“Oh yes, I forgot about all that protocol nonsense. Well, Ah Ling, it will be your job to deliver the news to Eddie.” Victoria smiled wryly.
* * *
*1 Hindi for “watchman,” the term is used for any sort of security guard. The jagas at Tyersall Park were, of course, highly trained Gurkhas that could disembowel another man with just two strokes from their daggers.
*2 Ah Tock is a great-great-grandson of Shang Zhao Hui, the grandfather of Shang Su Yi, but because he was descended from the second wife of the patriarch’s five official wives, none of the children from her branch inherited any substantial fortune from the Shang empire and were considered lesser, “distant cousins” when they were in fact not so distant at all.
*3 The literal meaning in Hokkien is “red hair,” but it’s a derogatory colloquial term used to describe anything of Western origin, since to many of Singapore’s older-generation Chinese, all Western people are considered ang mor kow sai—“redhaired dog shit.”
*4 Singlish slang that’s equivalent to “cool” or “fantastic” or “amazing” in Malay.
*5 Cantonese for “grandfather.”
*6 Officially known as the Institute of Mental Health, Singapore’s first psychiatric hospital was founded in 1841 on the corner of Bras Basah Road and Bencoolen Street. It was first known as the Insane Hospital but was renamed the Lunatic Asylum in 1861 when it moved to a site near the old Kandang Kerbau Maternity Hospital. In 1928, a new building was built along Yio Chu Kang Road and after several more name changes—the New Lunatic Asylum and the Mental Hospital among them—it was renamed Woodbridge Hospital in an effort to shake off some of the stigma associated with its previous names. Yet for generations of Singaporeans, Woodbridge only means one thing: You’ve gone bat-shit crazy.
CHAPTER TEN
PORTO FINO ELITE ESTATES, SHANGHAI
Lined up in perfect military precision on the steps of the monolithic granite-and-concrete structure were six attendants. Back in the days when Colette Bing was the mistress of the house—thanks to her indulgent father, Jack—the staff had been clad in chic black T-shirts and black jeans from James Perse. But ever since Kitty Pong Tai Bing had taken over the grand residence at the heart of Porto Fino Elite Estates, she had outfitted the men in black-tie butler’s uniforms and the women in classic black-and-white French maid outfits.
As the convoy of black Audi SUVs pulled up to the house, Kitty, her daughter, Gisele, her infant son, Harvard, and the children’s nannies alighted from the car and the line of staffers bowed in unison before scurrying around to gather all the luggage.
“Oooh! It’s good to be home!” Kitty squealed, kicking off her red Aquazzura suede fringe-and-tassel sandals as she entered the great hall, which was now reduced to a construction site with scaffolding against the walls, plastic tarp on all the furniture, and exposed wiring hanging from the ceiling. In an effort to remove every last reminder of Colette’s taste, Kitty had spent the past year “collaborating” with Thierry Catroux—the celebrated interior designer who worked only with billionaires—to redesign every last square inch of the estate.
“Where is my husband?” Kitty asked Laurent, the estate manager she had poached from some tech mogul’s estate in Kona to replace Wolseley, Colette’s British butler, who had once worked for Princess Michael of Kent at Kensington Palace.
“Mr. Bing is having his daily massage, madame.”
Kitty headed over to the spa pavilion and descended the steps to the subterranean swimming pool encircled with carved marble pillars. As she walked down the lacquered-cinnabar passageway leading to the treatment rooms, she smiled at the thought of all this coming down too—Colette’s hammam-inspired Turkish spa was going to be transformed into a futuristic Egyptian fantasy spa inspired by the movie Stargate. It was her own idea!
Kitty entered the treatment room illuminated by scented candles and found Jack lying facedown on the massage bed. The scent of frankincense permeated the air, as Céline Dion played softly in the background. One of the female therapists* was doing reflexology on Jack’s feet, while another walked precariously along his spine as if she were on a tightrope, grasping an elaborate lattice of poles affixed to the ceiling in order to ensure the precise amount of body weight on his aching muscles.
“Waaah! That’s it! That’s the spot!” Jack groaned through his face cradle, as the woman standing on his back dug the ball of her left foot into a muscle below his shoulder blades.
“Looks like someone’s having a good time!” Kitty declared.
“Yea…aahh! Yessss! You’re home!”
“I thought I’d find you waiting to welcome me!”
“When I heard the plane was delayed coming in, I thought I’d…oooooh…get my massage first!”
“Those stupid French officials delayed our takeoff for two hours because of some idiotic bomb scare. They wouldn’t even let me onto our plane, so I was stuck in that ghastly terminal with the public.” Kitty pouted, as she stretched out on the plush chaise lounge next to Jack.
“I’m so sorry you had to be with the public, babylove. Did you have a good time in Paris?”
“I sure did! Do you know what happy news I heard while I was there?”
“Owwahhh! Gentle, gentle there! What?”
“You’ll be pleased to know that your daughter is finally getting married,” Kitty said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Jack let out a slow grunt. “Ummm…really?”
“Yes. And to an Englishman. But of course you already knew?”
“How would I? Colette hasn’t spoken to me in almost two years—not since our wedding.”