Crazy Rich Asians

The saleswoman made a quick assessment of Astrid. Asians hardly ever set foot in here—they usually kept to the famous designer boutiques on the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré or the avenue Montaigne, where they could inhale all the Chanel and Dior they wanted, God help them. Monsieur’s collection was very avant-garde, and only appreciated by the chicest Parisiennes, New Yorkers, and a few Belgians. Clearly this schoolgirl in the rollneck fisherman’s sweater, khakis, and espadrilles was out of her league. “Listen, chérie, everything here is très, très cher. And it takes five months for delivery. Do you really want to know how much it costs?” she said, taking a slow drag from her cigarette.

“Oh, I suppose not,” Astrid said meekly. This lady obviously had no interest in helping her. She climbed the stairs and headed straight out the door, almost bumping into Charlie.

“So quick? Didn’t you like the clothes?” Charlie queried.

“I do. But the lady in there doesn’t seem to want to sell me anything, so let’s not waste our time,” Astrid said.

“Wait, wait a minute—what do you mean she doesn’t want to sell you anything?” Charlie tried to clarify. “Was she being snooty?”

“Uh-huh,” Astrid reported.

“We’re going back in!” Charlie said indignantly.

“Charlie, let’s just go to the next boutique on your list.”

“Astrid, sometimes I can’t believe you’re Harry Leong’s daughter! Your father bought the most exclusive hotel in London when the manager was rude to your mother, for chrissakes! You need to learn how to stand up for yourself!”

“I know perfectly well how to stand up for myself, but it’s simply not worth making a fuss over nothing,” Astrid argued.

“Well, it’s not nothing to me. Nobody insults my girlfriend!” Charlie declared, flinging the door wide open with gusto. Astrid followed reluctantly, noticing that the redheaded saleslady was now joined by a man with platinum blond hair.

Charlie marched up and asked the man, in English, “Do you work here?”

“Oui,” the man replied.

“This is my girlfriend. I want to buy a whole new wardrobe for her. Will you help me?”

The man crossed his arms lazily, slightly bemused by this scrawny teenager with a bad case of acne. “This is all haute couture, and the dresses start at twenty-five thousand francs. There is also an eight-month wait,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Charlie said boldly.

“Um, you pay cash? How are you going to guarantee payment?” the lady asked in thickly accented English.

Charlie sighed and whipped out his cell phone. He dialed a long series of numbers and waited for the other end to pick up. “Mr. Oei? It’s Charlie Wu here. Sorry to disturb you at this time of night in Singapore. I’m in Paris at the moment. Tell me, Mr. Oei, does our bank have a relationship manager in Paris? Great. Will you call the fellow up and get him to make a call to this shop that I am at.” Charlie looked up and asked them for the name, before continuing. “Tell him to inform these people that I am here with Astrid Leong. Yes, Harry’s daughter. Yes, and will you be sure your fellow lets them know I can afford to buy anything I damn well please? Thank you.”

Astrid watched her boyfriend in silence. She had never seen him behave in such an assertive manner. Part of her felt like cringing from the vulgarity of his swagger, and part of her found it to be remarkably attractive. A few long minutes passed, and finally the phone rang. The redhead picked it up quickly, her eyes widening as she listened to the tirade coming from the other end. “Désolée, monsieur, très désolée,” she kept saying into the phone. She hung up and began a terse exchange with her male colleague, not realizing that Astrid could understand almost every word they were saying. The man leaped off the table and gazed at Charlie and Astrid with a sudden vigor. “Please, mademoiselle, let me show you the full collection,” he said with a big smile.

The woman, meanwhile, smiled at Charlie. “Monsieur, would you like some champagne? Or a cappuccino, maybe?”

“I wonder what my banker told them,” Charlie whispered to Astrid as they were led downstairs into a cavernous dressing room.

“Oh, that wasn’t the banker. It was the designer himself. He told them he was rushing over to personally supervise my fittings. Your banker must have called him directly,” Astrid said.

“Okay, I want you to order ten dresses from this designer. We need to spend at least a few hundred thousand francs right now.”

“Ten? I don’t think I even want ten things from this place,” Astrid said.