The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy

Several hours later, Oliver, Nigel, and Kitty found themselves in Yolanda Amanjiwo’s drawing room, a vast space with black travertine floors that felt more like the lobby of a resort hotel than a home. Half the room was comprised of a reflecting pool that extended outdoors into an even larger pool, and from the middle of the pool rose an immense Jeff Koons gold Balloon Dog.

Yolanda and her husband, Joey, stood at the far end of the room in front of a wide marble block that displayed a collection of ancient Apulian vases. As Kitty was led to the receiving line, she knew she had made the right choice by wearing a black off-the-shoulder vintage Givenchy gown with white satin gloves and her not overly flashy necklace of graduated diamonds ending in a teardrop canary diamond of forty carats. As she approached her hosts, flanked by her debonair escorts in their white-tie tuxedos, a butler announced in a high, nasal tone, “The Honorable Oliver T’sien, Mr. Nigel Barker, and Mrs. Jack Bing.”

Yolanda was a tall, thin woman with a gravity-defying bouffant hairdo, clad in a dramatic strapless scarlet column gown that Kitty recognized to be Christian Dior couture. She had obviously chosen her plastic surgeon with meticulous care, since she possessed one of those faces that looked perfectly taut and sculpted, but not a single muscle moved when she spoke. Which was a pity, since she spoke in an exceedingly warm, rapid-fire Indonesian accent. “Oliver T’sien we meet at last I am such an admirer of your family and of course your grandfather was such a great man so revered Nigel Barker how lovely to meet you my God what a beauuuuuuutiful set of pictures you took today can I commission you to please do a portrait of my Irish setters?”

“Actually, I did take some pictures of just the two of them. I’m having them printed as a gift to you.”

“Oh my goodness Joey did you hear that Nigel Barker did a portrait of Liam and Niall and we didn’t even have to pay him a million bucks!” Yolanda prodded her husband frantically, who looked like he was in the midst of waking from a long coma.

“Ummm” was all the short, paunchy man said, his eyelids heavy.

“And you must be the divine Kitty Bing I have heard so much about you and my God what a divine dress it must be a classic Givenchy and that party you threw during Shanghai Fashion Week ooh la la I wish I had been there Karl Lagerfeld told me your new villa is to die for and your plane the big one has a spa in it my God what a genius idea I must visit I absolutely must!”

“Thank you. Of course you’ll have to visit my spa—we call it the mile-high spa.”

“Hahahehe mile-high spa you’re too funny oh my goodness Kitty I know we are going to be dear dear friends.”

As the Amanjiwos continued to greet the arriving guests, Kitty broke into a big smile as she spotted Wandi Meggaharto Widjawa arriving.

“Kitty!” Wandi screamed from across the room, as the two ladies ran to hug as though they hadn’t just seen each other yesterday.

“What are you doing here?” Kitty asked excitedly.

“Joey’s my cousin. I always get invited to these dinners because Yolanda needs me to sit beside him to keep him awake. Look at you! I love the new hairstyle. You look like Emma Thompson! How did the shoot go today?”

“It was fantastic. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Well I’m so happy to see you here! We’re going to have such a good time! You know, Joan Roca i Fontané is the celebrity chef tonight. He has the top restaurant in the world right now—El Celler de Can Roca. It’s so hard to get a reservation, you have to murder someone to get on the list. I wonder who else Yolanda invited? Oh look who’s here—it’s the First Lady of Singapore!”

Kitty looked over and saw Oliver greeting the First Lady as if they were both embarrassed to be seeing each other at the party.

“You are among the crème de la crème of Singapore now, Kitty. These parties are so exclusive that no photographers are ever allowed,” Wandi said, just as a roving photographer dressed in a black tuxedo flashed his camera at them.

“That’s Yolanda’s personal documentarian. It’s not for the public,” Wandi quickly explained. “Oh look, here come the footmen—this means we are adjourning to the dining room!”

A set of grand double doors were opened, and as Kitty walked through the arched doors, her eyes widened in wonder. She felt as if she had been transported back to a royal banquet in eighteenth-century France. The room was a mirrored chamber decorated with baroque gold boiseries, gilt bronze mirrors stretching from floor to ceiling, and dozens of candlelit crystal chandeliers. An immense dining table that seated thirty stretched along the middle of the room, heaving with Meissen china, gilt silverware, and towering gold birdcage centerpieces filled with white doves. The room sparkled under the light of thousands of candles, and footmen with powdered white wigs and dressed in black-and-gold livery stood behind every Amiens tapestry-covered chair.

“Hashtag madamedefuckingpompadour!” Oliver muttered under his breath.

“Yolanda had this dining room rescued from an old crumbling palace in Hungary and transported here piece by piece. It took three years to restore it to its former glory,” Wandi proudly announced.

“Can we do this at my house? Find an old palace and transport the dining room over?” Kitty whispered to Oliver.

Oliver cast Kitty a disapproving look. “Absolutely not! Alexis de Redé would be projectile vomiting in his grave if he saw this travesty.”

Kitty didn’t have a clue what he meant, but she was only too thrilled to be shown to her seat by a handsome footman, where her place card was a small antique gilt mirror with her name etched in glass. As she was about to sit down, the man beside her grabbed her arm. “Madame, not yet. We don’t sit until the First Lady has been seated. Yolanda follows the official court protocols here,” he said in a Scandinavian accent.

“Oh, sorry, I had no idea,” Kitty said. She stood by her seat, watching everyone stand at their places. Finally, the butler standing by the double doors announced, “The Honorable First Lady of the Republic of Singapore!”

The First Lady entered and was shown to her seat. Kitty’s five-inch Gianvito Rossi heels were beginning to kill her and she couldn’t wait to sit down, but the First Lady perplexingly remained standing by her seat near the head of the table. Why the fuck was everyone still standing?

The butler entered the room again and called out in a booming voice, “The Earl and Countess of Palliser!”

Kitty’s eyes widened in shock as a tall blond man entered the room, dressed casually in a button-down shirt, khaki chinos, and a rumpled navy blazer. By his side was Colette, dressed in a long white cotton eyelet dress with her hair pulled into a casual ponytail. She didn’t appear to be wearing any m

akeup, and her only jewelry was a pair of pearl-and-coral drop earrings.

After reacting to the shock of seeing her nemesis in Singapore, Kitty wanted to laugh out loud at how inappropriately Colette was dressed. This stepdaughter of hers was a complete disgrace. Did Colette even know where she was?