Parker simply smirked. “I’ll tell you, but excuse me for just one moment.” She unbuckled her seat belt and made a beeline for the back cabin. It was the last time Rachel would see her during the entire flight.

“Girls, I have the scoop of all scoops!” Parker burst in on the girls crowded into the master cabin. “I was just sitting next to that Rachel Chu girl, and guess what? She isn’t related to the Taipei Chus! She hasn’t even heard of them!”

Francesca Shaw, lounging in the middle of the bed, gave Parker a withering look. “Is that all? I could have told you that months ago. My mother is best friends with Nicky Young’s mother, and I know enough about Rachel Chu to sink a ship.”

“Come on, lah—give us all the dirt!” Wandi pleaded, bouncing up and down on the bed in anticipation.

After a dramatic landing on a perilously short runway, Rachel found herself on a sleek white catamaran, the salty ocean breeze whipping through her hair as they sped toward one of the more remote islands. The water was an almost blinding shade of turquoise, interrupted by tiny islands dropped onto the calm surface here and there like dollops of fresh cream. Soon the catamaran made a sharp turn toward one of the bigger islands, and as they approached, a striking series of wooden buildings with undulating thatched canopies came into view.

This was the paradise dreamed up by Araminta’s hotelier mother, Annabel Lee, who spared no expense in creating the ultimate retreat according to her exacting vision of what chic, modern luxury should be. The island, actually just a quarter-mile-long spit of coral, consisted of thirty villas built on stilts that extended out over the shallow coral reefs. As the boat pulled up to the jetty, a line of waiters in saffron-colored uniforms stood stiffly at attention holding Lucite trays of mojitos.

Araminta was helped out of the boat first, and when all the girls were assembled on the dock with cocktails in hand, she announced, “Welcome to Samsara! In Sanskrit, the word means ‘to flow on’—to pass through states of existence. My mum wanted to create a special place where you could experience rebirth, where you could pass through different levels of bliss. So this island is ours, and I hope you will find your bliss with me this weekend. But first, I’ve arranged a shopping spree at the resort’s boutique! Girls, as a gift from my mum, each of you can pick out five new outfits. And to make this just a little more fun, and also because I don’t want to miss cocktails at sunset, we’re going to make this a challenge. I’m giving you only twenty minutes to shop. Grab whatever you can, because in twenty minutes, the boutique closes!” The girls shrieked in excitement and began a mad dash down the jetty.

With its soothing mother-of-pearl varnished walls, Javanese teak floors, and windows overlooking a lagoon, the Samsara Collection was normally a haven of civilized tranquillity. Today it was like Pamplona during the running of the bulls as the girls charged in and ransacked the place in search of outfits that would outdo one another. A fashionista tug-of-war broke out as they began clawing over the most coveted pieces.

“Lauren, let go of this Collette Dinnigan skirt before you tear it to pieces!”

“Wandi, you bitch, I saw that Tomas Maier top first and you’ll never fit into it with your new boobs!”

“Parker, put down those Pierre Hardy flats or I’ll poke your eyes out with these Nicholas Kirkwood stilettos!”

Araminta perched on a counter savoring the scene, adding more tension to her little game by calling out the remaining time at one-minute intervals. Rachel tried to steer clear of the rampage, taking refuge at a rack overlooked by the rest of the girls, probably because there weren’t any quickly recognizable labels on any of the garments. Francesca stood at a nearby rack picking through the clothes as if she was surveying medical photos of genital deformities. “This is impossible. Who are all these no-name designers?” she called out to Araminta.

“What do you mean ‘no-name’? Alexis Mabille, Thakoon, Isabel Marant—my mum personally selects the hottest designers for this boutique,” Araminta said defensively.

Francesca tossed back her long, wavy black locks and sniffed. “You know I only wear six designers: Chanel, Dior, Valentino, Etro, my dear friend Stella McCartney, and Brunello Cucinelli for country weekends. I wish you’d told me we were coming here, Araminta. I could have brought my latest Chanel resort wear—I bought this season’s entire collection at Carol Tai’s Christian Helpers fashion benefit.”

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to slum it for two nights without your Chanel,” Araminta retorted. She gave Rachel a conspiratorial wink and whispered, “When I first met Francesca in Sunday school, she had a plumpish round face and was wearing hand-me-downs. Her grandpa was a famous miser, and the whole family lived crammed together in an old shop house on Emerald Hill.”

“That’s hard to picture,” Rachel said, glancing over at Francesca’s perfectly executed makeup and ruffled emerald-green wrap dress.

“Well, her grandpa had a massive stroke and went into a coma, and her parents finally got control of all the money. Almost overnight, Francesca got herself new cheekbones and a wardrobe from Paris—you won’t believe how fast she and her mother transformed themselves. Speaking of fast, the minutes are running out, Rachel—you should be shopping!”

Even though Araminta had invited everyone to pick out five pieces, Rachel didn’t feel comfortable taking advantage of her generosity. She picked out a cute white linen blouse with tiny ruffles along the sleeves and came across a couple of summery cocktail dresses made out of the lightest silk batiste, which reminded her of the simple shift dresses Jacqueline Kennedy wore in the sixties.

As Rachel was trying on the white blouse in the dressing room, she overheard two girls in the next dressing room chatting away.

“Did you see what she was wearing? Where did she get that cheap-looking tunic top—Mango?”

“How can you expect her to have any style? Think she gets it from reading American Vogue? Hahaha.”

“Actually, Francesca says that she’s not even ABC—she was born in Mainland China!”

“I knew it! She’s got that same desperate look that all my servants have.”

“Well here’s a chance for her to get some decent clothes at last!”

“Just you watch, with all that Young money she’s going to upgrade pretty damn quick!”

“We’ll see—all the money in the world can’t buy you taste if you weren’t born with it.”

Rachel realized with a start that the girls were talking about her. Shaken, she rushed out of the dressing room, almost colliding into Araminta.

“Are you okay?” Araminta asked.

Rachel quickly recovered. “Yes, yes, just trying not to get caught up in the panic, that’s all.”

“It’s the panic that makes it so much fun! Let’s see what you found,” Araminta said excitedly. “Ooh, you have a great eye! These are done by a Javanese designer who hand-paints all of the dresses.”

“They’re so lovely. Let me pay for these—I can’t possibly accept your mom’s generosity. I mean, she doesn’t even know me,” Rachel said.

“Nonsense! They are yours. And my mum is so looking forward to meeting you.”