Кевин Кван - China Rich Girlfriend

“You’ve got your own private spa right here!” Rachel said in disbelief.

“Rachel, we’re good friends now — I have a confession to make. I used to have a terrible addiction…I was addicted to spa resorts. Before I found myself, I used to spend the whole year aimlessly flying from resort to resort. But I was never satisfied, because something was never quite right everywhere I went. I would find a dirty mop left in the corner of the steam room at the Amanjena in Marrakech, or I would have to put up with some creepy potbellied guy staring at me sunbathing in the infinity pool at One and Only Reethi Rah. So I decided I could only be happy if I could create my personal spa resort right here.”

“Well, you’re very fortunate that you have the resources to make this happen,” Rachel said.

“Yes, but I’m also saving so much money by doing this! This whole development used to be farmland, and now that there are no more farms, I employ all the displaced locals to work on the estate, so it’s really been good for the economy. And think of all the carbon offset points I’m racking up by not having to fly all over the world every weekend trying out new spas,” Colette said earnestly.

Nick and Rachel nodded their heads diplomatically.

“I also hold many charitable events here. Next week, I’m planning a summer garden party with the actress Pan TingTing. It’s going to be an ultra-exclusive fashion show with the latest collections from Paris — Rachel, tell me you’ll come.”

“Of course I will,” Rachel politely replied, before wondering why she had agreed so quickly. The words “ultra-exclusive fashion show” filled her with dread, and she suddenly got flashbacks to Araminta’s privateisland bachelorette party.

Just then, a few thin barks could be heard coming down the stairs. “My babies are back!” Colette shrieked. The group turned to see Colette’s personal assistant, Roxanne, entering with two Italian greyhounds straining excitedly against their ostrich-leather leashes.

“Kate, Pippa, I’ve missed you so much. Poor little things — are you jet-lagged?” Colette cooed as she bent down and cuddled her emaciated dogs.

“Did she really name her dogs…” Rachel began to whisper in Carlton’s ear.

“Yes, she did. Colette adores the royals — at her parents’ house in Ningbo, she has a pair of Tibetan mastiffs named Wills and Harry,” Carlton explained.

“How were my darlings? Did everything go okay?” Colette asked Roxanne with a worried expression.

“Roxanne just flew Kate and Pippa on Colette’s plane to see a famous dog psychic in California,” Carlton informed Rachel and Nick.

“They were very good. You know, at first I had my doubts about that pet psychic in Ojai, but wait till you read her report. Pippa is still traumatized by the time she almost got blown out of the Bentley convertible. That’s why she tries to burrow under the backseat and poo-poos every time she rides in it. I told the woman nothing —how did she know you had that kind of car? I am a total believer in pet psychics now,” Roxanne reported earnestly.

Colette petted her dog with tears in her eyes. “I am so sorry, Pippa. I’ll make it up to you. Roxanne, please take a picture of us and post on WeChat: ‘Reunited with my girls.’ ” Colette posed expertly for the picture and stood up, smoothing away the wrinkles on her skirt. She then said to Roxanne in a blood-chilling tone, “I never want to see that Bentley again.”

The group approached the final pavilion, the largest building of all and the only one that did not have any exterior windows. “Roxanne — code!” Colette ordered, and her headset-wearing assistant dutifully punched in an eight-digit code that unlocked the door. “Welcome to my family’s private museum,” Colette said.

They stepped into a gallery the size of a basketball arena, and the first thing that caught Rachel’s eye was a large silkscreen canvas of Chairman Mao. “Is that a Warhol?” she asked.

“Yes. Do you like my Mao? My father gave that to me for my sixteenth birthday.”

“What a cool birthday present,” Rachel remarked.

“Yes, it was the favorite out of all my presents that year. I wish I had a time machine so I could go back and Andy could do my portrait.” Colette sighed. Nick stood in front of the painting, staring with amusement at the Communist leader’s receding hairline, alternately wondering what the dictator or the artist might have made of a girl like Colette Bing.

Nick and Rachel began heading toward the right, but Colette said, “Oh, you can skip that gallery over there, that’s just filled with boring junk my father had to have when he first started collecting — Picassos, Gauguins, that sort of thing. Come see what I’ve been buying lately.” They were steered into a gallery where the walls were a veritable checklist of the artists du jour from all the international art fairs — a mouthwatering Vik Muniz chocolate syrup painting, Bridget Riley’s migraine-inducing canvas of overlapping tiny squares, a heroin-fueled scrawl by Jean-Michel Basquiat, and, of course, an immense Mona Kuhn image of two preposterously photogenic Nordic youths posing nude on a dewy doorstep.

Rounding the corner, they came into an even larger gallery that contained only one enormous piece of art — twenty-four scrolls that were hung together to form a vast, intricate landscape.

Nick was taken aback. “Hey, isn’t that The Palace of Eighteen Perfections ? I thought Kitty—”

At that moment, Roxanne gasped in alarm and put her hand over her earpiece. “Are you sure?” she said into her headset, before grabbing Colette’s arm. “Your parents just checked in at the guardhouse.”

Colette looked panic-stricken for a split second. “Already? They’re much too early! Nothing’s ready!” Turning to Rachel and Nick, she said, “I’m sorry to end the tour now, but my parents have arrived.”

The group rushed back toward the grand salon, as Colette barked out orders to Roxanne. “Alert all staff! Where’s that damn Wolseley? Tell Ping Gao to start cooking the parchment chicken now! And tell Baptiste to decant the whiskey! And why aren’t the bamboo groves around the central pool lit?”

“They are on a timer. They don’t come on until seven o’clock along with the lights,” Roxanne responded.

“Turn everything on now! And turn off this silly whimpering man — you know my father only likes listening to Chinese folk songs! And get Kate and Pippa into their cages — you know how allergic my mother is!”

Hearing their names, the dogs started yapping excitedly.

“Kill the Bon Iver and put on the Peng Liyuan!” *3Roxanne rasped into her headset as she ran toward the service wing with the dogs, almost tripping on their leashes.

By the time Carlton, Colette, Nick, and Rachel reached the front door of the main pavilion, the entire staff was already assembled at the foot of the steps. Rachel attempted to count the number of people but stopped at thirty. The maids stood elegantly in their black silk qipaos on the left and the men in their black James Perse uniforms on the right, creating two diagonal lines in V formation like migrating geese. Colette took her place at the apex of the V, as the rest of the group waited at the top of the steps.

Colette turned around and made a final inspection. “Who has the towels? The hot towels?”

One of the younger maids stepped out of the line holding a small silver chest.

“What are you doing? Get back in formation!” Roxanne screamed, as the convoy of black Audi SUVs came speeding up the driveway.

The doors on the lead SUV flung open, and several men in black suits and dark sunglasses emerged, one of them approaching the middle car and opening the door. Judging by how thick the door was, Nick surmised it was a reinforced bombproof model. A short, stocky man in a bespoke three-piece suit was the first to emerge.