• • •
Observing the commotion on the other side of the reflecting pool, Rachel said to Carlton, “So that’s the Jennifer Lawrence of China?”
“Oh, she’s a much bigger star than Jennifer. She’s like Jennifer Lawrence, Gisele Bündchen, and Beyoncé put together,” Carlton declared.
Rachel laughed at the analogy. “Until tonight, I’d never heard of her.”
“Trust me, you will soon. Every director in Hollywood is trying to get her in their films, because they know it will mean hundreds of millions in box-office gold over here.”
Pan TingTing stood at the entrance to the garden as all eyes locked onto her. Every guest wanted to study the translucent marble complexion that Shanghai Vogue had likened to Michelangelo’s Pietà, those celebrated Bambi eyes, and her Sophia Loren–esque curves. TingTing put on the beatific smile she was so famous for and scanned the crowd quickly as the first camera flashes went off. No surprises tonight—it’s all the usual suspects. Why did I ever agree to leave London for this event? Good exposure, my agent says. Considering that I am already on six magazine covers this month, why do I need more exposure? I could be enjoying that amazing butternut squash salad at Ottolenghi right now and bicycling through Notting Hill totally unrecognized (except for the Chinese tourists shopping on Ledbury Road), but here I am, being dissected like an insect under a microscope. Speaking of insects, what in Guanyin’s name is Perrineum Wang wearing on her head? Don’t make eye contact. Oh look, here comes photographer Russell Wing. How does he manage to be at every party in Asia at the same time? Stephanie Shi just leaped out of her seat like an electrocuted poodle. Just watch, she’s going to try to stand on my right again so that when the photograph appears anywhere, the caption will read “Stephanie Shi and Pan TingTing.” She always wants her name to come first. Thank God her grandfather isn’t in power anymore. I hear that these days the old man has to use a colostomy bag. And of course, right behind Stephanie come two other Beijing princesses, Adele Deng and Wen Pi Fang. God help them, they’re both wearing those Balmain basket-weave dresses that make them look like a pair of walking rattan chairs.
The ladies greeted TingTing with cloying hugs and interlocked their arms around her as if they were the closest of friends while Russell snapped his pictures. My God, in the photo I’m going to look like the meat in a Balmain sandwich. Would these guanerdai*2 girls have even spit in my direction five years ago? God, the things I do in the name of charity!
As they returned to their seats, Adele whispered to Pi Fang, “I tried to look for the scars on her eyelids this time—I really don’t believe those huge raccoon eyes of hers can be real. The problem is she has fake eyelashes on, and she uses very good concealer. In pictures, she appears to have very little makeup on, but in reality she has gobs on in all the right places.”
Pi Fang nodded. “I looked at the nose. No one’s nostrils are that perfect! Ivan Koon swears that she used to be a KTV hostess in Suzhou until some tycoon there paid for her to go to Seoul to get everything redone. The plastic surgeon had to issue her one of those certificates with ‘before’ and ‘after’ pics because she looked nothing like her passport photo after all the bandages came off.”
“Pi hua!”*3 Tiffany Yap shot back. “Can’t you just accept the fact that she was born with natural beauty? Not everyone has gone to Seoul to get their noses broken on purpose like the both of you. And TingTing isn’t from Suzhou—she comes from Jinan. She’s very open about the fact that before Zhang Yimou discovered her, she sold makeup at an SK-II counter.”
“Well, I’m partly right then. This is how she has access to all the best concealers,” Adele declared.
TingTing arrived at her seat of honor, between Colette and Colette’s mother. She shook Mrs. Bing’s hands respectfully before taking her seat, and Colette leaned in to give her a double-cheek kiss. Colette looks fab, as always. People say she only looks good because she can afford anything on the planet, but I disagree. She’s got a style that money can’t buy. It’s funny how the press labels us “best friends,” when this is maybe the fifth time I’ve met her. Still, she’s one of the few out of this bunch that I can actually stand. She’s not predictable like the rest of them, and the way she keeps all these guys running laps around her like desperate gigolos—it’s pretty damn funny. Now I’m going to ignore the fact that Mrs. Bing just slathered on an entire bottle of hand sanitizer right after shaking my han
d.
The lights in the garden suddenly went black. After a brief pause, the bamboo grove behind the reflecting pool lit up in a vibrant Yves Klein blue, while yellow-hued lights submerged deep in the water began pulsating dramatically like an airport runway. Serge Gainsbourg and Brigitte Bardot’s “Bonnie and Clyde” began blaring on the sound system, as the first model in a golden gown with a long chiffon train glided across the vast pool, appearing to magically walk on water.
The crowd broke into rapturous applause, but Colette sat with her arms crossed and her head tilted appraisingly. As more models dressed in fancily embellished outfits continued to prance down the catwalk, several of the ladies in the front row started exchanging agitated looks. Valerie Liu shook her head disapprovingly, while Tiffany Yap raised her eyebrows at Stephanie Shi as a model in a biker jacket festooned with silk peonies stomped past. When a trio of girls in mermaid fishtail gowns with bejeweled bodices appeared, Perrineum Wang leaned over and whispered loudly to Colette, “Is this really a fashion show, or are we at the Miss Universe evening-wear competition?”
“I’m as mystified as you are,” Colette said agitatedly. A few moments later, when a model took to the catwalk in a pearlescent satin coat embroidered with a scarlet dragon, Colette had seen enough. She stood up imperiously and stormed to the edge of the runway, where the fashion show’s producer, Oscar Huang, was frantically directing the models.
“Stop the show!” Colette demanded.
“What?” Oscar said, confused.
“I said stop the damn show!” Colette said. She glanced at Roxanne, who had already sprinted over to the audio booth where the sound engineer stood. The music was abruptly cut, the house lights came up, and the models stood awkwardly in their places in inch-deep water, unsure of what to do.
Colette grabbed Oscar’s headset angrily, tore off her ruby-encrusted stilettos, and jumped onto the Plexiglas catwalk that hid just beneath the surface of the water. She strolled to the middle of the pool and announced, “I’m so sorry, everyone. This fashion show is over. This was not the show I was expecting, and this was not what I had promised you. Please accept my sincere apologies.”
Virginie de Bassinet, the founder of Prêt-à-Couture, came rushing onto the runway. “What is the meaning of this?” she screeched.
Colette turned to Virginie. “I should be asking you that question. You assured me that you would be sending over the hottest looks from London, Paris, and Milan.”
“These clothes are straight off the runway!” Virginie insisted.
“Which runway would that be? Ürümqi airport? Tell me, what’s with all this dragon and phoenix rubbish and the excessive beading? I feel like I’m looking at Russian ice-skater outfits! Would Hubert de Givenchy ever have embroidered pavé crystals on a cashmere cape? This is the sort of fashion that panders to ignorant fu er dai*4 from the western provinces, and it is an insult to my guests! I invited the most stylish brand influencers and key opinion leaders in the country to come here tonight, and I think I can speak for all of them: There isn’t a single dress I’ve seen so far that we would even let our maids be caught dead in!”
Virginie stared at Colette, utterly dumbstruck.
• • •
After most of the guests had dispersed, Colette invited Carlton, Rachel, Nick, TingTing, and a few of her closest friends back to the house for a light supper.
“Where’s Richie?” Perrineum Wang asked Colette as they entered the grand salon.
“I sent him packing after the stunt he pulled earlier. Imagine presuming I would need him to escort me to my seat, as if he owned me or something!” Colette said in a huff.
“Bravo, Colette!” Adele Deng said. “I couldn’t agree with you more. And you also did the right thing by shutting down that fashion show. It would have ruined your reputation as a style icon to let it go on any longer.”