Cat's Meow (16 page)

India was trying very hard to have Bill Cunningham from
The New York Times
take her picture. Bill stood ten feet away from where India was affecting an apathetic manner, although she was outrageously outfitted in an attention-grabbing, multicolored sheared mink coat, bright leather chaps, and a gargantuan cowboy
hat. Unfortunately, Bill was just as oblivious to India as she pretended to be to him.

When India finally gave up on capturing his attention, she nodded to the guard, who allowed her inside, and I attempted to follow her but the guard physically blocked my entrance with his body.

“Identification, please!” he roared.

“I’m here for the shows—I’m with Arbiteur” I argued.

“Where’s your invitation?”

I searched inside my overstuffed handbag for my invitation. MP3 player, wallet, cell phone, beeper, Palm Pilot, tape recorder, receipts from the day’s shopping excursion. But no lacy G-string with my seat assignment on it. (“Welcome,” it read on the crotch.) Terribly disturbing, as I had expressly given Bannerjee direct orders to prepare my handbag for Fashion Week, and I was sure I had told her not to forget the invitations.

“What about an ID or a press pass?” the door goon grunted.

But I never carried an ID for fear of revealing my real age! And neither Billy nor India had mentioned I needed a press pass. India gave me a frustrated look from the other side and I gestured for her to go on ahead.

“Here—what about this?” I asked, showing him an “international student ID” acquired in college for pre-twenty-one drinking binges.

No dice.

“Can I at least sit at the café?” I asked, meaning the outdoor reception area where the Moët & Chandon flowed freely. This was a perk provided by the organizers to help the fashion folk recover from “a hard day of shows.” I was already exhausted but had yet to see one anorexic model in an unwearable creation slouch down the runway to neo-Gregorian ambient jungle trip-hop.

“All right,” he growled.

Who needs to see a fashion show when one can drink champagne? I eyed the canapés on the tray and glanced around to see if anyone was looking in my direction.

“Hey there, you,” a familiar voice called.

I looked up, in mid-cucumber-sandwich crunch. “Stephan!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” The fashion shows had become very popular among well-heeled businessmen of all types, who usually finagled tickets through corporate sponsors. They regarded the shows as the newest spectator sport. This suit-and-cell-phone crowd could be spotted at any high-profile media event: ringside at heavyweight boxing matches at Atlantic City, courtside at Madison Square Garden during the play-offs. During Fashion Week they could usually be counted on to ogle models from the front rows, seated in between the rows of disdainful editors and distressed buyers from department stores, who had the thankless job of selling the public on three-armed sweaters and diaphanous day-wear.

“A friend of mine invited me to a show, and I thought I’d pop in during my lunch hour,” he explained. “Why aren’t you inside? I came too late and they had given my seat away.”

“I was running late as well. I’m here for
Arbiteur,
” I explained.

“What’s
Arbiteur
?”

“It’s a new fashion website. We’re
quite
influential; I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us,” I chided.

“Forgive me?” he teased.

“Anyway, I just needed something to do,” I said airily. “It’s not like a job or anything….”

“Oh, of course.” He nodded. “And how’s the baby?”

“Boing.”

“Excuse me?”

“Her name is Boing,” I said defensively. “It’s an ancient Chinese name.”

“Interesting choice.” He grinned. “It’s very distinctive.”

“And for your information, she’s fine, thanks.”

“So,” he paused, looking at me with those piercing eyes. “Where did you disappear to? I went to visit you but your doorman said you had moved to the Mercer Hotel. But when I called there they said
you had checked out. So I called Information, but you’re not listed.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I’ve moved to a loft in Tribeca. Have you heard of Brother Parish? The interior decorator? He’s rearticularized my space into a dichotomy of form and function,” I babbled, trying to remember what Brother Parish had said. “Brother Parish hates clutter. He’s very minimalist. I can’t put anything anywhere, because he designed all the surfaces in the apartment to have a slight tilt—if I stack magazines and papers on them, they fall to the floor. That’s minimalism for you.”

He laughed, and his one good eye crinkled charmingly. “You’re insane.”

“I’m intriguing,” I retorted.

He smiled and I sipped my champagne. He hovered nearer. Our champagne glasses clinked, and I slowly closed my eyes. This time I would get it right. It’s amazing—the last time I was this infatuated it was with a pair of knee-high snakeskin boots, and I
knew
they would be mine. I could smell the sweetness of his breath, a mixture of cigarettes and champagne and Aqua di Parma. Then …

“Excuse me!”

Stephan and I turned in annoyance. It was a photographer holding up a large camera. “Can I take your picture?” he asked, pointing to me. Once the other lensmen noticed their colleague taking my picture, they all began snapping photographs as well, and soon I was blinded by a torrent of flashbulbs.

“Oh, of course,” I complied, elated. It was about time! The incessant coverage of myself in
Arbiteur
’s “Party Patrol” must have finally elicited interest from the mainstream press. Of course, it could also have been due to their haste to capture my outfit—I was wearing Viktor & Rolf’s Fall/Spring 2000—the
entire
collection all at once (which was how they suggested it be worn), which made me look not unlike a Russian doll. The phalanx of photographers pushed Stephan away and soon he was lost in the stream of the stiletto-heeled who had flooded into the champagne bar once the show had ended. I strained to find him and was about to call out
when I noticed he was making his way toward Teeny, whom I noticed standing behind the tent doors. I guessed she was the “friend” who had invited him to the show.

“What happened to you?” India asked when she found me slumped against the bar.

“I got a little sidetracked,” I said offhandedly. I promised myself I would file my first review for
Arbiteur
tomorrow. Right, tomorrow.

Urrrgggh. Why was the baby screaming? At six in the morning? Must impress upon child not to wake up to be fed, I thought. It’s too common to want to eat. What will people say? Really, it’s too distracting, especially as I’m a working mother now.

I padded over to the crib and gave her a bottle. “There you go; happy now?” I asked.

Boing chortled and cooed, slurping hard.

Oh well. What could you do? I gave her a kiss.
Kids
.

In truth, I was obsessed with the baby. I couldn’t buy enough little sailor outfits from Jean Paul Gaultier Enfants. And India, well, you’d never think New York’s first aristocratic transsexual would feel maternal, but not only had India agreed to be a godmother, she was already planning the christening. There would be clowns, fire-works, and the Reverend Al Sharpton officiating. But I wasn’t even sure I was Christian. My father was a lapsed Catholic and my mother worshiped at the altar of Kenneth. The way I saw it, choosing a religion was like wearing underwear: you should try on a different one every day. I’d done the Hindu thing, the Buddhist thing, the Shanti-Astangi. I’d found enlightenment and I didn’t even
wear
underwear—I was fabric-sensitive as a child.

I was so glad I was now employed, as I really had to start saving my pennies for the baby. I could send a whole Sri Lankan village to medical school for the price of kindergarten at Dalton!

“Well, you know,” India had suggested. “There’s always …”

But there was no way. Even if it meant debtor’s prison. I just couldn’t. I’d heard they let
anyone
enroll. Scandalous! In my mind,
education should involve such things as Peter Pan collars, vespers, and French carols sung in the belvedere,
not
metal detectors, transparent backpacks, and automatic-weapon-wielding preteens. India retorted that even if I sent Boing to private school, she’d still have to pass some test.

“Test? What test?” I had asked.

“Admissions tests, silly. You don’t think they let just anyone into Dalton, do you? And anyway, Miss Hoity-Toity, Stuyvesant is even harder to get into than Dalton and it’s a public school.”

But I wasn’t worried about Boing; she was Chinese. Everyone knows they’re smart.

This time I was out of the house in time for John Bartlett’s eleven o’clock presentation. I was disturbed to find out that as an editor at
Arbiteur,
I was assigned a standing-room seat! Standing-room tickets were traditionally ferreted out to fashion students and distant relatives of the designer. But no matter, it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to upgrade to the knocking-on-heaven’s-door environs of a dignified “section A, row 1, seat 10” with some help from whiteout and a pen.

I breezed through the lines, waving my forged ticket above my head, and found an empty front-row seat. Turning to the program’s “run of show” I skimmed the names of the models walking on the runway and counted two Ashleys, three Tiffanys, four Marie-Annes, and one of each of the following: Lavinia, Luvigna, Lagina, Listagna, Laeticia, Ljupka, Ludmilla, Yfke, Rifke, Neitschze, Serenna, Corinna, Fromilla, Tange, Unge, Fungi, Gisele, Mimi, Maggie, Krissie, Irina, Komiko, Tynk, Wink, Stink, Cordova, Maldova, Magnolia, Maglosia, Alek, and Carolyn.

The lights went down, the booming music started, and the show was beyond marvelous—more nipples than
Showgirls
. Everything falling off the shoulder or plunging deep into crevices. I trembled with excitement and wrote down notes, which I saw other fashion editors doing. Next to me solemn-faced women scribbled furiously in their
notebooks, while others spoke softly into Dictaphones. “Yellow.” “Orange.” “Ruffles.” “Disco.” “Feathers.” “Strapless.” “Nude.” “Guerrilla.” “Urban.”

This is what I wrote in mine: “Apocalyptic.” “Unreal.” “Hazardous.” “Must remember to take in dry cleaning.”

When the last guerrilla-glamazon walked down the runway, John Bartlett came out to take his bows, as usual, holding his pet dog Sweetie in his arms. Sweetie was something of a trendsetter herself, as the glamour pooch columnist of
Elle
magazine. This was something of a sore point for India, since her Maltese Miu Miu was just as cute but had yet to make
one
stylish pronouncement. The back row, filled with the front-row editors’ assistants, FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology) students, and assorted gate crashers, gave him a standing ovation, while everyone else clapped politely. No one ever dared show any enthusiasm for a collection no matter how fabulous. A look of boredom, disdain, and downright loathing was almost mandatory. Unless, of course, you were a certain whitehaired emeritus fashion director who was famous for her audible gasping, rolling about in the aisles, and literal jumping for joy if she liked something on the runway.

India and I collected our seat candy—travel-size containers of body lotion, and the expensive, useless tchotchke given as a token of esteem from the designer to the fashion press. Any interest in the goodie bags is
très
gauche—although even unflappable front-row denizens have been known to squeal in delight when a particularly choice freebie was found on their seat (Louis Vuitton and Prada were famous for gifting front-row editors with actual bags worth several thousand dollars during show presentations).

“Hair spray and condoms!” India whispered, peeking inside the bag. “Hooray!”

“I’m going backstage to troll for some goss,” India said. “Come with?”

“No, I’ve got to file my report.” I demurred, as I was secretly hoping I’d run into Stephan at the champagne bar again. I waited
for a few minutes, but when I didn’t see him anywhere, I repaired to the journalists’ lounge next to the café and was thrilled to discover it had all the makings of an uptown day spa. There were paraffin hand treatments for those whose fingers were exhausted from all that writing, facials for those who had frowned too much, and foot massages to combat the stress of walking from taxi to tent. I nixed the beauty treatments as I had
real
work to do, and uploaded my three-word rave of John Bartlett’s show on the
Arbiteur
website, next to the stolen streaming video from Catwalk.com. Not a minute later, my cell phone rang.

“
Arbiteur,
” I answered crisply. “This is Cat.”

“Your show review—one word:
gorge,
” Billy crowed.

This was easier than I thought! Wondered what Teeny would say when she saw my byline on
Arbiteur
. I was also planning a critical investigation into Tart Tarteen’s business practices as my first fashion exposé.

“And I have great news—we’ve won the award for best fashion website from the Nettie Awards!”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s like the Oscars of the Internet.”

“They have those?”

“Yes. Apparently they can’t get enough of India’s gossip column, and you know that fashion shoot you styled? The one called ‘Castoffs’ with the antique bloomers? They said it was genius!”

“So what did we win?”

“A coiled statuette that looks like a Slinky. Cat, this is a mile-stone for
Arbiteur
. A huge achievement. We’re going to get extreme recognition and it’s great news for our IPO.”

The next day I was determined to wake up early to arrive on time for Miguel Adrover’s show, which I promised Billy I would not miss. Like other “rebellious” downtown designers, Miguel wasn’t showing at the tents but at a morgue downtown. I was badly hungover from the aftershow parties of the night before. Oh well, fashion shows were notorious for their late starts. The audience at Marc
Jacobs’s show two days earlier was probably still waiting for the lights to dim.

I kissed Boing good-bye, and feeling very much like a hard-charging editrix of an award-winning global fashion website, I climbed into the car with a renewed sense of purpose.