Cat's Meow Page 13

  “Yes? What was it again? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you very well the first time.”

  Billy looked a tad uncomfortable. “Well, all I meant was that since there will be several designers showing—meaning more than one—I just thought it might be better for our readers and, well, the purposes of our website, if, well… if…”

  “If?”

  “If when you go to Paris, you were able to report on more than one designer. Don’t get me wrong, I adore John Bartlett—but… well, anyway, do you think you could do that?”

  I tittered. “Of course, darling! Why, all you needed to do was ask!”

  “Great.” Billy smiled.

  Later, as I was sorting the day’s mail at the office, I stumbled upon a rather distressing letter addressed to Arbiteur from Catwalk.com. “Billy darling!” I called when I saw it. “Have you seen this?” I waved the official-looking envelope.

  Billy looked up from his morning coffee at three o’clock in the afternoon. “Mmmm?” He squinted at it. “Is it another cease-anddesist letter from Catwalk.com?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Oh, they sent us one last season. For stealing their streaming video.” He yawned. “I thought we would get our own coverage this year, but…” I flushed, remembering how I had forgotten to bring the digital video camera with me to the recent New York fashion shows.

  “What are we going to do?” I asked nervously. “It looks like they mean business. They’re threatening some kind of lawsuit,” I said, skimming the document. “Do you want me to call a lawyer?”

  “Nah,” Billy said, waving the notion away. “They’ll never get around to actually suing us. Don’t worry about it.”

  “If you’re sure,” I said, putting the letter away in the Out box, which doubled as Billy’s CD tower. It looked ominous and oppressive, but after a couple of days, I forgot all about it.

  I promised Billy when India and I left for Paris that I wouldn’t try to do anything too extreme. “And remember—try to report on more than one show!” he called as the car drove us away.

  Unlike the pret-a-porter collections, couture clothing—custom-made, one-of-a-kind creations that take two weeks to two months to finish—was relevant only to a handful of women around the globe. Those who could afford hundred-thousand-dollar evening dresses that take a team of ten hunchbacked women four months to make. Due to the sorry state of my finances, I hadn’t been able to afford couture in a while, but thanks to Arbiteur’s upcoming IPO, this was all going to change immediately.

  For the trip, I FedExed my wardrobe ahead. It’s so inconvenient to cart around baggage—emotional or otherwise. I called Boing several times from the airplane, as I missed her already. Bannerjee mentioned the mysterious stalker was still skulking around the perimeter, talking into his wrist phone, but I told her not to worry, as he was probably harmless, although I did make a note to tell Heidi to call him off, since it was all well and good for my image for me to be so regularly harassed, but it wouldn’t do to have him scaring my au pair.

  India and I checked into our adjoining suites in the Ritz. I asked the concierge if Mummy was registered, as I knew she never missed Couture Week, and was sorely disappointed to find she had left for Acapulco.

  We were thrilled to find that Billy had thoughtfully alerted the hotel staff to our presence, as we found our rooms lavishly appointed with flowers, champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, and other tasty nibblies. India had just popped the cork when the concierge entered our room in a state of extreme agitation.

  “Ah, mademoiselles,” he said, wiping his palms together nervously. “Eees zome meestake, no? Vous n’êtes pas Na-ooh-meee Campbell?”

  Since neither of us were currently being sued by our former employees for cell phone abuse, we both shook our heads.

  “Aaahhh … I zought zo. Pliss, eees vairy importante. Eeez not your rooomz.”

  “Come again?”

  “Your rooomz down zee hall … thair … plisss follow me.”

  India and I exchanged distressed looks and we started babbling numerous threats and imprecations at the funny little man.

  “Why, I never!”

  “We’re press, mind you. If you ever want anyone to stay here again—”

  “Our editor will hear of this!”

  “Impossible. I’ve already unpacked. You can’t expect me to—”

  The concierge shook his head and bowed out the door. We heard him trying to explain the situation to someone in the hallway, but he was suddenly cut off by an agonized scream, and what sounded suspiciously like a cell phone being thrown at his head.

  * * *

  Unlike at 7th on Sixth, the couture collections were shown in various locations around Paris. We scurried from out-of-the-way train stations to the Palace Vendôme. As expected, the shows were no match for the spectacle afforded by the front row: the helmetheaded wives of South American dictators and Arab potentates, toothsome Texas oil heiresses, the frail and vanishing New York Old Guard, the aggressive Seattle New Guard, the Hollywood Couture Curious. I also spotted the venerable fashion eccentric Belladonna Gust at the shows. Belladonna was a British editor who favored hats of immense proportion and convoluted design, and was given to wearing avant-garde dresses made out of mattress ticking and garbage bags—a woman after my own heart, and a true fashion superhero.

  I made good on my promise to Billy to cover more than one show by e-mailing him the following show reports.

  “Versace: Ribbon-leather dresses. Mermaids. Neptune’s Folly.”

  “Gaultier: Bondage feathers. Mongolian thongs. Emperor’s New Clothes.”

  “La Croix: Clandestine. Immense. Rococo.”

  “Chanel: De rigueur. Deceit. Duchess of Windsor.”

  Billy e-mailed back: “Fabooo. Keep it up!” Apparently my succinct reporting had even merited some attention in the fashion press. Already, the Texas bureau of WWD had named me the “One-Note Wonder.” Arbiteur’s website hits were also skyrocketing through the roof, although the site’s message board, “Touched by a Model,” which asked readers to reveal how models had affected their every-day lives, was still generating the highest numbers. India filled her gossip column with the hanky-panky escapades of naughty moguls with underage enfants and drunken runway models. Billy told us Arbiteur had received yet another cease-and-desist letter from Cat-walk.com, but it was nothing to worry about. Every night I tucked Boing in over the phone. She was growing so quickly! I wished I had brought her with me, but it seemed cruel to schlep her from show to show in the baby backpack, especially as Bannerjee’s back wasn’t quite that strong.

  I found India saving me a free seat in the front row next to a well-known actress and I marched up to it confidently.

  “You’ll never guess what I heard,” India said.

  “What?”

  “Teeny’s been banned from all the fashion shows this year,” she whispered gleefully. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Really?” I gasped.

  “Yes, all the fashion designers are incensed at Tart Tarteen. They say she’s been stealing all their designs.”

  “Well, she has,” I said.

  India nodded. “Apparently they’ve been getting a lot of flack from their highest-paying customers. Women don’t want to see their housecleaners wearing the same outfits that they own, except in chintzy fabrics.”

  “That is distressing,” I agreed, glad that I never found Bannerjee bedecked in head-to-toe Tart Tarteen polyester. “Although it happens every year, anyway, especially right after the Oscars.” Personally, I found it quite fun that the same thousand-dollar ball gowns starlets wore on the awards night would soon grace thousands of high school gyms everywhere—the March-into-May syndrome that led directly from the red carpet to the senior prom.

  “But I don’t think Teeny would miss Couture Week,” I said thoughtfully. “It’s just not like her to be thwarted so easily.”

  “Well, I’m going backstage to find out more juicy bits,” India said,
tottering off. “See you after the show.”

  I preened and congratulated myself on yet another stolen front-row seat, when I spied Stephan looking bored from across the run-way, sitting three rows back. I was pleasantly surprised to see him, especially since Teeny was nowhere to be found.

  “Oh, hello there,” I called.

  His eyes lit up and he smiled broadly, immediately leaving his seat to talk to me.

  “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” I smiled.

  “I know,” he agreed. “Look at you. You must be a regular customer to get front row.”

  “Undoubtedly,” I said, congratulating myself on keeping up appearances. “So what brings you here? Don’t tell me—a friend …”

  “… invited me,” he finished, and blushed.

  “Don’t you ever have any work to do?”

  He turned a darker shade of crimson. “Well, it’s…”

  “No need to explain,” I said. “I was just teasing.” If he was as important as Cece had made him out to be—at that Citation Group or whatever—it was common knowledge that the highest-ranking executives at these companies had more than enough time to attend social functions at their whim. Just look at Russell Simmons or Donald Trump. Somehow the daily obligations of running a multibillion-dollar business never put a cramp in their busy social schedules.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve turned your hotel room into a camera obscura,” I said.

  “You remembered.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I think about it all the time.”

  “Well, I haven’t covered my hotel room windows with black curtains if that’s what you’re asking,” he joked. “But it’s an idea.”

  We continued to chat amicably when I was suddenly accosted by a large woman in an ill-fitting peplum suit. “Excuse me, you’re not in the right place, this is my seat,” she said angrily, flashing her ticket and tapping her foot on the ground impatiently.

  Oh no! Now my face turned crimson, and I didn’t know what to do. The lights had already dimmed and if I gave up my seat, I would probably have to stand in the back with everyone watching and knowing that I had been a front-row impostor—how terribly soul destroying! Stephan gave me a curious look as I began to collect my things, and stood up slowly.

  “No—wait,” Stephan said, putting a protective hand on my arm. “I’m sorry, but you must be mistaken,” he said, turning to the woman. “This is definitely Cat McAllister’s seat.”

  “Cat who?” She was a big-boned Texan who towered over me. “No, I don’t think so. This is my seat. You’re in my seat.” She was about to start a ruckus, and several security men walked over to see what the problem was.

  “What’s going on here?”

  “This lady is rudely trying to get herself a front-row seat,” Stephan explained, pointing to the pushy Texan. “And this is Cat McAllister; she’s a very important editor with Arbiteur and undoubtedly one of your biggest customers.”

  “All right, ma’am, let’s go,” the security guards said wearily to the Texan. “Sorry about that, we see this all the time.”

  “I never!” she huffed as the security detail led her out of the show.

  I sank back into my seat in relief, looking up at Stephan with adoring eyes. “Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know how she could get the idea—”

  “Listen,” he said abruptly. “Do you think you’d like to see Paris upside down and backward with me?”

  “I’d love nothing more,” I breathed.

  “Great. Where are you staying?”

  “The Ritz.”

  “Are you sure?” he joked lightly. “I don’t want to get there and find out you’ve moved.”

  “No, no. I promise. I’m at the Ritz.”

  He nodded appreciatively. “Great. I’ll meet you there—say at nine o’clock tonight? In the lobby?”

  I could only nod happily in reply.

  I didn’t tell India about my date with Stephan because it seemed more special to keep it to myself for now. She was in the middle of her Ayurvedic exercises, so I left her standing on her head in the middle of the room while I crept downstairs to the lobby to wait for him. I sat down at a lamp-lit table, taking care to position myself on my best side, and noticed Brick Winthrop sitting by himself near the marble fireplace. I caught his eye and gave him a crooked wave of my fashion finger.

  Brick left his seat to say hello. “Here to shop as usual?” he asked. “I suppose you’ve blown every penny?”

  “No, I’m actually reporting on the shows this time,” I informed him sharply.

  “Oh? With Vogue?”

  “No—with Arbiteur.”

  “Huh. Never heard of it.” He shrugged.

  I swallowed my irritation. “And you’re here with Pasha, I assume? I saw her at Valentino and Givenchy.”

  “Yes,” he harrumphed. “It’s even worse here than New York. I can hardly get her alone for an instant. Always some hairstylist or makeup artist or some agency person trailing her wherever she goes.” He consulted his watch. “She was supposed to meet me here two hours ago.”

  I patted his arm supportively. “Well, they are very busy. I know most of the girls are run completely ragged.”

  His cell phone rang, and he exchanged a few, brief words before snapping it shut in annoyance. “That was her. Apparently she’s not going to be able to see me at all. A last-minute fitting for tomorrow. Well, my evening’s shot. Care to join me for dinner?”

  I explained that I was waiting for Stephan.

  “The Westonian?” he snorted. “Well, all right, then. Suit your-self.”

  When Brick left, I waited … and waited … and waited. On my fourth glass of champagne I realized I was victim to that most distressing of circumstances that usually afflict either hopelessly dorky nerds or mean-but-popular blond girls in teenage-movie makeover fantasies—I was being stood up. It was not unlike the time when I waited at Grand Central Station for one of my parents to pick me up from summer camp so many years earlier. By the age of seven I was already adept at hailing taxicabs. I would arrive home to an empty penthouse to find Mummy passed out from the party the night before and Daddy still at the office. The housekeeper would express surprise on seeing me at the doorstep and would prepare a lukewarm cup of soup for my dinner. I would eat the soup alone in my room, watching Deney Terrio on Dance Fever. When I was little I took all my style cues from Motion.

  I took the elevator back up to my suite, a frown actually appearing on my forehead regardless of numerous Botox injections.

  “What’s wrong, darling?” India asked. She had awoken from her nap and was getting ready to go out for the evening.

  “Oh, nothing, nothing.” I shrugged. “My new shoes are too tight.” With my reputation, it was so easy to pan off any apparent discomfort to fashion victimhood.

  “I don’t know why you don’t let your shoemaker stretch them out first,” India lectured, helping herself to several bonbons from the hotel’s gift basket—she had just discovered Xenical.

  “So, what are we going to do tonight?” I asked listlessly. “Why don’t we go out?”

  I ordered a car. “Cité auto, s’il vous plaît,” I said to the concierge. “Pas de stretch.”

  Les Bains Douches (I wondered why the French hadn’t realized they had named a nightclub after Summer’s Eve) was a madhouse. Naomi, Johnny, Amber, Maddy, Winona, Demi, Elton, Rupert, etc. all aglow. I was lonesome about Stephan and determined to flirt up a storm. Sadly, there was almost no one masculine at the club to flirt with, not counting Donatella, that is. At four in the morning, I departed with two lovely boys from the new Gucci campaign. Why settle for one eye-patch-wearing exiled prince when I could have two chiseled male models? We arrived at my suite in a drunken heap, but once we got in bed all they wanted to do was ransack my closet and try on “outfits.” Figures.

  The next day I sent the boys away and ordered a yogurt facial. Stephanie Seymour swore by it, and the woman hardly a day over thirty. Oh, India said she was
over thirty.

  Billy called to find out how we were doing. “I miss you girls. The Arbiteur fort is lonely.”

  “Are you doing anything about the cease-and-desist letter from Catwalk.com?” I asked.

  “I took the streaming video from New York Fashion Week off the site. That should take care of it.”

  “OK,” I said, but felt doubtful all the same.

  I didn’t see Stephan at any other show, nor did I see him again in Paris. It was as if he had completely forgotten all about me. On the Concorde back, I couldn’t help but notice Teeny in the seat in front of us. She was speaking loudly and excitedly into the air phone.

  “Cece, my divorce from Dashiell finally went through!” she was saying. “I know, isn’t that fabulous? You do think I can still wear white, don’t you? Even for a third wedding?”

  There could only be one person she was talking about. Stephan. So that was why I had been stood up. My last shred of hope vanished. Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie was soon to be of Westonia!

  18.

  IPOver

  I was inconsolable. The most eligible bachelor in New York was to be just another collectible on Teeny’s marital charm bracelet. I wouldn’t have cared if it had been anyone else—as far as I was concerned she could have all the eligible bachelors in Manhattan—but Stephan seemed different, a true gentleman and a kindred spirit. He had thought I was funny—hilarious, even. Brick never thought I was funny. I was the one who always had to laugh at his jokes.

  Nothing helped. Not even fashion. For once my closet didn’t inspire me, and living in a renovated campground was getting on my nerves. I missed my princess bed, and the gunnysack I had to wear while inside the apartment was giving me hives.

  “Cat, I’m worried about you,” India said during a visit to my loft one day soon after we had returned from Paris.

  “Why?” I asked, looking up from the wooden plank on the floor, which I hadn’t left in days, not even for a shower. Bannerjee had even taken to discreetly opening all the windows and burning scented candles near my corner.

  “Is it Stephan? Are you still mooning over him? Forget about him—he stood you up, remember?”