“I’ll have the plane ready and waiting for you.”
“Khaleeda, the bride, is a good friend. I know she’ll cover for me. I could say I had no choice but to stay all weekend for the festivities. I was roped in.”
“And I’m at the end of my rope. I need to see you,” Charlie pleaded.
“You’re such a corruptor. Even back when we lived in London during our uni days, you’ve always made me do bad things.”
“That’s because I’ve always known deep down you want to be a bad girl. Admit it, you want me to fly you to India, shower you with gemstones, and make love to you all weekend in a palace.”
“Well, since you put it that way…”
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHANGI AIRPORT, SINGAPORE
As Nick pushed his luggage cart into the arrival hall of Terminal 3, he saw a familiar face holding up a sign that read PROFESSOR NICHOLAS YOUNG, ESQ, PHD. Most people at the airport would have figured the guy with the sign—clad in a faded yellow ACS tank top, navy blue Adidas jogging pants, and flip-flops—as some surfer bum hired to be a substitute driver and not the heir to one of Singapore’s biggest fortunes.
“What are you doing here?” Nick said, hugging his best friend Colin Khoo.
“You haven’t been back since 2010. I wasn’t going to let you arrive without a proper greeting party,” Colin said cheerily.
“Look at you! Tan as ever and rockin’ that man bun! What does your father think of this look?”
Colin grinned. “He detests it. He says I look like an opium addict, and if this was the 1970s and I arrived at Changi Airport, Lee Kuan Yew would personally come down to Immigration, grab me by the ear, drag me to the nearest Indian barbershop, and have me shaved botak!”*1
They took the glass elevators down to Level B2, where Colin’s car was parked.
“What are you driving these days? Is this a Porsche Cayenne?” Nick asked as Colin helped him to load his luggage into the back of the SUV.
“No, this is the new 2016 Macan. It’s not actually out yet until March, but they let me have this special test driver.”
“Sweet,” Nick said, opening the passenger-side door. There was a cashmere wrap on the seat.
“Oh, just throw that in the back. That’s Minty’s. She freezes whenever she rides up front. She sends her love, by the way—she’s in Bhutan at her mother’s resort, doing a meditation retreat.”
“Sounds nice. You didn’t want to join her?”
“Nah, you know how my brain works. I’m totally ADHD—can’t meditate for the life of me. My form of meditation these days is Muay Thai boxing,” Colin said as he backed out of the parking spot at what felt like sixty miles per hour.
Trying not to flinch, Nick asked, “So it sounds like Araminta’s been feeling better?”
“Um…getting there,” Colin said haltingly.
“Glad to hear that. I know things have been rough lately.”
“Yeah, you know how it is—depression comes in waves. And this miscarriage really pulled her under for a while. She’s trying to be good to herself, doing all these retreats, and she’s cut back on work. She’s seeing a really great psychologist now, even though her parents aren’t thrilled about that.”
“Still?”
“Yeah, Minty’s dad made her doctor sign this gigantic stack of NDAs, even though you know all psychologists are already bound by a confidentiality code. But Peter Lee needed assurance that the doctor would never even admit that Minty is a client of his, or that she would ever need something as shameful as therapy.”
Nick shook his head. “It amazes me that there’s still such a huge stigma about mental illness here.”
“?‘Stigma’ implies that something exists but society is prejudiced against it. Here, everyone’s in denial that it even exists!”
“Well, that explains why you’re not locked up,” Nick deadpanned.
Colin punched Nick playfully. “It’s so great to see you, to be able to say this stuff out loud!”