The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy

Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.

“Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.

Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father the services of a child prostitute.

“Ah Baptiste, thank you,” Jack Bing said in heavily accented English as he grabbed the heavy cut-glass tumbler from the tray.

Mrs. Bing removed her surgical mask, headed for the nearest sofa, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.

“No, Mother, let’s not sit here. Let’s sit on the sofa by the windows,” Colette said.

“Aiyah, I’ve been flying all day and my feet are so swollen. Why can’t you just let me sit here?”

“Mother, I had the maids specially fluff the lotus silk pillows on that sofa for you, and the magnolia trees are in full bloom this week. We must sit by the windows so you can enjoy them,” Colette said sharply.

Rachel jumped at Colette’s tone. Mrs. Bing got up reluctantly and the whole group made their way to the wall of glass at the end of the grand salon.

“Now, Mother, sit here so you can face the topiaries. Dad, you sit here. Mei Ching will bring li

ttle stools for your feet. Mei Ching, where are the pillow-top stools?” Colette demanded. Colette made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge facing in from the windows, but for everyone else sitting in that spot, the setting sun cast a blinding glare. It began to dawn on Rachel and Nick that the elaborate welcoming ritual they had witnessed outside wasn’t something that Colette did out of fear or filial respect for her parents. Rather, Colette was just an absolute control freak and liked everything done precisely her way.

As everyone leaned at awkward angles to avoid the glare, Jack Bing gave Nick a discerning look. Who is this man married to Bao Gaoliang’s love child? He has a jaw so chiseled it could slice sushi, and he carries himself like a duke. He nodded at Nick and said, “So, you are from Singapore. Very interesting country. What line of work are you in?”

“I’m a history professor,” Nick replied.

“Nick studied law at Oxford, but he teaches at New York University,” Colette added.

“You went to all the trouble of getting a law degree at Oxford, but you don’t practice?” Jack asked. Must be a failed lawyer.

“I’ve never practiced. History was always my first passion.” Next he’s going to ask me how much money I make or what my parents do.

“Hmmm,” Jack said. Only these crazy Singaporeans can waste money sending their children to Oxford for nothing. Maybe he comes from one of those rich Indonesian Chinese families. “What does your father do?”

And there it is. Nick had met innumerable Jack Bings over the years. Successful, ambitious men who were always looking to make connections with people they deemed worthy. Nick knew that by simply dropping a few of the right names, he could easily impress someone like Jack Bing. Since he had no interest in doing that, he answered politely, “My father was an engineer, but he’s retired now.”

“I see,” Jack said. What a waste of a man. With his height and looks, he could have been a top banker or a politician.

Now he’s either going to dig further about my family, or move on to Rachel’s inquisition. Nick asked out of courtesy, “And what do you do, Mr. Bing?”

Jack ignored Nick’s question and turned his attention to Richie Yang. “So Richie, tell me what you were doing in Chile, of all places. Scouting for more mining companies that your father can acquire?”

Oh very nice—I’ve been deemed inconsequential, and he obviously couldn’t give a damn what Rachel does. Nick chuckled to himself.

Richie, who was staring intently at his titanium Vertu phone, scoffed at Jack’s words. “Good God no! I’m training for the Dakar Rally. You know, that off-road vehicle endurance race? It’s held in South America now—the course starts in Argentina and ends in Peru.”

“You’re still racing?” Carlton piped in.

“Of course!”

“Unbelievable!” Carlton shook his head, his voice laced with anger.

“What? You think I go running home to Mommy after just one little wreck?”

Carlton went red in the face, and he looked like he was about to leap out of his chair and lunge at Richie. Colette placed her hand on his arm and said in a cheery voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Machu Picchu, but you know I get terrible altitude sickness. I went to St. Moritz last year and got so ill, I could hardly do any shopping.”

“You never told me that! See how you constantly put your life in danger by going to dangerous places like Switzerland?” Mrs. Bing admonished her daughter.

Colette turned to her mother and said in an irritated tone, “It was fine, Mother. Now, who died and made you Jackie Onassis? Why are you wearing those sunglasses in the house?”