“Yes, Ah Ma?”
“If I die before your wedding day, please don’t go into all that mourning nonsense for me. I want you to have your wedding just as you planned in March. Will you promise me you’ll do that?”
“Oh Ah Ma, nothing’s going to happen. You’re go…going to be sitting in the front row of my wedding,” Astrid stammered.
“I’m planning on it, but I wanted to say this just in case.”
Astrid looked away, trying to hold back her tears. She sat there holding her grandmother’s hand for a few quiet moments, before she said, “Ah Ma, you know who’s back in Singapore to see you? Nicky.”
“Nicky’s home?”
“Yes, he’s here. In fact he’s right outside. Do you want to see him now?”
“Send him in. I thought he was going to be here last week.”
Astrid got up from her chair and was about to head for the dressing room when her grandmother said, “Wait a minute.”
Astrid stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Yes?”
“Is his wife here as well?” Su Yi asked.
“No, it’s just him.” Astrid paused for a second, anticipating another question from her grandmother. But Su Yi was now fidgeting with the bed controls, raising the incline of her bed to the exact angle she wanted. Astrid proceeded to the balcony, where she found Nick sitting pensively at the wrought-iron table.
“Is she awake?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“How is she?”
“She’s okay. A lot better than I was expecting, actually. Come on, your turn.”
“Um…she really wants to see me?” Nick asked trepidatiously.
Astrid smiled at her cousin. For a moment he looked like he was six years old again. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course. She’s ready for you now.”
* * *
*1 Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2015, the Singapore Botanic Gardens is cherished by locals in the same way Central Park is by New Yorkers or Hyde Park is by Londoners. A verdant oasis in the middle of the island filled with amazing botanical specimens, colonial-era pavilions, and one of the most amazing orchid collections on the planet, it’s no wonder that so many Singaporeans want to have a tiny bit of their ashes scattered here. In secret, of course, since it’s highly illegal. (No one escapes the law in Singapore, not even the dead.)
*2 If you read China Rich Girlfriend, you’d already know what a pontianak is. But just in case you haven’t (and why the hell haven’t you?), allow Dr. Sandi Tan, the world’s foremost pontianakologist, to elucidate you: “A tropical female vampire-slash-dryad combo, often assuming the form of a comely, sarong-draped maiden, who inhabits the darker corners of the Southeast Asian jungle. Her metamorphosis into her true form will reveal: putrefying gray flesh, mucho teeth, many claws, accompanying unpleasant odors. Her traditional prey is the unborn fetus of a pregnant woman, consumed in situ, though during severe hunger pangs, any living person—even flatulent, stringy grandpas—would suffice. She can be summoned by tying a white string between two adjacent banana trees and intoning a chant of your own choosing, but she is more than capable of being an independent operator. Must not be confused with her inelegant country cousins, also female bloodsuckers, the penanggalan (bodiless flying she-demon with long, unwashed hair and a meaty chandelier of entrails) and the pelesit (an all-purpose slave, horrendously and pathetically devoted to her conjuror, with no agency of her own).”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHANGI AIRPORT, SINGAPORE
Oliver had just boarded his flight to London and was in the process of stealing an extra pillow from the seat behind him when Kitty called.
“Morning, Kitty,” he
said cheerily, steeling himself for the barrage he knew was about to come. “Did you sleep well?”
“Are you fucking kidding me? That was the worst night of my entire life!”
“I know several billion people who would have happily traded places with you, Kitty. You got to attend one of Yolanda Amanjiwo’s legendary dinners. The world’s most acclaimed chef prepared a twelve-course tasting menu for you. Did you not enjoy that? I thought the langoustines were superb—”
“Ugh! That so-called genius chef from that de la cellar place should be locked in his own cellar and they should throw away the key!”
“Come on, aren’t you being a bit harsh? Just because you don’t appreciate deconstructed surrealist Catalan fusion cuisine doesn’t mean you should sentence him to the gallows. I could have eaten ten more plates of that jamón ibérico flash-frozen fried rice.”