Being Audrey Hepburn (22 page)

“WHR SHD MOCHA PIK U UP?”

Tabitha, the Princess of Pop, beckoned. I had never felt more like Cinderella than that day at the Hole—the bad side of being Cinderella—the part where she’s on her hands and knees in the fireplace, cleaning out the cinders and ashes that were her namesake. Buela was in a terrible mood. I had missed two shifts, and it felt like she was punishing me. I spent an hour and a half of the morning refilling all the caked-up ketchup and mustard bottles.

I spied Jake on the other side of the diner. He purposely turned the other way and wouldn’t meet my eye. I tried to talk to him twice in the freezer when I ran into him, but he only nodded. I couldn’t help remembering his unexpected kisses. Before, he would have helped me with the ketchup bottles, but not this time. We seemed worlds apart.

Then there was the new girl, Crystal. She was totally put together in that Jersey way, with heavy makeup, cosmetically perfect teeth, plucked eyebrows, spray-bronzed skin, thick accent, and a great bod. I grew up respecting girls like Crystal because, contrary to popular belief, they aren’t necessarily promiscuous, no matter how they dress, and they are smart and tough.

Crystal took all of Jess’s shifts and was scoping everybody out. High on her list was Jake. She was already hip to the fact that there was something between us—just because he wouldn’t look at me. My phone buzzed again.

“CAN’T W8 2 C U. WHAT TIME 4 LIMO?”

My shift ended at 1:30
P.M.
How could I turn down a Fifth Avenue shopping spree with the fabulous Tabitha Eden? I already had the modified couture combo in the garment bag that Jess had given me. It’s not like I would ever get to wear that anywhere else.

“2:30?” I texted back.

For years I’d surfed the endless pictures of Paris and Nicky, Kim and Kourtney, the Olsen twins, and everyone else dressed in their latest as they balanced an avalanche of shopping bags from Jeffrey’s, Chanel, Lanvin, Alice and Olivia, and others on Rodeo Drive, Fifth Avenue, or Oxford Street. The ritual of the celeb shopping trip was as much about what you wore as what you bought. This could be my only chance to see what it was like.

Buela had her eye on me, so I had to look busy. I kept moving, covering my tables, cleaning, and finding little projects like restacking the to-go containers behind the counter. My phone buzzed.

“SO WHERE?” Tabitha texted.

Since Jess’s East Broadway address was too downscale and I hadn’t yet found that friendly Manhattan doorman I might talk into fronting for me, my first thought was a hotel lobby, something on the Upper East Side. If I could find an address near a hotel, I could step out as Mocha arrived.

I watched the last few moments tick by on the diner clock. At 1:30
P.M.
sharp, I punched out my time card and grabbed the garment bag from the locker. Buela gave me the evil eye for being quick to leave, but I kept going.

The Mark Hotel on Seventy-seventh and Madison was described on its Web site as “situated in the heart of Manhattan’s most elegant neighborhood.” I figured that would do and texted Tabitha.

“16 E 77 ST.”

That address was just a few doors down from the Mark according to Google Maps. I reached the hotel a half hour early and slipped through the lobby, ducking into the bar restroom, where I changed in one of the bathroom stalls.

Unzipping the garment bag, I discovered that Jess had left me a surprise. She had transformed a pair of Nan’s Ferragamo flats from the 60s, overdyeing them in a deep, lush red and adding a small heel to match. The shoes were stunning and perfect for what I was wearing.

After a touch-up in the mirror, I emerged with my remixed Chanel and True Religions, ready for an afternoon of rampant consumerism, even if it would be only window-shopping for me. I figured there was plenty of time to be on the street and grab Mocha before he began ringing doorbells. I walked over to the Concierge to check my garment bag with my old clothes but as I took my ticket, I saw Mocha through the massive picture windows walking up to the townhouse door early.

I ran quickly to the car, hoping he’d follow. “Mocha, darling! Over here!” I yelled. But he had already pushed the buzzer. He turned, confused. If someone was home, they would be coming down, and soon it would become difficult to explain.

“My apologies, Miss Dulac,” Mocha said and hustled back to the limo to open the door.

“It’s my Nan. I don’t want to wake her,” I said. “She doesn’t quite handle the stairs the way she used to.” As I was about to slide into the limo, I almost fainted when I slid inside.

Tabitha, sitting comfortably in the back corner, had watched the whole thing.

“You’re here!” I said, barely able to disguise my confusion.

“Will she be okay?” she asked.

“Who?” I asked as I slipped inside, hoping we could leave immediately.

“Your Nan,” she replied.

“Oh, Nan! Yes, of course … we have a nurse … yes … ole Betty, must be as old as Nan. She’ll be fine … but this is her day off. Anyway, it’s all fine.” I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was saying anymore.

Tabitha wore a blush cashmere cardigan over matching silk shorts and white Louboutins, all highlighted by the glittering rose cuff on her wrist—Tiffany’s latest metal “discovery”—RUBEDO. We’re talking seventy-five-hundred smackers for that kind of bling. I know how much it cost because they advertise it like crazy on the Tiffany’s Web site. In her arms, she was holding a white slipper of a dog that perfectly matched her shoes that I recognized from her publicity shots: Galileo, a Pomeranian.

As we drove away, I stole a glance back at the townhouse entrance, where a very annoyed elderly man opened his door to no one at all.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, noticing my look back.

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” I said and wondered if I had blown it. Tabitha seemed subdued. I realized I sounded heartless about Nan, even though everything was utterly fabricated.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tabitha said quietly. “We need to go somewhere first.”

Galileo barked.

That didn’t sound good.

32

Tabitha was silent. There was definitely a bad vibe in the limo, which made my mind race and my stomach ache. I was the most weak-willed poseur ever. I started to panic. Was Tabitha experiencing one of her mood swings?

“You know, darling,” I said, summoning my inner Audrey, “if you need to go somewhere and it’s not convenient, we could shop later.”

“I’d rather not,” she said. Her tone of voice reminded me of the time in the bathroom when she demanded to know who I was, severe and regal despite her dress being up around her ears. It occurred to me that she was most arrogant when she had something to hide.

“I have to go to the studio first.”

“The recording studio?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ve been avoiding it,” she answered. “But I need to tell you something.” I folded my hands in my lap and tried to remain composed and calm. “I need someone there with me, and I wasn’t sure you’d come along if I told you first.”

I tried to think of some way to respond. There was a long pause before she spoke again.

“You might as well know the night you showed up, I had taken a shitload of pills. I was trying to kill myself,” she continued. “That would have been a great TMZ story, right?” Turning to me, she seemed as if she might fall apart. The image of her beaded purse on the bathroom floor flashed through my mind. I remembered fishing for lip gloss and finding all those bottles of pills.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“It should have worked. I did some blow, too, but it made me throw up.”

I became keenly aware of Mocha in the front seat. The glass partition was closed, but couldn’t he be listening? How much did he know?

“Then you showed up out of nowhere,” she said. “I had the pills. I would have taken more, but you were there and you helped me. No one else would have.”

I felt bad for her, and at the same time I felt like a total liar.

“I know who you really are,” she said, and I froze, suspended, unable to breathe, waiting for what might come next. “You’re an angel. Someone somewhere wanted me to survive, and I know with you here now, with me, I will.”

I let out an audible sigh, exhaling sharply despite my desire to be unobtrusive.

“I don’t understand,” I said, recovering, trying to take the focus off me. “Why did you feel you needed to do such a thing to yourself? You have everything,” I added quietly, “to live for.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, annoyed, like it was the dumbest thing to say.

“Because I hate every single thing about my life,” she said, turning toward me, her eyes tearing up, trying to hold it back. She turned and stared out the window again. “You probably can’t understand because you don’t live your life pretending to be someone you’re not.”

My brain felt like a piece of paper that someone had ripped in half. If anybody in this car was a phony, we all know who would get the prize. The contradictions were too great. Galileo licked the tears off Tabitha’s face.

“I feel like such a fake,” she said.

“Your fans don’t seem to feel that way,” I remarked. Including me, I wanted to add.

Tabitha shook her head and practically snorted in disgust. “I was counting on Mother to put a stop to this, but now I have to go back into the studio to record another album. They won’t let me stop, even though I told them I wouldn’t tour. I totally freaked out on stage last time.”

“What
do
you want to do?” I asked.

Tabitha made a sad laugh. “I wanted to go to veterinarian school and work in an animal shelter.” Holding Galileo tighter, I worried she might burst into tears again. “I like animals.” No way.

I squeezed her hand. “So why didn’t you?”

“Are you kidding? They weren’t about to let me become an unglamorous vet in this family. They’d have to get Donna Karan to design my veterinarian scrubs.”

She was so grim that I wasn’t sure if she was kidding. “Tabitha Eden: celebrity veterinarian,” I said. Tabitha laughed. “Well, why can’t you do what you want now?”

“You’d be surprised what I can’t do. Too many people decide what I get to do. I feel awful. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always felt awful. I know one second I’m fine, smiling, and then I can barely say hello. Like I’m not even a person, and everyone in the room knows. One minute, I can see myself in the mirror, and the next, the mirror shatters and I’m gone, and there’s no way to get myself back. And I think, maybe everyone is that way, but I know they’re not. You’re the only one I know who doesn’t seem to be weirded out around me.”

I tried to think of what I could say, but we heard Mocha over the intercom. “Excuse me, Miss Eden, we’re here.”

Tabitha nodded and turned to face me.

“Lisbeth, you’re my angel who appeared out of nowhere to rescue me. You have to help me.” Her eyes said everything—sadness, desperation, and the tiniest hope that I could change her life. Boy, did she have the wrong girl.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” I answered.

33

Max, Tabitha’s guitarist, stood outside the studio entrance smoking a cigarette, bored as usual.

“Are they pissed?” Tabitha asked, wiping away the last of her tears as we made our way inside.

“Why? Because you’ve kept them waiting two and a half hours? Nah, they have their toys to play with.”

As we entered together, Galileo leapt from Tabitha’s arms and ran ahead. The receptionist, bookish in black-rimmed glasses with multicolored tattoos on her arms and neck, introduced herself as Brit.

“Hello, Miss Eden, you’re in studio A today,” she said. “Can I get you a Pellegrino, cappuccino, lemonade, or…?”

“I’ll take a lemonade with tequila,” Tabitha answered without stopping as she pushed open the studio door. I guess when life gave Tabitha lemons, she couldn’t help grabbing the tequila and salt.

Upon entering studio A, we were met by a massive wall of sound—bright, bubbly pop with a driving shake-your-body bottom beat. I knew the patented Tabitha Eden signature sound, and it felt like entering a club. I wanted to dance, but the music stopped abruptly as Tabitha entered.

“The Princess of Pop has arrived!” said a guy, younger than me, as we walked in. He seemed like an intern but wasn’t acting like one. He had dark curly hair and the kind of beard a guy grows when he can’t grow one. He seemed to be a mix of Latino and Jewish. His warm welcome put me instantly at ease. Galileo barked at him.

“Hey Bennie, this is my friend Lisbeth,” Tabitha said. “Bennie and his partner, Dr. K, are the geniuses behind every hit song I’ve ever made. The best producers money can buy. Hard to believe for a twerp, right?”

“You’re too kind, Tabby,” Bennie said, mildly amused. “Nice to meet you, Lisbeth. Welcome to the madness.”

Brit entered with Tabitha’s drink and placed it on the table in front of her. She grabbed it and took a long draw.

“Kind of early for the tequila gargle?” Bennie chided.

“It’s for my voice,” she said and gave him a defensive scowl. “Don’t give me shit just because you’re too young to buy alcohol legally.” She noticed me watching and became a little self-conscious.

“You don’t want to let her drink alone, do you?” Bennie asked. “Hey, Brit, get my girlfriend Lisbeth a drink, too.”

“No thanks,” I said, grabbing a bottle of water off the bar for myself. “I’m good.”

“Cool, then come on. While Tabitha warms up, I’ll introduce you to
da
crew,” Bennie said, crossing his arms in a mock rapper’s pose. I couldn’t help laughing.

Designed like a small amphitheater, the studio had a massive soundboard in the middle with automated sliders, buttons, and blinking LEDs, and at the bottom was a big glass room for musicians and singers. As we descended the levels to the main area, I noticed the framed gold and platinum CDs on the wall, four of them Tabitha’s.

“This is where we make the hits,” Bennie chuckled. “Straight-up hits and nothing but hits.” He walked me right up to the enclosed glass room. Inside, there was a piano, guitars, and microphones. Three backup singers sat around music stands in the corner. There was a big black girl; a skinny white girl with lots of tats, angel bites, and other piercings; and a short Latina with her hair beaded and braided. They were laughing and singing, but we couldn’t hear them.