“Well, there’s nothing here that will cheer her up, unless she wants to see jewelry that will give her tetanus,” Daisy reported.
“I told Carol this would be a waste of time! Sarita Singh only wants to impress her arty-farty international friends these days. Three years ago she invited me, Felicity, and Astrid, and it was all this Victorian mourning jewelry. Nothing but black jet and brooches made from the hair of dead people. Hak sei yen!*5 Only Astrid could appreciate it.”
“Let me tell you what I’m appreciating right now—your new Birkin bag! I never thought you’d be caught dead with one of these. Didn’t you once say that only tacky Mainlanders carried such bags?” Nadine asked.
“Funny you should say that—this was a gift from Bao Shaoyen.”
“Wah, ah nee ho miah!*6 I told you the Baos were loaded,” Daisy said.
“Well, you were right—the Baos are loaded beyond belief. My God, the way I’ve seen them spend in just the few months they’ve been here! Nadine, if you thought your Francesca was a spendthrift, you should see how that Carlton spends. I have never seen a boy more obsessed with cars in my life! At first his mother swore she would never let him set foot in another sports car, but every time I go over there, there’s some exotic new car in their sky garage. Apparently he’s been buying cars and shipping them back to China. He claims he’ll make a fat profit reselling them to his friends.”
“Well, it sounds like Carlton has made quite a recovery!” Lorena said.
“Yes, he hardly even needs his crutches anymore. Oh, in case you were still thinking of him for your Tiffany, you should stop. Apparently he’s already got a girlfriend. A fashion model or something like that—she lives in Shanghai but flies down to see him every weekend.”
“Carlton is so handsome and charming, of course there must be a long line of girls trying to catch him,” Nadine said.
“He may be all that, but I can see now why Shaoyen loses sleep over her son. She told me that the past few months have been the most relaxed time she’s had in years. She’s afraid that once Carlton is fully back on his feet again and they return to China, he will be impossible to manage.”
Lowering her voice, Lorena asked, “Speaking of China, did you meet with Mr. Wong?”
“Of course. Aiyah, that Mr. Wong has put on so much weight—I think the private investigating business must be zheen ho seng lee.”*7
“So, everything is good? Did you read the dossier?”
“Did I ever. You won’t believe what I found out about the Baos,” Eleanor said with a little smile.
“What? What?” Lorena asked, leaning in closer.
Just then, Carol entered the gallery and made a beeline for Lorena and Eleanor. “Alamak, there was such a long line for the bathroom! How’s the show?”
Daisy took her by the arm and said, “I think there were more interesting things to see in the jambun*8 than in this show. Come, let’s see if the food is any better. I hope they have some spicy samosas.”
As the ladies made their way down the passageway toward the dining room, an Indian woman with snow-white hair wearing a simple bone-colored sari emerged from one of the rooms and caught sight of them. “Eleanor Young, is that you looking so mysterious behind those sunglasses?” the woman asked in an elegant, lilting voice.
Eleanor took off her sunglasses. “Ah, Mrs. Singh! I didn’t realize you were back in town.”
“Yes, yes. I’m just hiding from the crowd. Tell me, how is Su Yi? I missed her Chap Goh Meh*9 party the other night.”
>
“She’s very well.”
“Good, good. I’ve been meaning to pay her a visit since I got back from Cooch Behar, but I’ve been so jet-lagged this time. And how is Nicky? Did he return for New Year’s?”
“Not this year, no,” Eleanor said, forcing a smile.
Mrs. Singh gave her a knowing look. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be back next year.”
“Yes of course,” Eleanor said, as she proceeded to introduce the ladies. Mrs. Singh nodded graciously at everyone. “Tell me, are you all enjoying my daughter-in-law’s exhibition?”
“It’s very interesting,” Daisy offered.
“To be honest, I much preferred when you used to show your own jewelry,” Eleanor ventured.
“Come with me,” Mrs. Singh said with a mischievous smile. She led the women up a back staircase and down another passageway lined with Mughal-era portraits of various Indian royals in antique gilt frames. Soon they came upon an ornate doorway inlaid with turquoise and mother-of-pearl, guarded by a pair of Indian police officers. “Don’t tell Sarita, but I decided to have a little party of my own,” she said, flinging the door open.
Inside was Mrs. Singh’s private sitting room, an airy space opening onto a luxuriant veranda lined with lime trees. A butler was handing out steaming cups of chai, while a sitar player plucked a soft, entrancing melody in a corner. Several ladies in iridescent saris sprawled on the deep purple divans, nibbling on sweet ladoos, while others sat cross-legged on the Kashmir silk carpet, admiring the rows upon rows of jewels blindingly arrayed on large forest green velvet trays in the middle of the floor. It felt like being at a pajama party inside the vault of Harry Winston.