Crazy Rich Asians Read Online Free

at the front door, being
     announced by the butler, and all that nonsense.
    Besides, Eleanor enjoyed passing through the kitchens. The old
amahs
squatting over enamel double boilers would always open the lids for Eleanor to sniff
     the smoky medicinal herbs being brewed for Carol’s husband (“natural Viagra,” as he
     called it), and the kitchen maids gutting fish in the courtyard would fawn over how
     youthful Mrs. Young still looked for sixty, what with her fashionably shagged chin-length
     hair and her unwrinkled face (before furiously debating, the moment she was out of
     earshot, what expensive new cosmetic procedure Mrs. Young must have endured).
    By the time Eleanor arrived at Carol’s bedroom, the Bible study regulars—Daisy Foo,
     Lorena Lim, and Nadine Shaw—would be assembled and waiting. Here, sheltered from the
     harsh equatorial heat, these longtime friends would sprawl languorously about the
     room, analyzing the Bible verses assigned in their study guides. The place of honor
     on Carol’s Qing dynasty
Huanghuali †
bed was always reserved for Eleanor, for even though this was Carol’s house and she
     was the one married to the billionaire financier, Carol still deferred to her. This
     was the way things had been since their childhood as neighbors growing up on Serangoon
     Road, mainly because, coming from a Chinese-speaking family, Carol had always felt
     inferior to Eleanor, who was brought up speaking English
first
. (The others also kowtowed to her, because even among these exceedingly well-married
     ladies, Eleanor had trumped them all by becoming Mrs. Philip Young.)
    Today’s lunch started off with braised quail and abalone over hand-pulled noodles,
     and Daisy (married to the rubber magnate Q. T. Foo but born a Wong, of the Ipoh Wongs)
     fought to separate the starchy noodles while trying to find 1 Timothy in her King
     James Bible. With her bobbed perm and her rimless reading glasses perched at the tip
     of her nose, she looked like the principal of a girls’ school. At sixty-four, she
     was the oldest of the ladies, and even though everyone else was on the New American
     Standard, Daisy always insisted on reading from her version, saying, “I went to convent
     school andwas taught by nuns, you know, so it will always be King James for me.” Tiny droplets
     of garlicky broth splattered onto the tissue-like page, but she managed to keep the
     good book open with one hand while deftly maneuvering her ivory chopsticks with the
     other.
    Nadine, meanwhile, was busily flipping through
her
Bible—the latest issue of
Singapore Tattle
. Every month, she couldn’t wait to see how many pictures of her daughter Francesca—the
     celebrated “Shaw Foods heiress”—were featured in the “Soirées” section of the magazine.
     Nadine herself was a fixture in the social pages, what with her Kabuki-esque makeup,
     tropical-fruit-size jewels, and over-teased hair. “Aiyah, Carol,
Tattle
devoted two full pages to your Christian Helpers fashion gala!” Nadine exclaimed.
    “Already? I didn’t realize it would come out so quickly,” Carol remarked. Unlike Nadine,
     she was always a bit embarrassed to find herself in magazines, even though editors
     constantly fawned over her “classic Shanghainese songstress looks.” Carol simply felt
     obligated to attend a few charity galas every week as any good born-again Christian
     should, and because her husband kept reminding her that “being Mother Teresa is good
     for business.”
    Nadine scanned the glossy pages up and down. “That Lena Teck has
really
put on weight since her Mediterranean cruise, hasn’t she? It must be those all-you-can-eat
     buffets—you always feel like you have to eat more to get your money’s worth. She better
     be careful—all those Teck women end up with fat ankles.”
    “I don’t think she cares how fat her ankles get. Do you know how much she inherited
     when her father died? I heard she and her five brothers got seven