“Hello?”
“Miss McAllister?”
“Yes.”
“Is a Bannerjee Bunsdaraat at this address?”
“Yes. But what does that have to do with anything? Didn’t Heidi send you?”
“Heidi who?”
“My publicist and image consultant. You’re a stalker, aren’t you?”
“No. I work for the INS.”
“The INS?”
“Yes. We’ve been scouting the location and keeping close tabs on Miss Bunsdaraat.”
“You were stalking Bannerjee?” I asked, disappointed. So I didn’t even have my own stalker—my au pair did. Very off-putting indeed.
“In a manner of speaking, yes. Actually we were just making sure she didn’t go anywhere until we got the proper documentation for her arrest.”
“Banny’s a criminal?” I asked excitedly. I didn’t know she had it in her!
“Not exactly, but she will have to come with us.”
“Why?”
“Miss Bunsdaraat is an illegal alien. She used a fake visa to return to the United States.”
“A fake visa! I paid good money for that visa on Fulton Street!” I argued.
“Miss McAllister, nobody has a right to sell or buy a visa. You can only apply for one at the U.S. embassy.”
“That’s what I told India—but she said it would take too long! That’s why I went to Fulton Street!”
“It doesn’t make a difference now. Miss Bunsdaraat should never have been allowed to return to the United States and must be deported back to Sri Lanka immediately.”
“What?”
“We’re going to have to do a search of the area,” he said, showing me a warrant for Bannerjee’s deportation. “Let’s go, boys.” He stood aside as a veritable SWAT team in full riot gear entered our apartment.
“Banny!” I called. Perhaps I could warn her before they closed in on her location. Run, Banny, run!
“What’s going on?” Stephan asked.
“They’ve come to take Bannerjee away!” I said, trembling with agitation.
The SWAT team searched every bit of the loft—even the fake ceilings, the numerous trapdoors, and the portable coolers. Since it was such a wide-open space, there was little room for a one hundred pound, five-foot Sri Lankan au pair to hide. Except …
“She’s obviously not here,” I said triumphantly, standing in front of the temperature-controlled closet and discreetly manipulating the lock’s retina controls. There was no way they would be able to get in there now!
“What’s this?” A SWAT team member in a bulletproof helmet, his finger cocked on the trigger of his AK-47, asked.
“Nothing. It’s just a—”
“Stand back, ma’am.”
“Nooooooooo!” I screamed, horrified beyond belief. My mother’s living legacy! My racks and racks of unworn designer clothes! It had survived Brother Parish, it would certainly survive a SWAT team! Plus, Bannerjee was most likely hiding inside in a Louis Vuitton trunk! “Stephan! Stephan! Darling, help me!” I called as I attempted to handcuff myself to the closet door. With Stephan’s assistance I was able to chain myself to the handle with a chain-link Chanel logo belt. Unfortunately, the INS officer was able to pulverize the knot with a precise beam of his laser-controlled AK-47. I fell to the ground, my wrist smoking.
The INS officer blasted the lock on the door and began a thorough ough search inside. I cursed them all. “Bastards! This is the U.S.A.! You can’t do this! You can’t!” Stephan attempted to tackle the officer to the ground, but was quickly dispatched with a drop-kick karate chop.
Cries of pain and agony could be heard as the SWAT team invaded my closet—but it was only because all the racks of shoe boxes and fur storage bins had crashed down upon their heads.
“Sir! We’ve got something!” a hairy combatant finally yelled. He had found Banny cowering behind my collection of Liberace Russian czar costumes.
“Aieeeeeeee!” Bannerjee screamed as the INS agents led her out in handcuffs.
“Banny!” I cried in despair. Where would I ever find an au pair like Bannerjee? Who would meticulously catalog my wardrobe according to designer or dead celebrity now? Who would know the difference between Voyage and Valentino? Fake London and Custo Barcelona? Branquinho and Balenciaga? Victor & Rolf and Dolce & Gabbna? Ossie Clark and Oscar de la Renta? Pucci and Gucci?
“Miss Cat! Help me!” she called. I ran down to watch as they stuffed poor Bannerjee in the backseat of a shuttle van and drove her away.
“What the hell was that all about?” Stephan asked, scratching his head.
“They’ve taken Bannerjee! She’s an illegal alien!” I cried in despair.
Tracking down a detained illegal alien was harder than I thought. Several phone calls to the INS resulted in my being transferred to several detention centers. I was bounced from Cuban to Haitian to Cambodian fugitives before I finally found out that Bannerjee was being held in a small room near Kennedy Airport. “Bannerjee Bunsdaraat,” the official said. “Yes. Her deportation trial is in a few hours.”
“Is there any way I can see her?”
“Yes, she is allowed one visitor.”
I arrived to find the INS offices a despicable affair. First of all, I had to wait in a maze of lines that stretched down the block. Once inside the building, another long line of plastic seats awaited us. A clerk in the front handed you a number, which was flashed on several screens around the dingy office. It was just like the DMV—not that I know how to drive. If you missed your number, you had to go to the back of the line. I watched the screen with rapt attention, dutifully shuffling from one seat to another, until I finally reached the front, only to be told I had been waiting in the wrong line all along.
“You’re here for a green card application?” the INS officer asked me.
“No, I’m here to see an illegal alien,” I explained.
“Oh. You don’t have to wait in line for that,” she sniffed, and pointed me toward the detention center on the other side of the room.
Bannerjee was waiting for me in a lockdown. Her hair was matted and frizzy, and instead of her typical Marc Jacobs apron dress that served as her uniform, they had put her in a gray jumpsuit.
“Miss Cat! Miss Cat!” she cried. “I so sorry!”
“It’s not your fault, Banny,” I said. “Don’t worry, we’ll get you out of here! It’s all my fault—I shouldn’t have sent you to China! I feel terrible. There must be some way to keep you in the country.”
“There is. My caseworker said you testify at trial and say I an immigrant with special skills.”
“Is that all! Of course I will!” I said benevolently.
“Thank you, Miss Cat.”
I returned in an hour, all set to testilie in dear Banny’s deportation trial. I had taken a muscle-relaxing drug procured from Dr. Feelnothing to beat the lie detector test, and was shocked to realize there was no such machine in the courtroom. Apparently just swearing on a Bible that I was telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but was enough. No electroshock necessary. Well! In that case, the prosecution would be better off having me swear on a stack of Italian Vogue magazines.
I raised my right hand in preparation and looked around at the small room, which held four people: the immigration judge, the prosecuting attorney, the public defender, and Bannerjee.
“Miss Bunsdaraat was in your employ for how long?”
“Six months,” I answered truthfully.
“And in those six months, did she display any special skills?” the prosecutor asked leadingly.
“Oh, yes,” I replied eagerly. “I even sent Banny away to the Ivor Spencer International School for Butler Administrators and Personal Assistants.”
“What is that?”
“It’s the leading domestic-help agency in London, which has a training course for personal assistants.”
“And what did she learn there?”
“Rudimentary tasks demanded in the high-stres
s position of personal assistant to a high-profile, ahem, celebrity. Helicopter lessons, organizational management of social calendars, advanced RSVP”
“I see. And did Miss Bunsdaraat use what she had learned in this course?”
“Of course!”
“Tell me, Miss McAllister. During the time Miss Bunsdaraat was in your employ, was the laundry ever done?”
“Well…”
“Answer the question.”
I was flustered. “Well, most of my clothes don’t really need to be laundered,” I hedged, thinking of the piles of dry cleaning.
The prosecutor grunted. “As for your affairs, would you say she kept them in order?”
“Oh, indisputably,” I said. In my mind, Bannerjee was right up there with Michael Jackson’s llama keeper and Courtney Cox’s dentist. It wouldn’t be long before Entertainment Weekly listed Bannerjee in its “Top 100 Service Providers.” I was sure Bannerjee would receive even more fan mail than Richard Dreyfuss’s housekeeper, who eloquently said to her employer, “You don’t enjoy your life as much as I do.”
“But during your twenty-fifth birthday party—”
“Yes?”
“Isn’t it true that Miss Bunsdaraat was not available to help you find something to wear?”
“Well, it was a last-minute thing, really. I did have something to wear, I just wanted to change,” I explained.
“And because you were not able to change into something else, isn’t it true, Miss McAllister, that you were almost not allowed into your own birthday party?”
“It’s true. But it was my fault!” I argued.
“And as for advanced RSVP, isn’t it true that you usually find yourself at parties or fashion shows to which Miss Bunsdaraat has ostensibly RSVP’d, only to find when you arrive at the event that your name was not on the list?”
“But that doesn’t prove anything—”
“And isn’t it true, Miss McAllister, that Miss Bunsdaraat does not have any idea how to take care of a baby? And is not in the least bit qualified to take care of children?” he thundered.
“No, no, of course not. Boing loves Banny!”
“Exhibit A, Your Honor,” the prosecutor said, passing along a faded yellow Post-it note. “May I show it to the witness?”
The judge grunted his assent.
I took the note from the prosecutor.
“Tell me, Miss McAllister, is this in your handwriting?”
I scanned it, my heart sinking. “Yes.”
“If it please the court, will you read what is written on the note?”
“Do I have to?” I pleaded.
“Miss McAllister, please read the note,” the judge ordered.
I sighed, reading from the Post-it.” ‘Banny darling, if it’s not too much to ask, could we please feed Boing today?’”
“Silence! Silence!” the judge barked, although the only noise was my and Bannerjee’s whimpers.
“I rest my case, Your Honor. Bannerjee Bunsdaraat is an illegal alien with no special skills, domestic or otherwise, to contribute to American society.”
“She can catalog an entire fashion wardrobe,” I interrupted defensively. “She knows how to take care of Martin Margiela sweaters with unfinished hems! She can spot a fake Rolex from a mile away! She’s extremely talented!”
The judge decided. “That doesn’t count.”
“No?”
“No. Miss Bunsdaraat has been proven as a leech on society with no special skills as a domestic helper, a personal assistant, or as a nanny.”
I gave Banny an imploring look, and she slumped in her chair.
“Deportation date is set for tomorrow,” the judge ordered.
Bannerjee was escorted out in handcuffs. When I got home, I sent Mummy another cablegram, hoping this one would reach her in Timbuktu. After all, it had been Mummy’s idea that I hire Bannerjee—Mummy would be worried about her welfare. Plus, if I didn’t stop Banny from being deported, who would look after my clothes? Or Boing? Or me?
23.
the princess bride
When I returned, I was determined to have that conversation with Stephan. If he loved me, he wouldn’t think I was a gold digger, would he? Nevertheless, I simply had no choice. There was a company to save, a boss to keep out of jail, and an au pair to rescue from deportation. His bazillions would come in handy, oh, just about now. I found him in the middle of the room, singing softly to the baby.
“Darling?” I said. “Can we have a moment?”
“Oh, of course,” he said. “Should I put Boing back in her coat?”
“Yes, that would be good.”
He picked up the baby and put her back gently in the duvet. “Well?”
“I was thinking … you know your bazillions?”
“My what?”
“Well—your money. I need it,” I blurted.
“Oh.” His eyes widened.
“I need to pay a lawyer to stop Bannerjee from being deported, and to defend Arbiteur from a crippling lawsuit,” I explained. “Otherwise Billy’s going to jail, or we’re selling off Arbiteur and India can’t be a part of it, and I can’t allow that to happen because India’s friendship means the world to me, and … and …”
“But why do you need my money?” he asked.
“Because … well, I don’t have any.”
“You don’t?” He gagged.
“No.”
“What do you mean you don’t? I thought—”
“What?”
“That you were famous. You knew Cece and Teeny. They’re the two richest women in Manhattan.”
“Yeesss… I do. I went to grammar school with them. That was a long time ago.”
“But the penthouse?”
“I leased it at my accountant’s behest. I couldn’t afford to live there anymore.”
“What about all the photographers during Fashion Week? Front row at all the fashion shows?”
“I upgraded my seat.”
“You … what did you say?”
“Upgraded my seat,” I repeated.
“Why?”
“Because I only got standing room, that’s why,” I said crossly.
“But you said you didn’t have to work.”
“I lied.”
“You lied?”
“I don’t. Have. Money. I’m bankrupt. I was working for Arbiteur and we were all set to have an IPO and make gazillions but then Catwalk.com threatened to sue us for stealing their streaming video coverage and our bankers dropped our IPO and now I’m broke. But now someone wants to buy the website—but only for a million dollars, which is insane, especially since we’re in debt for much more than that—but even if we sell it to them, they don’t want India to be part of it, which of course we can’t let happen because she’s my very best friend in the whole world.”
“Oh.” He looked perplexed. “But I thought—”
“Darling,” I said, a thought forming in my head. “Where is Westonia?”
“It’s… umm … in the Baltic,” he hedged.
“I thought it was in the Balkans?”
“It isn’t. At least, I don’t think it is.”
“Are you sure?”
“Am I sure of what?”
Trembling, I reached for his eye patch.
“What—what are you doing?” he asked fearfully.
I took his eye patch … and I moved it to the other eye. Then I remembered—whenever I saw him at Barneys, his eye patch was on the left eye. Whenever I saw him out at social events, it was on the right. It had been a clever disguise, because even if anyone he met on the social circuit bumped into him at Barneys, he or she would never have recognized him—most of the crowd were too narcissistic to notice.
“I can explain,” he said in a completely unambiguous Continental accent—except it came from this continent. The northern one.
“Explain what?”
“I’m not the Prince of Westonia.”
Of course you’re not,” I said dully.
&
nbsp; “Fm a tailor at Barneys.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Brick finally remembered how he knew you.”
“Ah. I wondered when he would. He was a good customer.”
“But you were at that twenty-thousand-dollars-a-plate benefit…”
“Cece paid for my ticket. I told her my accounts hadn’t been set up yet.”
“And all those parties…”
“You should know as well as I do that it’s very easy to score party invitations. After all, I worked at Barneys and I had—”
“The Fashion Calendar?”
He nodded.
“And the fashion shows?”
“I told you, a friend invited me. And I was in Paris to pick up some new fabric for our custom-made suits.”
“But Sun Valley, the moguls…”
“That was a little harder. One of my clients had left his invitation in a coat pocket I was altering, so I pinched it.”
“Brick!” I said, remembering how sore Brick had been about not being invited to Sun Valley this year.
“Yes. It was his ticket. I knew you were going to be at that retreat, and I wanted to see you.”
“But how did you—”
“Infiltrate? Dupe the crème de la crème of New York society?” He laughed. “I’m a paparazzo. I worked in Europe for years taking photographs of the jet set. I know all their tricks. I decided, why should they have all the fun?”
“Why, indeed.”
“I found this site on the Internet, E-Royalty-to-Go.com,” he explained. “For a hundred ninety-nine dollars you can buy yourself a title. Any title. European. Middle Eastern. Whatever. It’s like those sites where you can buy university degrees even though youv’e never attended one of those schools.”
“Yes, I know of them.”
“Well, that’s what I got. And since I recognized everyone from society, I just ingratiated myself to one of the more gullible socialites.”
“Cece Phipps-Langley.”
“Yes. I didn’t even have to tell her anything—I just said I was an exiled prince and she just assumed—”
“Homes in Baden-Baden? Beverly Hills? Bedford?”
“Yes.”