“What if I get dressed up in a very conservative black Roland Mouret dress and wear a nice hat? I’ll even use the Bentley instead of the Rolls and bring a few bodyguards along. Surely they won’t turn me away?”

“Kitty, you need to trust me on this. This is one funeral you don’t want to crash. It would be a faux pas of epic proportions. This is a funeral for family and very close friends only. I assure you there will be no one you know, and it really won’t matter if you’re not there.”

“Can you assure me that Colette won’t be there?”

“Kitty, I can assure you she has probably never even heard of my family.”

“But that doesn’t necessarily mean she won’t be there. I heard she got back to Singapore two days ago. It was mentioned in Honey Chai’s gossip blog: ‘Countess of Palliser is staying at the Raffles Hotel.’ Did she leave her orangutans to come to the funeral?”

Oliver rolled his eyes in exasperation. “There is no way Colette or Lady Mary or whatever she calls herself these days will be anywhere near that funeral. I promise.”

“I guess I’ll go spend the day on Tatiana Saverin’s new yacht then. She says it was designed by the same guy that did Giorgio Armani’s boat.”

“Yes, it is a beautiful day for sailing. Why don’t you slip on your sexiest Eres bikini, put on your sailing diamonds, and spend the day sipping Aperol spritzes on a yacht? Stop wasting your precious time thinking about this dreary funeral that I wish I didn’t have to attend!” (Oliver lied. As much as he adored Su Yi, he had to admit that today was truly going to be the social event of the century.)

“Okay, okay.” Kitty laughed and hung up.

Oliver leaned against his bathroom sink, methodically patting some Floris aftershave on his cheeks and throat. The phone rang again.

“Hello, Kitty.”

“What are sailing diamonds? Do I need to get some?”

“It’s just an expression, Kitty. I made it up.”

“But do you think I should wear a diamond necklace with my bikini? I could put on my Chanel Joaillier diamonds, the one in the sunburst floral pattern. Diamonds are waterproof, aren’t they?”

“Of course. Go for it. I have to run now, Kitty, or I’m going to be late for the funeral.” Two seconds after hanging up, Oliver’s mother, Bernadette, walked into the bathroom.

“Mother, I’m not dressed!” Oliver groaned, tightening the towel around his waist.

“Hiyah, what do you have that I haven’t already seen? Tell me, is this okay?”

Oliver scrutinized his sixty-nine-year-old mother, slightly annoyed by the graying roots that were showing on the top of her head. Her Beijing hairdresser really wasn’t doing a good job maintaining her color. Bernadette, who was born a Ling, came from a family where all the women were renowned for their beauty. Unlike her sisters or her cousins—Jacqueline Ling being the prime example, who appeared preternaturally preserved—Bernadette looked her age. Actually, in the tailored dark blue silk brocade suit with the ribbon tie at the collar, she looked older. This is what happens when you spend twenty-five years toiling away in China, Oliver thought to himself.

“Is this the only dark dress you brought with you?”

“No, I brought three dresses, but I already wore the other two during the night visits.”

“Then I suppose this one will have to do. Did your tailor in Beijing make this one for you?”

“Aiyah, this one was very pricey compared to my Beijing tailor! Mabel Shang’s girl in Singapore made this for me more than thirty years ago. It’s a copy of some famous Paris designer. Pierre Cardin, I think.”

Oliver exploded in laughter. “Mother, no one would copy a Pierre Cardin. It’s probably one of those 1980s designers Mabel used to love. Scherrer, Féraud, or Lanvin back when Maryll was in charge. Well, at least you can say it still fits. You didn’t bring one of your little cloche hats, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. I packed for Singapore weather. But Oliver, what do you think of this?” Bernadette asked, fingering the impressive jade-and-ruby butterfly brooch pinned to her lapel.

“Oh, it’s fabulous.”

“You sure no one will be able to tell? Heaven forbid I get seated next to your grandmother and she notices,” Bernadette fretted.

“With grandma’s glaucoma, I don’t think she can even see that you have the brooch on. Trust me, I had the best jeweler I know in London replicate it.”

“I should never have let the real thing go.” Bernadette sighed.

“We didn’t really have a choice, did we? Just forget it ever happened. You still have the brooch, right here. The jade looks flawless, the rubies look real, the diamonds are sparkling like they came straight out of Laurence Graff’s hands. If I can’t tell, no one will be able to tell.”

“If you say so. Now, do you have a tie Dad can borrow? The only one he brought got all stained with chocolate cake last night. So sad, once Tyersall Park goes, I’m going to miss that chocolate cake.”

“Of course. Go to my closet and pick out anything you’d like for him. One of the Borrellis might be nice. Actually, give me a second and I’ll do it.” As his mother left the bathroom, Oliver thought to himself, I’ve learned my lesson. Next time I’m going to put them up at a hotel, even if they kick and scream.* This flat is just too small for three people.

* * *

* Asian parents visiting their adult children who live in other cities ALWAYS INSIST on staying with them, no matter if the child lives in a studio apartment or the house is already bursting at the seams with too many hormonal teenagers, and even if the parents could afford to buy out a whole floor of the Ritz-Carlton. And of course, even if you’re forty-six years old, suffering from sleep apnea and chronic sciatica, you’re still expected to give up your master bedroom to your parents and sleep on the inflatable mattress in the living room. Because that’s just how it is.

CHAPTER FOUR

ST. ANDREW’S CATHEDRAL, SINGAPORE

Inside the lead Mercedes escorting the funeral cortege from Tyersall Park to the cathedral, Harry Leong was staring out the window, trying to ignore the incessant chatter that came from his wife, Felicity, arguing over last-minute details with her sister Victoria.

“No, we have to let the president of Singapore speak first. That follows official protocol,” Victoria said.

“But then the Sultan of Borneo will be terribly insulted. Royalty should always come before elected officials,” Felicity argued back.

“Rubbish, this is our country, and our president has precedence. You only care about the sultan because of all the Leong plantations in Borneo.”

“I care about him not urinating all over the pulpit at St. Andrew’s. His Majesty is an elderly diabetic with a weak bladder. He should get to have the first word. Besides, he knew Mummy even before the president was born.”

“Reverend Bo Lor Yong is going to have the first word. He’s going to read the blessing.”

“WHAT? You invited Bo Lor Yong too? How many pastors are going to be at this funeral?” Felicity asked incredulously.