Crazy Rich Asians

Parker simply smirked. “I’ll tell you, but excuse me for just one moment.” She unbuckled her seat belt and made a beeline for the back cabin. It was the last time Rachel would see her during the entire flight.

“Girls, I have the scoop of all scoops!” Parker burst in on the girls crowded into the master cabin. “I was just sitting next to that Rachel Chu girl, and guess what? She isn’t related to the Taipei Chus! She hasn’t even heard of them!”

Francesca Shaw, lounging in the middle of the bed, gave Parker a withering look. “Is that all? I could have told you that months ago. My mother is best friends with Nicky Young’s mother, and I know enough about Rachel Chu to sink a ship.”

“Come on, lah—give us all the dirt!” Wandi pleaded, bouncing up and down on the bed in anticipation.

After a dramatic landing on a perilously short runway, Rachel found herself on a sleek white catamaran, the salty ocean breeze whipping through her hair as they sped toward one of the more remote islands. The water was an almost blinding shade of turquoise, interrupted by tiny islands dropped onto the calm surface here and there like dollops of fresh cream. Soon the catamaran made a sharp turn toward one of the bigger islands, and as they approached, a striking series of wooden buildings with undulating thatched canopies came into view.

This was the paradise dreamed up by Araminta’s hotelier mother, Annabel Lee, who spared no expense in creating the ultimate retreat according to her exacting vision of what chic, modern luxury should be. The island, actually just a quarter-mile-long spit of coral, consisted of thirty villas built on stilts that extended out over the shallow coral reefs. As the boat pulled up to the jetty, a line of waiters in saffron-colored uniforms stood stiffly at attention holding Lucite trays of mojitos.

Araminta was helped out of the boat first, and when all the girls were assembled on the dock with cocktails in hand, she announced, “Welcome to Samsara! In Sanskrit, the word means ‘to flow on’—to pass through states of existence. My mum wanted to create a special place where you could experience rebirth, where you could pass through different levels of bliss. So this island is ours, and I hope you will find your bliss with me this weekend. But first, I’ve arranged a shopping spree at the resort’s boutique! Girls, as a gift from my mum, each of you can pick out five new outfits. And to make this just a little more fun, and also because I don’t want to miss cocktails at sunset, we’re going to make this a challenge. I’m giving you only twenty minutes to shop. Grab whatever you can, because in twenty minutes, the boutique closes!” The girls shrieked in excitement and began a mad dash down the jetty.

With its soothing mother-of-pearl varnished walls, Javanese teak floors, and windows overlooking a lagoon, the Samsara Collection was normally a haven of civilized tranquillity. Today it was like Pamplona during the running of the bulls as the girls charged in and ransacked the place in search of outfits that would outdo one another. A fashionista tug-of-war broke out as they began clawing over the most coveted pieces.

“Lauren, let go of this Collette Dinnigan skirt before you tear it to pieces!”

“Wandi, you bitch, I saw that Tomas Maier top first and you’ll never fit into it with your new boobs!”

“Parker, put down those Pierre Hardy flats or I’ll poke your eyes out with these Nicholas Kirkwood stilettos!”

Araminta perched on a counter savoring the scene, adding more tension to her little game by calling out the remaining time at one-minute intervals. Rachel tried to steer clear of the rampage, taking refuge at a rack overlooked by the rest of the girls, probably because there weren’t any quickly recognizable labels on any of the garments. Francesca stood at a nearby rack picking through the clothes as if she was surveying medical photos of genital deformities. “This is impossible. Who are all these no-name designers?” she called out to Araminta.

“What do you mean ‘no-name’? Alexis Mabille, Thakoon, Isabel Marant — my mum personally selects the hottest designers for this boutique,” Araminta said defensively.

Francesca tossed back her long, wavy black locks and sniffed. “You know I only wear six designers: Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Etro, my dear friend Stella McCartney, and Brunello Cucinelli for country weekends. I wish you’d told me we were coming here, Araminta. I could have brought my latest Chanel resort wear — I bought this season’s entire collection at Carol Tai’s Christian Helpers fashion benefit.”