Кевин Кван - China Rich Girlfriend

“You must have witnessed the Arab sports-car parade around Knightsbridge every year,” Nick said.

“You bet! My friends and I would grab a table outside the Ladurée and watch them roll by!”

“What are you guys talking about?” Rachel asked.

Nick proceeded to explain. “Every June, all these young Arab squillionaires descend on London, bringing with them the most stupendous sports cars in the world. And they race them around Knightsbridge as if the streets are their private Formula One track. On Saturday afternoons, the cars converge behind Harrods at the corner of Basil Street like some swap meet. All these kids — some not more than eighteen, dressed in expensive tattered denim, and their girlfriends, covered up in their hijabs but wearing blinged-out sunglasses sitting in these million-dollar automobiles. It’s an incredible sight.”

Carlton nodded, his eyes flashing with excitement. “The same thing is happening here! This is now the number-one market for luxury cars in the world — especially exotic sports cars. The demand is unquenchable, and all my friends know I’m the best at finding the rarest of the rare. This McLaren we’re sitting in — only sixty-four were ever built. So before a car even arrives on the dock in Shanghai, I have a waiting list of buyers.”

“Sounds like a fun way to make a living,” Nick commented.

“Tell that to my parents when you see them. They think I’m wasting my life.”

“I’m sure they are just concerned for your safety,” Rachel said, holding her breath as Carlton suddenly cut across three lanes at ninety miles per hour.

“Sorry, I just need to get around those trucks. Don’t worry — I’m a very safe driver.”

Nick and Rachel exchanged dubious looks, knowing Carlton’s recent history. Rachel checked that her seat belt was securely fastened and tried not to look at the zigzagging cars in front of them.

“Everyone on the highway seems totally schizo — they’re changing lanes constantly,” Nick quipped.

“Listen, if you try to drive in an orderly fashion here and stay in your lane all the time, you’ll just get killed,” Carlton said, accelerating again to overtake a truck full of pigs. “The rational rules of driving do not apply in this country. I learned to drive in the UK, and when I came back to Shanghai the first time after getting my license, I got pulled over on my first day driving. The police officer screamed at me, ‘You bloody fool! Why did you stop at that red light?’ ”

“Oh yeah, Rachel and I have almost gotten killed trying to cross the road several times. Traffic signals mean nothing to Shanghai drivers,” Nick said.

“They are merely suggestions,” Carlton agreed, suddenly slamming on the brakes and veering sharply to the right, narrowly avoiding a van in the far left lane.

“SWEET JESUS! WAS THAT VAN ACTUALLY BACKING UP IN THE FAST LANE?” Rachel screamed.

“Welcome to China,” Carlton said nonchalantly.

Twenty minutes outside of downtown Shanghai, they finally exited the highway, much to Rachel’s relief, and turned onto what appeared to be a recently paved boulevard.

“Where are we?” Rachel asked.

“This is a new development called Porto Fino Elite,” Carlton explained. “It’s modeled after those fancy neighborhoods in Newport Beach.”

“Clearly,” Nick commented as they passed a Mediterranean-style strip mall painted in shades of ochre, complete with a Starbucks. They turned off the main street and drove down a long avenue flanked by high stucco walls, at the end of which stood a cascading sculptural waterfall next to a gatehouse. Carlton pulled up in front of a massive gate with decorative steelwork panels, and three uniformed guards emerged from the gatehouse. One of the guards walked around the car warily, as if he was looking for hidden explosives, while another used an inspection mirror to peer under the car. The guard in charge recognized Carlton and checked him off a list. He gave Nick and Rachel a careful once-over, before nodding and waving the car through.

“That’s pretty serious security,” Nick commented.

“Yep — it’s very private here,” Carlton said.

The heavy gates clanked open, and the McLaren sped down a pristine white gravel road lined with Italian cypresses. Between the trees, Rachel and Nick could make out several small artificial lakes, from the middle of which sprouted fountains; sleek glass and steel buildings here and there; and the undulating mounds of a golf course. Finally, as they passed a pair of weathered obelisks, they came upon the main reception building — a majestic yet minimalist stone-and-glass structure surrounded by artfully planted pagoda trees.

“I had no idea they were building resorts like this in the suburbs outside Shanghai. What’s this place called?” Nick asked Carlton.

“This isn’t actually a resort. This is Colette’s weekend retreat.”

“Excuse me? This whole property is hers?” Rachel sputtered.

“Yes, all thirty acres of it. Her parents built it for her.”

“And where do they live?”

“They have houses in many cities — Hong Kong, Shanghai, Beijing — but they spend most of their time in Hawaii these days,” Carlton explained.

“They must have done rather well,” Rachel commented.

Carlton gave her a look of amusement. “I guess I never mentioned — Colette’s father is one of the five richest men in China.”

*1 Among the 220,000-plus foreigners living and working in Shanghai, there are now more than 20,000 French nationals, an alarming number of them INSEAD or École Polytechnique graduates. With Europe still stuck in an economic coma, graduates from Europe’s top universities have been moving to Shanghai in droves. None of them speak a word of Mandarin, but who needs to when the bartenders at M1NT, Mr. & Mrs. Bund, or Bar Rouge don’t either?

*2 Mandarin for “tall, rich, and handsome,” the minimum requirements every Mainland Chinese girl looks for in a husband.

8COLETTE

SHANGHAI, CHINA

Carlton’s car pulled up to the front entrance of the house, and two attendants in matching James Perse black T-shirts and trousers appeared from out of nowhere. One of them helped Rachel out of the car, while the other informed Carlton, “Sorry, you can’t leave your car here like you normally do. We are expecting Mr. Bing’s arrival. You can either move it around into the car porch, or I can park it for you.”

“I’ll move it — thanks,” Carlton replied. He zoomed off and returned shortly to join Rachel and Nick at the entrance. The imposing oxidized maple-wood doors opened, and they found themselves in a serene inner courtyard almost entirely composed of a dark, shallow reflecting pool. A travertine walkway ran down the middle of the pool toward tall lacquered doors the color of espresso, and bamboo block plantings ran along the walls of the courtyard. The lacquered doors parted silently as the three of them approached, revealing the inner sanctum.

Before them was an immense, eighty-foot-long living room decorated entirely in tones of black and white. Maids in long, black silk qipaos *1stood in a silent line by gray shikumen brick pillars hung with black-ink calligraphy scrolls, while polished black-tile floors and low-slung white sofas suffused the space with a tranquil, seductive vibe. The glass wall at the end of the room revealed an outdoor lounge filled with sleek sofas and dark-wood coffee tables, beyond which one could see more reflecting pools and pavilions.

Even Nick, who had grown up among the splendors of Tyersall Park, was momentarily taken aback. “Wow — is this a house or a Four Seasons resort?”

Carlton laughed. “Actually, Colette fell in love with the Puli Hotel in Shanghai and tried to get her father to buy it. When they found it wasn’t for sale no matter the price, he commissioned his architect to build her this place. This grand salon is inspired by the Puli’s lobby.”