As the taxi climbed the hill toward the imposing Corinthian-columned portico, Nick explained its history to Rachel. “Uncle Chin Kee was a friend of my grandmother’s, so we used to visit every Chinese New Year, and I would be made to recite some elaborate poem in Mandarin. Then the old man, who reeked of cigars, would give me a hong bao* stuffed with five hundred dollars.”
“That’s insane!” Rachel exclaimed. “The biggest hong bao I ever got in my life was fifty dollars, and that was from this asshole dating my mom who was really trying to win me over. What did you do with all that money?”
“Are you kidding? My parents kept it, of course. They kept all my New Year money—I never saw a cent of it.”
Rachel looked at him in horror. “That’s just wrong! Hong baos are as sacred as Christmas presents.”
“Don’t get me started on what they did with my presents on Christmas morning!” Nick laughed. As they entered the elevator, Rachel inhaled deeply as she prepared to meet Nick’s parents—these hong bao snatchers—for the first time.
“Hey, don’t forget to breeeeathe,” Nick said, massaging her shoulders gently. On the thirtieth floor, the elevator opened directly into the penthouse’s foyer and they were greeted by an enormous pane of glass that framed a panoramic view of the Orchard Road shopping district. “Wow!” Rachel whispered, marveling at the deep purple dusk settling over the skyline.
A woman appeared from around the corner and said, “Aiyah, Nicky, why is your hair so long? You look like a ruffian! You better get it cut short before Colin’s wedding.”
“Hi, Mum,” Nick said simply. Rachel was still reeling from the abruptness of this encounter when Nick continued, “Mum, I’d like you to meet Rachel Chu, my girlfriend.”
“Oh, hello,” Eleanor said, as if she had no idea who the girl might be. So this is the girl. She looks better than in that school yearbook picture obtained by the detective.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Young,” Rachel found herself saying, although her mind was still trying to accept the notion that this woman could actually be Nick’s mother. Rachel had been expecting an imperious grande dame with a powdered white face and a tight perm dressed in some Hillary Clinton–esque pantsuit, but before her stood a striking woman in a trendy scoop-neck top, black leggings, and ballet flats, looking far too young to have a thirty-two-year-old son. Rachel bowed her head and presented her gift of oranges.
“How lovely! Aiyah, you really shouldn’t have!” Eleanor replied graciously. Why in the world did she bring mandarin oranges—does she think it’s Chinese New Year? And why is she bowing like some stupid Japanese geisha? “Have you been enjoying Singapore so far?”
“Yes, very much,” Rachel replied. “Nick’s taken me to have the most fantastic hawker food.”
“Where did you take her?” Eleanor looked at her son dubiously. “You’re practically a tourist yourself—you don’t know all the secret holes-in-the-wall like I do.”
“We’ve been to Lau Pa Sat, Old Airport Road, Holland Village—” Nick began.
“Alamak! What is there to eat in Holland Village?” Eleanor exclaimed.
“Plenty! We had the best rojak for lunch,” Nick said defensively.
“Nonsense! Everyone knows that the only place to go for rojak is that stall on the top floor of Lucky Plaza.”
Rachel laughed, her nerves quickly dissipating. Nick’s mother was so funny—why had she been so nervous?
“Well, this is it,” Eleanor said to her son, gesturing at the space.
“I don’t know what you were talking about, Mum, the place looks perfect.”
“Alamak, you don’t know how much of a headache this flat has caused me! We had to re-stain the floors six times to get the right finish.” Nick and Rachel stared down at the beautiful gleaming white oak floors. “And then some of the custom furniture in the guest bedrooms had to be redone, and the automatic blackout curtains in my bedroom aren’t dark enough. I’ve had to sleep in one of the guest bedrooms on the other side of the flat for more than a month now because the curtains are on back order from France.”
The entry foyer opened into a great room with thirty-foot ceilings and a grid-like pattern of skylights that drenched the room with light. The space was made even more dramatic by a sunken oval pit in the center, with sleek Hermès-orange sofas perfectly contoured around both sides of the oval. From the ceiling, a spiral chandelier of sculptured gold and glass teardrops pirouetted down until it almost touched the oval driftwood coffee table. Rachel could hardly believe that Nick’s parents lived in such a space—it looked more like the lobby of some impossibly hip hotel. A phone rang in another room, and a maid peered out of a doorway to announce, “It’s Mrs. Foo and Mrs. Leong.”
“Oh, Consuelo, please send them up,” Eleanor said. At last, the reinforcements are here.
Nick looked at his mother in surprise. “You invited other people? I thought we were going to have a quiet family dinner.”
Eleanor smiled. We would have, if it were just our family. “It’s only the regular crowd, lah. The cook made laksa, and it’s always better to have more people for that. Besides, everyone wants to see you, and they can’t wait to meet Rachel!”
Nick smiled at Rachel in an attempt to cover up his dismay. He had wanted his parents to give their undivided attention to Rachel, but his mother was always springing last-minute surprises like this.
“Go wake your father, Nick—he’s napping in his media room down that hall,” Eleanor instructed.
Nick and Rachel walked toward the media room. The sounds of gunfire and explosions could be heard from within. As they approached the open door, Rachel could see Nick’s father asleep on a Danish ergonomic recliner while Battlestar Galactica played on the flat-screen television built into the sandblasted oak wall. “Let’s not disturb him,” Rachel whispered, but Nick entered anyway.
“Wakey, wakey,” he said softly.
Nick’s father opened his eyes and looked up at Nick in surprise. “Oh, hello. Is it dinnertime?”
“Yes, Dad.”
Nick’s father got up from the chair and looked around, spotting Rachel standing shyly in the doorway.
“You must be Rachel Chu,” he said, smoothing down the back of his hair.
“Yes,” Rachel replied, coming into the room. Nick’s father extended his hand. “Philip Young,” he said with a smile, shaking her hand firmly. Rachel liked him instantly, and she could at last see where her boyfriend got his looks. Nick’s large eyes and elegantly shaped mouth were exactly like his mother’s, but the thin nose, prominent jawline, and thick jet-black hair were unmistakably his father’s.
“When did you get in?” Nick asked his father.
“I caught the morning flight from Sydney. I wasn’t planning to come until later in the week, but your mum insisted that I fly up today.”
“Do you work in Sydney, Mr. Young?” Rachel asked.
“Work? No, I moved to Sydney not to work. It’s far too beautiful a place for work. You get distracted by the weather and the sea, the long walks and the good fishing.”