“Wait a minute…you’re not going to tell me that your family lost all their money?”
“Of course not. But my grandfather had too many damn wives and too many children, so the fortune’s been dispersed. Collectively, we’d still rank high on the Forbes list, but not when there are so many of us feeding from the pot these days. But look at me, I’m a girl. My grandfather was an old-fashioned man from Amoy, and for people like him, girls weren’t supposed to inherit—they were just married off. Before he died, he put all his holdings in a labyrinthine family trust, stipulating that only males born with the Ling surname could benefit. I was expected to marry well, and I did, but then my husband died much too young, and I was left with two small children and some teet toh lui. Do you know how it feels to live among some of the richest people in the world and feel like you have nothing compared to them? Take it from me, Nicky—you have no idea what it’s like to come from everything and then lose it all.”
“You’re not exactly hurting.” Nick gestured at their surroundings.
“True, I’ve managed to maintain certain standards, but it has not happened with the sort of ease that you might imagine.”
“I appreciate your story, but the difference between you and me is that I don’t require all that much. I don’t need a yacht or a plane or a huge estate. I spent half my life in houses that were far too big, and it’s such a relief to live the way I do in New York. I’m perfectly content with my life just the way it is.”
“I think you misunderstand me. How can I put it to you more clearly?” Jacqueline pursed her lips for a moment and considered her finely painted manicure, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted to say. “You know, I grew up thinking that I was born into a certain world. My whole identity was wrapped up in the notion that I belonged to this family—that I was a Ling. But the moment I got married, I found out that I was not considered a Ling anymore. Not in the truest sense. All my brothers, half brothers, and idiot male cousins would inherit hundreds of millions each from the Ling Trust, but I wouldn’t be entitled to a cent. But then I realized it wasn’t really the loss of money that was affecting me the most. It was the loss of the privilege. To suddenly realize that you are inconsequential even within your own family. If you go through with this marriage, I promise you will feel a seismic shift. You can act self-righteous in front of me right now, but believe me, when it is all taken away, you won’t know what hit you. Doors that have been open to you all your life will suddenly be closed, because in everyone’s eyes, you are nothing without Tyersall Park. And I would hate to see that happen. You are the rightful heir. How much is that land worth today? Sixty of the most prime acres in the heart of Singapore…it’s like owning Central Park in New York. I can’t even begin to fathom the value. If Rachel only knew what you were giving up.”
“Well, I’m certainly not interested in having any of it if I can’t share my life with her,” Nick said adamantly.
“Who said you couldn’t be with Rachel? Why don’t you live with her as you have been? Just don’t get married now. Don’t rub it in your grandma’s face. Go home and make peace with her. She is in her nineties, how many years does she have left? After she goes, you can do anything you want.”
Nick considered her words in silence. There was a gentle knock on the door, and a steward bearing a tray of coffee and desserts entered.
“Thank you, Sven. Now try some of this chocolate cake. I think you’ll find it to be quite interesting.”
Nick took a bite, recognizing immediately that it tasted exactly like the airy yet rich chocolate chiffon cake made by the cook at his grandmother’s house. “How did you manage to pry the recipe out of Ah Ching?” he asked in surprise.
“I didn’t. I smuggled a slice into my handbag when I had lunch with your grandmother last week and had it flown straight to Marius, the genius chef we have aboard. He spent three days doing his own forensics on the cake, and after about twenty attempts, we got it just right, don’t you think?”
“It’s perfect.”
“Now, how would you feel if you could never have this chocolate cake again?”
“I’ll just have to be invited back to your yacht.”
“This isn’t my yacht, Nicky. None of this is mine. And don’t think I’m not reminded of this every day of my life.”
* * *
*1 Also blond, most likely Swedish.
*2 She’s naturally referring to Espen Oeino, one of the world’s leading naval architects, who has designed superyachts for the likes of Paul Allen, the Emir of Qatar, and the Sultan of Oman.
*3 Hokkien for “play money.”
7
BELMONT ROAD
SINGAPORE, MARCH 1, 2013
The man with the machine gun tapped on the tinted glass of Carol Tai’s Bentley Arnage. “Lower your window, please,” he said gruffly.
As the window came down, the man peered in, carefully scrutinizing Carol and Eleanor Young in the backseats.
“Your invitations, please,” he said, extending a Kevlar-gloved hand. Carol handed over the engraved metal cards.
“Please have your handbags open and ready for inspection when you get to the entrance,” the man instructed, gesturing for Carol’s chauffeur to drive on. They passed through the security roadblock, only to find themselves bumper-to-bumper with other fancy sedans trying to make their way toward the house with the red lacquered front door on Belmont Road.
“Aiyah, if I knew it was going to be this lay chay,*1 I wouldn’t have come,” Carol complained.
“I told you it wouldn’t be worth the headache. It never used to be like this,” Eleanor said, glaring at the traffic jam and thinking back to the earlier days of Mrs. Singh’s jewelry tea party. Gayatri Singh, the youngest daughter of a maharaja, possessed one of Singapore’s legendary jewelry collections, said to rival that of Mrs. Lee Yong Chien or Shang Su Yi. Every year, she would return from her annual trip to India with another stash of heirlooms spirited away from her increasingly senile mother, and starting in the early 1960s, she had begun inviting her dearest friends—women hailing from Singapore’s elite families—to come over for tea to “celebrate” her latest baubles.
“Back when Mrs. Singh was running the show, it was such a relaxed affair. It was just a bunch of nice ladies in beautiful saris sitting around the living room. Everyone took turns fondling Mrs. Singh’s jewels while gossiping and gobbling down Indian sweets,” Eleanor recalled.
Carol scrutinized the long queue trying to get through the front door. “This looks anything but relaxed. Alamak, who are all these women all dressed up like they are going to a cocktail party?”
“It’s all the new people. The whoest-who of Singapore society that no one has ever heard of—mainly Chindos,”*2 Eleanor sniffed.
Ever since Mrs. Singh lost interest in counting her carats and began spending more time in India studying Vedic scriptures, her daughter-in-law Sarita—a former minor Bollywood actress—had taken over the affair, and the homey ladies’ tea party evolved into a high-profile charity exhibition to raise money for whatever happened to be Sarita’s cause du jour. The event was breathlessly chronicled by all the glossy magazines, and anyone who could pay the exorbitant entry fee had the privilege of traipsing through the Singhs’ elegant modernist bungalow and gawking at the jewelry, which nowadays consisted of some specially themed exhibition.
This year’s show was devoted to the works of the acclaimed Norwegian silversmith Tone Vigeland, and as Lorena Lim, Nadine Shaw, and Daisy Foo peered into the glass vitrines in what was now the “gallery,” converted from the former table-tennis room, Nadine could not help but register her dismay. “Alamak, who wants to see all this Scandinavian gow sai*3? I thought we would get to see some of Mrs. Singh’s jewels.”