He was just so startlingly attractive, especially today with his stubble and the rumpled shirt that she wanted to bury her face in—secretly, she loved the way he smelled after a long day.
They had a light supper of steamed whole pomfret in a ginger-wine sauce and clay-pot rice, and stretched out on the sofa afterward, buzzed from the two bottles of wine they had polished off. Astrid continued to recount her adventures in Paris while Michael stared zombielike at the sports channel on mute.
“Did you buy many of those thousand-dollar dresses this time?” Michael inquired.
“No . . . just one or two,” Astrid said breezily, wondering what would happen if he ever realized that two hundred thousand per dress was more like it.
“You’re such a bad liar,” Michael grunted. Astrid nestled her head on his chest, slowly stroking his right leg. She brushed the tips of her fingers in one continuous line, tracing his calf, up the curve of his knee, and along the front of his thigh. She felt him get hard against the nape of her neck, and she kept stroking his leg in a gentle continuous rhythm, moving closer and closer toward the soft part of his inner thigh. When Michael could stand it no longer, he scooped her up in one abrupt motion and carried her into the bedroom.
After a frenzied session of lovemaking, Michael got out of bed and headed for the shower. Astrid lay on his side of the bed, deliriously spent. Reunion sex was always the best. Her iPhone let out a soft ping. Who could be texting her at this hour? She reached for the phone, squinting at the bright glare of the text message. It read:
MISS U NSIDE ME.
Makes no sense at all. Who sent me this? Astrid wondered, gazing in half amusement at the unfamiliar number. It looked like a Hong Kong number—was this one of Eddie’s pranks? She peered at the text message again, realizing all of a sudden that she was holding her husband’s phone.