“Darling—don’t!” India cried when she realized what I was about to suggest. “At least spare me the Blahniks!”
I marched India and our shopping bags up to the register. “Sweetie, charity begins at home.”
Even if the idea of adoption was an impulsive act—and what rash decision of mine hadn’t been?—motherhood was definitely something I’d been mulling over for a while now. I couldn’t walk by the second floor of Barneys without cooing over the little booties and baby-size leather jeans in the layette department. India berated me for suffering from a case of urban-accessory envy.
“You only want one because everyone is having theirs,” India accused. She was just sore because I made her return a new pair of alligator pumps. “Cindy Crawford. Alexandra von Furstenberg. Madonna. Manhattan is turning into one big nursery. Babies sliding off the catwalk during Fashion Week, being fed lobster sushi at Nobu, even strapped on the back of hip mama chests at Pucci gallery openings.”
“Maybe,” I conceded. “But think about it—a little Chinese baby of my very own! For me to love and cuddle and for Bannerjee to feed and burp!” Even if Bannerjee displayed no visible nurturing skills whatsoever, what did it matter? Bannerjee knew nothing ’bout no babies. That’s why she was an au pair!
“But, Cat—you’re talking about a baby!”
Of my very own! I mean, it’s about time. Don’t you think?”
“Is that wise?” India queried. “I mean, a baby is a lot of work, Cat. There’s all that spitting up and diapering and then they grow up and stick you in some nursing home. Or worse, eighteen years later you’ll find naked pictures of her on your boyfriend’s fireplace. Did you ever think of that?”
“Well, no, but I’m sure Bannerjee—”
“Bannerjee is not going to be the mother. You’re going to have to take responsibility for this child. And what about your accounts? Can you even afford a child right now?”
“Well, according to yours truly I’m not really broke, anyway,” I argued. “Remember?‘Temporary cash flow situation.’‘I’m sure everything will turn out all right.’ Besides,” I joked, “if I have to go on welfare, I hear they give you more money if you have kids.”
Then again, maybe India was right. Perhaps this was a tad premature—but what were my other options? God knows the sight of an epidural needle would send me into shock immediately. And the thought of getting fat! I hadn’t been fat since Daddy died. It was a terrible shock, as I’d always thought I’d have more time to get to know my father. A benign if somewhat distant figure of my abbreviated childhood, Daddy was sixty years old when I was born. But he did try—I have extremely fond memories of the time he ordered our chauffeur to teach me how to ride a bike. I inherited everything that was left—the Park Avenue penthouse he’d managed to hang on to, and the East Hampton compound where my grandparents now live, as well as a substantial and, I had believed at the time, unlimited, trust fund. My accountant suggested a plan where he would continue to send me monthly checks from the fund’s interest earned, while a broker would be hired to take care of my investments. I agreed to everything without understanding anything.
While I was tempted to sell the penthouse and move downtown to a loft, complete with welding set and Shabby Chic furniture, in the end I decided to stay. Besides, it would have been criminal to leave Mummy’s custom-built temperature-controlled closet. Still, it was an awful period. For the first time, I was completely alone. Mummy was in the Caribbean, launching a cruise line. I’d lost touch with the thieving models I knew from Japan. Even India was living in Denmark at the time, reinventing herself. I was a strong candidate for Jerry Springer’s fat-people rescue, although I didn’t think I exactly qualified for the baby-whale crane. I refused to leave the house in my condition. Ten pounds and a full dress size?
Mummy suggested extreme measures, so I spent six months at an ashram rumored to have been a favorite of the Miller sisters. I did sit-ups and morning jogs and drank protein shakes and kickboxed my way out of obesity. So, no, I didn’t think pregnancy would agree with me at all. But this was different. I would be rescuing a little Chinese tot from a life of sure destitution. I mean, they didn’t have Helmut Lang in China, did they? I was ripe for motherhood, I could just feel it! Why, the other day I had even stopped to pet a dog, and I’m allergic to animals. This was just what I needed to bring a little meaning to my life. Besides, Stephan looked like the kind of man who would take to the idea of adopting a Chinese orphan—after all, he shopped at Barneys, he would understand. When I got home I called Bannerjee into the room.
“Yes, Miss Cat?” she asked humbly. She was still embarrassed about the Helmut Lang pantsuit incident, and sported a black eye and bruises. Not from me, mind you! She’d hit her head on the sofa when she tripped over the rug going to the bathroom.
“Banny darling, you know how you said you’d do anything for me to stop being mad at you?” I coyly batted my eyelids.
“Yes, Miss Cat. Anything,” she intoned breathlessly.
“Well, there is something,” I wheedled. “Chinese baby girls, Banny.”
“Yes?”
“Well, I want one! Off you go. Go pick me up one.”
Off where, Miss Cat?”
I rolled my eyes. “China, of course! Where else do you find abandoned Chinese babies? They’re not giving them away at Pearl River Mart, you know.”
“But, Miss Cat—I’m not supposed to leave the country,” she protested as I hustled her out the bedroom door. “I don’t have a visa.”
Oh, why?”
“1 can’t leave the United States until I get one. And they don’t give out that many—I think the quota has been filled for this year.”
“But what does that mean?”
“It means if I leave the country, I might never be able to come back.”
“Really…how strange. Well, never mind that, I don’t have a Visa either. You know how it is,” I said, rolling my eyes and mouthing “Maxed over the limit.” I strummed my fingers on my vanity table. “Here’s my platinum Amex.”
Packing Banny off for her great adventure took the rest of the day. After I called the airline and secured her on the next flight to Shanghai, Bannerjee watched helplessly as I threw her sweaters, underwear, jeans, and sneakers into an overnight bag.
“Oh, that reminds me. You know those little pointy hats they wear? Make sure you bring me back one as well. I’m channeling headgear for fall.” I zipped up the bag with a flourish. “There you go. Good-bye, Banny darling. Do pick a nice fat one! I’m counting on you!”
After Banny disappeared in a cab, I picked up the phone to dial India. I hoped she wasn’t still sore about the reversal of fortune concerning her designer footwear. Luckily, I caught her in an ebullient mood—she had just been with her man of the week, a nineteen-year-old go-go dancer from the Bronx.
“I did it, darling! Banny’s off to China as we speak,” I announced. I paused for dramatic effect. “You do know they’re almost out?”
“Of babies?” India asked dubiously.
“No, Visas. But I’m not worried; I gave Bannerjee the Amex. So what do you think? Please tell me you don’t think I made a mistake,” I begged.
“A little enfant chinois! You know, I suppose it really is quite adorable,” India cooed. “Can we take it out and dress it up in those little pajamas?”
“Of course, darling. Why else would I ever get one? I mean, China is just the thing these days. Mu shu pork, chopsticks as hairpins, Jimmy Choo sandals!”
“But don’t forget, China also means century eggs, fortune cookies, and Long Duck Dong,” India reminded.
“Still, just look at that China Chow.”
“China Chow my fucking ass,” India exclaimed. “Just because her mother was, like …Chinese.”
On principle, India and I do not approve of nepotism-acquired fabulosity. We’ve agreed. One isn’t born glamorous. One falls ass-backward in Gucci stiletto heels to achieve it.
People who are glamorous:
Joan Crawford, Jane Fonda, Cher.
People who are decidedly not glamorous: Christina Crawford, Bridget Fonda, Chastity Bono.
“You know, Cat, now that you’re going to become a mother, you really are going to have to be more responsible,” India chided.
“Oh, of course, of course. Now, did you remember if the party tonight is open bar or not?”
After a night spent in louche dance halls with India and her nineteen-year-old go-go dancer, I had a lovely dream that Stephan and I were walking in Central Park with a little Chinese baby. Just remembering how his one bright green eye twinkled at me made me feel certain I had done the right thing.
6.
belle of the ball
The success of a charity ball requires three things: a worthy cause, a celebrity-studded board of directors, and a seating chart that reflects a creative joie de vivre as well as an astute knowledge of the guests’ complicated public and private lives. For instance, Madonna and Sandra, Kate and Anna, Mercedes and Anne, Carolyn and Marie-Josee, Paul Theroux and V. S. Naipaul, Rosie O’Donnell and Tom Selleck must always be kept at a great distance from each other, albeit at tables of equal importance. I had asked to be seated near Stephan of Westonia, and was therefore distressed when I received the following message on my answering machine:
“Miss McAllister, this is to inform you that you and Miss Beresford-Givens will be seated at Table Z for the Chinese Orphans Benefit Ball.”
Table Z? Now, that did not sound right at all. From experience, I knew that if you were seated past table D you were in trouble. I called the committee’s public relations firm to inform them that a terrible mistake had been made.
“Hi, this is Cat McAllister, confirming my seating for the Chinese Orphans Benefit Ball?”
“Yes, Miss McAllister. You are at Table Z” was the chirpy reply.
“Table Z?” I asked. “Are you sure? Now, where is that exactly?”
“It’s slightly off center.”
“How off center?”
Off off center…”
Only after I dogged her with increasingly specific questions concerning the whereabouts of my table was it finally revealed that India and I had been given seats at a table so far back it was located behind the Statue of Liberty. I demanded an immediate explanation.
“Well, you see, you RSVP’d quite late, and we were at capacity. We’re sorry, but this is a very small space, and we’re already oversubscribed,” she said, giving me the rote PR response to any question. If public relations people ran the world, they would duly inform invading space aliens that the planet was “at capacity” and if they had any hopes of securing it, they should have RSVP’d earlier.
“Darling, it’s an island!” I protested.
“Yes, but—”
“Never mind. I know, you’re at—”
“Capacity,” she finished perkily.
Sigh. Some things were just not worth arguing about. Besides, after dinner, I could table-hop as much as I pleased—all the way to Stephan’s circle.
The night of the benefit, India and I arrived for the party in coordinating Christian Dior by John Galliano cheongsams. I felt very Sofia Coppola, on the lookout for my own Spike Jonze. The benefit committee had commissioned authentic Chinese junk boats to ferry guests over to Liberty Island. A gauntlet of photographers stood ten deep on either side of the red carpet on the pier. India and I air-kissed a retinue of friends while giving others only a languid “fashion finger” the common greeting between fashionistas that involves a crooked wave with one’s index finger to acknowledge the presence of acquaintances with whom one would rather not be acquainted. Assaulted by paparazzi, Uma and Ethan quickly ducked into an awaiting boat without stopping for a photo op, but others, like visiting British dignitary Posh Spice, were more generous with their time.
India positioned herself next to the most important person on the red carpet, in order to ensure that her picture would run in magazines’ party pages as well. “Hello, hello, only on this side, please,” India ordered, posing with a flourish. “That’s India, spelled I-N-D-I-A, Beresford-Givens, B-E-R…” India spelled her name twice, checking the reporter’s notes when done. Sure enough, three months later, right in the middle of VF Camera, Vanity Fair’s splashy scrapbook of the rich, famous, and their arm-candy dates at various charity balls, art gallery openings, and glitzy events about town, was the picture of India standing at the pier en route to the Chinese Orphans Ball. Unfortunately, the accompanying text read: “Nan Kempner and friend.” Oh no. Not and friend! India could not bear the shame—for months she moaned to herself in self-pity, and swore to have the photo editor’s head on a plate. Meriting only an and friend in the society pages is the print equivalent of the fashion finger.
Our junk finally docked on the island, and as we disembarked, it was apparent that the Chinese Orphans Society had spared no expense: there were fire-breathing dancers juggling torches, a colorful dragon parade complete with gongs, multiple Chinese fireworks, intricate and elaborate paper lanterns, even Lucy Liu and Lisa Ling. I searched for Stephan but couldn’t find him in the crowd. Everyone else was flitting to and fro, excitedly looking for their place cards, while India and I walked reluctantly up to the check-in table to collect our less-than-auspicious seating assignments. But what was this? As we walked closer, we realized that the event organizers were frantically babbling on cell phones instead of politely escorting guests to their seats.
“They’ve lost the seating chart!” a breathless socialite explained. “It’s a madhouse!”
Without the precise instructions of this most essential document, the usual hierarchy of “good” tables had degenerated into a completely up-for-grabs event. Henry Kissinger found himself seated next to a man he called “Fluffy.” Barbara Walters was next to Deborah Norville. Jerry Seinfeld and Jessica Sklar were within chest-butting distance of Shoshanna Lonstein. Henry Kravis was seated between two ex-wives. India reluctantly took a seat next to RuPaul. I walked around, looking for an empty space, when I heard a familiar voice call.
“Cat—Cat—over here.”
I turned around. It was Stephan. I could place that ambiguously Continental accent anywhere! He was sitting at a table alone, looking dapper in a tuxedo and, I made note, custom-made John Lobb shoes. The Manolo Blahnik for men. Heaven.
“Hi,” I said shyly.
“Hi.”
“You can sit here if you like,” he offered, and I took the seat beside him. We watched with amusement as junior committee chairwomen scrambled about, apologizing profusely to wave after wave of distressed dinner guests who had paid thousands of dollars for the privilege of sitting next to their chiropractor.
“It’s good to see you.” I smiled.
“Indeed. You look lovely.”
“Galliano,” I confessed modestly. It was my usual response to a compliment. “Nice hair” was usually followed by “Fekkai.” “Fabulous makeup” by “Kevyn.” “Exquisite forehead” by “Botox.” I like to give credit since I am an authentic person.
Suddenly, there was a tumult as an exasperated event organizer discovered a badly dressed middle-aged woman stuffing canapés in her handbag. “You don’t beeelong here,” the debutante screeched, digging her talons into the woman’s arm and pulling her from the caviar. “Guards!”
“Excuse me for a second,” Stephan said and approached the scene. “Bunny,” he said, speaking to the frazzled publicist. “It’s all right, why not let her stay?” he asked. “She means no harm.”
“Stephan, you don’t understand,” Bunny Teppit-Rightley argued, her voice crackling in frustration. “She doesn’t belong here, this is a private party.”
“Bunny, please, calm down,” Stephan said soothingly. “There’s more than enough food for everyone here.”
“All right. All right,” Bunny growled. “You can stay,” she said sternly to the meek woman. “But only because my friend here is nice enough to argue your case.”
“Why did you do that?” I asked
Stephan, when he returned. “She was just a party crasher. A loser.”
Stephan shrugged. “Perhaps. But she’d made it this far. It just seems needlessly cruel and snobby and I don’t like to be a part of it. Now, more champagne?” he asked, pouring me a glass.
“Please.” I nodded.
“Cat!” It was a familiar booming voice—except this time it wasn’t muffled by the sound of helicopter blades or transcontinental static. It could only be Brick.
“Hi, darling.” I proffered my hand. Brick looked like he always did. Rich. He was losing his hair, and his postcollegiate beer belly had hardened into a tough paunch, but he was handsome enough; men with a bazillion dollars in their account were handsome by any standard. It came from the burnished sheen that could only be the result of being rich enough to buy everything and anybody, or from the thousand dollars’ worth of male beauty products. The Slavic supermodel was dangling on his arm, vacuously staring off into space. The last time I saw Brick—God, I couldn’t even remember. He had broken up with me via e-mail.
“So—it’s good to see you.” Brick nodded. He looked at Stephan skeptically.
Oh, Brick, this is Stephan of Westonia,” I said proudly. “Stephan, this is—”
“Brockton Moore house Winthrop,” Brick interrupted heartily, shaking his hand. “You look familiar!” he boomed.
“No, I don’t believe we’ve met,” Stephan answered with a doubtful smile.
“Polo?”
“Excuse me?”
“Didn’t we play on a team together once?”
“Ah, actually, I don’t play,” Stephan said apologetically.
“So, what’s new, Brick?” I asked, changing the subject as it had become tedious.
“Busy—busy. As usual.” He shrugged. “You’ll have to come out to see us this summer. Got a new player on the team. Venezuelan. Incredible to have on a chukker. We’re playing Charles.”
That would be Prince Charles to you, he wanted to say. Even with his bazillions Brick was always an irrepressible name-dropper. It was always Steven Spielberg this and Michael Eisner that. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, of course.
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