Crazy Rich Asians

“I don’t know what planet you’re living on, but things are not ‘just fine.’ Nicky is going to propose to this girl any minute now. What was the whole point of my sending you to New York? You had one simple mission to accomplish, and you failed miserably.”

“You have no appreciation for what I’ve accomplished for myself. I’m part of New York society now,” Amanda proudly declared.

“Who gives a damn about that? You think anyone here is impressed to see pictures of you in Town & Country?”

“He’s not going to marry her, Mummy. You don’t know Nicky like I do,” Amanda insisted.

“Well, for your sake I hope you’re right. I don’t need to remind you—”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said it for years. You have nothing to leave me, I’m the girl, everything has to go to Teddy,” Amanda lamented sarcastically.

“Tighter!” Jacqueline ordered the attendants.

4 First Methodist Church

SINGAPORE

“Another security checkpoint?” Alexandra Cheng complained, peering out the tinted window at the throngs of spectators lining Fort Canning Road.

“Alix, there are so many heads of state here, of course they have to secure the location. That’s the Sultan of Brunei’s convoy ahead of us, and isn’t the vice premier of China supposed to be coming?” Malcolm Cheng said.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if the Lees invited the entire Communist Party of China,” Victoria Young snorted in derision.

Nick had departed at the crack of dawn to help Colin prepare for his big day, so Rachel caught a ride with his aunts and uncle in one of the fleets of cars leaving from Tyersall Park.

The burgundy Daimler finally arrived in front of First Methodist Church and the uniformed chauffeur opened the door, causing the crowd crammed behind barricades to roar in anticipation. As Rachel was helped out of the car, hundreds of press photographers hanging off metal bleachers began snapping away, the sound of their frenzied digital clicks like locusts descending on an open field.

Rachel heard a photographer yell to a newscaster standing on the ground, “Who’s that girl? Is she someone? Is she someone?”

“No, it’s just some rich socialite,” the newscaster snapped back. “But look, here comes Eddie Cheng and Fiona Tung-Cheng!”

Eddie and his sons emerged from the car directly behind Rachel’s. Both boys were dressed in outfits identical to their father’s — dove-gray cutaway jackets and polka-dot lavender ties — and they flanked Eddie obediently while Fiona and Kalliste followed a few paces behind.

“Eddie Cheng! Look this way, Eddie! Boys, over here!” the photographers shouted. The newscaster thrust a microphone in front of Eddie’s face. “Mr. Cheng, your family is always at the top of the best-dressed lists, and you certainly didn’t disappoint us today! Tell me, who are you wearing?”

Eddie paused, proudly placing his arms around his boys’ shoulders. “Constantine, Augustine, and I are in Gieves & Hawkes bespoke, and my wife and daughter are in Carolina Herrera,” he grinned broadly. The boys squinted into the bright morning sun, trying to remember their father’s instructions: look straight into the camera lens, suck your cheeks in, turn to the left, smile, turn to the right, smile, look at Papa adoringly, smile.

“Your grandsons look so cute all dressed up!” Rachel remarked to Malcolm.

Malcolm shook his head derisively. “Hiyah! Thirty years I have been a pioneering heart surgeon, but my son is the one who gets all the attention — for his bloody clothes!”

Rachel grinned. These big celebrity weddings all seemed to be about the “bloody clothes,” didn’t they? She was wearing an ice-blue dress with a fitted blazer trimmed with mother-of-pearl disks all along the lapel and sleeves. At first she felt rather overdressed when she saw what Nick’s aunts were wearing back at Tyersall Park — Alexandra in a muddy-green floral dress that looked like eighties Laura Ashley, and Victoria in a geometric-patterned black-and-white knit dress (so much for Peik Lin’s theory) that looked like something dug up from the bottom of an old camphor-wood chest. But here, among all the other chic wedding guests, she realized that she had nothing to worry about.

Rachel had never seen a crowd like this in the daytime — with the men sharply dressed in morning suits and the women styled to within an inch of their lives in the latest looks from Paris and Milan, many sporting elaborate hats or flamboyant fascinators. An even more exotic contingent of ladies arrived in iridescent saris, hand-painted kimonos, and intricately sewn kebayas. Rachel had secretly been dreading the wedding all week, but as she followed Nick’s aunties up the slope toward the Gothic redbrick church, she found herself succumbing to the festive air. This was a once-in-a-lifetime event, the likes of which she would probably never witness again.

At the main doors stood a line of ushers dressed in pinstriped morning suits and top hats. “Welcome to First Methodist,” an usher said cheerily. “Your names, please?”