Cat's Meow

by Melissa de la Cruz

  “That’s for me, thanks,” Billy said, taking the items.

  “Oh.”

  Billy dug into his ice cream.

  “A breakfast ice cream,” India noted dryly.

  After Billy had his breakfast, we convened for our weekly ideas meeting, when we planned the website’s features and decided which fashion moments to showcase on our web pages: the next trend, the next designer, the next idea, the next celebrity interview. The result of our decisions would affect the entire course of fashion for a day, a week, even a millennium! The stress was enormous, which is why during our meetings, Billy, India, and I always consumed several bottles of wine to help the flow.

  Billy opened the meeting with the standard question: “Anybody got any ideas?”

  India and I looked at each other blankly.

  “Um…”

  “Um…”

  “I have an idea!” India said.

  “You do?” Billy asked excitedly. “Share, share!”

  “I’ve been thinking … I can’t possibly go on as India anymore!” she cried.

  “What does this have to do with our weekly features?” Billy asked in befuddlement. Obviously, nothing—but then, wasn’t that what editorial ideas meetings were for? Last week at the ideas meeting, India, Billy, and I had debated the merits of snooty sales clerks at several illustrious designer boutiques and whether the fatfree Bundt cake we ordered for breakfast from the corner deli was actually fat-free.

  India ignored him, getting up to stick a manicured fingernail in our faces. “India! India! India! Every fucking clerk at Barneys or waitress at Balthazar or blow-job queen from Lotus is named fucking India!”

  “India Beresford-Givens is a lovely name!” I scolded her. “And may I point out you didn’t even have to make it up? Really. You’re so fortunate.”

  “Ladies?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can we get back to our ideas meeting now?” Billy asked, all business. “Now, which underage movie star are we going to feature on our splash page this week?”

  We finally settled on a budding child actress whom no one had ever heard of but who had recently appeared in her underwear in a high-profile movie for ten minutes. This was a brilliant inspiration on my part—equal to putting Gretchen Mol and Heath Ledger on the cover of, oh, just about any magazine. I was nothing if not a firm advocate for the creation of more dubious, quasifamous celebrities—especially since I was one—more Lisa Marie Presleys, more Debi Mazars, more Carson Dalys. More, more, more! I knew the world couldn’t get enough of pretty people who went to parties. What else could explain numerous magazine pictorials documenting the shopping habits of Jennifer Tilly?

  “Now, darlings, I’d love to stay, but I’ve got to make my rounds of celebrity garbage. Ta.” India’s “Depeche Merde” column routinely featured the latest from stars’ dust bins, through a sidebar called “Rubbish of the Rich and Famous,” wherein empty yogurt containers, DVD cardboard boxes, and used prophylactics were analyzed and critiqued by a panel of psychiatrists and assorted experts.

  “Hey, Billy, I’ve got an idea. You’ll love it,” I told him once India had left.

  “OK, shoot.”

  “You know how we run all these pictures of Ginny Bond, Lauren du Pont, and Serena Altschul in Party Patrol?”

  “Yes?”

  “I was thinking—we don’t really need to see all their faces again, do we? I mean, they’re already covered to death in every other magazine. Why not do something different?”

  “OK, what do you have in mind?”

  With Billy’s reluctant blessing, from that day forward, the only self-promoting fashionista/socialite featured in our society pages would be yours truly. Me at the opening of the ballet, me at the movie premiere, and me again shopping for endive in London’s hip Portobello market! Saving Arbiteur thousands in paparazzi costs, and bolstering my own status in the celebrity-socialite nexus! It would be just like the short-lived but seminal publication Ivana: Living in Style, except with me, not Ivana. That would show Teeny she wasn’t the only one who could smile prettily into a camera while affecting an air of supreme insouciance.

  “Now,” I said to Billy. “Where do you keep the fashion closet around here?”

  “Oh, it’s over there, through the kitchen and next to the bathroom. Why?” he asked.

  “I just thought I could work better, if it was in my apartment. You don’t mind, do you, Billy?” I followed his directions and was impressed to find the dining room had been converted into a well-stocked fashion closet—I spied Balenciaga ball gowns, Bruce denim jackets, even Tuleh feather boas. Perfect! I immediately called to confirm my appointment with the movers. Before Billy could protest, my boys were inside the apartment, lifting racks of coats, sweaters, goat-fur Gucci, and shelves of Christian Louboutin, Alain Tondowski, and Sigerson Morrison heels.

  “Let’s go, boys—lift those racks! Careful of the white Helmut Lang pantsuits!”

  Billy looked confused at first, then he shrugged. “Oh, well, I guess it’s better if I have a place to eat, anyway.”

  After I sent the movers to Tribeca, and the fashion closet was relocated in my own, I made the rounds of designer showrooms. Little-known but cutting-edge fashion outlets like ours routinely served as incubators for up-and-coming designers who had yet to see a stitch of theirs in the pages of Vogue. Visiting a showroom was the most crucial part of a market editor’s job, when she takes her team (in this case, there was only one member: moi) to see the new collections up close and talk to designers about their fresh ideas. Ideas are mucho importante in fashion. Why, without ideas we wouldn’t have ideas meetings. Fashion designers are an incredibly sweet bunch, I found. I simply walked into their showrooms and they handed me a steamer trunk filled with the entire collection.

  “Ooh, this isn’t in my size,” I pouted to a scruffy-headed neophyte designer who was dying to get his papier-mâché jackets and burnt jeans into Arbiteur’s next shoot.

  “It’s not? Terrence!” he barked at his assistant. “Make sure next time you give Cat the fours.” To me, he said, “I’m so sorry about that. It won’t happen next time.”

  “It’s fine,” I said graciously. “Don’t think two seconds about it.”

  “So the clothes will be in the next shoot?” he asked.

  “I’ll have to talk to Billy about it—but I don’t see why not.” I smiled.

  He gave me a great big hug and an extra steamer trunk full of clothes. Next time I’d have to bring a flatbed truck with me as there was simply not enough space in the town car for all the loot.

  I mean, ideas.

  The day’s bounty secured in my loft, I brought back a few random pieces that weren’t quite my style to show to Billy. Unfortunately, since I had kept almost all the clothes, there wasn’t much left for the model to wear.

  “So you’re sure there wasn’t anything in the showroom that was worthy other than these frilly pantaloons?” he asked.

  “Nothing.” I shook my head innocently. “Well, that’s all I have for today,” I told him, looking at my watch. It was almost time to meet India for our usual late-afternoon lunch at the hip new boîte in SoHo. I followed the rigorous schedule of fashion editors everywhere—a short morning meeting, a bountiful trip to a designer’s showroom, followed by a three-hour lunch at the most exclusive restaurant in town.

  “All righty, then. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “You’re not coming to lunch?” I asked, surprised. “It’s the hot new place. I don’t know about the food, but everyone will be there.”

  “Oh, I’m not much for eating out,” Billy explained. “I usually just order a turkey sandwich from the deli.”

  “All right,” I said. It suddenly occurred to me that I’d never seen Billy outside the confines of his home/office. I wondered if he ever went outside. He was rather pale, in an appealing Joaquin Phoenix way, without the cleft lip.

  The restaurant was a popular haven for pushy types from both old and new media. One
prominent magazine editor who was told it would be a forty-five-minute wait stomped off in a huff. I had no such problem, however, as India had slept with the maître d’ and was already waiting for me at a corner table when I arrived.

  I looked around the restaurant to see who else was there, and noticed Teeny across the way. She caught my eye and gave me the usual crooked wave with her fashion finger, which I reluctantly returned. Teeny stood up and her lunch date, whose back was turned to us, got up as well and helped her dutifully with her coat. As they walked toward the door, I caught a glimpse of her broad-shouldered companion. He had blond hair and was wearing a beautiful, slim-cut three-button suit. Then I saw the eye patch.

  It was Stephan! My heart sank and I immediately hid myself behind a menu. India kicked me under the table as they walked past us on their way out of the restaurant.

  “He’s not with her,” India hissed. “It’s just lunch. Lunch is nothing. Lunch is … lunch is… not romantic. Lunch is casual. Lunch is not a date. If he were really into her, he would be taking her to dinner. Now, dinner. That’s a sign.”

  “India, I love you to death, but don’t you see? It’s hopeless. I’m not good at this kind of thing. If he wants to be with her, fine. I really don’t care anymore. Liking someone is too icky. Too much trouble,” I blustered. “It gives me minuscule frown lines and makes me want to throw up—and you know I’m not supposed to do that anymore.” Inside, I was dying—dying. Had he taken her to see his upside-down view of the city as well? Were they together? They had to be. Teeny wasn’t one to waste her time with men who couldn’t help her with the bottom line.

  I should have stood up and said hello, at least, but like I said, I wasn’t built for uncomfortable situations. Instead, I swallowed my disappointment and hid behind a menu. Besides, I told myself bravely, there were more important things to worry about. It was that time again on the Fashion Calendar—New York Fashion Week!

  16.

  live from bryant park

  Aaah, New York Fashion Week. That magical time twice a year when hundreds of journalists, buyers, boutique owners, and celebrities from around the world converge upon a small, citywide block to watch the latest collections. Five glorious days of champagne, air kisses, and goodie bags! And this time I was part of the circus! In charge of reporting on the latest in the world of style. Jeanne Becker—watch your back! Suzy Menkes—eat my dust! Fashion wasn’t just a lifestyle choice anymore, it was also going to pay the bills; and what big bills they were. Arbiteur’s investment bankers told us that our IPO was scheduled for next month—and not a moment too soon. I was seriously overextended on the Arbiteur credit line.

  “Where the hell are you?” an agitated India asked, calling my cell the morning of the first day of Fashion Week.

  “I’ll be there in seconds,” I answered, as I didn’t want her to think I was slacking off on the job.

  “The show has started without you. And Billy wants to know if you remembered to bring the digital video camera.”

  Oops.

  “I’ll go back and get it.”

  “No—forget it, we’ll just steal the streaming video off the Catwalk.com website. They’ll never know.”

  “OK.”

  “Where are you?”

  I looked out the window and to my horror I saw the Statue of Liberty in the distance instead of the Empire State Building.

  “We’re at the tents, miss,” the chauffeur announced.

  “India, I’m at Battery Park!” Apparently the fool driver had mistaken the Big Apple Circus tents downtown for the 7th on Sixth tents in Midtown’s Bryant Park, which twice a year becomes the absolute center of the fashion universe.

  I gave the driver a talking-to and he was about to turn the car around when I spotted a designer outlet store around the corner. “Hold on!” I told him. Hmmm. Might as well pop in while I was down here. After all, the more I bought, the more I saved! I promised India I’d be at the show as soon as possible, but not until I checked out the outlet store’s offerings. After all, wasn’t fashion coverage all about shopping? Our readers would no doubt benefit from this excursion!

  Egads. Three o’clock already. Half of the day’s shows were already over, and I hadn’t even set foot in the correct tents yet. But the day was not wholly wasted: I was now the proud owner of several exquisite pieces purchased at a glorious discount. When I finally arrived at Bryant Park, I hid my bags from India, who was waiting for me on the entrance steps to the main tent. The tent doors were guarded vigilantly by a real “fashion police” force, a private security firm that checked invitations and press credentials before allowing one into the hallowed ground.

  India was trying very hard to have Bill Cunningham from The New York Times take her picture. Bill stood ten feet away from where India was affecting an apathetic manner, although she was outrageously outfitted in an attention-grabbing, multicolored sheared mink coat, bright leather chaps, and a gargantuan cowboy hat. Unfortunately, Bill was just as oblivious to India as she pretended to be to him.

  When India finally gave up on capturing his attention, she nodded to the guard, who allowed her inside, and I attempted to follow her but the guard physically blocked my entrance with his body.

  “Identification, please!” he roared.

  “I’m here for the shows—I’m with Arbiteur” I argued.

  “Where’s your invitation?”

  I searched inside my overstuffed handbag for my invitation. MP3 player, wallet, cell phone, beeper, Palm Pilot, tape recorder, receipts from the day’s shopping excursion. But no lacy G-string with my seat assignment on it. (“Welcome,” it read on the crotch.) Terribly disturbing, as I had expressly given Bannerjee direct orders to prepare my handbag for Fashion Week, and I was sure I had told her not to forget the invitations.

  “What about an ID or a press pass?” the door goon grunted.

  But I never carried an ID for fear of revealing my real age! And neither Billy nor India had mentioned I needed a press pass. India gave me a frustrated look from the other side and I gestured for her to go on ahead.

  “Here—what about this?” I asked, showing him an “international student ID” acquired in college for pre-twenty-one drinking binges.

  No dice.

  “Can I at least sit at the café?” I asked, meaning the outdoor reception area where the Moët & Chandon flowed freely. This was a perk provided by the organizers to help the fashion folk recover from “a hard day of shows.” I was already exhausted but had yet to see one anorexic model in an unwearable creation slouch down the runway to neo-Gregorian ambient jungle trip-hop.

  “All right,” he growled.

  Who needs to see a fashion show when one can drink champagne? I eyed the canapés on the tray and glanced around to see if anyone was looking in my direction.

  “Hey there, you,” a familiar voice called.

  I looked up, in mid-cucumber-sandwich crunch. “Stephan!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” The fashion shows had become very popular among well-heeled businessmen of all types, who usually finagled tickets through corporate sponsors. They regarded the shows as the newest spectator sport. This suit-and-cell-phone crowd could be spotted at any high-profile media event: ringside at heavyweight boxing matches at Atlantic City, courtside at Madison Square Garden during the play-offs. During Fashion Week they could usually be counted on to ogle models from the front rows, seated in between the rows of disdainful editors and distressed buyers from department stores, who had the thankless job of selling the public on three-armed sweaters and diaphanous day-wear.

  “A friend of mine invited me to a show, and I thought I’d pop in during my lunch hour,” he explained. “Why aren’t you inside? I came too late and they had given my seat away.”

  “I was running late as well. I’m here for Arbiteur,” I explained.

  “What’s Arbiteur?”

  “It’s a new fashion website. We’re quite influential; I’m surprised you haven’t heard of us,” I chided.


  “Forgive me?” he teased.

  “Anyway, I just needed something to do,” I said airily. “It’s not like a job or anything….”

  “Oh, of course.” He nodded. “And how’s the baby?”

  “Boing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Her name is Boing,” I said defensively. “It’s an ancient Chinese name.”

  “Interesting choice.” He grinned. “It’s very distinctive.”

  “And for your information, she’s fine, thanks.”

  “So,” he paused, looking at me with those piercing eyes. “Where did you disappear to? I went to visit you but your doorman said you had moved to the Mercer Hotel. But when I called there they said you had checked out. So I called Information, but you’re not listed.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. I’ve moved to a loft in Tribeca. Have you heard of Brother Parish? The interior decorator? He’s rearticularized my space into a dichotomy of form and function,” I babbled, trying to remember what Brother Parish had said. “Brother Parish hates clutter. He’s very minimalist. I can’t put anything anywhere, because he designed all the surfaces in the apartment to have a slight tilt—if I stack magazines and papers on them, they fall to the floor. That’s minimalism for you.”

  He laughed, and his one good eye crinkled charmingly. “You’re insane.”

  “I’m intriguing,” I retorted.

  He smiled and I sipped my champagne. He hovered nearer. Our champagne glasses clinked, and I slowly closed my eyes. This time I would get it right. It’s amazing—the last time I was this infatuated it was with a pair of knee-high snakeskin boots, and I knew they would be mine. I could smell the sweetness of his breath, a mixture of cigarettes and champagne and Aqua di Parma. Then …