“Nick studied law at Oxford, but he teaches at New York University,” Colette added.
“You went to all the trouble of getting a law degree at Oxford, but you don’t practice?” Jack asked. Must be a failed lawyer.
“I’ve never practiced. History was always my first passion.” Next he’s going to ask me how much money I make or what my parents do.
“Hmmm,” Jack said. Only these crazy Singaporeans can waste money sending their children to Oxford for nothing. Maybe he comes from one of those rich Indonesian Chinese families. “What does your father do?”
And there it is. Nick had met innumerable Jack Bings over the years. Successful, ambitious men who were always looking to make connections with people they deemed worthy. Nick knew that by simply dropping a few of the right names, he could easily impress someone like Jack Bing. Since he had no interest in doing that, he answered politely, “My father was an engineer, but he’s retired now.”
“I see,” Jack said. What a waste of a man. With his height and looks, he could have been a top banker or a politician.
Now he’s either going to dig further about my family, or move on to Rachel’s inquisition. Nick asked out of courtesy, “And what do you do, Mr. Bing?”
Jack ignored Nick’s question and turned his attention to Richie Yang. “So Richie, tell me what you were doing in Chile, of all places. Scouting for more mining companies that your father can acquire?”
Oh very nice—I’ve been deemed inconsequential, and he obviously couldn’t give a damn what Rachel does. Nick chuckled to himself.
Richie, who was staring intently at his titanium Vertu phone, scoffed at Jack’s words. “Good God no! I’m training for the Dakar Rally. You know, that off-road vehicle endurance race? It’s held in South America now—the course starts in Argentina and ends in Peru.”
“You’re still racing?” Carlton piped in.
“Of course!”
“Unbelievable!” Carlton shook his head, his voice laced with anger.
“What? You think I go running home to Mommy after just one little wreck?”
Carlton went red in the face, and he looked like he was about to leap out of his chair and lunge at Richie. Colette placed her hand on his arm and said in a cheery voice, “I’ve always wanted to visit Machu Picchu, but you know I get terrible altitude sickness. I went to St. Moritz last year and got so ill, I could hardly do any shopping.”
“You never told me that! See how you constantly put your life in danger by going to dangerous places like Switzerland?” Mrs. Bing admonished her daughter.
Colette turned to her mother and said in an irritated tone, “It was fine, Mother. Now, who died and made you Jackie Onassis? Why are you wearing those sunglasses in the house?”
Mrs. Bing sighed dramatically. “Hiyah, you don’t know my latest suffering.” She took off her sunglasses and revealed puffy, swollen eyes. “I can’t open my eyes properly anymore. See, see? I think I have this very rare disease called mayo…mayonnaise gravies.”
“Oh, you mean myasthenia gravis,” Rachel offered.
“Yes, yes! You know it!” Mrs. Bing said excitedly. “It affects the muscles around your eyes.”
Rachel nodded sympathetically. “I’ve heard it can be very debilitating, Mrs. Bing.”
“Please, call me Lai Di,” Colette’s mother said, warming up to Rachel.
“You do not have mayonnaise gravy, or whatever you call it, Mother. Your eyes are all swollen because you sleep too much. Anyone would look like that if they slept fourteen hours a day,” Colette said disdainfully.
“I have to sleep fourteen hours a day because of my chronic fatigue syndrome.”
“Another disease you do not have, Mother. Chronic fatigue syndrome does not make you sleepy,” Colette said.
“Well, I’m going to see a specialist for mayonnaise-athena gravies next week in Singapore.”
Colette rolled her eyes and explained to Rachel and Nick, “My mother keeps ninety percent of all the doctors in Asia employed.”
“Well, she’s probably seen quite a few of my relatives, then,” Nick quipped.
Mrs. Bing perked up. “Who are your doctor relatives?”
“Let’s see…the one you might know is my uncle Dickie—Richard T’sien, he’s a GP who has many society clients. No? Then there’s his brother Mark T’sien, an ophthalmologist; my cousin Charles Shang, a hematologist; my other cousin Peter Leong, a neurologist.”
Mrs. Bing gasped. “Dr. Leong? Who shares a clinic in K.L. with his wife, Gladys?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Aiyah! Small world—I went to see him when I thought I had a brain tumor. And then I went to see Gladys for a second opinion.”
Mrs. Bing began rattling away excitedly to her husband in a Chinese dialect that Nick couldn’t recognize. Jack, who had been listening to Richie describe the special off-road vehicle he was designing with Ferrari, immediately circled back to Nick. “Peter Leong is your cousin. So Harry Leong must be your uncle?”
“Yes, he is.” Now he thinks I’m a Leong. My market value is rebounding again.
Jack eyed Nick with renewed interest. My God, this boy is one of the Leong Palm Oil people! Ranked number three on The Heron Wealth Report’s list of richest families in Asia! No wonder he can afford to be a teacher! “Is your mother a Leong?” Jack asked excitedly.
“No, she’s not. Harry Leong married my father’s sister.”
“I see,” Jack said. Hmm. Family name Young. Never heard of them. This kid must come from the poor side of the family.
Mrs. Bing leaned toward Nick. “What other doctors are in your family?”
“Er…do you know Dr. Malcolm Cheng, the Hong Kong cardiologist?”
“Oh my God! Another one of my doctors!” Mrs. Bing said excitedly. “I went to see him for my irregular heartbeat. I thought maybe I had micro-valve relapse, but it turned out I just needed to drink less Starbucks.”
Richie, who was getting increasingly bored of all the doctor talk, turned to Colette. “When’s dinner?”
“It’s almost ready. My Cantonese chef is making her famous parchment chicken with white truffles.”*1
“Yum!”
“And as a special treat, I’ve also asked my French chef to make your favorite Grand Marnier soufflé for dessert,” Colette added.
“You sure know the way to a man’s heart, don’t you?”
“Only certain men,” Colette said, lifting one eyebrow.
Rachel glanced at Carlton to see how he was reacting to this exchange, but he seemed to be staring intently at his iPhone. He then looked up and nodded quickly at Colette, who caught his gesture but said nothing. Rachel couldn’t decipher what was going on between them.
Wolseley soon announced that dinner was ready, and the party adjourned to the dining room, which was a glassed-in terrace up a short flight of steps overlooking the big reflecting pool. “It’s just a casual family dinner tonight, so I thought we could dine informally on our little air-conditioned terrace,” Colette explained.
Of course, the terrace was neither little nor informal. Lining the perimeter of the tennis-court-size space were tall silver hurricane votive lamps filled with flickering candles, and the round zitan-wood dining table that seated eight was elaborately set with “casual” Nymphenburg china. Maids stood at attention behind every chair, waiting as if their life depended on it to help ensure that each guest could properly manage the feat of sitting down.
“Now, before we start dinner, I have a special treat for everyone,” Colette announced. She glanced at Wolseley and nodded. The lights were dimmed, and the first strains of the classic Chinese folk song “Jasmine Flower” began to boom from the outdoor loudspeakers. The trees around the great reflecting pool outside suddenly lit up in brilliant shades of emerald, and the waters of the pool, lit in deep purple, started to churn. Then, as the operatic singing began, thousands of water jets shot up into the night sky, choreographed to the music and morphing into elaborate formations and a rainbow riot of colors.
“My goodness, it’s just like the Bellagio dancing fountain in Las Vegas!” Mrs. Bing squealed in delight.