“This is terrible, terrible!” I moaned. Please God, I prayed, just let me get through this and I’ll never buy three-thousand-dollar gem-encrusted marabou-feather Gucci jeans again. Or order baby girls from China just to impress a potential suitor.
“What am I supposed to do?” I wailed. “I’m about to become a mother.”
“You don’t say?” He peered at me over his desk. “I don’t know how you do it, Cat, but you always look so slim. I suppose the father isn’t of any help?” he asked sternly.
“No—no, there is no father!” I announced dramatically.
“Well, there is a way. But it would require an immense sacrifice on your part.”
“Anything! Anything!” I promised feverishly.
“Give up the penthouse triplex. We could put it on the market; it’s a great time for sellers right now, and my office has fielded inquiries as to your willingness to sell the place.”
“Never. I’m not selling.” I shook my head furiously. Give up the glass-enclosed, Art Deco penthouse? Over my dead—
“The mortgage is killing you. I suggest you lease it and stay at a less expensive place while trying to get back on your feet.”
“But—but—where would I go?” I whined.
Mr. Bartleby-Smythe ignored me and continued his lecture. “However, simply moving won’t be enough. I suggest you begin to cut corners while we explore your financial possibilities. For now, why not opt for lamb’s wool instead of cashmere. Buy generic instead of organic. Max Factor instead of Maximillian Furs.”
Mr. Bartleby-Smythe shook his head. “Cat, you’re already twent-ni—”
“Five. Twenty-five,” I snapped.
“All right. Twenty-five years old,” he agreed, with raised eyebrows. “The point is, you’ve got a long way ahead of you, so you must try to live within your means before things get too dire. I’m serious, Cat. This is it. You do realize your mother has never been much help.”
I nodded sadly. Poor Mummy. More often than not, she was usually in just as much financial trouble as I was—when I was younger Daddy explained the reason we never had her phone number in Europe was because she was constantly on the move from her creditors. Hmm … that was an idea. After all, if I listened to what Mr. Bartleby-Smythe was saying, I’d have to trade in my double-Gs for BCBG, and the sable for something synthetic.
“Have you ever considered …”
A lost Swiss bank account? The lottery?
“…a job?” he finished.
I reeled, clutching my forehead in despair. Actually work for money? Oh, the humanity!
8.
three plans and an unexpected coincidence
Life on a budget was worse than could be imagined—my nails were horribly chipped and pas de massage for days. I’d even been re-potty trained as I couldn’t afford colonics anymore and had been forced to use the regular “toilet.” To acclimate to my new low-profile lifestyle, I enrolled in survival tactics at the Learning Annex: Advanced Fast Food, and Public Transportation: Beyond the Madison Avenue Bus. Exhausting. But there was no way I was going to give up my zip code without a fight, especially since there was Bannerjee and the baby to think about.
As it turned out, giving Bannerjee the Amex was doubly worthless—it couldn’t buy an illegal baby, nor did it solve her “visa” problem. She finally explained that she didn’t need the kind of Visa that bought Jimmy Choo shoes but the kind they give out at U.S. embassies. I wasn’t aware there was another kind. So not only did I need to come up with enough cash to buy the baby, but I would also need to conjure up this so-called visa to get her out of China as well.
With those things in mind, I busied myself by making a list of potential moneymaking scams, I mean, schemes to extricate myself from the horrid financial K-hole I had fallen into:
1. Estate Sale—Has potential, although possibility of anyone buying last season’s fashions slim. Have placed call to Tiffany Dubin, the fashion curator, about my mother lode of Gucci embroidered mules and python-print dresses.
2. Declare Self Messiah—Helpful India pointed out religions don’t have to pay taxes and can mandate donations at will. Have placed call to John Travolta’s PR manager and ordered a copy of Dianetics.
3. Launch E-VIParty.com—Decided to sell my party invitations on a website where ordinary Joes can bid for the right to attend Manhattan’s most exclusive events. This week’s offerings include a funeral for a highly esteemed fashion editor, a baby shower for a pregnant socialite, and the launch of Geraldo Rivera’s new magazine, G.
Boo. None of my ideas panned out as planned. Tiffany’s people called to say my collection of millennial Gucci was a no-go. Apparently I would have to wait more than a few years before these were declared “classic.” Nor would I be able to declare myself the Messiah, as an Orthodox rabbi from Crown Heights had already done so. And while E-VIParty.com was doing a brisk business, I soon received nasty phone calls from several annoyed publicists, including my own. Apparently they were receiving phone calls from a Camaro-load of no-names from New Jersey for their events, and when these arrivistes were asked how the private RSVP numbers had been infiltrated, all signs pointed back to my website. “Caf, I simfly von’t allow vis. Ees bad for imaje,” Heidi snarled, when I explained what happened. Reluctantly, I sent home my heartbroken staff of twelve-year-old computer geeks, who monitored the party invitation auction website for a salary of beer, pizza, and pornography.
I was so depressed I cabbed to Barneys and charged new platform pumps to my MasterCard pronto. So much for that nonshopping embargo.
Of course, there was still the off chance that Stephan of Westoma would fall head over heels in love with me, acquiesce to a quickie marriage, and elevate me back to the upper echelon, where I belonged, thereby resolving all my financial difficulties. But it had already been two weeks and I had yet to hear from him, or this so-called “friend” who was interested in Chinese adoption. Against my better nature, I had taken to waiting religiously by the phone in the hope that it would ring.
“Has he called yet?” India asked a few days after E-VIParty.com was shelved.
“No,” I moped. “Maybe he’s not interested.”
“How could he not be interested in you!” India said, offended at the very thought. “Of course not. He’s probably just busy. Why didn’t you ask for his number?”
“Because,” I whined, “I would never call him anyway.”
“Why not?”
India was of the mind that all the incredibly silly traditions of modern dating were just that—incredibly silly. If India wanted a man, she stepped right up and told him, point-blank. It usually worked or else the gentleman in question called the police. The sight of a six-foot-four transsexual in five-inch heels and full-throttle seductive mode was more than ordinary men could handle. Fortunately for India, she was attracted to sterner stuff: garbage men, nineteen-year-old go-go dancers, construction workers, and all sorts of “rough trade.” But even India wasn’t invincible. Since the night of the Chinese Orphans Benefit, her generous patron had been incommunicado and, worse, had been spotted at the transgender watering-hole Edelweiss, in none other than Venus de Milosevic’s clutches. Not an ideal situation, especially since India’s rent was due in a week.
* * *
Although they were tempting, I purposefully avoided several charity galas where I was sure to bump into Stephan. For one, I didn’t have the money to spare for a ticket, and it would just be too embarrassing to see him in public while he hadn’t called me in the interim.
It was pure luck that I brushed past him as I left India’s building one evening. Wearing a dapper three-button herringbone-tweed suit and carrying a smart attaché case, Stephan crossed the street in front of me just as I was hailing a taxicab.
“Cat!”
“Stephan!”
“I’m so glad I ran into you!” he said without a trace of insincerity.
“Really?”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you—my friends d
ecided not to adopt.”
“No?”
“At least not from China. They went Romanian. They saw a Very Special Episode of 20/20.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” I said, wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Was Romanian more trendy than Chinese?
“I’ve been meaning to call you and I know you won’t believe it, but I lost your number. I put it in my coat pocket and it must have fallen out,” he explained.
“You did?”
“You’re very hard to track down, you know. I called Information but you aren’t listed. I asked Cece if she had your number and she said her maid lost her Rolodex. Then I was sure I’d see you at the Fiesta for Fetal Disease, but you weren’t even at the opening at the Brecht revival at the Prada store downtown.”
“I’ve been… uh… away,” I said, extremely pleased that he had noticed my absence.
“So how is she?”
“Who?”
“Your baby.”
“My baby? Oh, right. Her arrival has been delayed … er … indefinitely.” I felt a strong wave of guilt. Bannerjee had called the other night, complaining about being stuck in a dingy hotel room watching MTV China (Lionel Ritchie videos on constant airplay). She told me she didn’t move all the way from Sri Lanka to the Upper East Side only to be stuck in a flea trap in Shanghai. I had meant to send an application for Banny’s visa to the U.S. embassy, but India told me it would be much, much easier if I turned to an immigration lawyer on Fulton Street instead.
Oh, that’s too bad.”
“I know,” I agreed mournfully. I was never one for delayed gratification, and reading What to Expect When You’re Expecting from China, as well as Dr. Shock’s International Adopted Baby Book only made the baby’s absence more pronounced. To think that I was losing precious bonding moments every second she spent in that awful orphanage!
“Anyway, what are you doing here?” I asked,
“I live up the block,” he replied, and waved toward a high-rise farther up Fifth Avenue.
“Oh, so you’ve finally settled on an apartment?” I asked, remembering the Corcoran brokers Cece had mentioned.
“You could say that.” He nodded.
“I’m just around the corner, at 740½ Park. The penthouse.” My co-op was right next door to 740 Park, the most prestigious address in Manhattan, the palatial building which the Lauders, the Rosses, the Steinbergs all called home at one point, and where John D. Rockefeller once owned his famous penthouse triplex. Unfortunately, Daddy had been rejected by the 740 co-op board, and had had to settle for 740½.
“Excellent.”
“We’re practically neighbors,” I said. “Do you want a ride home?” I asked, as a taxi pulled up by the curb.
“No—no.” He shook his head. “I like to walk.”
“You walk?”
“I walk everywhere. It’s a great way to see the city…. Hey, maybe … oh, forget it.”
“What?”
“No, you probably won’t want to.”
“Want to what?”
“Would you like to take a walk with me?”
“Right now?” I asked.
“Sure, why not?” He smiled.
“Walk?” I repeated, looking down at my Manolos skeptically. “I suppose I could try,” I conceded, although I preferred my views of the city to be through tinted-glass windows. I sent the cab away.
“C’mon. There’s something I want to show you. I think you’d enjoy it.” I took the arm he offered and we ventured into the twilight.
It was almost midnight when I arrived home. The neighborhood was deserted save for random bunches of sixteen-year-old Spence girls breaking curfew, wearing skimpy dresses and their mother’s Gucci heels on their way downtown to Spa.
“I had a fabulous time,” I told him, and giggled as I looked down at my feet. Instead of my caramel slingbacks was a pair of canvas Tweety Bird sneakers purchased at a ninety-nine-cent store. I had lasted all of ten blocks in my high heels—a veritable record.
“So did I.” He smiled.
“You know,” I said shyly. “There’s a new restaurant that’s just opened around here.”
“There is?”
“Yes…” I said, and held my breath. “Maybe we can check it out sometime. You know, if you’re not, um, busy or anything.”
He shrugged. “Why not? Maybe I’ll stop by sometime next week and we’ll do that.”
“Anytime,” I said. “You know where I live. Come by and see me.”
“I will.”
We stood there awkwardly, and it struck me that I didn’t know what to do next. I was so out of practice! He stood with his hands behind his back and looked at me expectantly.
“Well…good night,” I ventured.
“Good night,” he said, and continued to stand there, away from me.
I gave him a half-smile and turned away. The night doorman held open the door expectantly and I walked through it. Oh, well. Next time.
9.
the new tenant
The next day I realized that if I wanted to continue to eat I would have to exchange gift certificates I’d received as birthday presents for cash. Barring no other options, I placed a call to Mr. Bartleby-Smythe.
“I’m willing to lease the penthouse,” I told him reluctantly.
“Wonderful news!” he replied. “And it just so happens I’ve already got a tenant for the apartment. I’ll send them over immediately.”
Since I would have to let go of the household staff, I temporarily settled that issue by deciding to move into a one-bedroom suite at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo. Hotel living would more than make up for the loss of my chef, my butler, my footman, the army of liveried servants, and the woman who came in every week to alphabetize my moisturizers. My belongings were going into storage, and were neatly packed into an array of T. Anthony steamer trunks. It never ceased to amaze me how much stuff I’ve accumulated over the years: Greek and Roman statuary from my antiquing phase, the many canvases of broken crockery, not to mention my collection of ancient Japanese kimonos from the fifteenth century. Packing away my clothes posed a Herculean task and I sorely missed Bannerjee’s adept sense of organization, but for now vintage, designer, vintage designer, ironic, costume, evening, and hip-hop were all scrambled together in one big loading case and I figured I could sort it all out later when she returned.
I was taking care of last-minute errands, making sure I had remembered to pack all the unopened bottles of champagne from the Sub-Zero, wrapping my Lejaby bras in acid-free tissue paper, when India popped in from the other room. She was helping me move, as well as helping herself to some of my possessions. Her financial situation was just as desperate as mine, and I marveled that she could be so nonplussed concerning the about-turn her generous patron’s heart had taken. The possibility of eviction didn’t seem to upset her as much as it should have. “Oh, I’m not worried, darling,” she said. “After all, I can always move in with you at the Mercer.” Which was true, although if Bannerjee ever came back with the baby it would make for cramped quarters indeed. What with India’s wigs and my shoes, there would be no space for a cradle, let alone the gargantuan Chanel baby stroller I had set my heart on for the arrival of my first-bought.
“Cat, you don’t need this, do you?” India asked, holding up two glowsticks from my rave phase. “I think I can put them to use….”
I was about to protest when the doorman buzzed.
“A visitor for Miss McAllister,” he announced on the intercom.
“Who’s there?” India inquired.
“I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. What did this look like, a Southern porch? True New Yorkers know never to arrive unannounced.
The butler opened the door, and before I could see who it was, a piercing sound assaulted my eardrums. “CAAATTT darling!!” There was only one woman in Manhattan whose voice decibel range matched my own. It could only be …
“Teeny?” I gasped.
“I’m, uh—” She was interrupted by muscle-
bound movers who elbowed her out of the way, gingerly lifting Marlene Dietrich’s grand piano (I still hadn’t met a dead-celebrity auction I could resist). A harried-looking man followed her inside. He wiped his brow profusely and surveyed the premises with a proprietary air I didn’t much care for.
“What are you doing here?” I asked Teeny suspiciously. “And who, pray tell, are you?” I gave the skittish fellow an icy glance.
“Mr. Finn’s the name,” he said, offering his hand.
Teeny ignored my question and bent down to proffer me a powdered cheek, which I pecked out of habit. Was that my perfume she was wearing? “India darling,” she said, turning to India.
“Hello,” India greeted coolly, with a modicum of courtesy.
“What are you doing here?” I repeated sharply.
Teeny surveyed the empty penthouse, ran her fingers over the mantel, examined the nonexistent dust on her fingertips, and answered innocently. “Oh, didn’t you know? My divorce from Dashiell isn’t complete yet, but I’ve already left him. And I’ve always loved this old place. Cat, your mother had exquisite taste.” Teeny tapped her kitten heels on the marble floor. “I never thought it would be on the market,” she marveled.
“Oh, undoubtedly, we’ve had our eye on it for a while,” Mr. Finn agreed.
“Excuse me—?” I choked.
I suddenly remembered Mr. Bartleby-Smythe’s eagerness to rid me of my penthouse. “I know someone who would be very interested in your apartment,” he had leered. If only I had known he had meant Teeny! How could he? To think I had trusted him with my trust fund!
“Mr. Bartleby-Smythe sent you?” I asked.
“Yes, indeedy. Called us right away, and hi-ho, off we went.”
“But I’m not ready—I thought I still had until next week,” I protested.
“Oh no, oh no. I’m sorry, madam. No, the lease has been signed, and as your broker, I can assure you all the papers are in order. You can ask Mr. Bartleby-Smythe, and he’ll confirm that it’s all been arranged. Mrs. Van der Hominie—”