“I told your brothers this morning,” said Dad. “I’m getting old. It’s time for me to stop working so hard. At this age, I should be enjoying life. Spending time with my family, playing with my grandchildren.”
This was pointed. It was Renee’s parents’ view that at her age, only a couple of months short of thirty-one, Renee was overdue providing them with grandchildren, even though they already had six from her brothers.
“Someone is going to have to take charge of the group,” said Dad. “A business like Chahaya, it’s not easy to hand over.”
The joke about Chahaya was that it owned half of Singapore and had built the other half. It wasn’t much of a joke, because it wasn’t far from the truth.
Both of Renee’s brothers and their wives were employed by Chahaya Group, as were innumerable uncles, aunts and cousins, her parents’ many godchildren, and various others more tenuously connected to the family. It could have absorbed a lot more people—including Renee, as her dad had mostly given up on reminding her.
“I can’t simply pass it on to anybody,” Dad went on. “The company needs someone who can do the job. But I worked so long to build it up. It should stay in the family.” He paused. “Can you hear me?”
Renee was clutching the phone so hard her hand hurt. She made herself relax her grip.
“Yes,” she said.
“What would you say,” said Dad, “if I asked you to take over Chahaya?”
3
It took KetSiong a while to realise he’d misplaced his date for the evening.
He hadn’t come for Alicia’s company, any more than he’d come for the exhibition itself. The name Dior meant as little to him as, he supposed, Shostakovich or Britten would to someone who didn’t care about classical music.
But he felt a twinge of guilt at his inattention. He wouldn’t have been able to attend the private view if not for Alicia Tan. Only current or potential patrons of the museum had been invited— as well as celebrities and socialites whose borrowed glamour might tempt the monied but less famous to dip into their pockets. Alicia had an invite because her father was managing partner of a magic circle firm who occasionally indulged in being a patron of the arts.
Ket Siong was in his best suit, a relic of his performing days. His mother had taken him to his father’s old tailor years ago to have it made up, in a small, unassuming lot that smelt of mothballs, tucked away in a corner of a Kuala Lumpur shopping mall. Mr. Loke had turned out an unexpected masterpiece, though when Ket Siong’s mother had thanked him, the old man said dismissively, “Didn’t do much. If everybody was shaped like your boy, I’d have an easy life.”
Despite the armour of Mr. Loke’s impeccable cut, Ket Siong felt out of place, adrift in a sea of elegant people smelling of designer perfume and champagne. Even the waitstaff were intimidatinglysmart in monochrome suits, wafting past with trays of outlandish canapés: tiny glasses of smoked eel suspended in saffron jelly; garlicky curls of octopus nestled in mini charcoal brioche buns; teardrop-shaped dollops of ricotta coated with truffle dust.
Ket Siong conscientiously ate everything offered to him so he could report back to his family, but he wasn’t in a mood to relish the spread. Upscale parties had never really been his scene, and he was out of practice now. He’d declined at first when Alicia asked him to come, but she’d kept pushing.
“I’d feel silly going by myself, and all my friends are busy.” She’d handed Ket Siong the invitation to the event. “Come on, Ket.” Ket Siong went by his generation name with Westerners, to save them having two syllables to butcher, and despite her Malaysian Chinese grandfather, for these purposes Alicia counted as a Westerner. “It’ll be fun.”
The invite bore the Victoria and Albert Museum’s logo on the front, the stark black letters embossed on thick, glossy card stock. The card fell open in Ket Siong’s hand, revealing images of women dressed in bold hues of green and yellow and blue.
“There’ll be free drinks,” said Alicia. “And hors d’oeuvres. We don’t have to stay the whole evening.”
“I’m not sure it’s a good idea,” Ket Siong began. Then he turned the invitation over and saw the list of major donors on the other side, printed in a grey so discreet it was nearly illegible. One name leapt out at him.
He told his brother about the event, but not about the name he’d seen in the list of donors.
“Are you interested in the exhibition, or the girl?” said Ket Hau.
Ket Siong blinked. “Alicia? She only graduated a couple of years ago. Too young for me.”
“You’re only thirty-one. It’s not that big a gap,” said Ket Hau. “She must not think it is, if she invited you.”
Ket Siong shook his head. He wasn’t sure why Alicia had chosento invite him, but it wasn’t that. “Do you think it’s inappropriate to accept an invitation like that from the sister of a student?”
The female relatives of the kids whom Ket Siong taught piano had a disconcerting tendency to hover during his lessons. He wasn’t sure what they wanted from him, but he had a feeling he shouldn’t encourage them.
“She’s not the one you’re teaching,” said Ket Hau. “But if you don’t like the girl, should you go? You don’t want to give her the wrong idea.”
“I don’t think I would,” said Ket Siong. “Alicia was very clear it wasn’t a date.” She had placed so much emphasis on this point that it might have been offensive, if not for the fact that Ket Siong wanted it to be a date even less than Alicia did.
Ket Hau gave him a look. “What’s the draw, if it’s not the girl? I didn’t know you were into fashion.”
Ket Siong shrugged, but he’d known his brother would ask. After a moment he said, “She was so insistent, it was hard to say no. And it’d be something different. It’s been a while since I’ve done anything like this.”
