Being Audrey Hepburn (7 page)

I walked as gracefully as I could, but the toilet paper had compacted so much that Jess’s shoes were sliding off my feet again. A group of twentyish girls walked by, including two actresses I swear I knew from
CSI: NY
. They checked me out, nodding and smiling as though they knew me.

“Stunning dress,” I heard one remark.

“Do you know her?” another asked.

Each step was like an up-close and personal tour through the lives of the rich and famous. Trying to keep my composure, I counted each breath as I walked until I felt a firm grip on the back of my arm. I tried to move away, and it tightened. I inhaled as much spiritual Audrey as I could and turned.

It was the swanky old guy from the hallway who had been talking on the phone. Why did he keep popping up?

“So, I assume Tabitha made it to her car?” he asked. I eyed him warily. Just the tone of the question was enough to make me wonder. Who was this guy? He was old enough to be Tabitha’s father. He leaned in closer and slipped his arm around my waist and whispered in my ear.

“Tabby needs good friends like you,” he said. Okay, I was totally creeped out. “She was absolutely wasted. Lucky for her, I don’t think anyone noticed.” He was so smooth that I felt completely trapped. He had his arm wrapped around me without expecting the slightest resistance. I tried to shift away, but he held me firmly by the waist, his arm around me
and
the dress. I smiled demurely but didn’t say anything.

“The poor girl has been through enough,” he added, finally letting me go and lighting a cigarette. He seemed to be thinking about something. “What did she tell you? Has she changed her plans?” he asked.

I didn’t answer.

“Typical Tabitha, no idea when it comes to realities. Do remind her. There’s a price to pay for this kind of thing. I
am
just trying to help her, really.”

What the hell? What did
that
mean? It was hard to imagine Tabitha in any relationship with this guy. Maybe he was one of those super-rats Audrey talked about.

“The fact is it affects everything. Better to leave as is for everyone’s sake.”

I wondered briefly why he’d chosen to impart this bit of information to me, but I realized that Tabitha and I probably seemed like the best of friends, giggling and hanging on to each other as we walked through the party. He’d been lingering outside the bathroom and watching us as we left. Maybe he thought she called me for help. Unbelievable that he was lighting up a cigarette in the middle of the main gallery as if no one would stop him. And no one did.

“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr.…?” I began.

He eyed me suspiciously, surprised that I didn’t know who he was. I wish I had never asked.

“Francis. Robert Francis.”

“Well, Mr. Francis, why haven’t
you
asked her?” I replied, desperately hoping to take the focus away from me.

“We’re still not talking,” he said. He appeared slightly taken aback and seemed to think that I should know this. “Well, it was nice chatting with you … I didn’t get your name?”

“A friend,” was all I said.

“Well, I’m sure we’ll talk again,” he said and slipped into the crowd, leaving me standing there, bewildered.

I was starting to feel really sorry for the fabulous Tabitha Eden. What did she have to do with this creepy guy? Maybe she was too busy upchucking in museum toilets to talk about her “plans,” whatever they were. A waiter carrying a silver tray filled with champagne flutes approached me.

“Miss? Would you care”—I grabbed one and threw it back, the champagne bubbles going straight to my brain—“for champagne?” he finished saying as I put the glass back down on his tray and grabbed another.

Thankfully, they weren’t checking IDs that night.

10

“Holy craps that’s really, good!” I said to the waiter. He looked at me funny, and I realized that I had dropped my Audrey accent. I avoided making eye contact. Okay, it was time to blow this Popsicle stand, as Grandpa used to say. I wouldn’t be able to keep this up.

“Nice dress,” said a smooth, deep voice from behind me. Was I busted? I spun around, unsure.

Smiling at me, with dimples so sexy they were wicked, was none other than ZK Northcott. How was it that a couple of cute little dents in a guy’s face, even a face as nice as his, could make him even more appealing? My heart stopped pumping, I swear. His dark, wavy hair was slicked back. I’d bet he just rolled out of bed looking gorgeous. Not like the gorillas I knew who spent as much time (and product) on their hair as the girls. Up close, I could see that his eyes were even more enticing: hazel, caramel-colored with flecks of green and gold. Jeez, talk about genes. He grabbed a bottle of champagne from one of the passing waiters and refilled my glass a third time.

I eyed the line of his jacket against his shoulder and almost swooned. Some guys were just born to wear two-thousand-dollar formal wear. Giorgio Armani would be pleased. I wondered where his date was. Lost, I hoped.

“Everyone wants to know how Tabitha is,” he said. What did he say? Who was Tabitha? I couldn’t believe he was talking to me. My mind went totally blank. He was gorgeous. For a second I flashed on the fear that he would recognize me from outside on the street when our eyes locked. But of course not. When I went gaga, gazing into his eyes, he didn’t even notice me. We settled into an uncomfortable silence because I had no idea how to respond.

I took another sip of champagne, buying time to think, but the bubbles made it harder. Finally I began to sputter, “Well, Tabitha was, well…”

“There you are!” ZK turned, and Dahlia Rothenberg inserted herself between us before I could utter another word. Dahlia Rothenberg. Holy shit. She was even more perfect up close than she was in the magazines.

“Yes, how is our dear Tabby?” she asked. “We’re all dying to know.” She stared right through me as though I were made of tissue paper. I was so over my head, I felt like I’d plunged into the deep end with piranhas and had forgotten how to swim. Time stopped. How long had I been standing there absolutely tongue-tied? No line lifted from
Sabrina
or
Tiffany’s
or
Roman Holiday
. No witty retort. A total blank. All I could think of was that ZK was starting to look bored, which seemed the worst possible thing in the world. Each second ticked by excruciatingly.

“Well, I guess dear Tabitha’s the center of attention as usual,” I finally offered, smiling, hoping this would pass for conversation. It was only the most obvious thing I could think of, but Dahlia and ZK laughed as though I was brilliant. Good grief.

“You know her too well!” ZK said and gave me an amused look. I felt as though he knew I was faking and was congratulating me on my recovery, but it didn’t really matter what he was thinking. I was gobsmacked by his gold-flecked eyes.

“Well, you haven’t done poorly yourself,” Dahlia added, watching ZK watching me, but he barely seemed to notice. As I searched for a witty reply, I saw Joe the security guy leaning over the upper gallery stairs. He was pointing right at me and looking down at—Jess! She’d just reached the bottom stairs of the main gallery.

I was in
so
much trouble. Jess motioned me to come right away. I shrugged helplessly, unsure how to extricate myself.

“Is there something going on over there?” Dahlia asked. She couldn’t quite see Jess, and even if she had, a mere museum employee wouldn’t register for her.

“Not at all, it just seems as though someone has had too much fun and it’s time for them to go home,” I said sadly. Jess pulled a waiter over, handed him a note, and pointed in my direction.

“And I’m afraid I will be on my way as well. It’s been lovely meeting you,” I said and turned from my newfound “friends.” But ZK grabbed my arm. First the creeper, now Mr. Underwear-Man … these rich people were so grabby.

“I’m curious, have we met before?”

“Darling, I assure you, no one knows me. I’m quite a homebody, actually,” I said in my quietest Audrey voice.

“Excuse me,” the waiter interrupted. “I believe this is for you.”

“Thank you, dear.” But before I opened the note, a perky thirtyish young woman with a blond ponytail and an expensive camera interrupted us.

“Page Six?” she asked.

“I’d rather not,” Dahlia started.

“Oh, come now. Take one of the three of us,” ZK said. He put one arm around Dahlia and the other around me before I could say a peep. God, he smelled good. Like citrus, musk, and leather—all sex appeal. ZK squeezed me tighter, as if we were old friends. It was so totally absurd that I practically giggled as the camera flashed.

I caught Jess’s eye. She was in shock. It took a second to register what I had just done. There was now Page Six photographic evidence of me wearing the Audrey dress. Oh God, I was a total screw up.

“Thank you,” the photographer said, looking down at her camera. “Would you mind spelling your name?” Before she looked up, I slipped into the crowd without answering.

ZK, Dahlia, and Page Six were probably wondering who I was and where I came from.

I walked deliberately in Jess’s direction, savoring the last few seconds of everything—the champagne, the dress, the sad pop princess, and my too-big shoes, leaving the world of my dreams to begin the unavoidable descent back to my sad, uneventful life.

11

The Hole.

If you wanted to visit my own personal version of hell, it was right off the Jersey Turnpike, exit 14C.

Everybody called it the Hole, except tourists. Our semiofficial motto was, “It’s gotta taste better than it looks.”

It wasn’t the worst job in the world, but it was close.

At 11:08, I was late for my shift at the Hole. I overslept—if staying up all night and passing out for two and a half hours could be considered oversleeping. It seemed more like undersleeping. But how could I stop thinking about that night? The shimmering dress, vomiting pop stars, and gorgeous baby moguls.

And Page Six. Holy shit, Page Six.

I acted totally horrified that the Page Six reporter snapped my picture, but secretly I was amped. I spent the night at Jess’s place; her mom was totally cool as usual. After Jess fell asleep, I googled Page Six on her computer and hit refresh over and over until it posted at 5:43
A.M.

ZK Northcott, Dahlia Rothenberg, and little ole me.
Me
.

It was so Technicolor vivid in my mind that it already didn’t feel real anymore. It seemed more like a movie I had seen, a dream I had, or a lost scene from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
which was why I couldn’t wait to see Jess at the Hole that morning to rehash every glorious second of it. I’d promised myself over and over, though, that I’d be considerate of how freaked Jess was.

I dropped off some of my things at the house around 10:30
A.M.
, tiptoeing in and out as Mom was leaving for work. She seemed pretty hungover, so we barely said hi. Not a word about the calls.

I could see the neon-pink
DINER
sign perched on top of the dilapidated, art deco train car from a block away. Roaring into the lot, I overshot the parking space a little, screeched on the brakes, and choked the Purple Beast. One tire was up on the parking block, but I grabbed my stuff off the seat and slipped through the front door, trying to blend in as fast as I could.

I’d worked the past two and a half years at the Hole, where the smell of coffee and bacon permanently emanated from the cracked orange Naugahyde booths. There was greasy black gunk in every corner of the floor from decades of half-assed mop jobs. The most expensive thing on the menu was the Jersey T-bone, at $13.85. I’d seen them in the fridge before they were cooked. I wouldn’t go near them.

The customers at the Hole were frequently wasted and always cheap. Although we were pretty steady all day long, our busiest time was after 2:30
A.M.
That was the zombie shift, right after the bars closed and the shift change at the window factory. It paid more tips. People don’t seem to know how to count change after two in the morning.

The Hole was a convenient place to eat for people who’d rather take their chances with food poisoning than tunnel traffic. It made for a lot of cranky, unhappy customers. Thankfully, the people who worked there were mostly cool.

“You’re late,” chided Buela, my boss. Her middle-aged body was squashed into an ancient pink waitress uniform, and her unnaturally red hair was teased and sprayed into a pouf, adorned with a silvery clip. Buela’s dad Milton owned the Hole, and she’d worked there ever since she was twelve.

“One day,” she always told us, “I’m going to own this joint.” We always nodded enthusiastically and wondered why she’d ever want to.

“Sorry, Buela,” I said meekly over my shoulder, not slowing down as I made my way to the employee lockers in the back.

Jess was there, joking with Jake, who was leaning against my locker. His faded jeans hung low on his hips in that way … that way that made you want to hook your finger around a belt loop and just reel him in. Jake had smoky-blue eyes and broad shoulders and great arms, which I couldn’t help but notice because he was wearing this sky-colored
BLUE NOTE RECORDS
T-shirt that looked vintage and fit him exactly right.

My heart did a little flip when I saw him. Jake and I had this thing … well, we sort of had a thing. I guess it was almost a thing, like an urge to have a thing. I don’t exactly know how to describe it.

He’d started working there three months earlier. Light flirting early on had recently turned into heavier stuff. We’d gone out a couple of times but always with people from work. Then the previous week, in a shocker, he kissed me in the walk-in freezer, pressing me against the giant bags of frozen french fries until I was breathless.

Jake Berns was older than me, twenty-three, a musician who had graduated a couple of years ago from Paterson and lived in Hoboken with six roommates, all of them in his band, Rocket Berns, although everyone called then simply the Rockets. Jake fronted the band, played guitar, sang lead, and wrote most of the songs. He was determined to make his mark. They played five or six gigs a week, but basically only made beer money. Jake waited tables at the Hole to keep up. Money was tight because, strangely enough, the music scene in Jersey was astonishingly good, which meant that, in addition to the homegrown talent, bands came from all over to get heard by the record execs who were always trolling the clubs, scouting for the next Bon Jovi or Springsteen. The gigs were prime exposure-wise, so the club owners nickel and dimed the bands to the extreme.