Cat's Meow by Melissa de La Cruz

This week’s offerings include a funeral for a highly esteemed fashion editor, a baby shower for a pregnant socialite, and the launch of Geraldo Rivera’s new magazine, G.
    Boo. None of my ideas panned out as planned. Tiffany’s people called to say my collection of millennial Gucci was a no-go. Apparently I would have to wait more than a few years before these were declared “classic.” Nor would I be able to declare myself the Messiah, as an Orthodox rabbi from Crown Heights had already done so. And while E-VIParty.com was doing a brisk business, I soon received nasty phone calls from several annoyed publicists, including my own. Apparently they were receiving phone calls from a Camaro-load of no-names from New Jersey for their events, and when these arrivistes were asked how the private RSVP numbers had been infiltrated, all signs pointed back to my website. “Caf, I simfly von’t allow vis. Ees bad for imaje,” Heidi snarled, when I explained what happened. Reluctantly, I sent home my heartbroken staff of twelve-year-old computer geeks, who monitored the party invitation auction website for a salary of beer, pizza, and pornography.
    I was so depressed I cabbed to Barneys and charged new platform pumps to my MasterCard pronto. So much for that nonshopping embargo.
    Of course, there was still the off chance that Stephan of Westoma would fall head over heels in love with me, acquiesce to a quickie marriage, and elevate me back to the upper echelon, where I belonged, thereby resolving all my financial difficulties. But it had already been two weeks and I had yet to hear from him, or this so-called “friend” who was interested in Chinese adoption. Against my better nature, I had taken to waiting religiously by the phone in the hope that it would ring.
    “Has he called yet?” India asked a few days after E-VIParty.com was shelved.
    “No,” I moped. “Maybe he’s not interested.”
    “How could he not be interested in you!” India said, offended at the very thought. “Of course not. He’s probably just busy. Why didn’t you ask for his number?”
    “Because,” I whined, “I would never call him anyway.”
    “Why not?”
    India was of the mind that all the incredibly silly traditions of modern dating were just that—incredibly silly. If India wanted a man, she stepped right up and told him, point-blank. It usually worked or else the gentleman in question called the police. The sight of a six-foot-four transsexual in five-inch heels and full-throttle seductive mode was more than ordinary men could handle. Fortunately for India, she was attracted to sterner stuff: garbage men, nineteen-year-old go-go dancers, construction workers, and all sorts of “rough trade.” But even India wasn’t invincible. Since the night of the Chinese Orphans Benefit, her generous patron had been incommunicado and, worse, had been spotted at the transgender watering-hole Edelweiss, in none other than Venus de Milosevic’s clutches. Not an ideal situation, especially since India’s rent was due in a week.
    *  *  *
    Although they were tempting, I purposefully avoided several charity galas where I was sure to bump into Stephan. For one, I didn’t have the money to spare for a ticket, and it would just be too embarrassing to see him in public while he hadn’t called me in the interim.
    It was pure luck that I brushed past him as I left India’s building one evening. Wearing a dapper three-button herringbone-tweed suit and carrying a smart attaché case, Stephan crossed the street in front of me just as I was hailing a taxicab.
    “Cat!”
    “Stephan!”
    “I’m so glad I ran into you!” he said without a trace of insincerity.
    “Really?”
    “I’ve been meaning to tell you—my friends decided not to adopt.”
    “No?”
    “At least not from China. They went Romanian. They saw a Very Special Episode of 20/20.”
    “Oh, how wonderful,” I said, wondering if they knew something I didn’t. Was Romanian more