“I know, I know.”
“What’s that in your hand?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said guiltily, trying to hide it behind my back.
“Give it here,” she ordered. I surrendered the roll of raw cookie dough I had been chewing. Since shopping at Barneys only reminded me of Stephan, a ludicrous amount of sugar and fat was the only thing that made me feel better.
“You’re really going to have to pull yourself together. Boing misses you terribly. And we have to see about Arbiteur. I haven’t heard from Billy since we got back, and whenever I buzz his apartment no one answers.”
“You’re right,” I agreed. Heartbreak aside, there were things that needed my attention, and like Olivia Newton-John, who threw her pom-poms at the feet of John Travolta, I wished I’d never laid eyes on that charming, eye-patch-wearing, exiled Westonian rake.
India and I persuaded the supervisor of Billy’s building to let us inside the apartment. We grasped each other tightly when we found the office/living room in more disarray than ever. Model look books were torn apart. Clothes samples were strewn everywhere. The floor was littered with invitations, faxes, envelopes, and cigarette butts. India and I exchanged worried glances.
“Billy?” I called tentatively.
“Over here!” a weak voice replied.
India and I made our way to the dining room area, which had once housed the fashion closet. Billy was sitting on a chair and staring at several documents on the table.
“What’s wrong, darling?” I asked, reaching out to touch his shoulder.
He handed me the papers then held his head in his hands, making a high-pitched keening sound.
Oh, no! “I gasped.
“Oh, yes!” India grieved.
The first document was a subpoena from Catwalk.com. They were suing the bejesus out of Arbiteur, and we were ordered to appear in court to explain exactly how Catwalk.com’s exclusive streaming video of New York Fashion Week had somehow ended up on the Arbiteur website. The second letter was from our invest’ ment bankers. Apparently they had been alerted to the lawsuit and the prospect of a highly embarrassing legal skirmish meant that under the new circumstances, our impending IPO was to be shelved indefinitely. We were finished. Kaput. My net worth vanished into thin air. With a start I remembered we were all living on borrowed credit—and would have to pay back the money we owed our banker.
“But—but—it doesn’t have to be like this. We have insurance against lawsuits, don’t we, Billy?” I asked.
“I’m not sure about that,” he replied awkwardly.
“What do you mean?”
“I uh, never got around to mailing the insurance forms,” he admitted sheepishly. Oooh. I knew exactly what happened, too. After all, the mailbox was outside Billy’s apartment. Billy only operated within the confines of a door-to-door delivery system—messenger services, Kozmo.com, Federal Express.
“I’m going to have to take down the entire site for a while. I, ah, also have to inform you that our bank has put a hold on our credit line.”
India and I slumped against the dining room table. India found an unopened bottle of wine in Billy’s refrigerator and poured us each a glass. I passed around cigarettes as a restorative.
“But it gets worse,” Billy groaned.
“What, what could be worse than a lawsuit and bankruptcy?” I wailed.
“Jail,” Billy whispered.
India and I were stunned.
“No…”
“You can’t be serious!”
“But how? Why?”
“Oh, both of you will be fine. It’s me who has to worry.”
India and I tried not to look too relieved.
“But why, Billy? Why would you have to go to jail?”
“Because! Because! I’m the one who put that streaming video on our site in the first place! I’m the programmer, remember? I’m the one who broke the law. Stealing streaming video is an intellec’ tual-property offense. Did you know that?”
“Billy, first of all, you’re not going to jail,” India promised.
“They’ll have to take all of us!”
“That’s right,” I agreed.
“Thanks, girls, but I really don’t think that’s going to help.”
“The worst part of it is that we were just starting to get some attention—we had our best numbers yet, and the London Telegraph just dubbed us ‘minor celebrities.’”
“Really?” I asked; it wasn’t the New York Observer 500, but it was a start!
“Recognition at last, now that we have to take down the site,” Billy said bitterly.
The next day India and I showed up for work even though there was no need, but we were worried about Billy. The loss of the IPO, the lawsuit from Catwalk.com, and the possibility of incarceration had hit him hard. None of us spoke about the millions of dollars in debt we were in—the subject was too painful. India had canceled her yearly touch-up in Puerto Rico, and it would be a long time before Kozmo.com knocked on Billy’s door again. As for the idea that our fearless leader would soon be an inmate of “Oz”—it was too frightening to even consider.
“Well, I’ve got an idea. It’s Thanksgiving soon,” I said, looking meaningfully at India. “Which means…”
“East Hampton,” India breathed.
“And more important …”
“Mummy!” India and I cheered.
“Mummy?” Billy asked. “What’s your mother got to do with it?”
“Oh, she’ll find a way out of this mess, you’ll see,” I said. “Mummy has been in worse scrapes. Plus she’s slept with a whole bunch of senators—I’m sure they know all about staying out of jail. Shell be sure to know what to do.”
Mummy never missed the annual McAllister Thanksgiving extravaganza, as she was very sentimental when it came to Pilgrims and stuffed turkeys. I sent her another cablegram, hoping this one would reach her at the Kenyan safari, outlining the disaster we found ourselves in. Mummy would come up with something, I just knew she would.
19.
thanksgetting and aproposal
In the past, I usually dreaded the imminent trek to southernmost Long Island for the traditional visit, but this year was different. The only drawback to the trip was that it takes absolutely forever to get out of the Five Towns. India’s SUV drove wonderfully but Boing threw up in the car all the same. Good girl; she was learning quickly.
“Hello, Cat dear,” Grams said as India, Bannerjee, Boing, and I disembarked from the truck.
“India, sweetheart, how are you?” she asked, enfolding India in a bear hug.
“And you remember Bannerjee, my au pair, and that’s Boing, my adopted Chinese daughter.” I took the baby from Bannerjee’s arms and held her out for a kiss.
“Hello, little one,” Grams cooed, kissing the air above Boing’s forehead. The baby started to bawl and I gave her back to Bannerjee to hold.
“Where’s Mummy?” I asked Grams, fully expecting to see Mummy staggering across the lawn with her usual double-fisted cocktails.
“I don’t know.” Grams shrugged. “Why?”
“But—I sent her a cablegram. I told her it was very important that she spend Thanksgiving with us because I need something. She never misses Thanksgiving!”
“Sorry, dear, I haven’t heard from her in months.”
I slumped. “So she’s not here?”
“No, sweetheart. But is there something maybe I could help you with? Are you in some sort of trouble again?”
India nudged me with her elbow, but I was loath to impinge upon my grandmother’s goodwill. Grams had already done more than her share of helping me out of sticky financial situations, like paying my bail when I bounced several checks to department stores when I was in college.
“No, it’s all right, Grams,” I said, while India shot me a disappointed frown.
“I’m sorry your mother couldn’t make it. But you know how she is. But anyway, remember that nice boy Brick? He’s in the house, he wants t
o speak to you.”
“Really, why?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
I walked inside the Colonial mansion my father had commissioned to celebrate his short-lived appearance on the Forbes 500 list. My less extravagant grandparents lived in one small wing in the house, which they had modestly furnished to resemble their former home in Jackson Heights. They never did approve of my father’s excesses and preferred shag carpeting and Seaman’s sectionals to anything Louis Quinze. However, the rest of the house was vintage Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, right down to the gold-encrusted commodes. Brick was waiting for me in the drawing room, which like everything else was done in a frothy Rococo style, with winged cherubs and ornate pink-marble wall treatments.
“Hello, darling,” I said coolly.
“Cat,” Brick moaned. “I feel awful.”
“So do I.” I sighed.
Bannerjee, holding Boing, walked through the doorway, and Brick appraised them curiously.
“What’s with the baby?” he asked. “Your maid have a kid?”
I was visibly affronted. “No, darling, that’s Boing, and, no, she’s not Bannerjee’s, she’s mine.”
“Boing? What kind of name is that for a baby?” he asked. “Boing. It sounds like a doorbell. Or a cartoon. Boing, boing, boing.”
“It’s an ancient Chinese name,” I said defensively. “It’s distinctive.”
“Well, it’s just … stupid. Why’d you have to go and do that for, anyway?” he asked, peevish and annoyed.
“Do what?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he snapped, meaning the international cross-racial adoption. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you. She’s left me.” He groaned.
“Who?” I asked, knowing full well who. I just wanted to hear him say it for the satisfaction.
“Pasha,” he gurgled.
“Oh. Why?”
“For a gangsta rapper,” he sobbed. “Some foul-mouthed nineteen-year-old with a few number-one hit singles on the Billboard charts.” And the bestselling album of the year, I thought to myself.
“I’m sorry, darling,” I soothed. “It will be all right. There will be other Victoria’s Secret supermodels.” Poor thing. Didn’t he know he was just the latest casualty on the seraphic Soviet supermodel’s dance card? Her first boyfriend was her photo agent, and she had quickly traded him in for the president of her modeling agency, but then left him for Brick, the billionaire. Unfortunately for Brick, all the money in the world couldn’t compete with the status of a gangbanging white rapper. It was certain Pasha wouldn’t be left outside of any fabulous parties in the future.
“I don’t want any more supermodels. I’m finished with them.”
“You are?”
“Yes.” He nodded. Brick looked glassily into my eyes. “I’ve had enough. I want you.”
“Me?” I yelped.
“You. You’d never leave me for a ridiculously pompous gang banger, would you? Some roughneck from Detroit? You detest gangsta rap.”
“Well … I suppose I do. …” My tastes did run toward Goth, New Wave, and bubble-gum pop but I didn’t see what that had to do with anything.
“Cat … will you marry me?” Brick asked suddenly.
“Marry you?”
“Yes.”
“Yes,” I repeated.
“Great!”
“No. I mean, why? It’s not like you haven’t asked me before,” I said. “Remember? Brick, we’ve been engaged more times than I can count.”
“I know, I know, but I’ve changed. I promise. Really,” he wheedled. “There just comes a time when I should settle down, you know?”
“I see.” I pushed Brick’s bangs out of his eyes. “Oh, darling—let me think about it.”
“All right.” He sighed. “Well, let me know soon. I should be getting back. I’m entertaining a very special guest,” he said mysteriously.
The next afternoon during a brisk sail, I finally confessed to India that Brick had reproposed.
“Well, that’s fabulous,” India said. “This time, get him to the altar quickly instead of just putzing around like you did before.”
“I know. I suppose it’s what I want. And the Winthrops have one of the best family crests—his grandfather commissioned an artist to make one in 1926.”
“And think about it. With Brick’s gazillions, hell help defend Arbiteur from the Catwalk.com lawsuit for sure,” India added.
“For sure,” I agreed. I was sure once I told Brick about the legal problems of the website, he would offer the services of his ace legal team to help us out and keep Billy out of jail—providing I agreed to marry him, of course.
India and I gazed out into the distance, musing on the new turn of events.
“Oh, look, there he is now!”
Brick was out on his sailboat, and I got a glimpse of his special guests—and oh my Lord, it was none other than England’s Prince William himself! We waved to Brick and the bonnie prince. Bannerjee was beside herself, and was a particularly enthusiastic waver. In her frenzy she toppled overboard, landing near Brick’s boat. Prince William was such a gentleman, he actually fished her out of the water. ‘Bye, Banny!
Thanksgiving dinner was unremarkable, with relatives nodding off from predinner cocktails before Gramps had even carved Grams’s undercooked turkey. I repaired to my childhood room to spend a quiet evening playing Scrabble with Boing. She can’t seem to spell anything yet so I won easily! Hard to believe Boing still hasn’t learned English. After all, she watches the Teletubbies every day. When the baby nodded off, I tucked her in her crib and knocked on India’s door.
“Yesss?”
“Darling, it’s me. Can I come in?” I asked.
“Mmmmrrrmmph.”
I let myself inside and sat on the edge of her bed. “India, darling, I’m going absolutely batty here. Do get up. I’m so tense I can’t think straight,” I said crossly.
“Do you have anything? I asked meaningfully.
“Hmm, let’s see what I can do. After all, this is the Hamptons.”
* * *
India came through and procured some fun for us, finally. Nice stuff if you can get it. That India! She could spot the nearest dealer anywhere! I unwrapped the little square of tinfoil and looked happily at the white powder inside. Now, I was never much of a druggie—one of my biggest regrets, actually, since as Drew Barrymore has proven, it’s rehab that’s glamorous. But pot was a fat girl’s drug, Ecstasy made me nauseous, and as for heroin—well, I’ve seen Trainspotting. Plus, I dabbled so rarely it was almost embarrassing.
I cut it up into nice little white lines. India rolled a dollar bill and passed it over. We each took a monster snort. Bleccch. It stung.
“Hmmm … do you feel anything?” India asked.
“No, do you?”
“No,” she lamented.
We waited for a while for something to kick in.
“It’s not working! We’ve been robbed!” I anguished.
India dipped a finger in the white powder and tasted it. “This isn’t cocaine at all!”
“And I’m allergic to baking soda!” I complained.
Even so, we decided to snort it anyway on the off chance that it was something deliciously illegal, and fifteen minutes later, I was overwhelmed by a desire to do something—anything—I was frantic—couldn’t sit still—finally I realized I could do one thing—I could straighten up the room—I could clean—I could—I could vacuum!
“Where on earth does Grams keep the Hoover?”
India and I had returned from the vet’s. During my baking soda buzz, I had accidentally vacuumed Miu Miu, who had come to the Hamptons with us, right up. Ooops! Didn’t know if India would ever forgive me. “How would you feel if I did the same to Boing?” she accused me. Well, since she put it that way … Funeral plans for Miu Miu were postponed until India recuperated. We arrived back at the compound to find Bannerjee sitting glumly by the gates.
“Banny, you’re back so soon?” I
asked.
“By Her Majesty’s Secret Service,” a ruddy-faced bodyguard told us, appearing from the shadows. He saluted and left. I never did find out what had conspired between my Sri Lankan au pair and the prince. Nevertheless, Fleet Street tabloids were somehow tipped off that William had fallen for an “Indian princess.” Upon hearing the shocking news, his actual girlfriend, a proper English blueblood, promptly lost her mind, her virginity, and her chance at the throne. As for Bannerjee, I was just glad she was spared a gruesome death on a lonesome Parisian highway.
“So, have you given it any more thought?” Brick asked the day we were preparing to return to the city.
“I have,” I told him.
“And?”
“I’m sorry, Brick, but I can’t. I don’t feel right about it anymore.” Our relationship used to be enough for me—and I knew that if we were married, my life would be so much easier. God knows I would never have had to worry about money ever again. Plus, even if Brick didn’t have short blond hair and a way with killer rhymes or command masses of hysterical screaming fans or live a life of lavish degeneration, he could always be counted on for a good table at Alain Ducasse, at least. But if I accepted his proposal, we would be back to our old routine: he would always be off somewhere, either climbing Mount Kilimanjaro or else backpacking in Borneo, and I’d have little to look forward to other than an endless round of speakerphone-tag. I already sent unanswered cablegrams to my mother, I didn’t want to live the rest of my life fielding long-distance phone calls from my husband.
“Is there someone else?” he asked finally.
“No, there isn’t,” I said flatly, thinking of Teeny cooing about her third wedding dress.
On the drive back to Manhattan, I explained my decision to India. Ever steadfast, she assured me she understood. “That’s fine. We’ll find some other way,” she said, trying not to sound too hopeless. And then she said, slowly, “You know what, there is another way.”
“What?”
“The annual MogulFest in Sun Valley, Idaho!”
“Come again?”
“You know, the annual meeting of billionaires and CEOs and media moguls that’s all very hush-hush and secret? Where they all dance naked in the woods and stuff?”