Crazy Rich Asians

“I tell you, Peik Lin, between all the places Nick has taken me and all the lunches, teas, and dinners we’ve had to attend, I’ve never eaten like this in my entire life. You know, I never imagined that there could be so many big events surrounding one wedding. Nick warned me that tonight’s party is on a boat.”

“Yes, I read that it’s going to be on Dato’ Tai Toh Lui’s new mega-yacht. So tell me about the outfits you’re planning to wear this weekend,” Peik Lin said excitedly.

“Um, outfits? I only brought one dress for the wedding.”

“Rachel, you can’t be serious! Aren’t there going to be numerous events all weekend?”

“Well, there’s the welcome party tonight on the yacht, the wedding tomorrow morning, which will be followed by a reception, and a wedding banquet in the evening. And then there’s a tea ceremony on Sunday. I brought this cute cocktail-length black-and-white dress from Reiss, so I figure I can just wear it all day tomorrow and—”

“Rachel, you’re going to need at least three outfits tomorrow. You can’t be seen in the same dress from morning to night! And everyone is going to be decked out in jewels and ball gowns for the wedding banquet. It’s going to be the grandest event of the decade — there’ll be big-time celebrities and royalty there!”

“Well, there’s no way I can compete with that,” Rachel shrugged. “You know that fashion has never really been my thing. Besides, what can I do about it now?”

“Rachel Chu — I’m taking you shopping!”

“Peik Lin,” Rachel protested, “I don’t want to be running around some mall right now at the last minute.”

“A mall?” Peik Lin gave her a look of disdain. “Who said anything about a mall?” She whipped out her cell phone and speed-dialed a number. “Patric, can you please slot me in? It’s an emergency. We need to do an intervention.”

Patric’s atelier was a former shop house on Ann Siang Hill that had been transformed into an aggressively modern loft, and it was here that Rachel soon found herself standing on a glowing circular platform in nothing but her underwear, a three-way mirror behind her and an Ingo Maurer dome light hovering above, bathing her in warm, flattering light. Sigur Rós played in the background, and Patric (just Patric), wearing a white lab coat over a dramatically high-collared shirt and tie, scrutinized her intently, his arms crossed with one index finger on his pursed lips. “You’re very long-waisted,” he pronounced.

“Is that bad?” Rachel asked, realizing for the first time how contestants must feel during the swimsuit competition of a beauty pageant.

“Not at all! I know women who would kill for your torso. This means we can put you in some of the designers that normally wouldn’t fit on very petite frames.” Patric turned to his assistant, a young man in a gray jumpsuit with meticulously combed hair, and declared, “Chuaaaaan! Pull the plum Balenciaga, the naked peach Chloé, the Giambattista Valli that just came in from Paris, all the Marchesas, the vintage Givenchy, and that Jason Wu with the deconstructed ruffles on the bodice.”

Soon half a dozen or so assistants, all dressed in tight black T-shirts and black denim, buzzed around the space with the urgency of bomb defusers, filling it up with rolling racks crammed with the most exquisite dresses Rachel had ever seen. “I suppose this is how all super-wealthy Singaporeans shop?” she asked.

“Patric’s clients come from everywhere — all the Mainland Chinese, Mongolian, and Indonesian fashionistas who want the latest looks, and many of the privacy-obsessed Brunei princesses. Patric gets access to the dresses hours after they’ve walked the runways,” Peik Lin informed her. Rachel gazed around in wonder as the assistants began hanging the dresses on a titanium rod that was suspended seven feet into the air, encircling the platform like a giant halo. “They’re bringing in way too many dresses,” she remarked.

“This is how Patric works. He needs to see different styles and colors around you first, then he edits. Don’t worry, Patric has the most impeccable taste — he studied fashion at Central Saint Martins, you know. You can be sure that the dresses he picks out won’t be seen on anyone else at the wedding.”

“That’s not my worry, Peik Lin. Look, no price tags anywhere — that’s always a dangerous sign,” Rachel whispered.

“Don’t worry about price tags, Rachel. Your job is to try on the dresses.”

“What do you mean? Peik Lin, I’m not letting you buy me a dress!”

“Shush! Let’s not argue about this,” Peik Lin said as she held up a translucent lace blouse to the light.

“Peik Lin, I mean it. None of your funny business here,” Rachel warned as she thumbed through another rack. A dress that was hand-painted with watery blue-and-silver flowers caught her eye. “Now this is to die for. Why don’t I try this one on?” she asked.