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of sexually transmitted diseases. But the absolute worst thing I could do to a girl like Teeny was to make her poor. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much I could do about Generation Y’s buying power, or teenagers’ predilection for ersatz couture.
    Teeny was the kind of girl who was always in the spotlight—and she had stolen my moment away from me.
    This would not do. This would not do at all. I felt dizzy and weak—overwhelmed by the magnitude of my failure and missed opportunity.
    “India—meet me at Barneys, fourth floor, now,” I said in a strangled voice.
    “Right.”
    I set down the phone. “Banny—send for the car.”
    Before I left, the phone rang but this time I let the machine answer it. “Miss McAllister, this is Ms. Walters from Citibank. Please call me back to arrange payment on your overdrawn accounts.”
    Overdrawn schmoverdrawn. This was an emergency! Citibank be damned. I still had my
Amex
card.

5.
charity begins at home: the china syndrome

    D arling, I do think I feel right as rain,” I said to India as we perused the minimal racks, pulling out crinkled Issey Miyake shirts and bulky Dries Van Noten sweaters. “It’s amazing how … medicinal this all is. I’ve almost forgotten about that hideous party.”
    “Mmmmm,” India agreed. “Thank God for unlimited credit limits.”
    Party poopers like Overspenders Anonymous will tell you that shopping is a disease. An addiction—something that leads to an overstuffed closet full of collapsed clothes racks and, say, fifty plastic storage bins full of Fendi bags. By my last count I owned 350 pants in the same color (black) and a collection of seventy-five white T-shirts—clothes that
I can’t even wear
because the last time I tried to pull out a pair of pants the rack
fell on me
. So of course they’re right—it
is
a compulsion—otherwise, where would be the
fun
, I ask you—but I never really regarded it as a
problem
. Problems are things like the Middle East and starving children in China. Shopping is merely a sport.
    Barneys is the shopping decathlon. It takes energy, concentration, and an honest perception of what your body can handle. The weak-willed and the self-delusional need
not
apply. Now, I asked India, as I walked out of the dressing room to stand in front of the three-way mirror, what is your honest, honest opinion of my butt in these Alexander McQueen bumsters?
    “An excellent choice,” a low voice drawled.
    I turned around and almost bounced out of my bumsters. India was nowhere to be found—probably lost in the black hole that was the Manolo Blahnik boutique—and instead standing in front of me was the exiled prince, His Royal Highness, Stephan of Westonia himself! He was indeed nice-looking, especially with the eye patch. Tall, with somewhat craggy features but a handsome solidity. Broad shouldered. And wearing the most heavenly narrow-cut wool suit with a beautiful spread collar. Mmmm … and he smelled delicious, even familiar.
    “You’re going to want to wear them this way,” he said, coming up behind me and putting his hands squarely on my hips and tugging down at the waistline. “There, that’s better,” he said, stepping aside.
    “You think?” I asked coyly, pursing my lips and examining my reflection in the mirror.
    “Definitely.” He nodded, appraising me from head to toe, his gaze finally settling upon the litter of chic black shopping bags piled at my feet.
    “Do you always come up to strange women at Barneys?” I asked flirtatiously.
    “Oh, I’m sorry, if you’d like I can—”
    “Darling, I’m just joking. I’m Cat McAllister, I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced,” I said, offering my hand.
    “I’m—”
    “Oh, I know who you are,” I said airily. “I mean—you’reStephan, aren’t you? You were at my birthday party the other night.”
    “Uhmm …” He looked flustered, and peered from side to side worriedly, as if on the lookout for a hidden photographer.
    “Oh,