“But when I saw you, you said you lived on Fifth Avenue.”
“I did. On Fifth Avenue and East One Hundred and Tenth Street.”
“East One Hundred and Tenth! Isn’t that—”
“The camera obscura apartment,” he said wistfully.
“I thought it was your studio!”
“Yes, in a sense it was, but I got evicted last week,” he explained sheepishly.
“So what do you have?”
“Well, when my parents died, I inherited their farmhouse in Michigan.”
“A landowner,” I sniped.
“Cat—please, don’t be upset.”
“Upset? Why would I be upset? The only job I’ve ever had is gone, and the only man I’ve ever loved turns out to be from Michigan.’” Flyoverland. The horror, the horror!
“Is that so bad?”
“Please leave.”
“But where will I go?”
“I don’t care,” I said, all steely-like. “Just get out of my sight. I can’t stand … I can’t… oh God …” I crumpled, thinking of the humiliation in store for me.
Stephan left.
It began as soon as I opened my eyes. For a while there, I thought it was all just a bad, bad dream. But then I had to answer the phone. It was India.
“Cat! Have you seen the papers?” she asked breathlessly.
“Is it a story about Stephan and my engagement?” I groaned.
“Well, yes.”
“And?”
“Cat, he’s an impostor! He’s not a prince at all!” India cried.
“I know. He told me last night,” I said. “How bad is it?”
“Well, let’s just put it this way—no one s ever going to forget you now.”
I padded out to my doorway to collect the heap of newspapers and tabloids.
“Prince of Lies!” the Post trumpeted. “The Con Artist Formerly Known as the Prince”—that from the Daily News. The Times had run a small mention in “Public Lives,” in its usual restrained fashion. New York magazine had the full story, which included nasty asides from several well-heeled anonymous socialites who had welcomed “the Prince of Westonia” into their homes and were now counting the silver and making sure nothing had been stolen. Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie was quoted as saying she had known all along that he was a fake, as he didn’t play polo nor did he know how to sail. The paper also mentioned that Teeny was planning a million-dollar wedding in Malibu to billionaire poloplaying venture capitalist Brockton Moorehouse Winthrop the Third. Apparently she had been successful in that venture as well.
I rang Heidi to see if there was any way to combat this egregious affair. I’d call a press conference! I’d give teary interviews! I’d play the woman wronged! I’d … I’d … Heidi wasn’t picking up the phone and when she did, she did not sound pleased to hear from me.
“Vooo eezz dees?” she asked suspiciously.
“Heidi, it’s me, Cat.”
“Vooo?”
“Cat.”
“I zon’t know a Caf,” she said darkly.
“Heidi, please, you’ve got to help me.”
Reluctantly, Heidi told me it was the worst press she had seen in years. “And, yes, there ees soch a theeng as bad press, Caf.”
All the magazines, television shows, and newspapers were now begging to talk to me, of course—not because I was engaged to a prince, but because I was the fiancée of a fool. Instead of puffy profiles dedicated to my wedding trousseau and whirlwind romance, I would now be described as the hopeless debutante dupe who had fallen for a hustler. It was terrible. Already I had been bumped off the committees to fight colitis and aggravated bowel movements. Even the Dumpster Disaster in the Philippines committee didn’t want me. I was worse than trash.
Photographers were stalking my loft. Boing and I were besieged at every turn, and I hid out in Arbiteur HQ, the only safe place from the prying eyes of the media monster. Billy was sympathetic when I told him the news.
“Well, it’s not like it’s a crime,” Billy argued. He was very touchy about what was and wasn’t illegal these days.
“Impersonating a prince? I suppose not,” I agreed, cheering up.
“Well, the investors have sent over the papers,” Billy said glumly.
“So that’s it? We’re just giving up?” I asked.
“I mean, India can’t stay mad forever, can she?” Billy asked. “What else can we do?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing,” I lamented.
When I arrived home, I found Stephan in the apartment. I had forgotten we had agreed for him to collect his things that afternoon.
“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” he said. “I guess I’ll be going back to my acre in Michigan now. Or I could go back to shooting for the Globe. I’m sure Princess Caroline misses me.”
“Right.”
He looked so forlorn, standing against the wall. He wasn’t even wearing the eye patch anymore—what was the point? He was no longer a dashing exiled Westonian prince but just another unmasked social upstart. At least Andrew Cunanan went out in a blaze of attention-grabbing glory. We would have to live through ours.
“OK.”
“OK.”
He headed over to the door.
“Wait.”
He turned back and looked at me expectantly.
“Nothing.” I shrugged. “I thought you had maybe forgotten something.”
“Oh.” He sighed.
Suddenly I realized the pain I was feeling was not from every hurtful headline or gleefully wicked investigative piece or even the newest revelation from the Smoking Gun website that Stephan had attended agriculture school. He turned away and I noticed, not for the first time, how broad his shoulders were and how nice his profile was. I remembered how kind he had been the first time we had met, and how he was staunchly on the side of beleaguered party crashers everywhere—a perverse kindness to be sure, but still a generosity of spirit that was rare in me-first Manhattan. He was the only man who saw the crazy world I lived in for what it was—upside down and backward. Besides, he even had the good humor to put up with a woman who named her adopted child Boing and lived in a converted campground. I didn’t just love Stephan. I liked him. And he liked me, which was even more important, really.
“Wait,” I said again. “Don’t go.”
“Gee, Cat, I didn’t know you really cared,” he said, smiling shyly.
Neither did I. But, hell, who really wanted to be rich and famous anyway? Look what happened when Diana married a real prince. There was more to life than being a princess. Did I really want to end up throwing myself at international playboys for the rest of my life?
“So what are we going to do now?” I asked Stephan, snuggling into his arms.
“I don’t know … move to Michigan?” he joked.
“Well, it’s not a bad idea,” I said, contemplating the thought. “We could justify it by saying we’ve given up on the rat race and have decided to live life on a simpler, more monastic level. You know, like all those lawyers who become chefs, or investment bankers who leave Wall Street to surf in Maui. Everyone is moving to Nebraska or Wisconsin or Montana, anyhow,” I mused. “Like Demi Moore—she’s in Idaho. Or Ted Turner; he’s in Montana. And Todd Oldham is in Pennsylvania. All those models are living in the Catskills. Even Donovan Leitch lives in the countryside.” Slowly, I was warming to the idea. I could subscribe to all those new magazines that advocated the simple life—like Simplycity and Real Simple. Of course! New York was so over. How had I not noticed this before?
“It’s always got to be a trend for you, doesn’t it?” Stephan teased.
“Of course, darling! Otherwise, why even live?” I asked, perking up at the thought of being at the forefront of stylish country living.
We celebrated by going back to Barneys, Boing in tow. It was rather romantic, when you thought about it. Stephan’s old colleagues in the made-to-measure department all came out to shake his hand and take souvenir photographs. I’d
never been to the fifth floor of Barneys, and it was quite an eye-opener. It was a completely sober suit shop, and looked more like Brooks Brothers than Barneys. There were no purple sweaters. No poofy coats. No vinyl jeans. And that was the men’s department I was thinking of. The old-school tailors with their silver hair and perpetually bent backs who worked there were probably the only straight men working in the entire store.
“Never knew we had a prince in here,” one of them said jovially.
“Stephan, he is a nice boy,” another told me.
“And not a bad tailor.”
When they were finished saying good-bye to Stephan, I spent the last of my money on a Comme des Garçons apron dress. Provincial chic!
24.
deus ex mummy-na
The streets of Tribeca were desolate and quiet when we returned from our uptown shopping exodus. I began to feel a little pang at the thought of abandoning the city. Stephan and Boing were silent as well, as if they also felt it—a darkened feeling of failure. Whenever people left the city, it was never for something better, and it was always with a sense of defeat. Whether to Hollywood or Des Moines, it was all the same—leaving New York meant that you couldn’t cut it, you hadn’t made it, you were getting out before it was too late, and that although you were living in a city where anything could happen, somehow, nothing had ever happened to you.
For once there were no stray photographers milling about our doorstep, as our prominence as the most scandal-plagued couple of the week took a backseat to the earth-shattering news that model agency executives were sleeping with their underage clients. We took the freight elevator up to the top floor and nodded to neighbors we passed on our way. Stephan pulled the elevator door open and I fumbled with the keys, only to discover the door was already unlocked. The sound of cheerful voices and tinkling glass floated from the middle of the room, and I was shocked to find I was treading on a nice Aubusson rug, and hearing the sound of Billie Holiday crooning on the sound system. What was this? Stephan and I exchanged puzzled looks, and drew nearer with a mixture of apprehension and excitement.
In the middle of the room, a close approximation of a sitting room had been assembled. A deep, berry-rich rug covered the grim wooden planks. The Martin Margiela duvet had been folded into a dry-cleaning bag, replaced by a delightful English pram; the electrical cords hanging from the ceiling were obscured with sparkling Christmas lights; and the overwhelming sense of nouveau disrepair had given way to a cozy atmosphere of properly faded gentility. Two overstuffed Queen Anne armchairs crowded around a mahogany coffee table, where two women were in the process of mixing cocktails.
“India!” I cried, recognizing one of the uninvited guests. “What’s going on?”
India looked up with a mischievous gleam in her eye, and nudged her companion, who turned to face us.
“DARLING!” cried a small woman, wearing a gigantic turban and a salwar kameez, her spread arms jangling dozens of familiar ruby-encrusted bracelets; in one hand was an ivory cigarette holder, in the other, a martini glass.
“Oh my God. MUMMY!” I cried, running toward her.
We kissed and hugged each other effusively, as if we hadn’t seen each other in years … which we hadn’t. Stephan grinned from the sidelines, holding Boing, who was cooing appreciatively at the multicolored expanse of Mummy’s outfit.
“What’s going on? How did you get here? Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Sweetheart, what have you done to your hair this time?” she asked, tut-tutting at my new coif, then said, “I was trying to reach you, sweetie.” She smoothed my sweater and patted my hair. “I kept receiving all these distressing cablegrams from you, following me across the globe. But every time I called the penthouse, some strange woman would hang up the phone,” she explained. “You never told me you’d moved!”
“But how did you find out?” I asked.
“India,” Mummy said simply.
India looked up modestly. “Martini?” she asked Stephan, who nodded. She passed me a glass as well. “I had overheard Teeny saying something about a crazy woman prank-calling her apartment. She seemed very annoyed about it, and was complaining to this telecommunications billionaire to see if there was anything she could do to block the calls. Apparently her Caller ID always identified a different international number. Anyway, she finally had the calls traced and they weren’t from a telephone at all, but a very sophisticated international Palm Pilot e-mail/phone.”
“But how did you know the calls were for me?” I asked, mystified.
“The caller was always asking for someone named “NormaJean,” India replied.
I blushed pink. Norma-Jean was my real name, but only my mother called me that. My agent had dubbed me Cat. Mummy never approved of the change, as she thought stage names were hopelessly tacky.
“I was terrifically worried, Norma-Jean,” Mummy said. “You shouldn’t worry Mummy like that!”
“But how did you track her down, India?” I asked, turning to my friend, who was looking very pleased with herself.
“Remember that CEO who was very partial to my charms?” she asked.
“The one who twirled you around so you looked like a Mexican piñata?”
“The one and only.” India nodded. “Well, I asked him about these newfangled international-dialing Palm Pilots and he told me it was very easy to find out who had one, as they were not on the market yet, and had been given to a very elite group. I asked him if he could get me the list, and he said why not. At that point, he was very drunk. He called the office and found out there were only three people on the list: himself, Bill Gates, and—”
“Me,” Mummy said, blushing pink. “Because I travel so much.”
“Oh, Mummy, you’re actually here!” I enthused.
“Yes. I’ve missed New York.” Mummy nodded. “It’s good to be home. But what’s this I hear? You’re bankrupt? Again?”
I nodded, I told Mummy everything—how my trust fund had run out, but how I had found fulfilling employment at Arbiteur, the promise of stock options, the threat of a lawsuit from Catwalk.com, the mysterious investor who had offered to buy Arbiteur for a paltry million-dollar settlement, and how I was now moving to Michigan.
“Michigan?” Mummy gasped. “Why on earth?”
“Oh, I’m sorry—Mummy, this is Stephan. He used to be the Prince of Westonia, but he isn’t anymore.”
Mummy offered Stephan her hand, which he kissed gallantly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. McAllister.”
She gave Stephan a dismissive wave. “Please, call me Mummy. Everyone does.”
OK, Mummy.”
“And why on earth is Catwalk.com suing Arbiteur?”
“For stealing their streaming video,” I explained, abashed. “I had forgotten to bring our digital video camera to Fashion Week.”
“Dear, dear.” Mummy sighed. “You always were a forgetful child.” She gave me a perturbed look and crossed her arms. “Now, who is this investor who’s offering to buy your company for a million dollars?”
“We don’t really know. Some sort of apparel company. They promised they’d be able to handle the Catwalk.com lawsuit. I don’t know why they’re so set on buying us out. It’s not like we have anything to offer aside from our press credentials at Fashion Week.”
“Press credentials? Why would an apparel company need press credentials?” Stephan asked.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged.
“Wait—did you say they were interested in our press credentials?” India asked, intrigued.
“Yes, they kept asking Billy if it was true that we got invitations to all the fashion shows,” I said.
“And they’re an apparel company?” India repeated.
“You don’t think …” I said, finally catching on.
Of course I do!”
“Tart Tarteen! Teeny’s behind it all!” I concluded. “Of course! She’s been banned from all the fashion shows for stealing their designs!”
&nbs
p; “Come to think of it, that’s why she kept inviting me to all those fashion shows,” Stephan said.
“She was the‘friend’?”
“Yes,” he said angrily. “She wanted me there and asked me to take notes. She said she was too busy to go, and I did it as a favor.”
“She was also at MogulFest,” I added. “She must have heard me talking to people about Arbiteur there.”
“It all makes sense,” India said. “Especially since they were demanding editorial control.”
“They wanted to convince our audience of fashion fanatics to give up the real thing for her despicably shameless riffs on true artistic fashion inspiration! Polyester for silk! Pleather pants! Acrylic sweaters! Oh, how awful!”
“Tsk, tsk.” Mummy shook her head. “Despicable, indeed.”
“But even if we don’t sell out to Teeny, there’s still the Catwalk.com lawsuit,” I said.
Just then, Mummy’s spanking-new international Palm Pilot began to beep. Mummy flipped it open and put it to her ear. “Hello? Hello?” she asked. “I can’t hear you.” She shook the device crossly. “You know, this has never worked quite the same ever since that horrid Hong Kong flu. I lost all my datafiles, all my phone numbers, all my—”
Stephan pounced. “The Hong Kong flu! I lost all the information on my computer as well!”
“So did all of Arbiteur’s computers!” I said, remembering.
“It wiped databases clean on all nine continents!” India extolled.
“Which means—”
“Catwalk.com doesn’t have a shred of evidence!” I cheered.
“Not one pixel!” India whooped.
Mummy looked up from her apparatus; she was attempting to punch Star 69 with her stylus, trying to find out whose call she had missed. “Hhmmmm? What is it, dears?”
“Mummy—you’ve saved us!” I cried, dancing around her, linking hands with India and Stephan, while Boing clucked happily.
“I have?” Mummy asked.
“Yes!”
“That’s why we were approached by that mysterious investor right when we got back from Sun Valley!” India surmised. “They knew Catwalk.com didn’t have a case, and they knew they could buy Arbiteur on the cheap!”