“It’s gorgeous, Charlie, and much larger than my flat.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m not. I’m in a three-bedroom off Clemenceau Avenue. You know that eighties building across the street from the Istana?”
“What on earth are you doing living in that old teardown?”
“It’s a long story. Basically, Michael didn’t want to feel beholden to my dad. So I agreed to live in a place he could afford.”
“I suppose that’s admirable, although I just can’t imagine how he could make you squeeze into a pigeonhole for the sake of his pride,” Charlie huffed.
“Oh, I’m quite used to it. And the location is very convenient, just like here,” Astrid said.
Charlie couldn’t help but wonder what sort of life Astrid had made for herself since marrying this idiot. “Here, let me show you to your room,” Charlie said. They climbed the sleek brushed-metal staircase and he showed her into a large, spartanly furnished bedroom with topstitched beige suede walls and masculine gray flannel bedding. The only decorative object was a photograph of two young girls in a silver frame by the bedside. “Is this your bedroom?” she asked.
“Yes. Don’t worry, I’m going to sleep in my daughters’ room,” Charlie quickly added.
“Don’t be silly! I’ll take the girls’ room — I can’t make you give up your bedroom for me—” Astrid began.
“No, no, I insist. You’ll be much more comfortable here. Try to get some sleep,” Charlie said, closing the door gently before she could protest any more.
Astrid changed out of her clothes and lay down. She turned on her side and stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows that perfectly framed the Hong Kong skyline. The buildings were densely packed in this part of the city, staggered steeply on the mountainside in sheer defiance of the terrain. She remembered how, when she had first visited Hong Kong as a young girl, her aunt Alix had explained that the city’s feng shui was particularly good, because wherever you lived, the dragon mountain was always behind you and the ocean was always in front of you. Even at this late hour, the city was a riot of lights, with many of the skyscrapers illuminated in a spectrum of colors. She tried to sleep, but she was still too wired from the past few hours — stealing away from the wedding just as the fireworks show was starting, rushing home to pack a few things, and now finding herself in the bedroom of Charlie Wu, the boy whose heart she had broken. The boy who, strangely enough, had awakened her to another way of life.
PARIS, 1995
Astrid leaped onto the king-size bed at the Hôtel George V, sinking into the plush feathertop mattress. “Ummmm … you need to lie down, Charlie. This is the most delicious bed I’ve ever slept on! Why don’t we have beds like these at the Calthorpe? We really ought to — the lumpy mattresses we have probably haven’t been changed since Elizabethan times.”
“Astrid, we can enjoy the bed later, lah. We only have three hours left until the shops close! Come on, lazybones, didn’t you sleep enough on the train?” Charlie cajoled. He couldn’t wait to show Astrid the city he had come to know like the back of his hand. His mother and sisters had discovered the world of high fashion in the decade since his father had taken his tech company public, transforming the Wus almost overnight from mere centi-millionaires to billionaires. In the early days, before they were in the habit of chartering planes, Dad would buy up the entire first-class cabin of Singapore Airlines, and the whole family would sweep through the capitals of Europe — staying in the grandest hotels, eating at the restaurants with the most Michelin stars, and indulging in limitless shopping. Charlie had grown up knowing his Buccellati from his Boucheron, and he was eager to show this world to Astrid. He knew that — for all her pedigree — Astrid had been brought up practically in a nunnery. The Leongs did not eat in expensive restaurants — they ate food prepared by their cooks at home. They did not favor dressing up in designer clothes, preferring to have everything made by their family tailor. Charlie felt that Astrid had been far too stifled — all her life she had been treated like a hothouse flower, when in fact she was a wildflower that was never allowed to bloom fully. Now that they were eighteen and living together in London, they were finally free of family confines, and he would dress her like the princess she was, and she would be his forever.
Charlie led Astrid straight to the Marais, a neighborhood he had discovered on his own after tiring of tagging along with his family to the same shops within a three-block radius of the George V. As they strolled down rue Vieille du Temple, Astrid let out a sigh. “Aiyah, it’s adorable here! So much cozier than those wide boulevards in the Eighth Arrondissement.”
“There is one shop in particular that I stumbled on the last time I was here … it was so cool. I can just picture you wearing everything this designer makes, this tiny Tunisian guy. Let’s see, which street was it on?” Charlie mumbled to himself. After a few more turns, they arrived at the boutique that Charlie wanted Astrid to see. The windows consisted of smoked glass, giving nothing away as to what treasures lay within.
“Why don’t you go in first and I’ll join you in a sec? I want to stop in at the pharmacy across the street to see if they have any camera batteries,” Charlie suggested.
Astrid stepped through the door and found herself transported into a parallel universe. Portuguese fado music wailed through a space with black ceilings, obsidian walls, and poured-concrete floors stained a dark espresso. Minimalist industrial hooks protruded from the walls, and the clothes were artfully draped like pieces of sculpture and lit with halogen spotlights. A saleswoman with a wild, frizzy mane of red hair glanced briefly from behind an oval glass desk with elephant tusk legs before continuing to puff on her cigarette and page through an oversize magazine. After a few minutes, when it seemed like Astrid wasn’t leaving, she asked haughtily, “Can I help you?”
“Oh, no, I’m just looking around. Thank you,” Astrid replied in her schoolgirl French. She continued to circle the space and noticed a wide set of steps leading downstairs.
“Is there more downstairs?” she asked.
“Of course,” the saleslady said in her raspy voice, getting up from her desk reluctantly and following Astrid down the stairs. Below was a space lined with glossy coral-red armoires where, once again, only one or two pieces were artfully displayed. Astrid saw a beautiful cocktail dress with a silvery chain-mail back and searched the garment for a tag indicating its size. “What size is this?” she asked the woman standing watch like a pensive hawk.
“It’s couture. Do you understand? Everything made to order,” the woman replied drolly, waving her cigarette hand around and flicking ash everywhere.
“So, how much would it cost for me to have this made in my size?” Astrid asked.
The saleswoman made a quick assessment of Astrid. Asians hardly ever set foot in here — they usually kept to the famous designer boutiques on the rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré or the avenue Montaigne, where they could inhale all the Chanel and Dior they wanted, God help them. Monsieur’s collection was very avant-garde, and only appreciated by the chicest Parisiennes, New Yorkers, and a few Belgians. Clearly this schoolgirl in the rollneck fisherman’s sweater, khakis, and espadrilles was out of her league. “Listen, chérie, everything here is très, très cher. And it takes five months for delivery. Do you really want to know how much it costs?” she said, taking a slow drag from her cigarette.