Cat's Meow

by Melissa de la Cruz

  His first order of business was to fire the painters and renovation crew I’d contracted to take care of a few minor details. I had retrieved my boxes from storage, but Brother Parish was horrified when I began to unpack. He hustled my things back into the moving van and declared my apartment a “no-fly zone.”

  “You don’t need color!” he argued with a dismissive wave of his hand. Apparently I didn’t need texture, partitions, appliances, wall hangings, furniture, blinds, photo collages, tables, chairs, rugs, and bedding either. Even the behemoth, bow-bedecked Bellini crib I had bought for the baby was relegated to the dustbin in order to create this so-called “Zen of space.” Brother Parish assured me my baby would be better off, what with the dangers of SIDS and all.

  “It’s all just clutter!” he cried, meaning my princess bed with matching four-foot-high footstool, formaldehyde cows, and Scandinavian commercial oven, which he carted, peevishly, to the sidewalk.

  “You’ve been living as a bourgeois bohemian for too long,” he lectured. “You don’t need things” He grimaced. “You should have virtual furniture—please, join us in the twenty-first century.”

  Brother Parish also eliminated divisions between public and private interiors, citing obscure references to dead German philosophers. This meant both the bathroom and shower were stripped bare for all to see—making my life not unlike a November sweeps episode of Ally McBeal. After he was done, I had to sleep on wooden platforms in the middle of the room and watch the neighbor’s television across the street with opera glasses.

  “Stealth wealth,” I explained to India when she came to visit the other night, and saw that my home consisted of granite, cement, exposed I beams, and raw electrical cords hanging from the ceiling.

  “It’s your place.” India shrugged. “So where’s the baby going to stay?” she asked, looking around at the wooden planks.

  Oh, right. The baby. The reason I’d moved in the first place. Hmmm. “I don’t know, but I’m sure I’ll think of something before they get here” I said.

  “Oh, well, you have anything to drink?” she asked, looking for the Sub-Zero.

  I pointed to the portable coolers from Lechters that Brother Parish had approved of for their “ironic value.” At least with my new Arbiteur credit line, I didn’t have to resort to “Chandon,” the California version of “Moët.” I was worried what India would say if I offered her a glass of nonvintage champagne.

  14

  motherhood: the latest urban affectation

  India and I arrived at the airport an hour before Bannerjee’s plane was scheduled to arrive, so we passed the time in the airport lounge, drinking cocktails as usual. I was beginning to feel a little anxious about this new stage in my life. True, the idea had come from wanting to impress Stephan with an altruistic gesture as well as inject some meaning in my life—but now I wasn’t so sure. I mean, when one goes into Barneys and purchases a knife-pleated dress but then goes home and decides one looks like an accordion, one can always return the offending item.

  Not so a Chinese baby.

  “Darling, tell me the truth, do you think I’m ready for motherhood?” I asked India nervously.

  “No, of course not. Don’t be silly,” India scoffed.

  “Well, then, maybe I can just march that tyke back to China where she belongs,” I braved.

  She snorted.

  “I blame it all on the Chinese Orphans Society. Why throw lavish parties for the benefit of starving Chinese orphans if not to advertise their adoption?” I said, extremely agitated.

  “Hmm.. .”

  “Why on earth did I want to become a mother! Cody Gifford alone should have served as ample warning!” India ignored me as I continued my harangue. “Children! What was I thinking? Isn’t there a money-back guarantee? After all, she’s made in China. There’s got to be a way!” I railed. “Everyone’s infertile these days—maybe we can leave it here at the terminal? No one will know!”

  I succeeded in getting her attention, but India only gave me a horrified look. “I know,” I said, mortified. “I was only kidding.” I tried another tactic. “Oh, but—do you think three months is too young to ship her off to Miss Porter’s?” I asked innocently.

  “I think it’s wise if we wait until she can sit up on her own, don’t you?” India stated diplomatically. I grunted.

  “Darling, you’re only suffering from prepartum depression.”

  “What’s that? And can I get a prescription for it?” I always brightened up at the thought of catching the latest affliction. All I was missing was my own personal stalker. Everyone had one these days: Dave Letterman, Madonna, Gwyneth Paltrow. What does a girl have to do to merit some harassment around here? Feel very left out as the only reasonably attractive girl in New York without a restraining order on a homicidal maniac—yet another sign that I was hopelessly in need of a comeback. Wonder if Heidi could arrange one? I must remember to ask her during our next image-rehabilitation session, I mused.

  “The prenatal dumps,” India explained. “You know, like the way I felt before I got Miu Miu?” Miu Miu was India’s pet Maltese. “You’ve spent the last month waiting for this baby, it’s almost here, and you’re anticipating that it will be anticlimactic. You’re frightened it will turn out to be incredibly disappointing.”

  I gripped India’s arm. “Darling, I just don’t know if I’m ready.”

  * * *

  “Well—ready or not, here it comes,” India quipped. I looked up to see an exhausted-looking Bannerjee bringing the baby toward us.

  “Banny!” I hugged her tightly. “It’s so good to see you again! I can’t seem to find any of my Veronique Branquinho sweaters. Would you know where they are?”

  Bannerjee ignored my question. “This is Boing,” she said, handing me the baby.

  “Boing?” I asked doubtfully. I was thinking more along the lines of “Mei-Mei,” but I could live with “Boing.” I was determined not to turn into one of those American mothers who ended up burdening their exotic offspring with names like Hannah or Sophie.

  I steeled myself for an incredible wave of disappointment and shuddered. But when I looked down at the baby’s sleeping face, I immediately fell wholeheartedly in love. A strange sensation, surely, but a nice one.

  “Oh my God, she’s lovely.” I sighed, positively aglow with the thought of cultivating Boing’s infant chic. Gucci-goo-goo booties. Power naps. Gourmet mashed bananas. ABC by APC. Alcohol-free champagne to go with Gerber’s boiled carrots. I had high hopes for Boing, but I wasn’t about to turn into Terry Shields. If Boing wanted to grow up to be a supermodel, an award-winning actress, or merely the premier Manhattan socialite, I wouldn’t discourage her. Of course I only wanted the best for my child—several Barbara Walters interviews, maybe a liaison with a powerful man, but education was of supreme importance. I told India I wouldn’t allow Boing to star in a Hollywood movie until she finished preschool.

  In my mind’s eye, I already had the splashy profile written and art-directed: “While the current It cradle is crowded with the likes of Presley Walker Gerber, Talita Natasha Miller von Furstenberg, and Rocco Ritchie, Boing McAllister is well on her way to similar It baby status. She causes a stir whenever her stroller is spotted at play group, and she’s already adept at hiding her baby face behind a bonnet when the babarazzi appear….”

  I had to remember, however, that the burnout rate for It babies was notoriously fast. According to Vanity Fair, “Being an It baby is an ephemeral thing. You are only It for so long. Before you know it, another one’s being born, and you’re yesterday’s news. The Lindbergh baby was smart—he got kidnapped. He achieved It-mmortality.”

  But my baby didn’t need a ransom note—she needed a father, I thought wistfully, wondering if I would ever see Stephan again. Well, for now I would just have to be enough. After all, I had tons of parenting experience, as I had practically raised myself.

  We made our way to the town car, when an airport official stopped us.

&nb
sp; “Excuse me, ma’am, but you have not been cleared by Immigration yet. Can I see your passport?”

  Bannerjee froze, then meekly handed over her passport with the brand-new visa from Fulton Street.

  He looked it over carefully. “I’ll need to make a copy of this. And is this your child?” he asked, meaning Boing.

  “It’s mine. I bough—adopted her in China,” I quickly explained. “We have the receipt… I mean the, uh, paperwork to prove it.”

  “We’ll have to check it out. You do know it’s illegal to buy unwanted Chinese children without proper documentation,” he said gravely.

  Fortunately, we were ready for such a situation, and Bannerjee handed over the bogus files the shady baby brokers had given her. They testified that Bannerjee had given birth while visiting a monastery in Tibet. A false birth certificate listed one Bannerjee Bunsdaraat as the mother of Boing. How unglamorous. Instead of adopting an abandoned Chinese baby, legally I’d be known as the mother of my loyal au pair’s offspring. How would I ever explain this to Boing when she grew up?

  We waited with bated breath for the airport official to return with the documents.

  Never knew smuggling was such an exhausting endeavor. Next time I would just have to hire an offshore boat to row my contrababy into the country.

  “You’re free to go,” the customs official grunted when he returned, and handed back the papers.

  We left the airport and piled into the awaiting town car. As we made our way back to Manhattan on the Cross-Bronx expressway, India noticed something odd. No, her mustache wasn’t growing back.

  “Why is that undistinguished Chevrolet following us?” India asked, looking out the rearview window. “They’ve been on our tail since we left the airport.”

  “What?” I asked, looking back to see a brown, standard-issue, mid-size sedan driven by a dark-suited man speaking into a wrist phone. “Hmm… that is strange,” I agreed, but soon forgot about it as Boing had begun to cry and the three of us spent the remainder of the trip attempting to pacify her. Only India’s improvisation of peekaboo (taking off and putting her wig back on her head) seemed to calm down the child.

  “Home, sweet loft!” I cheered when we arrived in Tribeca.

  “Miss Cat! What happened to Upper East Side?” Bannerjee cried, stricken at the sight of the rough wooden planks, the exposed ceiling, and the complete lack of furnishings.

  “Don’t worry, Banny, you’ll adjust,” India said kindly. “Look—you can heat Boing’s formula with this hair dryer!”

  “Is like campground!” Bannerjee complained. “No bed. No TV. No…”

  Hmmm. Banny was right: home was like camp—just not the right one.

  The next day, when Brother Parish arrived to check on his masterpiece, he assured me roughing it would be good for the soul. I’d just never thought I’d have to rough it in my own home.

  “What’s this?” he asked as he cheerfully walked around the apartment looking for new things to tear apart or throw away.

  He stood in front of Mummy’s walk-in closet, sizing it up with a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Nothing—it’s nothing,” I lied. “It was here when I moved in.”

  “Hmm … well, it’s a waste of space and ruins the feng shui. It’s got to go. Hand me the power saw.”

  Aieeee! I psychically restrained him from taking another step. Mummy’s closet was the only thing that made my expensive campground feel like home.

  “Brother Parish darling, while I am perfectly content to live in a construction site, I will not abide my clothes wilting away in non-temperature-controlled air! Think of the fragile Julien Macdonald rattan sweaters! Vivien Leigh’s leghorn straw hat from Gone With the Wind!”

  “Hmmm. Oh, all right, if it means that much to you,” he finally said, reluctantly putting down the chainsaw.

  “Thank you, darling.” Whew!

  “But I’ll only leave it alone if you consent to wear this while you’re at home,” he said. He left the room and returned holding out a shapeless beige gunnysack. “It’s so you don’t interfere with the look of the apartment. I had one made for Bannerjee and the baby as well.”

  Hmmm. Gunnysacks are awfully itchy. Being fabulous is such hard work.

  Later that evening, Bannerjee ran into my corner, where Boing and I were peacefully sleeping on wooden floor planks, dressed in matching beige gunnysack nighties. Although Brother Parish assured me that sleeping on the floor was good for the baby, I put her in Martin Margiela’s duvet coat instead. The coat was extremely soft and comfortable since it was basically a goose-down comforter.

  Bannerjee shook me gently. “Miss Cat! Miss Cat!” she whispered urgently. “I think there’s someone outside the door!”

  “Hmmhwahmm?” I asked sleepily. “Well, let them in, then, darling.”

  “No—Miss Cat—come look!”

  I grumpily followed Bannerjee to the peephole. A shifty-looking man dressed all in black was loitering in front of our door, speaking into his wrist phone.

  Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. We were going to be killed! Robbed! Murdered in our beds… I mean, wooden planks.

  “Should I call police?” Bannerjee asked.

  “You can’t!” I said, feeling doomed. “Brother Parish thinks landline phones have no place in the twenty-first century and I forgot to charge the cell phone battery.”

  “What we do now, Miss Cat?”

  “Let me take care of it. I learned yoga self-defense at Jivamukti,” I told her, getting into the Warrior One position.

  “Open the door, Banny, and I’ll make a downward-facing dog out of him.”

  “Hay-yah!” Icried.

  Bannerjee opened the door with surprising force, knocking the black-clad intruder to the floor. But before we were able to restrain him, he was already up and running out of the building.

  “That’ll show him!” I said, even if I was still shaking. It was only when the fear had subsided that I realized …

  “Banny—do you know what this means?”

  “What Miss Cat?”

  “I finally have a personal stalker! Of my very own! Isn’t this fabulous?”

  “Uh, OK.”

  “Heidi did an excellent job. I was almost terrified there—weren’t you?” I asked. “It was so real! I thought we were finished for sure!”

  I padded back into the apartment, with the cheery knowledge that my life mirrored Jodie Foster’s at last.

  15

  fashion editrix

  Never thought I would find happiness in the working world but ever since Billy Laurence hired me to be an editrix at Arbiteur, I’d been flush with purpose. Which was only right, since I’d had alliterative exclamations like “Lose Land’s End, Go Gucci!” coursing through my veins all these years. Still, these two-hour workdays were leaving me completely drained. I’d had no idea running a global fashion magazine on the Internet would be so strenuous. I’d mistakenly assumed it was all about sauntering into tastefully appointed offices making outré pronouncements like “The End of Hip Huggers!” or “Black Is the New Black!” while an army of interns and computer programmers uploaded these statements to the server. But since there was no one on the Arbiteur staff but me, Billy, and India, there was more, so much more.

  I did worry that Boing would resent my leaving her to the care of Bannerjee all day. But I knew that by working, I could teach her how to aspire to become something more than just an exquisitely turned-out beauty. She was sure to thank me when she grew up. I explained it all to her one morning.

  “Now, darling,” I said as I wiped drool off her face. “You know Mummy loves you but I have to work now. To make money, you know? I know, it’s new to me too. But we’ll have to adjust, darling. Oh, baby, don’t cry, baby. I’ll be home before you know it! Mummy loves you!” I sobbed as I ran out of the loft and into the waiting town car.

  Note to self: ask Billy about the possibilities of telecommuting.

  When I arrived Billy was wearing pajamas with l
ittle ducks on them. His hair was rumpled, and, as usual, he badly needed to shave.

  “Billy darling,” I said tentatively.

  “Yes, Cat?” he asked with a big yawn.

  “Perhaps we can let some air in here?” I asked. “It’s rather stuffy.”

  “Oh—sure,” he said, turning on the air conditioner. It wasn’t quite what I was looking for but I had warmed to Billy’s little eccentricities. He was an extraordinarily cheerful man, and an incredibly accommodating boss—he never batted an eye even when I waltzed into work at three in the afternoon.

  I sat myself down on the leather couch across from his desk. Billy had kindly moved the leather-bound model look books and other fashion detritus to the floor to give me a “work space.” When India arrived, she took her usual place on the armrest of the couch next to me, giggling to herself while viciously typing away on a laptop computer. This week, her column’s blind item involved a scribe who had peed into the closet of his boss’s home in a drunken stupor.

  We sat quietly for a while, Billy blinking at the computer while I looked through several dozen model books to find the right girl for my first Arbiteur shoot. The doorbell buzzed. Exciting. I went to answer it, fully expecting a messenger bearing another model’s portfolio or brown paper bags filled with the beauty products I’d ordered, or else new clothing samples for our run-through. Instead, I opened the door to find a deliveryman wearing an orange jumpsuit and a kooky hat. He was holding a copy of Runaway Bride and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey.