Crazy Rich Asians (25 page)

Astrid and Rachel sat by the lotus fountain, watching a lady dressed in flowing apricot
silk robes play a
guqin
, the traditional Chinese zither. Rachel was entranced by the mesmerizing speed of
the lady’s long red fingernails plucking gracefully at the strings, while Astrid desperately
tried to stop obsessing over what Oliver had said earlier. Could he have really seen
Michael walking with some little boy in Hong Kong? Nick sank into the chair next to
her, dexterously balancing two steaming cups of tea with one hand and holding a plate
of half-eaten chocolate chiffon cake with the other. He handed the cup with smoked
lychee tea to Astrid, knowing it was her favorite, and offered some cake to Rachel.
“You’ve got to try this—it’s one of our cook Ah Ching’s greatest hits.”

“
Alamak
, Nicky, get her a proper piece of her own,” Astrid scolded, temporarily snapping
out of her funk.

“It’s okay, Astrid. I’ll just eat most of his, like always,” Rachel explained with
a laugh. She tasted the cake, her eyes widening instantly. It was the perfect combination
of chocolate and cream, with an airy melt-in-your-mouth lightness. “Hmmm. I like that
it isn’t too sweet.”

“That’s why I can never eat other chocolate cakes. They’re always too sweet, too dense,
or have too much frosting,” Nick said.

Rachel reached over for another bite. “Just get the recipe and I’ll try making it
at home.”

Astrid arched her eyebrows. “You can try, Rachel, but trust me, my cook has tried,
and it never comes out quite this good. I suspect Ah Ching’s withholding some secret
ingredient.”

As they sat in the courtyard, the tightly rolled red petals of the
tan huas
unfurled like a slow-motion movie to reveal a profusion of feathery white petals
that kept expanding into an explosive sunburst
pattern. “I can’t believe how big these flowers are getting!” Rachel observed excitedly.

“It always reminds me of a swan ruffling its wings, about to take flight,” Astrid
remarked.

“Or maybe about to go into attack mode,” Nick added. “Swans can get really aggressive.”

“My swans were never aggressive,” Great-aunt Rosemary said as she walked up, overhearing
Nick’s comment. “Don’t you remember feeding the swans in my pond when you were a little
boy?”

“I remember being rather afraid of them actually,” Nick replied. “I would break off
little bits of bread, throw them into the water, and then run for cover.”

“Nicky was a little wimp,” Astrid teased.

“Was he?” Rachel asked in surprise.

“Well, he was so tiny. For the longest time everyone was afraid that he would never
grow—I was so much taller than him. And then suddenly he shot up,” Astrid said.

“Hey, Astrid, stop discussing my secret shame,” Nick said with a mock frown.

“Nicky, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. After all, you’ve grown up to be
quite the strapping specimen, as I’m sure Rachel would agree,” Great-aunt Rosemary
said saucily. The women all laughed.

As the flowers continued to transform before her eyes, Rachel sat sipping lychee tea
from a red porcelain cup, entranced by everything around her. She watched the sultan
taking pictures of his two wives in front of the blossoms, their jewel-embroidered
kebayas
reflecting shards of light every time the camera flash went off. She observed the
cluster of men sitting in a circle with Astrid’s father, who was engrossed in a heated
political debate, and she looked at Nick, now crouched beside his grandmother. She
was touched to see how caring Nick seemed to be with his grandmother, holding the
old lady’s hands as he whispered into her ear.

“Is your friend having a nice time tonight?” Su Yi asked her grandson in Cantonese.

“Yes, Ah Ma. She’s having a lovely time. Thank you for inviting her.”

“She seems to be quite the talk of the town. Everyone is either
trying delicately to ask me about her or trying delicately to tell me things about
her.”

“Really? What have they been saying?”

“Some are wondering what her intentions are. Your cousin Cassandra even called me
from England, all flustered up.”

Nick was surprised. “How does Cassandra even know about Rachel?”

“Aiyah, only the ghosts know where she gets her information! But she is very concerned
for you. She thinks you are going to get trapped.”

“Trapped? I’m just on holiday with Rachel, Ah Ma. There is nothing to be concerned
about,” Nick said defensively, annoyed that Cassandra had been gossiping about him.

“That’s
exactly
what I told her. I told her that you are a good boy, and that you would never do
anything without my blessing. Cassandra must be bored out of her mind in the English
countryside. She’s letting her imagination run as wild as her silly horses.”

“Would you like me to bring Rachel over, Ah Ma, so that you can get to know her better?”
Nick ventured.

“You know I won’t be able to stand all the craning necks if that happens. Why don’t
you both just come to stay next week? It’s so silly to be staying at a hotel when
your bedroom is waiting right here.”

Nick was thrilled to hear these words from his grandmother. He had her seal of approval
now. “That would be wonderful, Ah Ma.”

In a corner of the darkened billiard room, Jacqueline was in the midst of a heated
phone conversation with her daughter, Amanda, in New York. “Stop making excuses! I
don’t give a damn what you told the press. Do what you have to do, but just make sure
you’re back next week,” she fumed.

Jacqueline ended her call, looking out the window at the moonlit terrace. “I know
you’re there, Oliver,” she said sharply, not turning around. Oliver emerged from the
shadowy doorway and approached slowly.

“I can smell you from a mile away. You need to lay off the Blenheim Bouquet—you’re
not the Prince of Wales.”

Oliver arched his eyebrows. “Aren’t we getting testy! Anyway,
it’s quite clear to me that Nicholas is completely smitten. Don’t you think it’s a
little too late for Amanda?”

“Not at all,” Jacqueline replied, carefully rearranging her hair. “As you yourself
have often said,
timing is everything
.”

“I was talking about investing in art.”

“My daughter is an exquisite piece of art, is she not? She belongs only in the finest
collection.”

“A collection you failed to become part of.”

“Fuck you, Oliver.”

“
Chez toi ou chez moi?
” Oliver naughtily arched an eyebrow as he sauntered out of the room.

In the Andalusian courtyard, Rachel allowed her eyes to close for a moment. The strums
of the Chinese zither created a perfect melody with the trickling waters, and the
flowers in turn seemed to be choreographing their bloom to the mellifluous sounds.
Every time a breeze blew, the copper lanterns strung against the evening sky swayed
like hundreds of glowing orbs adrift in a dark ocean. Rachel felt like she was floating
along with them in some sybaritic dream, and she wondered if life with Nicholas would
always be like this. Soon, the
tan huas
began to wilt just as swiftly and mysteriously as they had bloomed, filling the night
air with an intoxicating scent as they shriveled into spent, lifeless petals.

Astrid and Michael

Whenever her grandmother’s parties ran late, Astrid would normally opt to spend the
night at Tyersall Park. She preferred not to wake Cassian if he was sleeping soundly,
and she would head for the bedroom (just opposite from Nick’s) that had been set aside
for her frequent visits since she was a little girl. Her adoring grandmother had created
an enchanted emporium for her, commissioning whimsical hand-carved furniture from
Italy and walls painted with scenes from her favorite fairy tale, “The Twelve Dancing
Princesses.” Astrid still loved the occasional night spent in this childhood bedroom,
cosseted by the most fantastical dolls, stuffed animals, and tea sets that money could
buy.

Tonight, however, Astrid was determined to get home. Even though it was well past
midnight, she swept Cassian into her arms, buckled him into his child seat, and headed
for her apartment. She was desperate to know if Michael was back “from work” yet.
She was kidding herself in thinking she could just look the other way while Michael
carried on. She was not like those wives. She was not going to be a victim, like Eddie’s
wife, Fiona. All these weeks of speculation and uncertainty had become a crushing
weight on her, and she had to resolve this issue once and for all. She needed to see
her husband with her own eyes. She needed to smell him. She needed to know whether
there truly was another woman. Although, if she
was being brutally honest with herself, she had known the truth ever since those four
simple words flashed across his iPhone screen. This was the price she had to pay for
falling for Michael. He was a man whom all women found irresistible.

The first time Astrid laid eyes on Michael, he was in a camouflage-print speedo. The
sight of anyone over the age of ten in one of these banana hammocks was usually repellant
to Astrid’s aesthetic sensibilities, but when Michael strutted down the runway in
his Custo Barcelona speedo, his arm around an Amazonian girl clad in a sheer black
Rosa Cha bathing suit and emerald necklace, Astrid was transfixed.

She had been dragged to Churchill Club for a charity fashion show organized by one
of her Leong cousins and had sat bored stiff throughout the proceedings. For someone
used to a front-row seat at Jean Paul Gaultier’s elaborate flights of stagecraft,
this hastily constructed catwalk lit with yellow gels, fake palm fronds, and flashing
strobe lights seemed like underfunded community theater.

But then Michael appeared, and suddenly everything went into slow motion. He was taller
and bigger than most Asian men, with a gorgeous nut-brown tan that wasn’t the sort
you could spray on at a salon. His severe military buzz cut served to accentuate a
hawklike nose that seemed so incongruous to the rest of his face, it took on an overtly
sexual quality. Then there were those piercing, deep-set eyes and the washboard abs
rippling along his lean torso. He was only on the runway for less than thirty seconds,
but she immediately recognized him a few weeks later at Andy Ong’s birthday party
even though he was fully clothed in a V-neck T-shirt and faded gray jeans.