Cat's Meow Page 9

  Lark and I exchanged limp double-cheek air kisses, and I promised I would let her know soon. I walked out of the silver offices of the Condé Nast building feeling very blue indeed. I was so discouraged I didn’t even have the heart to scam an interview at W, Elle, or Harper’s Bazaar. What was I going to do? I had sent Mummy several incredibly urgent cablegrams, but had yet to receive any word. And without a job, I wouldn’t have enough money to pay for the baby. No baby, no Stephan. I could tell he was drawn to me because of my magnanimous gesture. “You’re not like the other girls, are you, Cat McAllister?” he’d said.

  My car and driver pulled up to the curb when I heard what was now a familiar screech from the limousine ahead.

  “Cat! Cat! Over here!”

  I walked over to the sound. “Teeny?”

  She rolled down the tinted windows of her stretch limousine. (Shudder—but at least it wasn’t white.) “I thought that was you! What were you doing at Vogue?”

  “Oh, nothing important,” I said, feigning casualness. “I’m just incredibly bored all day and I thought, ha-ha, why not try to see if I could help them out at the magazine.”

  Teeny cocked an eyebrow. “Really?” she asked. “They’re great—I love the magazine to death, of course, but they never feature any of our clothes. I just don’t understand,” she sniped. “I mean, everyone wears Tart Tarteen; why I’ve got all the important Hollywood stylists in and out of our showroom every day.”

  She pulled me closer to whisper. “You know, Cat, I was thinking … you should come work for my company. I’m looking for a spokesmodel. I’ll pay you a good salary. Better than Condé Nast, even. What are they offering you? Five hundred thousand dollars for a contributing editor’s position? Full mortgage? Town house? Hamptons beach?”

  “Really?” I asked, the possibility of all that lovely money blinding me to the fact that this was Teeny we were talking about.

  Teeny nodded vigorously. “You’ll do mall openings, television commercials, conventions …”

  Conventions? Mall openings? I slowly sank back down to earth.

  Teeny smirked when she saw the look on my face. “Well, think about it, would you?”

  “Oh, Teeny?” I asked, before she rolled up her window.

  “Yes?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “I was just wondering if you’ve received any calls for me. At the apartment, I mean.”

  “For you?” she repeated thoughtfully, her smile faltering. “I could ask the maids, but no, I don’t think so. You did tell everyone you had moved?”

  “Yes.” I sighed. “Everyone.”

  With a heavier heart than before, I rang India on my way back to the hotel.

  “So how did it go?”

  “Terrible. I’m forty-seven percent fat.”

  “What?”

  “They offered me a job as a fashion assistant!”

  “Yuck.”

  “And while I was leaving, I bumped into Teeny. And can you imagine? She offered me a job!”

  “The nerve” India spat. “To do what?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  “I can only imagine.”

  “And I asked her if she had received any calls for me and she said she hadn’t.”

  “She’s lying. But don’t worry, darling, you’ll bump into him soon enough and you can explain everything.”

  “What about your Mr. Moneybags? Given any thought toward blackmail?”

  “I have, but I just don’t have it in me. After all, I’m still a lady. And if he prefers Venus de Milosevic over me, he can have that two-bit skank.”

  “Sweetie, I’m at my wits’ end here. If I don’t find a job quickly—a good one—I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m a week away from being homeless—I just got my hotel bill. Did you realize they charge for room service! If I had known, I would have got up and walked over to the minibar myself. And there’s Banny and the baby still trapped in China. Oh, I don’t know what to do.”

  “I think I might just have the answer for both of us. Meet me on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Eighteenth Street in an hour. In Chelsea.”

  12.

  billy the kid

  The address India gave me was an unremarkable postwar apartment building on Eighth Avenue. I wondered what this had to do with solving our financial difficulties. Perhaps she was taking me to an escort agency. I didn’t know if I was comfortable with that. Oh, it’s fine for other people. Heidi Fleiss is one of my favorite dinner guests—it’s so amusing to play Guess Who’s Come to Dinner with Heidi and her former clients, Charlie Sheen almost had a heart attack—but I’ve already mentioned my personal indifference to matters of physical intimacy.

  I buzzed “Laurence, Apt. 3” as India instructed, and discreetly peeked through the iron grating of the double-locked doors to see if I could spot any of these mistresses of the night. India appeared in the hallway of the first floor. She stood in the doorway of an apartment and beckoned me to hurry. “Quickly! Quickly!” she mouthed. I pushed my way through the first door, then the second, almost tripping over the faded welcome mat. “What’s all this?” I asked.

  She ushered me inside a first-floor apartment, and I walked in to find a small, dark room illuminated by the glow of a computer screen. A young, slightly disheveled man sat in front of an oversize computer monitor. I presumed he was the resident “madam.” Oh, well, I thought, maybe I could work the phones instead of actually “working the phones.”

  He didn’t ask me to disrobe, however, nor did he begin to explain the finer points of running a high-class-hooker establishment. Instead the young man said, “Hi, I’m Billy Laurence.”

  “Excuse me?” I gasped. “Not the Billy Laurence?”

  “The one and only,” he said.

  “But you’re the editor of Arbiteur!”

  “Wow, you’ve heard of us? I mean, of course you have,” he quickly added.

  Of course I’d heard about Arbiteur. It was an obscure online publication to the greater public at large, but one that had garnered a sure foothold among the fashion addicts of New York, Paris, and Milan, including moi, due to the way it incorporated streaming video, the latest technology, and the most cutting-edge editorial shoots in its sassy fashion reporting. I had stumbled across it by accident during my numerous Web searches for Stephan’s website. Billy Laurence carried the longest title I’d ever encountered: CEO/editor/art director/tech support. I was shocked to find he was a wistful-looking postadolescent who didn’t shave regularly and took to wearing pajamas at four o’clock in the afternoon. Not that this was rare during these babes-in-cyberland times.

  “So you’re Cat,” Billy said happily. “India’s told me so much about you.” He gave me a hug and two double-cheek air kisses. “Welcome to Arbiteur.”

  “This is it?” I cried, looking around. Billy’s “office” was a cluttered desk with random computer equipment—Web cams, scanners, CPU’s, laser printers. Across from his desk was a faded black leather couch where hundreds of models’ look books, party invitations, and an array of press release packets touting experimental beauty regimes were piled in a haphazard manner. The fax machine was chugging away, and the television was tuned to a mute Judge Judy, while technomusic boomed in the background.

  “Yes, I’ve found there’s really no need for a very large staff to run a global fashion website.”

  “But this is it? Just you? What about all the names on the masthead?”

  “Imaginary,” Billy admitted cheerfully. “It’s something of a secret, actually, so please don’t tell anybody. Otherwise the firm’s credibility will be shot. After all, Arbiteur had its best quarter yet, and I’ve just landed another round of blue-chip advertising.”

  “Wow.”

  “Thank you,” Billy said shyly.

  India explained that several years back, Billy was a drag queen in the East Village—they first met in the bathroom of a club where Billy was in charge of giving out drink tickets to favored friends and club regulars. Billy, then k
nown as “Miss Demeanor,” was a West Coast transplant and an aspiring fashion stylist. He wrote occasional pieces for Scandinavian style magazines and helped nonprofit arts organizations stage fashion shows.

  By a sheer stroke of luck, India read a small mention about Arbiteur in a copy of The Wall Street Journal that her formerly generous patron had left in her apartment. Recognizing Miss Demeanor’s real name, India realized that the founder of this hot new Internet company was none other than the young drag queen who used to borrow her mascara. While I was getting my fat evaluated by a Condé Nast gatekeeper, India had looked him up and persuaded him into hiring both of us to work for his newly formed company.

  “I decided I can’t do everything on my own. So when India volunteered to be my eyes and ears around town, I thought, perfect,” Billy explained.

  “I’m going to write a gossip column called ‘Depeche Merde.’ Isn’t that fabulous?” India cooed.

  I looked at her in awe.

  “India’s sure to get the scoop on the latest lesbian-model love affairs and socialite suicides,” Billy said proudly. “As I remember, nobody likes dirt as much as India.”

  “But of course,” India agreed. “I’m going to be the new media virus.”

  “And what am I going to do?” I asked excitedly.

  India and Billy looked at each other questioningly.

  “Well, that’s up to you,” Billy said. “What can you do?”

  “I … well … I know how to shop,” I ventured.

  “You can be our market editor!” India declared. “Billy, Cat knows everything about fashion. Where to find it. How to wear it. What’s in, what’s out. What it’s all about.”

  “Great. I really need someone to write show reviews during Fashion Week.”

  “Sure, I can do that.” I nodded, although as far as writing was concerned, my experience went only as far as signing credit slips, but I was sure I could try.

  “By the way, I’ve always been curious about the name … Arbiteur” I said. “Is it French? I thought the French for arbiter was arbitre?”

  “It is?”

  “Yes.” I nodded.

  “Oh, well, I thought arbiter was too harsh, so I Frenchified it. It’s made-up.”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Fabulous.”

  We smiled at each other.

  “Then it’s settled,” Billy said happily. “I’ll expect to see you both on Monday.”

  “Uh, how early do I have to be here?” I asked.

  “Oh, not early at all—I don’t get up until about noon.”

  “Where are our new offices?”

  “You’re standing in it,” he replied.

  India and I looked stricken. “Isn’t this apartment rather—cramped—for what we’ll need to do?”

  Billy shrugged. “I suppose, but I think it will serve for now.” A well-worn copy of The Millionaire Next Door lay next to his computer.

  I was chastened, but my curiosity was piqued. “But how did you start this?” I asked. “How did you get—um—funding?”

  “Are you asking if I have a trust fund?” Billy laughed.

  «Well—um—yes.”

  “No, no, no. Not at all.”

  “Several months ago, Billy won a settlement from his landlord,” India said proudly.

  “Really!”

  “Yes, really,” Billy said happily. “The ceiling in my bedroom collapsed due to water damage—it destroyed my stereo, my television, and just missed killing me. So I sued the bastards and won.”

  “And with the money, he built his own online company,” India added.

  “Fabulous!” I said. “Did you hire the Dream Team for your case?”

  Billy shook his head.

  “Cravath, Swaine and Moore? Skadden, Arps, Slater, Meagher and Flom? Dewey Ballantine?” I asked, ticking off the names of the most prestigious law firms in New York.

  “More like Jacoby and Meyers,” he answered humbly. “Now,” he said, getting down to business. “As far as your salary is concerned, how do you girls feel about stock options?”

  Under Billy’s plan, India and I would waive our salaries in return for equity in the company and a generous package of stock options. Billy explained that he was planning to take Arbiteur public in several months, and when that happened, India, Billy and I would be newly minted dot-corn gazillionaires. Until then, I could live on a line of credit secured from Arbiteur’s bankers.

  “So I don’t have any cash?” I asked Billy.

  “No. No cash. Not yet,” Billy replied.

  “But I have equity.”

  “Yes, which means you’ll own a part of Arbiteur outright.”

  “And stock options,” I said slowly. That sounded fair enough, except I wasn’t sure if illegal Chinese baby brokers accepted stock options for payment. I didn’t think so.

  “Yes. Those are options to buy more shares in the company at a bargain-basement price,” Billy said.

  “So what are those worth?” I asked skeptically.

  “Well, for now, nothing,” Billy explained. “They’re only worth something if we get bought out or if we go public. We’re going public, so they’ll be worth millions. That is, if the market is good. But it will be. Most tech stocks launch with very high multiple and we could presumably have a valuation equal to LVMH.”

  “What’s a multiple?” I asked. I had always been bad at my times tables.

  “It’s a … oh, it’s too hard to explain, but just trust me … we’re going to be huge.”

  “But what about the stock market?” India asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Isn’t it a bad time for tech stocks?”

  “There’s nowhere it can go but up,” Billy replied.

  That was true enough, I thought.

  “But what am I going to do for money until then?” I asked. The financial rigmarole was all too confusing.

  “Simple, live on credit,” Billy explained. “That’s what I’m doing. We have a line of credit from our investment bank.”

  That I understood. Living on credit was practically my middle name. “Do you think this is a good idea?” I asked India.

  “Of course, darling. It’s just like therapy. You have to hit bottom to find your way out. Darkness before the light. In our case, we’re going have to get into debt to get out of debt. You’ll see.”

  Billy and India watched me closely as I wrestled with my decision, which took all of two seconds.

  “Has anyone got a pen?” I finally asked.

  “Here you go,” Billy said happily, handing me a chewed-up Bic.

  I looked at the two of them skeptically, and took in the sight of Arbiteur’s world headquarters: a 180-square-foot space that was so small India really had to suck it in so all of us could fit. I signed with a flourish.

  “We’re going to be rich!” India cheered, popping a champagne cork.

  13.

  stealth wealth

  For a while there, I was fearful that by the time I finally got the money together, my baby would be old enough to audition for MTV’s You Want to Be a VJ contest. Thank the Lord for Arbiteur. After signing the contract, I was able to withdraw a sizable personal advance on the Arbiteur credit line and was finally able to wire Bannerjee the amount needed to adopt my much-anticipated baby daughter. I also express-mailed Banny her brand-new visa, which the immigration lawyer I’d consulted in a run-down section of Fulton Street (his office carried the sign: “Passports/Driver’s License/Green Cards/Abogado”) had sold me for several thousand dollars.

  “Oh, Miss Cat, the baby is so beautiful!” Bannerjee enthused during a transatlantic phone conversation after she had paid off the illegal baby brokers. “You have done a great thing, Miss Cat. The baby had nothing. All she had in the world was several dirty diapers in a brown paper bag.”

  I beseeched Bannerjee to bring the baby home immediately—I wanted that child out of cotton rags and in antique French lace! In preparation for my baby’s arrival, I had even enro
lled in a Lamaze class at Jivamukti called “Mama Yoga.” So what if I wasn’t actually pregnant? I still wanted to partake of all the fun things pregnancy brought. India even agreed to be my Lamaze partner. “Mama Yoga” was great—there was no jumping around, and most of the time I worked on my breathing. And God knows I already knew how to do that.

  In fact, adoption had to be my best flight of fancy yet. I got to do all the fun things real moms did: yoga classes and stuffing myself with unlimited fruit smoothies without all the yucky things that came with an actual pregnancy, like elastic waistbands and flat’ soled shoes.

  “So when do you think you’ll be home?” I asked Banny.

  “Soon,” Bannerjee promised. “On first flight out of here,” I heard her mutter.

  I considered it downright cruel to bring a child into the world and save her from a leaky orphanage and an uncertain future only to plop her down in the middle of a hotel suite, however nice the Mercer was. So, armed with a folder of documents showing I was a new partner for a hot Internet company, I bid adieu to hotel living and found a real-estate broker willing to take me around to look at apartments. Not many neighborhoods in New York are properly suitable for a down-at-the-heels self-styled fashionista/socialite.

  I needed to live somewhere discreet, expensive, and charming. In the end I settled upon the cast-iron environs of the so-called “frontier neighborhood” of Tribeca and signed a lease on a new luxury loft. After all, if Mr. Bartleby-Smythe ever came to visit, he’d never dream it cost almost as much to live there as on Park Avenue. That’s the wonderful thing about New York—it costs a fortune to look as if you are saving money. Mr. Bartleby-Smythe was a bit doubtful when I told him about my new Arbiteur credit line and our impending IPO, murmuring something that sounded like “pyramid schemes,” but I didn’t know what Egypt had to do with it.

  Sartorially speaking, Tribeca was still the domain of the splattershirted and the holey-jeaned, except the new residents’ intricately shredded sweatshirts were “refurbished” by popular designers whose specialty was to take frayed garments routinely found in church bin giveaways, slash them on both sides, then sew them up with brightly colored ribbon netting to produce the desired effect: “salvation irony.” The kind of pseudo-low-rent wardrobe that cost six figures and goes hand in hand with condominium “lofts.” Since actual dank, converted warehouse spaces were few and far between, most developers had taken to calling any three-thousand-square-foot space with fifteen-foot ceilings a loft—even though it was my understanding that true loft-style living did not involve penthouse swimming pools, health clubs, and doormen. In the interests of keeping my foray into downtown living genuine, I commissioned Brother Parish, the lauded interior decorator and master of minimalism, to redesign my new apartment into a higher plane of architectural worthiness—to take away the embarrassingly high-end glossiness and give the space the raw, crude, art-directed edge that Melissa Steadman’s loft had displayed in thirtysomething.