The Crazy Rich Asians Trilogy
Meanwhile, Patric would dash in and out of the dressing room making definitive pronouncements:
“That slit is too high—you’ll give all the choirboys erections wearing that one!”
“Gorgeous! You were genetically engineered to wear Alaïa!”
“NEVER, EVER wear green chiffon unless you want to look like bok choy that got gang-raped.”
“Now that looks stunning. That flared skirt would look even better if you were arriving on horseback.”
Every outfit Patric selected seemed to fit Rachel more beautifully than the last. They found the perfect cocktail dress for the rehearsal dinner and an outfit that could work for the wedding. Just when Rachel finally decided that, what the hell, she would splurge on one great designer ball gown for the first time in her life, Peik Lin summoned for a whole rack of dresses to be wrapped up.
“Are you taking all those for yourself?” Rachel asked in astonishment.
“No, these are the ones that looked best, so I’m getting them for you,” Peik Lin answered as she attempted to hand her American Express black card to one of Patric’s assistants.
“Oh no you’re not! Put that AMEX card down!” Rachel said sternly, grasping Peik Lin’s wrist. “Come on, I only need one formal gown for the wedding ball. I can still wear my black-and-white dress to the wedding ceremony.”
“First of all, Rachel Chu, you cannot wear a black-and-white dress to a wedding—those are mourning colors. Are you sure you’re really Chinese? How could you not know that? Second, when was the last time I saw you? How often do I get to treat one of my best friends in the whole world? You can’t deprive me of this pleasure.”
Rachel laughed at the preposterous charm of her statement. “Peik Lin, I appreciate your generosity, but you just can’t go around spending thousands of dollars on me. Now, I have money saved up for this trip, and I will gladly pay for my own—”
“Fantastic. Go buy some souvenirs when you’re in Phuket.”
In a dressing suite at the other end of Patric’s atelier, two attendants were gingerly tightening the corseted bodice of a scarlet Alexander McQueen gown on Amanda Ling, still jet-lagged from having just stepped off a plane from New York.
“It needs to be tighter,” her mother, Jacqueline, said, looking at the attendants, who each held one side of the gold silk cord hesitantly.
“But I can hardly breathe as it is!” Amanda protested.
“Take smaller breaths, then.”
“This isn’t 1862, Mummy. I don’t think this is actually supposed to be worn like a real corset!”
“Of course it is. Perfection comes at a sacrifice, Mandy. Which naturally is a concept you seem to lack any understanding of.”
Amanda rolled her eyes. “Don’t get started again, Mummy. I knew exactly what I was doing. Things were going just fine in New York until you forced me to fly back for this insanity. I was so looking forward to blowing off Araminta’s silly wedding.”
“I don’t know what planet you’re living on, but things are not ‘just fine.’ Nicky is going to propose to this girl any minute now. What was the whole point of my sending you to New York? You had one simple mission to accomplish, and you failed miserably.”
“You have no appreciation for what I’ve accomplished for myself. I’m part of New York society now,” Amanda proudly declared.
“Who gives a damn about that? You think anyone here is impressed to see pictures of you in Town & Country?”
“He’s not going to marry her, Mummy. You don’t know Nicky like I do,” Amanda insisted.
“Well, for your sake I hope you’re right. I don’t need to remind you—”
“Yes, yes, you’ve said it for years. You have nothing to leave me, I’m the girl, everything has to go to Teddy,” Amanda lamented sarcastically.
“Tighter!” Jacqueline ordered the attendants.
* * *
* Hokkien for “bitch me out” (or slang that translates to “cry to the father and cry to the mother”).
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First Methodist Church