“Which means—“I said.
“We’re back!” India crowed.
“I have my job back!” I screamed. “Arbiteur isn’t going down the tubes!”
“We’ve got to call Billy to tell him that he doesn’t have to sell the company or go to jail! Arbiteur is saved!” I cheered. India immediately called Billy to tell him the good news.
“But what about Bannerjee?” I suddenly remembered. “They’re about to deport her!”
“Bannerjee? That sweet girl I sent to look after you?” Mummy asked. “Why are they deporting her?”
“Because she’s an illegal alien, Mum,” I explained. “She shouldn’t have been working in this country.”
“What should she have been doing?”
“I don’t know, being a tourist, I suppose. Going to the Empire State Building. Riding around in one of those double-decker buses.”
“Oh.”
* * *
I ushered everyone into the town car—a squeeze given the number of us; for once I wished I had a stretch limousine on hand—and we journeyed to the deportation center.
“Wait, wait!” I said, when I saw they were leading Bannerjee out of the cell into a waiting INS car to take her to the airport and send her to her fishing village in Sri Lanka. I had no idea how we were going to save Bannerjee, but India came through again.
“I have the written testimony from a very good character witness who can attest to Bannerjee’s special skills,” India declared.
“You do?” I gaped. Would wonders never cease?
She nodded. “While you were busy mooning over Stephan here, I was researching our defense.” India pulled out an official-looking letter on heavy parchment that bore a wax seal and handed it to the INS official.
“To whom it may concern,” he read. “This is to testify that Miss Bannerjee Bunsdaraat is of sound mind and body and is judged to have great character and very, very, special skills.” He gasped. “It’s signed—”
“Prince William!” India proclaimed. “Isn’t he such a nice boy?”
The INS official, like most of the American public, was enraptured by the idea of the British royal family, and ordered an immediate reassessment of Bannerjee’s case. He was so impressed by our royal connections he released her right away.
We returned to the refurbished loft, happy and exhausted. Mummy settled back into her armchair and looked around. “I still haven’t been formally introduced to my grandchild,” she said, holding her arms out for Boing.
“Mummy, this is Boing,” I said. “Boing, meet Grandmummy.”
“Boing?” Mummy asked. “What a strange name for such an adorable baby.” She held Boing protectively in her lap.
“Miss Cat—what did you say? Her name is not Boing.” Bannerjee interjected.
“What do you mean?” I asked, slightly offended. “That’s what you told me in the airport—that her name was Boing. I assumed it was a sacred Chinese name.”
Bannerjee laughed. “No, no, no, her name is not Boing,” she explained. “Her birth parents wanted to name her after great American city.”
“And?”
“Her name is Boyne. B-O-Y-N-E,” Banny said.
“Boyne?”
“That’s right. Boyne. Like coin.”
“What great American city is Boyne?” I asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Ahem.” Stephan coughed.
We all looked up at him expectantly.
“I know where Boyne is. It’s in Michigan,” he explained. “Where I’m from.”
the after-party
25.
the return of the park avenue princess
Mummy didn’t dash off this time, and we spent several glorious days shopping, lunching, and generally having the time of our lives. She was always so much fun wherever we went—although she was so loud we always got kicked out of the more reputable establishments we patronized.
Once the lawsuit against Arbiteur was properly dismissed, and Billy assured us that any threat of prosecution was highly unlikely, I was back at my usual work space—the leather couch across from Billy’s desk. India was perched in her usual position as well, on the armrest of the couch.
“I’m so glad!” Billy said. “This couldn’t have come at a better time!”
I gave Billy a triumphant smile; India grinned happily.
“Now that we’re not going out of business after all and our credit line has been reinstated,” Billy said, “I thought it was high time I gave you girls a raise.” India and I began hooting, but Billy wasn’t finished. “And I thought, why not move our offices somewhere more spacious?”
“Billy—no—you’re actually going to—”
“Leave your apartment?” I asked, thinking I had just the right replacement.
“Why, yes,” he said. I suddenly noticed Billy wasn’t wearing his usual tank top and pajama bottoms. Also, he was clean-shaven. He wore a sharp black Gucci suit and polished wing tips. “I thought it was time for a change.”
Billy moved Arbiteur’s offices to my newly vacated Tribeca loft. With the raise he had given me, I was able to kick Teeny out of my Park Avenue penthouse and move back to the family homestead pronto.
There were two new additions to the Arbiteur staff: Bannerjee, for one. Arbiteur was now sponsoring her work visa, and she was the official videographer for the site. Since she was on the masthead, she even started to receive party invitations herself.
As for Boing, she finally said her first word.
“GUCCI!” the baby chortled when she would see me. “GUCCI GUCCI GUCCI!”
I was so proud.
Mummy left for the Balkans—or the Baltic, I can never remember—but promised to come back to visit this summer, when Stephan and I will repair to our country home in Boyne, Michigan. Since Stephan wasn’t a Westonian prince, he wasn’t at all related to Catherine Oxenberg, although strangely enough, we did a little research on his family tree and found out he was third cousins twice removed from her husband—Casper Van Diem.
Stephan and I have yet to become one of Manhattan’s golden couples—the ones who suck up all the energy in certain rooms, causing heads to swivel and photographers to angle for the best shot. But what we have been able to do is turn a room in the penthouse into another camera obscura, so that every time New York gets to be too much, we can remember that life here is best viewed upside down and backward. A gallery has even expressed interest in showing Stephan’s work. Apparently we’re not the only ones who like to look at the city from a different angle.
Heidi took me back as a client and informed me that I might have a new career opportunity as well. Apparently Barneys had finally noticed that I was one of their biggest customers; awed by my impressive shopping skills, they wanted to sign me up to appear in their next advertising campaign: “Spend Your Heart Out—with Cat McAllister.”
And it was the time of year again to plan my birthday party. I called Heidi, India, and Bannerjee in for a meeting.
“This year,” I said, “I’m thinking I’m not going to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday for the fifth time,” I announced.
“Vous not?” Heidi gasped, her fountain pen slipping through her fingers.
“No, I think I’m too old for that.” I chuckled.
“Wow, does that mean you’re actually going to celebrate your thir—” India asked.
“My twenty-sixth birthday, for the first time,” I said, cutting her off quickly. “Now, I was thinking, where should we have it? That deserted airline hangar? Or perhaps that deconsecrated synagogue on the Lower East Side? Do you think Chloe Sevigny will make it?”
about the author
MELISSA DE LA CRUZ is a senior fashion editor at hintmag.com, and has contributed to print and online publications, including Allure, The New York Times, New York Press, Feed, and Nerve. She grew up in Manila and San Francisco, and graduated from Columbia University. She lives in New York City.
KlM DEMARCO is an illustrator whose work appears in The
New Yorker and The New York Times. Her clients have included Barneys New York, Visionaire, and the New York Public Library. Kim lives in New York City, where she is on the faculty of the Parsons School of Design.
Melissa de la Cruz, Cat's Meow
(Series: # )
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