Colette surveyed the cabin, looking rather displeased. She glanced at Roxanne and said, “Send for Fernando right now.”

The man arrived momentarily, and Colette gave him a lethal glare. “Where’s the tea? There should always be cups of steaming-hot Bird’s Tongue Longjing tea*2 waiting for my mother and grandmother the minute they get on board! And little plates of hua mei*3 to suck on during takeoff! Hasn’t anyone read the Aircraft Standards Manual?”

“I apologize, Miss Bing. We only landed a little over an hour ago and haven’t had time to turn around the plane properly.”

“What do you mean you just landed? Wasn’t Trenta here all weekend?”

“No, Miss Bing. Your father just returned from Los Angeles.”

“Really? I had no idea. Well, get us the tea and tell the captain we’re ready for takeoff.”

“Right away, Miss Bing,” the chief purser said, turning to leave.

“One more thing…”

“Yes, Miss Bing?”

“There is something in the air tonight, Fernando.”

“We’ll readjust the cabin climate right away.”

“No, that’s not it. Can you smell the air, Fernando? It’s nothing like Frédéric Malle’s Jurassic Flower. Who changed the cabin scent without my permission?”

“I’m not sure, Miss Bing.”

After Fernando left the room, Colette turned to Roxanne again. “When we get to Paris, I want new copies of the Aircraft Standards Manual printed and bound for every member of the flight crew. I want them to memorize every page, and then we’re going to give them a pop quiz during the return flight.”

* * *

*1 The passenger list included Rachel, Nick, Carlton, Colette Bing, Mrs. Bing, Grandma Bing, Auntie Pan Di, Stephanie Shi, Mrs. Shi, Adele Deng, Wen Pi Fang, Mrs. Wen, Perrineum Wang, Tiffany Yap, Roxanne Ma, and six maids (every one of Colette’s girlfriends brought along a personal maid).

*2 The mountains of Hangzhou are famed for Longjing tea, also known as Dragon Well tea. It is said that 600,000 fresh tea leaves are required to produce one kilogram of this precious tea that is prized above all else by Chinese tea connoisseurs.

*3 Salted dried plums, fervently sucked on by generations of Chinese like martini olives. Supposedly great for combating nausea but has the reverse effect on me.

15

28 CLUNY PARK ROAD

SINGAPORE

Carmen Loh had just stretched into sarvangasana pose in the middle of her living room when she heard her answering machine kick in.

“Carmen, ah. Mummy here. Geik Choo just called to tell me that Uncle C.K. has been checked in to Dover Park Hospice. They say if he makes it through the night, he can probably last through the week. I’m going to pay a visit today. I think you should come with me. Can you come and pick me up at Lillian May Tan’s around six? We should be finished with mah-jongg by then, unless Mrs. Lee Yong Chien shows up. In that case the game will take longer. Visiting hours at Dover Park end at eight, so I want to make sure we have ample time. Also, I ran into Keng Lien today at NTUC, and she said she heard from Paula that you are selling your Churchill Club membership to fund some new scuba-diving venture. I said ‘What rubbish, there is no way my daughter would ever do a thing like…’?”

Grunting in frustration, Carmen eased her body down from its shoulder stand. Why the hell didn’t she remember to turn off the machine? Thirty minutes of pure bliss ruined by one call from her mother. She walked slowly to the phone and picked it up. “Ma, why on earth is Uncle C.K. in a hospice and not at home? Won’t they get him twenty-four-hour home-hospice care even in his final days? I can’t believe the family is as giam siap*1 as that.”

“Aiyah, it’s not that. Uncle C.K. wants to die at home, but the children won’t let him. They think it will affect the value of the house, lor.”

Carmen rolled her eyes in exasperation. Even before the tin-mining tycoon C. K. Wong’s MRI results came in showing that his cancer had spread all over, everyone had already begun plotting. In the old days, real estate agents would scour the obituaries every morning, hoping to see the name of some prominent tycoon appear, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the family put the big house up for sale. Now, with Good Class Bungalows*2 becoming rarer than unicorns, the top agents were resorting to “well-placed contacts” at all the hospitals. Five months ago, Carmen’s boss, Owen Kwee, at MangoTee Properties had called her into his office and said, “My lobang*3 at Mount E. saw C. K. Wong come in for chemo. Aren’t you related to him?”

“Our fathers are cousins.”

“That house of his on Cluny Park Road is on a three-acre plot. It’s one of the last Frank Brewer houses still standing.”

“I know. I’ve been going there my whole life.”

Owen leaned back in his tufted-leather office chair. “I only know the oldest son, Quentin. But there are other siblings, right?

“Two younger brothers and one daughter.” She knew exactly where he was going with this.

“Those two brothers live abroad, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Carmen said impatiently, wishing he would get to the point.

“The family will probably want to sell after the old man conks off, won’t they?”

“Jesus, Owen, my uncle is still very much alive. He was golfing at Pulau Club last Sunday.”

“I know, lah, but can I safely assume that MangoTee will get the exclusive listing if the family ever decides to sell?”

“Stop being so kiasu.*4 Of course I will get the listing,” Carmen said in annoyance.

“I’m not being kiasu, I just wanted to make sure you are prepared. I hear Willy Sim over at Eon Properties is already circling like a hawk. He went to Raffles with Quentin Wong, you know.”

“Willy Sim can circle all he wants. I’m already in the nest.”

? ? ?

Six months later, this was precisely where Carmen found herself—standing in the crow’s nest, a small room tucked away in the attic of her late uncle’s old bungalow—as she showed her friend Astrid around the property.

“What a cute space! What did they use this room for?” Astrid asked as she peered around the little nook.

“The original family that built this house called it the crow’s nest. The story is that the wife was a poetess, and she wanted a quiet place away from her children to do her writing. From the window, she had a bird’s-eye view of the front garden and the driveway, so she could always keep an eye on who was coming and going. By the time my uncle bought the house, this was just a store room. My cousins and I used it as a clubhouse when we were kids. We called it Captain Haddock’s Hideout.”

“Cassian would love this. He would have so much fun up here.” Astrid peered out the window and saw Michael’s 1956 black Porsche 356 Speedster pulling up the driveway.

“James Dean just arrived,” Carmen deadpanned.

“Haha. He does look like quite the rebel in it, doesn’t he?”

“I always knew you’d end up with a bad boy. Come, let’s give him the grand tour.”

As Michael got out of his classic sports car, Carmen couldn’t help but notice the transformation. The last time she had seen him was two years ago at a party at Astrid’s parents’ house, where he was in cargo pants and a polo shirt and still had his commando buzz cut. Now, striding up to the front steps in his steel-gray Berluti suit, Robert Marc sunglasses, and trendy disheveled haircut, he seemed like a totally different man.

“Hey, Carmen. Love your new hairstyle,” Michael said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks,” Carmen said. She’d had her long straight hair layered into a chin-length bob a few weeks ago, and he was the first man to pay her a compliment.

“My condolences about your uncle—he was a great man.”

“Thank you. The silver lining to this unfortunate event is that you are getting to preview the place before it officially goes on the market tomorrow.”

“Yes, Astrid hassled me to leave the office and come see this place right now.”

“Well, we anticipate a feeding frenzy as soon as the listing goes live. A property like this hasn’t come on the market in years, and it will most likely go straight to auction.”

“I can only imagine. What is this—two, three acres? In this neighborhood? I’m sure every developer would love to get their hands on this,” Michael said, surveying the expansive front lawn framed by tall, lush traveler’s palms.

“That’s precisely why the family has allowed me to show it to you exclusively. We don’t want this house to be torn down and turned into some huge condo development.”

Michael glanced quizzically at Astrid. “This isn’t a teardown? I thought you wanted to hire some hot-shit French architect to design something on this land.”

“No, no, you’re confusing this with the place I wanted you to see on Trevose Crescent. This should never be torn down—it’s a treasure,” Astrid said emphatically.