Crazy Rich Asians

Astrid stared at him numbly, reeling from what he had said. At that moment, Cathleen, the wife of her brother Henry, walked into the room.

“Oh thank God you’re here,” Cathleen said to Michael. “The cooks are having a fit because some transformer blew and that damn high-tech commercial oven we put in last year won’t work. Apparently it’s gone into self-cleaning mode, and there are four Peking ducks roasting in there—”

Michael glared at his sister-in-law. “Cathleen, I have a master’s degree from Caltech, specializing in encryption technology. I’m not your fucking handyman!” he fumed, before storming out of the room.

Cathleen stared after him in disbelief. “What’s wrong with Michael? I’ve never seen him like this.”

“Oh don’t mind him, Cathleen,” Astrid said, attempting a weak laugh. “Michael’s upset because he just found out that he has to rush off to Hong Kong for some work emergency. Poor thing, he’s afraid he might miss the wedding.”

As the Daimler chauffeuring Eddie, Fiona, and their three children approached the gates of 11 Nassim Road, Eddie did one last run-through.

“Kalliste, what are you going to do when they start to serve the coffee and desserts?”

“I’m going to ask Great-aunt Felicity whether I can play the piano.”

“And what are you going to play?”

“The Bach partita, and then the Mendelssohn. Can I also play my new Lady Gaga song?”

“Kalliste, I swear to God if you play any of that damn Lady Gaga I’m going to break every one of your fingers.”

Fiona stared out the car window, ignoring her husband. This is how he was every time he was about to see his Singapore relatives.

“Augustine, what’s the matter with you? Button your jacket,” Eddie instructed.

The little boy obeyed, carefully buttoning the two gold buttons on his blazer.

“Augustine, how many times have I told you—do not ever, EVER button the last button, do you hear me?”

“Papa, you said never button the last button on my three-button jacket, but you never told me what to do when there’s only two buttons,” the boy whimpered, tearing up.

“Happy now?” Fiona said to her husband, taking the boy into her lap and gently smoothing out the hair on his forehead.

Eddie gave her an annoyed look. “Now everybody listen up … Constantine, what are we going to do when we get out of the car?”

“We are going to get into formation behind you and Mummy,” his eldest son answered.

“And what is the order?”

“Augustine goes first, then Kalliste, then me,” the boy droned in a bored voice.

“Perfect. Wait till everyone sees our splendid entrance!” Eddie said excitedly.

Eleanor entered the front hall behind her son and his girlfriend, eager to observe how the girl would be received. Nick had obviously been preparing her—Rachel was cleverly wearing a demure-looking navy blue dress and no jewelry except for tiny pearl earrings. Looking into the drawing room, Eleanor could see her husband’s extended clan all clustered by the French doors leading out to the terrace. She remembered as if it were yesterday meeting them for the first time. It was at the old T’sien estate near Changi, before the place was turned into that frightful country club all the foreigners went to. The T’sien boys with their roving eyes were tripping over themselves to talk to her, but the Shangs barely deigned to look in her direction—those Shangs were only comfortable speaking to families they had known for at least two generations. But here Nick was boldly leading the girl straight into the frying pan, attempting to introduce Rachel to Victoria Young, the snottiest of Philip’s sisters, and Cassandra Shang—the imperious gossip-monger otherwise known as Radio One Asia. Alamak, this was going to be good.

“Rachel, this is my aunt Victoria and my cousin Cassandra, just back from England.”

Rachel smiled nervously at the ladies. Victoria, with her wiry chin-length bob and slightly rumpled peach cotton dress, had the look of an eccentric sculptress, while whippet-thin Cassandra—with her graying hair severely parted into a tight Frida Kahlo bun—wore an oversize khaki shirtdress and an African necklace festooned with little wooden giraffes. Victoria shook Rachel’s hand coolly, while Cassandra kept her spindly arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed in a tight smile as she assessed Rachel from head to toe. Rachel was about to inquire about their vacation when Victoria, looking over her shoulder, announced in that same clipped English accent that all of Nick’s aunts had, “Ah, here come Alix and Malcolm. And there’s Eddie and Fiona. Good grief, look at those children, all dressed up like that!”