Cat's Meow (5 page)

So it had really happened—for a minute I had almost convinced myself Heidi was just joking—but, yes, everything had gone off exactly as planned! It had been
svectaculair
—just as Heidi had promised! But I didn’t want to believe it—didn’t want to face the awful truth—that I’d actually
missed
the best party of the season—
mine!

“So who blew out the candles? And where’s Stephan?” I demanded.

“He’s gone.” India sighed. “He left.”

“But with who—where?”

“Oh, sweetie,” India said, embracing me in her large, muscular arms. “You really don’t want to know.”

It was just too much. I fell to the floor, slipping through my
friend’s grasp and hitting my head on a gilt-edged table, knocking cocktails onto a gaggle of assistant stylists fighting over the last of the hors d’oeuvres. And then—nothing. I felt wind rushing toward me. Was I flying? Was this what death felt like? Should I go toward the light?

Later I found it was only Bannerjee fanning me with part of my djellabah.

T
he phone woke me just as my head hit the pillow the next morning. I had yet to recover from the evening’s exploits, which included a raucous impromptu birthday celebration at La Goulue. After picking me up from the floor, India and Bannerjee took me to my usual banquette, where we whooped it up with Ivana Trump and Count Roffredo Gaetani, who were under the mistaken impression that India was Jocelyn Wildenstein.

I reluctantly answered the phone, if only to stop it from ringing.

“Miss McAllister?”

“Yefff?”

“This is Miss Walters from Citibank. Miss McAllister, I’m calling regarding a problem with your account?”

Shit! Shit! Shit! I’d taken to se-habla-españoling when creditors called, or else advising them gravely that “Miss McAllister” was out of town, out of the country, or even dead. But this early-morning phone call had caught me off-guard. Why, oh, why, hadn’t I checked the Caller ID?

“Uh-huh?”

“Yes, well, according to our records, your accounts are severely overdrawn. Will you be able to make a deposit this week? Otherwise, we’re going to have to charge off your accounts, and I don’t think you want that on your credit record.”

“Uh—OK. I’ll call my accountant. Did you say
all
my accounts are overdrawn? Can’t you take money from my savings or CD or IRA accounts to cover it?”

“We did that last month, Miss McAllister. You’ve cashed in your IRA, and your savings and CD accounts are down to zero. Meanwhile, your checking account is in negative figures, and your credit account is over the limit.”

Beep!

Beep!

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can you hold?”

“N—”

Click.

“Hola? Como esta? No habla inglés,” I said in a desperate attempt at an authentic Spanish accent.

“Cat! Cat! It’s me, darling! Why are you speaking Spanish? Don’t you know Ricky Martin is over?” It was India. Why was she calling me so early? India was rarely conscious before happy hour.

“No—it’s not. I’m just—it’s—well—what do you want?” I asked irritably. I was never in a good mood when I was awakened with bad news about my financial situation—which lately was every day.

“Darling, have you seen the papers?”

“No.” I checked at the foot of the bed for the stack of newspapers Bannerjee collected for me every morning. Strangely enough, they were not in their usual place. “Banny!” I called. “Could you bring me today’s papers, please, sweetie?”

“Oh, no. Tell her not to. Perhaps you shouldn’t,” India said worriedly.

“Why not? Oooh …” I said excitedly, a sudden thought forming. “Is it all over town that I missed my own birthday party? Please tell me no
…”

“No.”

“No?” Huh! Must check with Heidi if she alerted the usual press syndicates. I harbored the smallest hope that at least the party would be mentioned, even if I wasn’t there to enjoy it. Then, suddenly, it all came back to me: my arrival post-candle-blowout-and-pyrotechnic display. And most important, I had missed the
raison d’être
for the
cause célèbre
—the all-important introduction to the prince!

Bannerjee entered carrying the
Post
, the
Daily News
, and the
Times
. She had a troubled look on her face, and tiptoed out the door after depositing them on my bed.

“So why did you call, then?” I asked India.

“Oh, nothing, darling. Nothing at all, don’t worry about anything …”

“But I am worried!” I wailed. “I’ve got terrible news!”

There was an immediate, shocked silence. Then: “Oh. My. Lord. Tom Ford is dead!”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that.”

“Oh, thank God.” India breathed a loud sigh of relief.

“It’s terrible, just terrible!” I cried, agonized. “I’ve got Citibank on the other line—my accounts are overdrawn!”

“Oh, that again?” India asked in a been-there, bankrupted-that voice.

“No, this time it’s different.”

“How?”

“You know how much that party cost me! And I haven’t received a check from my trust in several weeks,” I whispered desperately.

“Why don’t you just call your accountant and ask for your check?”

“I’m scared to,” I whimpered. “What if—what if—there isn’t anymore?”

“Any more what?”

“Money.”

“Oh, darling, don’t be silly. There’s always more money. Probably
just a blip in the system. Maybe it’s a latent Y2K bug. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure everything will work itself out. You’re not broke. How can you be broke? Rich people never go broke. Look at Michael Milken.”

“What about you, darling, you’re broke?” I said thoughtfully.

“I am a scion of a crumbling British estate. We’ve been broke since the fourteenth century. By now, it’s tradition,” she said. India paid for her lifestyle by doing freelance styling gigs for artsy fashion magazines around town, and the rare cocktail lounge act, singing those good old New Wave tunes, and to my understanding she was also not adverse to accepting large amounts of money from a certain generous patron who preferred his ladies to be of the transsexual variety. “But you Americans are never really bankrupt—you’re just experiencing negative cash flow,” she said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive,” India soothed.

“Anyway, I suppose I could call my mother if worse comes to worst,” I said lightly.

“Oh, of course. Where is she again?”

“Well, there was a picture of her at the Save Venice ball,” I said. “But then I think I read in
Manhattan File
that she was off to the Bahamas. I suppose I could always leave her a message in Palm Beach, she’s sure to end up there …”

“In September …” India said doubtfully.

“Three months from now …” I finished. It was useless. By that time, I could be living out of a box! This was just like my first year in boarding school, when I was the only child who arrived sans underwear and a toothbrush because Mummy had forgotten to pack them.

Yawwwn. “So what are we doing tonight?” I asked, changing the subject. I didn’t like to think of myself as neglected so much as indulgently brought up with minimal parental supervision. I shuffled the papers idly, flipping through the New York
Post
—thousands murdered in the Bronx, political campaigns-ho-hum—ah, here it was. Page Six.

“AAAACCCKKK!”

I dropped the phone in horror, then examined the rest of the papers hurriedly. But it was all the same!

Bannerjee entered the room at the sound of my voice. “Miss Cat!” she said fearfully.

“Cat, what’s wrong? Cat, are you still there?” India called from the receiver.

I ignored both of them. It appeared Heidi had done her job after all. There it was—
my party
—the lead item above the Sean Delonas cartoon! The club was described as “exhibiting a post-apocalyptic grandeur not seen since Club USA opened in Times Square,” and the list of boldface names ran the gamut from Justine Bateman to Dweezil Zappa. Strangely, there was no mention of Aerin Lauder, Li’l Kim, or Stella McCartney—how could these intrepid reporters have missed them? Still, it was everything I’d dreamed about—except for one key detail. Precious column inches were devoted to describing the actions of one Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie! “Hello to the New Downtown Diva” read the headline. “Intended for a birthday celebrant who never showed up, the brazen but lovable fashionista-socialite Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie ended hours of waiting by taking it upon herself to daintily blow out the candles on a frosted pink birthday cake. ‘Well—I
am
good at blowing,’ she giggled as an SRO crowd impatiently waited for the laser light show to begin.”

It got worse—accompanying the text was a picture of Teeny arriving at the party on the arm of Stephan of Westonia. She had been his plus one! Needless to say, that was as close as I came to getting any press for my birthday. Was this public humiliation? Gross public indifference was more like it. Even Liz Smith, Cindy Adams, and the
Daily News
’ Rush and Molloy had run perfunctory mentions about the party, but only because a drunken supermodel had to be carried off the dance floor.

“Cat? Is everything all right?” India asked.

I retrieved the phone from underneath the bed. “Teeny.” I cursed. “India—why didn’t you tell me?”

*  *  *

As far back as I could remember, Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie had lurked behind each one of my monumental failures. Teeny stalked the runways of Paris while I made do with car commercials in Japan. Teeny won an Emmy for her portrayal of
The Girl Who Spelled Freedom
while I starred in failed sitcoms. Teeny, whose visage was the face of mannequins in the Costume Institute, Marianne of France, and the Trinidad and Tobago ha’penny! Teeny, who had introduced my ex-boyfriend Brick to the Victoria’s Secret supermodel. If I hadn’t been on Xanax I’d have felt practically murderous.

Teeny was a social climber of the worst kind—a successful one. She didn’t have friends—she had sponsors, sycophants, and handlers. We met in junior high, in between my Hollywood coming-of-age and the subsequent modeling stint in Japan. Teeny was loud, exuberant, ambitious, and cheated at Monopoly. In Beverly Hills she was best friends with Monica Lewinsky
and
Tori Spelling. Teeny played both ends of the popularity game. She adored me so much that she consistently updated her own wardrobe according to my purchases. Every birthday and Christmas, Teeny would wait until I sent over the requisite Lucien Pellat-Finet sweater or token from Fred Segal, only to reciprocate with a gift that matched, to the last dollar amount, the exact cost of my gift to her. Teeny boasted an infinite knowledge of discounts and sample sales, and once when I placed an Impostors ring in a Bulgari box, Teeny responded with an ABS dress with a Versace label.

Much worse, Teeny was insufferably vain and even more insufferably gorgeous. Married at nineteen to a dentist from Scarsdale, she divorced him at twenty-one and moved back to New York with a hefty alimony. For years, she was just another divorcee partial to bluebloods with blue-chip stocks, but that ended when she married a ballet dancer who was also the heir to a mammoth Austrian fortune. There were rumors that the union was less than … how should I put this? Consummated. But no doubt Teeny would land on her feet in the arms of another, richer man. She was that breed of female more commonly known as a “guy’s girl,” in that every
man who had ever met her was immediately charmed into thinking she was the sweetest, most innocent, involuntarily-but-devastatingly-sexy woman who wouldn’t wish ill on a fly. Her male defenders numbered
Manhattan Files
Hot 100 Bachelors list. But girls knew better. Teeny would steal your husband in your borrowed dress. Just ask several well-married debs who have lost managing-director-husbands to this upstart.

What was hardest to swallow was that Teeny was also prosperous in her own right. Unlike other Park Avenue heiresses who let their fortunes slip through their fingers …
ahem
… Teeny, a born-again Christian, parlayed her Machiavellian skills and generous inheritance into a flourishing line of moderately priced polyester imitations of the latest designer fashions. Her Tart Tarteen label continually sold out in malls across the country, and was patronized by a gamut of young Hollywood starlets, including the entire roster of the WB network. I absolutely abhorred Teeny.

But the thing is, I just wasn’t built for confrontation. It made me queasy and off balance. Hair-pulling-knock-’em-down-all-out tussles were for tough chicks who wore pancake makeup and Revlon lipstick. On the other hand, I felt weak in the knees when my slashed-elbow Helmut Lang sweaters pilled. I was the type of person who was unfamiliar with complaint departments. I never sent back food in restaurants, no matter how badly overcooked was a plate of “raw” tuna. I preferred that things not be “uncomfortable.”

I mean, sure, I harbored fantasies of ripping Teeny’s spine out of her ass and of sticking my fingers through her eyeballs, but this was real life, not claymation. If I really wanted to hurt Teeny, I’d have to switch her black market Phen-Fen capsules to fat pills. Then I could let it slip to certain gossip columnists that Teeny had a history of sexually transmitted diseases. But the absolute worst thing I could do to a girl like Teeny was to make her poor. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do about Generation Y’s buying power, or teenagers’ predilection for ersatz couture.