Cat's Meow

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “Lady Van der Hominie,” Teeny corrected.

  “Lady Van der Hominie now has possession of this apartment.”

  “But this is only a temporary move; I’m only leasing it for now,” I snapped.

  “For sure, for sure.” Mr. Finn nodded, but I caught him giving Teeny a smug, knowing look.

  “I think I’ll have a look around,” Teeny said. “I just want to make sure everything is as it should be.” Without bothering to wait for a reply, she began a room-by-room investigation of the family homestead, her heels scratching the beautiful travertine floor.

  “Perhaps we should be going,” I conceded, sighing.

  “Cat—no!” India argued. “It’s so …”

  Utterly humiliating. But thankfully, India didn’t rub salt on the wound.

  “Darling, it’s all right, I’m fine,” I assured her. “The moving men have finished clearing out my boxes and there doesn’t seem to be much use in carrying on this conversation anymore.”

  “Oh, Cat!” India cried, and forcefully hugged me to her bountiful chest. “Don’t worry, darling. I know you’ll be back here in no time.” We huddled in the doorway of the apartment that was no longer mine. Teeny followed us out.

  “Ta-ta, darlings. Oh, by the way, I’m having a petit dinner party to celebrate my new home. I’d love to have all of you here. You too, India,” she said. “Next week, oui?”

  “I’m busy,” India said bluntly.

  “I’m, ah … getting my hair done,” I said, lying badly.

  “Well, let me know, dears. Or better yet, stop by. After all, you know where I live.” Teeny gave me a wicked smile.

  India and I were inside the elevator when a bloodcurdling scream erupted from inside the apartment.

  “AAAARRRRGGGHHHH! !” There was a galloping of heels on the floor, and suddenly a red-faced Teeny was in front of us, holding back the elevator doors with her bare hands.

  “BITCH!” Teeny spat. “Where is the closet! You know it’s the only reason I wanted this apartment!” Mummy’s custom-built, temperature-controlled closet, my one true inheritance, was now relocated to a storage locker in Midtown while I assessed my real estate possibilities. A huge, ugly, double-height hole in the wall was all that remained of this marvel.

  “Ta-ta, Teeny!” I smiled, wagging my fingers. “Do call. Don’t be a stranger.”

  10.

  a room with a view

  The Mercer Hotel turned out to be an excellent choice. I was in great company—Calvin Klein was a neighbor and I occasionally bumped into Leonardo diCaprio en route to the ice machine. But in the confusion and trauma that accompanied the move, I realized Stephan wouldn’t be able to reach me at my old number! I panicked, as I didn’t have a clue as to how to get in touch with him without skulking in front of India’s building at dusk.

  I hadn’t seen him since the memorable night we had taken that long walk up Fifth Avenue. We had walked until Fifth Avenue really wasn’t Fifth Avenue anymore—when the buildings no longer had white-gloved doormen but instead had bums hanging out in front of their vestibules.

  ‘What are we doing here?” I had asked him, looking around fearfully.

  “I said I wanted to show you something, didn’t I?”

  “Yes.”

  He unlocked the front door to a shabby tenement building on Fifth Avenue and 110th. I had no choice but to follow him inside. Dear God, it was worse than I had imagined. The hallway was yellow, musty, and fearfully stained. There were cobwebs everywhere, and something smelled powerfully rank.

  “This is what you wanted to show me?” I asked. “Darling, I know how the other half lives. I’ve watched PBS.”

  “No, no, don’t worry. Trust me.” He beckoned, holding open the door to an old-fashioned elevator, the kind with a swinging door and that was smaller than my shoe closet. I had to stand quite close to Stephan, which I didn’t mind at all. He pressed the top-floor button.

  “Darling, really, what is this all about?”

  “You’ll see.”

  There was another horrid hallway on the top floor, this one painted a sickly green color, but thankfully the smell from downstairs had faded somewhat. It was quiet, except for the sound of televisions from the other apartments: I’ll take Whoopi for the block.

  “Here we are.” He smiled, unlocking a corner apartment.

  The first thing I noticed was that it was incredibly dark inside the room. The windows had been boarded up with thick black plastic sheets taped to the glass.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked fearfully. “Why don’t you turn on the light?” It struck me that I didn’t know anything about him! Even if he was the Prince of Westonia, what on earth was I doing in a pitch-black tenement apartment?

  Stephan closed the door behind him. “Turn around,” he said.

  “Oh!” I was at a loss for words. “Oh, it’s beautiful.”

  When Stephan had closed the door into the hallway, an image came into focus on the apartment’s back wall. A breathtaking view of New York, except that the city was completely upside down and backward. The Empire State Building. The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Central Park. Glorious and wonderful and lovely, at once familiar and strange, given the topsy-turvy angle.

  “But how?”

  “It’s called camera obscura. It’s a hobby of mine,” he explained. “You know how a camera is basically a black box with a small pinhole of light? Well, I’ve turned this apartment into a black box. A camera. See that small hole of light up there? It reflects the view of New York on the back wall. Like a movie projector, but a real one.”

  “It’s… it’s… amazing.”

  “I wanted you to see this before it got too dark. Fortunately, the sun is still high and there’s enough light to make the projection.”

  “Wow. But why here?”

  “Upper Fifth Avenue has the best views of Manhattan. You can see the entire city from here. It feels right, somehow—the whole city literally turned over on its head. It reminds me that things don’t have to be the way they are. That sometimes, it’s better to look at things a little differently.”

  “So this is your … studio?” It was obviously just his work space.

  “You could call it that,” he acknowledged. He switched on the light and the view of New York disappeared.

  On closer inspection I noticed that what I thought was black plastic sheets taped to the windowpanes was actually heavy black wool fabric. Unlike the hallway, the apartment was clean and bright. There was nothing in it but a camera on a tripod and a mattress on the floor.

  “I didn’t know you had a bohemian side,” I teased.

  “Here, look at this,” he said, bringing over a portfolio. The photographs were of the same upside-down view, except at different hours of the day. The most striking one had Stephan in front of it. He was standing right-side up; it was Manhattan that was upside down.

  “Thank you for taking me here,” I said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  But how to let Stephan know that I had moved? I hadn’t noticed a phone in his studio, so that was out. Then I remembered his website, which was sure to have the name of his PR agent, at least. I logged onto Stephan-of-Westonia.com, and the computer screen flashed, “Domain name available! Register Stephan-of-Westonia dot com today!” Quel étrange. I called Cece Phipps-Langley as a last resort to ask her if she had his information.

  “Oh, Cat … Stephan’s new phone number? I actually don’t have it. He was staying here for a while, but I don’t know where he is now.”

  “Yes, I know he’s not there anymore,” I said impatiently.

  “Yes. While he was looking around for a place. But he’s gone now. For the life of me, I simply can’t remember.”

  “Do you know if he has a phone in his studio?”

  “What studio?”

  “Oh, never mind.” Stephan seemed like a private person and probably would not have shared his hobby with Cece.

  “What about his work number? Do you
have that?”

  “No. I’m sorry. My personal assistant just left and the new girl hasn’t sorted my Rolodex yet. My life is in absolute tatters.”

  “Would you know where he works?”

  “Something like the Civilians Group? Civilized Bank? Civilization Finance? CCGG? CDGW? I can’t keep track. Something like that.”

  There were no listings for any of the above, although I did find a Citation Group Finance Holdings, which seemed close enough. I dialed the number, but they didn’t have a listing for Stephan of Westonia.

  “Stephan Owestoya, did you say?”

  “No, of Westonia” I corrected.

  “Of Westonia?” the receptionist asked doubtfully.

  “Yes. It’s a … title.”

  “A title? What kind? Vice president?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “His last name isn’t Owestoya?”

  “No. He doesn’t have a last name.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but if he doesn’t have a last name, I can’t track him down for you.”

  It was no use. If I called my old apartment and asked Teeny to give him a message, it would be practically an invitation for her to wreck the relationship before it even began.

  “Cat, please come inside the building. You’re too old to hang around the sidewalk,” India beseeched. “This is a nice neighborhood. Think of my property values!”

  “You live in a sublet!” I huffed. “But I’m telling you, he lives right down the block. …” I argued feebly, pointing off to the distance, where I was sure he resided in palatial, thirty-four-room glory. Somehow the thought of trying to visit him at the camera obscura apartment never entered my mind. As much as I wanted to see him, I wasn’t about to venture into Harlem on my own.

  * PART TWO *

  fashion weak

  11.

  condé not

  Since I had no choice but to actually work for money, I decided I might as well start at the top—at the publications that cataloged the near and dear to my heart: haute couture, starlets, and the proper way to carry one’s handbag (scrunched under your arm or tipped at a ninety-degree angle). I would settle for nothing less than a position at Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, or W.

  Since I’ve never owned clothes for “work” I decided it was important to find the perfect interview outfit and asked India to accompany me to Barneys, where they still accepted my charge card. I chose an exquisite, fur-trimmed Fendi black-leather jumpsuit, which zipped up snug and tight.

  “Professional diva!” I crowed.

  “Boardroom bitch!” India agreed.

  “Couture Fridays!”

  “Condé Nasty!” India decreed, which of course, was the highest compliment of all.

  The Condé Nast offices are located in a shiny new silver building in Times Square, whose construction had resulted in one very minor death. I marveled at the wave after wave of bare-legged editors who wafted into the building wearing clothes more suited to a weekend in St. Thomas than Midtown Manhattan, and remembered India once telling me that it was like this all the time—even in the middle of winter, in zero-degree weather. “Which only proves that I’m right. Fashion is beyond the weather,” India had said. I took the famous Condé Nast elevators and prepared myself for the infamous elevator stare-down between competing editrixes, but only found myself next to a slovenly maintenance man. I gave him a hard glare nevertheless. Overalls are so over.

  Once at Human Resources, I entertained myself by guessing which magazine each applicant was there for. The high-cheekboned wench in the deconstructed sweater with an unfinished hem? Definitely Vogue. The bubbly girl in dark-rinse jeans? She had to be Mademoiselle material. Cousin It in the corner, chewing her hair? She was no parts Condescending or nasty. What on earth was she going for? Mail room, I decided. I was kept waiting for an infinite period of time, and resorted to bribing the receptionist with the contents of my Birkin bag (two invitations to a movie screening, and my discount card at Bliss Spa) in order to convince her to add my interview to the recruitment director’s schedule.

  “Cat McAllister?” A peroxide blonde in a trim pair of leather pants and vertiginous high heels asked as she walked into the reception area.

  “Yes!” I replied, practically bouncing off the chair. I was so glad! The sooner I got the interview over with, the sooner I could get out of my Fendi straitjacket—I mean jumpsuit.

  “Hi. I’m Lark Hodgson. Editorial manager of Conde Nast, Fabulous outfit,” she observed, and I felt vindicated. She gazed at me keenly. “You look familiar … don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  “I was a bit of a child actress in my youth,” I allowed modestly. “Maybe you remember it? A dramatic comedy about an orphan adopted by an interracial couple?”

  “Nope, don’t think so.” Lark shrugged. “Hey, weren’t you at Barneys not too long ago? Returning a bundle of clothes? And your friend kept pulling this box of shoes from your hands and finally you wrestled her to the floor? As I remember it was quite a scene.”

  Oh, no, I don’t think so.” I blushed.

  “Anyway, come on in,” she said. I followed her into a corner office that boasted a vast and sterile emptiness except for a perfectly squat 1920s Bauhaus-style Charlotte Periand black leather and chrome couch. A profusion of flowers backlit by a spotlight along the ledge that gave the office the air of an exquisitely prestigious funeral home. Black-and-white photographs on her desk displayed a curly-haired husband and two adorable blond children.

  “What can I do for you, Cat?” she asked politely. “I’ve read your résumé, and I’m not quite sure what to make of it. What exactly brings you here?”

  “I’m here for a position at Vogue. You are hiring, aren’t you?”

  “Well—yes,” she hedged.

  “Great! When do I start?” I asked eagerly. “I’m available immediately. And I’d love an office like this one if there are any left.”

  “Oh, no, no, no.” Lark laughed, wiping tears from her face. “Where did you get that idea? You’d have to start as a fashion assistant.”

  “Start as an assistant?” I blanched.

  “Junior market editor. Basically, steam-cleaning clothes and making sure the models don’t eat during shoots. There are several, you know, who are just addicted to chocolate. We really have to save them from themselves. You’ll have to monitor them very carefully.”

  “But junior market editor? That doesn’t sound right. Don’t they make twenty-three thousand dollars a year?”

  “Yes,” she answered matter-of-factly, as if that wouldn’t be some sort of problem.

  “Darling, I was thinking something along the lines of contributing-editor-at-large,” I said in my most confident tone. “You know, a fat little contract. A mortgage. Something like that.” Several of New York’s most high-profile socialites held exalted and lucrative positions at the magazine; I thought it was only right that I be asked to join their ranks as well.

  She laughed lightly. “Oh, no. You’ve no experience, and we’re not looking for freeload—I mean, freelancers.”

  “But—twenty-three thousand dollars a year?”

  “Sweetie, you do have a trust fund, don’t you?” she inquired, as if the very idea that I would not have one was a subject of utmost hilarity. Didn’t she know even trust funds ran out? And as for royalty checks from rerun episodes of my one canceled sitcom, which neither TV Land nor Lifetime wanted (although it did prove quite popular in the Philippines and former Soviet republics)—these residuals netted me a fat $5 a month. So at $23,000 a year, I’d be making less than India’s armpit waxer.

  “It’s yours if you want it. So, it’s agreed then? Twenty-three thousand dollars a year, plus benefits, which includes medical and dental and plastic.”

  “Plastic?”

  “Surgery—but only one lipo a year. You’re expected to keep your end up. Weigh-in is nine sharp every morning. And silly me, I almost forgot—there is one last thing,” she said, whipping out a strange contraption
that looked like a flashlight with an LCD display. “It’s a fat analyzer,” Lark explained. “Don’t worry, we had models in the office who were ninety-nine pounds and twenty-four percent fat.” She chuckled. She pointed it toward my arm and read the results.

  “You’re forty-seven percent fat,” she reported matter-of-factly, putting it away with a slightly perturbed look on her face.

  How could that be? I never ate anything and adhered to a strict SSV diet—smoke, starve, and vomit, that is.

  “It’s a little high, especially for us,” she said awkwardly. She looked at me skeptically for a moment, then grinned. “But what the hell! Everyone starts out immense! And we desperately need someone to organize the fashion closet. It’s a complete nightmare right now. Vogue hosted a charity benefit last weekend and, well,” she giggled to herself, “the staff attacked the racks! You’ll have to track down the eighteen-karat Chanel dress—I’m not sure who took off with it.”

  Organize the fashion closet? Please. I had no choice but to pass on the position. After all, organizing closets was what I had hired my au pair to do. I suddenly missed Bannerjee keenly. She had made my life so easy and carefree. But now she was stuck in China while I tried to come up with enough money to bring her and the baby home.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can accept,” I demurred politely.

  “Really?” Lark asked, her face falling. “We really do need someone to start immediately. Miguel Adrover’s new collection is bound to arrive any day now and we desperately need someone to keep an eye on it. You did say you were available, didn’t you?”

  “I’ll think about it,” I lied.

  “All right, up to you, but between you and me, I’ve got to tell you these jobs don’t last long,” she warned, pointing to a fat stack of résumés piled two feet high on her desk. “I know hundreds of girls who would kill to be in your shoes right now.” I nodded, but then, I was wearing five-hundred-dollar Dolce & Gabbana sandals, so that was true enough.