Crazy Rich Asians

“Oh, right.” Nick remembered that Astrid spent every April in Paris for her couture fittings. He had met her in Paris once before, and he could still recall the fascination and tedium he felt sitting in the Yves Saint Laurent atelier on avenue Marceau, watching three seamstresses buzz around Astrid as she stood Zen-like, swathed in an airy confection for what seemed like ten hours, guzzling down Diet Cokes to fight off her jet lag. She looked to him like a figure from a baroque painting, a Spanish infanta submitting to an archaic costuming ritual straight out of the seventeenth century. (It was a “particularly uninspired season,” Astrid had told him, and she was buying “only” twelve pieces that spring, spending well over a million euros.) Nick didn’t even want to imagine how much money she must be blowing on this trip with no one there to rein her in.

“I miss Paris. It’s been ages since I’ve been. Remember our crazy trip there with Eddie?” he said.

“Aiyoh, please don’t remind me! That’s the last time I ever share a suite with that rascal!” Astrid shuddered, thinking she would never be able to erase the image of her Hong Kong cousin with that amputee stripper and those profiteroles.

“Are you staying in the Penthouse at the George V?”

“As always.”

“You’re such a creature of habit. It would be super-easy to assassinate you.”

“Why don’t you try?”

“Well, next time you’re in Paris, let me know. I might just surprise you and hop the pond with my special assassin’s kit.”

“Are you going to knock me out, put me in a bathtub, and pour acid all over me?”

“No, for you there will be a far more elegant solution.”

“Well, come and get me. I’ll be here till early May. Don’t you get some sort of spring break soon? Why not bring Rachel to Paris for a long weekend?”

“Wish I could. Spring break was last month, and we interim-adjunct-sub-associate professors don’t get any extra vacation days. But Rachel and I have the whole summer off, which is why I want her to come home with me.”

Astrid sighed. “You know what will happen the minute you land at Changi Airport with this girl on your arm, don’t you? You know how brutal it was for Michael when we first started going out publicly. That was five years ago, and he’s still getting used to it. Do you really think Rachel is ready for all that? Are you ready for it?”

Nick remained silent. He was taking in everything Astrid had to say, but his mind was already made up. He was ready. He was absolutely head over heels in love with Rachel, and it was time to show her off to the whole world.

“Nicky, how much does she know?” Astrid asked.

“About what?”

“About our family.”

“Not much. You’re the only one she’s met. She thinks you’ve got great taste in shoes and that your husband spoils you rotten. That’s about it.”

“You probably want to prepare her a bit,” Astrid said with a laugh.

“What is there to prepare her for?” Nick asked breezily.

“Listen, Nicky,” Astrid said, her tone getting serious. “You can’t just throw Rachel into the deep end like this. You need to prep her, do you hear me?”

5 Astrid Leong

PARIS

Every May 1, the L’Herme-Pierres — one of France’s great banking families — would host Le Bal du Muguet, a sumptuous ball that was the highlight of the spring social season. This year, as Astrid entered the arched passageway leading into the L’Herme-Pierres’ splendid hôtel particulier on Île Saint-Louis, she was handed a delicate sprig of flowers by a footman in smart black-and-gold livery. “It’s after Charles IX, you know. He would present lilies of the valley to all the ladies at Fontainebleau every May Day,” a woman wearing a tiara explained to her as they emerged into the courtyard where hundreds of miniature eighteenth-century hot-air balloons floated among the topiaries.

Astrid barely had time to take in the delightful sight when the Vicomtesse Nathalie de L’Herme-Pierre pounced on her. “I’m so glad you could make it,” Nathalie effused, greeting Astrid with quadruple cheek kisses. “My goodness, is that linen? Only you could get away with wearing a simple linen dress to a ball, Astrid!” The hostess laughed, admiring the delicate Grecian folds of Astrid’s buttercup-yellow gown. “Wait a minute … is this an original Madame Grès?” Nathalie asked, realizing that she had seen a similar dress at the Musée Galliera.

“From her early period,” Astrid replied, almost embarrassed to have been found out.

“But of course. My goodness, Astrid, you’ve outdone yourself once again. How on earth did you get your hands on an early Grès?” Nathalie asked in awe. Recovering herself, she whispered, “I hope you don’t mind, but I have put you next to Grégoire. He is being a beast tonight, as he thinks I am still fucking the Croatian. You are the only person I can trust next to him at dinner. But at least you’ll have Louis on your left.”