“Um…can we get Nigel Barker to shoot it instead? He’s soooooo dreamy!”
“Of course, dear. Whoever you want.”
Kitty’s eyes lit up.
* * *
*1 A derogatory term for Caucasians; in Mandarin it translates as “foreign/white/Caucasian.”
*2 Michael, Project Runway just hasn’t been the same without you. Pleeeeeeeeease come back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
RESIDENCES AT ONE CAIRNHILL, SINGAPORE
The cook had brought home the most scrumptious Singaporean breakfast delicacies from the market. There was chwee kueh—delicately steamed rice-flour cakes topped with salty radish pickle and chili sauce; freshly grilled roti prata—crisp, buttery Indian bread served with a curry dipping sauce; chai tow kuay—daikon radish cakes pan-fried with egg, shrimp, and spring onions; and char siew bao—sweet barbecued-pork buns. As Eleanor and Philip gleefully unwrapped the brown waxed-paper packets of food, Nick entered the white Calacatta-marble-clad kitchen and padded toward the elegant diner-style banquette that had been glassed in so Eleanor’s guests could enjoy a “chef’s table” experience without having to worry about getting any of the smoky aromas on their expensive outfits or in their perfect coiffures.
“Oh good, you’re up. Come, come, eat while it’s still hot,” Eleanor said, dipping a piece of her roti prata into the spicy coconut chicken curry.
Nick stood at the table, not saying anything. Eleanor looked up at him and saw the grimace on his face. “What’s wrong? Are you constipated? I know we shouldn’t have gone to that Italian restaurant last night. So overrated, and so awful.”
“I rather enjoyed my linguine with white truffles,” Philip commented.
“Aiyah, nothing special, lah. I could open a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup and pour it over some noodles and you wouldn’t even know the difference! Not wort
h the money, even if Colin did pay, and all that cheese always clogs up the system.”
“I just can’t believe you sometimes.” Nick pulled out a chair and sat down at the banquette.
“What don’t you believe? Eat a ripe banana, or I have some Metamucil if that doesn’t work.”
“I’m not constipated, Mum, I’m annoyed. I just got off the phone with Rachel.”
“Oh, how is she?” Eleanor asked in a merry tone, as she spooned a heaping portion of chai tow kuay onto her Astier de Villatte plate.
“You know exactly how she is. You spoke to her yesterday.”
“Oh, she told you?”
“She’s my wife—she tells me everything, Mum. I can’t believe you actually asked her what kind of birth control we use!”
“What’s wrong with that?” Eleanor asked.
“Have you gone completely mental? She’s not some Singaporean girl you can interrogate about every bodily function. She’s American. They don’t discuss things like that with just anyone!”
“I am not just anyone. I am her mother-in-law. I have a right to know when she’s ovulating!” Eleanor snapped.
“No you don’t! She was so appalled and embarrassed, she didn’t even know what to say.”
“No wonder she hung up so quickly.” Eleanor giggled.
“This whole grandchildren business has to stop, Mum. We won’t be pressured into having kids just because you want us to.”
Eleanor banged down her chopsticks irritatedly. “You think I’m pressuring you? Hiyah, you don’t know the meaning of pressure! When your father and I came back from our honeymoon, your darling Ah Ma commanded her maids to ransack our luggage! When she found our French letters,* she got so upset, she said that if I wasn’t pregnant within six weeks, she would throw me out of the house! Do you really want to know what it took for me to get pregnant? Your father and I had to—”
“Stop, stop! Boundaries, please! I don’t need to know any of this!” Nick groaned, waving his hand in front of his mother’s face frantically.
“Believe me, I’m not trying to pressure you to have a child. I’m only trying to help you!”