“Sorry—I was just making conversation.”

They lapsed into silence again, Michael focusing on the client dinner and Astrid contemplating their disagreeable conversation. Michael had always shied away from anything to do with money when they first got married, especially if it involved her family, and went to great pains to show that he had absolutely no interest in her financial affairs. Indeed, their marriage had been rocked to its core by his insecurities over her fortune and his ill-conceived attempt to set her free, but thankfully that awful period was well behind them.

But ever since his business had exploded into a huge success, he had become the proverbial mouse that roared. It dawned on Astrid that at family gatherings these days, her husband always seemed to be at the center of the financial debates with the men. Michael relished being the go-to guy for advice about the tech industry and the newfound respect he was forging with her father and brothers, who had for years treated him with barely veiled condescension. He had also discovered his acquisitive side, and Astrid had watched in wide-eyed wonder as his tastes had upgraded faster than you could say “Do you take Amex?”

She glanced over at him now, cutting such a dashing figure in his dark gray Cesare Attolini suit and his perfectly knotted Borrelli tie, the face of his Patek Philippe Nautilus Chronograph glinting under the flash of streetlamps as he shifted gears forcefully on his iconic automobile, the one that every hot-blooded male from James Dean to Ferris Bueller had coveted. She was proud of all he had achieved, but part of her missed the old Michael, the man who was happiest lounging at home in his soccer kit enjoying his plate of tau you bahk*4 with white rice and his Tiger beer.

As they drove along palm-tree-lined Neil Road, Astrid gazed at all the colorful heritage shophouses. Then she realized they had just sped past the restaurant. “Hey, you missed the turn. That was Bukit Pasoh we just passed.”

“Don’t worry, I did that on purpose. We’re going to circle the block for a while.”

“Why? Aren’t we already late?”

“I’ve decided to give them a little more time to cool their heels. I instructed the ma?tre d’ to make sure they get drinks at the bar first, and that they are seated right by the window so that they will have the best view of us pulling up. I want all the guys to see me get out of this car, and then I want them to see you getting out of this car.”

Astrid almost wanted to laugh. Who was this man next to her talking this way?

Michael continued, “We’re playing this game of chicken right now, and I know they want to see who blinks first. They have raging hard-ons to acquire this new proprietary technology that we’ve developed, and it’s really important that I am able to convey the right image to them.”

They finally pulled up outside the elegant white colonial-era shophouse that had been converted into one of the island’s most acclaimed restaurants. As Astrid got out of the car, Michael looked her over and said, “You know, I think you made a mistake changing out of that first cocktail dress. It showed off your sexy legs. But at least you have those earrings. That’s really going to make their jaws drop, especially the wife. It’ll be great—I want them to know that I’m not going to be a cheap date.”

Staring at him in disbelief, Astrid stumbled for a moment on the pristine wooden deck leading to the front door.

Michael grimaced. “Shit, I hope they didn’t see you do that. Why the hell are you wearing those ridiculous boots anyway?”

Astrid breathed in deeply. “What’s the wife’s name again?”

“Wendy. And they have a dog named Gizmo. You can talk about the dog with her.”

A wave of nausea churned like acid at the base of her throat. For the first time in her life, she had a true appreciation of how it felt to be treated like a cheap date.

* * *

*1 The literal translation is “pull vehicle,” but this Hokkien term refers to rickshaw pullers or anything that is deemed low class. (Of course, Michael has never been to Manhattan, where pedicab drivers tend to be out-of-work male models who charge more than Uber Black Cars.)

*2 “Real or fake?” in Hokkien.

*3 Literally “My cock!,” this Hokkien swear is comparable to the American “Fucking hell!”

*4 Pork belly cooked in soy sauce, a simple Hokkien dish.

10

THE BINGS

SHANGHAI

Nick, Rachel, Carlton, and Roxanne stood on the wide stone steps of the Bing estate, watching Colette give a warm hug to the man that had just stepped out of the convoy of SUVs.

“Who’s that?” Nick asked Roxanne.

“Richie Yang,” Roxanne replied, before adding in a whisper, “one of Colette’s suitors, who’s based in Beijing.”

“He’s rather dressed up for tonight.”

“Oh, he is always very fashionable. Noblest Magazine ranked him the best-dressed man in China, and his father is ranked the fourth richest man in China by The Heron Wealth Report, with a net worth of US$15.3 billion.”

A short, slight man in his early fifties emerged from the armored SUV. His face had a slightly punched-in look, something that his neatly trimmed Errol Flynn mustache only served to accentuate. “Is that Colette’s father?” Nick asked.

“Yes, that is Mr. Bing.”

“What’s he ranked?” Nick asked in jest. He found these rankings to be rather ridiculous and more often than not wildly inaccurate.

“Mr. Bing is ranked fifth richest, but The Heron is wrong. At current share prices, Mr. Bing should be ranked higher than Richie’s father. Fortune Asia has it correct—it ranks Mr. Bing at number three,” Roxanne said earnestly.

“What an outrage. I should write a letter to The Heron Wealth Report to protest the error,” Nick joked.

“Oh no need, sir, we already have,” Roxanne replied.

Mr. Bing helped a woman with shoulder-length bouffant hair, dark-tinted sunglasses, and a blue surgical mask over her face out of the car.

“That’s Mrs. Bing,” Roxanne whispered.

“I figured. Is she ill?”

“No, she is just an extreme germaphobe. This is why she spends most of her time on the Big Island of Hawaii, where she thinks the air is freshest, and why this estate has a state-of-the-art air-purifying system.”

Everyone watched as Colette gave her parents polite half hugs, after which the maid bearing the chest of hot towels prostrated herself in front of them as if she were offering gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Colette’s parents, who wore matching navy blue cashmere Hermès tracksuits, took the steaming towels and began wiping their hands and faces methodically. Mrs. Bing then stretched out her hands, and another maid rushed up and squirted hand sanitizer onto her eager palms. After they had finished, Wolseley offered his greetings, and then Colette gestured for the group to approach.

“Papa, Mama, meet my friends. You know Carlton, of course. This is his sister, Rachel, and her husband, Nicholas Young. They live in New York, but Nicholas is from Singapore.”

“Carlton Bao! How is your father doing these days?” Colette’s father said as he clapped him on the back, before turning to Nick and Rachel. “Jack Bing,” he said, shaking their hands vigorously. He eyed Rachel with much interest, saying in Mandarin, “You look unmistakably like your brother.” Colette’s mother, by contrast, did not extend her hands but nodded quickly as she peered at them from behind her surgical mask and Fendi sunglasses.

“Richie’s plane was parked next to ours when we landed,” Jack Bing said to his daughter.

“I just flew in from Chile,” Richie explained.

“I insisted he join us for dinner,” Colette’s father said.

“Of course, of course,” Colette said.

“And look who’s here—Carlton Bao, the man with nine lives!” Richie cracked.

Rachel noticed Carlton’s jaw tense up the same way hers did whenever she was annoyed, but he laughed politely at Richie’s comment.

Everyone made their way into the grand salon. Upon entering, they were met by a man who Rachel thought looked rather familiar. He stood by the door bearing a tray that held a sparkling decanter and a freshly poured glass of scotch. It suddenly dawned on her that she had seen him at Din Tai Fung, where he had been introduced as the sommelier. She realized now that the Frenchman didn’t work for the restaurant—he was the Bings’ personal master sommelier.

“Would you care for the twelve-year-old sherry to welcome you home, sir?” he said to Mr. Bing.

Nick had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up—the man sounded like he was offering Colette’s father the services of a child prostitute.

“Ah Baptiste, thank you,” Jack Bing said in heavily accented English as he grabbed the heavy cut-glass tumbler from the tray.

Mrs. Bing removed her surgical mask, headed for the nearest sofa, and plopped down with a satisfied sigh.

“No, Mother, let’s not sit here. Let’s sit on the sofa by the windows,” Colette said.