call button. Finally the service elevator arrived. The ladies all crammed in, cowering together to avoid accidentally brushing against the dusty walls. On the seventeenth floor, the elevator opened to reveal a bright, fluorescent-lit vestibule. There were two steel double doors on either end of the space, and Eleanor couldn’t help but notice two sets of closed-circuit cameras installed on the ceiling. A very skinny girl in her early twenties emerged from one of the doors. “Hello, hello,” she said in English, nodding at the ladies. She inspected them briefly, and then said in a surprisingly stern, staccato tone, “Please turn off phone, no camera allowed.” She moved toward an intercom, which she spoke into in a rapid-fire dialect that none of them could discern, and a set of secure locks clicked open loudly.
The ladies walked through the door and abruptly found themselves in a sumptuously designed boutique. The floor was polished pink marble, the walls upholstered in pale pink moiré fabric, and from where they stood, they could peer down the corridor into some of the adjacent showrooms. Each room was devoted to a different luxury brand, with floor-to-ceiling display cabinets crammed full of the most current handbags and accessories. The designer treasures seemed to glow under the carefully positioned halogen spotlights, and well-attired shoppers filled each showroom, eagerly perusing the merchandise.
“This place is known for the very best fakes,” Carol declared.
“Holy Jesus!” Nadine shrieked excitedly, while Carol glared at her for using the Lord’s name in vain.
“Italy this side, French the other side. What you want?” the skinny girl asked.
“Do you have any handbags by Goyard?” Lorena asked.
“Hiyah! Yes, yes, everybody want Goya right now. We have best Goya,” she said, leading Lorena into one of the showrooms. Behind the counter were rows and rows of the latest must-have Goyard tote bag in every color imaginable, and a Swiss couple stood in the middle of the room testing the wheels on one of the Goyard carry-on suitcases.
Daisy whispered into Eleanor’s ear, “See, the only people shopping here are tourists like us. These days, the Mainlanders only want the real thing.”
“Well, for once I agree with the Mainlanders. I’ve never understood why anyone would want a fake designer handbag. What is the point of pretending to carry one if you can’t afford it?” Eleanor sniffed.
“Aiyah, Eleanor, if you or I carried one of these, who would ever think it was fake?” Carol said. “Everyone knows we can afford the real thing.”
“Well, these are absolutely identical to the real thing. Not even the people who work at Goyard would be able to tell,” Lorena said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Just look at the stitching, the embossing, the label.”
“They look so real because they practically are real, Lorena,” Carol explained. “These are what they call ‘real fakes.’ The factories in China are commissioned by all the luxury brands to manufacture the leather. Say the company places an order for ten thousand units, but they actually make twelve thousand units. Then they can sell the remaining two thousand off the books on the black market as ‘fakes,’ even though they are made with the exact same material as the real ones.”
“Hey ladies, guei doh say, ah!‡ These aren’t bargains at all,” Daisy warned, scrutinizing one of the price tags.
“It’s still a bargain. This bag is forty-five hundred in Singapore. Here it’s six hundred, and it looks exactly the same,” Lorena said, feeling the distinctive texture of the bag.
“My God, I want one in every color!” Nadine squealed. “I saw this handbag on British Tatler’s ‘It List’ last month!”
“I’m sure Francesca would want a few of these bags too,” Lorena said.
“No, no, I dare not buy anything for that fussy daughter of mine—Francesca will only carry originals, and they have to be from next season,” Nadine replied.
Eleanor wandered into the next room, which was filled with racks and racks of clothing. She scrutinized a fake Chanel suit, shaking her head in disapproval at the gold buttons with interlocking Cs running up the sleeves of the jacket. She had always felt that wearing a stiffly tailored designer dress of this sort, as women of her age and social milieu might be inclined to do, only served to reinforce one’s age. Eleanor’s style was a deliberate one—she preferred the more youthful, trendy clothes that she found in the boutiques of Hong Kong, Paris, or wherever she happened to be traveling, as this achieved three goals: she always wore something distinctive that no one else in Singapore had, she spent far less money on clothes than the rest of her friends, and she looked at least a decade younger than her real age. She tucked the sleeve of the Chanel suit back into its rack properly and walked into what appeared to be a room devoted to Hermès, finding herself face-to-face with none other than Jacqueline Ling. Speak of age-defying, this one had made some pact with the devil.
“What are you doing here?” Eleanor asked in surprise. Jacqueline was one of her least favorite people, but even she would never have imagined that Jacqueline might carry a designer fake.
“I just flew in this morning and a friend insisted that I come here and pick up one of these ostrich-leather purses for her,” Jacqueline said, a little flustered to be seen by Eleanor at a place like this. “How long have you been here? No wonder I didn’t see you at Tyersall Park last night.”
“I’m here for a spa weekend with some girlfriends. So, you were at my mother-in-law’s for Friday-night dinner?” Eleanor asked, not entirely surprised. Jacqueline was always sucking up to Nicky’s grandmother whenever she visited Singapore.
“Yes, Su Yi decided to have a little party at the last minute because her tan huas were in bloom. She had quite a few people over. I saw your Nicky … and I met the girl.”
“Well, what was she like?” Eleanor asked impatiently.
“Oh, you haven’t met her yet?” Jacqueline thought that Eleanor would surely want to assess the interloper as early as possible. “You know, she’s typical ABC. Overconfident and overfamiliar. I would never have thought that Nicky would go for someone like that.”
“They are just dating, lah,” Eleanor said a little defensively.
“I wouldn’t be so sure of that if I were you. This girl is already best friends with Astrid and Oliver, and you should have seen the way she was staring openmouthed at everything around the house,” Jacqueline said, even though she had witnessed nothing of the sort.
Eleanor was taken aback by Jacqueline’s comment, but it soon dawned on her that on this score at least, their interests were uniquely aligned. “How is your Mandy doing these days? I hear she’s dating some Jewish banker twice her age.”
“Oh, you know that’s really just idle gossip,” Jacqueline replied quickly. “The press over there is so fascinated by her, and they try to link her with all the eligible men in New York. Anyway, you can ask Amanda yourself—she’ll be back for the Khoo wedding.”
Eleanor looked surprised. Araminta Lee and Amanda Ling were archrivals, and two months ago, Amanda had caused something of a mini-scandal when she told the Straits Times that “she didn’t understand what all the fuss was over the Khoo wedding—she was far too busy to come rushing back to Singapore for every social climber’s wedding.”§
At that moment, Carol and Nadine entered the Hermès room. Nadine recognized Jacqueline immediately, having seen her from afar many years ago at a gala movie premiere. Here was her chance to get an introduction. “Look at you, Elle, always running into people you know everywhere you go,” she said cheerily.