Being Audrey Hepburn (12 page)

It hadn’t been easy to get Jess going. I swear, I thought she was going to burst into tears when she made the first cut. I kept telling her, it’s not like she did anything but shorten it a bit and remove a little of the boning in the bodice to keep it from impaling me, a brutal side effect of my being so short-waisted. But Jess was completely freaked out about doing even that. If there hadn’t been a bit of damage to the hem already, I might never have gotten her over the hump. Of course, after that first adjustment, she was totally hooked.

In one of the bathroom stalls, I slipped into the dress while Jess stood guard. She insisted on a final touch-up, adding a little color to my eyes and lips. I half-expected her to spit on her finger and clean my face like Mom used to do when I was little.

Once dressed, we wished each other luck and discretely parted company. Making my way into the center of the party, I tried to get my nerve up to intrude on a few choice subjects. As a backup, Jess got ready to snap candids from the sidelines. If the police dragged me away, she’d get those, too, and sell them to
The Post
for bail.

I walked around the party for fifteen minutes, eyeballing various photographers, checking out who they were covering, and trying to work up the nerve to do something.

Bingo. One photographer had lined up two horse-faced banker types, which I figured would be an easy place to start. Old guys never turned down a young girl. I inserted myself between them, linking my arms in theirs as the photographer snapped away. My heart was beating as quickly as a hummingbird from the outright deception of it all, but at least there was one more photo of my alter ego. One of the old guys grabbed my ass, by the way.

Jess steered me over to a lineup of six debutantes who I assumed had wandered in from the hotel next door. They seemed so out of place, chatting away with deep southern accents, wearing the old-fashioned deb look, long white gloves and all. I stepped into Jess’s shot and posed just as the flash went off, acting as if we were long-lost sorority sisters or something. My modified Dior in a sea of hillbilly debutantes.

Slipping away, I downed a flute of champagne from a waiter and photobombed another quick four shots, hanging out mostly in the background as if I was laughing or talking to someone. I wound my way to Jess, who was lingering by the bar to take a breather. She gave me a thumbs-up.

“The Dior really popped against all those traditional styles. It’s going to be a cool shot for my portfolio,” Jess said.

“Glad to oblige, my dear, but maybe we should leave before someone realizes I’m a total fake.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, “but get me a drink before we go? I’ve got to pee.”

“Sure thing and thanks for sharing.” I waved to the bartender for more champagne while mentally critiquing my performance. I was feeling pretty self-satisfied when a good-looking man sidled up to the bar in a black suit with a lavender shirt.

“Oh, how awful,” he said to no one in particular. He was assessing the same giggling gush of debutantes I had photobombed earlier. “A tsunami, don’t you think?” And to my terror, he turned as if he were talking to me.

“Pardon?” I asked. But I was really thinking:
Oh my god, that’s Isak Guerrere.

Isak Guerrere, the handsome, uberfamous fashion designer who had owned and lost his own line many times and had become single-name famous for being Isak more than anything else. That and his fashion reality show, which I watched religiously. His rugged good looks made you wish he wasn’t gay. But the makeup defining his cheekbones and his jellied hair confirmed beyond a doubt that he was.

“I said, those debs are an utter
disaster,
a fashion tsunami, don’t you think?” His piercing eyes were unabashedly taking in every inch of me, my hair, my dress, my shoes. No detail eluded his glance. To say I felt like a deer caught in the headlights is an understatement. Fearing panic, I pushed my brain to say something, anything.

“Perhaps it’s a reenactment of a decisive moment in fashion history?” I offered, feigning nonchalance, crossing my fingers under the bar, hoping that would suffice.

“Ah yes, but fashion history is always subject to revision,” he said, smiling.

Returning from the bathroom, Jess froze in her tracks when she saw who I was talking to. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of their sockets.

“Speaking of which, what are you wearing, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I almost choked on my champagne.

“Manners, manners, my apologies. I’m Isak Guerrere.”

“Of course,” I said, recovering. “I’m a huge fan of the design you created for Natalie Portman for the Golden Globes. Pure Genius.” See? Six years of obsessing over celebrity blogs wasn’t all for nothing.

“Really? Well, thank you, that was one of my favorites,” he said offhandedly. “And you would be?”

“Lisbeth Dulac, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It felt more like playing a part in a play than a lie.
Think Audrey. Think Audrey.

“Dulac,” he said, as though he were attempting to place the name. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. “Lisbeth Dulac,” he said, taking my hands in both of his, “do let us look at what you’re wearing.” I wanted to bolt, but the way he held my hands made me feel trapped.

“Vintage, Dior. Or is it?” His expression serious, his eyes wild.

Up close, his jellied hair made him look crazy, like a mad scientist. I did my best to be bright and pretty despite his scrutiny.

“Your dress is giving me a fashgasm,” he said. It was such a goofy thing to say that I couldn’t stop myself from giggling. Isak seemed slightly offended.

“Laugh if you like, but your dress is incredibly foolhardy, mildly blasphemous but stunning. And the designer would be?” he demanded.

Moving in closer to him, I whispered, “I hope you’ll understand that I can’t reveal the designer.” He eyed me suspiciously.

“It’s your secret?” He feigned shock but seemed intrigued and satisfied—for the moment.

“Yes, I appreciate your discretion.”

“Completely unique and perfectly fitted,” he whispered, “as exceptional as the wearer.” Isak flagged a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses.

“A toast,” he said, “to my very stylish new friend.”

I beamed. Jess was going to
die
when she heard what Isak had said about her dress.

“Thank you,” I said, bullet dodged.

Champagne flowed, and soon my worries bubbled away. Isak and I were laughing like the best of friends.

“Now tell me, Lisbeth, two things you’ve done recently that you’ve never done before,” he asked. He seemed so taken with me. Jess discretely snapped pictures from a distance.

“Well, I’ve met a wonderful fashion designer, named Isak,” I said.

“Thanks for the plug. That’s one, and two…?”

“Well, let me see. Oh, I started a blog.” I immediately regretted saying so.

“Indeed! Its name?”

“Oh, I’m embarrassed. It’s really nothing,” I said, meaning every single word of it.

“Come now.”

“Shades of Limelight, but I’ve only just started,” I said, feeling totally self-conscious.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I love the quote. It cuts both ways, clever girl,” he said. A little smile turned at the corner of his mouth. My heart sank, fearing I had exposed myself more than I should have.

Jess signaled we should leave. She probably could tell I was worried.

“Well, Isak dear, I can see we could chat forever,” I said, rising from the bar, “but it’s time for me to leave. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t realize how much I had been drinking until I stood up.

“I do mind quite a lot, but it’s been charming,” he said, standing and taking my hand. “I trust I will see you again soon?”

“I hope so,” I said and did my very best to exit gracefully without stumbling on my heels.

That night, Jess and I practically peed ourselves laughing as we clicked through the photos on her camera, reliving every glorious second of the adventure. Had we really gotten away with it so easily? Jess’s first redo was so spectacular that none other than Isak Guerrere had taken notice. I didn’t mention anything about the blog. I didn’t want her to worry.

The next night we planned to return to the scene of the crime—the Met.

A nagging part of me worried we were pushing our luck.

18

I couldn’t help mulling over in my mind the conversation with Isak. Every moment of our encounter was delicious. Although I faked every bit of my savoir faire, I had done so quite successfully. There seemed to be some value in that, as if I had stitched together a life and personality in real time as I talked to him. I had acted as if I were
somebody,
a person with a point of view and personality. Isak seemed to be genuinely interested in what I had to say.

I was also somebody with an opinion, but they were buried down where no one would hear or see them. Now I had a reason to drag them out of the dark pockets of my mind and bring them into the light. Specifically, the “limelight.”

Spilling the beans to Isak Guerrere, of all people, meant that I’d have to actually make a few entries on my fledgling blog if I was going to make this work.

In order to comfort myself and get going, I imagined bravely talking to Isak as if my opinion mattered. I opened up the blog page and began writing my first full entry.

“Standing pigeon-toed in a new dress and posing with your head tilted at a 45 degree angle doesn’t hack it anymore,” I wrote. “If you want to find the heart of fashion, you need to start small—one detail at a time, one stitch followed by the next. It’s as much about removing the clutter as finding the next fashion design.”

I took a deep breath to read and reread what I had written. Satisfied, I continued.

“The film director Steven Soderbergh once said, The making of any art is just problem solving. You have to eliminate the versions that aren’t any good. Then you see what you have left.” I wasn’t sure where I had heard that quote, but at least I wasn’t quoting Chanel like every other fashion blog.

“Fashion is certainly more than dressing your Barbie. It’s one choice at a time, step by step.” I thought for a moment before continuing.

“A button, a shoe, a glove that fits just right—that’s what this blog will be about. It’s about examining fashion from the ground up, detail by detail, appreciating the art and craftsmanship that goes into perfecting each item. Little by little, I’ll build from there to show you, my dear reader, that anyone can go from nothing to something and sustain your soul in all shades of limelight.”

Phew, it almost sounded pithy.

Laying out Jess’s modified Dior as well as a few items from Nan’s treasure trove, I clicked my little digital camera, photographing a few of the wonderful buttons Jess had added, the hem she had modified, the corner of the collar, the wonderful hand stitching inside.

I shot everything out against white, so that the photo frame was invisible on the blog page. I wanted just the bare, stark essentials. I ended with another quote I remembered from that fashion neophyte, Winnie the Pooh.

“Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

I took a deep breath and went back and double-checked everything. Filling in the “about me” link, I wrote:

Hello. Starting a new blog is like starting a relationship. In the beginning, it’s fresh, promising, and new. I hope for both our sakes it stays that way. I pledge to be a good chum and post frequently and share a few designs from my friend, Designer X, a secret well kept who is fated to shine.

This was the beginning. Next stop—the Met.

19

Crashing another event at the Met was not our first choice. It was only because we couldn’t find anything else on the social calendar that we had any chance of getting into. Jess was still worried about Mr. Myers. There was nothing else going on in the museum that night, so the chances were slim that he’d show at an event like this. Mr. Myers wasn’t exactly a socialite.

Save the Cheetah Night was the name of the event. I hadn’t seen too many cheetahs lately, so they were definitely scarce. Although poverty also seemed like a worthy cause, I’d read there was compassion fatigue in the “what jewels should I wear tonight” set, so I guessed cheetahs were a tad easier to feel sorry for.

I was wearing the sky-blue silk taffeta gown, the very first one we’d found in Nan’s storage unit. Jess replaced a limp satin ribbon sash with a funky hand-beaded band and thinned out the tulle under the skirt, among other alterations. It was drop-dead gorgeous.

Slipping through a service entrance near the cafeteria, I sidestepped the beefy
Men in Black
security guys and snuck into the main gala without being noticed.

The anxious little beast in my belly was squirming around like crazy. Everywhere, I saw security cameras and guards. What if my presence jogged the memory of one of the security people or gave some detective the last clue he or she needed to put the whole escapade together? I took deep breaths.

Adam Levine from Maroon 5, whom I consider a total sex god, was standing with a reporter and photographer from US Weekly. The reporter was actually waiting for Adam and a couple other guys from the group to pose for a picture, so I just moseyed right up to them.

Seriously. I think that Nan’s taffeta gown gave me superpowers or something. Just before the photographer snapped the picture, I jumped in between them as if I’d started the freaking band myself. Adam sort of cracked up, posing with a funny grin on his face and putting his arm around my waist, just as the photographer snapped the picture.

“Wonderful, darling,” I said in my best Audrey voice as I twirled to face Adam, my back to the reporter before he could ask my name. I was shaking, but I channeled Holly Golightly and her “life is a continuous cocktail party” attitude.

“And how is the secret album coming along?” I whispered.

He seemed taken by surprise, quite clearly wondering who the hell I was and how I knew that he was working on a new album—just a total lame guess—aren’t they all working on one?