Catherine looked like a deer caught in headlights for a moment. “Oh yes, that’s right…lovely!” she said, remembering that she had immediately passed on the hideous blouse to one of her maids.
Eddie furrowed his brow and tried to sound terribly concerned. “I saw Charlie Wu at Davos. You know, he didn’t even have the decency to wear a proper suit and tie to the most important conference in the world! My God, what if Astrid and Charlie are on their way back to Singapore now? What if she wants him to meet Ah Ma? Or worse, to introduce his mother to Ah Ma? Can we risk upsetting Ah Ma when her condition is so fragile?”
“She wouldn’t dare bring that man to Tyersall Park! Or her seamstress-snatching mother!” Victoria sniffed.
“She’s not going to have the chance. I’m going to make sure that girl doesn’t show her face anywhere near Tyersall Park!” Felicity angrily decreed.
Eddie tried to hide his satisfied smirk by looking at the view of the golf course for a moment. Nicky was banned from Tyersall Park, and now his biggest ally Astrid was banished as well. Things could not be working out any better if he had planned it himself. And let’s not forget, his sexy-as-fuck bespoke Marinis were on their way too.
* * *
* If you assumed that Eddie did not wash his hands, you would be correct.
CHAPTER SIX
PORTO FINO ELITE ESTATES, SHANGHAI
The fountain-blue Bentley Mulsanne pulled up by the front steps and a bodyguard jumped out of the passenger side to open the back door. As Araminta Lee Khoo emerged from the car in a sculptural ballerina-pink silk strapless Delpozo dress with a contrasting oversize yellow bow and pink sequined miniskirt, the paparazzi began clicking away furiously at her showstopping look.
“Araminta! Araminta! Look over here!”
“Can we have a fashion pose, please, Araminta?”
Araminta paused for a moment, pivoted expertly toward the photographer with one hand on her hip, her other hand showing off her exquisite Neil Felipp Suzy Wong minaudière, before proceeding up the red-carpeted steps.
Waiting at the freshly lacquered front doors of their mansion were Kitty and Jack. Kitty wore an explosion of powder-blue feathers courtesy of Armani Privé, and chose this occasion to debut her new diamond and antique Burmese cabochon sapphire earrings from Chaumet. Jack squirmed uncomfortably beside her in skinny black jeans and a shawl-collared white tuxedo jacket by Balmain that was made-to-measure but looked two sizes too small.
“Minty! You made it!” Kitty leaned over and gave her an air kiss, as another set of photographers stationed by the front doors clicked away.
“My yoga retreat is practically right next door to you in Moganshan, so I thought it could do no harm to sneak away for just one night!” Araminta replied.
“I’m so glad you did. And now you finally get to meet my husband. Jack, this is my best friend from Singapore—Araminta Lee, er, I mean Khoo.”
“Thank you for coming,” Jack said stiffly.
“Fabulous to meet you! I feel like I know you already!” Araminta tried to give Jack an air kiss, but he tilted back reflexively as he saw the glossy red lips coming at him. Kitty prodded him sharply with an elbow and he quickly straightened up just in time to collide heads with Araminta.
“Aiyoh!” Jack groaned. Araminta appeared to see stars for a second, but quickly recovered and laughed it off.
“Please forgive my husband. He’s just excited to meet you—he gets excited whenever he’s around famous supermodels,” Kitty gushed apologetically.
Araminta moved along into the house, while Kitty shot daggers at her husband with her eyes. “Don’t you know how to do a perfect Euro-fashionista triple-cheeked air kiss? You almost gave her a concussion!”
Jack muttered under his breath, “Tell me why we’re doing this again?”
“Honey, we were specially chosen by Vogue China to host the most exclusive party of Shanghai Fashion Week! This is the party all the most important lao wais*1 are attending! Do you know how many people would sell their servants’ organs for this opportunity? Please stop complaining.”
“What a waste of time…” Jack muttered under his breath.
“Waste of time? Do you even know who my friend is?”
“Some silly model.”
“She’s not just a model—she’s the wife of Colin Khoo.”
“No idea who that is.”
“Oh come on, he’s the heir to the Khoo empire of Singapore. And besides, Araminta is also the only daughter of Peter Lee. I’m sure you know who that is—he was the first Chinese billionaire in U.S. dollars.”
“Peter Lee’s old news. I’m worth exponentially more than him.”
“You may have more money, but the Lees have more influence. Don’t you realize I’m introducing you to the most influential people in the world?”
“These people make clothes. How are they influential?”
“You have no idea. These people control the world. And the cream of Shanghai society wants to be around them. Just think of who has showed up so far—Adele Deng, Stephanie Shi. And now the First Lady is about to arrive—”
“And it looks like Mozart came with her.”
“Oh my God, that’s not Mozart, that’s Karl Lagerfeld. He’s a very, very, very important man! He’s the Kaiser of fashion.”
“What the fuck does that even mean?”
“He is so powerful, he could simply flare one of his nostrils and have me banned from Chanel forever and I might as well be dead. Please, please be polite.”
Jack snorted. “I’ll try not to fart in his general direction.”
After all the VVIP lao wais had been greeted, Kitty made her grand entrance into the house while Jack fled to his screening room until it was time for dinner. (“As long as you show up for my toast and tell Peng Liyuan how much you adore her singing at some point during the banquet, I don’t care what else you do,” Kitty had told him.) The whole party was actually an excuse for Kitty to show off the redesign of the house, and she stood on the top step of the former great hall—which she had renamed the Salon Grande—surveying the scene.
Gone was Colette’s Zen-like Puli Hotel–inspired decor, and in its place, Thierry Catroux had created a look he called “Ming emperor meets Louis-Napoléon at Studio 54.” Ming dynasty urns mingled with rare Aubusson carpets against sixties-mod Italian leather-and-Lucite furniture, while the monochromatic Shikumen gray brick walls were now covered in Tibetan yak hair dyed in shimmering shades of persimmon. The eighty-foot-long east wall had been covered with purple-and-crimson latticework screens—in homage to the Hall of Dispelling Clouds at the Summer Palace in Beijing. Colette’s prized collection of black-and-white Wu Boli calligraphy scrolls had been banished to the museum wing, and in its place were enormous paintings of vibrantly colored canvases by Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, and Keith Haring in antique rococo gilt frames. Kitty’s guests flocked to her side, gushing about the radical transformation.
“It’s unbelievable, Kitty,” Pan TingTing praised.