She walked down the aisle on her father’s arm in a classically inspired wedding dress designed by Valentino, whom she lured out of retirement to make precisely the sort of gown that generations of European princesses had gotten married in, the sort of gown that would make her look every inch the proper young wife from a very traditional, old-money Asian family. Valentino’s creation for Araminta featured a fitted high-necked lace bodice with long sleeves, a full skirt of overlapping lace and silk panels that unfurled like the petals of a peony as she moved, and a fifteen-foot train. (Giancarlo Giametti would later inform the press that the train, embroidered with ten thousand seed pearls and silver thread, took a team of twelve seamstresses nine months to sew and featured a pattern replicating the train Consuelo Vanderbilt wore when she fatefully wed the Duke of Marlborough in 1895.) Yet even in its baroque detail, the wedding gown did not overpower Araminta. Rather, it was the perfect extravagant foil against the stark minimalist wonderland her mother had so painstakingly created. Clutching a simple bouquet of stephanotis, with only a pair of antique pearl-drop earrings, the slightest hint of makeup, and her hair in a loose chignon adorned with nothing but a circlet of white narcissus, Araminta looked like a Pre-Raphaelite maiden floating through a sun-dappled forest.

From her seat in the front row, Annabel Lee, exultant in an Alexander McQueen dress of chiffon and gold lace, surveyed the faultlessly executed wedding procession and reveled in her family’s social triumph.

Across the aisle, Astrid sat listening to the violin solo, relieved that her plan had worked. In the excitement over her grandmother’s arrival, no one noticed that her husband was missing.

Sitting in his row, Eddie obsessed over which uncle could best introduce him to the chairman of the China Investment Corporation.

Standing by the altar, Colin gazed at the ravishing bride coming toward him, realizing that all the pain and fuss over the past few months had been worth it. “I can hardly believe it, but I don’t think I’ve ever been happier,” he whispered to his best man.

Nick, moved by Colin’s reaction, searched the crowd for Rachel’s face. Where was she? Oh, there she was, looking more gorgeous than she’d ever looked. Nick knew at that very moment that he wanted more than anything to see Rachel walk up that same aisle toward him in a white gown.

Rachel, who had been staring at the bridal procession, turned toward the altar and noticed Nick gazing intently at her. She gave him a little wink.

“I love you,” Nick mouthed back to her.

Eleanor, witnessing this exchange, realized there was no more time to lose.

Araminta glided up the aisle, sneaking occasional peeks at her guests through her veil. She recognized friends, relatives, and many people she had only seen on television. Then she caught sight of Astrid. Imagine, Astrid Leong was at her wedding, and now they would be related through marriage. But wait a minute, that dress Astrid was wearing … wasn’t that the same blue Gaultier she had worn to Carol Tai’s Christian Helpers fashion benefit two months ago? As Araminta reached the altar where her future husband awaited, with the Bishop of Singapore in front of her and the most important people in Asia behind her, one thought alone crossed her mind: Astrid Leong, that damn bitch, couldn’t even be bothered to wear a new dress to her wedding.

* * *

* The number eight is considered by the Chinese to be an extremely lucky number, since in both Mandarin and Cantonese it sounds similar to the word for prosperity or fortune. Triple-eight means triple the luck.

† Malay for “shameful,” “embarrassing.”

5

Fort Canning Park

SINGAPORE

As the wedding guests began filtering into the park behind First Methodist Church for the reception, more gasps of astonishment could be heard.

“What now?” Victoria grumbled. “I’m so tired of all this ‘oohing’ and ‘aiyahing’—I keep thinking somebody is going into cardiac arrest!” But as Victoria passed through the gates at Canning Rise, even she was momentarily silenced by the sight of the great lawn. In stark contrast to the church, the wedding reception looked like an atomic explosion of flowers. Thirty-foot-tall topiaries in gigantic pots and colossal spirals of pink roses encircled the field, where dozens of whimsical gazebos festooned in striped pastel taffeta had been built. In the center, an immense teapot spouted a waterfall of bubbly champagne into a cup the size of a small swimming pool, and a full string ensemble performed on what appeared to be a giant revolving Wedgwood plate. The scale of everything made the guests feel as if they had been transported to a tea party for giants.

“Alamak, someone pinch me!” Puan Sri Mavis Oon exclaimed as she caught sight of the food pavilions, where waiters in powdered white wigs and Tiffany-blue frock coats stood at tables piled mountain-high with sweets and savories.

Oliver escorted Rachel and Cassandra onto the great lawn. “I’m a bit confused—is this supposed to be the Mad Hatter’s tea party or Marie Antoinette on a bad acid trip?”

“Looks like a combination of both,” Rachel remarked.

“Now what do you suppose they’re going to do with all these flowers once the reception ends?” Oliver wondered.

Cassandra stared up at the towering cascade of roses. “In this heat, they will all be rotten within three hours! I’m told the price of roses spiked to an all-time high this week at the Aalsmeer Flower Auction. Annabel bought up all the roses on the world market and had them flown in from Holland on a 747 freighter.”

Rachel looked around at the guests parading the floral wonderland in their festive hats, their jewels glinting in the afternoon sun, and shook her head in disbelief.

“Ollie, how much did you say these Mainlanders spent?” Cassandra asked.

“Forty million, and for heaven’s sake, Cassandra, the Lees have lived in Singapore for decades now. You need to stop calling them Mainlanders.”

“Well, they still behave like Mainlanders, as this ridiculous reception proves. Forty million—I just don’t see where all the money went.”

“Well I’ve been keeping a tally, and I’m only up to five or six million so far. God help us, I think the motherlode is being spent on tonight’s ball,” Oliver surmised.

“I can’t imagine how they’re going to top this,” Rachel said.

“Refreshments, anyone?” a voice behind her said. Rachel turned around to see Nick holding two glasses of champagne.

“Nick!” she cried excitedly.

“What did you all think of the wedding ceremony?” Nick asked, gallantly handing drinks to the ladies.

“Wedding? I could have sworn it was a coronation,” Oliver retorted. “Anyway, who cares about the ceremony? The important question is: What did everyone think of Araminta’s dress?”

“It was lovely. It looked deceptively simple, but the longer you stared at it, the more you noticed the details,” Rachel offered.

“Ugh. It was awful. She looked like some kind of medieval bride,” Cassandra sniggered.

“That was the point, Cassandra. I thought the dress was a triumph. Valentino at his best, channeling Botticelli’s Primavera and Marie de’ Medici’s arrival in Marseilles.”