Rich People Problems (17 page)

“And will you tell her Nicky was here too?” Philip pressed her.

Alix hesitated for a moment. She was concerned that any mention of Nicky would upset her mother again, but she also felt that her mother needed to mend her rift with him. It was the only way she would truly close her eyes in peace. “Let's see. I'll try my best,
Gor Gor
.”

*1
Hokkien for “Bengali dog shit.” However, Eleanor is technically wrong in her swearing, since Vikram—being a Gurkha—is Nepali, not Bengali. But to her, there are only two types of Indians: rich ones, like her friends the Singhs, and poor ones, like everybody else.

*2
National University of Singapore.

*3
Cantonese for “brother.”

SURREY, ENGLAND

Anyone lucky enough to be a guest at Harlinscourt should wake in time to watch the sun rise above the gardens
, Jacqueline Ling thought as she sipped the orange pekoe tea that had just been brought to her bedside on an exquisite bamboo tray. Propped up against four layers of goose-down pillows, she had the perfect view onto the pure symmetry of the box parterres, the majestic yew hedges beyond, and the morning mist rising over the Surrey Downs. It was these quiet moments before everyone began to assemble downstairs for breakfast that Jacqueline relished most during her frequent visits at the Shangs'.

In the rarefied stratosphere inhabited by Asia's most elite families, it was said that the Shangs had abandoned Singapore. “They've become so grand they think they're British” was the common refrain. Though it was true that Alfred Shang enjoyed a lifestyle that surpassed many a marquess at his six-thousand-hectare estate in Surrey, Jacqueline knew it would be a mistake to assume that he had transferred all his allegiances to queen and country. The simple truth was that over the decades, his three sons (all Oxbridge educated, naturally) had one by one taken English wives (all from appropriately aristocratic families, of course) and chosen to make their lives in England. So beginning in the early eighties, Alfred and his wife, Mabel, were compelled to spend greater parts of the year there—it was the only way they would get to see their children and grandchildren regularly.

Mabel, being the daughter of T'sien Tsai Tay and Rosemary Young T'sien, was far more Chinese in her ways than her husband, who was an Anglophile even before his Oxford days in the late 1950s. At Harlinscourt, Mabel set about creating a decadent domain that indulged her favorite aspects of East and West. To restore the nineteenth-century Venetian revival–style house built by Gabriel-Hippolyte Destailleur, Mabel coaxed the great Chinese decorative-arts historian Huang Pao Fan out of retirement to work alongside the legendary British decorator David Hicks.
^*1
The result was a ravishingly bold mix of modern European furnishings with some of the finest Chinese antiquities held in private hands.

Harlinscourt soon became one of those great houses that everyone talked about. At first, many of the Burke's Peerage crowd talked about how terribly vulgar it was for a Singaporean to buy one of the finest houses in Britain and try to run it “in the old way” with its mind-numbing number of staff and all the trimmings. But the landed gentry accepted their invitations anyway and after their visits grudgingly had to admit that the Shangs hadn't mucked it up. The restoration was splendid, the grounds were even more splendid, and the food—well, that was utter heaven. In the decades that followed, guests the world over began to covet their invitations because word got out that Harlinscourt's chef Marcus Sim—a Hong Kong–born prodigy who had trained with Frédy Girardet—was a genius in both classic French and Chinese cuisine. And it was the thought of breakfast this morning that made Jacqueline reluctantly get out of bed.

She walked into the dressing room adjoining her bedroom and discovered a fire already burning in the fireplace, a vase of freshly cut Juliet roses arranged on the dressing table, and the outfit she had selected for the morning already hanging against the copper warming rack. Jacqueline slipped on her figure-hugging cream fit-and-flare sleeveless dress with iconic pointelle knit trim, marveling at how it had been warmed to the perfect temperature. She thought of weekends at other English estates, where the bedrooms felt like iceboxes in the morning and her clothes felt just as frozen when she put them on.
I don't even think that the queen lives this well
, Jacqueline thought, recalling that before Alfred and Mabel had moved in, her godmother, Su Yi, had sent a team over from Tyersall Park to help train the British staff properly. Asian hospitality standards were fused with English manor-house traditions, and even her boyfriend Victor had been impressed the last time he visited. Holding up his Aubercy dress shoes one evening as they dressed for dinner, he said in astonishment, “Honey, they fucking ironed my shoelaces!”

This morning, it was the chef's eggs that most astonished Jacqueline as she sat at one end of the immense dining table in the Grade II Heritage-listed breakfast room. “Ummmm. How is it that only Marcus can make scrambled eggs like this?” She sighed to Mabel as she savored another forkful.

“Doesn't your chef do good eggs?” Mabel asked.

“Sven's omelets are fabulous, and he can poach perfectly. But there is something about these scrambled eggs that are absolutely
divine
. Fluffy, creamy, and just the right amount of runny. I look forward to every visit because of them. What is the secret?”

“No idea—I never touch the eggs. But you must try some of this
yu zhook
.
^*2
It's made with Dover sole that was caught just this morning,” Mabel said.

“It's the cream. Marcus uses the top cream made from our Guernsey cows in the scrambled eggs,” twelve-year-old Lucia Shang piped up from the far end of the table.

“At last—
she speaks!
That's the first peep I've heard out of you all morning, Lucia. Now, what's this book you're so engrossed in? You're not still reading those
Hunger Games
vampire novels, are you?” Jacqueline asked.

“
The Hunger Games
isn't about vampires. And I stopped reading them ages ago. I'm reading
Siddhartha
now.”

“Ah, Hesse. He's quite good.”

“It sounds Indian,” Mabel said, scrunching up her nose at her granddaughter.

“It's about the Buddha.”

“
Aiyah
, Lucia, what are you doing reading about Buddha? You're a Christian, and don't forget that we come from a very distinguished long line of Methodists.”

“Yes, Lucia, on your great-grandmother Rosemary's side—the Youngs—your ancestors were actually the first Christians in southern China,” Jacqueline agreed.

Lucia rolled her eyes. “Actually, if it wasn't for missionaries running amok in China after England won the Opium Wars, we'd all be Buddhists.”

“Shut up,
lah
! Don't talk back to Auntie Jacqueline!” Mabel admonished.

“It's fine, Mabel. Lucia's just speaking her mind.”

Mabel wouldn't let it go, muttering to Jacqueline, “
Neh gor zhap zhong syun neui; zhan hai suey toh say!
”
^*3

“Ah Ma, I understand every word you're saying!” Lucia said indignantly.

“No you don't. Shut up and read your book!”

Cassandra Shang, Mabel's daughter (and better known by those in her circle as “Radio One Asia”), entered the room, cheeks still flush from her morning ride. Jacqueline did a double take. Cassandra's hair, normally parted down the middle and pulled into a tight coil at the nape of her neck Frida Kahlo–style, was rather uncharacteristically braided intricately along the sides but flowing free down her back. “Cass, I haven't seen your hair down like this in ages! This is a throwback to your Slade days. Looks marvelous!”

Mabel peered at her daughter through her bifocals. “
Chyee seen, ah!
^*4
You're not a young girl anymore—it looks ridiculous.”

Cassandra felt tempted to tell her mother that you could begin to see the face-lift scars through the thinning hair in her scalp, but she resisted. Instead, she chose to acknowledge Jacqueline's compliment. “Thanks, Jac. And you look ridiculously perfect as always. New dress?”

“No,
lah
! I've had this old rag for ages,” Jacqueline said deprecatingly.

Cassandra smiled, knowing full well Jacqueline was wearing a one-of-a-kind Azzedine Alaïa. Not that it even mattered what she wore—Jacqueline had the sort of beauty that made anything she put on look drop-dead chic. Cassandra headed to the sideboard, where she helped herself to a single toast point, a dollop of Marmite, and some fresh prunes. As she took her seat opposite Jacqueline, a footman approached, deftly placing her morning cappuccino (made with small-batch, single-origin beans) and iPad next to her.

“Thank you, Paul,” Cassandra said, switching on the device and noticing that her e-mail in-box was unusually full for this early in the morning. The first message came from her cousin Oliver in London:

While she waited for his response, an instant message came in from her sister-in-law India Heskeith Shang. Cassandra looked up from her iPad and announced to everyone, “India just messaged me—apparently Casimir has an opening for his photography at Central Saint Martins tonight and he didn't tell anyone. She's wondering if we want to go and surprise him? Lucia, your mother wants to know if you want to go up to London to see your brother's latest photos?”

“If it's going to be more pictures of his friends vomiting curry outside of pubs, I'm not interested,” Lucia replied.

“
Aiyah
, don't talk like that! It's fine art. Casimir won an award for his photography last year,” Mabel told Jacqueline, in defense of her favorite grandson.

Cassandra realized that Oliver must be talking about Casimir's photographs. “Well, I think these photos are going to be quite…daring. I just got an e-mail from Oliver, and apparently he's already seen them.”

“Oh. Oliver's back in London? Is he going to come to the show too?” Mabel asked.

“I'm not sure, but India is now saying that Leonard can pick us up in the helicopter on his way from Southampton. We can all go to the opening together and then dinner at Clarke's.”

“
Alamak
, another tasteless English dinner.” Mabel groaned.

Cassandra checked her Facebook wall and let out a sudden gasp. “
Oh. My. God.
” She clasped her hands over her mouth, staring at the photos that flashed through on her iPad. Oliver wasn't talking about Casimir's silly little exhibit after all.
These
were the photos he was talking about.

“What are you looking at now? Another piece of dirty gossip from one of your unreliable
kang taos
?”
^*5
her mother asked derisively.

“Jacqueline, you need to see this!” Cassandra said, handing her the iPad. Jacqueline peered at the screen and saw an image of Astrid standing on a turret next to an elephant.

“I don't get it. What's the big deal?” Jacqueline asked.

“Oh, you're on the last photo. Scroll up. There's a whole series of photos.”

Jacqueline waved her hand over the screen, her eyes widening as she scrutinized the images. “Are these real?”

“Looks pretty real to me,” Cassandra chuckled.

“Dear me…”

“What is it?” Mabel asked.

Jacqueline held up the iPad, and from across the table, Mabel could see the blaring headline:

EXCLUSIVE PICS OF TECH TITAN CHARLES WU'S LAVISH PROPOSAL TO GIRLFRIEND ASTRID LEONG—BUT SHE'S STILL MARRIED!

“
Alamak!
Let me see! Let me see!” Mabel demanded excitedly. A footman wordlessly appeared at Jacqueline's side. She handed the iPad to him and he dutifully walked it over to the other side of the table where Mabel was seated. Lucia, clearly not as engrossed in
Siddhartha
as she pretended to be, rushed over to peer at the pictures with her grandmother, reading aloud:

“The ink hasn't even dried on Hong Kong tech titan Charles Wu's divorce papers yet, but this apparently didn't stop him from orchestrating an over-the-top marriage proposal to his gorgeous girlfriend Astrid Leong. The million-dollar proposal involved renting out the fairy-tale Mehrangarh Fort in Jodhpur, hiring more than a hundred musicians and dancers, and having Bollywood superstar Shah Rukh Khan serenade them while an elephant helped to deliver the ginormous diamond ring. Looking at the pictures, Astrid has obviously said yes, but there's one small problem—as far as we know, this high-born beauty is STILL MARRIED to Charlie's arch rival, the Singapore tech wünderkind Michael Teo.”

Mabel squinted at the picture. “
Aiyah, hou sau ga!
^*6
When were these taken?”

“Last weekend, it looks like,” Jacqueline said.

“Last weekend? But isn't Astrid in Singapore with the rest of the family?”

“Obviously she snuck out of town with Charlie. My God, can you imagine how furious Felicity and Harry are going to be when they see this?” Cassandra said, shaking her head.

“Not only that, but this is a disaster for her divorce case. Michael's going to have so much new ammunition now. Poor Astrid!” Jacqueline sighed.

Mabel huffed, “Poor Astrid my foot! She should be at her grandmother's bedside instead of splashed all over the news! How dare that Charlie Wu propose to her again! The cheek of him…still trying to invade
our family
! I thought Felicity got rid of him years ago!”

“Oh Mother, those two have been in love since day one. If Felicity had let it happen the first time around, the whole Michael Teo disaster would never have happened!” Cassandra said.

“Felicity was right to put a full stop to that nonsense. Those Wus were completely unacceptable! That ghastly vulgar mother of his—I'll never forget what she did to me!”

“What did Irene Wu do to you?” Jacqueline asked.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. “That's ancient history, Mum. Please don't bring it up again!”

“That! Woman! Tried! To! Steal! My! Seamstress! I found this girl, Minnie Pock, who did the most wonderful tailoring. She had a little shop next to Fitzpatrick's on Dunearn Road, soooo convenient, and she could replicate all the Nina Ricci, Scherrer, and Féraud dresses I loved so perfectly.”