Crazy Rich Asians

“Never, never let young people plan their own weddings, because this is what you end up with!” Mrs. Lee Yong Chien fumed to Puan Sri Mavis Oon. They were standing in the middle of an enormous warehouse in the Keppel Shipyard along with seven hundred other VIPs and VVIPs, utterly baffled by the Cuban band dressed in forties Tropicana splendor on the stage. People like Mrs. Lee were used to only one kind of Chinese wedding banquet—the kind that took place in the grand ballroom of a five-star hotel. There would be the gorging on salted peanuts during the interminable wait for the fourteen-course dinner to begin, the melting ice sculptures, the outlandish floral centerpieces, the society matron invariably offended by the faraway table she had been placed at, the entrance of the bride, the malfunctioning smoke machine, the entrance of the bride again and again in five different gowns throughout the night, the crying child choking on a fish ball, the three dozen speeches by politicians, token ang mor executives and assorted high-ranking officials of no relation to the wedding couple, the cutting of the twelve-tier cake, someone’s mistress making a scene, the not so subtle counting of wedding cash envelopes by some cousin,^* the ghastly Canto pop star flown in from Hong Kong to scream some pop song (a chance for the older crowd to take an extended toilet break), the distribution of tiny wedding fruitcakes with white icing in paper boxes to all the departing guests, and then Yum seng!^†—the whole affair would be over and everyone would make the mad dash to the hotel lobby to wait half an hour for their car and driver to make it through the traffic jam.

Tonight, however, there was none of that. There was just an industrial space with waiters bearing mojitos and a woman with short, slicked-back hair in a white tuxedo belting out “Besame Mucho.” Glancing around, Rachel was amused by the looks of bafflement on the faces of the arriving guests decked out in their most ostentatious finery.

“These women really brought out the big guns tonight, didn’t they?” Rachel whispered to Nick as she eyed a woman sporting a cape of metallic-gold feathers.

“Sure looks like it! Was that Queen Nefertiti who just walked by?” Nick joked.

“Shut your mouth, Nicholas—that’s Patsy Wang. She’s a Hong Kong socialite renowned for her avant-garde style. There are dozens of blogs out there devoted to her,” Oliver commented.

“Who’s the guy with her? The one in the diamond-studded jacket who looks like he’s wearing eye shadow?” Rachel queried.

“That’s her husband, Adam, and he is wearing eye shadow,” Oliver answered.

“They’re married? Really?” Rachel raised a doubting eyebrow.

“Yes, and they even have three children to prove it. You have to understand, many Hong Kong men revel in being fashionistas—they are dandies in the truest sense of the word. How flamboyantly dressed they might be is no indication of which team they play on.”

“Fascinating,” Rachel said.

“You can always tell Singapore men from Hong Kong men,” Nick chimed in. “We’re the ones dressed like we’re still wearing our school uniforms, while they look more like—”

“David Bowie impersonators,” Oliver finished.

“Thanks, Ollie. I was going to go with Elton John.” Nick chuckled.

As if on cue, the lights in the warehouse dimmed and the loading-dock doors behind the stage began to rise, revealing a line of sleek white ferries waiting harborside. Flaming torches lit the way to the pier, and a line of men dressed in Swedish sailor outfits stood ready to guide the guests onto the ferries. The crowd roared in approval.

“The other shoe drops,” Oliver said gleefully.

“Where do you think we’re going?” Rachel asked.

“You’ll soon see,” Nick said with a wink.

As the guests streamed onto the pier, Astrid made sure to board the ferry carrying a mix of international guests rather than the one filled with her nosy relatives. She had already been asked “Where’s Michael?” too many times and was sick of parroting new variations of her excuse. As she leaned against the railing at the back of the ferry, peering at the frothy waves as the vessel pulled away from the embankment, she felt someone staring at her. She turned to see Charlie Wu, her old flame, on the upper deck. Charlie flushed bright red when he realized he’d been caught staring. He hesitated for a moment, and then decided to come downstairs.

“Long time no see,” he said as nonchalantly as possible. In fact, it had been almost ten years since that fateful day when Astrid had thrown a Frosty in his face outside of the old Wendy’s on Orchard Road.