Crazy Rich Asians by Kevin Kwan (46)

9

The elderly amah opened the door and broke out into a wide grin. “Hiyah, Astrid Leong! Can it be?” she cried in Cantonese.

“Yes, Ah Chee—Astrid will be our guest for a few days. Will you please make sure no one knows? And don’t go telling any of the other maids who she is—I don’t want them carrying tales to my mother’s maids. This needs to remain absolutely secret, okay?” Charlie decreed.

“Yes, yes, of course, Charlieboy—now go and wash your hands,” Ah Chee said dismissively, continuing to fuss over Astrid. “Hiyah, you are still so beautiful, I have dreamed about you often over the years! You must be so tired, so hungry—it’s past three in the morning. Let me go and wake the cook up to make you something to eat. Some chicken congee maybe?”

“No need, Ah Chee. We came from a wedding banquet.” Astrid smiled. She could hardly believe that Charlie’s childhood nanny was still looking after him after all these years.

“Well, let me go make you some warm milk and honey. Or would you rather have Mil? Charlieboy always likes that when he’s up late,” Ah Chee said, rushing off to the kitchen.

“There’s no stopping Ah Chee, is there?” Astrid laughed. “I’m so glad you still have her.”

“She won’t leave!” Charlie sputtered in exasperation. “I built her a house back in China—hell, I built all her relatives houses, got a satellite dish for the village, the whole nine yards, thinking she would want to return to China to retire. But I think she’s much happier here bossing all the other maids around.”

“It’s very sweet of you to take care of her like that,” Astrid said. They stepped into an expansive double-height living room that resembled the wing of a modern art museum, with its row of bronze sculptures placed like sentinels in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Since when did you collect Brancusi?” she asked in surprise.

“Since you introduced me to him. Don’t you remember that exhibition you dragged me to at the Pompidou?”

“Gosh, I’d almost forgotten,” Astrid said, gazing at the minimalist curves of one of Brancusi’s golden birds.

“My wife, Isabel, is mad for the French Provençal look, so she hates my Brancusis. They haven’t had an airing until I moved in here. I’ve turned this apartment into a sort of refuge for my art. Isabel and the girls stay at our house on the Peak, and I’m here in the Mid-Levels. I like it because I can just walk out my door, take the escalator down to Central, and be at my office within ten minutes. Sorry it’s a bit cramped—it’s just a small duplex.”

“It’s gorgeous, Charlie, and much larger than my flat.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not. I’m in a three-bedroom off Clemenceau Avenue. You know that eighties building across the street from the Istana?”

“What on earth are you doing living in that old teardown?”

“It’s a long story. Basically, Michael didn’t want to feel beholden to my dad. So I agreed to live in a place he could afford.”

“I suppose that’s admirable, although I just can’t imagine how he could make you squeeze into a pigeonhole for the sake of his pride,” Charlie huffed.

“Oh, I’m quite used to it. And the location is very convenient, just like here,” Astrid said.

Charlie couldn’t help but wonder what sort of life Astrid had made for herself since marrying this idiot. “Here, let me show you to your room,” Charlie said. They climbed the sleek brushed-metal staircase and he showed her into a large, spartanly furnished bedroom with topstitched beige suede walls and masculine gray flannel bedding. The only decorative object was a photograph of two young girls in a silver frame by the bedside. “Is this your bedroom?” she asked.

“Yes. Don’t worry, I’m going to sleep in my daughters’ room,” Charlie quickly added.

“Don’t be silly! I’ll take the girls’ room—I can’t make you give up your bedroom for me—” Astrid began.

“No, no, I insist. You’ll be much more comfortable here. Try to get some sleep,” Charlie said, closing the door gently before she could protest any more.

Astrid changed out of her clothes and lay down. She turned on her side and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly framed the Hong Kong skyline. The buildings were densely packed in this part of the city, staggered steeply on the mountainside in sheer defiance of the terrain. She remembered how, when she had first visited Hong Kong as a young girl, her aunt Alix had explained that the city’s feng shui was particularly good, because wherever you lived, the dragon mountain was always behind you and the ocean was always in front of you. Even at this late hour, the city was a riot of lights, with many of the skyscrapers illuminated in a spectrum of colors. She tried to sleep, but she was still too wired from the past few hours—stealing away from the wedding just as the fireworks show was starting, rushing home to pack a few things, and now finding herself in the bedroom of Charlie Wu, the boy whose heart she had broken. The boy who, strangely enough, had awakened her to another way of life.

PARIS, 1995

“Astrid, we can enjoy the bed later, lah. We only have three hours left until the shops close! Come on, lazybones, didn’t you sleep enough on the train?” Charlie cajoled. He couldn’t wait to show Astrid the city he had come to know like the back of his hand. His mother and sisters had discovered the world of high fashion in the decade since his father had taken his tech company public, transforming the Wus almost overnight from mere centi-millionaires to billionaires. In the early days, before they were in the habit of chartering planes, Dad would buy up the entire first-class cabin of Singapore Airlines, and the whole family would sweep through the capitals of Europe—staying in the grandest hotels, eating at the restaurants with the most Michelin stars, and indulging in limitless shopping. Charlie had grown up knowing his Buccellati from his Boucheron, and he was eager to show this world to Astrid. He knew that—for all her pedigree—Astrid had been brought up practically in a nunnery. The Leongs did not eat in expensive restaurants—they ate food prepared by their cooks at home. They did not favor dressing up in designer clothes, preferring to have everything made by their family tailor. Charlie felt that Astrid had been far too stifled—all her life she had been treated like a hothouse flower, when in fact she was a wildflower that was never allowed to bloom fully. Now that they were eighteen and living together in London, they were finally free of family confines, and he would dress her like the princess she was, and she would be his forever.

Charlie led Astrid straight to the Marais, a neighborhood he had discovered on his own after tiring of tagging along with his family to the same shops within a three-block radius of the George V. As they strolled down rue Vieille du Temple, Astrid let out a sigh. “Aiyah, it’s adorable here! So much cozier than those wide boulevards in the Eighth Arrondissement.”

“There is one shop in particular that I stumbled on the last time I was here . . . it was so cool. I can just picture you wearing everything this designer makes, this tiny Tunisian guy. Let’s see, which street was it on?” Charlie mumbled to himself. After a few more turns, they arrived at the boutique that Charlie wanted Astrid to see. The windows consisted of smoked glass, giving nothing away as to what treasures lay within.

“Why don’t you go in first and I’ll join you in a sec? I want to stop in at the pharmacy across the street to see if they have any camera batteries,” Charlie suggested.

Astrid stepped through the door and found herself transported into a parallel universe. Portuguese fado music wailed through a space with black ceilings, obsidian walls, and poured-concrete floors stained a dark espresso. Minimalist industrial hooks protruded from the walls, and the clothes were artfully draped like pieces of sculpture and lit with halogen spotlights. A saleswoman with a wild, frizzy mane of red hair glanced briefly from behind an oval glass desk with elephant tusk legs before continuing to puff on her cigarette and page through an oversize magazine. After a few minutes, when it seemed like Astrid wasn’t leaving, she asked haughtily, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, no, I’m just looking around. Thank you,” Astrid replied in her schoolgirl French. She continued to circle the space and noticed a wide set of steps leading downstairs.

“Is there more downstairs?” she asked.

“Of course,” the saleslady said in her raspy voice, getting up from her desk reluctantly and following Astrid down the stairs. Below was a space lined with glossy coral-red armoires where, once again, only one or two pieces were artfully displayed. Astrid saw a beautiful cocktail dress with a silvery chain-mail back and searched the garment for a tag indicating its size. “What size is this?” she asked the woman standing watch like a pensive hawk.

“It’s couture. Do you understand? Everything made to order,” the woman replied drolly, waving her cigarette hand around and flicking ash everywhere.

“So, how much would it cost for me to have this made in my size?” Astrid asked.

The saleswoman made a quick assessment of Astrid. Asians hardly ever set foot in here—they usually kept to the famous designer boutiques on the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré or the avenue Montaigne, where they could inhale all the Chanel and Dior they wanted, God help them. Monsieur’s collection was very avant-garde, and only appreciated by the chicest Parisiennes, New Yorkers, and a few Belgians. Clearly this schoolgirl in the rollneck fisherman’s sweater, khakis, and espadrilles was out of her league. “Listen, chérie, everything here is très, très cher. And it takes five months for delivery. Do you really want to know how much it costs?” she said, taking a slow drag from her cigarette.

“Oh, I suppose not,” Astrid said meekly. This lady obviously had no interest in helping her. She climbed the stairs and headed straight out the door, almost bumping into Charlie.

“So quick? Didn’t you like the clothes?” Charlie queried.

“I do. But the lady in there doesn’t seem to want to sell me anything, so let’s not waste our time,” Astrid said.

“Wait, wait a minute—what do you mean she doesn’t want to sell you anything?” Charlie tried to clarify. “Was she being snooty?”

“Uh-huh,” Astrid reported.

“We’re going back in!” Charlie said indignantly.

“Charlie, let’s just go to the next boutique on your list.”

“Astrid, sometimes I can’t believe you’re Harry Leong’s daughter! Your father bought the most exclusive hotel in London when the manager was rude to your mother, for chrissakes! You need to learn how to stand up for yourself!”

“I know perfectly well how to stand up for myself, but it’s simply not worth making a fuss over nothing,” Astrid argued.

“Well, it’s not nothing to me. Nobody insults my girlfriend!” Charlie declared, flinging the door wide open with gusto. Astrid followed reluctantly, noticing that the redheaded saleslady was now joined by a man with platinum blond hair.

Charlie marched up and asked the man, in English, “Do you work here?”

“Oui,” the man replied.

“This is my girlfriend. I want to buy a whole new wardrobe for her. Will you help me?”

The man crossed his arms lazily, slightly bemused by this scrawny teenager with a bad case of acne. “This is all haute couture, and the dresses start at twenty-five thousand francs. There is also an eight-month wait,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Charlie said boldly.

“Um, you pay cash? How are you going to guarantee payment?” the lady asked in thickly accented English.

Charlie sighed and whipped out his cell phone. He dialed a long series of numbers and waited for the other end to pick up. “Mr. Oei? It’s Charlie Wu here. Sorry to disturb you at this time of night in Singapore. I’m in Paris at the moment. Tell me, Mr. Oei, does our bank have a relationship manager in Paris? Great. Will you call the fellow up and get him to make a call to this shop that I am at.” Charlie looked up and asked them for the name, before continuing. “Tell him to inform these people that I am here with Astrid Leong. Yes, Harry’s daughter. Yes, and will you be sure your fellow lets them know I can afford to buy anything I damn well please? Thank you.”

Astrid watched her boyfriend in silence. She had never seen him behave in such an assertive manner. Part of her felt like cringing from the vulgarity of his swagger, and part of her found it to be remarkably attractive. A few long minutes passed, and finally the phone rang. The redhead picked it up quickly, her eyes widening as she listened to the tirade coming from the other end. “Désolée, monsieur, très désolée,” she kept saying into the phone. She hung up and began a terse exchange with her male colleague, not realizing that Astrid could understand almost every word they were saying. The man leaped off the table and gazed at Charlie and Astrid with a sudden vigor. “Please, mademoiselle, let me show you the full collection,” he said with a big smile.

The woman, meanwhile, smiled at Charlie. “Monsieur, would you like some champagne? Or a cappuccino, maybe?”

“I wonder what my banker told them,” Charlie whispered to Astrid as they were led downstairs into a cavernous dressing room.

“Oh, that wasn’t the banker. It was the designer himself. He told them he was rushing over to personally supervise my fittings. Your banker must have called him directly,” Astrid said.

“Okay, I want you to order ten dresses from this designer. We need to spend at least a few hundred thousand francs right now.”

“Ten? I don’t think I even want ten things from this place,” Astrid said.

“Doesn’t matter. You need to pick out ten things. Actually, make that twenty. As my father always says, the only way to get these ang mor gau sai to respect you is to smack them in the face with your dua lan chiao money until they get on their knees.”

For the next seven days, Charlie led Astrid on a shopping spree to end all shopping sprees. He bought her a suite of luggage from Hermès, dozens of dresses from all the top designers that season, sixteen pairs of shoes and four pairs of boots, a diamond-encrusted Patek Philippe watch (that she never once wore), and a restored art nouveau lamp from Didier Aaron. In between the marathon shopping, there were lunches at Mariage Frères and Davé, dinners at Le Grand Véfour and Les Ambassadeurs, and dancing the night away in their new finery at Le Palace and Le Queen. That week in Paris, Astrid not only discovered her taste for haute couture; she discovered a new passion. She had lived the first eighteen years of her life surrounded by people who had money but claimed not to, people who preferred to hand things down rather than buy them new, people who simply didn’t know how to enjoy their good fortune. Spending money the Charlie Wu way was absolutely exhilarating—honestly, it was better than sex.