The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy

Carlton let out a snort. Everyone at the table looked at him momentarily. Carlton looked like he was about to say something, but then he changed his mind and chugged a full glass of Montrachet in several quick gulps.

As the meal resumed, Rachel filled her father in on everything they had done since arriving in Shanghai, while Nick chatted amiably with the Bings and Richie Yang. Nick was relieved that Bao Gaoliang had finally shown up, and he could see how excited Rachel was to spend time with him. But he couldn’t help noticing that a few seats away, Carlton sat stone-faced while Colette seemed to be getting more and more agitated as each course was served. What’s the deal? Both of them look like they could spontaneously combust at any moment.

Suddenly, while everyone was in the midst of savoring the Lanzhou-style hand-pulled noodles with lobster and abalone, Colette put down her chopsticks and whispered into her father’s ear. The two of them abruptly got up. “Please excuse us for a moment,” Colette said with a forced smile.

Colette marched her father downstairs and as soon as they were out of earshot, she began to scream: “What is the point of hiring the best butler in England to teach you proper manners, when you just won’t learn? You were slurping your noodles so loudly, it made my teeth ache! And the way you spit out your bones onto the table, my God, Christian Liaigre would have a heart attack if he knew what was happening on his beautiful table! And how many times have I told you not to kick your shoes off when we are dining with company? Don’t lie to me—I could smell something from a mile away, and I know it wasn’t the snow-pea shoots simmered in stinky tofu!”

Jack laughed at his daughter’s tantrum. “I am the son of a fisherman. I keep telling you, you cannot change me. But don’t worry, it doesn’t matter how good my manners are. As long as this remains fat,” he patted the wallet in his back pocket, “even in China’s best dining rooms, no one will care if I spit on the table.”

“Rubbish! Everyone can change! Look how well Mother is doing—she hardly chews with her mouth open anymore, and she wields her chopsticks like an elegant Shanghainese lady.”

Colette’s father shook his head in amusement. “Hiyah, I really pity that idiot Richie Yang. He doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into.”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“Don’t try to deceive your own father. Your plan of dangling Carlton Bao in front of Richie has paid off like a charm. I have a feeling he’s planning to propose to you any day now.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Colette said, still fuming at her father’s negligent etiquette.

“Really? Then why did he beg his way onto my plane to ask my permission for your hand in marriage?”

“How silly of him. I hope you told him exactly where he could stuff that proposal.”

“Actually, I gave Richie my blessing. I think it will be a brilliant match, not to mention that I will finally be able to stop fighting over companies with his father.” Jack grinned, flashing the crooked incisor that Colette was constantly begging him to get fixed.

“Don’t start getting any fantasies of mergers, Dad, because I have no interest in marrying Richie Yang.”

Jack laughed, and then he said in a low whisper, “Silly girl, I never asked if you were interested in marrying him. Your interest is not my concern.”

Then he turned and headed back upstairs.

* * *

*1 A delicacy where chicken pieces are mixed with a hoisin sauce and five-spice garnish, wrapped envelope-style into square packets of parchment paper, and left to marinate overnight (white truffles, an ingredient not normally found in classical Cantonese cuisine, are an extra touch of decadence added by the Bings’ wildly ambitious chef). The packets are then deep-fried, allowing the delicious marinade to caramelize onto the chicken. Finger lickin’ good!

*2 Mandarin for “minister,” the correct form of address for a high-ranking official.

*3 Mandarin for “boss,” the correct form of address for really sucking up to a high-ranking official.

11

CORINNA AND KITTY

HONG KONG

She’s late again. Corinna stood fuming by the revolving doors outside Glory Tower. She had specifically told Kitty to arrive no later than ten thirty, but it was now almost eleven. I’m going to have to give her my punctuality lecture—the one I haven’t had to use since working with that Burmese family in 2002, Corinna thought as she nodded politely at all the nicely dressed people rushing past her into the building.

A few minutes later, Kitty’s modest new pearl white Mercedes S-Class sedan pulled up at the curb, and Kitty emerged from the car. Corinna jabbed at her watch anxiously, and Kitty quickened her pace across the plaza. At least Kitty had diligently followed her advice in the appearance department and gone were the complicated up-do, the overly whitened face, and the burlesque-red lipstick.

In their place, the immaculately transformed Kitty only had a dusting of blush on her cheeks, a light apricot gloss on her lips, and a relaxed mane of chestnut-highlighted hair cut four

inches shorter. She wore a baby-chicken-yellow Carolina Herrera dress with silk faille puff sleeves, low-heeled beige pumps of indeterminate brand, and a simple Givenchy green crocodile clutch, with her only jewelry being a pair of pearl stud earrings and a dainty diamond sideways cross necklace by Ileana Makri. The overall effect rendered her virtually unrecognizable.

“You’re very late! Now we will be noticed when we enter, as opposed to blending in with the crowd,” Corinna scolded.

“I’m sorry—this whole church thing has got me so nervous, I changed six times. Does this look okay?” Kitty asked, readjusting the pleats on her skirt.

Corinna scrutinized her for a moment. “The cross might be overdoing it a bit for your first visit, but I will let it pass. Otherwise, it looks quite appropriate—you no longer remind me of Daphne Guinness.”