Cat's Meow

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “What about you, darling, you’re broke?” I said thoughtfully.

  “I am a scion of a crumbling British estate. We’ve been broke since the fourteenth century. By now, it’s tradition,” she said. India paid for her lifestyle by doing freelance styling gigs for artsy fashion magazines around town, and the rare cocktail lounge act, singing those good old New Wave tunes, and to my understanding she was also not adverse to accepting large amounts of money from a certain generous patron who preferred his ladies to be of the transsexual variety. “But you Americans are never really bankrupt—you’re just experiencing negative cash flow,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Positive,” India soothed.

  “Anyway, I suppose I could call my mother if worse comes to worst,” I said lightly.

  “Oh, of course. Where is she again?”

  “Well, there was a picture of her at the Save Venice ball,” I said. “But then I think I read in Manhattan File that she was off to the Bahamas. I suppose I could always leave her a message in Palm Beach, she’s sure to end up there …”

  “In September …” India said doubtfully.

  “Three months from now …” I finished. It was useless. By that time, I could be living out of a box! This was just like my first year in boarding school, when I was the only child who arrived sans underwear and a toothbrush because Mummy had forgotten to pack them.

  Yawwwn. “So what are we doing tonight?” I asked, changing the subject. I didn’t like to think of myself as neglected so much as indulgently brought up with minimal parental supervision. I shuffled the papers idly, flipping through the New York Post—thousands murdered in the Bronx, political campaigns-ho-hum—ah, here it was. Page Six.

  “AAAACCCKKK!”

  I dropped the phone in horror, then examined the rest of the papers hurriedly. But it was all the same!

  Bannerjee entered the room at the sound of my voice. “Miss Cat!” she said fearfully.

  “Cat, what’s wrong? Cat, are you still there?” India called from the receiver.

  I ignored both of them. It appeared Heidi had done her job after all. There it was—my party—the lead item above the Sean Delonas cartoon! The club was described as “exhibiting a post-apocalyptic grandeur not seen since Club USA opened in Times Square,” and the list of boldface names ran the gamut from Justine Bateman to Dweezil Zappa. Strangely, there was no mention of Aerin Lauder, Li’l Kim, or Stella McCartney—how could these intrepid reporters have missed them? Still, it was everything I’d dreamed about—except for one key detail. Precious column inches were devoted to describing the actions of one Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie! “Hello to the New Downtown Diva” read the headline. “Intended for a birthday celebrant who never showed up, the brazen but lovable fashionista-socialite Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie ended hours of waiting by taking it upon herself to daintily blow out the candles on a frosted pink birthday cake. ‘Well—I am good at blowing,’ she giggled as an SRO crowd impatiently waited for the laser light show to begin.”

  It got worse—accompanying the text was a picture of Teeny arriving at the party on the arm of Stephan of Westonia. She had been his plus one! Needless to say, that was as close as I came to getting any press for my birthday. Was this public humiliation? Gross public indifference was more like it. Even Liz Smith, Cindy Adams, and the Daily News’ Rush and Molloy had run perfunctory mentions about the party, but only because a drunken supermodel had to be carried off the dance floor.

  “Cat? Is everything all right?” India asked.

  I retrieved the phone from underneath the bed. “Teeny.” I cursed. “India—why didn’t you tell me?”

  * * *

  As far back as I could remember, Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie had lurked behind each one of my monumental failures. Teeny stalked the runways of Paris while I made do with car commercials in Japan. Teeny won an Emmy for her portrayal of The Girl Who Spelled Freedom while I starred in failed sitcoms. Teeny, whose visage was the face of mannequins in the Costume Institute, Marianne of France, and the Trinidad and Tobago ha’penny! Teeny, who had introduced my ex-boyfriend Brick to the Victoria’s Secret supermodel. If I hadn’t been on Xanax I’d have felt practically murderous.

  Teeny was a social climber of the worst kind—a successful one. She didn’t have friends—she had sponsors, sycophants, and handlers. We met in junior high, in between my Hollywood coming-of-age and the subsequent modeling stint in Japan. Teeny was loud, exuberant, ambitious, and cheated at Monopoly. In Beverly Hills she was best friends with Monica Lewinsky and Tori Spelling. Teeny played both ends of the popularity game. She adored me so much that she consistently updated her own wardrobe according to my purchases. Every birthday and Christmas, Teeny would wait until I sent over the requisite Lucien Pellat-Finet sweater or token from Fred Segal, only to reciprocate with a gift that matched, to the last dollar amount, the exact cost of my gift to her. Teeny boasted an infinite knowledge of discounts and sample sales, and once when I placed an Impostors ring in a Bulgari box, Teeny responded with an ABS dress with a Versace label.

  Much worse, Teeny was insufferably vain and even more insufferably gorgeous. Married at nineteen to a dentist from Scarsdale, she divorced him at twenty-one and moved back to New York with a hefty alimony. For years, she was just another divorcee partial to bluebloods with blue-chip stocks, but that ended when she married a ballet dancer who was also the heir to a mammoth Austrian fortune. There were rumors that the union was less than … how should I put this? Consummated. But no doubt Teeny would land on her feet in the arms of another, richer man. She was that breed of female more commonly known as a “guy’s girl,” in that every man who had ever met her was immediately charmed into thinking she was the sweetest, most innocent, involuntarily-but-devastatingly-sexy woman who wouldn’t wish ill on a fly. Her male defenders numbered Manhattan Files Hot 100 Bachelors list. But girls knew better. Teeny would steal your husband in your borrowed dress. Just ask several well-married debs who have lost managing-director-husbands to this upstart.

  What was hardest to swallow was that Teeny was also prosperous in her own right. Unlike other Park Avenue heiresses who let their fortunes slip through their fingers … ahem … Teeny, a born-again Christian, parlayed her Machiavellian skills and generous inheritance into a flourishing line of moderately priced polyester imitations of the latest designer fashions. Her Tart Tarteen label continually sold out in malls across the country, and was patronized by a gamut of young Hollywood starlets, including the entire roster of the WB network. I absolutely abhorred Teeny.

  But the thing is, I just wasn’t built for confrontation. It made me queasy and off balance. Hair-pulling-knock-’em-down-all-out tussles were for tough chicks who wore pancake makeup and Revlon lipstick. On the other hand, I felt weak in the knees when my slashed-elbow Helmut Lang sweaters pilled. I was the type of person who was unfamiliar with complaint departments. I never sent back food in restaurants, no matter how badly overcooked was a plate of “raw” tuna. I preferred that things not be “uncomfortable.”

  I mean, sure, I harbored fantasies of ripping Teeny’s spine out of her ass and of sticking my fingers through her eyeballs, but this was real life, not claymation. If I really wanted to hurt Teeny, I’d have to switch her black market Phen-Fen capsules to fat pills. Then I could let it slip to certain gossip columnists that Teeny had a history of sexually transmitted diseases. But the absolute worst thing I could do to a girl like Teeny was to make her poor. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do about Generation Y’s buying power, or teenagers’ predilection for ersatz couture.

  Teeny was the kind of girl who was always in the spotlight—and she had stolen my moment away from me.

  This would not do. This would not do at all. I felt dizzy and weak—overwhelmed by the magnitude of my failure and missed opportunity.

  “India—meet me at Barneys, fourth floor, now,” I said in a strangled voice.

  “Right.
”

  I set down the phone. “Banny—send for the car.”

  Before I left, the phone rang but this time I let the machine answer it. “Miss McAllister, this is Ms. Walters from Citibank. Please call me back to arrange payment on your overdrawn accounts.”

  Overdrawn schmoverdrawn. This was an emergency! Citibank be damned. I still had my Amex card.

  5.

  charity begins at home: the china syndrome

  Darling, I do think I feel right as rain,” I said to India as we perused the minimal racks, pulling out crinkled Issey Miyake shirts and bulky Dries Van Noten sweaters. “It’s amazing how … medicinal this all is. I’ve almost forgotten about that hideous party.”

  “Mmmmm,” India agreed. “Thank God for unlimited credit limits.”

  Party poopers like Overspenders Anonymous will tell you that shopping is a disease. An addiction—something that leads to an overstuffed closet full of collapsed clothes racks and, say, fifty plastic storage bins full of Fendi bags. By my last count I owned 350 pants in the same color (black) and a collection of seventy-five white T-shirts—clothes that I can’t even wear because the last time I tried to pull out a pair of pants the rack fell on me. So of course they’re right—it is a compulsion—otherwise, where would be the fun, I ask you—but I never really regarded it as a problem. Problems are things like the Middle East and starving children in China. Shopping is merely a sport.

  Barneys is the shopping decathlon. It takes energy, concentration, and an honest perception of what your body can handle. The weak-willed and the self-delusional need not apply. Now, I asked India, as I walked out of the dressing room to stand in front of the three-way mirror, what is your honest, honest opinion of my butt in these Alexander McQueen bumsters?

  “An excellent choice,” a low voice drawled.

  I turned around and almost bounced out of my bumsters. India was nowhere to be found—probably lost in the black hole that was the Manolo Blahnik boutique—and instead standing in front of me was the exiled prince, His Royal Highness, Stephan of Westonia himself! He was indeed nice-looking, especially with the eye patch. Tall, with somewhat craggy features but a handsome solidity. Broad shouldered. And wearing the most heavenly narrow-cut wool suit with a beautiful spread collar. Mmmm … and he smelled delicious, even familiar.

  “You’re going to want to wear them this way,” he said, coming up behind me and putting his hands squarely on my hips and tugging down at the waistline. “There, that’s better,” he said, stepping aside.

  “You think?” I asked coyly, pursing my lips and examining my reflection in the mirror.

  “Definitely.” He nodded, appraising me from head to toe, his gaze finally settling upon the litter of chic black shopping bags piled at my feet.

  “Do you always come up to strange women at Barneys?” I asked flirtatiously.

  “Oh, I’m sorry, if you’d like I can—”

  “Darling, I’m just joking. I’m Cat McAllister, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I said, offering my hand.

  “I’m—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” I said airily. “I mean—you’re Stephan, aren’t you? You were at my birthday party the other night.”

  “Uhmm …” He looked flustered, and peered from side to side worriedly, as if on the lookout for a hidden photographer.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I assured him. “It’s Barneys. They don’t let paparazzi in.”

  He smiled. “Indeed, they don’t. I’m sorry, what party was that again?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged, thinking he probably went to five parties a night. “It’s just not every day a girl turns twenty-five for the fourth time,” I said coyly.

  He laughed. “I’m sure I would remember that. Wait a minute …” His brow furrowed. “By any chance, were you wearing a chador that evening?”

  “Me? A chador? Nooo! Of course not. Fashion oppression is so … last week,” I declared as I bumped into a store mannequin wearing the exact replica of my birthday party outfit: veil, hood, and all. Even the matching tie-cord sandals.

  “I see.” He nodded enigmatically. Mmmm. He did smell nice—and so familiar—too familiar … It finally dawned on me: he had been the man outside the club who had come to my aid! I swooned, until I remembered how tragic the whole night had been.

  “Maybe you’ll remember me when we meet at the next party,” I said.

  His face brightened. “Of course! Monday night!”

  “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” I said gaily, then blushed crimson at the unfortunate pun. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Please do.”

  “What’s happening Monday night again?” I asked. “I never remember what’s on my calendar.”

  “The benefit for Chinese orphans? At the Statue of Liberty?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” I said, pretending to know all about it. But what I did know was that Chinese baby girls were the latest trendy charity—even more popular than dyslexia or the rain forest. The newspapers were running daily accounts of Chinese orphans abandoned by the thousands. The babies lollygagged at orphanages for years, until warmhearted and childless couples from the United States heard about their plight and came to rescue them. The Chinese Orphan Society of New York was throwing a dinner-dance at the Statue of Liberty to raise the profile of the cause. Send us your huddled masses, indeed.

  “Those poor things.”

  “Yes, it just breaks your heart,” he agreed.

  “Rows and rows of those abandoned Chinese babies. Simply too triste for words.”

  He nodded soberly. “A real shame.”

  “Those sad-eyed tykes. Is there anything we can do?” I asked him sorrowfully.

  “Well…”

  “I mean, how terribly lonely to grow up in a world without anybody to love you or buy you DKNY Kids clothing!” I agonized. “Think of it, they’re only going to grow up to scrounge around for food and then get sold into slavery or an arranged marriage. I mean, you have seen The Joy Luck Club?” I demanded.

  “Actually—”

  “But, anyway—yes, I will be there. Chinese babies. Miss Liberty. Ahoy!” I cheered. “So…Monday night, yes?”

  “By all means,” he agreed, striding off as my personal shopper returned with another armful of clothes.

  “I think I will take these pants,” I said thoughtfully.

  “You’ll never guess who I bumped into,” I told India, whom I found sitting like an indecisive Cinderella in the shoe department.

  “Who?”

  “The prince. Stephan,” I bubbled.

  “Quel surprise! Did you speak to him?”

  “Speak to him? We had a convo to die for. A meeting of the minds, darling.”

  India cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

  “Oh, he’s divine. Even better than the pictures. And that eye patch—it’s so rakish, don’t you think? Lends him a somewhat dangerous air.”

  “So what was he doing here?”

  “At Barneys? I don’t know. Shopping, I suppose.

  “But, anyway, darling,” I said impatiently. “There’s a benefit Monday night for Chinese orphans.”

  “I know. We respectfully declined, remember?” India chided. “It was twenty thousand dollars a ticket. Good Lord, for that amount of money, you could buy yourself an orphan.”

  “That’s it! That’s just it! Darling, I’m going to order Chinese,” I decided.

  “But what about Fred’s?” she asked, meaning our usual lunch date.

  “No, sweetie. A baby girl. From China.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to adopt a Chinese baby.”

  “What for?” India asked, aghast.

  “Isn’t it better to actually show, you know, a personal interest in the cause? He’d be so impressed—it would completely floor him. Besides, everything Eastern is just the thing right now,” I told her grandly. “It’s spreading faster than the Hong Kong flu.”r />
  India shook her head. “Whatever you say.” She thought I was joking, of course. But I wasn’t. It was time to get serious, and what better way to capture a prince’s attention than to make a generous gesture toward his favorite charity? Isn’t that what drew Charles to Di? Her love of, um, children?

  “Don’t you think it’s a little…well, extreme?” India asked. “Can’t you just send a starving child a dollar a day?”

  Extreme? Did India remember who she was talking to? After all, I was the woman who, several fashion seasons ago, when prosthechic had been the height of fashion, had demanded a double amputation just so I could wear Alexander McQueen’s latest creation. The British fashion bad boy had outfitted a legless model with knee-length wooden prosthetics in the shape of black boots with intricately carved embroidery. GENIUS! I literally ached for them. Damn legs were simply in the way. So I went to his showroom to be fitted with same. Oh, don’t look at me like that. They’re doing marvelous things with reattaching limbs nowadays. In France they have just learned how to reattach a man’s arm to his body. Thought I’d just keep the legs on ice, like Uncle Walt, then get the reattachment surgery the next season—that was if legs were in style again. I arrived at the showroom, only to be told that it was illegal to amputate someone unless it was a medical necessity. I tried to explain that it was a fashionable necessity, and in certain parts of the world—like the one I lived in—it was almost the same thing. So, no—I didn’t think adopting a Chinese baby was too extreme, given the circumstances.

  “But first things first. About this benefit, how much was a ticket again?” I asked India.

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars?” I repeated, crestfallen. There was no way I would be able to swing that after today. My eye wandered to the numerous shopping bags.