Cat's Meow (6 page)

Teeny was the kind of girl who was always in the spotlight—and she had stolen my moment away from me.

This would not do. This would not do at all. I felt dizzy and weak—overwhelmed by the magnitude of my failure and missed opportunity.

“India—meet me at Barneys, fourth floor, now,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Right.”

I set down the phone. “Banny—send for the car.”

Before I left, the phone rang but this time I let the machine answer it. “Miss McAllister, this is Ms. Walters from Citibank. Please call me back to arrange payment on your overdrawn accounts.”

Overdrawn schmoverdrawn. This was an emergency! Citibank be damned. I still had my
Amex
card.

D
arling, I do think I feel right as rain,” I said to India as we perused the minimal racks, pulling out crinkled Issey Miyake shirts and bulky Dries Van Noten sweaters. “It’s amazing how … medicinal this all is. I’ve almost forgotten about that hideous party.”

“Mmmmm,” India agreed. “Thank God for unlimited credit limits.”

Party poopers like Overspenders Anonymous will tell you that shopping is a disease. An addiction—something that leads to an overstuffed closet full of collapsed clothes racks and, say, fifty plastic storage bins full of Fendi bags. By my last count I owned 350 pants in the same color (black) and a collection of seventy-five white T-shirts—clothes that
I can’t even wear
because the last time I tried to pull out a pair of pants the rack
fell on me
. So of course they’re right—it
is
a compulsion—otherwise, where would be the
fun
, I ask you—but I never really regarded it as a
problem
. Problems are things like the Middle East and starving children in China. Shopping is merely a sport.

Barneys is the shopping decathlon. It takes energy, concentration, and an honest perception of what your body can handle. The weak-willed and the self-delusional need
not
apply. Now, I asked India, as I walked out of the dressing room to stand in front of the three-way mirror, what is your honest, honest opinion of my butt in these Alexander McQueen bumsters?

“An excellent choice,” a low voice drawled.

I turned around and almost bounced out of my bumsters. India was nowhere to be found—probably lost in the black hole that was the Manolo Blahnik boutique—and instead standing in front of me was the exiled prince, His Royal Highness, Stephan of Westonia himself! He was indeed nice-looking, especially with the eye patch. Tall, with somewhat craggy features but a handsome solidity. Broad shouldered. And wearing the most heavenly narrow-cut wool suit with a beautiful spread collar. Mmmm … and he smelled delicious, even familiar.

“You’re going to want to wear them this way,” he said, coming up behind me and putting his hands squarely on my hips and tugging down at the waistline. “There, that’s better,” he said, stepping aside.

“You think?” I asked coyly, pursing my lips and examining my reflection in the mirror.

“Definitely.” He nodded, appraising me from head to toe, his gaze finally settling upon the litter of chic black shopping bags piled at my feet.

“Do you always come up to strange women at Barneys?” I asked flirtatiously.

“Oh, I’m sorry, if you’d like I can—”

“Darling, I’m just joking. I’m Cat McAllister, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I said, offering my hand.

“I’m—”

“Oh, I know who you are,” I said airily. “I mean—you’re
Stephan, aren’t you? You were at my birthday party the other night.”

“Uhmm …” He looked flustered, and peered from side to side worriedly, as if on the lookout for a hidden photographer.

“Oh, don’t worry,” I assured him. “It’s Barneys. They don’t let paparazzi in.”

He smiled. “Indeed, they don’t. I’m sorry, what party was that again?”

“It doesn’t matter.” I shrugged, thinking he probably went to five parties a night. “It’s just not every day a girl turns twenty-five for the fourth time,” I said coyly.

He laughed. “I’m sure I would remember that. Wait a minute …” His brow furrowed. “By any chance, were you wearing a chador that evening?”

“Me? A chador? Nooo! Of course not. Fashion oppression is so … last week,” I declared as I bumped into a store mannequin wearing the exact replica of my birthday party outfit: veil, hood, and all. Even the matching tie-cord sandals.

“I see.” He nodded enigmatically. Mmmm. He did smell nice—and so familiar—
too
familiar … It finally dawned on me: he had been the man outside the club who had come to my aid! I swooned, until I remembered how tragic the whole night had been.

“Maybe you’ll remember me when we meet at the next party,” I said.

His face brightened. “Of course! Monday night!”

“I’ll keep an eye out for you,” I said gaily, then blushed crimson at the unfortunate pun. Fortunately, he didn’t seem to notice.

“Please do.”

“What’s happening Monday night again?” I asked. “I never remember what’s on my calendar.”

“The benefit for Chinese orphans? At the Statue of Liberty?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, pretending to know all about it. But what I did know was that Chinese baby girls were the latest trendy charity—even more popular than dyslexia or the rain forest. The
newspapers were running daily accounts of Chinese orphans abandoned by the thousands. The babies lollygagged at orphanages for years, until warmhearted and childless couples from the United States heard about their plight and came to rescue them. The Chinese Orphan Society of New York was throwing a dinner-dance at the Statue of Liberty to raise the profile of the cause. Send us your huddled masses, indeed.

“Those poor things.”

“Yes, it just breaks your heart,” he agreed.

“Rows and rows of those abandoned Chinese babies. Simply too
triste
for words.”

He nodded soberly. “A real shame.”

“Those sad-eyed tykes. Is there anything we can do?” I asked him sorrowfully.

“Well…”

“I mean, how terribly lonely to grow up in a world without anybody to love you or buy you DKNY Kids clothing!” I agonized. “Think of it, they’re only going to grow up to scrounge around for food and then get sold into slavery or an arranged marriage. I mean, you have seen
The Joy Luck Club?
” I demanded.

“Actually—”

“But, anyway—yes, I will be there. Chinese babies. Miss Liberty. Ahoy!” I cheered. “So…Monday night, yes?”

“By all means,” he agreed, striding off as my personal shopper returned with another armful of clothes.

“I think I will take these pants,” I said thoughtfully.

“You’ll never guess who I bumped into,” I told India, whom I found sitting like an indecisive Cinderella in the shoe department.

“Who?”

“The prince. Stephan,” I bubbled.

“
Quel surprise!
Did you speak to him?”

“Speak to him? We had a convo to die for. A meeting of the minds, darling.”

India cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

“Oh, he’s divine. Even better than the pictures. And that eye patch—it’s so rakish, don’t you think? Lends him a somewhat dangerous air.”

“So what was he doing here?”

“At Barneys? I don’t know. Shopping, I suppose.

“But, anyway, darling,” I said impatiently. “There’s a benefit Monday night for Chinese orphans.”

“I know. We respectfully declined, remember?” India chided. “It was twenty thousand dollars a ticket. Good Lord, for that amount of money, you could
buy
yourself an orphan.”

“That’s it! That’s just it! Darling, I’m going to order Chinese,” I decided.

“But what about Fred’s?” she asked, meaning our usual lunch date.

“No, sweetie. A baby girl. From China.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going to adopt a Chinese baby.”

“What for?” India asked, aghast.

“Isn’t it better to actually show, you know, a personal interest in the cause? He’d be so impressed—it would completely floor him. Besides, everything Eastern is just the thing right now,” I told her grandly. “It’s spreading faster than the Hong Kong flu.”

India shook her head. “Whatever you say.” She thought I was joking, of course. But I wasn’t. It was time to get serious, and what better way to capture a prince’s attention than to make a generous gesture toward his favorite charity? Isn’t that what drew Charles to Di? Her love of, um, children?

“Don’t you think it’s a little…well, extreme?” India asked. “Can’t you just send a starving child a dollar a day?”

Extreme? Did India remember who she was talking to? After all, I was the woman who, several fashion seasons ago, when prosthe
chic
had been the height of fashion, had demanded a double amputation just so I could wear Alexander McQueen’s latest creation. The British fashion bad boy had outfitted a legless model with knee-length wooden prosthetics in the shape of black boots with
intricately carved embroidery. GENIUS! I literally ached for them. Damn legs were simply in the way. So I went to his showroom to be fitted with same. Oh, don’t look at me like that. They’re doing marvelous things with reattaching limbs nowadays. In France they have just learned how to reattach a man’s arm to his body. Thought I’d just keep the legs on ice, like Uncle Walt, then get the reattachment surgery the next season—that was if legs were in style again. I arrived at the showroom, only to be told that it was illegal to amputate someone unless it was a medical necessity. I tried to explain that it was a
fashionable
necessity, and in certain parts of the world—like the one I lived in—it was almost the same thing. So, no—I didn’t think adopting a Chinese baby was too extreme, given the circumstances.

“But first things first. About this benefit, how much was a ticket again?” I asked India.

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Twenty thousand dollars?” I repeated, crestfallen. There was no way I would be able to swing that after today. My eye wandered to the numerous shopping bags.

“Darling—don’t!” India cried when she realized what I was about to suggest. “At least spare me the Blahniks!”

I marched India and our shopping bags up to the register. “Sweetie, charity begins at home.”

Even if the idea of adoption was an impulsive act—and what rash decision of mine hadn’t been?—motherhood was definitely something I’d been mulling over for a while now. I couldn’t walk by the second floor of Barneys without cooing over the little booties and baby-size leather jeans in the layette department. India berated me for suffering from a case of urban-accessory envy.

“You only want one because everyone is having theirs,” India accused. She was just sore because I made her return a new pair of alligator pumps. “Cindy Crawford. Alexandra von Furstenberg. Madonna. Manhattan is turning into one big nursery. Babies sliding off the catwalk during Fashion Week, being fed lobster sushi at
Nobu, even strapped on the back of hip mama chests at Pucci gallery openings.”

“Maybe,” I conceded. “But think about it—a little Chinese baby of my very own! For me to love and cuddle and for Bannerjee to feed and burp!” Even if Bannerjee displayed no visible nurturing skills whatsoever, what did it matter? Bannerjee knew nothing ’bout no babies. That’s why she was an au pair!

“But, Cat—you’re talking about a baby!”

Of my very own! I mean, it’s about time. Don’t you think?”

“Is that wise?” India queried. “I mean, a baby is a lot of work, Cat. There’s all that spitting up and diapering and then they grow up and stick you in some nursing home. Or worse, eighteen years later you’ll find naked pictures of her on your boyfriend’s fireplace. Did you ever think of that?”

“Well, no, but I’m sure Bannerjee—”

“Bannerjee is not going to be the mother. You’re going to have to take responsibility for this child. And what about your accounts? Can you even afford a child right now?”

“Well, according to yours truly I’m not really broke, anyway,” I argued. “Remember?‘Temporary cash flow situation.’‘I’m sure everything will turn out all right.’ Besides,” I joked, “if I have to go on welfare, I hear they give you more money if you have kids.”

Then again, maybe India was right. Perhaps this was a tad premature—but what were my other options? God knows the sight of an epidural needle would send me into shock immediately. And the thought of getting fat! I hadn’t been fat since Daddy died. It was a terrible shock, as I’d always thought I’d have more time to get to know my father. A benign if somewhat distant figure of my abbreviated childhood, Daddy was sixty years old when I was born. But he did try—I have extremely fond memories of the time he ordered our chauffeur to teach me how to ride a bike. I inherited everything that was left—the Park Avenue penthouse he’d managed to hang on to, and the East Hampton compound where my grandparents now live, as well as a substantial and, I had believed at the time,
unlimited, trust fund. My accountant suggested a plan where he would continue to send me monthly checks from the fund’s interest earned, while a broker would be hired to take care of my investments. I agreed to everything without understanding anything.