The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy

ALT: Michael and I will take you to dinner. There’s this great Teochew place in Hutchison House that my cousin keeps telling me about.

CW: No, no, no—my town, my treat.

ALT: We’ll fight about it later. xo.

Charlie logged off his computer and swiveled his chair around to face the window. From his office on the fifty-fifth floor of Wuthering Towers he had a sweeping view of the harbor and could see every eastbound flight that departed out of Hong Kong International Airport. He stared into the horizon, scanning each plane that was taking off, searching for Astrid’s. I should never have IM’d her today, he told himself. Why in the world do I keep doing this to myself? Every time I hear her voice, every time I read an e-mail or even exchange a text with her, it’s pure torture. I tried to stop. I tried to leave her alone. But seeing her again for the first time in so long, entering the room in nothing but black lace against glowing bare skin, I was just hit so hard by her beauty.

When at last Charlie saw the double-story Airbus A380 gliding through the sky with its telltale navy-and-gold markings, he found himself inexplicably picking up the phone and calling his private hangar. “Johnny, ah? Could you please have the plane ready within an hour? I need to go to Los Angeles.” I’ll surprise Astrid at the arrival lounge with red roses, just like I did back in our university days in London. This time there will be five hundred red roses awaiting her when she gets off the plane. I’ll take her to Gjelina for lunch, and then maybe we can rent a car and drive to some amazing spa up the coast for a few days. It will be just like the old days, when we used to take the Volante over to France and drive all over the Loire Valley exploring ancient castles together, going to wine tastings. Oh what the hell am I thinking? I’m married to Isabel and Astrid is married to Michael. I am the biggest idiot in the whole world. For one moment, one brief moment, I had a chance to win her back, when her insecure husband was feeling too poor to afford her, but instead I made him a fortune. Christ, what was I thinking when I did that? And now they are back together, so damn happy and perfectly in love. And here I am, with a wife who hates me, miserable as fuck.

* * *

*1 Four male Cantopop stars in the 1990s—Jacky Cheung, Aaron Kwok, Leon Lai, and Andy Lau—who dominated the Asian music charts, packed stadiums, and made it acceptable for macho Asian men to frost their hair and wear sequined blazers.

*2 A Cantonese term that means “supreme wife” (implying a situation where a man has several wives) but no longer strictly interpreted, since polygamy has been banned in Hong Kong since 1971. Nowadays tai tai refers to a privileged lady of means, usually of high standing within Hong Kong society. A prerequisite of being a tai tai is being married to a wealthy man, thus allowing the tai tai a tremendous amount of leisure time to lunch, shop, visit the beauty parlor, decorate, gossip, establish a pet charity, enjoy afternoon tea, take tennis lessons, schedule tutors for her children, and terrorize her maids, not necessarily in that order.

9

THE LOCKE CLUB

HONG KONG, MARCH 9, 2013

Kitty Pong was brimming over with anticipation as she stood in the crowded elevator. For years she had heard about this place, and at long last she was about to have lunch here. Located on the fifth floor of a nondescript office building on Wyndham Street, the Locke Club was Hong Kong’s most exclusive dining club—the holy of holies—and its members consisted of the crème de la crème of Hong Kong society and the international jet set. Unlike other private dining clubs,*1 where fame or a fat checkbook would gain you instant membership, the Locke played by its own rules. The place didn’t even have a membership waiting list—you had to be invited to join by its strict and secretive board, and even feigning a passing interest in belonging could mean that you would never, ever be asked.

Back in the days when she had a minor role on the soap opera Many Splendid Things, Kitty often overheard Sammi Hui—the show’s biggest star—brag about her lunches at the Locke, and how she was seated in the same room as the Queen of Bhutan or Leo Ming’s latest mistress. Kitty couldn’t wait to see which sumptuous room she would be seated in today, and which important personages would be dining at the tables around her. Would they all be savoring the specialty of the house—turtle soup served in camphor-wood cups?

It was such a stroke of luck that she had been seated at Evangeline de Ayala’s table at the Pinnacle Ball. Evangeline was the glamorous young wife of Pedro Paulo de Ayala, a scion of one of the oldest real estate families in the Philippines, and though the couple were fairly recent transplants to Hong Kong (via London, where Pedro Paulo had worked at Rothschild’s), their aristocratic connections—not to mention aristocratic-sounding surname—had made them popular new members at the club. Evangeline appeared to be wowed by Kitty’s big donation to Sir Francis Poon’s foundation, and when she suggested meeting for lunch at the Locke, Kitty wondered if she was finally going to be invited to join. After all, she had in two short months transformed herself into Hong Kong’s leading art collector and philanthropist.

The elevator door finally opened, and Kitty pranced into the front foyer of the club, with its glossy ebony-paneled walls and dramatic black-marble-and-steel staircase leading up to the fabled dining room. One of the hosts at the reception desk smiled at her.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“Yes, I am meeting Miss de Ayala for lunch.”

“M

issus de Ayala?” the host officiously corrected.

“Yes, I meant missus,” Kitty replied nervously.

“I’m afraid she isn’t here yet. Please have a seat in our parlor, and we’ll show you to the dining room as soon as she arrives.”

Kitty walked into a room with silk-covered walls and took a seat in the middle of the red Le Corbusier sofa so that she could show herself off to best advantage. A few of the ladies coming off the elevator stared at her intently as they passed by, and she felt certain it was because of the outfit she had taken such care in choosing. She had opted for a sleeveless Giambattista Valli black-and-red floral-print dress, a red Céline knotted lambskin clutch, and Charlotte Olympia red flats with a gold buckle. Her only jewelry was a pair of cabochon ruby earrings from Solange Azagury-Partridge. Even with a peekaboo slit on the side of her dress, the look bordered on demure, and she dared any uppity tai tai to criticize her today.

Unbeknownst to Kitty, one of the ladies in the elevator had been Rosie Ho, who was on her way to join Ada Poon and a few of their former Maryknoll classmates for lunch. Rosie made a mad dash to the dining room and breathlessly announced, “Girls, you’re never going to believe who is sitting in the parlor right now. Three guesses. Quick, quick!”

“Give us some sort of clue,” Lainey Lui said.

“She’s wearing a floral-print dress, and she definitely had breast reduction surgery.”

“Oh my God, is it that lesbian girlfriend of Bebe Chow’s?” Tessa Chen cackled.

“No, even better—”

“Hiyah, tell us!” the ladies implored.

“It’s Kitty Pong!” Rosie triumphantly announced.

Ada’s face went white with contempt.