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  “I’m going back home to change,” I told India. “You go on ahead.”

  3.

  good help

  I went home to ransack my closet—there had to be something other than layers of black silk to wear to The Most Important Night of My Life! I put on Greta Garbo’s fur coat, Sammy Davis Jr.’s tuxedo, even Marlene Dietrich’s fishnet stockings—but everything was too fussy, or not festive enough, or else had belonged to a dead celebrity with horrible body odor. In desperation I called for Bannerjee. Bannerjee Bunsdaraat is a twenty-one-year-old Sri Lankan medical student and my gal Friday. Tonto to my “Sloane” Ranger. Alfred to my Bruce Wayne. She’s my au pair.

  Which means that she keeps meticulous track of all my clothing purchases, arranges my vast collection of haute couture pieces, as well as oversees the RSVP process chez McAllister. The secret of professional partygoers is a handy little mimeographed book called the Fashion Calendar. Published every two weeks, it lists every affair de la mode—from the complete roster of fashion shows and after-parties to splashy magazine launches to mundane trade fairs. Party whores like myself, who don’t necessarily work in but,—ahem—appreciate fashion are made to justify our presence by harassing beleaguered PR agents. But persistence pays off—with my status as a former child “star” I can usually scam invitations for up to five parties every evening. Of course, this means that sometimes India and I find ourselves at some loony private corporate shindig for the “new panty line” (the Warnaco party) or else an awards dinner celebrating the “I Am Beautiful Awards” with Marlo Thomas. Note this is a real event.

  Bannerjee’s task is to fax an infinite amount of invitation requests to event organizers and then sort the invitations that arrive afterward. Banny knows to discard the ones unimaginatively scheduled on a weekend night, and RSVP’s a yes for everything else. She also coordinates appointments with my manicurist, pedicurist, facialist, herbalist, and nutritionist so they don’t arrive all at the same time and confuse me. Otherwise I’d have my face waxed and my toes exfoliated. As a special treat, Banny also makes sure there’s fresh air in my water wings for my daily bath.

  Oooh. Where is she? Usually at this hour Banny is steam-cleaning my cashmere sweaters or else in the kitchen, highlighting People. If they gave out Ph.D.’s for celebrity trivia, Bannerjee would chair the department. She knowingly refers to one of Cher’s ex-boyfriends as Rob “Bagel Boy” Camiletti. When John-John was killed, Bannerjee fasted for a month and left copious amounts of flowers, poetry, and a beloved teddy bear at the vestibule of his apartment. She’s since transferred her affections to Prince William, whom she likes to call “Wills.” Unfortunately, not only does “Wills” live in England, he’s bound by law to marry a virgin, preferably of the same race and class. But like I said, Bannerjee is nothing if not persistent.

  She told me how she ended up in New York as an au pair. During her last year of medical school in Sri Lanka, a benevolent and wise old aunt who worked as a housekeeper on the Upper East Side told her she could make more money taking care of children in the United States than she would ever do so as a doctor in her tiny little island village. “You go to America,” her auntie Punjabi had suggested. “You be au pair. You have fun. You go to parties. Meet American boys. No worry about baby. Put in front of TV. It’s what Amerrrycans do ennyway.” It was just as her aunt had predicted. And since I didn’t have any children, her job was even easier than most au pairs’. Bannerjee keeps me company on shopping trips. This leaves her more than enough time to participate in multiple orgy sessions with Swedish busboys from downtown nightclubs or whatever else au pairs do in the city on their nights off. Which reminds me. Lately I’ve been getting calls confirming RSVPs for my “long-lost Sri Lankan cousin.” Apparently this person is named Bannerjee also. Quelle coincidence!

  I’m so proud of Bannerjee. She so quickly acclimated to the stringent requirements of living in New York. She orders my cigarettes from the corner deli, is well versed on taxicab culture, and has mastered the art of impeccable dressing.

  I was beginning to get very annoyed, as I couldn’t remember if I had given her the night off. I didn’t think so. Oh, dear. I hoped she hadn’t been kidnapped or anything. I shuddered. When I was younger my greatest paranoia was that I’d have my ear cut off and mailed to my father. At college, it was of being abducted by the Symbionese Liberation Army and brainwashed into wearing full-body jumpsuits and a beret. Not that I had anything to fear now that I was practically bankrupt. Sigh. There was no sight of her. And unfortunately so much of my clothing demanded an extra hand—I certainly didn’t know how to artfully arrange a scarf on my chest all by myself. I was a total klutz when it came to nipple tape!

  The chador would just have to do. Besides, I remembered that I had eschewed my daily salon blow-out because of the head covering. There was no choice but to soldier on. Bedouin goat farmer or not.

  I wondered if India had noticed my prolonged absence when I realized my cell phone was vibrating. So that’s what I’d been feeling for the past half-hour. I thought maybe I’d suddenly developed Parkinson’s. Très relief! I flipped it open underneath my hood.

  “Darling, where are you?” India cried. “Everyone is waiting!”

  It was India. I was loved! I was missed! My heart felt full even if my hair felt sweaty.

  “Sweetie!” I gulped for air. “I couldn’t find a thing to wear and Bannerjee’s missing!”

  “Oh, for godssakes, it’s your party. Hurry up or you’ll miss the laser-light show. I’ll send Heidi to the door to make sure you get inside.”

  By the time I arrived it was after midnight, and a crowd of fabulous nobodies had already converged at the nightclub doors. Heidi had envisioned a two-tiered event: champagne dinner for an elite group (Tina Brown, James Brown, Foxy Brown) and a raunchy after-party for the rest of the free-drink faithful (lifestyle reporters, soap-opera actresses, one-hit wonders).

  I walked confidently to the glossy gatekeeper. “Cath Marlister,” I said.

  “Who?” She gave me a skeptical look.

  “Thuthus mff parffy. Mmm Cath Marlister.”

  She flipped through her clipboard. “I’m sorry, Cath Marlister is not on the list. Is there another name you could be under?” she asked, faux-helpfully. What was going on? Why couldn’t they recognize me?

  “Mfff Heidi around?”

  “I can radio Heidi,” the doorbitch finally agreed, and pretended to speak into her headset. After a minute, she said, “Heidi says you are entitled to paparazzi clearance. You’re right here.” She motioned to the roped-off police-barricaded section outside the club where photographers were stationed. Prime real estate for taking pictures of incoming celebrities, but several hundred feet away from the VIP lounge and a three-tiered birthday cake.

  I started babbling desperately, and a man who was leaving the club with a woman who was giggling loudly stopped on his way out to see what was the matter. “Are you all right … miss?” he asked doubtfully. I couldn’t see him very clearly as tears were welling up in my eyes, but he seemed tall—and he smelled great.

  “Hey, now, what’s going on here?” he asked as I made mewling sounds underneath my chador.

  “Oh, nothing, everything is fine … she’s not on the list,” the Clipboard Nazi answered airily. “Party crasher, probably,” she said sotto voce. “Anyhoo, thanks so much for coming! Don’t forget your goodie bag!” she trilled, handing him a brightly colored paper bag decorated with origami cats, which contained several travel-size “sponsor gifts” that Heidi was able to corral: a CD from an unknown band that shared a manager with ’N Sync, sample-size bottles of body lotions, an assortment of hair gel and mini-lipsticks, all products represented by her PR firm.

  “Let the poor thing in,” he said in an accent I couldn’t quite place. “There’s no harm.”

  “Sir, please be reasonable. She only has paparazzi clearance” was the nasty reply.

  “Getttfff MmmHeidi…” I gurgled.

  “Heidi?
You need to see Heidi?” he asked.

  I nodded eagerly.

  The woman by his side tugged on his arm. “Let’s go, darling … c’mon, we’ll be late for the next party,” she complained. Her voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t hear very well underneath my chador.

  Just then I spotted Heidi at the door, frantically searching the crowd for any sign of me. I waved. “Heidifff MmHeidiff!” Finally it dawned on me: the chador! Not only was it muffling my voice, it was keeping me from being recognized at my own party by the very people I had employed to keep out the riffraff!

  “Caf?” Heidi asked doubtfully, looking in my direction and peering into my dark veil. “Vhat on earrt?”

  “Muslim chic,” I explained.

  Heidi nodded. She herself was wearing a dress with an immense Gucci ruffle that threatened to decapitate her. We exchanged careful air kisses and she instantly whipped open the velvet rope. I turned around to thank the nice man who had tried to argue my admittance, but he was gone. Mmmm … pity. Wonder if he was cute? Heidi quickly ushered me inside, stopping for a moment to lecture her employee. “Zees is Caf McAllithair! Caf, I am so, so sorry,” Heidi said, apologizing profusely. The woman groveled as I walked past her, whining, “But Miss Gluckman, she said she was Cath Marlister and her name wasn’t on the list! Miss McAllister, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything? Your hood? A cocktail?”

  Once inside, I was shocked to find the nightclub strangely empty. Oh, sure, the usual cadre of junior editors, A&R music reps, photographer’s assistants, and hairstylists were networking madly, hammering back flutes of champagne, but I spied no one of note. No one boldface worthy. Something was horribly wrong.

  “Is Puffy still here? Has Madonna left? What about Li’l Kim? And Aerin Lauder Zinterhofer?” I asked desperately. “The cake—the candles—the ’N Sync serenade? You didn’t blow out the candles yet, did you?”

  Heidi looked contrite. “Ah, so sorry, Caf, vous wair trop laite, zee crowd vus gaiting ressless. Peeple started leeeffing, so vee had to go ahead und celaibrate vour virthday viffout vous.”

  “Excuse me?” Unless I was wrong, Heidi was trying to tell me they had gone ahead and celebrated my birthday without me. It just didn’t seem possible!

  “Don’t vorry. Eet vus svectaculair.”

  “But how?”

  “Vail, ziss voman zay, zhe und Stephan cunnot vait anymoore. Zow, zhe blue candles. Vantastic. Lazur-layt zhow. Kek. ’N Sync seroonade.”

  “Where is she?” I agonized.

  “VIP lounge.” It was the only thing Heidi pronounced correctly.

  On my way upstairs to confront the person who had benefited from all my birthday planning and to give her a piece of my mind—unless, of course, it was someone important like Chloe Sevigny; then I’d just laugh it off and we would become girlfriends. Wheee. But now what was this? As I arrived inside the darkened confines of the VIP room—a cramped roped-off area in the back—and my eyes wandered around the assembled Arab potentates, twenty-two-year-old dot-com CEOs, NBA athletes, voluptuous R&B songbirds, and several princes of extinct foreign states (but no Stephan in the bunch), who did I bump into but my missing-in-action au pair, Fedora-wearing gossip columnist to her right, cigarchomping investment tycoon to her left!

  “Bannerjee!” I shrieked.

  “Miss Cat!” she gasped. “It’s terrible, Miss Cat!”

  Terrible didn’t begin to describe it. Bannerjee was wearing the Helmut Lang parachute-silk pantsuit I’d been made to understand was out of stock at Barneys! And I had trusted her with my personal shopper.

  It was a particularly painful betrayal.

  “I know!” I agreed. “That’s just my size and they don’t have any more!”

  “Pardon, Miss Cat?”

  Before I could explain, a piercing wail broke several sound barriers.

  “Aiiieeeee! Cat, darling! I tried to stop them!” It was India. She was waving a champagne flute above her forehead and she looked delirious. “They had to arm-wrestle me away!” she declared, hyper-ventilating. “It was awful! I threatened a tantrum—but it was too late!”

  So it had really happened—for a minute I had almost convinced myself Heidi was just joking—but, yes, everything had gone off exactly as planned! It had been svectaculair—just as Heidi had promised! But I didn’t want to believe it—didn’t want to face the awful truth—that I’d actually missed the best party of the season—mine!

  “So who blew out the candles? And where’s Stephan?” I demanded.

  “He’s gone.” India sighed. “He left.”

  “But with who—where?”

  “Oh, sweetie,” India said, embracing me in her large, muscular arms. “You really don’t want to know.”

  It was just too much. I fell to the floor, slipping through my friend’s grasp and hitting my head on a gilt-edged table, knocking cocktails onto a gaggle of assistant stylists fighting over the last of the hors d’oeuvres. And then—nothing. I felt wind rushing toward me. Was I flying? Was this what death felt like? Should I go toward the light?

  Later I found it was only Bannerjee fanning me with part of my djellabah.

  4.

  bankruptcy, barneys, and public humiliation?

  The phone woke me just as my head hit the pillow the next morning. I had yet to recover from the evening’s exploits, which included a raucous impromptu birthday celebration at La Goulue. After picking me up from the floor, India and Bannerjee took me to my usual banquette, where we whooped it up with Ivana Trump and Count Roffredo Gaetani, who were under the mistaken impression that India was Jocelyn Wildenstein.

  I reluctantly answered the phone, if only to stop it from ringing.

  “Miss McAllister?”

  “Yefff?”

  “This is Miss Walters from Citibank. Miss McAllister, I’m calling regarding a problem with your account?”

  Shit! Shit! Shit! I’d taken to se-habla-españoling when creditors called, or else advising them gravely that “Miss McAllister” was out of town, out of the country, or even dead. But this early-morning phone call had caught me off-guard. Why, oh, why, hadn’t I checked the Caller ID?

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Yes, well, according to our records, your accounts are severely overdrawn. Will you be able to make a deposit this week? Otherwise, we’re going to have to charge off your accounts, and I don’t think you want that on your credit record.”

  “Uh—OK. I’ll call my accountant. Did you say all my accounts are overdrawn? Can’t you take money from my savings or CD or IRA accounts to cover it?”

  “We did that last month, Miss McAllister. You’ve cashed in your IRA, and your savings and CD accounts are down to zero. Meanwhile, your checking account is in negative figures, and your credit account is over the limit.”

  Beep!

  Beep!

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Can you hold?”

  “N—”

  Click.

  “Hola? Como esta? No habla inglés,” I said in a desperate attempt at an authentic Spanish accent.

  “Cat! Cat! It’s me, darling! Why are you speaking Spanish? Don’t you know Ricky Martin is over?” It was India. Why was she calling me so early? India was rarely conscious before happy hour.

  “No—it’s not. I’m just—it’s—well—what do you want?” I asked irritably. I was never in a good mood when I was awakened with bad news about my financial situation—which lately was every day.

  “Darling, have you seen the papers?”

  “No.” I checked at the foot of the bed for the stack of newspapers Bannerjee collected for me every morning. Strangely enough, they were not in their usual place. “Banny!” I called. “Could you bring me today’s papers, please, sweetie?”

  “Oh, no. Tell her not to. Perhaps you shouldn’t,” India said worriedly.

  “Why not? Oooh …” I said excitedly, a sudden thought forming. “Is it all over town that I missed my own birthday party? Please tell me no …”

  “No.”

&nbs
p; “No?” Huh! Must check with Heidi if she alerted the usual press syndicates. I harbored the smallest hope that at least the party would be mentioned, even if I wasn’t there to enjoy it. Then, suddenly, it all came back to me: my arrival post-candle-blowout-and-pyrotechnic display. And most important, I had missed the raison d’être for the cause célèbre—the all-important introduction to the prince!

  Bannerjee entered carrying the Post, the Daily News, and the Times. She had a troubled look on her face, and tiptoed out the door after depositing them on my bed.

  “So why did you call, then?” I asked India.

  “Oh, nothing, darling. Nothing at all, don’t worry about anything …”

  “But I am worried!” I wailed. “I’ve got terrible news!”

  There was an immediate, shocked silence. Then: “Oh. My. Lord. Tom Ford is dead!”

  “No, no, no. Nothing like that.”

  “Oh, thank God.” India breathed a loud sigh of relief.

  “It’s terrible, just terrible!” I cried, agonized. “I’ve got Citibank on the other line—my accounts are overdrawn!”

  “Oh, that again?” India asked in a been-there, bankrupted-that voice.

  “No, this time it’s different.”

  “How?”

  “You know how much that party cost me! And I haven’t received a check from my trust in several weeks,” I whispered desperately.

  “Why don’t you just call your accountant and ask for your check?”

  “I’m scared to,” I whimpered. “What if—what if—there isn’t anymore?”

  “Any more what?”

  “Money.”

  “Oh, darling, don’t be silly. There’s always more money. Probably just a blip in the system. Maybe it’s a latent Y2K bug. Nothing to worry about, I’m sure everything will work itself out. You’re not broke. How can you be broke? Rich people never go broke. Look at Michael Milken.”