Cat's Meow (25 page)

“It’s always got to be a trend for you, doesn’t it?” Stephan teased.

“Of course, darling! Otherwise, why even live?” I asked, perking up at the thought of being at the forefront of stylish country living.

We celebrated by going back to Barneys, Boing in tow. It was rather romantic, when you thought about it. Stephan’s old colleagues in the made-to-measure department all came out to shake his hand and take souvenir photographs. I’d never been to the fifth floor of Barneys, and it was quite an eye-opener. It was a completely sober suit shop, and looked more like Brooks Brothers than Barneys. There were no purple sweaters. No poofy coats. No vinyl jeans. And that was the men’s department I was thinking of. The old-school tailors with their silver hair and perpetually bent backs who worked there were probably the only straight men working in the entire store.

“Never knew we had a prince in here,” one of them said jovially.

“Stephan, he is a nice boy,” another told me.

“And not a bad tailor.”

When they were finished saying good-bye to Stephan, I spent the last of my money on a Comme des Garçons apron dress. Provincial chic!

T
he streets of Tribeca were desolate and quiet when we returned from our uptown shopping exodus. I began to feel a little pang at the thought of abandoning the city. Stephan and Boing were silent as well, as if they also felt it—a darkened feeling of failure. Whenever people left the city, it was never for something better, and it was always with a sense of defeat. Whether to Hollywood or Des Moines, it was all the same—leaving New York meant that you couldn’t cut it, you hadn’t made it, you were getting out before it was too late, and that although you were living in a city where anything could happen, somehow, nothing had ever happened to you.

For once there were no stray photographers milling about our doorstep, as our prominence as the most scandal-plagued couple of the week took a backseat to the
earth-shattering
news that model agency executives were sleeping with their underage clients. We took the freight elevator up to the top floor and nodded to neighbors we passed on our way. Stephan pulled the elevator door open and I fumbled with the keys, only to discover the door was already
unlocked. The sound of cheerful voices and tinkling glass floated from the middle of the room, and I was shocked to find I was treading on a nice Aubusson rug, and hearing the sound of Billie Holiday crooning on the sound system. What was this? Stephan and I exchanged puzzled looks, and drew nearer with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.

In the middle of the room, a close approximation of a sitting room had been assembled. A deep, berry-rich rug covered the grim wooden planks. The Martin Margiela duvet had been folded into a dry-cleaning bag, replaced by a delightful English pram; the electrical cords hanging from the ceiling were obscured with sparkling Christmas lights; and the overwhelming sense of nouveau disrepair had given way to a cozy atmosphere of properly faded gentility. Two overstuffed Queen Anne armchairs crowded around a mahogany coffee table, where two women were in the process of mixing cocktails.

“India!” I cried, recognizing one of the uninvited guests. “What’s going on?”

India looked up with a mischievous gleam in her eye, and nudged her companion, who turned to face us.

“DARLING!” cried a small woman, wearing a gigantic turban and a salwar kameez, her spread arms jangling dozens of familiar ruby-encrusted bracelets; in one hand was an ivory cigarette holder, in the other, a martini glass.

“Oh my God. MUMMY!” I cried, running toward her.

We kissed and hugged each other effusively, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years … which we hadn’t. Stephan grinned from the sidelines, holding Boing, who was cooing appreciatively at the multicolored expanse of Mummy’s outfit.

“What’s going on? How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“Sweetheart, what have you done to your hair this time?” she asked, tut-tutting at my new coif, then said, “I was trying to reach you, sweetie.” She smoothed my sweater and patted my hair. “I
kept receiving all these distressing cablegrams from you, following me across the globe. But every time I called the penthouse, some strange woman would hang up the phone,” she explained. “You never told me you’d moved!”

“But how did you find out?” I asked.

“India,” Mummy said simply.

India looked up modestly. “Martini?” she asked Stephan, who nodded. She passed me a glass as well. “I had overheard Teeny saying something about a crazy woman prank-calling her apartment. She seemed very annoyed about it, and was complaining to this telecommunications billionaire to see if there was anything she could do to block the calls. Apparently her Caller ID always identified a different international number. Anyway, she finally had the calls traced and they weren’t from a telephone at all, but a very sophisticated international Palm Pilot e-mail/phone.”

“But how did you know the calls were for me?” I asked, mystified.

“The caller was always asking for someone named “NormaJean,” India replied.

I blushed pink. Norma-Jean was my real name, but only my mother called me that. My agent had dubbed me Cat. Mummy never approved of the change, as she thought stage names were hopelessly tacky.

“I was terrifically worried, Norma-Jean,” Mummy said. “You shouldn’t worry Mummy like that!”

“But how did you track her down, India?” I asked, turning to my friend, who was looking very pleased with herself.

“Remember that CEO who was very partial to my charms?” she asked.

“The one who twirled you around so you looked like a Mexican piñata?”

“The one and only.” India nodded. “Well, I asked him about these newfangled international-dialing Palm Pilots and he told me it was very easy to find out who had one, as they were not on the
market yet, and had been given to a very elite group. I asked him if he could get me the list, and he said why not. At that point, he was very drunk. He called the office and found out there were only three people on the list: himself, Bill Gates, and—”

“Me,” Mummy said, blushing pink. “Because I travel so much.”

“Oh, Mummy, you’re actually here!” I enthused.

“Yes. I’ve missed New York.” Mummy nodded. “It’s good to be home. But what’s this I hear? You’re bankrupt? Again?”

I nodded, I told Mummy everything—how my trust fund had run out, but how I had found fulfilling employment at
Arbiteur,
the promise of stock options, the threat of a lawsuit from
Catwalk.com,
the mysterious investor who had offered to buy
Arbiteur
for a paltry million-dollar settlement, and how I was now moving to Michigan.

“Michigan?” Mummy gasped. “Why on earth?”

“Oh, I’m sorry—Mummy, this is Stephan. He used to be the Prince of Westonia, but he isn’t anymore.”

Mummy offered Stephan her hand, which he kissed gallantly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. McAllister.”

She gave Stephan a dismissive wave. “Please, call me Mummy. Everyone does.”

OK, Mummy.”

“And why on earth is Catwalk.com suing
Arbiteur?
”

“For stealing their streaming video,” I explained, abashed. “I had forgotten to bring our digital video camera to Fashion Week.”

“Dear, dear.” Mummy sighed. “You always were a forgetful child.” She gave me a perturbed look and crossed her arms. “Now, who is this investor who’s offering to buy your company for a million dollars?”

“We don’t really know. Some sort of apparel company. They promised they’d be able to handle the Catwalk.com lawsuit. I don’t know why they’re so set on buying us out. It’s not like we have anything to offer aside from our press credentials at Fashion Week.”

“Press credentials? Why would an apparel company need press credentials?” Stephan asked.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged.

“Wait—did you say they were interested in our press credentials?” India asked, intrigued.

“Yes, they kept asking Billy if it was true that we got invitations to all the fashion shows,” I said.

“And they’re an apparel company?” India repeated.

“You don’t think …” I said, finally catching on.

Of course I do!”

“Tart Tarteen! Teeny’s behind it all!” I concluded. “Of course! She’s been banned from all the fashion shows for stealing their designs!”

“Come to think of it, that’s why she kept inviting me to all those fashion shows,” Stephan said.

“She was the‘friend’?”

“Yes,” he said angrily. “She wanted me there and asked me to take notes. She said she was too busy to go, and I did it as a favor.”

“She was also at MogulFest,” I added. “She must have heard me talking to people about
Arbiteur
there.”

“It all makes sense,” India said. “Especially since they were demanding editorial control.”

“They wanted to convince our audience of fashion fanatics to give up the real thing for her despicably shameless riffs on true artistic fashion inspiration! Polyester for silk! Pleather pants! Acrylic sweaters! Oh, how awful!”

“Tsk, tsk.” Mummy shook her head. “Despicable, indeed.”

“But even if we don’t sell out to Teeny, there’s still the Catwalk.com lawsuit,” I said.

Just then, Mummy’s spanking-new international Palm Pilot began to beep. Mummy flipped it open and put it to her ear. “Hello? Hello?” she asked. “I can’t hear you.” She shook the device crossly. “You know, this has never worked quite the same ever since that horrid Hong Kong flu. I lost all my datafiles, all my phone numbers, all my—”

Stephan pounced. “The Hong Kong flu! I lost all the information on my computer as well!”

“So did all of
Arbiteur
’s computers!” I said, remembering.

“It wiped databases clean on all nine continents!” India extolled.

“Which means—”

“Catwalk.com doesn’t have a shred of evidence!” I cheered.

“Not one pixel!” India whooped.

Mummy looked up from her apparatus; she was attempting to punch Star 69 with her stylus, trying to find out whose call she had missed. “Hhmmmm? What is it, dears?”

“Mummy—you’ve saved us!” I cried, dancing around her, linking hands with India and Stephan, while Boing clucked happily.

“I have?” Mummy asked.

“Yes!”

“That’s why we were approached by that mysterious investor right when we got back from Sun Valley!” India surmised. “They knew Catwalk.com didn’t have a case, and they knew they could buy
Arbiteur
on the cheap!”

“Which means—“I said.

“We’re back!” India crowed.

“I have my job back!” I screamed. “
Arbiteur
isn’t going down the tubes!”

“We’ve got to call Billy to tell him that he doesn’t have to sell the company or go to jail!
Arbiteur
is saved!” I cheered. India immediately called Billy to tell him the good news.

“But what about Bannerjee?” I suddenly remembered. “They’re about to deport her!”

“Bannerjee? That sweet girl I sent to look after you?” Mummy asked. “Why are they deporting her?”

“Because she’s an illegal alien, Mum,” I explained. “She shouldn’t have been working in this country.”

“What should she have been doing?”

“I don’t know, being a tourist, I suppose. Going to the Empire State Building. Riding around in one of those double-decker buses.”

“Oh.”

*  *  *

I ushered everyone into the town car—a squeeze given the number of us; for once I wished I had a stretch limousine on hand—and we journeyed to the deportation center.

“Wait, wait!” I said, when I saw they were leading Bannerjee out of the cell into a waiting INS car to take her to the airport and send her to her fishing village in Sri Lanka. I had no idea how we were going to save Bannerjee, but India came through again.

“I have the written testimony from a very good character witness who can attest to Bannerjee’s special skills,” India declared.

“You do?” I gaped. Would wonders never cease?

She nodded. “While you were busy mooning over Stephan here, I was researching our defense.” India pulled out an official-looking letter on heavy parchment that bore a wax seal and handed it to the INS official.

“To whom it may concern,” he read. “This is to testify that Miss Bannerjee Bunsdaraat is of sound mind and body and is judged to have great character and very, very, special skills.” He gasped. “It’s signed—”

“Prince William!” India proclaimed. “Isn’t he such a nice boy?”

The INS official, like most of the American public, was enraptured by the idea of the British royal family, and ordered an immediate reassessment of Bannerjee’s case. He was so impressed by our royal connections he released her right away.

We returned to the refurbished loft, happy and exhausted. Mummy settled back into her armchair and looked around. “I still haven’t been formally introduced to my grandchild,” she said, holding her arms out for Boing.

“Mummy, this is Boing,” I said. “Boing, meet Grandmummy.”

“Boing?” Mummy asked. “What a strange name for such an adorable baby.” She held Boing protectively in her lap.