11
Rachel
•
SAMSARA ISLAND
The bachelorettes were enjoying a sunset dinner at a long table set under a pavilion of billowing orange silk on the pristine white sand, surrounded by glowing silver lanterns. With dusk transforming the gentle waves into an emerald froth, it could have been a photo shoot straight out of Condé Nast Traveler, except that the dinner conversation put a damper on that illusion. As the first course of baby Bibb lettuce with hearts of palm in a coconut-milk dressing was served, the cluster of girls to Rachel’s left were busy skewering into the heart of another girl’s boyfriend.
“So you say he just made senior vice president? But he’s on the retail side, not the investment banking side, right? I spoke to my boyfriend Roderick, and he thinks that Simon probably makes between six to eight hundred thou base salary, if he’s lucky. And he doesn’t get millions in bonuses like the I-bankers,” sniffed Lauren Lee.
“The other problem is his family. Simon’s not even the eldest brother. He’s the second youngest of five,” Parker Yeo pontificated. “My parents know the Tings very well, and let me tell you, as respected as they are, they are not what you or I would consider rich—my mum says they have maybe two hundred million, max. You split that five ways and you’ll be lucky if Simon gets forty mil at the end of the day. And that won’t be for a loooong time—his parents are still quite young. Isn’t his father going to run for parliament again?”
“We just want what’s best for you, Isabel,” Lauren said, patting her hand sympathetically.
“But . . . but I really think I love him—” Isabel stammered.
Francesca Shaw cut in. “Isabel, I’m going to tell it to you like it is, because everyone here is wasting your time being polite. You can’t afford to fall in love with Simon. Let me break it down for you. Let’s be generous and assume that Simon is making a measly eight hundred thousand a year. After taxes and CPF, his take-home is only about half a million. Where are you going to live on that kind of money? Think about it—you have to factor a million dollars per bedroom, and you need at least three bedrooms, so you are talking three mil for an apartment in Bukit Timah. That’s a hundred and fifty thousand a year in mortgage and property taxes. Then say you have two kids, and you want to send them to proper schools. At thirty thousand a year each for school fees that’s sixty thousand, plus twenty thousand a year each on tutors. That’s one hundred thousand a year on schooling alone. Servants and nannies—two Indonesian or Sri Lankan maids will cost you another thirty thousand, unless you want one of them to be a Swedish or French au pair, then you’re talking eighty thousand a year spent on the help. Now, what are we going to do about your own upkeep? At the very least, you’ll need ten new outfits per season, so you won’t be ashamed to be seen in public. Thank God Singapore only has two seasons—hot and hotter—so let’s just say, to be practical, you’ll only spend four thousand per look. That’s eighty thousand a year for wardrobe. I’ll throw in another twenty thousand for one good handbag and a few pairs of new shoes every season. And then there is your basic maintenance—hair, facials, mani, pedi, brazilian wax, eyebrow wax, massage, chiro, acupuncture, Pilates, yoga, core fusion, personal trainer. That’s another forty thousand a year. We’ve already spent four hundred and seventy thousand of Simon’s salary, which leaves just thirty thousand for everything else. How are you going to put food on the table and clothe your babies with that? How will you ever get away to an Aman resort twice a year? And we haven’t even taken into account your membership dues at Churchill Club and Pulau Club! Don’t you see? It’s impossible for you to marry Simon. We wouldn’t worry if you had your own money, but you know your situation. The clock is ticking on your pretty face. It’s time to cut your losses and let Lauren introduce you to one of those eligible Beijing billionaires before it’s too late.”
Isabel was reduced to a puddle of tears.
Rachel couldn’t believe what she had just heard—this crowd made Upper East Side girls look like Mennonites. She tried to shift her attention back to the food. The second course had just been served—a surprisingly tasty langoustine and calamansi lime geleé terrine. Unfortunately, the girls on her right seemed to be loudly fixating on some couple named Alistair and Kitty.
“Aiyah, I don’t understand what he sees in her,” Chloé Ho lamented. “With the fake accent and fake breasts and fake everything.”
“I know exactly what he sees in her. He sees those fake breasts, and that’s all he needs to see!” Parker cackled.
“Serena Oh told me that she ran into them at Lung King Heen last week, and Kitty was in Gucci, head to toe. Gucci purse, Gucci halter top, Gucci satin mini-shorts, and Gucci python boots,” Chloé said. “She kept her Gucci sunglasses on all through dinner, and apparently even made out with him at the table with her sunglasses on.”
“Alamaaaaak, how tacky can you get!” Wandi hissed, patting her diamond-and-aquamarine tiara.
Parker suddenly addressed Rachel from across the table. “Wait a minute, have you met them yet?”
“Who?” Rachel asked, since she was trying to tune the girls out rather than listen in on their salacious gossip.
“Alistair and Kitty!”
“Sorry, I wasn’t really following . . . who are they?”
Francesca glanced at Rachel and said, “Parker, don’t waste your time—it’s obvious Rachel doesn’t know anybody.”
Rachel didn’t understand why Francesca was being so icy toward her. She decided to ignore the comment and took a sip of her Pinot Gris.
“So Rachel, tell us how you met Nicholas Young,” Lauren asked loudly.
“Well, it’s not a very exciting story. We both teach at NYU, and we were set up by a colleague of mine,” Rachel answered, noticing that all eyes at the table were fixed on her.
“Oh, who is the colleague? A Singaporean?” Lauren asked.
“No, she’s Chinese American, Sylvia Wong-Swartz.”
“How did she know Nicholas?” Parker asked.
“Um, they met on some committee.”
“So she didn’t know him very well?” Parker continued.
“No, I don’t think so,” Rachel replied, wondering what these girls were getting at. “Why the interest in Sylvia?”
“Oh, I love setting up my friends too, so I was just curious to know what motivated your friend to set the two of you up, that’s all.” Parker smiled.
“Well, Sylvia’s a good friend, and she was always trying to set me up. She just thought Nick was cute and a total catch . . .” Rachel began, instantly regretting her choice of words.
“It sure sounds like she did her homework on that, didn’t she?” Francesca said with a sharp laugh.
After dinner, while the girls took off for the disco marquee precariously erected on a jetty, Rachel headed alone to the beach bar, a picturesque gazebo overlooking a secluded cove. It was empty except for the tall, strapping bartender who grinned broadly when she entered. “Signorina, can I make you something special?” he asked in an almost comically seductive accent. Hell, did Araminta’s mother only hire dashing Italians?
“I’ve actually been craving a beer. Do you have any beer?”
“Of course. Let’s see, we have Corona, Duvel, Moretti, Red Stripe, and my personal favorite, Lion Stout.”
“That’s one I’ve never heard of.”
“It’s from Sri Lanka. It’s creamy and bittersweet, with a rich tan head.”
Rachel couldn’t help giggling. It sounded like he was describing himself. “Well if it’s your favorite, then I have to try it.”
As he poured the beer into a tall frosted glass, a girl whom Rachel hadn’t previously noticed strolled into the bar and slipped onto the stool next to her.
“Thank God there’s someone else here who drinks beer! I am so sick of all those pissy low-cal cocktails,” the girl said. She was Chinese, but spoke with an Australian accent.
“Cheers to that,” Rachel replied, tipping her glass at the girl. The girl ordered a Corona, and grabbed the bottle from the bartender before he could pour it into a glass. He looked personally wounded as she tilted her head back and downed her beer in full-bodied gulps. “Rachel, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. But if you’re looking for the Taiwanese Rachel Chu, you’ve got the wrong girl,” Rachel shot back preemptively.
The girl smiled quizzically, a little baffled by Rachel’s response. “I’m Astrid’s cousin Sophie. She told me to look out for you.”
“Oh, hi,” Rachel said, disarmed by Sophie’s friendly smile and deep dimples. Unlike the other girls sporting the latest resort fashions, she was dressed plainly in a sleeveless cotton shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. She had a no-nonsense pageboy haircut, and wore no makeup or jewelry except for a plastic Swatch on her wrist.
“Were you on the plane with us?” Rachel asked, trying to remember her.
“No, no, I flew in on my own and just arrived a little while ago,”
“You have your own plane too?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” Sophie laughed. “I’m the lucky one who flew Garuda Airlines, economy class. I had some hospital rounds to do, so I couldn’t get away until later this afternoon.”
“You’re a nurse?”
“Pediatric surgeon.”
Once again, Rachel was reminded that one could never judge a book by its cover, especially in Asia. “So you’re Astrid and Nick’s cousin?”
“No, just Astrid’s, on the Leong side. Her father is my mum’s brother. But of course I know Nick—we all grew up together. And you grew up in the States, right? Where did you live?”
“I spent my teenage years in California, but I’ve lived in twelve different states. We moved around quite a bit when I was younger.”
“Why did you move around so much?”
“My mom worked in Chinese restaurants.”
“What did she do?”
“She usually started out as a hostess or a waitress, but she always managed to get promoted quickly.”
“So she took you everywhere with her?” Sophie asked, genuinely fascinated.
“Yes—we lived the Gypsy life until my teenage years, when we settled down in California.”
“Was it lonely for you?”
“Well, it was all I knew, so it seemed normal to me. I got to know the back rooms of suburban strip-mall restaurants very well, and I was pretty much a bookworm.”
“And what about your father?”
“He died soon after I was born.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sophie said quickly, regretting that she had asked.
“That’s fine—I never knew him.” Rachel smiled, trying to put her at ease. “And anyway, it wasn’t all bad. My mom put herself through night school, got a college degree, and has been a successful real estate agent for many years now.”
“That’s amazing,” Sophie said.
“Not really. We’re actually one of the many clichéd ‘Asian immigrant success stories’ that politicians love to trot out every four years during their conventions.”
Sophie chuckled. “I can see why Nick likes you—you both have the same dry wit.”
Rachel smiled, looking away toward the disco marquee on the jetty.
“Am I keeping you from the dance party? I hear Araminta flew in some famous DJ from Ibiza,” Sophie said.
“I’m enjoying this, actually. It’s the first real conversation I’ve had all day.”
Sophie glanced at the girls—most of whom were now writhing wildly with several of the Italian waiters to the pounding euro-trance-disco music—and shrugged. “Well, with this crowd, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Aren’t these your friends?”
“A few, but most of these girls I don’t know. I recognize them, of course.”
“Who are they? Are some of them famous?”
“In their own minds, perhaps. These are the more social girls, the type that are always appearing in the magazines, attending all the charity galas. Far too glamorous a crowd for me. I’m sorry, but I work twelve-hour shifts and don’t have the time to go to benefit parties in hotels. I have to benefit my patients first.”
Rachel laughed.
“Speaking of which,” Sophie added, “I’ve been up since five, so I’m going to turn in now.”
“I think I will too,” Rachel said.
They walked down the jetty toward their bungalows.
“I’m in the villa at the end of this walkway if you need anything,” Sophie said.
“Good night,” Rachel said. “It’s been lovely talking with you.”
“Likewise,” Sophie said, flashing that deep-dimpled smile again.
Rachel entered her villa, gladly returning to some peace and quiet after a draining day. None of the lights were on in the suite, but the bright silvery moonlight glimmered through the open screen doors, casting serpentine ripples along the walls. The sea was so still that the sound of the water lapping slowly against the wood stilts had a hypnotic effect. It was the perfect setting for a night swim in the ocean, something she’d never done. Rachel padded toward the bedroom for her bikini. As she passed the vanity table, she noticed that the leather satchel she’d left hanging on the chair seemed to be leaking some sort of liquid. She walked toward the bag and saw that it was completely drenched, with brownish water dripping out of the corner into a large puddle on the bedroom floor. What the hell happened? She turned on the lamp by the table and opened the front flap of her bag. She screamed, jerking backward in horror and knocking over the table lamp.
Her bag was filled with a large fish that had been badly mutilated, blood seeping out from its gills. Violently scrawled on the vanity mirror above the chair in fish blood were the words “CATCH THIS, YOU GOLD-DIGGING CUNT!”