Chapter 10 #2
ambitious . . . and unapologetically so. April first met her when Chinoiserie was provided as her makeup artist for the annual
Vanity Fair Oscars Party. Despite April’s general wariness of social climbers, there was something so refreshingly genuine about the
savvy upstart that after Chinoiserie expertly applied flawless eyelashes, April hired her on the spot to be part of her permanent
glam squad.
April marveled at how great Chinoiserie looked after all these years. It was chilly on the coast, and Chinoiserie was wearing
an emerald-green chinchilla cashmere vest by Ogier, her long hair tinted a silvery lilac and pushed back by a velvet headband
studded with Tahitian black pearls.
“My team and I are doing a retreat at the Nobu Ryokan just down the street for Lunar New Year,” Chinoiserie explained. “And don’t get me wrong, I love my corporate girlies more than anything . . .” She lifted a mischievous eyebrow. “But sometimes the boss needs a break!”
April joined Chinoiserie in a conspiratorial giggle. “Serie, you look fucking fabulous,” April sighed admiringly. “Like a
Real Housewife of Beverly Hills, one of the cunty ones!”
Chinoiserie did a playful pose, tossing her lilac hair back dramatically. “Cunty AF! Well, I was taught by the best, by the
legend herself, Ms. April Sun.” Both of them looked down at what April was wearing: an oversize USC basketball sweatshirt
and denim mom jeans. “But look how cute you are!” Chinoiserie offered generously. “You Malibu beach bums are all so effortlessly
chic!”
April threw the filmy endive back into its basket with a sardonic scoff. “You are sweet beyond words to save me face, Serie,
but my fashionista days are long gone. We both know I look like a bag lady standing next to you.” She smiled. “You know, every
time I see Heavenly at the makeup counter or on IG, I nearly burst with pride for you.”
Ubiquitous on social media and red carpets, Heavenly Cosmetics was Chinoiserie’s relatively new makeup brand that had exploded
onto the scene a few years ago with its buzzy Shade Shifter eyeshadow, which transformed from one iridescent color to another
upon exposure to sunlight. This runaway success had been a boon for its plucky entrepreneur; April could remember back when
her former protégée could barely afford Shein, and now? Heavenly’s success had provided Chinoiserie with self-made financial
independence, something very few of April’s peers could truly claim for themselves.
Chinoiserie batted her long-lashed eyes. “I pinch myself every morning. In fact, that’s why I was taking a break to walk around
Malibu and meditate on my gratitude. And what a great decision that was, because I bumped into you!”
April smiled, though there was a tinge of pain behind her eyes. “I really am glad to see you, Serie. You’ve cheered me up
a lot already.”
Chinoiserie tilted her head at April. It was true that she had not seen her mentor in a very long time, but she had painted that face so many times that she could immediately tell that April needed a friend. She reached out to grasp April’s hands, warming them up.
“I think we are eons overdue for one of our boozy brunches, don’t you, April? What’s your favorite spot around here?”
Iris was getting out of her car at her Wilshire Corridor condominium building when a stranger in robes approached her.
“Mrs. Sun-Kwok, I believe?” the young man asked. His many iridescent bracelets clinked as he held out his hand.
Instantly suspicious, Iris wondered if he meant for them to shake hands. She barely liked touching friends and family, let
alone complete strangers. She stared him down.
“Can I help you?” she asked through her pitch-black Chanels.
Undaunted, the holy man kept his hand extended. “Mrs. Sun-Kwok, my name is Galahad Chu. I come bearing a message from your
sister Roses.” He smiled at her, a dimpled smile that was as charming as it was inscrutable.
Warily, Iris reached over and limply grasped his fingertips for a moment before letting go. “Chu . . .” she repeated, an eyebrow
lifting at his eccentric outfit. “Perhaps you are related to Roses’s fortune teller?”
Galahad laughed—even his laughter had that pleasantly posh British affectation. “Your sister did indeed say you were the cleverest
person in her family. You are correct. Master Chu is my esteemed grandfather.”
The valet attendant approached them. “Miss Iris, everything all right here?”
Still assessing Galahad, Iris did a half shrug. “I’m not sure actually,” she said to the attendant. She turned back to the
holy man. “What can I do for you, Galahad?”
Iris did not trust overly attractive people like Galahad—after all, she herself was ungraciously wedged between two beautiful sisters, and one was an egomaniac while the other a nincompoop.
Iris found that most excessively good-looking people were one of these two extremes, with very little on the spectrum in between.
Besides, she was still on shaky ground with Roses, so why was this strange boy suddenly appearing on her doorstep, claiming to bear tidings from the Sun matriarch?
But Galahad never faltered. “I do apologize for just showing up like this, Mrs. Sun-Kwok. I know that it is most improper,
but your sister felt that it would be the easiest way for us to have a sincere conversation. You see, she would like to extend
an olive branch, and I volunteered to be the conduit.”
Iris glared at him. How dare Roses get an outsider involved in their private family business? “If my sister would like to
make amends, she can do it herself,” she replied curtly.
The valet attendant placed a gruff hand on Galahad’s shoulder. “All right, buddy, I’m gonna ask you to leave the premises.”
With a small nod, Galahad seemed to relent. Iris watched the valet steer him toward the street, but just as she headed into
her building, the young man looked over his shoulder at her.
“How was Ulaanbaatar, Iris?” he called to her.
Iris did a double-take. “What did you just say?” she breathed.
Galahad nodded, his dark eyes gazing into hers. “Very cold this time of year, I hear.” He cocked his head. “Though perhaps
a chilly reception was befitting for the last city on a list of dead ends.”
“Okay, that’s enough crazy for today,” the valet snapped, shoving him onto the sidewalk. “Get out of here before I call the
cops.”
“Wait!” Iris reached out her hand.
“What is Fear but the virgin bride of Love,” SANTI asked Hyacinth, “waiting to be consummated upon the hotbed of your intentions?”
Deep under Venice, they were in his private office, her lying on his large leather couch, eyes closed as SANTI paced around
her, his sensuous voice amplified by the dome acoustics of the room.
“The marital bed is set, the sheets are clean, the pillows fluffed. Love is at the ready, swollen stiff with your lifeblood,
but Fear trembles before him, unwilling to unsheathe her maidenhead. What gives her pause?”
SANTI paused as though waiting for a response. Hyacinth, eyes still shut, struggled to find words. It was cool and damp in
his office, but her body was warm, as millions of her pores were pooling with microscopic droplets of sweat. One of the principal
tenets of MiNT was periodic orgasmic deprivation, and as a result, her body was easily stimulated, especially in the presence
of this guru.
“I suppose . . .” Hyacinth stalled.
“Do not suppose,” SANTI ordered. “Only know. Gather your knowledge from the trauma of your past, intertwined with the wisdom
of your present.”
Hyacinth involuntarily winced. All this talk of virginity did indeed trigger old memories. In her mind, a teenage boy with
heterochromatic eyes emerged from repressed shadows.
She breathed in a gasp.
“Pascal . . .” she murmured aloud.
Many were surprised when Big Boss Sun sent his favorite child off to boarding school in Europe, considering how much he doted upon his daughter.
But it was young Hyacinth herself who entreated her father to allow her to escape what she considered the small pond of Taiwan for the dazzling tides of France.
The new teenager had grown up obsessed with all things Marie Antoinette, too young to see the irony, and begged Big Boss Sun to allow her to attend the prestigious Eremita School in Maisons-Laffitte on the outskirts of Paris.
But once she was there, Hyacinth was surprised to find herself homesick within a month, ostracized by the chic European heiresses
who made fun of her shaky English, when in truth they were threatened by her radiant beauty. A kindly drama teacher encouraged
her to practice her English dynamically by joining a school production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and it was there that she met Pascal Bernard: leading man of the play, leading boy of her heart.
He was a year older than her and from the rocky beaches of the South of France. She noticed his eyes first, one forest green,
the other a defiant hazel. “Do they cause you to see the world differently?” she finally asked him backstage at tech rehearsal,
having mustered up the courage for weeks.
Pascal ran a hand through his wavy blond hair bashfully. “No.”
Young Hyacinth smiled at his unexpected awkwardness. “That’s too bad.”
He grinned back. “I’m glad I get to see you just the way you are.”
Two years later, Hyacinth accidentally became pregnant with her boyfriend Pascal Bernard’s child. She was newly sixteen.
“And what about Pascal?” SANTI’s dulcetly authoritative voice rumbled into her teenage dream, jerking her out of the flashbacks.
Hyacinth Sun-Bernard sat up on his leather couch, her scarlet robe shifting off of her shoulder from the abruptness. Her eyes
opened as she looked up into the domed ceiling of the office.
“SANTI, what if Sunbern’s sad life is my punishment for what happened to his father, Pascal?” She began to weep.