Cat's Meow (17 page)

“Grand and Jackson, please, driver.”

En route, I pondered a question that had been nagging me for days. Was I turning into a champagneaholic? The same fatal disease that afflicted waif supermodels and grunge rock goddesses? I looked up the symptoms for Bubbly Overdose Syndrome from the latest copy of
Dr. Feelnothing’s Guide to Designer Diseases
.

Let’s see … “Pavlovic reaction to popping corks.” Yes!

“Inability to distinguish Joe Pesci from Kosovar busboys at nightclubs.” Was that Joe Pesci India and I were partying with last night, or a recent Kosovar immigrant?
I don’t know, I don’t know!

“Middle fingers in carpal-tunnel cramp from holding flute glass.” I attempted to wiggle my fingers but couldn’t feel them! I was suffering from the syndrome for certain!

But then the phone rang and I was able to answer it without any effort or pain. Hmmm.

“Hello, Cat darling.”

“Hello, India sweetheart.”

“All ready for Miguel’s show?”

“Oh, most definitely. I look smashing. I’m wearing my Louis Vuitton garment bag,” I told her, explaining I had slashed and stitched my logo luggage into a suitable one-piece in homage to the designer, who had done the same thing in his first, groundbreaking collection. As India chatted away, I looked idly out the window. Wait a minute! I knew Manhattan’s Lower East Side wasn’t the prettiest part of town, but this didn’t even look like Manhattan at all! Where were the newly chic Orchard Street bars and parvenu dress shops next to Jewish delicatessens and turn-of-the-century sweatshops?

“Is this Grand and Jackson?” I asked the driver.

“Yes, ma’am. This is Queens.” Apparently the fool driver had
mistaken the directions for an intersection in the most unglamorous of boroughs.

Nooooooo! “India—I’m in Queens! I know—it’s rich. I’ll send postcards, but, darling, I can’t talk now!” I folded the phone and started to hyperventilate. Billy had expressly instructed me to deliver show coverage for Miguel Adrover’s line. The driver professed to know a quick shortcut back to Manhattan, and even though I had my reservations, I let him use it.

Hours later I rang India. From
Brooklyn
. Quick shortcut turned into major gridlock detour and I was just as far from Manhattan and Fashion Week as ever.

“So, how was Miguel’s?”

“Fantastic. You know how last season he did ‘
Midtown
’?”

“Yes?”

“Well, this season, he did ‘
Outer Borough
.’ It was disturbing and divine. Oh, Cat, you’re so lucky to be in Brooklyn. So fashion-forward of you.”

For the last day of Fashion Week, everybody’s favorite rap-mogulturned-menswear-designer threw a birthday party for himself—one that was even more expensive than mine! Of course, I was not invited, but that’s never stopped me before. I desperately wanted to go because I thought for sure Stephan would be there, since he never seemed to miss a fabulous event. For the party, each of the two thousand guests had been given a VCR tape that played key scenes from the rap star’s life, complete with a soundtrack. The location was kept secret until the very last minute, and India had to torture a caterer to find out the secret password. When we arrived, the crowd was so thick that the publicists were turning even bonafide celebrities away.

A proper invitation and a
Vogue
cover don’t guarantee anything when it comes down to it. If an event proves too popular, publicists have been known to actually disinvite guests who have already RSVP’d. But even if you clear the preparty politics, there is still the
matter of actually getting inside the event. If the venue is grossly overcrowded and already in violation of fire laws, and the crowd outside the door is filled with the likes of the Duchess of York, the Princess of Greece, and the King of Pop—well, those with less-than-stellar credentials—and I don’t care how many
Tiger Beat
covers you’ve been on—not that I’ve ever been a
Tiger Beat
cover girl—you don’t get inside.

I spotted Brick and his arm-candy date arguing loudly after being turned away at the door. Pasha was berating him for their debilitating social humiliation.

“Cunnnot you do something?” she screeched. “Owlof my friends are olllready inside. It’s
theee
pahty of the week. I cunnnot mees eeet.”

“Sorry, babe. I tried my best,” Brick apologized. “I don’t understand; Enrico promised me he’d get us on the list,” he added, annoyed and flustered. Brick wasn’t used to having people say no to him; it just wasn’t done.

“Ugh! This is soooo not cool, Breeck.” She pouted, then stalked off in a funk.

“Hi, darling.” I waved. “Having a bit of trouble there?”

“Oh, hi, Cat,” he said sheepishly. “It’s nothing—she’ll get over it.” He ran after her, calling out her name in the dark. “Pasha? Pasha doll? Come on! I’ve got a contact who can get us into the Chaos party! Don’t leave me!” He ran off after her, their footsteps fading into the night.

The sidewalk was filled with other supermodel casualties—Lavigna, Ljupka, Ashley, Irina, Trish, and Teena-Marie had not been allowed in either. They wandered around aimlessly, like lost little children without a party to attend, cell phones glued to their ears, complaining noisily in a hodgepodge of accents.

“Incroyable!”

“Vere ees next partee?”

“Casablancas-san, me no get in.”

There was a lovely little bar right next to the event, but no one even thought of abandoning ship and going there. It was the principle
of the thing. To actually pay for a night out was outside the typical model’s earthly existence. They were very fragile, and withered at the sight of a drink bill.

Fortunately for us, the girl at the door was one of the few fashion addicts who had actually heard of
Arbiteur
. “You’re Cat McAllister!” she squealed when she noticed me in the crowd.

“I’ve seen you in that Tarty Patrol’ column,” she explained.

“You have?”

“Oh, it’s my favorite website. And is this … ?” she asked, motioning to India.

“India Beresford-Givens—she writes ‘
Depeche Merde,
’” I said proudly.

“You guys are the best! I’m such a big fan!
Arbiteur
is like the best-kept secret in the fashion industry.”

We smiled benevolently. “Can we get through now?”

“Totally!” she said, raising the velvet rope. “Hey—who’s the blind item in your gossip column last month? The drunken journalist who peed in the closet of his boss’s home? Was it Michael Musto?”

India gave her an enigmatic smile. “We’ll never tell.”

“India, I can’t believe nobody’s guessed that it was you!” I whispered.

Once inside, I immediately spilled champers down Martha Stewart’s back. India gave her advice on how to clean it, from an article in Martha’s magazine. It was a splendid party—all the right people, and names, names, names, but Stephan was nowhere to be found. Shame, I felt myself blush at the memory of that almost-kiss. He had been about to kiss me, hadn’t he? Or did I just have something on my chin? It had been so long since I had actually kissed anybody. Brick and I—well, who cared about that anymore?

U
m, Cat, before we have our editorial meeting today, can I talk to you about your New York Fashion Week coverage?” Billy asked in a serious tone.

“Oh? Why?” I felt a glimmer of fear. Was I being fired so soon after my debut? Not even when I read for the role of Gertie in
E.T
had I been hustled out of a position so soon.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way—your coverage of John Bartlett’s show was fantastic.”

“Thank you, I did try.” Relief flooded over me.

“And the fact that we’ve asked our stringers in Paris, Milan, and London to cover the European collections doesn’t bear
any
judgment at all on the job you’ve done,” he continued. Hmm … I was wondering about that. I had fully expected to follow the fashion pack across the Atlantic for the rest of the fashion season, but Billy convinced me I was needed at
Arbiteur
HQ.

“Besides, I don’t think we can afford to pay your expenses in Italy.” Billy had been less than thrilled when I handed him the bill for the “discounted” designer items I had picked up during my Fashion Week detour.

“I’d hate to see what would happen when you discover the Prada outlet,” he joked.

Did he say Prada outlet? I’d been
robbed
.

“There is, however, the question of Couture Week in Paris. Against my better judgment, I find I have no one to send but you and India to cover the shows. But only if you promise not to go on any more shopping sprees.”

“I’d love that!” I breathed, knowing that Teeny was sure to be in Paris as well, since she never missed a couture show. It was the lifeblood of her Tart Tarteen line, as she was notorious for getting lower-priced versions of the fantastic, otherworldly creations from the runways into the stores immediately. And if Teeny were there—would Stephan be far behind?

“Cat, Cat? So it’s all right, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

“What’s great?” I asked blankly.

“My one tiny suggestion?” Billy asked in an exasperated tone.

“Yes? What was it again? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you very well the first time.”

Billy looked a tad uncomfortable. “Well, all I meant was that since there will be several designers showing—meaning
more than one
—I just thought it might be better for our readers and, well, the purposes of our website, if, well… if…”

“If?”

“If when you go to Paris, you were able to report on more than one designer. Don’t get me wrong, I adore John Bartlett—but… well, anyway, do you think you could do that?”

I tittered. “Of course, darling! Why, all you needed to do was ask!”

“Great.” Billy smiled.

Later, as I was sorting the day’s mail at the office, I stumbled upon a rather distressing letter addressed to
Arbiteur
from
Catwalk.com
.
“Billy darling!” I called when I saw it. “Have you seen this?” I waved the official-looking envelope.

Billy looked up from his morning coffee at three o’clock in the afternoon. “Mmmm?” He squinted at it. “Is it another cease-anddesist letter from
Catwalk.com
?”

“How did you know?”

“Oh, they sent us one last season. For stealing their streaming video.” He yawned. “I thought we would get our own coverage this year, but…” I flushed, remembering how I had forgotten to bring the digital video camera with me to the recent New York fashion shows.

“What are we going to do?” I asked nervously. “It looks like they mean business. They’re threatening some kind of lawsuit,” I said, skimming the document. “Do you want me to call a lawyer?”

“Nah,” Billy said, waving the notion away. “They’ll never get around to actually suing us. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you’re sure,” I said, putting the letter away in the Out box, which doubled as Billy’s CD tower. It looked ominous and oppressive, but after a couple of days, I forgot all about it.

I promised Billy when India and I left for Paris that I wouldn’t try to do anything too extreme. “And remember—try to report on more than one show!” he called as the car drove us away.

Unlike the pret-a-porter collections, couture clothing—custom-made, one-of-a-kind creations that take two weeks to two months to finish—was relevant only to a handful of women around the globe. Those who could afford hundred-thousand-dollar evening dresses that take a team of ten hunchbacked women four months to make. Due to the sorry state of my finances, I hadn’t been able to afford couture in a while, but thanks to
Arbiteur
’s upcoming IPO, this was all going to change immediately.

For the trip, I FedExed my wardrobe ahead. It’s so inconvenient to cart around baggage—emotional or otherwise. I called Boing several times from the airplane, as I missed her already. Bannerjee mentioned the mysterious stalker was still skulking around the
perimeter, talking into his wrist phone, but I told her not to worry, as he was probably harmless, although I did make a note to tell Heidi to call him off, since it was all well and good for my image for me to be so regularly harassed, but it wouldn’t do to have him scaring my au pair.

India and I checked into our adjoining suites in the Ritz. I asked the concierge if Mummy was registered, as I knew she never missed Couture Week, and was sorely disappointed to find she had left for Acapulco.

We were thrilled to find that Billy had thoughtfully alerted the hotel staff to our presence, as we found our rooms lavishly appointed with flowers, champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, and other tasty nibblies. India had just popped the cork when the concierge entered our room in a state of extreme agitation.

“Ah, mademoiselles,” he said, wiping his palms together nervously. “Eees zome meestake, no?
Vous n’êtes pas Na-ooh-meee Campbell?
”

Since neither of us were currently being sued by our former employees for cell phone abuse, we both shook our heads.

“Aaahhh … I zought zo. Pliss, eees vairy importante. Eeez not your rooomz.”