7

BELMONT ROAD

SINGAPORE, MARCH 1, 2013

The man with the machine gun tapped on the tinted glass of Carol Tai’s Bentley Arnage. “Lower your window, please,” he said gruffly.

As the window came down, the man peered in, carefully scrutinizing Carol and Eleanor Young in the backseats.

“Your invitations, please,” he said, extending a Kevlar-gloved hand. Carol handed over the engraved metal cards.

“Please have your handbags open and ready for inspection when you get to the entrance,” the man instructed, gesturing for Carol’s chauffeur to drive on. They passed through the security roadblock, only to find themselves bumper-to-bumper with other fancy sedans trying to make their way toward the house with the red lacquered front door on Belmont Road.

“Aiyah, if I knew it was going to be this lay chay, I wouldn’t have come,” Carol complained.

“I told you it wouldn’t be worth the headache. It never used to be like this,” Eleanor said, glaring at the traffic jam and thinking back to the earlier days of Mrs. Singh’s jewelry tea party. Gayatri Singh, the youngest daughter of a maharaja, possessed one of Singapore’s legendary jewelry collections, said to rival that of Mrs. Lee Yong Chien or Shang Su Yi. Every year, she would return from her annual trip to India with another stash of heirlooms spirited away from her increasingly senile mother, and starting in the early 1960s, she had begun inviting her dearest friends—women hailing from Singapore’s elite families—to come over for tea to “celebrate” her latest baubles.

“Back when Mrs. Singh was running the show, it was such a relaxed affair. It was just a bunch of nice ladies in beautiful saris sitting around the living room. Everyone took turns fondling Mrs. Singh’s jewels while gossiping and gobbling down Indian sweets,” Eleanor recalled.

Carol scrutinized the long queue trying to get through the front door. “This looks anything but relaxed. Alamak, who are all these women all dressed up like they are going to a cocktail party?”

“It’s all the new people. The whoest-who of Singapore society that no one has ever heard of—mainly Chindos,” Eleanor sniffed.

Ever since Mrs. Singh lost interest in counting her carats and began spending more time in India studying Vedic scriptures, her daughter-in-law Sarita—a former minor Bollywood actress—had taken over the affair, and the homey ladies’ tea party evolved into a high-profile charity exhibition to raise money for whatever happened to be Sarita’s cause du jour. The event was breathlessly chronicled by all the glossy magazines, and anyone who could pay the exorbitant entry fee had the privilege of traipsing through the Singhs’ elegant modernist bungalow and gawking at the jewelry, which nowadays consisted of some specially themed exhibition.

This year’s show was devoted to the works of the acclaimed Norwegian silversmith Tone Vigeland, and as Lorena Lim, Nadine Shaw, and Daisy Foo peered into the glass vitrines in what was now the “gallery,” converted from the former table-tennis room, Nadine could not help but register her dismay. “Alamak, who wants to see all this Scandinavian gow sai? I thought we would get to see some of Mrs. Singh’s jewels.”

“Keep your voice down! That ang moh over there is the curator. Apparently she is some hotshot from the Austin Cooper Design Museum in New York,” Lorena warned.

“Aiyah, I don’t care if she’s Anderson Cooper! Who wants to pay five hundred dollars a ticket to see jewelry made of rusty nails? I came to see rubies the size of rambutans!”

“Nadine has a point. This is such a waste of money, even though we got these free tickets from my banker at OCBC,” Daisy said.

Just then, Eleanor entered the gallery, squinting at the bright lights. She immediately put her sunglasses back on.

“Eleanor!” Lorena said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were coming to this!”

“I wasn’t planning to, but Carol was given tickets by her banker at UOB, and she convinced me to come. She needs cheering up.”

“Where is she?”

“In the toilet, of course. You know her weak bladder.”

“Well, there’s nothing here that will cheer her up, unless she wants to see jewelry that will give her tetanus,” Daisy reported.

“I told Carol this would be a waste of time! Sarita Singh only wants to impress her arty-farty international friends these days. Three years ago she invited me, Felicity, and Astrid, and it was all this Victorian mourning jewelry. Nothing but black jet and brooches made from the hair of dead people. Hak sei yen! Only Astrid could appreciate it.”

“Let me tell you what I’m appreciating right now—your new Birkin bag! I never thought you’d be caught dead with one of these. Didn’t you once say that only tacky Mainlanders carried such bags?” Nadine asked.

“Funny you should say that—this was a gift from Bao Shaoyen.”

“Wah, ah nee ho miah! I told you the Baos were loaded,” Daisy said.

“Well, you were right—the Baos are loaded beyond belief. My God, the way I’ve seen them spend in just the few months they’ve been here! Nadine, if you thought your Francesca was a spendthrift, you should see how that Carlton spends. I have never seen a boy more obsessed with cars in my life! At first his mother swore she would never let him set foot in another sports car, but every time I go over there, there’s some exotic new car in their sky garage. Apparently he’s been buying cars and shipping them back to China. He claims he’ll make a fat profit reselling them to his friends.”

“Well, it sounds like Carlton has made quite a recovery!” Lorena said.

“Yes, he hardly even needs his crutches anymore. Oh, in case you were still thinking of him for your Tiffany, you should stop. Apparently he’s already got a girlfriend. A fashion model or something like that—she lives in Shanghai but flies down to see him every weekend.”

“Carlton is so handsome and charming, of course there must be a long line of girls trying to catch him,” Nadine said.

“He may be all that, but I can see now why Shaoyen loses sleep over her son. She told me that the past few months have been the most relaxed time she’s had in years. She’s afraid that once Carlton is fully back on his feet again and they return to China, he will be impossible to manage.”

Lowering her voice, Lorena asked, “Speaking of China, did you meet with Mr. Wong?”

“Of course. Aiyah, that Mr. Wong has put on so much weight—I think the private investigating business must be zheen ho seng lee.”

“So, everything is good? Did you read the dossier?”

“Did I ever. You won’t believe what I found out about the Baos,” Eleanor said with a little smile.

“What? What?” Lorena asked, leaning in closer.

Just then, Carol entered the gallery and made a beeline for Lorena and Eleanor. “Alamak, there was such a long line for the bathroom! How’s the show?”

Daisy took her by the arm and said, “I think there were more interesting things to see in the jambun than in this show. Come, let’s see if the food is any better. I hope they have some spicy samosas.”

As the ladies made their way down the passageway toward the dining room, an Indian woman with snow-white hair wearing a simple bone-colored sari emerged from one of the rooms and caught sight of them. “Eleanor Young, is that you looking so mysterious behind those sunglasses?” the woman asked in an elegant, lilting voice.

Eleanor took off her sunglasses. “Ah, Mrs. Singh! I didn’t realize you were back in town.”

“Yes, yes. I’m just hiding from the crowd. Tell me, how is Su Yi? I missed her Chap Goh Meh party the other night.”

“She’s very well.”

“Good, good. I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit since I got back from Cooch Behar, but I’ve been so jet-lagged this time. And how is Nicky? Did he return for New Year’s?”

“Not this year, no,” Eleanor said, forcing a smile.

Mrs. Singh gave her a knowing look. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be back next year.”

“Yes of course,” Eleanor said, as she proceeded to introduce the ladies. Mrs. Singh nodded graciously at everyone. “Tell me, are you all enjoying my daughter-in-law’s exhibition?”

“It’s very interesting,” Daisy offered.

“To be honest, I much preferred when you used to show your own jewelry,” Eleanor ventured.

“Come with me,” Mrs. Singh said with a mischievous smile. She led the women up a back staircase and down another passageway lined with Mughal-era portraits of various Indian royals in antique gilt frames. Soon they came upon an ornate doorway inlaid with turquoise and mother-of-pearl, guarded by a pair of Indian police officers. “Don’t tell Sarita, but I decided to have a little party of my own,” she said, flinging the door open.

Inside was Mrs. Singh’s private sitting room, an airy space opening onto a luxuriant veranda lined with lime trees. A butler was handing out steaming cups of chai, while a sitar player plucked a soft, entrancing melody in a corner. Several ladies in iridescent saris sprawled on the deep purple divans, nibbling on sweet ladoos, while others sat cross-legged on the Kashmir silk carpet, admiring the rows upon rows of jewels blindingly arrayed on large forest green velvet trays in the middle of the floor. It felt like being at a pajama party inside the vault of Harry Winston.

Daisy’s and Nadine’s jaws dropped, and even Lorena—whose family owned an international chain of jewelers—couldn’t help but be impressed by the sheer variety and magnificence of the pieces. There were easily hundreds of millions’ worth of jewels just lying on the ground in front of them.

Mrs. Singh breezed into the room, a swish of chiffon trailing behind her. “Come in, ladies. Don’t be shy, and please feel free to try anything on.”

“Are you serious?” Nadine asked, her pulse beginning to race.

“Yes, yes. When it comes to jewels, I ascribe to the Elizabeth Taylor school of thought—jewels should be worn and enjoyed, not stared at from behind a glass case.”

Before Mrs. Singh could even finish her sentence, Nadine had instinctively grabbed one of the biggest pieces on display—a necklace comprised of twelve strands of ridiculously oversize pearls and diamonds. “Oh my GOD-ness, it’s all one necklace!”

“Yes, it’s such a silly thing. Believe it or not, Garrard made it for my grandfather for Queen Victoria’s Jubilee, and since he weighed over three hundred pounds, it draped nicely across his entire belly. But how can you even wear such a thing in public these days?” Mrs. Singh said as she struggled to fasten the enormous baroque pearl clasp behind Nadine’s neck.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Nadine said excitedly, a little bubble of spit forming at the corner of her mouth as she gazed at her reflection in the full-length mirror. Her entire torso was smothered in diamonds and pearls.

“You’ll get a backache if you have it on for more than fifteen minutes,” Mrs. Singh warned.

“Oh, it’s worth it! It’s worth it!” Nadine panted as she began to try on a cuff bracelet made entirely of cabochon rubies.

“Now this I like,” Daisy said, picking out an exquisite brooch in the shape of a peacock feather inlaid with lapis, emeralds, and sapphires that perfectly matched a peacock’s natural hues.

Mrs. Singh smiled. “That was my dear mama’s. Cartier designed it for her in the early 1920s. I remember she used to wear it in her hair!”

Two maids entered bearing bowls of freshly made gulab jamun, and the ladies began enjoying the sinfully sweet treat in one of the corners of the room. Carol finished her dessert in two bites and looked into her silver dessert bowl rather wistfully. “I thought all this would make me happier, but I probably should have just gone to church instead.”

“Aiyah, what’s the matter, Carol?” Lorena asked.

“Take a guess, lor. It’s that son of mine. Ever since Dato’ died, I’ve hardly seen or heard from Bernard. It’s as if I don’t exist anymore. I’ve only met my granddaughter twice since she was born—first time at Gleneagles Hospital, and then when they came back for Dato’s funeral. Now Bernard doesn’t even return my calls. The maids tell me that he is still in Macau, but that wife of his is flying off somewhere else every day. Her baby is not even three and she is neglecting her already! Every week I open the paper and see some news about her at this party or that party, or buying something new. Did you hear about that painting she bought for almost two hundred million?”

Daisy looked at her sympathetically. “Aiyah, Carol, I’ve learned over the years to stop listening to all the stories about my children’s spending. Wah mai chup. At a certain point, you have to let them make their own choices. After all, they can afford it.”

“But that’s precisely my worry—they can’t afford it. Where are they getting all this money from?”

“Didn’t Bernard gain control of all the businesses when Dato’ died?” Nadine asked, suddenly more interested in Carol’s story than in the gold-and-cognac diamond sautoir she was holding up to the sunlight.

“Of course not. Do you think my husband would be foolish enough to put Bernard in control while I’m still alive? He knows that boy would sell my own house from under me and leave me on the roadside if he could! After Bernard ran off with Kitty to Las Vegas to get married, Dato’ was furious. He forbid anyone in the family office from giving Bernard access to any money and totally locked up his trust fund. He cannot touch the principal—only the annual income.”

“So how did they afford to buy that painting?” Lorena asked.

“They must be spending on overdraft. The banks all know how much he’ll be worth one day, so they are only too happy to lend to him now,” Eleanor conjectured as she fiddled with a bejeweled Indian dagger.

“Aiyoh, so shameful! I can’t imagine my son ever having to borrow money from a bank!” Carol moaned.

“Well, if you say he doesn’t have any money right now, I can assure you that is what he must be doing. That’s what one of Philip’s cousins did. He was living like the Sultan of Brunei, and only when his father died did they realize he had mortgaged the house, mortgaged everything, to support his lifestyle and his two mistresses—one in Hong Kong and one in Taipei!” Eleanor said.

“Bernard has no money. He only gets about ten million a year to live on,” Carol confirmed.

“Well, definitely they must be borrowing heavily, because that Kitty seems to be spending like a siow tsah bor,” Daisy said. “What’s that you’re playing with, Elle?”

“It’s some unusual Indian dagger,” Eleanor replied. It was actually two daggers that went into opposite ends of a scabbard encrusted in cloudy, colorful gems, and she had flicked the latch open on one end and was absentmindedly sliding the small sharp knife in and out. Looking around for her hostess, she said, “Mrs. Singh, tell me about this lovely little weapon.”

Mrs. Singh, who was seated on the corner of a nearby divan chatting with another guest, glanced over for a moment.

“Oh that’s not a weapon. It’s a very ancient Hindu relic. Be careful not to open it, Eleanor, it’s very bad luck! In fact, you shouldn’t even be touching it. There is an evil spirit that’s being held captive in there by the two knives, and a great misfortune will befall your firstborn if you unleash it. Now, we don’t want anything to happen to dear Nicky, do we? So please leave that alone.”

The ladies looked at her in horror, and for one of the few times in her life, Eleanor was absolutely speechless.