2
11 Nassim Road
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SINGAPORE
“God is in the details.” Mies van der Rohe’s iconic quote was the mantra Annabel Lee lived by. From the sculpted mango popsicles handed out to guests lounging by the pool to the precise placement of a camellia blossom on every eiderdown pillow, Annabel’s unerring eye for detail was what made her chain of luxury hotels the favored choice for the most discriminating travelers. Tonight the object of scrutiny was her own reflection. She was wearing a high-collared champagne-colored dress woven from Irish linen, and trying to decide whether to layer it with a double strand of baroque pearls or an opera-length amber necklace. Were the Nakamura pearls too ostentatious? Would the amber beads be subtler?
Her husband, Peter, entered her boudoir wearing dark gray slacks and a pale blue shirt. “Are you sure you want me to wear this? I look like an accountant,” he said, thinking his butler had surely made a mistake in laying out these clothes.
“You look perfect. I ordered the shirt specifically for tonight’s occasion. It’s Ede & Ravenscroft—they make all of the Duke of Edinburgh’s shirts. Trust me, it’s better to be underdressed with this crowd,” Annabel said, giving him a careful once-over. Although there were grand events every single night of the week in the ramp-up to Araminta’s wedding, the party that Harry Leong was throwing tonight in honor of his nephew Colin Khoo at the fabled Leong residence on Nassim Road was the one Annabel was secretly most eager to attend.
When Peter Lee (originally Lee Pei Tan of Harbin) made his first fortune in Chinese coal mining during the mid-nineties, he and his wife decided to move their family to Singapore, like many of the newly minted Mainlanders were doing. Peter wanted to maximize the benefits of being based in the region’s preferred wealth management center, and Annabel (originally An-Liu Bao of Urümqi) wanted their young daughter to benefit from Singapore’s more Westernized—and in her eyes, superior—education system. (The superior air quality didn’t hurt, either.) Besides, she had tired of the Beijing elite, of all the interminable twelve-course banquets in rooms filled with bad replicas of Louis Quatorze furniture, and she longed to reinvent herself on a more sophisticated island where the ladies understood Armani and spoke perfect accentless English. She wanted Araminta to grow up speaking perfect accentless English.
But in Singapore, Annabel soon discovered that beyond the bold-faced names that eagerly invited her to all the glamorous galas, there hid a whole other level of society that was impervious to the flash of money, especially Mainland Chinese money. These people were snobbier and more impenetrable than anything she had ever encountered. “Who cares about those old mothball families? They’re just jealous that we’re richer, that we really know how to enjoy ourselves,” her new friend Trina Tua (wife of the TLS Private Equity chairman Tua Lao Sai) said. Annabel knew this was something Trina said to console herself that she would never be invited to Mrs. Lee Yong Chien’s legendary mah-jongg parties—where the women bet with serious jewelry—or get to peek behind the tall gates of the magnificent modernist house that architect Kee Yeap had designed for Rosemary T’sien on Dalvey Road.
Tonight she was finally going to be invited in. Even though she maintained homes in New York, London, Shanghai, and Bali, and even though Architectural Digest called her Edward Tuttle–designed house in Singapore “one of the most spectacular private residences in Asia,” Annabel’s heartbeat quickened as she passed through the austere wooden gates of 11 Nassim Road. She had long admired the house from afar—Black and Whites like these were so exceedingly rare, and this one, which had been continuously occupied by the Leong family since the twenties, was perhaps the only one left on the island to retain all of its original features. Entering through the Arts and Crafts front doors, Annabel quickly soaked in every minute detail of the way these people lived. Look at this whole row of Malay servants flanking the entrance hall in crisp white blazers. What are they offering on these Selangor pewter trays? Pimm’s No. 1 with fizzy pineapple juice and fresh mint leaves. How quaint. I must copy that for the new Sri Lanka resort. Ah, here is Felicity Leong in tailored silk jacquard, wearing the most exquisite piece of lilac jade, and her daughter-in-law Cathleen, the constitutional law expert (this girl is always so plain, with not a drop of jewelry in sight—you would never guess she’s married to the eldest Leong son). And here is Astrid Leong. What was it like for her to grow up in this house? No wonder she has such great taste—that robin’s-egg blue dress she’s wearing is on the cover of French Vogue this month. Who’s this man whispering to Astrid at the foot of the stairs? Oh, it’s her husband, Michael. What a stunning couple they make. And look at this drawing room, oh just look! The symmetry . . . the scale . . . the profusion of orange blossoms. Sublime. I need orange blossoms in all the hotel lobbies next week. Wait a second, is that Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty? Yes it is. One, two, three, four, there are so many pieces. Unbelievable! This room alone must have thirty million dollars’ worth of ceramics, strewn about as if they were cheap ashtrays. And these Peranakan-style opium chairs—look at the mother-of-pearl inlay—I’ve never seen a pair in such perfect condition. Here come the Chengs of Hong Kong. Look how adorable those children are, all dressed up like little Ralph Lauren models.
Never had Annabel felt more content than right now, when at last she was breathing in this rarified air. The house was filling up with the sort of aristocratic families she had only heard about over the years, families that could trace their lineage back thirty generations or more. Like the Youngs, who had just arrived. Oh look, Eleanor just waved at me. She’s the only one who socializes outside the family. And here’s her son, Nicholas—another looker. Colin’s best friend. And the girl holding Nicholas’s hand must be that Rachel Chu everyone is talking about, the one that’s not one of the Taiwan Chus. One look and I could have told you that. This girl grew up drinking vitamin-D calcium-fortified American milk. But she still doesn’t have a chance of catching Nicholas. And here comes Araminta with all the Khoos. Looking like she belongs.
Annabel knew at that moment she had made all the right decisions for her daughter—enrolling her at Far Eastern Kindergarten, choosing Methodist Girls’ School over Singapore American School, forcing her to go to Youth Fellowship at First Methodist even though they were Buddhists, and whisking her away to Cheltenham Ladies’ College in England for proper finishing. Her daughter had grown up as one of these people—people of breeding and taste. There wasn’t a single diamond over fifteen carats in this crowd, not a single Louis Vuitton anything, no one looking over your shoulder for bigger fish. This was a family gathering, not a networking opportunity. These people were so completely at ease, so well mannered.
Outside on the east terrace, Astrid hid behind the dense row of Italian cypresses, waiting for Michael to arrive at her parents’ house. As soon as she caught sight of him, she rushed to the front door to meet him so that it would appear they had arrived together. After the initial flurry of greetings, Michael was able to corner her by the staircase. “Is Cassian upstairs?” he mumbled under his breath.
“No, he isn’t,” Astrid said quickly before being swept into an embrace by her cousin Cecilia Cheng.
“Where is he? You’ve been hiding him from me all week,” Michael pressed on.
“You’ll see him soon enough,” Astrid whispered as she beamed at her great-aunt Rosemary.
“This was your way of tricking me into coming tonight, wasn’t it?” Michael said angrily.
Astrid took Michael by the hand and led him into the front parlor next to the staircase. “Michael, I promised you would see Cassian tonight—just be patient and let’s get through dinner.”
“That wasn’t the deal. I’m leaving.”
“Michael, you can’t leave. We still have to coordinate plans for the wedding on Saturday. Auntie Alix is hosting a breakfast before the church ceremony and—”
“Astrid, I’m not going to the wedding.”
“Oh come on, don’t joke like this. Everyone is going.”
“By ‘everyone,’ I suppose you are referring to everyone with a billion dollars or more?” Michael seethed.
Astrid rolled her eyes. “Come on, Michael, I know we’ve had a disagreement, and I know you’re probably feeling ashamed, but as I said before, I forgive you. Let’s not make a huge issue out of this. Come home.”
“You don’t get it, do you? I’m not coming home. I’m not going to the wedding.”
“But what are people going to say if you don’t show up at the wedding?” Astrid looked at him nervously.
“Astrid, I’m not the groom! I’m not even related to the groom. Who’s going to give a shit whether I’m there or not?”
“You can’t do this to me. Everyone will notice, and everyone will talk,” Astrid pleaded, trying not to panic.
“Tell them I had to fly off at the last minute for work.”
“Where are you going? Are you flying off to Hong Kong to see your mistress?” Astrid asked accusingly.
Michael paused a moment. He never wanted to resort to this, but he felt that he had been left with little choice. “If it makes you feel better to know—yes, I’m off to see my mistress. I’m leaving on Friday after work, just so I can get away from this carnival. I can’t watch these people spend a gazillion dollars on a wedding when half the world is starving.”
Astrid stared at him numbly, reeling from what he had said. At that moment, Cathleen, the wife of her brother Henry, walked into the room.
“Oh thank God you’re here,” Cathleen said to Michael. “The cooks are having a fit because some transformer blew and that damn high-tech commercial oven we put in last year won’t work. Apparently it’s gone into self-cleaning mode, and there are four Peking ducks roasting in there—”
Michael glared at his sister-in-law. “Cathleen, I have a master’s degree from Caltech, specializing in encryption technology. I’m not your fucking handyman!” he fumed, before storming out of the room.
Cathleen stared after him in disbelief. “What’s wrong with Michael? I’ve never seen him like this.”
“Oh don’t mind him, Cathleen,” Astrid said, attempting a weak laugh. “Michael’s upset because he just found out that he has to rush off to Hong Kong for some work emergency. Poor thing, he’s afraid he might miss the wedding.”
As the Daimler chauffeuring Eddie, Fiona, and their three children approached the gates of 11 Nassim Road, Eddie did one last run-through.
“Kalliste, what are you going to do when they start to serve the coffee and desserts?”
“I’m going to ask Great-aunt Felicity whether I can play the piano.”
“And what are you going to play?”
“The Bach partita, and then the Mendelssohn. Can I also play my new Lady Gaga song?”
“Kalliste, I swear to God if you play any of that damn Lady Gaga I’m going to break every one of your fingers.”
Fiona stared out the car window, ignoring her husband. This is how he was every time he was about to see his Singapore relatives.
“Augustine, what’s the matter with you? Button your jacket,” Eddie instructed.
The little boy obeyed, carefully buttoning the two gold buttons on his blazer.
“Augustine, how many times have I told you—do not ever, EVER button the last button, do you hear me?”
“Papa, you said never button the last button on my three-button jacket, but you never told me what to do when there’s only two buttons,” the boy whimpered, tearing up.
“Happy now?” Fiona said to her husband, taking the boy into her lap and gently smoothing out the hair on his forehead.
Eddie gave her an annoyed look. “Now everybody listen up . . . Constantine, what are we going to do when we get out of the car?”
“We are going to get into formation behind you and Mummy,” his eldest son answered.
“And what is the order?”
“Augustine goes first, then Kalliste, then me,” the boy droned in a bored voice.
“Perfect. Wait till everyone sees our splendid entrance!” Eddie said excitedly.
Eleanor entered the front hall behind her son and his girlfriend, eager to observe how the girl would be received. Nick had obviously been preparing her—Rachel was cleverly wearing a demure-looking navy blue dress and no jewelry except for tiny pearl earrings. Looking into the drawing room, Eleanor could see her husband’s extended clan all clustered by the French doors leading out to the terrace. She remembered as if it were yesterday meeting them for the first time. It was at the old T’sien estate near Changi, before the place was turned into that frightful country club all the foreigners went to. The T’sien boys with their roving eyes were tripping over themselves to talk to her, but the Shangs barely deigned to look in her direction—those Shangs were only comfortable speaking to families they had known for at least two generations. But here Nick was boldly leading the girl straight into the frying pan, attempting to introduce Rachel to Victoria Young, the snottiest of Philip’s sisters, and Cassandra Shang—the imperious gossip-monger otherwise known as Radio One Asia. Alamak, this was going to be good.
“Rachel, this is my aunt Victoria and my cousin Cassandra, just back from England.”
Rachel smiled nervously at the ladies. Victoria, with her wiry chin-length bob and slightly rumpled peach cotton dress, had the look of an eccentric sculptress, while whippet-thin Cassandra—with her graying hair severely parted into a tight Frida Kahlo bun—wore an oversize khaki shirtdress and an African necklace festooned with little wooden giraffes. Victoria shook Rachel’s hand coolly, while Cassandra kept her spindly arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed in a tight smile as she assessed Rachel from head to toe. Rachel was about to inquire about their vacation when Victoria, looking over her shoulder, announced in that same clipped English accent that all of Nick’s aunts had, “Ah, here come Alix and Malcolm. And there’s Eddie and Fiona. Good grief, look at those children, all dressed up like that!”
“Alix was moaning on about how much money Eddie and Fiona spend on those kids. Seems they only wear designer clothes,” Cassandra said, stretching out “deee-siiign-er” as if it were some sort of grotesque affliction.
“Gum sai cheen! Where on earth does Eddie think he’s taking them? It’s a hundred and five degrees outside and they are dressed for a shooting weekend at Balmoral,” Victoria scoffed.
“They must be sweating like little pigs in those tweed jackets,” Cassandra said, shaking her head.
Just then Rachel noticed a couple entering the room. A young man with the tousled hair of a Korean pop idol lumbered toward them with a girl dressed in a lemon-yellow and white-striped tube dress that clung to her body like sausage casing.
“Ah, here comes my cousin Alistair. And that must be Kitty, the girl he’s madly in love with,” Nick remarked. Even from across the room, Kitty’s hair extensions, false eyelashes, and frosty-pink lipstick stood out dramatically, and as they approached, Rachel realized that the white stripes in the girl’s dress were actually sheer, with her engorged nipples clearly showing through.
“Everyone, I’d like you all to meet my girlfriend Kitty Pong,” Alistair proudly beamed.
The room went dead silent as everyone stood gaping at those chocolate-brown nipples. While Kitty basked in the attention, Fiona swiftly herded her children out of the room. Eddie glared at his kid brother, furious that his entrance had been upstaged. Alistair, thrilled by the sudden attention, blurted out, “And I want to announce that last night I took Kitty to the top of Mount Faber and asked her to marry me!”
“We’re engaged!” Kitty squealed, waving around the large cloudy-pink diamond on her hand.
Felicity gasped audibly, looking at her sister, Alix, for some reaction. Alix gazed into the middle distance, not making eye contact with anyone. Her son nonchalantly continued. “Kitty, meet my cousin Nicky, my auntie Victoria, and my cousin Cassandra. And you must be Rachel.”
Without missing a beat, Victoria and Cassandra turned to Rachel, cutting Alistair dead. “Now Rachel, I hear you are an economist? How fascinating! Will you explain to me why the American economy can’t seem to dig out of its sorry state?” Victoria asked shrilly.
“It’s that Tim Paulson fellow, isn’t it?” Cassandra cut in. “Isn’t he a puppet controlled by all the Jews?”