Being Audrey Hepburn (16 page)

“It’s … stunning,” I breathed, yanking off my clothes and stepping into it quickly. Jess just nodded agreement as she fussed with the zipper.

“Thank God you don’t have any boobs; this bodice is pretty snug as it is.” She grinned at my reflection in the mirror.

“I’ll ignore that comment,” I said. As she zipped up the dress, I felt an exciting surge run through me. She pulled a tiny clutch adorned with feathers out of the bottom of the garment bag.

“I did a purse for you with peacock feathers. I couldn’t resist,” she said, and I swear it felt like Christmas.

“Oh, Jess, it’s perfect.”

“It has a secret pocket in the lining for your ID,” she said. “That way, you can tell ZK you forgot it and preserve your secret identity, but if you need it coming home or whatever, you’ll have it.”

“You’re way ahead of me,” I said.

Opening the little peacock clutch, I gasped the second I realized that Jess had lined it with some of the green satin left over from the Valentino.

“Waste not, want not,” she said. “Or maybe it’s waste not, don’t have to fork over cash for lining fabric. Something like that.”

I set the clutch back down inside the garment bag; I didn’t want to accidentally splash water or get makeup on it or anything. It was almost too perfect to touch. Jess was watching me in the mirror.

“You do clean up nicely,” she said. “Oh shit, I was in such a hurry to get the dress done, I forgot all about jewelry.”

“No worries,” I said and reached over to my bag. “I actually brought this funky jade pendant on a tiny gold chain. I took one of the loose pieces from Nan’s treasure chest and placed it on my one gold chain.”

As I put the necklace on, Jess stood back to check me over.

“That really works,” she said. “It’s so delicate, I wouldn’t have thought to put it with that dress, but it absolutely makes the whole ensemble.”

“Thanks.”

“You really do have an eye for style,” she said.

I hugged her. I don’t know why tears started rolling down my cheeks. Or why I thought that was about the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me. I didn’t want to cry, it was just that it meant a lot coming from Jess. The whole thing started to feel so momentous, like I was on the precipice of something big, like I might actually have a shot at this vague idea of the life I wanted, even though I couldn’t begin to explain what it was. If it weren’t for Jess and Nan, I
never
would have gotten this close.

Jess pulled back, grabbed a tissue, and dabbed my eyes.

“Come on, you’d don’t want your face all red and puffy.”

“Thanks, Jess,” I said, trying to stop. “Thanks for everything.”

She grinned and tapped her watch. “We’re on a schedule here—get moving.”

Spreading my makeup over the countertop, I gave myself a little birdbath in the sink to get the fry smell off. I needed to leave in like ten minutes, or I’d never make it to the city in time.

Another problem was my hair. It was too gross to wear down, and I swear if ZK got close enough, he’d smell the fried eggs and grilled cheese sandwiches. Wearing it up and spraying the hell out of it was the only solution, so Jess twisted my hair into an updo as I applied eye makeup.

False eyelashes, the application of which I spent a good chunk of the day trying to master, were the eighth wonder of the world. Thank God for YouTube is all I could say. Two minutes later, and I was instantly glamorous. Audrey would absolutely approve. Barely blushed cheeks, muted red lips, and I was ready to roll.

“Shit. Shoes?” I had totally forgotten. My Converse sneakers were not going to cut it.

“I hope these will do?” Jess said, dangling a pair of heels on the end of her finger as if she had read my mind.

“Louboutins!” I squealed. I couldn’t help it.

“Scored them on eBay. Had to repair the heel. They’ll only work for a night or two.”

“Almost as good as a glass slipper,” I said, bending over to put them on. Shoes had begun to be a bit of a challenge. Jess and I had gone to her favorite thrift store at St. Luke’s Church in Hell’s Kitchen and found a pair of very cool snakeskin stilettos with these funky crystals and some strappy sandals that she embellished with tiny strands of pearls and a pair of mismatched but coordinated brooches, but we couldn’t find anything formal.

The great thing about the Louboutins was that they were invisible. Stylish and current enough not to out me as a poseur, but so go-with-everything neutral that no one would remember them from one event to the next.

I stood as far back as I could in the Hole’s speckled and ancient ladies’ room mirror, until my back was almost right up against the peeling pink wall. The stunning green of the dress looked wondrous, even in the flickering fluorescent lights.

“You ready?” Jess asked.

The two of us gathered up my stuff and shoved it back into her bag. I gave Jess a quick hug before we headed out the door.

“You’re the best,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

“Aren’t I, though?” Jess laughed, almost blushing. “Call me later. I want every detail.”

I snuck out the back way and walked across the parking lot to my awaiting Purple Beast.

“Whoa. Lizzy, is that you?” Jake Berns in all his flanneled glory was leaning against his car waiting for me. “I figured I’d get here early to make sure you knew the way to Reilly’s tonight. Look at you—all this to see my band? You look like a dream.”

His eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

“Crap, I meant to tell you.”

Realization darkened his expression.

“Ah,” he said, lowering his eyes, “that’s not for me.”

“I’m so sorry, I just have this other … it’s this thing … I promised to go and…” The words kept rushing out and none of them sounded good.

“Who? Who did you promise?”

“A … friend. No, not the kind you’re thinking. I want to see your band, I swear I—”

“You’re dressed like that for a friend?” he interrupted. “Didn’t you promise me?”

I had no idea what to say.

“Damn.” He dropped his arms at his side and hung his head.

“I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll leave as soon as I can. I won’t stay late. It’s just something I have to check out for myself, and then I’ll leave. I promise.” The last word echoed in silence.

He kicked around the gravel and dirt at his feet, but he didn’t say anything.

I ran for it, across the parking lot to my car, and didn’t look back because I didn’t want to see the expression on his face.

24

I parked the Beast at a riverside lot and walked the four blocks to the Soho House. The closer I walked, the denser the crowd became with paparazzi, celebrity stalkers, and other gawkers. I wondered how I would get in. Gathering my courage, I plunged.

The beefy doorman stood in my way and informed me that this was a “members only” joint. Which meant he knew that I wasn’t. How could he tell? Or did they say that to everyone? Was it because I was wandering around looking absolutely clueless? Shit, I hoped ZK put me on the guest list somewhere. Then I realized that he didn’t even know my last name.

“I’m a guest of ZK Northcott,” I said, beginning to feel a panic that I might have come all this way and not even get in.

“Wait here,” the doorman said and stepped back, speaking into his walkie-talkie.

It was called the Soho House, but it wasn’t in Soho, which was that part of Manhattan that was like the biggest, most expensive shopping mall imaginable and took up twenty-six square city blocks. A café sandwich there costs more than a steak in Jersey. The Soho House is actually in the Meatpacking District, where they used to pack raw meat for the aforementioned steak but don’t anymore. These days, they mostly pack trendy, six-figure-salaried twenty-and thirtysomething Manhattanites—which was meat of a certain type, I suppose. These trendsetters and trendettes tend to rendezvous in restaurants at 10
P.M.
for dinner and end up at exclusive rooftop hotel bars and party into the early hours of the morning.

A gorgeous girl with a severe blond bob, a red wrap dress, and stiletto heels was marching my way. She carried an iPad, which seemed odd considering how she was dressed until I realized that she was a high-tech clipboard Nazi, Mistress of the Door and Keeper of the Holy Guest List. I mustered up my best Audrey and made the first move.

“Pardon me. I’m meeting ZK Northcott, has he arrived?”

“And you are?”

“Lisbeth. I’m a guest of ZK’s.” I’d already mentioned his last name once, and I didn’t want to sound like a name-dropper suck-up, like,
oh yeah, ZK and I go way back.
I felt pretty fakey anyway calling him by his first name, er, initials. I hoped she couldn’t hear my knees knocking together.

Her fingers swiped through the iPad pages, and I could see the rejection buzzer in her eyes that was set to go off any moment, tick-tick-ticking, resulting in the most cringe-worthy five words:
I don’t see your name
.

“Lisbeth Dulac?” It took me half a beat to remember my new last name.

“Um, yes,” I muttered.

She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Your dress is awe-inspiring.”

“No way?” Jess’s design work had scored another victory. “I mean, thank you … darling,” I corrected. I had to watch out for my normal me-speak.

I’d practiced my “darlings” for this very occasion, watching all of Audrey’s movies to match her cadence as closely as possible. I’d step-framed
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
to listen to every single instance where she’d said “darling,” which, by the way, is exactly forty-four. But I found myself spouting “darlings” without even thinking about it.

I had called my sister Courtney “darling” the night before by accident, and she looked at me like I was possessed. And when I “darlinged” Buddy, one of the regulars at the diner, he laughed and said, “Sure thing, honey cakes.”

“Miss Dulac, if you don’t mind, I must ask…” Uh oh. Here’s the part where she would say:
Aren’t you a lowly waitress from South End Montclair masquerading as well-to-do trust-fund baby?

“Aren’t you…” Her voice was getting all squealy and schoolgirl, which was totally weird considering her stiletto heels and shiny red lipstick. “Aren’t you the Limelight blogger?”

My God. A fan. I couldn’t believe it.

“Why, yes … c’est moi,” I said, finally finding some use for those great grades in high school French.

“Oh my God! I absolutely adore your blog,” she said. “I’ve been reading you for ages.” This struck me as hilarious, as I’d actually only been blogging for about a week and a half.

“I was so impressed with Isak Guerrere’s comments. He just loves you!”

“Yes, of course, Isak is such a dear,” I said, trying to sound blasé.

“You have such a great look.” She gushed.

“Thank you.” I couldn’t help but beam. I actually had a look! She went on and on, and I started to notice people staring at us. I guess she did too and pulled it back a notch.

She leaned close to me and whispered, “I should have known it was you when I saw your dress.”

“Darling, you are much too kind.” I really wanted to hug her and jump up and down. But I figured this wasn’t quite the place for it.

“Well, Miss Dulac, I’m sure you have more interesting things to do tonight.” She gave me a wink, and it took me a heartbeat to realize that she was probably referring to the famously handsome ZK Northcott.

I panicked for a second when it occurred to me that she might ask for my ID or something. Stuffed in the lining of my peacock feather bag was my regular old New Jersey driver’s license and my fake ID, which wasn’t any better, because it was just Courtney’s old license. Both of them pegged me as that far-less-than-fabulous girl from South End Montclair.

“Mr. Northcott is waiting for you in the Billiards Room. Please come this way.” She turned and I followed. Humiliation averted. I guess getting carded was something they only did on my side of the river. Drinking restrictions must be optional in a place like the Soho House.

We took the elevator to the fifth floor. The multifloored Soho House was like a giant layered cake with each layer more fabulous than the one below. I’d read about this place on TMZ and even taken a virtual tour on their Web site: drawing rooms, billiard rooms, private dining rooms, and apparently a whole spa, all topped off by a breathtaking rooftop pool, which all the gossip blogs said was the hottest place to be. Capping it all—only if you belonged, of course—were handsomely designed hotel rooms, with egg-shaped bathtubs where members could stay with their guests. Which, I guessed, was helpful if you were ever too wasted to drive home or had other things in mind.

We entered a stunningly appointed room filled with warm light and dark wood walls, highlighted by brass fixtures, marble-topped tables, velvet drapes, and chandeliers.

Lots of suits and heels crowded around the bar. It was low-key while being upscale at the same time. On my way in, I saw Alicia Keys laughing and drinking a mojito while playing pool and suppressed my urge to snap an Instagram pic with my phone. I was bowled over by the glamour of it all—every girl in the room was drop-dead gorgeous, even the waiters and waitresses were good-looking.

“Finally, the mysterious Lisbeth Dulac has arrived!” ZK rose from his leather wingback chair. He kissed me on both cheeks, and my skin almost sizzled where his lips lingered on my face. Really, I could get used to the whole kiss-kiss thing, too.

“You’re stunning tonight,” ZK said, lowering his eyes, and I thought about how much nicer that sounded than the “Yo Lizzy, you look hot” that guys said on the other side of the bridge. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting and talking with ZK Northcott, aka Mr. Underwear-Man.

A waiter arrived instantly.

“I’m drinking greyhounds tonight. May I offer you one?” ZK asked. I had no idea what a greyhound was, but I figured out right away that it wasn’t a dog or a bus. I smiled and said yes. It had to be alcohol, and I needed some to calm my nerves.

My eyes wandered from his caramel-colored eyes to his full lips to his sturdy jawline, down to his shirt that was opened just enough beneath his perfectly cut navy blue jacket. I forced myself to stop there. Phew.