As the Daimler chauffeuring Eddie, Fiona, and their three children approached the gates of 11 Nassim Road, Eddie did one last run-through.

“Kalliste, what are you going to do when they start to serve the coffee and desserts?”

“I’m going to ask Great-aunt Felicity whether I can play the piano.”

“And what are you going to play?”

“The Bach partita, and then the Mendelssohn. Can I also play my new Lady Gaga song?”

“Kalliste, I swear to God if you play any of that damn Lady Gaga I’m going to break every one of your fingers.”

Fiona stared out the car window, ignoring her husband. This is how he was every time he was about to see his Singapore relatives.

“Augustine, what’s the matter with you? Button your jacket,” Eddie instructed.

The little boy obeyed, carefully buttoning the two gold buttons on his blazer.

“Augustine, how many times have I told you—do not ever, EVER button the last button, do you hear me?”

“Papa, you said never button the last button on my three-button jacket, but you never told me what to do when there’s only two buttons,” the boy whimpered, tearing up.

“Happy now?” Fiona said to her husband, taking the boy into her lap and gently smoothing out the hair on his forehead.

Eddie gave her an annoyed look. “Now everybody listen up … Constantine, what are we going to do when we get out of the car?”

“We are going to get into formation behind you and Mummy,” his eldest son answered.

“And what is the order?”

“Augustine goes first, then Kalliste, then me,” the boy droned in a bored voice.

“Perfect. Wait till everyone sees our splendid entrance!” Eddie said excitedly.

Eleanor entered the front hall behind her son and his girlfriend, eager to observe how the girl would be received. Nick had obviously been preparing her—Rachel was cleverly wearing a demure-looking navy blue dress and no jewelry except for tiny pearl earrings. Looking into the drawing room, Eleanor could see her husband’s extended clan all clustered by the French doors leading out to the terrace. She remembered as if it were yesterday meeting them for the first time. It was at the old T’sien estate near Changi, before the place was turned into that frightful country club all the foreigners went to. The T’sien boys with their roving eyes were tripping over themselves to talk to her, but the Shangs barely deigned to look in her direction—those Shangs were only comfortable speaking to families they had known for at least two generations. But here Nick was boldly leading the girl straight into the frying pan, attempting to introduce Rachel to Victoria Young, the snottiest of Philip’s sisters, and Cassandra Shang—the imperious gossip-monger otherwise known as Radio One Asia. Alamak, this was going to be good.

“Rachel, this is my aunt Victoria and my cousin Cassandra, just back from England.”

Rachel smiled nervously at the ladies. Victoria, with her wiry chin-length bob and slightly rumpled peach cotton dress, had the look of an eccentric sculptress, while whippet-thin Cassandra—with her graying hair severely parted into a tight Frida Kahlo bun—wore an oversize khaki shirtdress and an African necklace festooned with little wooden giraffes. Victoria shook Rachel’s hand coolly, while Cassandra kept her spindly arms crossed over her chest, her lips pursed in a tight smile as she assessed Rachel from head to toe. Rachel was about to inquire about their vacation when Victoria, looking over her shoulder, announced in that same clipped English accent that all of Nick’s aunts had, “Ah, here come Alix and Malcolm. And there’s Eddie and Fiona. Good grief, look at those children, all dressed up like that!”

“Alix was moaning on about how much money Eddie and Fiona spend on those kids. Seems they only wear designer clothes,” Cassandra said, stretching out “deee-siiign-er” as if it were some sort of grotesque affliction.

“Gum sai cheen!† Where on earth does Eddie think he’s taking them? It’s a hundred and five degrees outside and they are dressed for a shooting weekend at Balmoral,” Victoria scoffed.

“They must be sweating like little pigs in those tweed jackets,” Cassandra said, shaking her head.

Just then Rachel noticed a couple entering the room. A young man with the tousled hair of a Korean pop idol lumbered toward them with a girl dressed in a lemon-yellow and white-striped tube dress that clung to her body like sausage casing.

“Ah, here comes my cousin Alistair. And that must be Kitty, the girl he’s madly in love with,” Nick remarked. Even from across the room, Kitty’s hair extensions, false eyelashes, and frosty-pink lipstick stood out dramatically, and as they approached, Rachel realized that the white stripes in the girl’s dress were actually sheer, with her engorged nipples clearly showing through.

“Everyone, I’d like you all to meet my girlfriend Kitty Pong,” Alistair proudly beamed.

The room went dead silent as everyone stood gaping at those chocolate-brown nipples. While Kitty basked in the attention, Fiona swiftly herded her children out of the room. Eddie glared at his kid brother, furious that his entrance had been upstaged. Alistair, thrilled by the sudden attention, blurted out, “And I want to announce that last night I took Kitty to the top of Mount Faber and asked her to marry me!”

“We’re engaged!” Kitty squealed, waving around the large cloudy-pink diamond on her hand.

Felicity gasped audibly, looking at her sister, Alix, for some reaction. Alix gazed into the middle distance, not making eye contact with anyone. Her son nonchalantly continued. “Kitty, meet my cousin Nicky, my auntie Victoria, and my cousin Cassandra. And you must be Rachel.”

Without missing a beat, Victoria and Cassandra turned to Rachel, cutting Alistair dead. “Now Rachel, I hear you are an economist? How fascinating! Will you explain to me why the American economy can’t seem to dig out of its sorry state?” Victoria asked shrilly.

“It’s that Tim Paulson fellow, isn’t it?” Cassandra cut in. “Isn’t he a puppet controlled by all the Jews?”

* * *

* The exotic Black and White houses of Singapore are a singular architectural style found nowhere else in the world. Combining Anglo-Indian features with the English Arts and Crafts movement, these white-painted bungalows with black trim detailing were ingeniously designed for tropical climes. Originally built to house well-to-do colonial families, they are now extremely coveted and available only to the crazy rich ($40 million for starters, and you might have to wait several decades for a whole family to die).

† Cantonese for “what a waste of money.”

3

Patric’s

SINGAPORE

“A lacy black thong? And you could really see it through the dress?” Peik Lin cried out, doubling over with laughter in the restaurant banquette she was sharing with Rachel.

“The thong, the nipples, all of it! You should have seen the look on all of their faces! She might as well have been naked,” Rachel said.

Peik Lin wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes. “I can’t believe all that’s happened to you in the past week. Those girls. The dead fish. Nick’s family. Leave it to you to walk right into the middle of all this.”