Being Audrey Hepburn (6 page)

“Are you okay?” I tapped gently on the stall door, but it wasn’t latched, so the door swung open. Splayed on the tile floor, her head resting on the porcelain basin and her silver dress hiked up around her hips was the Princess of Pop herself, Tabitha Eden. I couldn’t help noticing her exposed $175 La Perla thong—next week’s
Us Weekly
cover story in one shot.

“Who are you?” she demanded. She was totally intimidating, even though she was superwasted. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know if I could say my own name. I was speechless. I couldn’t stop looking at the pale circle of fine powder that sprinkled her flawless face, which was concentrated in a ring on the right side of her nose.

“Lisbeth,” I said finally with an Audrey Hepburn lilt. I’d never realized how pretty my name was until I said it that way. It sounded like another person’s name. Immediately, I cringed that I’d told her my real name. Not the best idea, though she would probably tell me to get lost anyway. Surprisingly, she tried to smile at me, which wasn’t easy in her condition. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a Page Six pop star!

“Hi.” She reached out her hand to shake but stopped. “I’m … I’m … I’m gonna be sick.” She turned to vomit in the toilet again. Leaning in, I held her perfect strawberry-blonde hair away from her face while she threw up. Could I pull off walking around in a Givenchy dress (
the
Givenchy original) and stiletto heels? Not so sure. Could I help a friend puke her brains out? Totally up my alley.

As she vomited, I counted how many times I’d held a girlfriend’s hair while she spewed chunks. Vomiting leveled the playing field. How many girls hadn’t found themselves retching up fourteen mango daiquiris in a public bathroom at some time in their lives, right?

She wiped her mouth off. Staring up at me like a homeless puppy, she tried to say something, but she was puking again and barely turned her head back to the toilet bowl in time. Standing as far away from her as I could, I held her hair.
Please, please, please—no backsplash—please don’t puke on me.
I was painfully aware of the fact that I was wearing a stolen, irreplaceable, million-dollar dress, easily within hurling distance of a completely hammered pop sensation. I absolutely could not return Audrey Hepburn’s dress to Jess with barf chunks on it.

“Don’t you dare take a fucking picture of me,” she slurred.

“I wouldn’t,” I said, surprised at how insulted I felt. Why would she think that? “I don’t even have a camera.”

“Yeah right, what about your cell phone?” I shrugged, realizing instantly that I didn’t have my phone, my driver’s license, car keys, or anything that would identify me other than this magic dress, which wasn’t mine. “I have people who’d sue you.” Tabitha eyed me warily, trying to wipe the puke off her lips. Gently, I handed her another piece of TP.

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?” She seemed confused. “Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

“Well actually, I mean, I have one, just not with me at the moment,” I answered as politely as I imagined Audrey might have explained. I also figured that this was definitely not the time to scream to Tabitha that I was a huge fan of her music and her wild fashion sense.

She threw up again—kind of at the end of her run—not much came out, and she rested back against the side of the stall, exhausted. I walked back to the sink and wet a couple of paper towels. Returning, I handed her one for her lips and placed several on the back of her neck.

She softly moaned and gazed up at me. “You’re wearing a tiara.”

“Yes, that’s very observant for someone in your condition,” I responded. This made her laugh and totally broke the ice.

“These paper towels feel so good.”

“Yes,” I said, “towels on the neck cool you off nicely, and, as an added bonus, it won’t ruin your makeup.”

The bathroom door flew open, and there was the penetrating sound of a gaggle of giggly girls invading our privacy. Discretely closing our stall door, I locked it, stepping deeper inside with Tabitha as the girls filled up the bathroom.

I put my finger to my lips, and Tabitha drew her feet to her chest in a little ball. We tried not to crack up as we listened to one of the girls pee in the stall next to ours. Listening to someone pee had never been so funny. We held our breath and managed to keep it together for another three minutes, eavesdropping on the random high-heeled socialites peeing and flushing. There was some idle chatter and no good gossip to speak of. Soon they were at the mirror checking their lip gloss. We heard the door open again as they left, and we burst out laughing. It was so ridiculous, we had to catch our breath and force ourselves to settle down.

“God, what am I going to do?” Tabitha said, still almost crying from laughter. “I can’t go back out there and face everyone like this.”

She really was a mess; I couldn’t just leave her there. “Let’s see how you look standing,” I said, pulling her up to her two wobbly feet and moving toward the sink. I scanned myself in the mirror, hoping I hadn’t damaged Audrey’s dress.

“Can I get someone for you in the main gallery?” I asked.

“I came alone,” Tabitha said.

She avoided making eye contact and sounded so abandoned that it made me feel sorry for her. It was hard to believe that a person as fabulous as Tabitha Eden could ever feel alone.

“If I go out there,” she whispered, “the paparazzi will have me on TMZ covered in puke within the hour. And if they don’t, one of my ‘friends’ will call them.”

“Darling, you didn’t really get any on your dress, and your makeup is fine.”

Taking another wet paper towel, I freshened her up a bit while I tried to think of some way to get her discretely out of the museum.

As an aside, I was very proud that I could do a decent “darling.” I’d had a lifetime of hearing it, that was for sure. No one in the history of speaking has ever said the word “darling” the way Audrey did. There wasn’t anything cloying or pretentious about the way she said it. On Audrey’s lips, “darling” was a friendly endearment, plain and simple.

“You
do
have a driver, don’t you?” I asked, trying not to giggle in disbelief that anyone was taking my Audrey Hepburn impression seriously.

“Yes, but I’ll never make it out the way I came in,” Tabitha said, almost crippled with fear.

“Well, I happen to know a back entrance that no one uses. Can you get your driver to meet us there?”

An expression of disbelief crossed her face. She grabbed her diamond-studded phone and thrust it in my direction. “Call Mocha,” she said.

“Mocha?”

“He’s my driver,” she slurred. “You call him.”

Taking her phone, I scrolled through her contacts for Mocha. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Mocha? I have, um, your guest here with me. She finds she is terribly tired and would like to avoid any attention. Can you please meet us at the back entrance on Eighty-second Street?”

He agreed, and I gave him directions to the freight doors. I’d been there a couple of times with Jess.

“Well then,” I said, “we’re all set.” I grabbed another damp paper towel from the sink and delicately dabbed at her beautiful face until all traces of the mystery white powder were gone. She closed her eyes and seemed utterly oblivious.

“Do you have any lip gloss?” I asked. She nodded and motioned to a tiny beaded bag on the floor by the toilet. That bag probably cost more than my mom made in a year, and there it was, sitting on the floor of a public toilet.

Fishing out the lip gloss between the makeup and pill bottles, I was struck by how lovely Tabitha was, even in this condition. Her electric-blue eyes went blank as I dabbed the gloss on her lips.

“Good as new,” I said. She wobbled and leaned against me, and I realized I might be over optimistic.

“You don’t understand. We’ll have to cross the main floor with … all of them out there. I don’t think I can do it. What if I puke in front of everyone?” She was starting to panic, and her face was looking green again.

“Darling, you
can
do it. I’ll put my arm around you, you’ll lean against me, and we’ll laugh like I’m the funniest person in the whole world.” She smiled at the thought. I was so totally Audrey!

There were basic skills a girl learned in every high school in the state of New Jersey. Springing a shitfaced friend from the ladies’ room just happened to be at the top of that list. I’d even done it in the high school bathroom. Since I’d always been a supporting player in life, I was really good at it.

“You have a very interesting accent,” she said. “Where are you from?”

Audreyville?
I wanted to say. But I just avoided the question.

“Come now, enough about me. Mocha is probably waiting at the freight landing right now.” I steered her to the door, hoping I could keep up my act.

She leaned heavily on me, wobbling scarily on her stilettos as we headed toward the main gallery. Thank God mine were stuffed with toilet paper, or we’d both be on the floor after the first two steps.

“We can do this,” I whispered.

Arm in arm, we left the bathroom and walked down the empty hallway, giggling loudly and laughing our way into the crowd. Absolutely everyone was watching us. We were acting so completely entertained by each other’s presence that we couldn’t stop to look at anyone because we were actually
really
laughing about our fake laughter.

Me? I had to use every bit of my self-control not to stop in the middle of the gallery floor just to gawk at the gazillionaire boys and girls and scream! But I had a mission to fulfill. And my mind was already floating back toward Jess, wondering if she was trying to find me.

We made sure not to make eye contact, no matter who waved in our direction, stopping for no one until we reached the hallway that took us to the freight entrance and Tabitha’s getaway. I was keenly aware of the distinguished man with the graying temples I had seen before talking on his cell phone. He did his best to shadow us as far as he could but became distracted by an attractive young ingenue who pulled at his sleeve and demanded his attention.

I pushed open the unalarmed heavy metal side door, hypercareful of the Givenchy, and dragged a metal stanchion over to hold it as I helped Tabitha down the concrete steps to the car. I looked up for a second, unfortunately staring straight into a security camera. I turned away quickly, praying that Joe was still on his rounds.

As promised, her driver was waiting. When I saw Mocha, it was really tough to keep from dropping my act and talking the way I usually talk. He was the first person I’d seen that night who was like any of the guys I knew—a totally Jersey City, old-school Italian juicehead. He even looked familiar, like a bouncer my sister used to hang out with at one of the clubs Jess and I avoid in Jersey City. Miraculously, there wasn’t a photographer in sight.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Tabitha said. Neither could I, actually. “How on earth did you know where this back entrance was?”

“Oh, you know, a girl always has to know how to make an exit.” Was that a line I copped from
Sabrina
or another movie?

Mocha and I helped Tabitha into the car. As I was about to close her door, she grabbed my hand and pulled it to her face.

“You’ve been so unbelievably cool tonight. Most people would have just fed me more drinks and pushed me in front of the cameras. Those people in there are total liars.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” I said, though I felt like the worst liar of all. I wondered if she was right about the people upstairs. I bet it was hard to know who to trust in her position. So many hangers-on, you’d never really know who your true friends were. I said silent thanks, lucky to have a friend like Jess.

Crap, Jess! She was probably so mad.

“It
is
true,” she said. “I can’t trust anybody anymore.” She seemed sad and introspective. “Hey, there’s an Island Records party next weekend. Are you going?” she brightened. Oh yeah, sure. I went to parties with rock stars all the time. Excuse me while I check my calendar.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“You have to come! It’s for my new release,” she said. “I’ll put you on the list. What’s your cell? I’ll text you right now.” Can you imagine?

As I gave her my number, I winced. She looked at me quizzically, and I was certain this was the end of my charade.

“Is that a Manhattan number?” she asked. Even in her condition, she knew.

“No. It’s a secret number just between us. I like to keep a low profile.”

“Smart girl.”

She pulled me toward her awkwardly for a drunken hug, which was a tough maneuver not only because she was sitting in the back of a limo but also because I was wearing a fitted floor-length dress, which made it impossible to squat, turn, or bend at the waist. I twisted as gracefully to the side as I could, which sort of crushed my kidney, hoping I didn’t burst out of the dress.

We hugged so long, I worried she would pass out on me in that position. But finally, she let me go. It was good to breathe again.

“I really should go back inside,” I said. Jess would have blown a gasket if she’d known I’d worn the Givenchy
outside
the museum with a paparazzi-plagued teen phenom. It was totally, completely, awesomely insane.

“See you next weekend!” she said. She gave me the biggest grin, like a little kid who’d found a new friend. Mocha winked at me and swiftly closed Tabitha’s car door. I moved back up the steps and yanked the metal stanchion out of the way, hoping I didn’t split a seam. As the doors closed, the limousine took off and rounded the corner, out of sight.

Audrey would have been proud.

9

Now the guilt came flooding in. Here I was helping a drug-addled pop singer who had everything, instead of doing what my best friend had asked me to do in her hour of need. I headed for the quickest, surest path back up the stairs. I planned to be standing by the door waiting dutifully for Jess. She would never need to know. If I kept my head down as I passed through the main gallery and didn’t gape at all the celebs like I’ve been dying to all my life, it was doable.