Cat's Meow by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

trendy than Chinese?
    “I’ve been meaning to call you and I know you won’t believe it, but I lost your number. I put it in my coat pocket and it must have fallen out,” he explained.
    “You did?”
    “You’re very hard to track down, you know. I called Information but you aren’t listed. I asked Cece if she had your number and she said her maid lost her Rolodex. Then I was sure I’d see you at the Fiesta for Fetal Disease, but you weren’t even at the opening at the Brecht revival at the Prada store downtown.”
    “I’ve been… uh… away,” I said, extremely pleased that he had noticed my absence.
    “So how is she?”
    “Who?”
    “Your baby.”
    “My baby? Oh, right. Her arrival has been delayed … er … indefinitely.” I felt a strong wave of guilt. Bannerjee had called the other night, complaining about being stuck in a dingy hotel room watching MTV China (Lionel Ritchie videos on constant airplay). She told me she didn’t move all the way from Sri Lanka to the Upper East Side only to be stuck in a flea trap in Shanghai. I had meant to send an application for Banny’s visa to the U.S. embassy, but India told me it would be much, much easier if I turned to an immigration lawyer on Fulton Street instead.
    Oh, that’s too bad.”
    “I know,” I agreed mournfully. I was never one for delayed gratification, and reading
What to Expect When You’re Expecting from China,
as well as
Dr. Shock’s International Adopted Baby Book only
made the baby’s absence more pronounced. To think that I was losing precious bonding moments every second she spent in that awful orphanage!
    “Anyway, what are you doing here?” I asked,
    “I live up the block,” he replied, and waved toward a high-rise farther up Fifth Avenue.
    “Oh, so you’ve finally settled on an apartment?” I asked, remembering the Corcoran brokers Cece had mentioned.
    “You could say that.” He nodded.
    “I’m just around the corner, at 740½ Park. The penthouse.” My co-op was
right next door
to 740 Park, the most prestigious address in Manhattan, the palatial building which the Lauders, the Rosses, the Steinbergs all called home at one point, and where John D. Rockefeller once owned his famous penthouse triplex. Unfortunately, Daddy had been rejected by the 740 co-op board, and had had to settle for 740½.
    “Excellent.”
    “We’re practically neighbors,” I said. “Do you want a ride home?” I asked, as a taxi pulled up by the curb.
    “No—no.” He shook his head. “I like to walk.”
    “You walk?”
    “I walk everywhere. It’s a great way to see the city…. Hey, maybe … oh, forget it.”
    “What?”
    “No, you probably won’t want to.”
    “Want to what?”
    “Would you like to take a walk with me?”
    “Right now?” I asked.
    “Sure, why not?” He smiled.
    “Walk?” I repeated, looking down at my Manolos skeptically. “I suppose I could try,” I conceded, although I preferred my views of the city to be through tinted-glass windows. I sent the cab away.
    “C’mon. There’s something I want to show you. I think you’d enjoy it.” I took the arm he offered and we ventured into the twilight.
    It was almost midnight when I arrived home. The neighborhood was deserted save for random bunches of sixteen-year-old Spence girls breaking curfew, wearing skimpy dresses and their mother’s Gucci heels on their way downtown to Spa.
    “I had a fabulous time,” I told him, and giggled as I looked down at my feet. Instead of my caramel slingbacks was a pair of canvas Tweety Bird sneakers purchased at a ninety-nine-cent store. I had lasted all of ten blocks in my high heels—a veritable record.
    “So did I.” He smiled.
    “You know,” I said shyly. “There’s a new restaurant that’s just opened around here.”
    “There is?”
    “Yes…” I said, and held my breath. “Maybe we can check it out sometime. You know, if you’re not, um, busy or anything.”
    He shrugged. “Why not? Maybe I’ll stop by