Francesca leaned into Mandy’s ear. “Really, Mandy, I could have milked that story way better. Your mother is right—you have lost your edge living in New York.”
“Go to hell, Francesca. I don’t see you doing any better,” Mandy said through gritted teeth as she got up from the table. She was fed up with the pressure coming at her from all sides, and wished she’d never agreed to come back. The girls looked up as Mandy stormed off.
Francesca shook her head slowly and gave Rachel a look. “Poor Mandy is so conflicted. She doesn’t know what she wants anymore. I mean, that was such a pathetic attempt at inciting jealousy, wasn’t it?”
For once, Rachel had to agree with Francesca. “It didn’t work, and I don’t understand why she keeps trying to make me jealous. I mean, why would I care about what Nick and her did when they were teenagers?”
Francesca burst out laughing. “Wait a minute, you thought she was trying to make you jealous?”
“Er … wasn’t that what she was doing?”
“No, honey, she’s not paying any attention to you. She was trying to make me jealous.”
“You?” Rachel asked, puzzled.
Francesca smirked. “Of course. That’s why she brought up the whole Capri story—I was there that summer too, you know. Mandy’s never gotten over how into me Nick was when we had our threesome.”
Rachel could feel her face get hot. Very hot. She wanted to bolt from the table but her legs seemed to have turned to glue.
Sophie and Lauren stared at Francesca, mouths agape.
Francesca looked straight into Rachel’s face and kept on chattering lightly. “Oh, does Nick still do that trick with the underside of his tongue? Mandy was far too prissy to let him go down on her, but my God, on me he would stay down there for hours.”
Right then, Nick entered the banquet hall. “There you are! Why are you all sitting in here like statues? The fireworks are about to start!”
* * *
* Among the ginseng connoisseurs of Asia, the ginseng from Washington State is more prized than anything from China. Go figure.
† Hokkien for “grandpa.”
9
99 Conduit Road
HONG KONG
The elderly amah opened the door and broke out into a wide grin. “Hiyah, Astrid Leong! Can it be?” she cried in Cantonese.
“Yes, Ah Chee—Astrid will be our guest for a few days. Will you please make sure no one knows? And don’t go telling any of the other maids who she is—I don’t want them carrying tales to my mother’s maids. This needs to remain absolutely secret, okay?” Charlie decreed.
“Yes, yes, of course, Charlieboy—now go and wash your hands,” Ah Chee said dismissively, continuing to fuss over Astrid. “Hiyah, you are still so beautiful, I have dreamed about you often over the years! You must be so tired, so hungry—it’s past three in the morning. Let me go and wake the cook up to make you something to eat. Some chicken congee maybe?”
“No need, Ah Chee. We came from a wedding banquet.” Astrid smiled. She could hardly believe that Charlie’s childhood nanny was still looking after him after all these years.
“Well, let me go make you some warm milk and honey. Or would you rather have Milo? Charlieboy always likes that when he’s up late,” Ah Chee said, rushing off to the kitchen.
“There’s no stopping Ah Chee, is there?” Astrid laughed. “I’m so glad you still have her.”
“She won’t leave!” Charlie sputtered in exasperation. “I built her a house back in China—hell, I built all her relatives houses, got a satellite dish for the village, the whole nine yards, thinking she would want to return to China to retire. But I think she’s much happier here bossing all the other maids around.”
“It’s very sweet of you to take care of her like that,” Astrid said. They stepped into an expansive double-height living room that resembled the wing of a modern art museum, with its row of bronze sculptures placed like sentinels in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Since when did you collect Brancusi?” she asked in surprise.
“Since you introduced me to him. Don’t you remember that exhibition you dragged me to at the Pompidou?”
“Gosh, I’d almost forgotten,” Astrid said, gazing at the minimalist curves of one of Brancusi’s golden birds.
“My wife, Isabel, is mad for the French Provençal look, so she hates my Brancusis. They haven’t had an airing until I moved in here. I’ve turned this apartment into a sort of refuge for my art. Isabel and the girls stay at our house on the Peak, and I’m here in the Mid-Levels. I like it because I can just walk out my door, take the escalator down to Central, and be at my office within ten minutes. Sorry it’s a bit cramped—it’s just a small duplex.”