“I searched the world for that handbag, and even L’Eclaireur in Paris couldn’t get it for me …”
“It’s a three-bedroom in that old complex on Thompson Road. I have a gut feeling it’s going to go en bloc and I’ll triple my money …”
“OMG, I found the best new place for chili crab, you won’t believe where …”
“I like the Lanesborough’s suites more than Claridge’s, but really, the Calthorpe is where you want to be …”
“Nonsense, lah! No Signboard Seafood still has the best chili crab …”
“This isn’t cashmere, you know. It’s baby vicuña …”
“Did you hear Swee Lin sold her Four Seasons flat for seven-point-five mil? A young Mainland Chinese couple, paid in cash …”
Yep, this was definitely not her crowd. Suddenly an overly tan girl with fake blond hair extensions came into the lounge, shouting, “Araminta just pulled up!” The room got quiet as everyone craned their necks toward the sliding glass door. Rachel hardly recognized the girl who entered. In place of the schoolgirl in pajama pants of a few nights ago was a woman in a matte-gold jumpsuit with gold stiletto boots, her wavy dark brown hair piled into a loose beehive. With a light dusting of expertly applied makeup, her girlish features were transformed into that of a supermodel. “Rachel, I’m so glad you made it!” Araminta said excitedly, giving her a big hug. “Come with me,” she said, taking Rachel by the hand and leading her to the center of the room.
“Hello, everyone! First things first — I want to introduce all of you to my fabulous new friend Rachel Chu. She’s visiting from New York, as the guest of Colin’s best man, Nicholas Young. Please give her a very warm welcome.” All eyes were on Rachel, who flushed a little and could do nothing but smile politely at the assembled crowd that was now dissecting every inch of her. Araminta continued. “You are all my dearest friends, so I wanted to give you a special treat.” She paused for effect. “Today we’re heading to my mum’s private island resort in eastern Indonesia!” There were gasps of astonishment from the crowd. “We’re going to dance on the beach tonight, feast on delish low-calorie cuisine, and pamper ourselves silly with spa treatments all weekend! Come on, girls, let’s get this party started!”
Before Rachel could fully process what Araminta had said, they were ushered on board a customized Boeing 737–700, where she found herself in a dramatically chic space with streamlined white saddle-stitched leather sofas and glistening shagreen console tables.
“Araminta, this is just too much! Is this your dad’s new plane?” one of the girls asked incredulously.
“Actually it’s my mum’s. Bought from some oligarch in Moscow who needed to lower his profile and go into hiding, from what I hear.”
“Well, let’s hope no one blows this plane up by mistake, then,” the girl joked.
“No, no, we had it repainted. It used to be cobalt blue, and of course my mom had to do her Zen makeover thing. She had it repainted three times before she was satisfied with the right shade of glacier white.”
Rachel wandered into the next cabin and encountered two girls chattering animatedly.
“Told you it was her!”
“She’s not at all what I was expecting. I mean, her family is supposed to be one of the richest in Taiwan, and she shows up looking like some—”
Upon noticing Rachel, the girls abruptly went silent and smiled sheepishly at her before fleeing down the corridor. Rachel hadn’t paid any attention to their exchange — she was far too distracted by the dove-gray leather banquettes and handsome polished-nickel reading lamps extending down from the ceiling. One wall was lined with a bank of flat-screen televisions, while the other consisted of silver ladder racks hung with the latest fashion magazines.
Araminta entered the cabin, leading some girls on a tour. “Here is the library-slash-media room. Don’t you love how cozy it is? Now let me show you my favorite space on the plane, the yoga studio!” Rachel followed the group into the next room, in utter disbelief that there were people rich enough to install a state-of-the-art Ayurvedic yoga studio with inlaid pebble walls and heated pine floors in their private jet.
A group of girls came in squealing with laughter. “Alamak, Francesca has already cornered that hunky Italian steward and commandeered the master bedroom!” the overly bronzed girl exclaimed in her singsongy accent.
Araminta frowned in displeasure. “Wandi, tell her the bedroom is off-limits, and so is Gianluca.”
“Maybe we should all get inducted into the mile-high club with these Italian stallions,” one of the giggly girls said.
“Who needs to be inducted? I’ve been a member since I was thirteen,” Wandi boasted, tossing back her blond-streaked hair.
Rachel, at a loss for words, decided to buckle herself into the nearest armchair and prepare for takeoff. The demure-looking girl sitting beside her smiled. “You’ll get used to Wandi. She’s a Meggaharto, you know. I don’t think you need me to tell you how that family is. By the way, I’m Parker Yeo. I know your cousin Vivian!” she said.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t have a cousin named Vivian,” Rachel replied in amusement.
“Aren’t you Rachel Chu?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t your cousin Vivian Chu? Doesn’t your family own Taipei Plastics?”
“Afraid not,” Rachel said, trying not to roll her eyes. “My family is originally from China.”
“Oh sorry, my mistake. So what does your family do?”
“Um, my mother is a real estate agent in the Palo Alto area. Who are these Taipei Plastics people everyone keeps talking about?”
Parker simply smirked. “I’ll tell you, but excuse me for just one moment.” She unbuckled her seat belt and made a beeline for the back cabin. It was the last time Rachel would see her during the entire flight.
“Girls, I have the scoop of all scoops!” Parker burst in on the girls crowded into the master cabin. “I was just sitting next to that Rachel Chu girl, and guess what? She isn’t related to the Taipei Chus! She hasn’t even heard of them!”
Francesca Shaw, lounging in the middle of the bed, gave Parker a withering look. “Is that all? I could have told you that months ago. My mother is best friends with Nicky Young’s mother, and I know enough about Rachel Chu to sink a ship.”
“Come on, lah—give us all the dirt!” Wandi pleaded, bouncing up and down on the bed in anticipation.
After a dramatic landing on a perilously short runway, Rachel found herself on a sleek white catamaran, the salty ocean breeze whipping through her hair as they sped toward one of the more remote islands. The water was an almost blinding shade of turquoise, interrupted by tiny islands dropped onto the calm surface here and there like dollops of fresh cream. Soon the catamaran made a sharp turn toward one of the bigger islands, and as they approached, a striking series of wooden buildings with undulating thatched canopies came into view.
This was the paradise dreamed up by Araminta’s hotelier mother, Annabel Lee, who spared no expense in creating the ultimate retreat according to her exacting vision of what chic, modern luxury should be. The island, actually just a quarter-mile-long spit of coral, consisted of thirty villas built on stilts that extended out over the shallow coral reefs. As the boat pulled up to the jetty, a line of waiters in saffron-colored uniforms stood stiffly at attention holding Lucite trays of mojitos.