Crazy Rich Asians

“How can you expect her to have any style? Think she gets it from reading American Vogue? Hahaha.”

“Actually, Francesca says that she’s not even ABC—she was born in Mainland China!”

“I knew it! She’s got that same desperate look that all my servants have.”

“Well here’s a chance for her to get some decent clothes at last!”

“Just you watch, with all that Young money she’s going to upgrade pretty damn quick!”

“We’ll see—all the money in the world can’t buy you taste if you weren’t born with it.”

Rachel realized with a start that the girls were talking about her. Shaken, she rushed out of the dressing room, almost colliding into Araminta.

“Are you okay?” Araminta asked.

Rachel quickly recovered. “Yes, yes, just trying not to get caught up in the panic, that’s all.”

“It’s the panic that makes it so much fun! Let’s see what you found,” Araminta said excitedly. “Ooh, you have a great eye! These are done by a Javanese designer who hand-paints all of the dresses.”

“They’re so lovely. Let me pay for these—I can’t possibly accept your mom’s generosity. I mean, she doesn’t even know me,” Rachel said.

“Nonsense! They are yours. And my mum is so looking forward to meeting you.”

“Well, I have to hand it to her—she’s created quite a shop. Everything is so unique, it reminds me of the way Nick’s cousin dresses.”

“Ah, Astrid Leong! ‘The Goddess,’ as we used to call her.”

“Really?” Rachel laughed.

“Yes. All of us absolutely worshipped her when we were schoolgirls—she always looked so fabulous, so effortlessly chic.”

“She did look amazing last night,” Rachel mused.

“Oh, you saw her last night? Tell me exactly what she was wearing,” Araminta asked eagerly.

“She had on this white sleeveless top with the most delicately embroidered lace panels I’ve ever seen, and a pair of skinny Audrey Hepburn-esque gray silk pants.”

“Designed by …?” Araminta prodded.

“I have no idea. But oh, what really stood out were these show-stopping earrings she had on—they sort of looked like Navajo dream catchers, except that they were made entirely of precious gems.”

“How fabulous! I wish I knew who designed those,” Araminta said intently.

Rachel smiled, as a cute pair of sandals at the bottom of a Balinese cupboard suddenly caught her eye. Perfect for the beach, she thought, walking over to take a better look. They were slightly too big, so Rachel returned to her section, only to discover that two of her outfits—the white blouse and one of the hand-painted silk dresses—had vanished. “Hey, what happened to my—” she began to ask.

“Time’s up, girls! The boutique is now closed!” Araminta declared.

Relieved that the shopping spree was finally over, Rachel went in search of her room. Her card read “Villa No. 14,” so she followed the signs down the central jetty that wound into the middle of the coral reef. The villa was an ornate wood-crafted bungalow with pale coral walls and airy white furnishings. At the back, a set of wooden screen doors opened onto a deck with steps leading straight into the sea.

Rachel sat on the edge of the steps and dipped her toes into the water. It was perfectly cool and so shallow she could sink her feet into the pillowy white sand. She could hardly believe where she was. How much must this bungalow cost per night? She always wondered if she would be lucky enough to visit a resort like this once in her life—for her honeymoon, perhaps—but never did she expect to find herself here for a bachelorette party. She suddenly missed Nick, and wished he could be here to share this private paradise with her. It was because of him that she had suddenly been thrust into this jet-set lifestyle, and she wondered where he could be at this very moment. If the girls went to an island resort in the Indian Ocean, where in the world did the boys go?

9

Nick

MACAU

“Please tell me we’re not riding in one of those,” Mehmet Sabançi grimaced to Nick as they disembarked from the plane and saw the fleet of matching white stretch Rolls-Royce Phantoms awaiting them.