Crazy Rich Asians

Nick flashed a conspiratorial grin, relishing her reaction. “I figured if you were going to go halfway around the world with me, I should at least try to make it as comfy as possible.”

“But this must have cost a fortune! You didn’t have to sell a kidney, did you?”

“No worries, I had about a million frequent-flier miles saved up.”

Still, Rachel couldn’t help feeling a little guilty about the millions of frequent-flier points that Nick must have sacrificed for these tickets. Who even flew first class anymore? The second surprise for Rachel came when they boarded the hulking two-story Airbus A380 and were promptly greeted by a beautiful stewardess who looked as if she had materialized straight out of a soft-focus ad from a travel magazine. “Mr. Young, Ms. Chu, welcome aboard. Please allow me to show you to your suite.” The stewardess sashayed down the aisle in an elegant, figure-hugging long dress,^* ushering them to the front section of the plane, which consisted of twelve private suites.

Rachel felt as if she was entering the screening room of a luxurious TriBeCa loft. The cabin consisted of two of the widest armchairs she had ever seen—upholstered in buttery hand-stitched Poltrona Frau leather—two huge flat-screen televisions placed side by side, and a full-length wardrobe ingeniously hidden behind a sliding burled-walnut panel. A Givenchy cashmere throw was artfully draped over the seats, beckoning them to snuggle up and get cozy.

The stewardess gestured to the cocktails awaiting them on the center console. “An aperitif before takeoff? Mr. Young, your usual gin and tonic. Ms. Chu, a Kir Royale to get you settled in.” She handed Rachel a long-stemmed glass with chilled bubbly that looked like it had been poured just seconds ago. Of course they would already know her favorite cocktail. “Would you like to enjoy your lounge chairs until dinner, or would you prefer us to convert your suite into a bedroom right after takeoff?”

“I think we’ll enjoy this screening-room setup for a while,” Nick replied.

As soon as the stewardess was out of earshot, Rachel declared, “Sweet Jesus, I’ve lived in apartments smaller than this!”

“I hope you don’t mind roughing it—this is all rather lowbrow by Asian hospitality standards,” Nick teased.

“Um … I think I can make do.” Rachel curled up on her sumptuous armchair and began fiddling with her remote control. “Okay, there are more channels than I can count. Are you going to watch one of your bleak Swedish crime thrillers? Oooh, The English Patient. I want to see that. Wait a minute. Is it bad to watch a film about a plane crash while you’re flying?”

“That was a tiny single-engine plane, and wasn’t it shot down by Nazis? I think it should be just fine,” Nick said, placing his hand over hers.

The enormous plane began to taxi toward the runway, and Rachel looked out the window at the planes lined up on the tarmac, lights flashing on the tips of their wings, each one awaiting their turn to hurtle skyward. “You know, it’s finally sinking in that we’re going on this trip.”

“You excited?”

“Just a bit. I think sleeping on an actual bed on a plane is probably the most exciting part!”

“It’s all downhill from here, isn’t it?”

“Definitely. It’s all been downhill since the day we met,” Rachel said with a wink, entwining her fingers with Nick’s.

NEW YORK CITY, AUTUMN 2008

For the record, Rachel Chu did not feel the proverbial lightning-bolt strike when she first laid eyes on Nicholas Young in the garden of La Lanterna di Vittorio. Sure, he was terribly good-looking, but she had always been suspicious of good-looking men, especially ones with quasi-British accents. She spent the first few minutes silently sizing him up, wondering what Sylvia had gotten her into this time.

When Sylvia Wong-Swartz, Rachel’s colleague at New York University’s Department of Economics, walked into their faculty suite one afternoon and declared, “Rachel, I just spent the morning with your future husband,” she dismissed the declaration as another of Sylvia’s silly schemes and didn’t even bother to look up from her laptop.

“No, seriously, I’ve found your future husband. He was at a student governance meeting with me. It’s the third time I’ve met him, and I’m convinced he’s the one for you.”

“So my future husband is a student? Thanks—you know how much I like jailbait.”

“No, no—he’s the brilliant new prof in the history department. He’s also the faculty adviser to the History Organization.”

“You know I don’t go for professor types. Especially from the history department.”