Being Audrey Hepburn (5 page)

“Does it have to hurt so much?” I pleaded.

Jess pinned the final strands of hair into place, before tightly securing the tiara—directly to my skull, from the feel of it. Then she pulled out a pair of scissors and started cutting my bangs!

“Come on, Jess, now you’re getting carried away.”

Crap. My last bangs disaster took seven months to grow out to any degree of normalcy. I’d been stuck in the dreaded barrette stage for three months. She made cut after cut.

“Ha! I’ve been dying to do this for years,” she said, clipping maniacally.

Helplessly, I watched five-inch clumps of my agonizingly slow-growing hair float past my eyes and settle on the floor.

She stopped and searched through her giant bag; I stole a quick glance at myself in the mirror—it was flawless.

“Close your eyes. Just one more thing—don’t peek.”

I obliged, despite the fact that not seeing the dress every possible second was driving me insane. Did she have to stand in front of the mirror the whole time? Jess sprayed my hair with something, most likely the same stuff she uses to keep her own hair defying gravity for fourteen hours a day. It smelled citrusy, like tangerine. I tried to peak around her, but she smacked me on the side of my head like a child.

“Eyes closed—I’m not done yet.” I felt her applying eyeliner to my lids, powder to my cheeks, and a gloss to my lips.

“Okay, you can see now,” she said as I felt the plastic covering slip away.

I opened my eyes and a wonderful stranger smiled back at me from the mirror. She was beautiful and elegant. The kind of girl I wished I could be. Jess had performed a miracle. My normally mousy-brown hair was transformed; the tiny tiara gave just the right touch of sparkle to the clean and simple yet sky-high updo. My eyes were lined dramatically but delicately with smoky black eyeliner; my cheeks had just a faint blush, my lips a tender gloss.

Enthralled, I couldn’t stop gazing at this incredible creature. If only that was who I really was. The dress hugged my body, but, more than that, it gave me curves in places where I knew for a fact there weren’t any. It felt like it was made for me, even though the idea was flat-out ridiculous. Did I need further proof that Audrey Hepburn and I were connected in more profound, cosmic ways than I’d ever imagined?

I wondered what Audrey felt the first time she put the dress on. Did she know that it would change her life forever? For the tiniest second in time, wearing the original Givenchy, it felt as if Audrey and I existed together, in that moment, in that dress, like stars crossing.

I spun like a ballerina and couldn’t stop marveling at myself in the mirror. The front neckline was deceptively simple, but it made my neck and shoulders look wonderful. Of course, the back of the dress was where things became really interesting, the neckline sort of scooping down to attach to the back of the dress—my shoulders and parts of my back exposed, my pale skin a sharp contrast to the smooth black satin.

“Just awesome. Lisbeth, you look amazing,” she whispered.

That Givenchy guy really knew what he was doing when it came to the body of a woman, specifically the body of a woman like Audrey Hepburn. I’ve read the story online a hundred times … how Audrey, a twenty-four-year-old actress with only a few films to her credit, showed up at Givenchy’s studio wearing a simple T-shirt, cropped pants, and a touristy gondolier’s hat … you know, those hats with the blue or red bow dropping to one side. Givenchy, just twenty-six but already famous, thought he was meeting Katharine Hepburn, not Audrey Hepburn. He had never heard of her. He was unimpressed and barely gave her the time of day. But little Audrey waltzed right into Givenchy’s backroom. She won him over with her exquisite taste and indomitable spirit, marking the beginning of a successful and very long collaboration between artist and muse.

Givenchy took his cue from Audrey’s idea to highlight what other people considered her less than stellar features. He showcased Audrey’s rail-thin physique and long neck, making them assets of a new style and fashion. God knows how, but that Givenchy magic was working for me.

If I weren’t so conscious of how the dress caressed my hips and shoulders, I would have said I was having an out-of-body experience. I saw the result in Jess’s face.

With all the drama I could muster, I put my arm on Jess’s shoulder and gazed deep into her eyes, using my best Audrey Hepburn voice, and said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Fred darling … I’d marry you for your money in a minute. Would you marry me for my money?” I raised my gloved hand to my chin and gave Jess that wounded-fawn look.

Jess’s bag and comb tumbled out of her hands to the floor.

“Who are you?!” she asked.

“Golightly,” I said, “Holly Golightly. I live downstairs. We met this morning, remember?” I struck a classic pose with my arm raised in a flourish like Audrey in
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. All that was missing was the long black cigarette holder.

“Your accent is perfect,” marveled Jess. “You sound exactly like her.
Exactly.
Have you been getting lessons or something?”

“All my life. Every day since I was nine, darling.” I let out a small laugh à la Audrey.

“It’s mind-blowing, not a trace of Jersey. Come on, did you take speech class?”

“The rine in spine sties minely in the pline!” I said. “Oh, Freddy, you don’t think I’m a heartless guttersnipe, do you?”

Jess laughed so hard she flopped back down in the chair, which spun around and around. She couldn’t stop laughing, until the phone rang and she picked up the desk receiver.

“Hey Joe, what’s happening?” she asked. In a split second, the blood was draining from her face. “Shit!” She slammed down the receiver.

“What is it?”

“My boss came back. He’s on his way up right now.” Her hand was shaking—I’ve never seen her that panicked. “I am so totally fired.”

7

“We’ve got to get that dress off you!” Jess yelled.

I pulled off the gloves and stepped out of the too-big shoes, and we both reached for the dress’s zipper at the same time.

“Hurry, hurry!” she hissed. “Myers will be here any second.” Her fingers brushed mine out of the way. I wondered which would be worse—Mr. Myers Jess’s boss, walking in to see me in the million-dollar
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
dress or walking in to find me naked.

Naked would definitely be better.

“The zipper’s stuck!” Jess said, and her face went white.

“Let me try.” I pushed down—no-go. I pushed down and jumped up at the same time. It wouldn’t budge.

“I am so fucked if I lose this job, Lisbeth,” she said and gave the zipper a massive yank that practically lifted me off the ground. I couldn’t believe that Jess was willing to risk tearing a million-dollar dress apart, but I guess it was her job on the line. She gave the zipper another huge dress-ripping pull, but it didn’t budge.

“Fucking fifty-year-old dress,” she said. The two of us tried to wiggle the zipper up and down, but it just wouldn’t move. No time for soaping or waxing, and there was no way to drag the dress over my head.

“Ohmygod, what if we have to cut me out of this dress?” I said. Jess gave me a nasty you’re-not-helping look

“You have to get out of here.” I knew that voice of Jess’s. It was her take-charge voice, and you had no choice but to get on board with it.

“Okay, but where do I go? The closet? Your office? Under the table? Just walk by Myers and say ‘hello darling’ as I pass him in the hall?”

I watched her eyes dart around the room until she zeroed in on the door that led to the main gallery.

“Out there?! No way!” How could she think that was even a possibility?

“The party in the main gallery,” she said. “You’ll blend right in.” She scooped the black stilettos off the floor and shoved them at me. “Put them back on.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t know how…,” I said as I dropped the shoes on the floor and reluctantly stepped into them.

“Do it anyway. I
have
to save my job.” As we heard his footsteps in the hall, she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the doorway. I was lucky I didn’t break my neck wearing her too-big stilettos—at this point, Jess may have considered that an acceptable plan B.

“I can’t walk in these shoes!”

“Just do it!”

She shoved me out the door. “Don’t go
anywhere,
” Jess commanded. “I’ll come get you when Myers is gone.”

The door closed solidly behind me. After the panic and heavy breathing, everything was silent.

I looked around.

All dressed up in a Givenchy and nowhere to go.

8

I heard the murmur of martini laughter, the clinking of glasses, and champagne corks popping. I looked at the door I wasn’t supposed to wander away from and imagined the gallery downstairs and all the graceful, wealthy young things below.

What the hell.

Shuffling in my big shoes, I edged over to the railing and surveyed the party on the lower level.

A battalion of black-tied waiters and waitresses armed with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres weaved among the trust-fund babies. There were so many “familiar” faces rubbing shoulders below—all the people I knew but would never meet—glitterati, diva girls, famed and adorable. Girls size 00 with perfect tans and the latest Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Dolce & Gabbana. We grew up in Jerze reading about them, watching them on TV, and hearing about their endless parties. Jess always joked that those kids had affluenza, an enviable disease that included boredom, alcoholism, apathy, deviant behavior, and an unshakeable sense of entitlement.

Spotting Dahlia and Mr. Underwear-Man by the bar, it hit me why he seemed so familiar. Mr. Underwear-Man was ZK Northcott, oil and gas heir, a collector of vintage motorcycles and would-be actresses. Famous for being a one-date wonder, he’d been with every heiress, hottie, party girl, and up-and-coming movie bimbo from coast to coast. His picture had been taken on the red carpet a thousand times. But he never lingered with any of them long enough to become an item, so they didn’t actually write about him much. That’s why I couldn’t place him. Dahlia seemed almost out of his league, too heavy for a one-nighter.

“Excuse me, young lady…” The gruff voice of a museum guard snapped me out of my trance. It was Joe from Security.

Crap. Double crap. Totally busted, I felt myself start to cry.
I’m sorry I’m wearing a million-dollar dress that I stole,
I wanted to say, like a schoolgirl caught shoplifting. I wanted to confess every bad thing I’ve ever done. I pondered a hundred excuses to save Jess’s job and my ass, but none of them were any good.

“Miss, this area is restricted,” Joe said.

He hadn’t recognized me. How could that happen? Even though we’d said hello dozens of times, he had no idea who I was.

“You need to go back downstairs to the event,” he said curtly. Relief filled my body. Jess was right. I did blend in.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry … officer,” I said in my best Audrey voice. “I was just looking for the powder room. Would you mind awfully…”

“No problem at all, miss. Down the stairs, first door on the right,” Joe replied. His gruffness was gone, and he was actually smiling. Why Audrey was so successful with people became instantly clear to me. Her whole way of talking assumed that the person she was talking to was … well, nice, and would prefer to be helpful.

Joe watched me protectively as I stepped delicately down the grand staircase, methodically taking each step so that my giant shoes wouldn’t clomp, clomp, clomp on the marble stairs. With every move, the shoes slipped farther from my feet. I prayed I wouldn’t go down headfirst.

“New shoes,” I said over my shoulder, smiling winsomely to Joe. He smiled back, making sure I made it down safely before he continued on his rounds. I gave him an Audrey wave stumbling for a second, then recovering, and kept going.

Close call. I must have looked so stupid. I knew Jess had instructed me to stay put, but I couldn’t ignore Joe, and she couldn’t really blame me for peeking, could she? When would I ever get another chance? Now I would really see if I blended in. But first, I’d have to do something about the clown stilettos that were killing my feet. Then I’d rush right back upstairs—after stalking of course, just a little bit. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone at the Hole!

Downstairs, there was a long line at the ladies’ room (it’s the same everywhere you go, isn’t it?). Everyone waiting was decked out and gorgeous. Too many people meant too many questions, so I tramped my way across the back of the main gallery where the action was and went down another empty, darkened hallway, in search of a less popular restroom.

As I walked along the hall, I saw a handsome man in an Armani tux alone, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His hair graying at the temples. Considerably older than the rest of the crowd, he was utterly sophisticated and distinguished. He had that tan that comes from St. Tropez or Martha’s Vineyard as opposed to Sizzletan in Parsippany, with its patented fast-acting spray and sweaty bacteria-breeding tanning beds.

He smiled condescendingly as I plodded along, trying to disguise my walk and hoping he wouldn’t examine me too closely. I took a sharp turn and score! Another ladies’ room. I pushed open the door, and nobody was there. Thank God!

Reaching into the nearest stall, I grabbed a yard of two-ply, wadded it up, and crammed it into the tips of my shoes. I slipped my foot back into the left shoe. Ahh, big improvement. Admiring myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe ten whole minutes had passed since I looked at the dress. As I grabbed for another handful of industrial-grade TP, I heard a soft moan.

Someone was there.

Time to stuff my right shoe and leave. Another moan. It was coming from the last stall on the right. Okay, I needed to get out of that bathroom and up the stairs. I crammed my foot into the shoe for a snug fit and headed for the door.

“Oh shit,” a voice said.

Then silence. After a moment, there was vomiting … retching, really. Yuck. I waited until she stopped. Damn, I couldn’t just leave her there.