Cat's Meow (4 page)

“A mere technicality,” India tut-tutted. “This is Manhattan, my dear. Every woman worth her Vuitton waiting list has her heart set on that man. The debutantes are sharpening their manicures as we speak. Surely you didn’t think this would be easy, did you?”

“You’re right; of course you’re right.”

I was about to follow her out, but passed a hallway mirror on the way. Aiiieeeeee!!! Who
was
that black shroud? Momentary panic as realization dawned, then turned into a paralyzing flash of fashion self-consciousness! Le shroud
c’st moi!
I mean, I’ve always dressed outrageously. When John Galliano ushered in “homeless chic” for Christian Dior I was all for it—donning a tattered newspaper dress and stringing it with empty Coke bottles. I’ve had to enter doorways sideways because of my addiction to Philip Treacy’s monumental hats. But perhaps Muslim chic was not the smartest choice for the evening? Could it be possible that instead of looking like a fantastic, gorgeous, right-off-the-runway fashion phantasm, I looked like nothing more than a Bedouin goat farmer? Eeeek. This would not do at all!

“I’m going back home to change,” I told India. “You go on ahead.”

I
went home to ransack my closet—there had to be something other than layers of black silk to wear to The Most Important Night of My Life! I put on Greta Garbo’s fur coat, Sammy Davis Jr.’s tuxedo, even Marlene Dietrich’s fishnet stockings—but everything was too fussy, or not festive enough, or else had belonged to a dead celebrity with horrible body odor. In desperation I called for Bannerjee. Bannerjee Bunsdaraat is a twenty-one-year-old Sri Lankan medical student and my gal Friday. Tonto to my “Sloane” Ranger. Alfred to my Bruce Wayne. She’s my au pair.

Which means that she keeps meticulous track of all my clothing purchases, arranges my vast collection of haute couture pieces, as well as oversees the RSVP process chez McAllister. The secret of professional partygoers is a handy little mimeographed book called the Fashion Calendar. Published every two weeks, it lists every affair
de la mode
—from the complete roster of fashion shows and after-parties to splashy magazine launches to mundane trade fairs. Party whores like myself, who don’t necessarily work in but,—ahem—
appreciate
fashion are made to justify our presence by harassing beleaguered PR agents. But persistence pays off—with
my status as a former child “star” I can usually scam invitations for up to five parties every evening. Of course, this means that sometimes India and I find ourselves at some loony private corporate shindig for the “new panty line” (the Warnaco party) or else an awards dinner celebrating the “I Am Beautiful Awards” with Marlo Thomas. Note this is a real event.

Bannerjee’s task is to fax an infinite amount of invitation requests to event organizers and then sort the invitations that arrive afterward. Banny knows to discard the ones unimaginatively scheduled on a weekend night, and RSVP’s a yes for everything else. She also coordinates appointments with my manicurist, pedicurist, facialist, herbalist, and nutritionist so they don’t arrive all at the same time and confuse me. Otherwise I’d have my face waxed and my toes exfoliated. As a special treat, Banny also makes sure there’s fresh air in my water wings for my daily bath.

Oooh. Where is she? Usually at this hour Banny is steam-cleaning my cashmere sweaters or else in the kitchen, highlighting
People
. If they gave out Ph.D.’s for celebrity trivia, Bannerjee would chair the department. She knowingly refers to one of Cher’s ex-boyfriends as Rob “Bagel Boy” Camiletti. When John-John was killed, Bannerjee fasted for a month and left copious amounts of flowers, poetry, and a beloved teddy bear at the vestibule of his apartment. She’s since transferred her affections to Prince William, whom she likes to call “Wills.” Unfortunately, not only does “Wills” live in England, he’s bound by law to marry a virgin, preferably of the same race and class. But like I said, Bannerjee is nothing if not persistent.

She told me how she ended up in New York as an au pair. During her last year of medical school in Sri Lanka, a benevolent and wise old aunt who worked as a housekeeper on the Upper East Side told her she could make more money taking care of children in the United States than she would ever do so as a doctor in her tiny little island village. “You go to America,” her auntie Punjabi had suggested. “You be au pair. You have fun. You go to parties. Meet American boys. No worry about baby. Put in front of TV. It’s what
Amerrrycans do ennyway.” It was just as her aunt had predicted. And since I didn’t have any children, her job was even easier than most au pairs’. Bannerjee keeps me company on shopping trips. This leaves her more than enough time to participate in multiple orgy sessions with Swedish busboys from downtown nightclubs or whatever else au pairs do in the city on their nights off. Which reminds me. Lately I’ve been getting calls confirming RSVPs for my “long-lost Sri Lankan cousin.” Apparently this person is named Bannerjee also.
Quelle
coincidence!

I’m so proud of Bannerjee. She so quickly acclimated to the stringent requirements of living in New York. She orders my cigarettes from the corner deli, is well versed on taxicab culture, and has mastered the art of impeccable dressing.

I was beginning to get very annoyed, as I couldn’t remember if I had given her the night off. I didn’t think so. Oh, dear. I hoped she hadn’t been kidnapped or anything. I shuddered. When I was younger my greatest paranoia was that I’d have my ear cut off and mailed to my father. At college, it was of being abducted by the Symbionese Liberation Army and brainwashed into wearing full-body jumpsuits and a beret. Not that I had anything to fear now that I was practically bankrupt. Sigh. There was no sight of her. And unfortunately so much of my clothing demanded an extra hand—I certainly didn’t know how to artfully arrange a scarf on my chest all by myself. I was a total klutz when it came to nipple tape!

The chador would just have to do. Besides, I remembered that I had eschewed my daily salon blow-out because of the head covering. There was no choice but to soldier on. Bedouin goat farmer or not.

I wondered if India had noticed my prolonged absence when I realized my cell phone was vibrating. So that’s what I’d been feeling for the past half-hour. I thought maybe I’d suddenly developed Parkinson’s.
Très
relief! I flipped it open underneath my hood.

“Darling, where are you?” India cried. “Everyone is waiting!”

It was India. I was loved! I was missed! My heart felt full even if my hair felt sweaty.

“Sweetie!” I gulped for air. “I couldn’t find a thing to wear and Bannerjee’s missing!”

“Oh, for godssakes, it’s your party. Hurry up or you’ll miss the laser-light show. I’ll send Heidi to the door to make sure you get inside.”

By the time I arrived it was after midnight, and a crowd of fabulous nobodies had already converged at the nightclub doors. Heidi had envisioned a two-tiered event: champagne dinner for an elite group (Tina Brown, James Brown, Foxy Brown) and a raunchy after-party for the rest of the free-drink faithful (lifestyle reporters, soap-opera actresses, one-hit wonders).

I walked confidently to the glossy gatekeeper. “Cath Marlister,” I said.

“Who?” She gave me a skeptical look.

“Thuthus mff parffy. Mmm Cath Marlister.”

She flipped through her clipboard. “I’m sorry, Cath Marlister is not on the list. Is there another name you could be under?” she asked, faux-helpfully. What was going on? Why couldn’t they recognize me?

“Mfff Heidi around?”

“I can radio Heidi,” the doorbitch finally agreed, and pretended to speak into her headset. After a minute, she said, “Heidi says you are entitled to paparazzi clearance. You’re right here.” She motioned to the roped-off police-barricaded section
outside
the club where photographers were stationed. Prime real estate for taking pictures of incoming celebrities, but several hundred feet away from the VIP lounge and a three-tiered birthday cake.

I started babbling desperately, and a man who was leaving the club with a woman who was giggling loudly stopped on his way out to see what was the matter. “Are you all right … miss?” he asked doubtfully. I couldn’t see him very clearly as tears were welling up in my eyes, but he seemed tall—and he smelled great.

“Hey, now, what’s going on here?” he asked as I made mewling sounds underneath my chador.

“Oh, nothing, everything is fine … she’s not on the list,” the Clipboard Nazi answered airily. “Party crasher, probably,” she said
sotto voce
. “Anyhoo, thanks so much for coming! Don’t forget your goodie bag!” she trilled, handing him a brightly colored paper bag decorated with origami cats, which contained several travel-size “sponsor gifts” that Heidi was able to corral: a CD from an unknown band that shared a manager with ’N Sync, sample-size bottles of body lotions, an assortment of hair gel and mini-lipsticks, all products represented by her PR firm.

“Let the poor thing in,” he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place. “There’s no harm.”

“Sir, please be reasonable. She only has paparazzi clearance” was the nasty reply.

“Getttfff MmmHeidi…” I gurgled.

“Heidi? You need to see Heidi?” he asked.

I nodded eagerly.

The woman by his side tugged on his arm. “Let’s go, darling … c’mon, we’ll be late for the next party,” she complained. Her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t hear very well underneath my chador.

Just then I spotted Heidi at the door, frantically searching the crowd for any sign of me. I waved. “Heidifff MmHeidiff!” Finally it dawned on me: the chador! Not only was it muffling my voice, it was keeping me from being recognized at my own party by the very people I had employed to keep out the riffraff!

“Caf?” Heidi asked doubtfully, looking in my direction and peering into my dark veil. “Vhat on earrt?”

“Muslim chic,” I explained.

Heidi nodded. She herself was wearing a dress with an immense Gucci ruffle that threatened to decapitate her. We exchanged careful air kisses and she instantly whipped open the velvet rope. I turned around to thank the nice man who had tried to argue my admittance, but he was gone. Mmmm … pity. Wonder if he was
cute? Heidi quickly ushered me inside, stopping for a moment to lecture her employee. “Zees is Caf McAllithair! Caf, I am so, so sorry,” Heidi said, apologizing profusely. The woman groveled as I walked past her, whining, “But Miss Gluckman, she said she was Cath Marlister and her name wasn’t on the list! Miss McAllister, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything? Your hood? A cocktail?”

Once inside, I was shocked to find the nightclub strangely empty. Oh, sure, the usual cadre of junior editors, A&R music reps, photographer’s assistants, and hairstylists were networking madly, hammering back flutes of champagne, but I spied no one of note. No one
boldface
worthy. Something was
horribly
wrong.

“Is Puffy still here? Has Madonna left? What about Li’l Kim? And Aerin Lauder Zinterhofer?” I asked desperately. “The cake—the candles—the ’N Sync serenade? You didn’t blow out the candles yet, did you?”

Heidi looked contrite. “Ah, so sorry, Caf, vous wair trop laite, zee crowd vus gaiting ressless. Peeple started leeeffing, so vee had to go ahead und celaibrate vour virthday viffout vous.”

“Excuse me?” Unless I was wrong, Heidi was trying to tell me they had gone ahead and celebrated my birthday without me. It just didn’t seem possible!

“Don’t vorry. Eet vus svectaculair.”

“But how?”

“Vail, ziss voman zay, zhe und Stephan cunnot vait anymoore. Zow, zhe blue candles. Vantastic. Lazur-layt zhow. Kek. ’N Sync seroonade.”

“Where is she?” I agonized.

“VIP lounge.” It was the only thing Heidi pronounced correctly.

On my way upstairs to confront the person who had benefited from all my birthday planning and to give her a piece of my mind—unless, of course, it was someone
important
like Chloe Sevigny; then I’d just laugh it off and we would become girlfriends. Wheee. But now what was this? As I arrived inside the darkened confines of the VIP room—a cramped roped-off area in the back—and my eyes wandered around the assembled Arab potentates, twenty-two-year-old
dot-com CEOs, NBA athletes, voluptuous R&B songbirds, and several princes of extinct foreign states (but no Stephan in the bunch), who did I bump into but my missing-in-action au pair, Fedora-wearing gossip columnist to her right, cigarchomping investment tycoon to her left!

“Bannerjee!” I shrieked.

“Miss Cat!” she gasped. “It’s terrible, Miss Cat!”

Terrible didn’t
begin
to describe it. Bannerjee was wearing the Helmut Lang parachute-silk pantsuit I’d been made to understand was out of stock at Barneys! And I had
trusted
her with my personal shopper.

It was a particularly painful betrayal.

“I know!” I agreed. “That’s just my size and they don’t have any more!”

“Pardon, Miss Cat?”

Before I could explain, a piercing wail broke several sound barriers.

“Aiiieeeee! Cat, darling! I tried to stop them!” It was India. She was waving a champagne flute above her forehead and she looked delirious. “They had to arm-wrestle me away!” she declared, hyper-ventilating. “It was awful! I threatened a
tantrum
—but it was too late!”