“Excuse me!”
Stephan and I turned in annoyance. It was a photographer holding up a large camera. “Can I take your picture?” he asked, pointing to me. Once the other lensmen noticed their colleague taking my picture, they all began snapping photographs as well, and soon I was blinded by a torrent of flashbulbs.
“Oh, of course,” I complied, elated. It was about time! The incessant coverage of myself in Arbiteur’s “Party Patrol” must have finally elicited interest from the mainstream press. Of course, it could also have been due to their haste to capture my outfit—I was wearing Viktor & Rolf’s Fall/Spring 2000—the entire collection all at once (which was how they suggested it be worn), which made me look not unlike a Russian doll. The phalanx of photographers pushed Stephan away and soon he was lost in the stream of the stiletto-heeled who had flooded into the champagne bar once the show had ended. I strained to find him and was about to call out when I noticed he was making his way toward Teeny, whom I noticed standing behind the tent doors. I guessed she was the “friend” who had invited him to the show.
“What happened to you?” India asked when she found me slumped against the bar.
“I got a little sidetracked,” I said offhandedly. I promised myself I would file my first review for Arbiteur tomorrow. Right, tomorrow.
Urrrgggh. Why was the baby screaming? At six in the morning? Must impress upon child not to wake up to be fed, I thought. It’s too common to want to eat. What will people say? Really, it’s too distracting, especially as I’m a working mother now.
I padded over to the crib and gave her a bottle. “There you go; happy now?” I asked.
Boing chortled and cooed, slurping hard.
Oh well. What could you do? I gave her a kiss. Kids.
In truth, I was obsessed with the baby. I couldn’t buy enough little sailor outfits from Jean Paul Gaultier Enfants. And India, well, you’d never think New York’s first aristocratic transsexual would feel maternal, but not only had India agreed to be a godmother, she was already planning the christening. There would be clowns, fire-works, and the Reverend Al Sharpton officiating. But I wasn’t even sure I was Christian. My father was a lapsed Catholic and my mother worshiped at the altar of Kenneth. The way I saw it, choosing a religion was like wearing underwear: you should try on a different one every day. I’d done the Hindu thing, the Buddhist thing, the Shanti-Astangi. I’d found enlightenment and I didn’t even wear underwear—I was fabric-sensitive as a child.
I was so glad I was now employed, as I really had to start saving my pennies for the baby. I could send a whole Sri Lankan village to medical school for the price of kindergarten at Dalton!
“Well, you know,” India had suggested. “There’s always …”
But there was no way. Even if it meant debtor’s prison. I just couldn’t. I’d heard they let anyone enroll. Scandalous! In my mind, education should involve such things as Peter Pan collars, vespers, and French carols sung in the belvedere, not metal detectors, transparent backpacks, and automatic-weapon-wielding preteens. India retorted that even if I sent Boing to private school, she’d still have to pass some test.
“Test? What test?” I had asked.
“Admissions tests, silly. You don’t think they let just anyone into Dalton, do you? And anyway, Miss Hoity-Toity, Stuyvesant is even harder to get into than Dalton and it’s a public school.”
But I wasn’t worried about Boing; she was Chinese. Everyone knows they’re smart.
This time I was out of the house in time for John Bartlett’s eleven o’clock presentation. I was disturbed to find out that as an editor at Arbiteur, I was assigned a standing-room seat! Standing-room tickets were traditionally ferreted out to fashion students and distant relatives of the designer. But no matter, it wasn’t like I didn’t know how to upgrade to the knocking-on-heaven’s-door environs of a dignified “section A, row 1, seat 10” with some help from whiteout and a pen.
I breezed through the lines, waving my forged ticket above my head, and found an empty front-row seat. Turning to the program’s “run of show” I skimmed the names of the models walking on the runway and counted two Ashleys, three Tiffanys, four Marie-Annes, and one of each of the following: Lavinia, Luvigna, Lagina, Listagna, Laeticia, Ljupka, Ludmilla, Yfke, Rifke, Neitschze, Serenna, Corinna, Fromilla, Tange, Unge, Fungi, Gisele, Mimi, Maggie, Krissie, Irina, Komiko, Tynk, Wink, Stink, Cordova, Maldova, Magnolia, Maglosia, Alek, and Carolyn.
The lights went down, the booming music started, and the show was beyond marvelous—more nipples than Showgirls. Everything falling off the shoulder or plunging deep into crevices. I trembled with excitement and wrote down notes, which I saw other fashion editors doing. Next to me solemn-faced women scribbled furiously in their notebooks, while others spoke softly into Dictaphones. “Yellow.” “Orange.” “Ruffles.” “Disco.” “Feathers.” “Strapless.” “Nude.” “Guerrilla.” “Urban.”
This is what I wrote in mine: “Apocalyptic.” “Unreal.” “Hazardous.” “Must remember to take in dry cleaning.”
When the last guerrilla-glamazon walked down the runway, John Bartlett came out to take his bows, as usual, holding his pet dog Sweetie in his arms. Sweetie was something of a trendsetter herself, as the glamour pooch columnist of Elle magazine. This was something of a sore point for India, since her Maltese Miu Miu was just as cute but had yet to make one stylish pronouncement. The back row, filled with the front-row editors’ assistants, FIT (Fashion Institute of Technology) students, and assorted gate crashers, gave him a standing ovation, while everyone else clapped politely. No one ever dared show any enthusiasm for a collection no matter how fabulous. A look of boredom, disdain, and downright loathing was almost mandatory. Unless, of course, you were a certain whitehaired emeritus fashion director who was famous for her audible gasping, rolling about in the aisles, and literal jumping for joy if she liked something on the runway.
India and I collected our seat candy—travel-size containers of body lotion, and the expensive, useless tchotchke given as a token of esteem from the designer to the fashion press. Any interest in the goodie bags is très gauche—although even unflappable front-row denizens have been known to squeal in delight when a particularly choice freebie was found on their seat (Louis Vuitton and Prada were famous for gifting front-row editors with actual bags worth several thousand dollars during show presentations).
“Hair spray and condoms!” India whispered, peeking inside the bag. “Hooray!”
“I’m going backstage to troll for some goss,” India said. “Come with?”
“No, I’ve got to file my report.” I demurred, as I was secretly hoping I’d run into Stephan at the champagne bar again. I waited for a few minutes, but when I didn’t see him anywhere, I repaired to the journalists’ lounge next to the café and was thrilled to discover it had all the makings of an uptown day spa. There were paraffin hand treatments for those whose fingers were exhausted from all that writing, facials for those who had frowned too much, and foot massages to combat the stress of walking from taxi to tent. I nixed the beauty treatments as I had real work to do, and uploaded my three-word rave of John Bartlett’s show on the Arbiteur website, next to the stolen streaming video from Catwalk.com. Not a minute later, my cell phone rang.
“Arbiteur,” I answered crisply. “This is Cat.”
“Your show review—one word: gorge,” Billy crowed.
This was easier than I thought! Wondered what Teeny would say when she saw my byline on Arbiteur. I was also planning a critical investigation into Tart Tarteen’s business practices as my first fashion exposé.
“And I have great news—we’ve won the award for best fashion website from the Nettie Awards!”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s like the Oscars of the Internet.”
“They have those?”
“Yes. Apparently they can’t get enough of India’s gossip column, and you know that fashion shoot you styled? The one called ‘Castoffs’ wit
h the antique bloomers? They said it was genius!”
“So what did we win?”
“A coiled statuette that looks like a Slinky. Cat, this is a mile-stone for Arbiteur. A huge achievement. We’re going to get extreme recognition and it’s great news for our IPO.”
The next day I was determined to wake up early to arrive on time for Miguel Adrover’s show, which I promised Billy I would not miss. Like other “rebellious” downtown designers, Miguel wasn’t showing at the tents but at a morgue downtown. I was badly hungover from the aftershow parties of the night before. Oh well, fashion shows were notorious for their late starts. The audience at Marc Jacobs’s show two days earlier was probably still waiting for the lights to dim.
I kissed Boing good-bye, and feeling very much like a hard-charging editrix of an award-winning global fashion website, I climbed into the car with a renewed sense of purpose.
“Grand and Jackson, please, driver.”
En route, I pondered a question that had been nagging me for days. Was I turning into a champagneaholic? The same fatal disease that afflicted waif supermodels and grunge rock goddesses? I looked up the symptoms for Bubbly Overdose Syndrome from the latest copy of Dr. Feelnothing’s Guide to Designer Diseases.
Let’s see … “Pavlovic reaction to popping corks.” Yes!
“Inability to distinguish Joe Pesci from Kosovar busboys at nightclubs.” Was that Joe Pesci India and I were partying with last night, or a recent Kosovar immigrant? I don’t know, I don’t know!
“Middle fingers in carpal-tunnel cramp from holding flute glass.” I attempted to wiggle my fingers but couldn’t feel them! I was suffering from the syndrome for certain!
But then the phone rang and I was able to answer it without any effort or pain. Hmmm.
“Hello, Cat darling.”
“Hello, India sweetheart.”
“All ready for Miguel’s show?”
“Oh, most definitely. I look smashing. I’m wearing my Louis Vuitton garment bag,” I told her, explaining I had slashed and stitched my logo luggage into a suitable one-piece in homage to the designer, who had done the same thing in his first, groundbreaking collection. As India chatted away, I looked idly out the window. Wait a minute! I knew Manhattan’s Lower East Side wasn’t the prettiest part of town, but this didn’t even look like Manhattan at all! Where were the newly chic Orchard Street bars and parvenu dress shops next to Jewish delicatessens and turn-of-the-century sweatshops?
“Is this Grand and Jackson?” I asked the driver.
“Yes, ma’am. This is Queens.” Apparently the fool driver had mistaken the directions for an intersection in the most unglamorous of boroughs.
Nooooooo! “India—I’m in Queens! I know—it’s rich. I’ll send postcards, but, darling, I can’t talk now!” I folded the phone and started to hyperventilate. Billy had expressly instructed me to deliver show coverage for Miguel Adrover’s line. The driver professed to know a quick shortcut back to Manhattan, and even though I had my reservations, I let him use it.
Hours later I rang India. From Brooklyn. Quick shortcut turned into major gridlock detour and I was just as far from Manhattan and Fashion Week as ever.
“So, how was Miguel’s?”
“Fantastic. You know how last season he did ‘Midtown’?”
“Yes?”
“Well, this season, he did ‘Outer Borough.’ It was disturbing and divine. Oh, Cat, you’re so lucky to be in Brooklyn. So fashion-forward of you.”
For the last day of Fashion Week, everybody’s favorite rap-mogulturned-menswear-designer threw a birthday party for himself—one that was even more expensive than mine! Of course, I was not invited, but that’s never stopped me before. I desperately wanted to go because I thought for sure Stephan would be there, since he never seemed to miss a fabulous event. For the party, each of the two thousand guests had been given a VCR tape that played key scenes from the rap star’s life, complete with a soundtrack. The location was kept secret until the very last minute, and India had to torture a caterer to find out the secret password. When we arrived, the crowd was so thick that the publicists were turning even bonafide celebrities away.
A proper invitation and a Vogue cover don’t guarantee anything when it comes down to it. If an event proves too popular, publicists have been known to actually disinvite guests who have already RSVP’d. But even if you clear the preparty politics, there is still the matter of actually getting inside the event. If the venue is grossly overcrowded and already in violation of fire laws, and the crowd outside the door is filled with the likes of the Duchess of York, the Princess of Greece, and the King of Pop—well, those with less-than-stellar credentials—and I don’t care how many Tiger Beat covers you’ve been on—not that I’ve ever been a Tiger Beat cover girl—you don’t get inside.
I spotted Brick and his arm-candy date arguing loudly after being turned away at the door. Pasha was berating him for their debilitating social humiliation.
“Cunnnot you do something?” she screeched. “Owlof my friends are olllready inside. It’s theee pahty of the week. I cunnnot mees eeet.”
“Sorry, babe. I tried my best,” Brick apologized. “I don’t understand; Enrico promised me he’d get us on the list,” he added, annoyed and flustered. Brick wasn’t used to having people say no to him; it just wasn’t done.
“Ugh! This is soooo not cool, Breeck.” She pouted, then stalked off in a funk.
“Hi, darling.” I waved. “Having a bit of trouble there?”
“Oh, hi, Cat,” he said sheepishly. “It’s nothing—she’ll get over it.” He ran after her, calling out her name in the dark. “Pasha? Pasha doll? Come on! I’ve got a contact who can get us into the Chaos party! Don’t leave me!” He ran off after her, their footsteps fading into the night.
The sidewalk was filled with other supermodel casualties—Lavigna, Ljupka, Ashley, Irina, Trish, and Teena-Marie had not been allowed in either. They wandered around aimlessly, like lost little children without a party to attend, cell phones glued to their ears, complaining noisily in a hodgepodge of accents.
“Incroyable!”
“Vere ees next partee?”
“Casablancas-san, me no get in.”
There was a lovely little bar right next to the event, but no one even thought of abandoning ship and going there. It was the principle of the thing. To actually pay for a night out was outside the typical model’s earthly existence. They were very fragile, and withered at the sight of a drink bill.
Fortunately for us, the girl at the door was one of the few fashion addicts who had actually heard of Arbiteur. “You’re Cat McAllister!” she squealed when she noticed me in the crowd.
“I’ve seen you in that Tarty Patrol’ column,” she explained.
“You have?”
“Oh, it’s my favorite website. And is this … ?” she asked, motioning to India.
“India Beresford-Givens—she writes ‘Depeche Merde,’” I said proudly.
“You guys are the best! I’m such a big fan! Arbiteur is like the best-kept secret in the fashion industry.”
We smiled benevolently. “Can we get through now?”
“Totally!” she said, raising the velvet rope. “Hey—who’s the blind item in your gossip column last month? The drunken journalist who peed in the closet of his boss’s home? Was it Michael Musto?”
India gave her an enigmatic smile. “We’ll never tell.”
“India, I can’t believe nobody’s guessed that it was you!” I whispered.
Once inside, I immediately spilled champers down Martha Stewart’s back. India gave her advice on how to clean it, from an article in Martha’s magazine. It was a splendid party—all the right people, and names, names, names, but Stephan was nowhere to be found. Shame, I felt myself blush at the memory of that almost-kiss. He had been about to kiss me, hadn’t he? Or did I just have something on my chin? It had been so long since I had actually kissed anybody. Brick and I—well, who cared about that anymore?
/> 17.
they’ll always have paris
Um, Cat, before we have our editorial meeting today, can I talk to you about your New York Fashion Week coverage?” Billy asked in a serious tone.
“Oh? Why?” I felt a glimmer of fear. Was I being fired so soon after my debut? Not even when I read for the role of Gertie in E.T had I been hustled out of a position so soon.
“Please don’t take this the wrong way—your coverage of John Bartlett’s show was fantastic.”
“Thank you, I did try.” Relief flooded over me.
“And the fact that we’ve asked our stringers in Paris, Milan, and London to cover the European collections doesn’t bear any judgment at all on the job you’ve done,” he continued. Hmm … I was wondering about that. I had fully expected to follow the fashion pack across the Atlantic for the rest of the fashion season, but Billy convinced me I was needed at Arbiteur HQ.
“Besides, I don’t think we can afford to pay your expenses in Italy.” Billy had been less than thrilled when I handed him the bill for the “discounted” designer items I had picked up during my Fashion Week detour.
“I’d hate to see what would happen when you discover the Prada outlet,” he joked.
Did he say Prada outlet? I’d been robbed.
“There is, however, the question of Couture Week in Paris. Against my better judgment, I find I have no one to send but you and India to cover the shows. But only if you promise not to go on any more shopping sprees.”
“I’d love that!” I breathed, knowing that Teeny was sure to be in Paris as well, since she never missed a couture show. It was the lifeblood of her Tart Tarteen line, as she was notorious for getting lower-priced versions of the fantastic, otherworldly creations from the runways into the stores immediately. And if Teeny were there—would Stephan be far behind?
“Cat, Cat? So it’s all right, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Great.”
“What’s great?” I asked blankly.
“My one tiny suggestion?” Billy asked in an exasperated tone.