Rich People Problems, Page 4

  “I don’t know that flower. But Giamba, you’re a genius! An absolute genius!” Tatiana praised.

  Georgina walked around the platform, scrutinizing the dress from every angle. “When Kitty first told me that this couture dress would cost €175,000, I have to confess I was a little surprised, but now I think it’s worth every cent!”

  “Yes, I think so too,” Kitty murmured softly, assessing the tea-length gown from its reflection in the rococo mirror leaning against the wall. “Gisele, do you like it?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” the five-year-old said. She was getting tired of standing there in the dress with the hot spotlight on her, and she wondered when she could get her reward. Mommy had promised her a big ice-cream sundae if she would stand very still during her fitting.

  “Okay then,” Kitty said, looking at Giambattista Valli’s assistant. “We will need three of these.”

  “Three?” The tall, gangly assistant looked at Kitty in surprise.

  “Of course. I buy everything in threes for myself and Gisele—we need one for each of our closets in Singapore, Shanghai, and Beverly Hills. But this one has to be ready for her birthday party in Singapore on March first—”

  “Of course, Signora Bing,” Giambattista cut in. “Now, ladies, I hope you don’t mind if I leave Luka to show you the new collection. I have to rush off to an appointment with the fashion director of Saks.”

  The women exchanged air kisses with the departing designer, Gisele was sent off with her nanny around the corner to Angelina for ice cream, and as more Veuve Clicquot and café crèmes were brought into the showroom, Kitty stretched out on the elegant chaise lounge with a contented sigh. It was only their second day here, and already she was having the time of her life. She had come on this Parisian shopping spree with her Singaporean BFFs—Wandi Meggaharto Widjawa, Tatiana Savarin, and Georgina Ting—and somehow, things were so different on this trip.

  From the moment she stepped off Trenta, the Boeing 747-81 VIP she had recently refurbished to look exactly like the Shanghai bordello in a Wong Kar-wai movie,*1 she was experiencing heretofore unprecedented levels of sucking up. When their motorcade of Rolls-Royces arrived at the Peninsula Paris, all of the hotel management stood in a perfect line to greet her at the entrance, and the general manager escorted her up to the impressive Peninsula Suite. When they went to dinner at Ledoyen, the waiters were bowing and scraping so frantically that she thought they were going to break into somersaults. And then during her Chanel couture fittings at rue Cambon yesterday, none other than Karl Lagerfeld’s personal assistant came downstairs with a handwritten note from the great man himself!

  Kitty knew that all this royal treatment was because she had arrived in Paris this time as MRS. JACK BING. She wasn’t just the wife of some random billionaire anymore, she was the new wife of China’s second-richest man,*2 one of the ten richest men in the world. To think that Pong Li Li, the daughter of sanitation workers in Qinghai, had achieved such great heights at the relatively young age of thirty-four (although she told everyone she was thirty). Not that any of this had been easy—she had worked nonstop her entire life to get to this place.

  Her mother had come from an educated middle-class family, but she had been banished with her family to the countryside during Mao’s Great Leap Forward campaign. But she had instilled in Kitty that getting an education was the only way out. All through her youth, Kitty studied extra hard to always be the top in her class, top in her school, top in her state exams, only to see her one chance at a higher education get snatched away when some boy with all the right connections was awarded the only slot to university in their entire district—the slot that was rightfully meant to be hers.

  But Kitty didn’t give up, she kept on fighting, moving first to Shenzhen to work at a KTV bar where she had to do unspeakable things, and then to Hong Kong, landing a bit part in a local soap opera, transforming it into a recurring role after becoming the director’s mistress, dating a series of rather inconsequential men until she met Alistair Cheng, that cute, clueless boy who was much too sweet for his own good, going with him to the Khoo wedding and meeting Bernard Tai, running off to Vegas with Bernard to get married, meeting Jack Bing at Bernard’s father’s funeral, divorcing Bernard, and finally, at long last, marrying Jack, a man who was truly worthy of all her efforts.

  And now that she had provided him with his first son (Harvard Bing, born in 2013), she could do anything she damn well pleased. She could fly to Paris on her own private jumbo jet with one French translator, two children, three fabulous girlfriends (all as toned and polished and expensively dressed as she was, and all wives of rich expats in Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Singapore), four nannies, five personal maids, and six bodyguards and rent out the entire top floor of the Peninsula Hotel (which she did). She could order the entire Chanel Automne-Hiver couture collection and have every piece made in triplicate (which she did). She could take a personal guided tour of Versailles with the chief curator followed by a special al fresco lunch prepared by Yannick Alléno at Marie Antoinette’s hamlet (which was happening tomorrow, thanks to Oliver T’sien, who set it all up). If someone wrote a book about her, no one would believe it.

  Kitty sipped her champagne and glanced at the ball gowns that were being paraded before her, feeling a little bored. Yes, it was so beautiful, but after the tenth dress, it was all beginning to look the same. Was it possible to overdose on too much beauty? She could buy up the whole collection in her sleep and forget she ever owned any of it. She needed something more. She needed to get out of here and look at some Zambian emeralds, maybe.

  Luka recognized the look on Kitty’s face. It was the same expression he had seen all too often in some of his most privileged clients—these women who had constant, unlimited access to everything that their hearts ever desired—the heiresses, celebrities, and princesses that had sat in this very spot. He knew he needed to change direction, to shift the energy in the room in order to reinspire his high-spending client.

  “Ladies, let me show you something very special that Giamba has been toiling away at for weeks. Come with me.” He pressed against one panel of the boiserie walls, revealing Giambattista’s inner sanctum—a hidden workroom that contained only one gown displayed on a mannequin in the middle of the pristine space. “This dress was inspired by Gustav Klimt’s Adele Bloch-Bauer I. Do you know the painting? It was purchased for $135 million by Ronald Lauder and hangs in the Neue Galerie in New York.”

  The ladies stared in disbelief at the artistry of the off-the-shoulder ball gown that transformed from ivory tulle at the bodice and into a shimmering gold column, with a cascading train-length skirt embroidered with thousands of gold chips, lapis lazuli, and precious gemstones, painstakingly scattered into a swirling mosaic pattern. It truly looked like a Klimt painting come to life.

  “Oh my God! It’s unbelievable!” Georgina squealed, running one of her long manicured nails over the gem-encrusted bodice.

  “Ravissement!” Tatiana commented, mistakenly trying to show off her secondary-school French. “Combien?”

  “We don’t have a price on it yet. It’s a special commission that’s taken four full-time embroiderers three months to assemble so far, and we still have weeks of work to go. I would say that this dress, with all the rose-gold disks and precious stones, will end up costing more than two and a half million euros.”

  Kitty stared at it, her heart suddenly beginning to pound in that delicious way it did whenever she saw something that aroused her. “I want it.”

  “Oh, Madame Bing, I’m so sorry, but this dress is already spoken for.” Luka smiled at her apologetically.

  “Well, make me another one. I mean another three, of course.”

  “I’m afraid we cannot make you this exact dress.”

  Kitty looked at him, not quite comprehending. “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

  “Madame, I hope you will understand…Giamba would be happy to collaborate with you on another dress, in the same spirit, but we cannot r
eplicate this one. This is a one-of-a-kind piece made for a special client of ours. She is from China also—”

  “I’m not from China, I’m from Singapore,” Kitty declared.*3

  “Who is this ‘special client’?” Wandi demanded, her thick mane of Beyoncé-bronzed hair shaking indignantly.

  “She’s a friend of Giamba’s, so I only know her by her first name: Colette.”

  The ladies suddenly fell silent, not daring to ask what they wanted to ask. Wandi finally piped up. “Er…are you referring to Colette Bing?”

  “I’m not sure if that is her surname. Let me check the spec sheet.” He turned over a leaf of paper. “Ah yes, it is Bing. Une telle coïncidence! Is she related to you, Madame Bing?” Luka asked.

  Kitty looked like a deer caught in headlights. Was Luka kidding? Surely he must know that Colette was her husband’s daughter from his first marriage.

  Tatiana quickly jumped in. “No, she’s not. But we know of her.”

  “Do we ever.” Wandi sniffed, wondering whether she should tell Luka how Colette’s bitch-from-hell video tirade had gone viral in China, logging more than thirty-six million views on WeChat alone, making her such a notorious poster child of fuerdai*4 bad behavior that she was forced to flee to London in disgrace. Wandi decided that it was better not to bring it up now.

  “So this dress is for Colette,” Kitty said, fondling one of the gossamer-like organdy sleeves.

  “Yes, it’s going to be her wedding dress.” Luka smiled.

  Kitty looked up at him, stunned. “Colette is getting married?”

  “Oh yes, madame, it’s the talk of the town. She’s marrying Lucien Montagu-Scott.”

  “Montagu-Scott? What does his family do?” Wandi asked, since everything in her universe revolved around being part of an incredibly rich Indonesian family.

  “I don’t know anything about his famille, but I believe he’s a lawyer?” Luka said.

  Tatiana immediately began googling his name, and read aloud from the first link that popped up: “Lucien Montagu-Scott is one of Britain’s new generation of environmental lawyers. A graduate of the Magdalen College—”

  “It’s pronounced ‘Maudlin,’ ” Georgina corrected.

  “Maudlin College, Oxford, Lucien sailed across the Pacific on a catamaran made out of 12,500 reclaimed plastic bottles with his friend David Mayer de Rothschild to highlight the problem of global marine pollution. More recently, he has been involved in publicizing the environmental crisis in Indonesia and Borneo—”

  “I think I’m going to fall asleep,” Tatiana scoffed.

  “He’s a charming gentleman—comes with her to every fitting,” Luka remarked.

  “I can’t imagine why Colette Bing of all people would end up settling for this guy. He’s not even an M&A lawyer—his annual salary probably wouldn’t even pay for one of her dresses! I guess she must be desperate to have mixed-race babies,” Georgina said, glancing covertly at Kitty, hoping she wasn’t too upset by the news. Kitty just stood staring at the dress, her expression inscrutable.

  “Oooh…I want to have a beautiful mixed-race baby too! Luka, do you know any hot single French counts?” Wandi asked.

  “I’m sorry, mademoiselle. The only comte I know is married.”

  “Married is fine…I’m married too, but I would dump my boring hubby if I could get a beautiful half-French baby!” Wandi giggled.

  “Wandi, careful what you wish for. You never know what sort of baby you’ll get,” Tatiana said.

  “No, if you have a baby with a Caucasian man, you’re almost guaranteed it will be attractive. There’s a ninety-nine percent chance it will look like Keanu Reeves. That’s why so many Asian women are desperate to find white husbands.”

  “First of all, Keanu isn’t half white. He’s like three-quarters—his mother is only part Hawaiian and his father is American.*5 And not to burst your bubble, but I have seen some rather unfortunate-looking mixed-raced babies,” Georgina insisted.

  “Yes, but it’s very rare. And soooo tragic when that happens! OMG—did you hear about that man in China who sued his wife because all their children came out looking so ugly? He had purposely married this beautiful woman, but it turns out she’d had tons of plastic surgery before she met him! So the children all looked like her before the surgery!” Wandi giggled.

  “That story was a lie!” Tatiana insisted. “I remember when it went viral, but it turned out the newspaper made up the whole thing and did a fake photo shoot with two models posing with a bunch of ugly kids.”

  Finding the topic of unattractive children to be appallingly distasteful, Luka tried to steer the conversation in another direction. “I think Monsieur Lucas and Mademoiselle Colette will have beautiful children. She’s so pretty, and he’s very handsome, you know.”

  “Well, good for them,” Kitty said in a merry tone. “Now, all this baby talk has made me want to look at some daytime outfits for Gisele. Can we do that? And do you have anything fun and unisex I can dress Harvard in?”

  “Oui, madame.” As he headed back into the main showroom, Georgina took him by the arm. “Tell me, Luka, do you live on the second floor?”

  Without missing a beat, Luka replied with a grin, “Yes, mademoiselle, I think you’ve seen me before.”

  Wandi and Tatiana stood by the doorway watching as Kitty lingered for a moment longer by the dress. As she turned to leave, she grabbed the back of the precious Klimt-inspired skirt and gave it one quick, forceful tug—ripping it clear down the middle.

  * * *

  *1 See Wong Kar-wai’s The Grandmaster. I much prefer Wong’s In the Mood for Love to this film, but the set design was amazing.

  *2 Or third or fourth or seventh richest, depending on which financial tabloid you trust.

  *3 Kitty has only lived part-time in Singapore for two years, but like so many other immigrants from Mainland China has taken to referring to it as home.

  *4 Mandarin for “second-generation rich,” this label is akin to “trust-fund kids” and carries all the scorn and envy it implies.

  *5 Actually, Keanu Reeves was born in Beirut, Lebanon, to an English mother and a father of Hawaiian, Chinese, and English ancestry.

  CHAPTER SIX

  11 NASSIM ROAD, SINGAPORE

  Winding through the heart of Bukit Timah, Nassim Road was one of the few long, picturesque streets in Singapore that still retained a feel of graceful, Old World exclusivity with its parade of historic mansions converted into embassies, tropical modern bungalows on crisp manicured lawns, and stately Black and White houses left over from the colonial era. Number 11 Nassim Road was a particularly fine example of Black and White architecture, as it had only changed hands once since it had been built a century ago. Originally commissioned by Boustead and Company, it had been purchased by S. K. Leong in 1918, and every original detail had been preserved and lovingly maintained since then by three generations of Leongs.

  As Astrid pulled up the long driveway lined with Italian cypresses to the home where she had grown up, the front door opened, and Liat, the majordomo, gestured for Astrid to come down. Astrid frowned—she was picking up her mother to visit Ah Ma at the hospital, and they were already running late for the morning briefing with Professor Oon. Astrid left her dark blue Acura in the arched porte cochere and entered the foyer, bumping into her sister-in-law Cathleen, who was seated on a rosewood stool lacing up her walking shoes.

  “Morning, Cat,” Astrid greeted.

  Cathleen looked up at her with a strange expression. “They’re still eating. Sure you want to show your face today?”

  Astrid figured that Cathleen was referring to the Isabel Wu fiasco the other evening. With all the attention focused on her grandmother, the incident had gone unmentioned by her parents, but she knew that wouldn’t last long.

  “It’s now or never, I guess,” Astrid said, bracing herself as she walked toward the breakfast room.

  “Godspeed,” Cathleen said, grabbing her battered Jones the Grocer shoppin
g bag* as she went out the door.

  Breakfast at Nassim Road was always served in the glassed-in summer porch adjacent to the drawing room. Boasting a circular marble-top teak table from the Dutch Indies, wicker chairs cushioned in whimsical monkey-print chintz, and a profusion of hanging ferns from the Tyersall Park greenhouses, it was one of the loveliest rooms in the house. As Astrid entered, her elder brother, Henry, gave her a dirty look and got up from the table to leave. He muttered something under his breath as he passed by, but Astrid couldn’t make out what he said. She glanced first at her father, who was sitting in his usual wicker chair methodically slathering a piece of toast with gooey Marmite, and then at her mother, who sat in front of an untouched bowl of porridge, clenching a wadded-up ball of tissue in her hand, her face red and puffy from crying.

  “My God, did something happen to Ah Ma?” Astrid asked in alarm.

  “Hnh! I think the question should be: ‘Will you finish your grandmother off with another heart attack when she reads this?’ ” Felicity chucked a sheet of paper onto the marble-top table in disgust.

  Astrid grabbed the sheet and stared at it in dismay. It was a printout from Asia’s most popular online gossip column:

  DAILY DISH FROM LEONARDO LAI

  THE BEWITCHING HEIRESS AT THE CENTER OF THE ISABEL WU SOUPGATE INCIDENT!

  For those of you who have been following the scalding scandale involving tech billionaire Charlie Wu’s wife Isabel that almost caused an international incident between Malaysia and Hong Kong, fasten your seat belts, because boy do I have some shockers for you! We all know that Charlie and Isabel announced their separation in 2013, and informers tell me they’ve been privately negotiating the terms of their divorce ever since. At stake is a share of the Wu family fortune, their heritage mansion on Peak Road, and custodial rights of their two daughters. But a close friend of Isabel tells me, “It’s been terribly hard for Isabel. She suffered her recent breakdown because of the emotional stress of the divorce and that other woman involved.”