Cat's Meow (2 page)

I was eight years old when my parents divorced. Daddy found solace in a series of young blondes who didn’t seem to mind that he had been downgraded from billionaire to millionaire, while Mummy took up with a succession of men of descending importance in the political and entertainment fields—from Academy Award-winning directors and Republican congressmen to Latin American playboys and Norwegian
parfumiers
. Mummy also retains a marginal hold in the public eye by writing an astrology column for the
National Enquirer
.

*  *  *

I live for velvet ropes and open bars, aviator sunglasses and seaweed scrubs, Hello Kitty lunchboxes, pony-skin handbags, peacock-feathered shoes, and gold-leaf invitations to VIP events. The kind of exclusive fete frequented by glossy-magazine editors, DJs, models, photographers, stylists, kindersocialites, the several pseudo-celebrities “cajoled” into showing up (Gary Coleman, Sylvia Miles, Monica Lewinsky) as well as the legions of assorted fashionable hangers-on—aggressive party crashers who more often than not spend their days manning the M.A.C. counter at Bloomingdale’s—star-struck kids with a talent for self-invention who have just arrived in the city from Florence … or Fresno.

I’m happy to report I’m booked every night of the week, except on Friday and Saturday nights, of course, when the city is filled with a strange kind of people. Those who hold jobs. Not that my manic partying isn’t
work
. That’s why weekends are devoted to maintenance and television. It’s the only time I can devote myself to Sabrina the
Teenage Witch
and
Popstars,
put on my oxygen mask, and practice my breathing. Sometimes I’ll even do all three at once.

So where did I go wrong? In the back of my mind, I always thought that by the time I reached thirty, I’d have
something
: either a rich and successful husband who kept me in couture or else a fabulous and fulfilling job that garnered me the respect and envy of my peers. But instead of ascending up the New York circles via legacy or meritocracy, I spend my days in Madison Avenue dressing rooms and my nights in the unsavory confines of certain nightclub bathrooms. It’s all getting to be so predictable and surprisingly tedious, and loneliness, as Bryan Ferry croons, is a crowded room.

Perhaps I should mention that my erstwhile fiancé, Brockton Moorehouse Winthrop the Third, or “Brick” for short—recently broke off our on-again-off-again engagement. He dumped me for a Victoria’s Secret supermodel. One Pasha Grigulgluck—otherwise known in the press as the “Tits from Transylvania.” Pasha was a high school dropout and runaway from the national figure-skating team. Two months and two silicone injections later, “nineteen”-
year-old Pasha was pouting down from a billboard on Times Square and had my ex-boyfriend wrapped around her little finger.

Brick is a polo-playing venture capitalist, an extremely busy and successful man. We dated on and off for years. Oh sure, we rarely
saw
each other—he was always racing his hot-air balloon somewhere over Uzbekistan while I was shopping on Carnaby Street, but that was the point. We kept in touch via speakerphone—Brick would dial me from his Gulfstream V, so his voice always sounded vaguely far off, as if he were some kind of god. But I don’t really miss Brick as much as I miss the
idea
of him.

India says I’m being silly, because how can I be lonely when I have her in my life? India Morgan Beresford-Givens is New York’s reigning postoperative transsexual. In other words, a drag queen who’s
gone the distance
. She’s also my best friend in the whole world. India swears she’s descended from the Astors, as well as being a bastard cousin to the British royal family. Her life has been one of scandal, intrigue, painful hormone treatments, and invitation-only Chanel sample sales. I’ve known India forever. We’ve gone from New Wave groupies with asymmetrical haircuts and Duran Duran fixations, to clown-suit-wearing club kids in ski masks, to Gucci-clad fashionistas tripping over nail-heel stilettos. India doesn’t understand loneliness, mostly because she never sleeps alone. I, on the other hand, can hardly stand the thought of soiling my fivehundred-thread-count Frette.

“Cat, is something wrong?” India asked, horrified. “You’ve hardly touched your vodka tonic.” We were having our usual late-afternoon liquid lunch at Fred’s, the restaurant in the basement of Barneys.

“I know,” I mourned. “What’s wrong with me? I detest angst. I’ve
done
angst. I’ve been to college.”

“What you need,” India chided, “is a new man. Look at me, I feel fabulous. Invigorated.” India had a new man every other week. “You’ve got to stop whining about Brick and the supermodel. You need something new—more specifically, you need
someone
new.”

“But who?” I asked, hiding behind oversize sunglasses that used to belong to Jackie Onassis. India knew as well as I did that I was hopeless when it came to men. My relationship with Brick lasted for so long because we didn’t have real conversations. Brick was the King of the Monologue, and expected the Nancy Reagan treatment at all times. I highly suspected I didn’t really want a man—not for all the typical reasons, anyway. I wanted a “handbag”—something that would look nice on my arm. Sometimes I wished I could just skip the whole relationship thing and proceed straight to the alimony checks. So much easier that way.

“Well, obviously, it’s got to be someone worthy. You can’t just end up with some regular Joe Schmoe off the street,” India said.

“Obviously,” I agreed, rolling my eyes at the very thought.

“What about a de Rothschild? A Whitney? A Vanderbilt? A Whitney-Vanderbilt? A Rockefeller?” India threw out last names like clothing labels—which wasn’t too far off, when you thought about it. A Louis Vuitton lifestyle funded by a princely American fortune—isn’t that what a modern Manhattan marriage was all about? Except all the new billionaires were over in Silicon Valley, and God knows I would never move there. I mean, where would I have my hair done?

“Darling, doesn’t your mother know anybody nice?”

I gave India a look.

“Oh, that’s right, dear. I keep forgetting.”

My mother flitted about so much, exchanging men like foreign currency, that the only way to keep track of her movements was by consulting an international collection of dubious celebrity magazines. “There was a small mention in
Paris Match
about some sort of birthday party for her pet poodle last week,” I said. Sometimes I did receive the occasional cablegram inquiring about my health. Mummy on e-mail? She didn’t even know how to dial long distance!

But it was useless to complain, as Mummy did what she could. For my fifth birthday, she threw an authentic barnyard bash—at the Waldorf-Astoria, just like Elsa Maxwell—complete with real
animals—cows, pigs, goats, and chickens. “But, madam, we cannot have livestock in the ballroom!” the scandalized concierge had protested. But they did, by custom-making felt slippers for the animals’ hooves. The hit of the party was Elsie the cow, who milked champagne and vodka from her udders.

“I’ve got it!” I said, quaffing my cocktail in a gulp, finally understanding what it was I really wanted in a man.
“Von und su!”

“The right possessive pronouns,” India agreed, impressed.

“A little
Thum und Thaxis
.”

“
De or du
.”

“Or better yet—an ‘of Something’! Not even a last name—just a country!” I was
inspired
.

“With an HRH in front.”

“Hmmm…”

“Hmmm…”

“But what about—egads, HRH Princess Marie-Chantai of Greece?” I asked.

“Err—it does give one pause.” India nodded.

“But I suppose I could live with it,” I decided. “I’ve got it! Stephan of Westonia,” I said, remembering a recent conversation with social gadabout Cece Phipps-Langley.

“The Royal Prince of Westonia?” India asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Hmm … could be a good prospect. And not bad-looking either, even with the eye patch.”

“Oh, it’s all about the eye patch,” I said. “By the way, where is Westonia exactly?”

“Somewhere in the Baltic, I think, near the Balkans. Or is it Bavaria?” India mused.

“Cece said he keeps homes in Buenos Aires, Baden-Baden, and Beverly Hills … and that brokers are taking him to look at penthouses on Fifth Avenue and beachfront cottages in Sag Harbor,” I said. Cece never gossiped about anyone who wasn’t important. “Apparently his title dates back to the Holy Roman Empire and he can trace his ancestry to all the royal houses in Europe, the imperial
court of Russia, as well as Oliver Cromwell, Napoleon, Franklin Roosevelt, and, urn, Serge Gainsbourg.”

“So what does he do now?”

“Mmm … I don’t know for sure. Some sort of financial thing with a Wall Street bank, I’m sure. Don’t they all? Supposedly he has gazillions. Not one of those all-castle-no-cash kind of things. He’s only thirty-five and—get this—unmarried,” I said in a breathless rush.

“And he’s not gay?” India asked keenly.

“No, I don’t think so. Cece said he just came out of a secret relationship with Princess Caroline.”

“Of Monaco?” India asked, impressed.

I nodded eagerly.

“Well, then, how… serendipitous indeed.” We silently contemplated this minor miracle. Rich. Titled. Single. Straight.
Parfait!

“And you know what they say. A good man possessing a great fortune should soon be parted from it through marriage,” I said to India. “Or something like that.”

Was it Socrates who said an unexamined life is not worth living? Possibly. But as the advent of a twenty-four-hour Reality Channel (which broadcasts the minutiae of ordinary people transplanted into extraordinary circumstances, the reward of surviving their ordeal a seat on David Letterman’s couch) has proved, it’s an
undocumented
life that’s not worth living. If one’s every move isn’t gossip-column fodder or fan-website worthy, does one even matter in the grand scheme of things? And darlings, I wanted to matter. I wanted to matter very, very desperately. Therefore: Stephan of Westonia. My ticket out of B-list obscurity. Understand, it’s not that I really wanted to be married. Prenuptial agreements and clothing allowances just weren’t my style. Look at what four marriages did to Patricia Duff. OK. Bad example. But you know what I mean. If I were somehow able to position myself as Stephan’s bride, I would ratchet up the ranks faster than you could say Gwyneth Paltrow.

“What do you think?”

“You know what I’ve always thought,” India replied. “You’d be perfect for Bill Gates, if only he were divorced, or JFK Junior, if only he were still alive, or Rupert Everett, if only he weren’t gay. But since there’s no other option, I approve.”

“But how do I meet him?” I asked. It’s not like I bumped into exiled royals at Barneys all the time.

“What about a party? Isn’t it your birthday soon?” India asked. “I do enjoy celebrating your twenty-fifth every year.”

Oh, of course, of course. What better way to attract New York’s most dashing bachelor than at a dazzling birthday party feted by a chorus of celebrities? I was getting thrills up and down my back just thinking of it. It was going to happen. Even if I had to bankrupt my trust fund to pay for it. I’d just explain to my accountant that it was an investment in my future.

I would send my mother an invitation to my birthday party, but knowing her, she won’t be able to make it and would merely send along a nice card and a check for $20 for “a glass of bubbly.”

Who I am: Cat McAllister. One of
People’s
fifty most beautiful people (1982).

What I do: live in the
moment
.

What this book is about: me, silly!

T
here must have been a time, long ago in Manhattan, when birthday parties were something of a private affair—maybe a corner table at Elaine’s with one’s family, and if well-wishers like Barbara Walters and Liz Smith
happened
to stop by, it was only because they were dining there that night. That’s not the case anymore. Everyone from Kate Moss to Jennifer Lopez to the Olsen twins has the kind of birthday party that merits national media coverage and the usual trappings of a colossal social undertaking: clipboard-wielding attack girls, VIP rooms, even corporate sponsors.

Thanks to Heidi Gluckman, the one-woman publicity genius who made dining in supertrendy restaurants serving bad food and outrageous attitude a full-contact sport in Manhattan, I was going to host the Mercedes-Benz Cat McAllister Fourth Annual Twenty-Fifth. Heidi had all the qualifications of her profession: she was blond, incomprehensibly accented, and had all the city’s top gossip columnists on her “secret” payroll.

Pay Heidi enough money and you, too, could be a star. On a dare, she once transformed a common shop girl into one of the
city’s most visible socialites. It got to the point where the shop girl began to believe in her own tear sheets—so much so that she actually stole a bona fide socialite’s husband. So if Heidi could turn a hayseed into Holly Golightly, why not a pseudocelebrity into the real thing? This was going to be my comeback of sorts—the coronation of a new Manhattan diva!