Кевин Кван - China Rich Girlfriend

Carmen rolled her eyes in exasperation. Even before the tin-mining tycoon C. K. Wong’s MRI results came in showing that his cancer had spread all over, everyone had already begun plotting. In the old days, real estate agents would scour the obituaries every morning, hoping to see the name of some prominent tycoon appear, knowing that it was only a matter of time before the family put the big house up for sale. Now, with Good Class Bungalows *2becoming rarer than unicorns, the top agents were resorting to “well-placed contacts” at all the hospitals. Five months ago, Carmen’s boss, Owen Kwee, at MangoTee Properties had called her into his office and said, “My lobang *3at Mount E. saw C. K. Wong come in for chemo. Aren’t you related to him?”

“Our fathers are cousins.”

“That house of his on Cluny Park Road is on a three-acre plot. It’s one of the last Frank Brewer houses still standing.”

“I know. I’ve been going there my whole life.”

Owen leaned back in his tufted-leather office chair. “I only know the oldest son, Quentin. But there are other siblings, right?

“Two younger brothers and one daughter.” She knew exactly where he was going with this.

“Those two brothers live abroad, don’t they?”

“Yes,” Carmen said impatiently, wishing he would get to the point.

“The family will probably want to sell after the old man conks off, won’t they?”

“Jesus, Owen, my uncle is still very much alive. He was golfing at Pulau Club last Sunday.”

“I know, lah , but can I safely assume that MangoTee will get the exclusive listing if the family ever decides to sell?”

“Stop being so kiasu . *4Of course I will get the listing,” Carmen said in annoyance.

“I’m not being kiasu , I just wanted to make sure you are prepared. I hear Willy Sim over at Eon Properties is already circling like a hawk. He went to Raffles with Quentin Wong, you know.”

“Willy Sim can circle all he wants. I’m already in the nest.”

• • •

Six months later, this was precisely where Carmen found herself — standing in the crow’s nest, a small room tucked away in the attic of her late uncle’s old bungalow — as she showed her friend Astrid around the property.

“What a cute space! What did they use this room for?” Astrid asked as she peered around the little nook.

“The original family that built this house called it the crow’s nest. The story is that the wife was a poetess, and she wanted a quiet place away from her children to do her writing. From the window, she had a bird’s-eye view of the front garden and the driveway, so she could always keep an eye on who was coming and going. By the time my uncle bought the house, this was just a store room. My cousins and I used it as a clubhouse when we were kids. We called it Captain Haddock’s Hideout.”

“Cassian would love this. He would have so much fun up here.” Astrid peered out the window and saw Michael’s 1956 black Porsche 356 Speedster pulling up the driveway.

“James Dean just arrived,” Carmen deadpanned.

“Haha. He does look like quite the rebel in it, doesn’t he?”

“I always knew you’d end up with a bad boy. Come, let’s give him the grand tour.”

As Michael got out of his classic sports car, Carmen couldn’t help but notice the transformation. The last time she had seen him was two years ago at a party at Astrid’s parents’ house, where he was in cargo pants and a polo shirt and still had his commando buzz cut. Now, striding up to the front steps in his steel-gray Berluti suit, Robert Marc sunglasses, and trendy disheveled haircut, he seemed like a totally different man.

“Hey, Carmen. Love your new hairstyle,” Michael said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Thanks,” Carmen said. She’d had her long straight hair layered into a chin-length bob a few weeks ago, and he was the first man to pay her a compliment.

“My condolences about your uncle — he was a great man.”

“Thank you. The silver lining to this unfortunate event is that you are getting to preview the place before it officially goes on the market tomorrow.”

“Yes, Astrid hassled me to leave the office and come see this place right now.”

“Well, we anticipate a feeding frenzy as soon as the listing goes live. A property like this hasn’t come on the market in years, and it will most likely go straight to auction.”

“I can only imagine. What is this — two, three acres? In this neighborhood? I’m sure every developer would love to get their hands on this,” Michael said, surveying the expansive front lawn framed by tall, lush traveler’s palms.

“That’s precisely why the family has allowed me to show it to you exclusively. We don’t want this house to be torn down and turned into some huge condo development.”

Michael glanced quizzically at Astrid. “This isn’t a teardown? I thought you wanted to hire some hot-shit French architect to design something on this land.”

“No, no, you’re confusing this with the place I wanted you to see on Trevose Crescent. This should never be torn down — it’s a treasure,” Astrid said emphatically.

“I like the grounds, but tell me what’s so special about this house — it’s not like it’s one of those historic Black and Whites.”

“Oh, it’s much rarer than a Black and White house,” Carmen said. “This is one of the few houses built by Frank Brewer, one of Singapore’s most prominent early architects. He designed the Cathay Building. Come, let’s take a walk around the outside first.”

As they circled the house, Astrid began pointing out the distinctive half-timbered gables that gave the house its stately, Tudor-esque feel, the elegant exposed-brick arches in the porte cochere, and other ingenious details like the Mackintosh-inspired ventilation grilles that kept the rooms feeling cool even in the sweltering tropical heat. “See how it combines the Arts and Crafts esthetic with Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Spanish Mission style? You’re not going to find such a fusion of architectural styles in one house anywhere else on the planet.”

“It’s nice, hon, but you’re probably the only person in Singapore who would even care about those details! Who lived here before your relatives?” he asked Carmen.

“It was built originally in 1922 for the chairman of Fraser and Neave, and later it became the Belgian ambassador’s residence,” Carmen replied, adding rather unnecessarily: “This is a rare chance to own one of Singapore’s truly historic gems.”

The three of them entered the house, and as they wandered through the elegantly proportioned rooms, Michael began to appreciate the place more and more. “I like how high the ceilings are on the ground floor.”

“It’s a bit creaky in places, but I know just the architect to help give this place a gentle restoration — he worked on my uncle Alfred’s place in Surrey and just redid Dumfries House in Scotland for the Prince of Wales,” Astrid said.

Standing in the living room, with sunlight flooding through the oriole windows and casting origami shadows onto the parquet wood floors, Michael was suddenly reminded of the drawing room at Tyersall Park and the feeling of unutterable awe that came over him the first time he entered that room to meet Astrid’s grandmother. He had originally envisioned his new house as something resembling the contemporary wing of a museum, but now he had another vision of himself in thirty years as a silver-haired eminence, presiding over this grand and historic showplace as business colleagues from all over the world came to pay their respects. He pounded his hand against one of the buttressed walls and said to Astrid, “I like all this old stonework. This house feels rock solid, not like your father’s rickety Black and White.”