Crazy Rich Asians (Crazy Rich Asians, #1)

by Kevin Kwan

Ormsby rushed downstairs from the mezzanine, knowing he could more efficiently dispatch these foreigners than his front-desk clerks. “Good evening, I am the general manager. Can I help you?” he said slowly, over-enunciating every word. “Yes, good evening, we have a reservation,” the woman replied in perfect English. Ormsby peered at her in surprise. “What name is it under?” “Eleanor Young and family.” Ormsby froze—he recognized the name, especially since the Young party had booked the Lancaster Suite. But who could have imagined that “Eleanor Young” would turn out to be Chinese, and how on earth did she end up here?

Almost every story in the "Crazy Rich Asians" trilogy is inspired by a real event, often something that happened to someone I personally know. In this case, I knew this family from Singapore who arrived in London late one night in the early 1980s, with reservations at a posh hotel, where they had booked rooms for an entire month. Their last name, wasn't "Young," but it was similarly one of those names that didn't necessarily sound Chinese. They were shocked when the manager wouldn't honor their reservation, and quickly realized it was a deliberately prejudiced act. As I wrote this scene, I tried to reimagine how it all might have happened. It's interesting to note that three of the top hotels in London are currently owned by Singaporeans.

The Dowager Marchioness of Uckfield was staying through the weekend, and he could scarcely imagine what she would make of these folk appearing at breakfast tomorrow. He made a swift decision. “I’m terribly sorry, but I can’t seem to find a booking under that name.”

This is a nod to one of my favorite characters in one of my favorite novels, "Snobs" by Julian Fellowes. Julian, as you may know, is the creator of "Downton Abbey," and I've loved all his novels, films, tv shows. Of course the snobby Dowager Marchioness would stay at the Calthorpe!

Minutes later, before Rachel herself knew for certain her summer plans, the details of her conversation had already begun to spread far and wide, circling the globe like a virus set loose. After Celine Lim (Parsons School of Design fashion major) e-mailed her sister Charlotte Lim (recently engaged to venture capitalist Henry Chiu) in California, Charlotte called her best friend Daphne Ma (Sir Benedict Ma’s youngest daughter) in Singapore and breathlessly filled her in. Daphne texted eight friends, including Carmen Kwek (granddaughter of Robert “Sugar King” Kwek) in Shanghai, whose cousin Amelia Kwek had gone to Oxford with Nicholas Young. Amelia simply had to IM her friend Justina Wei (the Instant Noodle heiress) in Hong Kong, and Justina, whose office at Hutchison Whampoa was right across the hall from Roderick Liang’s (of the Liang Finance Group Liangs), simply had to interrupt his conference call to share this juicy tidbit. Roderick in turn Skyped his girlfriend Lauren Lee, who was holidaying at the Royal Mansour in Marrakech with her grandmother Mrs. Lee Yong Chien (no introductions necessary) and her aunt Patsy Teoh (Miss Taiwan 1979, now the ex-wife of telecom mogul Dickson Teoh). Patsy made a poolside call to Jacqueline Ling (granddaughter of philanthropist Ling Yin Chao) in London, knowing full well that Jacqueline would have a direct line to Cassandra Shang (Nicholas Young’s second cousin), who spent every spring at her family’s vast estate in Surrey. And so this ...

Something like this has actually happened to me dozens of times. Singapore, for all its jaw-dropping modernity, is at the end of the day still a little island where gossip spreads faster than wildfire. Even if one hasn't lived there in decades, one is subject to this gossip matrix. One day back in the early 2000s, my mom called me in New York and invited me to meet her in London over Spring Break. I told her I would think about it...I had a lot of work deadlines and wasn't sure I could get away. I hung up the phone, and about fifteen minutes later a friend in Singapore called me up and said, "Oh, I hear you're going to London." Astonished, I told this friend that I had just been invited not more than fifteen minutes ago, and I hadn't even decided yet. How did she know? As it turns out, after my mother talked to me, she called her sister in Singapore, who was at that time managing her husband's medical clinic. The sister mentioned it to the head nurse, and the head nurse told a patient in the waiting room, who happened to be the cousin of my friend. And that busybody cousin immediately called my friend. As the song goes, "it's a small world after all."

There are the Chinese from Mainland China, who made their fortunes in the past decade like all the Russians, but then there are the Overseas Chinese. These are the ones who left China long before the Communists came in, in many cases hundreds of years ago, and spread throughout the rest of Asia, quietly amassing great fortunes over time. If you look at all the countries in Southeast Asia—especially Thailand, Indonesia, Malaysia—you’ll see that virtually all the commerce is controlled by the Overseas Chinese. Like the Liems in Indonesia, the Tans in the Philippines, the Leongs in—”

If you're interested in reading more about the Overseas Chinese and the incredible wealth that some of these families have accumulated over centuries, Sterling Seagrave's "Lords of the Rim" is a riveting read. I do a great amount of historical research for all of my novels, and this book in particular was a great inspiration and resource.

Eleanor had a long-held theory about men. She truly believed that for most men, all that talk of “being in love” or “finding the right one” was absolute nonsense. Marriage was purely a matter of timing, and whenever a man was finally done sowing his wild oats and ready to settle down, whichever girl happened to be there at the time would be the right one.

So this theory actually came from a friend that I originally met during a trip to Italy. As we were traveling together for the better part of three weeks, we spent a great deal of time arguing about this, as the young romantic in me felt that her theory was complete bollocks. Over the years, I've watched her theory proven right to me time and time again with many guys I know. What do you think? (Incidentally, this same friend was one of the early readers of my manuscript for "Crazy Rich Asians," and she suggested that I needed a first chapter story that really pulled the reader in. It inspired me to write the prologue set in London. Originally, my book began with what is Chapter 2, the Bible Study Chapter.)

She had noticed the stunned reactions from her friends whenever she randomly hugged her mother or said “I love you” at the end of a phone call. And several years ago, she had been e-mailed a humorous list entitled “Twenty Ways You Can Tell You Have Asian Parents.” Number one on the list: Your parents never, ever call you “just to say hello.”

My mom doesn't even begin her calls with "hello." She just launches right in to whatever complaint/criticism/need/gossip/crazy thought she has at that particular moment. And needless to say, there's never a "goodbye." She just hangs up when she's done talking. How about yours?

Astrid changed all this. She wasn’t a rebel, because to call her one would imply that she was breaking the rules. Astrid simply made her own rules, and through the confluence of her particular circumstances—a substantial private income, overindulgent parents, and her own savoir faire—every move she made became breathlessly talked about and scrutinized within that claustrophobic circle.

This is still one of the most asked questions of me at book events: Is Astrid based on a real person? Yes, she absolutely is, and yes, she is even more fabulous, fashionable, and lovely in reality. Over the years, there have been numerous articles speculating on who the real Astrid might be, and many women who have claimed in the press to be "the inspiration behind Astrid." I can assure you that none of them are the real deal. When the producers of the "Crazy Rich Asians" film went to Asia to begin location scouting for the film, they reported with much amusement that they met no less than 20 women during their trip, all claiming to be the real Astrid. Of course, I will never reveal who the true Astrid is. She is an intensely private individual, and it keeps things more fun that way, don't you think?

The cabin consisted of two of the widest armchairs she had ever seen—upholstered in buttery hand-stitched Poltrona Frau leather—two huge flat-screen televisions placed side by side, and a full-length wardrobe ingeniously hidden behind a sliding burled-walnut panel.

Here's a fun bit of movie trivia: in the film "Crazy Rich Asians," the first class suite was a set designed by the brilliant Nelson Coates. The wide airplane armchairs were actually big leather massage chairs bought from a mall in Kuala Lumpur. In the scene, you can see that Henry and Constance had to keep leaning forward in the chairs because the huge headrest kept blocking their faces.

Rachel couldn’t wait for the other shoe to drop. What fabulously dysfunctional detail had Sylvia left out? “He’s … Asian.” “Oh God, Sylvia.” Rachel rolled her eyes, turning back to her computer screen. “I knew you were going to react like this! Hear me out. This guy is the total package, I swear—” “I’m sure,” Rachel said, dripping with sarcasm. “He has the most seductive, slightly British accent. And he’s a terrific dresser. He had the most perfect jacket on today, rumpled in all the right places—” “Not. Interested. Sylvia.” “And he looks a bit like that Japanese actor from those Wong Kar-wai movies.”

Fans of Wong Kar-Wai's films will know that I'm referring to the one and only Takeshi Kaneshiro. If you've never seen any of this brilliant auteur's films, I'd recommend starting with "Chungking Express," then "Fallen Angels," and finally building up to "In the Mood For Love," which is to me THE most beautiful film ever made.

Which led to a walk through Washington Square Park (since Nick insisted on escorting her back to her faculty apartment). He’s the perfect gentleman, Rachel thought, as they strolled past the fountain and the blond-dreadlocked guitarist wailing a plaintive ballad. And you’re standing here beside me, I love the passing of time, the boy sang plaintively. “Isn’t this Talking Heads?” Nick asked. “Listen …” “Oh my God, it totally is! He’s singing ‘This Must Be the Place,’ ” Rachel said in surprise. She loved that Nick knew the song well enough to recognize this bastardized version. “He’s not half bad,” Nick said, taking out his wallet and tossing a few dollars into the kid’s open guitar case.

The Talking Heads is one of my favorite bands, and I particularly love the lyrics to this song. As I was writing this chapter, I was alternating between listening to the original Talking Heads rendition as well as the exquisite acoustic guitar version sung by Shawn Colvin. Listen to it if you've never heard it, and picture yourself walking through Washington Square Park late one night with the love of your life.

As a teenager, Michael had played soccer every week at the Padang, the immense green field in front of city hall that was used for all the national parades, and he often stared curiously at the august Victorian structure at the eastern edge of the Padang. From the goalie post, he could see the glittering chandeliers within, the silver-domed dishes set on crisp white tablecloths, the waiters in their black tuxedo jackets scurrying around. He would observe the important-looking people enjoying their dinners and wonder who they were.

Many Singaporeans will know immediately that "The Colonial Club" is of course The Singapore Cricket Club. It's where I tried my first escargot, when I was probably 9 years old, and I've been addicted ever since.

“Gordon and I sold our Pulau Club memberships because I realized I was only going there to eat their ice kacang,”‡ Michael overheard Mavis telling his mother-in-law.

The Pulau Club is my thinly disguised name for SICC, the Singapore Island Country Club, known simply as "Island Club" to its members. ("Pulau" is Malay for island.) And that quote is 100% authentic -- I overheard a family friend saying those exact words. What makes it funny to me is that there are so many people dying to jump through all the insane hoops and pay hundreds of thousands in membership fees to join this ultra exclusive club in order to enjoy the club's superb golf courses and other facilities, while these friends only ever went there to eat a simple shaved ice dessert that one could find practically everywhere.

“Welcome to Singapore, Rachel—where arguing about food is the national pastime,” Araminta declared. “This is probably the only country in the world where grown men can get into fistfights over which specific food stall in some godforsaken shopping center has the best rendition of some obscure fried noodle dish. It’s like a pissing contest!”

To this day, 99.9% of the arguments in my family involve trying to agree on where and what to eat. It doesn't matter where we are--New York, London, LA--old habits die hard.

“Um … maybe,” Astrid replied, staring into the mirror and scrutinizing the multicolored gemstones dangling off the enormous earrings, the bottoms of which were brushing against her shoulders. The piece reminded her of a Native American dream catcher. “It’s such a dramatic look, isn’t it? Very Millicent Rogers, I think.

If you aren't familiar with Millicent, do yourself a favor and read Cherie Burn's fascinating biography, "Searching For Beauty: The Life of Millicent Rogers, the American Heiress Who Taught the World About Style."

To make matters even more surreal, the middle of the room was dominated by an enormous oval pond-cum-aquarium sunken into the gold-flecked marble floor. The pond was brightly lit, and for a second Rachel thought she could make out baby sharks swimming in the bubbling water.

The Goh mansion is a mash-up of several over-the-top houses I've seen with my own eyes. Yes, there's a house in Asia where every surface and every object is gilded in gold, and yes, as a young kid, I once walked into the living room of a friend's house in Singapore and saw that there was a huge sunken pond in the middle of the room, filled with baby sharks. It was actually quite elegant, as verdant tropical plants rose out from the middle of the pond, and one side was edged with velvet seating.

Rachel saw something out of the corner of her eye and let out a quick gasp. By the side of the staircase lurked a huge tiger. “It’s stuffed, Rachel.” Nick laughed. The tiger stood as if about to pounce, mouth open in a ferocious growl. “I’m sorry, it looked so real,” Rachel said, recovering herself.

In the movie of "Crazy Rich Asians," the stuffed tiger that appears was of course completely artificial and made in Thailand. But it looked so real that customs officials in Malaysia stopped it when was being transported into the country, refusing to believe it was fake. After all the proper documentation was provided, the tiger was finally allowed to proceed onto the film set, just in time for its close-up.

“Who is that lady?” Rachel asked. “That’s Mrs. Singh, a family friend who used to live down the street. She’s the daughter of a maharaja, and one of the most fascinating people I know. She was great friends with Nehru. I’ll introduce you later, when my aunt isn’t breathing down our necks.” “Her sari is absolutely stunning,” Rachel remarked, gazing at the elaborate gold stitching. “Yes, isn’t it? I hear she flies all her saris back to New Delhi to be specially cleaned,”

Like most of the characters in my novels, "Mrs. Singh" was inspired by a supremely graceful lady who really did have all of her saris flown back to New Delhi to be cleaned. Some day, I hope to write a novel inspired by her family's incredible story.

There’s a story I heard as a child: Jacqueline’s beauty was so legendary that when she visited Hong Kong for the first time in the sixties, her arrival attracted a throng of spectators, as if she were Elizabeth Taylor. All the men were clamoring to propose to her, and fights broke out at the terminal.

True story. There's a generation of men all over the world that I've seen become misty-eyed at the mention of the woman who inspired the character of Jacqueline Ling. I didn't meet the real "Jacqueline" until after hearing about her legendary beauty for many years, and one day, I finally got my chance. I was traveling with a relative in a foreign country where Jacqueline spent part of the year, and we had been invited to lunch. "Is she really that beautiful?" I asked my relative. "You'll see," my relative replied. Of course Jacqueline was late and kept us waiting. She was at this point in her mid fifties, and still, the room went silent the moment she entered. She was just that beautiful, and just that glamorous in an old fashioned movie star kind of way, that every head turned as she walked through the restaurant.

In the Andalusian courtyard, Rachel allowed her eyes to close for a moment. The strums of the Chinese zither created a perfect melody with the trickling waters, and the flowers in turn seemed to be choreographing their bloom to the mellifluous sounds. Every time a breeze blew, the copper lanterns strung against the evening sky swayed like hundreds of glowing orbs adrift in a dark ocean. Rachel felt like she was floating along with them in some sybaritic dream, and she wondered if life with Nicholas would always be like this. Soon, the tan huas began to wilt just as swiftly and mysteriously as they had bloomed, filling the night air with an intoxicating scent as they shriveled into spent, lifeless petals.

This chapter at Tyersall Park was a turning point for me in many ways. I realized that these random stories I had been writting for months were finally taking shape, and that I needed to keep on going. And after writing this passage in particular, I realized for the first time that I was being transported by my own story, and that maybe I had the makings of a real book.

The ladies walked through the door and abruptly found themselves in a sumptuously designed boutique. The floor was polished pink marble, the walls upholstered in pale pink moiré fabric, and from where they stood, they could peer down the corridor into some of the adjacent showrooms. Each room was devoted to a different luxury brand, with floor-to-ceiling display cabinets crammed full of the most current handbags and accessories. The designer treasures seemed to glow under the carefully positioned halogen spotlights, and well-attired shoppers filled each showroom, eagerly perusing the merchandise.

I'm describing this secret bootleg boutique exactly as I remembered it. Over the years, many people have asked me for the name and address of the place, and I honestly can't answer because I was taken there in the same way as Eleanor and these aunties were. It was all very covert, and it was a fascinating peek into the world of these "A grade fakes." I doubt the boutique exists anymore, but I have been told that there are many others like it in Shenzhen.

Francesca Shaw cut in. “Isabel, I’m going to tell it to you like it is, because everyone here is wasting your time being polite. You can’t afford to fall in love with Simon. Let me break it down for you. Let’s be generous and assume that Simon is making a measly eight hundred thousand a year. After taxes and CPF,* his take-home is only about half a million. Where are you going to live on that kind of money? Think about it—you have to factor a million dollars per bedroom, and you need at least three bedrooms, so you are talking three mil for an apartment in Bukit Timah. That’s a hundred and fifty thousand a year in mortgage and property taxes. Then say you have two kids, and you want to send them to proper schools. At thirty thousand a year each for school fees that’s sixty thousand, plus twenty thousand a year each on tutors. That’s one hundred thousand a year on schooling alone. Servants and nannies—two Indonesian or Sri Lankan maids will cost you another thirty thousand, unless you want one of them to be a Swedish or French au pair, then you’re talking eighty thousand a year spent on the help. Now, what are we going to do about your own upkeep? At the very least, you’ll need ten new outfits per season, so you won’t be ashamed to be seen in public. Thank God Singapore only has two seasons—hot and hotter—so let’s just say, to be practical, you’ll only spend four thousand per look. That’s eighty thousand a year for wardrobe. I’ll throw in another twenty thousand for one goo...

All names have been changed, of course, but this is almost word for word the full transcribed monologue that I heard someone give. And for the record, I was horrified then and still am to this day as I re-read it.

Sophie smiled. “Growing up with only one parent—especially in a place where everyone goes to such great lengths to present a picture-perfect family—really sets you apart. I was always the girl whose mother died too young. But you know, it had its advantages. It allowed me to get away from the frying pan. After my mum died, I was sent to school in Australia, and I stayed there all through uni. I suppose that’s what makes me a little different.”

Sophie's a lovely character that I enjoyed creating. I wish we had been able to include her in the movie. For many practical reasons, in the movie it was decided that Astrid should take her place on the island as Rachel's much-needed ally.

Colin took a long sip of his coffee, its perfect velvety foam leaving a white frothy mustache on his upper lip. “This has got to be the best coffee I’ve ever tasted. Guys, I’ll never forget this.” It was just past sunset, and the sky was shifting rapidly from shades of burnt orange into a deep violet blue. The men sat in awed silence, as the world’s largest monolith glowed and shimmered a thousand indescribable shades of crimson.

This was a line I'm particularly fond of, and one of my favorite moments in the book. To me, it speaks to the camaderie and bond between best friends, and the transformative power of nature.

As Dr. Gu walked slowly back into his house, he felt a sudden pang of regret. He wished he hadn’t said so much about the Youngs. Wye Mun, as usual, had steered him toward the stories about money, and he had missed the chance to tell them the real story, about a man whose greatness had nothing to do with wealth or power.

This chapter devoted to Dr. Gu is a bit of a stand-alone chapter. Originally, I had conceived "Crazy Rich Asians" as a collection of short stories, each chapter devoted to a different character--Astrid, Jacqueline, Su Yi, Mrs. Singh--that would together form a portrait of a particular world. Quite a few characters ended up on the editing floor, but Dr. Gu's story was one I was intent on keeping.

Entering through the Arts and Crafts front doors, Annabel quickly soaked in every minute detail of the way these people lived. Look at this whole row of Malay servants flanking the entrance hall in crisp white blazers. What are they offering on these Selangor pewter trays? Pimm’s No. 1 with fizzy pineapple juice and fresh mint leaves. How quaint. I must copy that for the new Sri Lanka resort. Ah, here is Felicity Leong in tailored silk jacquard, wearing the most exquisite piece of lilac jade, and her daughter-in-law Cathleen, the constitutional law expert (this girl is always so plain, with not a drop of jewelry in sight—you would never guess she’s married to the eldest Leong son). And here is Astrid Leong. What was it like for her to grow up in this house? No wonder she has such great taste—that robin’s-egg blue dress she’s wearing is on the cover of French Vogue this month. Who’s this man whispering to Astrid at the foot of the stairs? Oh, it’s her husband, Michael. What a stunning couple they make. And look at this drawing room, oh just look! The symmetry … the scale … the profusion of orange blossoms. Sublime. I need orange blossoms in all the hotel lobbies next week. Wait a second, is that Ru ware from the Northern Song dynasty? Yes it is. One, two, three, four, there are so many pieces. Unbelievable! This room alone must have thirty million dollars’ worth of ceramics, strewn about as if they were cheap ashtrays. And these Peranakan-style opium chairs—look at the moth...

This entire stream of consciousness passage was inspired by a real person, who has a noted lifestyle brand. I've often heard that this person will go to parties at certain houses and soak everything in, and within a few months the party hosts are astonished to discover that their houses, their clothes, their tastes, have been painstakingly replicated and are now for sale to the masses. So I wanted to imagine what it must be like for someone like Annabel Lee to enter into this inner sanctum for the first time and soak in every aspect of it.

Predictably, Dick and Nancy T’sien had commandeered two rows near the pulpit and were turning away anyone other than T’siens, Youngs, or Shangs (in rare exceptions, they were allowing in a few Leongs and Lynn Wyatt).

I spent my teenage years in Houston, Texas, where Lynn Wyatt is the undisputed queen of society. Almost every week, the newspapers and magazines were breathlessly detailing her every move--her legendary parties, her great philanthropy, and her iconic style. Even when I moved to New York in the mid 1990s, I would see her picture pop up at any party around the world that seemed to matter--a royal wedding, the Vanity Fair Oscar party, a charity ball in Monaco. So of course, it's only fitting that Lynn would be invited to the wedding of the year in Singapore. OF COURSE she would be at Colin and Araminta's wedding! It was my tribute to a lady who has done so much good for Houston and around the world, and my wink to fellow Houstonians who I knew would get a kick out of seeing her name pop up even here. Much to my astonishment, Lynn Wyatt showed up at my book party event at the Asia Society of Houston in 2013. She said to me in her inimitable drawl, "At first I thought I was losing my mind, when friends started telling me that they saw I had been invited to this crazy rich Asian wedding. I don't ever remember going to a wedding in Singapore, and I was so relieved to find out that it was just in a novel!"

The bridesmaids lifted their branches of cherry blossom high into the air, forming eight floral arches leading up to the altar, and the front doors of the church flung open dramatically. The bride appeared at the threshold, and there was a collective gasp from the crowd.

We re-created the lit blossoms and fireflies in the wedding scene for the movie, but the aisle filling up with water was actually lifted from a scene in "China Rich Girlfriend," the sequel to "Crazy Rich Asians." Jon Chu, the director, needed a jaw-dropping, unforgettable moment for his wedding scene, and it remains my favorite in the film. I tear up every time the sound goes to zero and Sonoya Mizuno, who plays Araminta Lee to perfection, first steps onto the water in her water proof wedding gown.

Rachel followed gingerly, taking care not to rub any part of her pristine dress against the dirt-caked stairway. The roof was covered in freshly fallen leaves, gnarled tree branches, and the remnants of an old cannon. “Pretty cool, isn’t it? At one point, there were more than sixty cannons lining the battlements of the fort. Come take a look at this!” Nick said excitedly as he disappeared around the corner. Rachel could hear the schoolboy adventurer in his voice. Along the south wall, someone had scrawled long vertical lines of Chinese characters in what looked like a muddy-brown color. “Written with blood,” Nick said in a hushed voice.

My brothers used to take me to this historic fort gate on Sundays after church, show me the blood stained walls, and threaten to torture me. Yep, I was the youngest, and they were beasts.

stage. People like Mrs. Lee were used to only one kind of Chinese wedding banquet—the kind that took place in the grand ballroom of a five-star hotel. There would be the gorging on salted peanuts during the interminable wait for the fourteen-course dinner to begin, the melting ice sculptures, the outlandish floral centerpieces, the society matron invariably offended by the faraway table she had been placed at, the entrance of the bride, the malfunctioning smoke machine, the entrance of the bride again and again in five different gowns throughout the night, the crying child choking on a fish ball, the three dozen speeches by politicians, token ang mor executives and assorted high-ranking officials of no relation to the wedding couple, the cutting of the twelve-tier cake, someone’s mistress making a scene, the not so subtle counting of wedding cash envelopes by some cousin,* the ghastly Canto pop star flown in from Hong Kong to scream some pop song (a chance for the older crowd to take an extended toilet break), the distribution of tiny wedding fruitcakes with white icing in paper boxes to all the departing guests, and then Yum seng!†—the whole affair would be over and everyone would make the mad dash to the hotel lobby to wait half an hour for their car and driver to make it through the traffic jam.

How many of you have been to a wedding just like this? This exact sequence of events is something I've had to endure far too many times.

“Oh, when we were just teenagers, we spent one summer together on Capri. His auntie Catherine, the Thai one, took a villa there. We would follow the sun all day—start out sunbathing at the beach club by the Faraglioni rocks in the mornings, go swimming in Grotta Verde after lunch, and end up at Il Faro beach for sunset. We got so brown, and Nicky’s hair got so long—he looked practically Italian! That’s when the Italian kids we made friends with started calling him Nico and I was his Mandi. Oooh, it was such a glorious time.”

Reading this, it just occurred to me how pivotal a role Capri has played in my life. I discovered the island for the first time with the same friend (mentioned earlier in these annotations) who would encourage me to move to New York, the one who had that theory about when men settled down and who would later challenge and inspire me to write the prologue scene of this book. It's rather fitting that I've come full circle with my new novel "Sex & Vanity," which is set on the magical island of Capri. (Find out more about "Sex & Vanity" on Goodreads here: www.goodreads.com/book/show/52064314-sex-and-vanity?ref=knh)