Cat's Meow by Melissa de La Cruz Page B

sometime next week and we’ll do that.”
    “Anytime,” I said. “You know where I live. Come by and see me.”
    “I will.”
    We stood there awkwardly, and it struck me that I didn’t know what to do next. I was so out of practice! He stood with his hands behind his back and looked at me expectantly.
    “Well…good night,” I ventured.
    “Good night,” he said, and continued to stand there, away from me.
    I gave him a half-smile and turned away. The night doorman held open the door expectantly and I walked through it. Oh, well. Next time.

9.
the new tenant

    T he next day I realized that if I wanted to continue to eat I would have to exchange gift certificates I’d received as birthday presents for cash. Barring no other options, I placed a call to Mr. Bartleby-Smythe.
    “I’m willing to lease the penthouse,” I told him reluctantly.
    “Wonderful news!” he replied. “And it just so happens I’ve already got a tenant for the apartment. I’ll send them over immediately.”
    Since I would have to let go of the household staff, I temporarily settled that issue by deciding to move into a one-bedroom suite at the Mercer Hotel in SoHo. Hotel living would more than make up for the loss of my chef, my butler, my footman, the army of liveried servants, and the woman who came in every week to alphabetize my moisturizers. My belongings were going into storage, and were neatly packed into an array of T. Anthony steamer trunks. It never ceased to amaze me how much stuff I’ve accumulated over the years: Greek and Roman statuary from my antiquing phase, the many canvases of broken crockery, not to mention my collection of ancient Japanese kimonos from the fifteenth century. Packing away my clothes posed a Herculean task and I sorely missed Bannerjee’s adept sense of organization, but for now vintage, designer, vintage designer, ironic, costume, evening, and hip-hop were all scrambled together in one big loading case and I figured I could sort it all out later when she returned.
    I was taking care of last-minute errands, making sure I had remembered to pack all the unopened bottles of champagne from the Sub-Zero, wrapping my Lejaby bras in acid-free tissue paper, when India popped in from the other room. She was helping me move, as well as helping herself to some of my possessions. Her financial situation was just as desperate as mine, and I marveled that she could be so nonplussed concerning the about-turn her generous patron’s heart had taken. The possibility of eviction didn’t seem to upset her as much as it should have. “Oh, I’m not worried, darling,” she said. “After all, I can always move in with you at the Mercer.” Which was true, although if Bannerjee ever came back with the baby it would make for cramped quarters indeed. What with India’s wigs and my shoes, there would be no space for a cradle, let alone the gargantuan Chanel baby stroller I had set my heart on for the arrival of my first-bought.
    “Cat, you don’t need this, do you?” India asked, holding up two glowsticks from my rave phase. “I think I can put them to use….”
    I was about to protest when the doorman buzzed.
    “A visitor for Miss McAllister,” he announced on the intercom.
    “Who’s there?” India inquired.
    “I’ve no idea.” I shrugged. What did this look like, a Southern porch? True New Yorkers know
never
to arrive unannounced.
    The butler opened the door, and before I could see who it was, a piercing sound assaulted my eardrums. “CAAATTT darling!!” There was only one woman in Manhattan whose voice decibel range matched my own. It could only be …
    “Teeny?” I gasped.
    “I’m, uh—” She was interrupted by muscle-bound movers who elbowed her out of the way, gingerly lifting Marlene Dietrich’s grand piano (I still hadn’t met a dead-celebrity auction I couldresist). A harried-looking man followed her inside. He wiped his brow profusely and surveyed the premises with a proprietary air I