Cat's Meow (20 page)

“Oh, look, there he is now!”

Brick was out on his sailboat, and I got a glimpse of his special guests—and oh my Lord, it was none other than England’s Prince William himself! We waved to Brick and the bonnie prince. Bannerjee was beside herself, and was a particularly enthusiastic waver. In her frenzy she toppled overboard, landing near Brick’s boat. Prince William was such a gentleman, he actually fished her out of the water. ‘Bye, Banny!

Thanksgiving dinner was unremarkable, with relatives nodding off from predinner cocktails before Gramps had even carved Grams’s undercooked turkey. I repaired to my childhood room to spend a quiet evening playing Scrabble with Boing. She can’t seem to spell anything yet so I won easily! Hard to believe Boing still hasn’t learned English. After all, she watches the Teletubbies every day. When the baby nodded off, I tucked her in her crib and knocked on India’s door.

“Yesss?”

“Darling, it’s me. Can I come in?” I asked.

“Mmmmrrrmmph.”

I let myself inside and sat on the edge of her bed. “India, darling, I’m going absolutely batty here. Do get up. I’m so tense I can’t think straight,” I said crossly.

“Do you have anything? I asked meaningfully.

“Hmm, let’s see what I can do. After all, this is the Hamptons.”

*  *  *

India came through and procured some fun for us, finally. Nice stuff if you can get it. That India! She could spot the nearest dealer anywhere! I unwrapped the little square of tinfoil and looked happily at the white powder inside. Now, I was never much of a druggie—one of my biggest regrets, actually, since as Drew Barrymore has proven, it’s rehab that’s glamorous. But pot was a fat girl’s drug, Ecstasy made me nauseous, and as for heroin—well, I’ve seen
Trainspotting
. Plus, I dabbled so rarely it was almost embarrassing.

I cut it up into nice little white lines. India rolled a dollar bill and passed it over. We each took a monster snort. Bleccch. It stung.

“Hmmm … do you feel anything?” India asked.

“No, do you?”

“No,” she lamented.

We waited for a while for something to kick in.

“It’s not working! We’ve been robbed!” I anguished.

India dipped a finger in the white powder and tasted it. “This isn’t cocaine at all!”

“And I’m
allergic
to baking soda!” I complained.

Even so, we decided to snort it anyway on the off chance that it was something deliciously illegal, and fifteen minutes later, I was overwhelmed by a desire to do something—
anything
—I was frantic—couldn’t sit still—finally I realized I could do one thing—I could straighten up the room—I could clean—I could—I could
vacuum
!

“Where on earth does Grams keep the Hoover?”

India and I had returned from the vet’s. During my baking soda buzz, I had accidentally vacuumed Miu Miu, who had come to the Hamptons with us, right up. Ooops! Didn’t know if India would ever forgive me. “How would you feel if I did the same to Boing?” she accused me. Well, since she put it that way … Funeral plans for Miu Miu were postponed until India recuperated. We arrived back at the compound to find Bannerjee sitting glumly by the gates.

“Banny, you’re back so soon?” I asked.

“By Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” a ruddy-faced bodyguard told us, appearing from the shadows. He saluted and left. I never did find out what had conspired between my Sri Lankan au pair and the prince. Nevertheless, Fleet Street tabloids were somehow tipped off that William had fallen for an “Indian princess.” Upon hearing the shocking news, his actual girlfriend, a proper English blueblood, promptly lost her mind, her virginity, and her chance at the throne. As for Bannerjee, I was just glad she was spared a gruesome death on a lonesome Parisian highway.

“So, have you given it any more thought?” Brick asked the day we were preparing to return to the city.

“I have,” I told him.

“And?”

“I’m sorry, Brick, but I can’t. I don’t feel right about it anymore.” Our relationship used to be enough for me—and I knew that if we were married, my life would be so much easier. God knows I would never have had to worry about money ever again. Plus, even if Brick didn’t have short blond hair and a way with killer rhymes or command masses of hysterical screaming fans or live a life of lavish degeneration, he could always be counted on for a good table at Alain Ducasse, at least. But if I accepted his proposal, we would be back to our old routine: he would always be off somewhere, either climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or else backpacking in Borneo, and I’d have little to look forward to other than an endless round of speakerphone-tag. I already sent unanswered cablegrams to my mother, I didn’t want to live the rest of my life fielding long-distance phone calls from my husband.

“Is there someone else?” he asked finally.

“No, there isn’t,” I said flatly, thinking of Teeny cooing about her third wedding dress.

On the drive back to Manhattan, I explained my decision to India. Ever steadfast, she assured me she understood. “That’s fine. We’ll
find some other way,” she said, trying not to sound too hopeless. And then she said, slowly, “You know what, there
is
another way.”

“What?”

“The annual MogulFest in Sun Valley, Idaho!”

“Come again?”

“You know, the annual meeting of billionaires and CEOs and media moguls that’s all very hush-hush and secret? Where they all dance naked in the woods and stuff?”

“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.”

T
raveling 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
Arbiteu
r’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.”