Cat's Meow (10 page)

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Although they were tempting, I purposefully avoided several charity galas where I was sure to bump into Stephan. For one, I didn’t have the money to spare for a ticket, and it would just be too embarrassing to see him in public while he hadn’t called me in the interim.

It was pure luck that I brushed past him as I left India’s building one evening. Wearing a dapper three-button herringbone-tweed suit and carrying a smart attaché case, Stephan crossed the street in front of me just as I was hailing a taxicab.

“Cat!”

“Stephan!”

“I’m so glad I ran into you!” he said without a trace of insincerity.

“Really?”

“I’ve been meaning to tell you—my friends decided not to adopt.”

“No?”

“At least not from China. They went Romanian. They saw a Very Special Episode of 20/20.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” I said, wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Was Romanian more trendy than Chinese?

“I’ve been meaning to call you and I know you won’t believe it, but I lost your number. I put it in my coat pocket and it must have fallen out,” he explained.

“You did?”

“You’re very hard to track down, you know. I called Information but you aren’t listed. I asked Cece if she had your number and she said her maid lost her Rolodex. Then I was sure I’d see you at the Fiesta for Fetal Disease, but you weren’t even at the opening at the Brecht revival at the Prada store downtown.”

“I’ve been… uh… away,” I said, extremely pleased that he had noticed my absence.

“So how is she?”

“Who?”

“Your baby.”

“My baby? Oh, right. Her arrival has been delayed … er … indefinitely.” I felt a strong wave of guilt. Bannerjee had called the other night, complaining about being stuck in a dingy hotel room watching MTV China (Lionel Ritchie videos on constant airplay). She told me she didn’t move all the way from Sri Lanka to the Upper East Side only to be stuck in a flea trap in Shanghai. I had meant to send an application for Banny’s visa to the U.S. embassy, but India told me it would be much, much easier if I turned to an immigration lawyer on Fulton Street instead.

Oh, that’s too bad.”

“I know,” I agreed mournfully. I was never one for delayed gratification, and reading
What to Expect When You’re Expecting from China,
as well as
Dr. Shock’s International Adopted Baby Book only
made the baby’s absence more pronounced. To think that I was losing precious bonding moments every second she spent in that awful orphanage!

“Anyway, what are you doing here?” I asked,

“I live up the block,” he replied, and waved toward a high-rise farther up Fifth Avenue.

“Oh, so you’ve finally settled on an apartment?” I asked, remembering the Corcoran brokers Cece had mentioned.

“You could say that.” He nodded.

“I’m just around the corner, at 740½ Park. The penthouse.” My co-op was
right next door
to 740 Park, the most prestigious address in Manhattan, the palatial building which the Lauders, the Rosses, the Steinbergs all called home at one point, and where John D. Rockefeller once owned his famous penthouse triplex. Unfortunately, Daddy had been rejected by the 740 co-op board, and had had to settle for 740½.

“Excellent.”

“We’re practically neighbors,” I said. “Do you want a ride home?” I asked, as a taxi pulled up by the curb.

“No—no.” He shook his head. “I like to walk.”

“You walk?”

“I walk everywhere. It’s a great way to see the city…. Hey, maybe … oh, forget it.”

“What?”

“No, you probably won’t want to.”

“Want to what?”

“Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“Right now?” I asked.

“Sure, why not?” He smiled.

“Walk?” I repeated, looking down at my Manolos skeptically. “I suppose I could try,” I conceded, although I preferred my views of the city to be through tinted-glass windows. I sent the cab away.

“C’mon. There’s something I want to show you. I think you’d enjoy it.” I took the arm he offered and we ventured into the twilight.

It was almost midnight when I arrived home. The neighborhood was deserted save for random bunches of sixteen-year-old Spence girls breaking curfew, wearing skimpy dresses and their mother’s Gucci heels on their way downtown to Spa.

“I had a fabulous time,” I told him, and giggled as I looked down at my feet. Instead of my caramel slingbacks was a pair of canvas Tweety Bird sneakers purchased at a ninety-nine-cent store. I had lasted all of ten blocks in my high heels—a veritable record.

“So did I.” He smiled.

“You know,” I said shyly. “There’s a new restaurant that’s just opened around here.”

“There is?”

“Yes…” I said, and held my breath. “Maybe we can check it out sometime. You know, if you’re not, um, busy or anything.”

He shrugged. “Why not? Maybe I’ll stop by sometime next week and we’ll do that.”

“Anytime,” I said. “You know where I live. Come by and see me.”

“I will.”

We stood there awkwardly, and it struck me that I didn’t know what to do next. I was so out of practice! He stood with his hands behind his back and looked at me expectantly.

“Well…good night,” I ventured.

“Good night,” he said, and continued to stand there, away from me.

I gave him a half-smile and turned away. The night doorman held open the door expectantly and I walked through it. Oh, well. Next time.

T
he next day I realized that if I wanted to continue to eat I would have to exchange gift certificates I’d received as birthday presents for cash. Barring no other options, I placed a call to Mr. Bartleby-Smythe.

“I’m willing to lease the penthouse,” I told him reluctantly.

“Wonderful news!” he replied. “And it just so happens I’ve already got a tenant for the apartment. I’ll send them over immediately.”

Since I would have to let go of the household staff, I temporarily settled that issue by deciding to move into a one-bedroom suite at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo. Hotel living would more than make up for the loss of my chef, my butler, my footman, the army of liveried servants, and the woman who came in every week to alphabetize my moisturizers. My belongings were going into storage, and were neatly packed into an array of T. Anthony steamer trunks. It never ceased to amaze me how much stuff I’ve accumulated over the years: Greek and Roman statuary from my antiquing phase, the many canvases of broken crockery, not to mention my collection of ancient Japanese kimonos from the fifteenth century. Packing away my clothes posed a Herculean task and I sorely missed Bannerjee’s adept sense of organization, but for now vintage, designer, vintage designer, ironic, costume, evening, and hip-hop were all scrambled together in one big loading case and I figured I could sort it all out later when she returned.

I was taking care of last-minute errands, making sure I had remembered to pack all the unopened bottles of champagne from the Sub-Zero, wrapping my Lejaby bras in acid-free tissue paper, when India popped in from the other room. She was helping me move, as well as helping herself to some of my possessions. Her financial situation was just as desperate as mine, and I marveled that she could be so nonplussed concerning the about-turn her generous patron’s heart had taken. The possibility of eviction didn’t seem to upset her as much as it should have. “Oh, I’m not worried, darling,” she said. “After all, I can always move in with you at the Mercer.” Which was true, although if Bannerjee ever came back with the baby it would make for cramped quarters indeed. What with India’s wigs and my shoes, there would be no space for a cradle, let alone the gargantuan Chanel baby stroller I had set my heart on for the arrival of my first-bought.

“Cat, you don’t need this, do you?” India asked, holding up two glowsticks from my rave phase. “I think I can put them to use….”

I was about to protest when the doorman buzzed.

“A visitor for Miss McAllister,” he announced on the intercom.

“Who’s there?” India inquired.

“I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. What did this look like, a Southern porch? True New Yorkers know
never
to arrive unannounced.

The butler opened the door, and before I could see who it was, a piercing sound assaulted my eardrums. “CAAATTT darling!!” There was only one woman in Manhattan whose voice decibel range matched my own. It could only be …

“Teeny?” I gasped.

“I’m, uh—” She was interrupted by muscle-bound movers who elbowed her out of the way, gingerly lifting Marlene Dietrich’s grand piano (I still hadn’t met a dead-celebrity auction I could
resist). A harried-looking man followed her inside. He wiped his brow profusely and surveyed the premises with a proprietary air I didn’t much care for.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Teeny suspiciously. “And who, pray tell, are you?” I gave the skittish fellow an icy glance.

“Mr. Finn’s the name,” he said, offering his hand.

Teeny ignored my question and bent down to proffer me a powdered cheek, which I pecked out of habit. Was that
my
perfume she was wearing? “India darling,” she said, turning to India.

“Hello,” India greeted coolly, with a modicum of courtesy.

“What are you doing here?” I repeated sharply.

Teeny surveyed the empty penthouse, ran her fingers over the mantel, examined the nonexistent dust on her fingertips, and answered innocently. “Oh, didn’t you know? My divorce from Dashiell isn’t complete yet, but I’ve already left him. And I’ve always loved this old place. Cat, your mother had exquisite taste.” Teeny tapped her kitten heels on the marble floor. “I never thought it would be on the market,” she marveled.

“Oh, undoubtedly, we’ve had our eye on it for a while,” Mr. Finn agreed.

“Excuse me—?” I choked.

I suddenly remembered Mr. Bartleby-Smythe’s eagerness to rid me of my penthouse. “I know someone who would be very interested in your apartment,” he had leered. If only I had known he had meant Teeny! How could he? To think I had trusted him with my trust fund!

“Mr. Bartleby-Smythe sent you?” I asked.

“Yes, indeedy. Called us right away, and hi-ho, off we went.”

“But I’m not ready—I thought I still had until next week,” I protested.

“Oh no, oh no. I’m sorry, madam. No, the lease has been signed, and as your broker, I can assure you all the papers are in order. You can ask Mr. Bartleby-Smythe, and he’ll confirm that it’s all been arranged. Mrs. Van der Hominie—”

“Lady Van der Hominie,” Teeny corrected.

“Lady Van der Hominie now has possession of this apartment.”

“But this is only a temporary move; I’m only leasing it for now,” I snapped.

“For sure, for sure.” Mr. Finn nodded, but I caught him giving Teeny a smug, knowing look.

“I think I’ll have a look around,” Teeny said. “I just want to make sure everything is as it should be.” Without bothering to wait for a reply, she began a room-by-room investigation of the family homestead, her heels scratching the beautiful travertine floor.

“Perhaps we should be going,” I conceded, sighing.

“Cat—no!” India argued. “It’s so …”

Utterly humiliating. But thankfully, India didn’t rub salt on the wound.

“Darling, it’s all right, I’m fine,” I assured her. “The moving men have finished clearing out my boxes and there doesn’t seem to be much use in carrying on this conversation anymore.”

“Oh, Cat!” India cried, and forcefully hugged me to her bountiful chest. “Don’t worry, darling. I know you’ll be back here in no time.” We huddled in the doorway of the apartment that was no longer mine. Teeny followed us out.

“Ta-ta, darlings. Oh, by the way, I’m having a petit dinner party to celebrate my new home. I’d love to have all of you here. You too, India,” she said. “Next week,
oui?
”

“I’m busy,” India said bluntly.

“I’m, ah … getting my hair done,” I said, lying badly.

“Well, let me know, dears. Or better yet, stop by. After all, you know where I live.” Teeny gave me a wicked smile.

India and I were inside the elevator when a bloodcurdling scream erupted from inside the apartment.

“AAAARRRRGGGHHHH! !” There was a galloping of heels on the floor, and suddenly a red-faced Teeny was in front of us, holding back the elevator doors with her bare hands.

“BITCH!” Teeny spat. “Where is the closet! You know it’s the only reason I wanted this apartment!” Mummy’s custom-built,
temperature-controlled closet, my one true inheritance, was now relocated to a storage locker in Midtown while I assessed my real estate possibilities. A huge, ugly, double-height hole in the wall was all that remained of this marvel.

“Ta-ta, Teeny!” I smiled, wagging my fingers. “Do call. Don’t be a stranger.”