Cat's Meow

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Oh, yes, I remember. Brick used to be very secretive about that. He went every year.”

  “Well, when we won the Nettie Award, Billy mentioned that we got an automatic invitation to go as minimoguls.”

  “But we don’t have a website anymore,” I chided. “Remember?”

  “That’s why we have to go. We’re bound to find an investor willing to take a chance and finance us there. Sun Valley is very technofriendly. Plus, they won’t care that we’re being sued—I mean, look at Microsoft.”

  20.

  surviving sun valley

  Traveling via commercial airlines is incredibly unglamorous, so it was fortunate that India and I were able to hitch a last’ minute ride aboard a generous billionaire’s Gulfstream jet. The other passengers included several long-term members of the conference, emeritus directors like Bill Gates, as well as active members like Larry Ellison, Ingrid Casares, David Geffen, Calvin Klein, Donna and Madonna, Barbra Streisand, Robs Redford and Reiner, the dueling gemstones Jewel and Bijoux, as well as Tina, Calista, and Ivana. We were set for an invigorating weekend where the whole privileged lot of us would determine the course of global culture for the millennium. I only hoped India and I were up to the task! Billy had approved of the plan and wished us the best of luck finding an investor.

  Sitting in the lap of luxury fifty thousand feet in the air, I reveled in the plush carpeting, private televisions with 235 cable channels, Barcaloungers, top-shelf spirits, and catered food from New York’s top chefs. I myself popped a Tic Tac and ordered a vodka tonic. Jeff Bezos passed by and waved hello; India and I corralled him before anyone else could and floated the possibility of Amazon acquiring Arbiteur. “Think of it—Arbazon.com,” I suggested.

  “We’ll talk, Jeffy darling,” India promised.

  “Have your people call my people.”

  I loved saying that line even though Arbiteur’s “people” was our one disheveled CEO in a ratty tank top. Billy also served as Arbiteur’s secretary when that was called for, answering the phone in the patently fake British accent essential to running a fashion business. But we never did hear from Jeff Bezos.

  I prepared to settle into a sweet slumber, my head resting on India’s shoulder, when I heard the now-too-familiar screech.

  “CAT!!!”

  I opened one eye, but I already knew who it was. Only one woman could burn rubber and break glass with the sound of her high-pitched voice.

  “Hi, Teeny.”

  “What on earth are you doing here?” she tittered, perching on my armrest. “Oh, wait—don’t tell me. You’re on your way to the new Sun Valley Canyon Ranch.”

  “No, Arbiteur won the Nettie Award for best fashion website. The winner gets an automatic invite to MogulFest,” I sniffed.

  “Oh, right,” she said blankly. “What’s Arbiteur again? Oh, that little website. What is it you do for them?”

  “For your information, I wrote all the show reviews this season.”

  “Show reviews? Arbiteur actually gets tickets to the fashion shows?”

  “Well, standing-room tickets mostly,” I conceded, blushing. “But, yes, we are an accredited fashion media outlet.”

  “How nice for you. Listen, if you need any help getting around or meeting people, just ask me, I’ve been to this lots of times. I remember so many crazy times—like when we locked up Uncle Morty, that’s Steven Spielberg to you, in the outhouse as a dare—oh, he loved that …” She giggled. “Hold on, there’s Ralph Lauren. Excuse me, I’ve got to say hi.” Teeny bounded over to her next victim.

  When she left, I spotted Stephan seated in the next row. I should have known he would be at MogulFest! Especially since Teeny was here too. My heart leapt and our eyes met for the briefest of moments, but I quickly looked away, determined to banish him from my psyche.

  “Cat!” he said happily, giving me a cheerful wave.

  I ignored the wounded look on his face when I didn’t return his greeting, as I had absolutely nothing to say to a man who had the audacity to stand me up for a date and then never even contact me to apologize. With fierce intensity I perused the agenda for this year’s meeting, which included a slew of trust-building games wherein we would guide blindfolded team members to hike mountains, cross whitewater rapids, rope-walk across gorges, and have sex with Harvey Keitel. Eek!

  Four hours later, the plane landed in a deserted airfield, and a fleet of stretch limousines arrived to take us to our cabins.

  “I love the country air!” a telecommunications billionaire said, taking a strong whiff.

  “It’s good to be back!” the CEO of a powerful television network marveled, lowering himself into a deep knee bend.

  “Will you look at those mountains!” a retired information specialist and the new owner of a franchise basketball team enthused.

  “Hmmm,” I said, slapping my forearm where a bug had landed. “Where’s the nearest bar?”

  India and I settled into our well-heated cabin and exchanged air kisses with our bunkmates, high-profile members of the Velvet Mafia—a twenty-some thing hunky matinee idol and a fifty-something big-cheese movie producer. We really lucked out, as they were being more than sweet and had stocked the bathroom with the best bath products!

  “So, what do you think?” I asked India when we were tucked in for the night. She had taken the bottom bunk. “Do you think we have any prospects?”

  “Mmm … Oh, definitely,” she said, meaning several of the CEOs were partial to women of the transsexual variety.

  “No, I mean for Arbiteur, silly.”

  “Oh, right.” India thought for a moment. “None.”

  “Well, we might as well make the most of this conference,” I said. “Why don’t you take ‘How to Conquer the World Through Your Operating System,’ and I’ll go to The Justice Department: Necessary Evil or Evil Empire?’ and then we can meet at lunch for Martha Stewart’s ‘Living Like a Billionaire Is the Best Revenge Marathon.’”

  “All right,” India agreed. “But I don’t want to miss ‘Ivana: The Early Years.’”

  The next day I attended a Post-Stress-Relaxation-and-Conquest seminar led by a handsome Indian guru who taught us how to channel creative and spiritual energy to conquer the world through marketing, self-promotion, and slavish celebrity endorsements to induce a frenzy of mass consumption. I spotted Teeny scribbling furiously on her Palm Pilot. Other seminars included “QVC versus the Home Shopping Network,” “Extracting the V Chip,” “Web-TV Convergence: Are a Million Channels the Wave of the Future?” “How to Divorce Your Fifth Wife Without Paying Alimony,” and “Advanced Class in Matching Denim Shirts with Chino Pants.”

  All along, I alternatively hoped and feared that I would bump into Stephan. I assumed he was bunking with Teeny on the other side of the hill, and I looked for him in all my seminars but so far, no such luck. Which was just as well, considering. Besides, I had more than enough to keep myself busy, as between mogul bonding there were volleyball games, touch football, and goat rodeo. Of course, the retreat wasn’t just all work and no play. A tasteful but star-studded celebration has been planned. There would be singing around the campfire with Limp Bizkit, gourmet marshmallows from the south of France, a laser light show followed by a private fireworks display, and an authentic hoedown with the Dixie Chicks in the resort ballroom.

  During the party, I shared corndogs with Mark Andreesen and Geraldine Laybourne by the campfire.

  “It’s a new fashion website and we just won the Nettie Award for best fashion site,” I explained. “We’re really growing by leaps and bounds. Our readership includes the most fashion-addicted people on the planet. It’s an extremely savvy group.”

  I babbled on about our cost-effective production ethics, our low overhead, our growing recognition and acclaim. “We’ve been reviewed by the South China Post and Saudi Arabia Today!” I was so immersed in conversation I didn’t even notice that someone had joined the edge of our group and was listening to everything I said.

&
nbsp; During the final night’s hoedown, I do-si-doed with a corpulent telecommunications magnate and twirled him over to India, who was sitting by herself in the corner inhaling marshmallows. She should be careful, I thought, even with Xenical, if she didn’t look out she’d have major FOP: fat over platforms. I left the two of them to finish the dance and called home to find out how Bannerjee and Boing were holding up.

  “Banny darling! How are you?”

  “Mmmff?” Bannerjee mumbled into the phone.

  “HOW ARE YOU!” I yelled again.

  “Fffpppfff Mxsadfadsdaf.”

  “Banny, I can’t hear you? Is someone there?” I asked. In the background was the unmistakable sound of loud music blaring and snippets of conversation in … hmm … was that Norwegian-accented English? “Dutte, this direct TV rocks out, man!” “Banny, where is Cristal?” and even, “Duuutte, I’ve gotta get back to the club, I work door tonight.”

  “Oh, is nothing, Miss Cat, the television is on,” Bannerjee assured me when the static had cleared. Tired of watching television through a pair of binoculars, especially since our neighbor seemed to have a fondness for boring nature shows on the Discovery Channel, I had a new satellite dish installed so Boing could watch Cantonese soap operas. It would help her understand where she came from.

  “Let me talk to the baby,” I said. “Why don’t you put her on the line?”

  “Huh? Oh, yes, um, just wait a minute—”

  And the line went dead.

  I tried calling again but this time there was no answer. Strange. I berated myself for leaving the two of them alone, what with the stalker milling around. I had told Heidi to call him off, but she told me she had no idea what I was talking about.

  Dear Lord, what if there really was an evil man who was keeping track of all my actions? I had a flash of anxiety as I morbidly fantasized what would happen if Boing were kidnapped in my absence. Would she be found, ten years later, living in a shack upstate and thinking herself to be just another ordinary hick, not knowing her true, fabulous identity? Would she then publish a book, I Know My Name Is Boing? Would I be given my own network television show, America’s Most Hunted! What about film rights—who would play me in the heart-wrenching story of my adopted baby daughter’s disappearance? (Michelle Pfeiffer? Jessica Lange?)

  I tried to shrug off my fears and rejoined the party to rescue the red-faced telecommunications mogul from India’s clutches.

  “That’s the ticket! That’s the ticket!” India encouraged him as the old codger twirled her around and around so that she looked like a multicolored Mexican piñata.

  Finally, it was our last day at the retreat. I, for one, was glad to be done with all this consensus building, strategic partnership, and cultural-dissemination thingamajig. Plus, I hadn’t been able to shop in three days! I was suffering from Barneys withdrawal. Unlike Aspen, there were no off-road designer boutiques in Sun Valley. I found the next best thing and ravaged the neighboring Native American reservation for something, anything, to buy, and picked up some choice feather headdresses to go with my resort-collection Gallianos.

  “’Bye, darlings,” I told the movie hunk and big-cheese producer when we were packed and ready to depart. “Shanti-Astangi to you both!”

  “As-Salaamu’Alaykum.” They nodded.

  The same stretch limousines returned us to the airfield, but when we arrived to board the plane, we were stopped by the pilot, who met us in front of the landing strip.

  “We’re not going to be able to take off!” he told us. “There’s no radio contact from Los Angeles or New York! I can’t bring up the tower!”

  We gasped. It was all fine to drink in the country air and the beauty of the Idaho mountains for a weekend—but not for one second more. The moguls and entertainers and CEOs around us attempted to find out what was happening, punching in numbers on their cell phones and booting up wireless Internet connections on their Palm Pilots, but it was useless. Finally, the chief of the Native American reservation came out to explain what had happened. He had picked up the news from sending a cloud to his cousin in the Hudson River Valley.

  Apparently a crippling computer virus had devastated the world’s electronic system in forty-eight hours, garnering it the nickname “the Hong Kong flu.” Forwarding itself through international e-mailboxes, it had instantly grounded planes, short-circuited ATM machines, blown out satellites (no cell phones, faxes, computers, Palm Pilots, Genies, beepers, television, cable, nothing!), and had left the entire country in a blackout. The looting and rioting had begun in the major metropolitan areas and the National Guard had been dispatched to restore peace, giving them a break from disarming children in the Midwest. I’d never seen so many billionaires look so gloomy since the AOL Time Warner merger. We were ferried back to the resort, which was empty as all the staff had already been sent home. It looked like we’d have to take care of ourselves.

  Several of the assembled guests didn’t take to the news too well—after all, it was one thing to be invited to a swank Adventureland escape, where helpful outdoor counselors rounded up the walleyes for you to spearfish in the shallows, but quite another to realize that we were trapped in a remote mountain hideaway with only our nonworking electronic equipment to keep us company. Where was Tom Hanks when you needed him? Several of the moguls took the news stoically and quickly shifted into leadership mode, organizing the assembled into tribes: hunters, gatherers, and whiners.

  I turned to India and our two bunkmates.

  “Here, try this,” the big-cheese movie producer said to his hunky movie star boyfriend as he handed him his cell phone.

  The hunky movie star then rubbed the cell phone and the Palm Pilot together in an attempt to ignite a spark and light a fire.

  “Oh, good Lord, let me do it,” India huffed. “Cat, take off your shoes.”

  I took off my Blahniks with a worried look on my face. “What are you doing?”

  “Pish-pish,” India dismissed me, as she took my shoes and rubbed them together. Slowly, smoke began to form.

  “Wooden heels,” India explained.

  I was traumatized at the loss of my shoes, but glad to have the warmth of the campfire. My thoughts then turned to Banny and Boing back home. I hoped they were all right in New York.

  As the days progressed, we learned to survive through ancient techniques taught to us by Chief Speeding Jet and from our collective memories of Survivor. We subsisted on corncakes and yams, and smoke signal junkies were limited to five clouds a day. In the evenings, we sat around the campfire telling horror stories about badly executed takeovers and 100 percent stock dives. I even became a full-fledged member of the Native American tribe. My beaded Swarovski necklace came in über-handy. I was now the proud owner of Manhattan.

  “Cat! Cat! Look up in the sky!” India exclaimed one afternoon as we harvested corn from the fields.

  “What is it?”

  “It’s an airplane! We’re saved! They’ve fixed the computer virus!”

  “Oh, thank God!” I said. “I’d kill for an air conditioner right now!”

  I went back to my cabin to pack up, when I saw Stephan headed my way, looking weary and fatigued.

  “Oh, hi,” I said, affecting an air of insouciance.

  “Cat,” he said with relief. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I wanted to apologize. For Paris. I would have liked to apologize earlier but you’re still unlisted. So I thought I’d find you through Arbiteur, but even that number’s been disconnected.”

  I flushed. “So?”

  “Well, I just wanted to explain why I didn’t see you that night. I did go to the lobby of the Ritz, to meet you. But when I arrived I saw you with Brick Winthrop and I just thought … well.” He shook his head. “Cece always told me you were still pining for him. So I thought you were playing a game or something. Saying you’ll meet me for dinner but then meeting your ex-boyfriend instead.”

  “But Brick and
I were just talking … it was nothing.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes. Of course. But what about you?” I asked.

  “What about me?”

  “Aren’t you—aren’t you engaged to Teeny?”

  “To Teeny?” He laughed out loud. “No, of course not!”

  “So you’re not going to marry her?”

  “Marry her? Where on earth did you get that idea?”

  “But you—you took her to my birthday party. I mean, that party at that club—where she blew out the candles.”

  “For some reason she really wanted to go to that party. She was a friend of Cece’s so I obliged. It was a favor.”

  “And I saw you having lunch with her downtown.”

  “You did? Why didn’t you say hello?”

  I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. And in Paris I assumed … you’re really not with Teeny?”

  Stephan grimaced. “No. I told you, she’s just a friend,” he said impatiently.

  “But Cece said—”

  “Cece, it appears, says a lot of things,” he said wisely. “She told me you were still in love with Brick.”

  “But I’m not,” I protested.

  “No, you’re not. But funnily enough, Teeny is.”

  “Teeny’s in love with Brick?” I gaped.

  “Yes, that’s all she talks about, actually. It’s why she wanted to go to your birthday party—she thought Brick would be there.”

  A dim memory of Teeny throwing herself at Brick during our engagement party several years before entered my mind. I was so used to Teeny wanting exactly what I wanted that it never occurred to me that she was still fixated on my old flame. And come to think of it, the night she had introduced him to Pasha, the Slavic supermodel, Teeny had looked just as furious as I had when Brick left the party with her.

  “Listen, Cat, I’m only in Sun Valley because I wanted to see you again.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because I’m, uh, quite taken with you, if you haven’t noticed.” He coughed.