“Louis XIV mirrors. Stolen from Versailles!” Adele cackled, as she followed the ladies out the door.

Perched in the corner of the cigar lounge, Kitty couldn’t hide her look of devastation. “My breasts are not fake!” she cried.

“Don’t listen to them, Kitty.”

“Adele Deng told me the house was ‘so original.’ Why would she lie to my face like that?”

Oliver paused for a moment, thinking that Adele was right on one score—Kitty certainly didn’t pick up on the subtler cues. “They’re just jealous of all the attention you’re getting. Ignore them.”

“You know, it’s not so easy to ignore those ladies. Adele Deng and Stephanie Shi—they rule the scene here. If this is what they’re really thinking, I’ll never be able to compete.”

“Kitty, look—you’ve already conquered the world stage. These women aren’t your competition anymore, don’t you see?”

“I realize that, but I also realize something else. No matter what I do, this will always be known as Colette’s house. And this will always be Colette’s town, even though she’s gone. She was born here—these are her people. I will always be an outsider in Shanghai, no matter what I do. Why did I even bother spending two years redecorating this house? I should be where people appreciate me.”

“I couldn’t agree more. You have houses all over the world, you can be anywhere you want to be, creating your own social universe. Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t live in Hong Kong full-time. It’s my favorite city in Asia.”

“Corinna Ko-Tung tells me it will take at least one generation for me to break into Hong Kong society—Harvard might have a chance if I enroll him in the right kindergarten, but it’s already too late for Gisele. You know, the only place where Chinese people have ever treated me well is Singapore. Look how nice Araminta Lee has been. And my friends Wandi, Tatiana, and Georgina live there part-time too.”

Oliver didn’t want to remind Kitty that Araminta was actually born in Mainland China, and that neither Wandi, Tatiana, nor Georgina were native Singaporeans, but he began to see a new opportunity arise. “You know, you already own one of the most historic houses on one of the best streets in Singapore. I had assumed you’d spend more time there after you acquired it.”

“I thought I would. But then I got pregnant with Harvard and Jack insisted that I give birth in the United States. And after that we just somehow spent more time in Shanghai because I needed to redo this house.”

“But your poor Frank Brewer estate in Singapore is completely neglected. It’s only half decorated. Think of what you could accomplish there if you focused your attention on it. Think of all the accolades you would receive from architectural preservationists if you truly restored it to its former glory. My God, I’m sure my friend Rupert would insist on doing a feature story for The World of Interiors.”

The wheels in Kitty’s head began turning. “Yes, yes. I could transform that little house. Make it even more spectacular than this cursed place! And it will be one hundred percent mine! Will you help me?”

“Of course. But you know, aside from the house, I do think it’s time for you to undergo another radical transformation as well. You need a new look that will launch you into Singapore society properly. My God, the Tattle crowd will love you. Let’s get you a photo shoot and feature story. Hell, I’m sure I can wrangle you the cover.”

“You really think so?”

“Absolutely. I can see it already…we’ll get Bruce Weber to shoot it. You, Gisele, and Harvard, romping through your historic heritage property in Singapore surrounded by a dozen golden retrievers. All wearing Chanel! Even the dogs!”

“Um…can we get Nigel Barker to shoot it instead? He’s soooooo dreamy!”

“Of course, dear. Whoever you want.”

Kitty’s eyes lit up.

* * *

*1 A derogatory term for Caucasians; in Mandarin it translates as “foreign/white/Caucasian.”

*2 Michael, Project Runway just hasn’t been the same without you. Pleeeeeeeeease come back.

CHAPTER SEVEN

RESIDENCES AT ONE CAIRNHILL, SINGAPORE

The cook had brought home the most scrumptious Singaporean breakfast delicacies from the market. There was chwee kueh—delicately steamed rice-flour cakes topped with salty radish pickle and chili sauce; freshly grilled roti prata—crisp, buttery Indian bread served with a curry dipping sauce; chai tow kuay—daikon radish cakes pan-fried with egg, shrimp, and spring onions; and char siew bao—sweet barbecued-pork buns. As Eleanor and Philip gleefully unwrapped the brown waxed-paper packets of food, Nick entered the white Calacatta-marble-clad kitchen and padded toward the elegant diner-style banquette that had been glassed in so Eleanor’s guests could enjoy a “chef’s table” experience without having to worry about getting any of the smoky aromas on their expensive outfits or in their perfect coiffures.

“Oh good, you’re up. Come, come, eat while it’s still hot,” Eleanor said, dipping a piece of her roti prata into the spicy coconut chicken curry.

Nick stood at the table, not saying anything. Eleanor looked up at him and saw the grimace on his face. “What’s wrong? Are you constipated? I know we shouldn’t have gone to that Italian restaurant last night. So overrated, and so awful.”

“I rather enjoyed my linguine with white truffles,” Philip commented.

“Aiyah, nothing special, lah. I could open a can of Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom Soup and pour it over some noodles and you wouldn’t even know the difference! Not worth the money, even if Colin did pay, and all that cheese always clogs up the system.”

“I just can’t believe you sometimes.” Nick pulled out a chair and sat down at the banquette.

“What don’t you believe? Eat a ripe banana, or I have some Metamucil if that doesn’t work.”

“I’m not constipated, Mum, I’m annoyed. I just got off the phone with Rachel.”

“Oh, how is she?” Eleanor asked in a merry tone, as she spooned a heaping portion of chai tow kuay onto her Astier de Villatte plate.

“You know exactly how she is. You spoke to her yesterday.”

“Oh, she told you?”

“She’s my wife—she tells me everything, Mum. I can’t believe you actually asked her what kind of birth control we use!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Eleanor asked.

“Have you gone completely mental? She’s not some Singaporean girl you can interrogate about every bodily function. She’s American. They don’t discuss things like that with just anyone!”

“I am not just anyone. I am her mother-in-law. I have a right to know when she’s ovulating!” Eleanor snapped.

“No you don’t! She was so appalled and embarrassed, she didn’t even know what to say.”

“No wonder she hung up so quickly.” Eleanor giggled.

“This whole grandchildren business has to stop, Mum. We won’t be pressured into having kids just because you want us to.”