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You’re not broke. How can you be broke? Rich people never go broke. Look at Michael Milken.”
    “What about you, darling, you’re broke?” I said thoughtfully.
    “I am a scion of a crumbling British estate. We’ve been broke since the fourteenth century. By now, it’s tradition,” she said. India paid for her lifestyle by doing freelance styling gigs for artsy fashion magazines around town, and the rare cocktail lounge act, singing those good old New Wave tunes, and to my understanding she was also not adverse to accepting large amounts of money from a certain generous patron who preferred his ladies to be of the transsexual variety. “But you Americans are never really bankrupt—you’re just experiencing negative cash flow,” she said.
    “Are you sure?” I asked.
    “Positive,” India soothed.
    “Anyway, I suppose I could call my mother if worse comes to worst,” I said lightly.
    “Oh, of course. Where is she again?”
    “Well, there was a picture of her at the Save Venice ball,” I said. “But then I think I read in
Manhattan File
that she was off to the Bahamas. I suppose I could always leave her a message in Palm Beach, she’s sure to end up there …”
    “In September …” India said doubtfully.
    “Three months from now …” I finished. It was useless. By that time, I could be living out of a box! This was just like my first year in boarding school, when I was the only child who arrived sans underwear and a toothbrush because Mummy had forgotten to pack them.
    Yawwwn. “So what are we doing tonight?” I asked, changing the subject. I didn’t like to think of myself as neglected so much as indulgently brought up with minimal parental supervision. I shuffled the papers idly, flipping through the New York
Post
—thousands murdered in the Bronx, political campaigns-ho-hum—ah, here it was. Page Six.
    “AAAACCCKKK!”
    I dropped the phone in horror, then examined the rest of the papers hurriedly. But it was all the same!
    Bannerjee entered the room at the sound of my voice. “Miss Cat!” she said fearfully.
    “Cat, what’s wrong? Cat, are you still there?” India called from the receiver.
    I ignored both of them. It appeared Heidi had done her job after all. There it was—
my party
—the lead item above the Sean Delonas cartoon! The club was described as “exhibiting a post-apocalyptic grandeur not seen since Club USA opened in Times Square,” and the list of boldface names ran the gamut from Justine Bateman to Dweezil Zappa. Strangely, there was no mention of Aerin Lauder, Li’l Kim, or Stella McCartney—how could these intrepid reporters have missed them? Still, it was everything I’d dreamed about—except for one key detail. Precious column inches were devoted to describing the actions of one Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie! “Hello to the New Downtown Diva” read the headline. “Intended for a birthday celebrant who never showed up, the brazen but lovable fashionista-socialite Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der Hominie ended hours of waiting by taking it upon herself to daintily blow out the candles on a frosted pink birthday cake. ‘Well—I
am
good at blowing,’ she giggled as an SRO crowd impatiently waited for the laser light show to begin.”
    It got worse—accompanying the text was a picture of Teeny arriving at the party on the arm of Stephan of Westonia. She had been his plus one! Needless to say, that was as close as I came to getting any press for my birthday. Was this public humiliation? Gross public indifference was more like it. Even Liz Smith, Cindy Adams, and the
Daily News
’ Rush and Molloy had run perfunctory mentions about the party, but only because a drunken supermodel had to be carried off the dance floor.
    “Cat? Is everything all right?” India asked.
    I retrieved the phone from underneath the bed. “Teeny.” I cursed. “India—why didn’t you tell me?”
    *  *  *
    As far back as I could remember, Teeny Wong Finklestein Van der