Cat's Meow (9 page)

“Oh, Mr. B.S.” I laughed.

“So,” Mr. Bartleby-Smythe said, easing into his club chair. He smiled affably, peering at me over half-moon glasses. “I’m glad you decided to come by. We’ve been trying to get a hold of you, you know.”

“Really?” I asked innocently.

“Yes, but every time we call, someone answers the phone in Spanish. I wasn’t sure if we had your correct phone number.”

“Mmmm … how strange.”

“Now, you must have noticed we haven’t sent you a check in a while.”

I shrugged as if it hadn’t been the cause for my chronic insomnia. Timidly I asked, “Is there some sort of problem?”

“Well, there seems to be some trouble with your Citibank accounts.”

“Oh, that. Yes, I know. They call me every day. They even wake me up in the morning,” I complained. “They want to know why my accounts are overdrawn. Now, I told them I’d talk to you about it. I thought you were taking care of things,” I accused him petulantly.

“We
are
taking care of things, my dear. However …” Mr. Bartleby-Smythe turned around and opened a file cabinet. He flipped through several folders until he found what he was looking for. “Aha,” he said in a satisfied tone. He laid my bank account statements on his desk, several from Citibank and others bearing Cayman Islands or Swiss deposit identification numbers.

“We’ve been redirecting funds to try to cover your expenses.

But…”

“But?”

Mr. Bartleby-Smythe sighed heavily. “Cat, I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Just give it to me straight,” I said, holding my breath.

“All right, then. You’re broke. There is absolutely nothing left.”

“Excuse me?” A sharp intake of breath. Water! I needed water!

He took a red pen and began circling several large figures—ones with many zeroes after them. “Here is what your twenty-fifth birthday party cost you
this
year.”

“But I thought we had a corporate sponsor.” I was bewildered.

“For the privilege of attaching their good name to your own—or should I say, Samantha Boardman’s and Aerin Lauder’s.” He looked at me sternly. “You know I don’t approve of that sort of misrepresentation. Harrrummph. In any case, Mercedes-Benz paid for transportation to and from the party for the VIP guests. You covered
everything else. The cost of flying in ’N Sync from their European tour and back. Rental of the space, the construction of a makeshift concert stage—the liquor bill alone was enough to set you back several months. Then there was the pyrotechnic display, and some kind of special designer candles.”

I gagged, remembering I hadn’t even been able to blow out the candles myself!

“This is how much your publicist’s retainer is costing.”

Ouch. That Swiss bitch sure didn’t come cheap.

“This is the household payroll.” He circled another extravagant sum.

“And this was the amount you spent on clothing and entertainment last week.” It was the most colossal number yet. Mr. Bartleby-Smythe grimaced. “Twenty thousand dollars for a ticket to a
charity
ball? You’re certainly not in a position to be a philanthropist right now.”

I cringed, looking over his notes hurriedly, none of it making any sense. Positively abhorred math. It’s not that I couldn’t add (except when I couldn’t), but math made me irritable and pimply. And my dermatologist was rigorous about my skin. So I never risked a breakout by bothering with such things as bank statements, credit card bills, or the latest on Catherine Zeta-Jones’s love life. Such things simply made me ill. And I hated being sick more than I hated math. In fact, I forbade myself to get sick, except when it was absolutely necessary, of course. One should always make allocations for such emergencies. I was nothing if not a woman who believed crises must be placated and seduced away with mud baths, aromatherapy, and Asprey & Garrard. If all that failed, simply throw more money into it and maybe it will go away. Believing myself to be ill when something didn’t suit me was another expensive habit. For instance, I never took the subway due to a small, medically prescribed claustrophobic condition—I really had to fight for that one. It behooved me to stay on the cutting edge of all new medical trends—I’d already been diagnosed as passive-aggressive,
manic-depressive, anorexic, bulimic, alcoholic, and an overeater suffering from affective seasonal disorder, social anxiety disorder, and low self-esteem.

“I don’t care! Listen, there’s got to be some money left somewhere, correct? I just can’t be broke! I need money for something incredibly important!” I raged. Bannerjee had called the other day from Shanghai with horrifying news. Apparently illegal Chinese baby brokers didn’t take Amex. I was incensed, as Heidi and I had already planned a “Welcome Home Mei-Mei” party at the “21” Club to properly welcome my new Chinese child to New York. Heidi’s office had been working on the guest list for days, celebrities who were sure to be sympathetic to the plight of Chinese orphans. Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins. Richard Gere. Irina Pantaeva. Everyone on the Chinese Orphans Benefit Committee. Even Stephan was sure to attend. I promised Bannerjee I’d come up with the money somehow.

“I’ll arrange it immediately,” I told her. “But remember, once you have the baby, make sure she doesn’t eat any more of that greasy Chinese food! I want her on organic milk!”

Mr. Bartleby-Smythe had never let me down before. “There has just got to be a way,” I wheedled.

“Well, Citibank is willing to settle your accounts, and you have just enough in your last Swiss bank account to cover it. It’s a desperate measure, but there’s nothing that can be done. I suggest you begin to make some changes in your life.”

“How could Daddy do this to me?” I moaned. “I thought he said he would make sure I would be taken care of for the rest of my life.”

“Your father left you quite a legacy. And your broker invests well, but you’ve displayed an uncanny ability to spend any profits made before the market closes.”

“So that’s it? I’m poor?” I could not believe the words coming out of my mouth:
I’m
and
poor
did not an acceptable sentence make.

“Upper class and sinking fast,” this nasty little man responded.

This was a sobering situation indeed. I had to keep myself afloat long enough to stay in Stephan’s social circle, otherwise how would I ever position myself as his betrothed? But the thought of living less than large was less than appealing. Would I have to eat government cheese? Would I have to learn a “skill”? Was I going to be just another statistic in the welfare roll?

“This is terrible, terrible!” I moaned. Please God, I prayed, just let me get through this and I’ll never buy three-thousand-dollar gem-encrusted marabou-feather Gucci jeans again. Or order baby girls from China just to impress a potential suitor.

“What am I supposed to do?” I wailed. “I’m about to become a mother.”

“You don’t say?” He peered at me over his desk. “I don’t know how you do it, Cat, but you always look so slim. I suppose the father isn’t of any help?” he asked sternly.

“No—no, there is no father!” I announced dramatically.

“Well, there is a way. But it would require an immense sacrifice on your part.”

“Anything! Anything!” I promised feverishly.

“Give up the penthouse triplex. We could put it on the market; it’s a great time for sellers right now, and my office has fielded inquiries as to your willingness to sell the place.”

“Never. I’m not selling.” I shook my head furiously. Give up the glass-enclosed, Art Deco penthouse? Over my dead—

“The mortgage is killing you. I suggest you lease it and stay at a less expensive place while trying to get back on your feet.”

“But—but—where would I go?” I whined.

Mr. Bartleby-Smythe ignored me and continued his lecture. “However, simply moving won’t be enough. I suggest you begin to cut corners while we explore your financial possibilities. For now, why not opt for lamb’s wool instead of cashmere. Buy generic instead of organic. Max Factor instead of Maximillian Furs.”

Mr. Bartleby-Smythe shook his head. “Cat, you’re already twent-ni—”

“Five. Twenty-five,” I snapped.

“All right. Twenty-five years old,” he agreed, with raised eyebrows. “The point is, you’ve got a long way ahead of you, so you must try to live within your means before things get too dire. I’m serious, Cat. This is it. You do realize your mother has never been much help.”

I nodded sadly. Poor Mummy. More often than not, she was usually in just as much financial trouble as I was—when I was younger Daddy explained the reason we never had her phone number in Europe was because she was constantly on the move from her creditors. Hmm … that was an idea. After all, if I listened to what Mr. Bartleby-Smythe was saying, I’d have to trade in my double-Gs for BCBG, and the sable for something synthetic.

“Have you ever considered …”

A lost Swiss bank account? The lottery?

“…a job?” he finished.

I reeled, clutching my forehead in despair. Actually
work
for money? Oh, the humanity!

L
ife on a budget was worse than could be imagined—my nails were horribly chipped and
pas de
massage for days. I’d even been re-potty trained as I couldn’t afford colonics anymore and had been forced to use the regular “toilet.” To acclimate to my new low-profile lifestyle, I enrolled in survival tactics at the Learning Annex: Advanced Fast Food, and Public Transportation: Beyond the Madison Avenue Bus. Exhausting. But there was no way I was going to give up my zip code without a fight, especially since there was Bannerjee and the baby to think about.

As it turned out, giving Bannerjee the Amex was doubly worthless—it couldn’t buy an illegal baby, nor did it solve her “visa” problem. She finally explained that she didn’t need the kind of Visa that bought Jimmy Choo shoes but the kind they give out at U.S. embassies. I wasn’t aware there was
another
kind. So not only did I need to come up with enough cash to buy the baby, but I would also need to conjure up this so-called visa to get her out of China as well.

With those things in mind, I busied myself by making a list of potential moneymaking scams, I mean,
schemes
to extricate myself from the horrid financial K-hole I had fallen into:

1.
Estate Sale
—Has potential, although possibility of anyone buying last season’s fashions slim. Have placed call to Tiffany Dubin, the fashion curator, about my mother lode of Gucci embroidered mules and python-print dresses.

2.
Declare Self Messiah
—Helpful India pointed out religions don’t have to pay taxes and can mandate donations at will. Have placed call to John Travolta’s PR manager and ordered a copy of
Dianetics
.

3.
Launch E-VIParty
.com—Decided to sell my party invitations on a website where ordinary Joes can bid for the right to attend Manhattan’s most exclusive events. This week’s offerings include a funeral for a highly esteemed fashion editor, a baby shower for a pregnant socialite, and the launch of Geraldo Rivera’s new magazine, G.

Boo. None of my ideas panned out as planned. Tiffany’s people called to say my collection of millennial Gucci was a no-go. Apparently I would have to wait more than a few years before these were declared “classic.” Nor would I be able to declare myself the Messiah, as an Orthodox rabbi from Crown Heights had already done so. And while E-VIParty.com was doing a brisk business, I soon received nasty phone calls from several annoyed publicists, including my own. Apparently they were receiving phone calls from a Camaro-load of no-names from New Jersey for their events, and when these arrivistes were asked how the private RSVP numbers had been infiltrated, all signs pointed back to my website. “Caf, I simfly von’t allow vis. Ees bad for imaje,” Heidi snarled, when I explained what happened. Reluctantly, I sent home my heartbroken staff of twelve-year-old computer geeks, who monitored the party invitation auction website for a salary of beer, pizza, and pornography.

I was so depressed I cabbed to Barneys and charged new platform pumps to my MasterCard pronto. So much for that nonshopping embargo.

Of course, there was still the off chance that Stephan of Westoma would fall head over heels in love with me, acquiesce to a quickie marriage, and elevate me back to the upper echelon, where I belonged, thereby resolving all my financial difficulties. But it had already been two weeks and I had yet to hear from him, or this so-called “friend” who was interested in Chinese adoption. Against my better nature, I had taken to waiting religiously by the phone in the hope that it would ring.

“Has he called yet?” India asked a few days after E-VIParty.com was shelved.

“No,” I moped. “Maybe he’s not interested.”

“How could he not be interested in you!” India said, offended at the very thought. “Of course not. He’s probably just busy. Why didn’t you ask for his number?”

“Because,” I whined, “I would never call him anyway.”

“Why not?”

India was of the mind that all the incredibly silly traditions of modern dating were just that—incredibly silly. If India wanted a man, she stepped right up and told him, point-blank. It usually worked or else the gentleman in question called the police. The sight of a six-foot-four transsexual in five-inch heels and full-throttle seductive mode was more than ordinary men could handle. Fortunately for India, she was attracted to sterner stuff: garbage men, nineteen-year-old go-go dancers, construction workers, and all sorts of “rough trade.” But even India wasn’t invincible. Since the night of the Chinese Orphans Benefit, her generous patron had been incommunicado and, worse, had been spotted at the transgender watering-hole Edelweiss, in none other than Venus de Milosevic’s clutches. Not an ideal situation, especially since India’s rent was due in a week.