The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy

“But what am I going to wear? I had this tux specially made for me in Milan! Do you know how much it cost me?”

“I’m sure it was very, very expensive. And that’s exactly why we need to be gentle and let the stain lift properly,” Ling Cheh said, shaking her head. Eddieboy had been a pompous little monster even when he was five.

Eddie glanced up the staircase and noticed Augustine coming down with Nick and Rachel. “YOU LITTLE SHIT!” he screamed.

“Eddie, control yourself!” Fiona admonished.

“I’m going to teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!” Incandescent with rage, Eddie began to storm up the stairs.

“Stop it, Eddie,” Fiona said, grabbing hold of his arm.

“You’re wrinkling my shirt, Fi!” Eddie scowled. “Like mother like son—”

“Eddie, you need to calm down. Just wear one of the other two tuxes you brought,” Fiona said in a measured tone.

“Don’t be stupid! I’ve already worn both of those the past two nights. I had everything perfectly planned until this little bastard came along! Stop hiding, you little bastard! Be a man and accept your punishment!” Eddie broke free from his wife and lunged toward the boy with his right arm outstretched.

Augustine whimpered, cowering behind Nick. “Eddie, you’re not really going to hit your six-year-old son over a harmless accident, are you?” Nick said lightheartedly.

“Harmless? Fucky fuck, he’s ruined everything! The monochromatic fashion statement I was planning for the whole family is RUINED because of him!”

“And you’ve just ruined the whole trip for me!” Fiona suddenly blurted out. “I’m so sick of all this. Why is it so damn important for us to look picture-perfect every time we walk out the door? Who exactly are you trying to impress? The photographers? The readers of Hong Kong Tattle? You really care so much about them that you’d rather hit your own son over an accident that you caused in the first place by screaming at him for wearing the wrong cummerbund?”

“But, but …” Eddie sputtered in protest.

Fiona turned to Nick, her serene expression returning. “Nick, can my children and I ride with you to the ball?”

“Er … if you’d like,” Nick said cautiously, not wanting to further incite his cousin.

“Good. I have no desire to be seen with a tyrant.” Fiona took Augustine by the hand and started up the stairs. She paused for a moment as she passed Rachel. “You look amazing in that dress. But you know what? It needs something.” Fiona proceeded to take off the sapphire-and-diamond choker she had just been given by Su Yi and placed it around Rachel’s neck. “Now the outfit looks complete. I insist that you borrow it for tonight.”

“You’re too kind, but what will you wear?” Rachel asked in astonishment.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Fiona said, giving her husband a dark stare. “I’m not going to be wearing a single piece of jewelry tonight. I was born a Tung, and I have nothing to prove to anyone.”

* * *

* Also known as “thousand-layer cake,” this decadently buttery cake with dozens of thin golden stripes is created by baking each layer of batter separately. Extremely laborious, but sinfully good.

† Cantonese for “don’t be formal.”

‡ Mandarin for “heavens!”

7

Pasir Panjang Road

SINGAPORE

“Never, never let young people plan their own weddings, because this is what you end up with!” Mrs. Lee Yong Chien fumed to Puan Sri Mavis Oon. They were standing in the middle of an enormous warehouse in the Keppel Shipyard along with seven hundred other VIPs and VVIPs, utterly baffled by the Cuban band dressed in forties Tropicana splendor on the stage. People like Mrs. Lee were used to only one kind of Chinese wedding banquet—the kind that took place in the grand ballroom of a five-star hotel. There would be the gorging on salted peanuts during the interminable wait for the fourteen-course dinner to begin, the melting ice sculptures, the outlandish floral centerpieces, the society matron invariably offended by the faraway table she had been placed at, the entrance of the bride, the malfunctioning smoke machine, the entrance of the bride again and again in five different gowns throughout the night, the crying child choking on a fish ball, the three dozen speeches by politicians, token ang mor executives and assorted high-ranking officials of no relation to the wedding couple, the cutting of the twelve-tier cake, someone’s mistress making a scene, the not so subtle counting of wedding cash envelopes by some cousin,* the ghastly Canto pop star flown in from Hong Kong to scream some pop song (a chance for the older crowd to take an extended toilet break), the distribution of tiny wedding fruitcakes with white icing in paper boxes to all the departing guests, and then Yum seng!†—the whole affair would be over and everyone would make the mad dash to the hotel lobby to wait half an hour for their car and driver to make it through the traffic jam.

Tonight, however, there was none of that. There was just an industrial space with waiters bearing mojitos and a woman with short, slicked-back hair in a white tuxedo belting out “Besame Mucho.” Glancing around, Rachel was amused by the looks of bafflement on the faces of the arriving guests decked out in their most ostentatious finery.

“These women really brought out the big guns tonight, didn’t they?” Rachel whispered to Nick as she eyed a woman sporting a cape of metallic-gold feathers.

“Sure looks like it! Was that Queen Nefertiti who just walked by?” Nick joked.

“Shut your mouth, Nicholas—that’s Patsy Wang. She’s a Hong Kong socialite renowned for her avant-garde style. There are dozens of blogs out there devoted to her,” Oliver commented.