Astrid almost wanted to laugh. Who was this man next to her talking this way?
Michael continued, “We’re playing this game of chicken right now, and I know they want to see who blinks first. They have raging hard-ons to acquire this new proprietary technology that we’ve developed, and it’s really important that I am able to convey the right image to them.”
They finally pulled up outside the elegant white colonial-era shophouse that had been converted into one of the island’s most acclaimed restaurants. As Astrid got out of the car, Michael looked her over and said, “You know, I think you made a mistake changing out of that first cocktail dress. It showed off your sexy legs. But at least you have those earrings. That’s really going to make their jaws drop, especially the wife. It’ll be great—I want them to know that I’m not going to be a cheap date.”
Staring at him in disbelief, Astrid stumbled for a moment on the pristine wooden deck leading to the front door.
Michael grimaced. “Shit, I hope they didn’t see you do that. Why the hell are you wearing those ridiculous boots anyway?”
Astrid breathed in deeply. “What’s the wife’s name again?”
“Wendy. And they have a dog named Gizmo. You can talk about the dog with her.”
A wave of nausea churned like acid at the base of her throat. For the first time in her life, she had a true appreciation of how it felt to be treated like a cheap date.
* * *
*1 The literal translation is “pull vehicle,” but this Hokkien term refers to rickshaw pullers or anything that is deemed low class. (Of course, Michael has never been to Manhattan, where pedicab drivers tend to be out-of-work male models who charge more than Uber Black Cars.)
*2 “Real or fake?” in Hokkien.
*3 Literally “My cock!,” this Hokkien swear is comparable to the American “Fucking hell!”
*4 Pork belly cooked in soy sauce, a simple Hokkien dish.
10
THE BINGS
SHANGHAI
Nick, Rachel, Carlton, and Roxanne stood on the wide stone steps of the Bing estate, watching Colette give a warm hug to the man that had just stepped out of the convoy of SUVs.
“Who’s that?” Nick asked Roxanne.
“Richie Yang,” Roxanne replied, before adding in a whisper, “one of Colette’s suitors, who’s based in Beijing.”
“He’s rather dressed up for tonight.”
“Oh, he is always very fashionable. Noblest Magazine ranked him the best-dressed man in China, and his father is ranked the fourth richest man in China by The Heron Wealth Report, with a net worth of US$15.3 billion.”
A short, slight man in his early fifties emerged from the armored SUV. His face had a slightly punched-in look, something that his neatly trimmed Errol Flynn mustache only served to accentuate. “Is that Colette’s father?” Nick asked.
“Yes, that is Mr. Bing.”
“What’s he ranked?” Nick asked in jest. He found these rankings to be rather ridiculous and more often than not wildly inaccurate.
“Mr. Bing is ranked fifth richest, but The Heron is wrong. At current share prices, Mr. Bing should be ranked higher than Richie’s father. Fortune Asia has it correct—it ranks Mr. Bing at number three,” Roxanne said earnestly.
“What an outrage. I should write a letter to The Heron Wealth Report to protest the error,” Nick joked.
“Oh no need, sir, we already have,” Roxanne replied.
Mr. Bing helped a woman with shoulder-length bouffant hair, dark-tinted sunglasses, and a blue surgical mask over her face out of the car.
“That’s Mrs. Bing,” Roxanne whispered.
“I figured. Is she ill?”
“No, she is just an extreme germaphobe. This is why she spends most of her time on the Big Island of Hawaii, where she thinks the air is freshest, and why this estate has a state-of-the-art air-purifying system.”
Everyone watched as Colette gave her parents polite half hugs, after which the maid bearing the chest of hot towels prostrated herself in front of them as if she were offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Colette’s parents, who wore matching navy blue cashmere Hermès tracksuits, took the steaming towels and began wiping their hands and faces methodically. Mrs. Bing then stretched out her hands, and another maid rushed up and squirted hand sanitizer onto her eager palms. After they had finished, Wolseley offered his greetings, and then Colette gestured for the group to approach.
“Papa, Mama, meet my friends. You know Carlton, of course. This is his sister, Rachel, and her husband, Nicholas Young. They live in New York, but Nicholas is from Singapore.”
“Carlton Bao! How is your father doing these days?” Colette’s father said as he clapped him on the back, before turning to Nick and Rachel. “Jack Bing,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously. He eyed Rachel with much interest, saying in Mandarin, “You look unmistakably like your brother.” Colette’s mother, by contrast, did not extend her hands but nodded quickly as she peered at them from behind her surgical mask and Fendi sunglasses.
“Richie’s plane was parked next to ours when we landed,” Jack Bing said to his daughter.
“I just flew in from Chile,” Richie explained.
“I insisted he join us for dinner,” Colette’s father said.
“Of course, of course,” Colette said.
“And look who’s here—Carlton Bao, the man with nine lives!” Richie cracked.
Rachel noticed Carlton’s jaw tense up the same way hers did whenever she was annoyed, but he laughed politely at Richie’s comment.
Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.
“Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.
Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father the services of a child prostitute.
“Ah Baptiste, thank you,” Jack Bing said in heavily accented English as he grabbed the heavy cut-glass tumbler from the tray.
Mrs. Bing removed her surgical mask, headed for the nearest sofa, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.
“No, Mother, let’s not sit here. Let’s sit on the sofa by the windows,” Colette said.
“Aiyah, I’ve been flying all day and my feet are so swollen. Why can’t you just let me sit here?”
“Mother, I had the maids specially fluff the lotus silk pillows on that sofa for you, and the magnolia trees are in full bloom this week. We must sit by the windows so you can enjoy them,” Colette said sharply.
Rachel jumped at Colette’s tone. Mrs. Bing got up reluctantly and the whole group made their way to the wall of glass at the end of the grand salon.
“Now, Mother, sit here so you can face the topiaries. Dad, you sit here. Mei Ching will bring little stools for your feet. Mei Ching, where are the pillow-top stools?” Colette demanded. Colette made herself comfortable on the chaise lounge facing in from the windows, but for everyone else sitting in that spot, the setting sun cast a blinding glare. It began to dawn on Rachel and Nick that the elaborate welcoming ritual they had witnessed outside wasn’t something that Colette did out of fear or filial respect for her parents. Rather, Colette was just an absolute control freak and liked everything done precisely her way.
As everyone leaned at awkward angles to avoid the glare, Jack Bing gave Nick a discerning look. Who is this man married to Bao Gaoliang’s love child? He has a jaw so chiseled it could slice sushi, and he carries himself like a duke. He nodded at Nick and said, “So, you are from Singapore. Very interesting country. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a history professor,” Nick replied.