Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“Hey Lisbeth, here’s my number. I know you’ll dig me,” Bennie added.

I couldn’t help being a little embarrassed.

Tabitha was motioning me from the studio exit to hurry up.

“Shopping time!” she screamed in the fullest voice she had used all session.

34

“La Perla first, the one in SoHo,” Tabitha instructed Mocha as soon as we jumped into the limo. “I always seem to be losing my underwear.” She giggled. Mocha turned the limo into the traffic and headed toward SoHo.

“The key, darling,” I said, “is to keep them on until you get home.”

“Yeah, I really should try that, or maybe stuff them in my purse. But sometimes I just don’t have time.” She shrugged as though she were talking about losing a pair of gloves, a scarf, or sunglasses. Mocha cracked a grin in the rearview mirror. So chauffeurs do hear everything.

“So, you don’t hate me?” Tabitha asked, stretching out into the corner of the limo.

“Why on earth would I?” I wondered how much of Tabitha’s insecurity I could take, considering there was my own insecurity to deal with. “That was impressive and wonderful.”

“Britney’s no different, believe me. I sang with her once, and she can’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

“Ah, yes, that’s what Max said.”

“Oh. Really?” she said, eyebrows raised. “Well, I guess he should know.”

I hoped I hadn’t put Max in a bad spot.

“Dear, I’m impressed that you can work with those very talented musicians. The process is mind-boggling,” I said, worried that my Audrey sounded a tad old-fashioned.

Tabitha shrugged. The dark cloud that had made her so anxious had lifted now that the studio recording was behind us.

Taking La Perla by storm, Tabitha dropped six thousand dollars on underwear as if she was buying breath mints at the drugstore. I couldn’t help but wonder how many mortgage payments my mom would have made with her underwear money.

Walking the aisles, I found a pair of boy shorts that were stretch tulle for $140. I assumed that these magic panties, in addition to conveying visible benefits on the wearer, bestowed confidence, romance, and sensuality, something that I could probably use.

“When was the last time you bought lingerie?” Tabitha asked. I hadn’t noticed her step behind me.

“Me? I don’t really keep track,” I said. Yeah, once at T.J.Maxx, and once Jess and I went to a sample sale—did those count?

“Well, why don’t you buy some?”

“I keep my underwear,” I said, giving her a disdainful glance and hoping that would put the discussion to rest.

“Tell me the truth, Lisbeth, are you a prude?”

“What? No!” Stunned, it took me a moment to realize that I had become a puzzle for Tabitha to unravel. Being scrutinized, I knew, wouldn’t be good for my inner Audrey.

“Well, you live with your grandmother and a nurse. That’s kind of old-lady-like,” she said.

“Nan is such a dear. It’s not like that. She…,” I began and trailed off, flustered.

“And you don’t seem to get out much,” she added. Hey, I’d gone out more times in the last three weeks than I had in my entire life. That did in fact sound kind of spinsterish. Think Audrey, think Audrey. At that moment, I saw the two salespeople talking to each other and looking our way. I wondered if we weren’t lingering in the lingerie a bit too long. I prayed they would interrupt us.

“I just believe that one should be private and discrete when one is promiscuous,” I said finally. “Unlike some people we know.”

“Oh, I don’t know who you’re talking about.” Tabitha laughed. “But you know, I don’t just buy them for some guy … I mean, a little sexy underwear makes me feel confident and alive. Hey aren’t you going to that art opening with ZK? So…?” I wouldn’t have thought that everyone knew that little piece of information.

My mind was trying to formulate a pithy response when, thankfully, one of the two sales girls approached us. I was still holding the lace shorts and put them down instantly, a reflex born of window-shopping with Jess in stores where we could never afford anything.

“Miss Eden?” the young woman began. “Sorry to intrude, but La Perla would love to gift your companion and wondered if this item might be preferred. Of course, you’re free to take anything in the store.”

“No, I couldn’t,” I said, hoping my eyes weren’t bugging out. I had never heard the words “free to take anything in the store” before.

“Why not?” Tabitha said. “I certainly spend enough here.”

“Any friend of Ms. Eden’s…” the store clerk began, and in moments I was holding a pretty little white La Perla shopping bag as we exited onto the street.

“Now we’ll have to get you a man to go with those,” Tabitha said, pleased with herself as we left the store.

Our next stop was Manhattan’s Meatpacking District, which typically gets described in the fashion blogs I read as the “Disney World of couture” with so many outposts of fashion labels such as Stella McCartney, Jeffrey, Alexander McQueen, Yigal Azrouël, and tons more, all within a four-block area.

Down the street, we hit a cool boutique where the cheapest thing on the shelves was a plain white cotton T-shirt for $400. Maybe the fabric increased your cup size, or your IQ.

Then we arrived at the DVF store—and I loved it! All the clothes in the store were sorted by color. There were washes of gold, pink, and fuchsia everywhere—the entire place was a work of art, another Diane von Furstenberg masterpiece.

Most of all, it was startling to see how nice all the salespeople were. Whenever Jess and I would go there, the staff was always short-tempered. They seemed to know immediately that we weren’t going to buy anything. And if they wanted to be mean, they’d have security follow us. It’s amazing how a limo outside and a famous name on a plastic card can get you so much extra service. Tabitha loaded up at both boutiques, and Mocha tossed the bags in the trunk.

More than once, I registered a suspicious sidelong glance from Tabitha. It had literally slipped my mind that Tabitha might actually expect me to buy something. It was a bit like not drinking at the bar when everyone else is smashed. And who wants to drink alone? I worried how long I could keep this up.

Returning to the comfy limo, Mocha drove us uptown, and Tabitha shared some of her shopping history with me.

“I’ve had a stylist and a personal shopper at Barneys since I was ten—Valerie,” she said. “I’m excited you’re going to meet her. When I was little, I would see her more than I saw my mother. I just never seemed to have enough clothes, so I went to see her a lot.” Despite the sad undercurrent, she seemed oddly lighthearted about it all.

I laughed along, but truthfully I’d never even seen Tabitha wear anything more than once. I’d never seen her photographed in the same dress. Her sense of need was clearly different from that of most people on the planet.

“So if your mother wasn’t around, who took care of you when you were little?”

“Me and my charge card,” she said and let out an awkward laugh. “My mother had this big breakdown after my stepfather left. That was like three husbands ago. She was in rehab a really long time, and she made Robert my guardian until I was eighteen and put him in charge of my trust. All the doctors and lawyers made her do it. Then Robert made himself my business manager. Everything has to be signed by him. He controls all the money. It’s been the worst thing.”

Tabitha fell silent and gazed out the window. I had a thousand questions, but I didn’t want her to start tearing up again. So I stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

*   *   *

At Barneys, Valerie was ready for us. She had already laid out a collection for Tabitha, and for me as well. The attractive dark-haired woman in her fifties had a Mediterranean complexion. She was somehow both sophisticated and matronly. Utterly attentive, she exuded warmth and understanding while constantly fingering her tortoiseshell glasses on a chain. It was easy to see why Tabitha was so fond of her.

Valerie’s assistant, Erica, brought us flutes of champagne as we staged our own little dressing-room fashion show. It reminded me of the times Jess and I invaded her mother’s closet and tried on all her mom’s dresses, only now we were in Barneys and these dresses cost a fortune. After a glass or two of bubbly, we were both loosening up.

“Ooh, that’s stunning on you,” Tabitha said to me, eyeing a pale-blue, off-the-shoulder gown that Valerie insisted would be perfect with my skin color.

“Thank you,” I said, grabbing a glance at the price tag. For $2,400, it should be stunning. At Tabitha’s insistence, I tried on everything Valerie had for me: elegant wide-legged pants, a body-skimming silver dress, and blue suede stilettos. I couldn’t help but do the math in the dressing room while Valerie’s assistant returned with more champagne. I had just tried on $37,000’s worth of clothes.

As I modeled a beaded blue chiffon blouse with exquisite ruching in the dressing room, Tabitha noticed my bracelet. Before I knew it, she was holding my wrist up to the light, examining it.

“How unusual,” she said, twisting it on my wrist. “Understated but dazzling. Is it platinum?”

“Yes.” I had forgotten about Nan’s bracelet. I was already used to wearing it.

“It’s so mysterious … just like you, Lisbeth,” she said, smiling.

“Honestly, dear, I don’t try to be,” I replied.

“I know. You just are,” she said and gave me a hug. I was growing to like Tabitha, despite the strangeness of her mood swings and insecurity. Somehow, she unequivocally accepted me for whoever I was. Like a child, she seemed naive to ulterior motives. We had truly developed a friendship. The mysteries about her mom, her loneliness, made me want to take care of her.

Valerie was over-the-top with enthusiasm for a lilac dress that she had given Tabitha to try on, but I had my doubts. When Tabitha came out wearing it, I could see that it was totally wrong for her. It wasn’t that she couldn’t wear the color, it just wasn’t her shade. It’s interesting to me how often people don’t know their colors. I guess I had consumed enough champagne and was comfortable enough around Tabitha that my guard was down. For some reason, I started blurting out my opinion on everything.

“It’s a lovely dress, but perhaps you should reconsider whether it’s right for you,” I said, assuming I was out of earshot of Valerie. Tabitha looked at me with surprise. It seemed as though she was disturbed that anyone could doubt Valerie, which would explain some of the less-sophisticated choices Tabitha wore in the photos on the gossip blogs.

“What do you mean?” After another sip of champagne, I figured I might as well go for it. “Lilac isn’t really your color, and the dress cuts you right across the bust, a very unflattering silhouette,” I concluded. When an alarmed look crossed Tabitha’s face, I realized that Valerie was standing right behind me, and I regretted my words immediately.

I turned to Valerie to apologize. “I am terribly sorry. I’m sure you know better,” I said and braced myself for a dressing down. Valerie seemed to be trying to regroup. It dawned on me that if Tabitha had a personal shopper since she was ten, and her mother hadn’t been around, she may not have thought about her look independently for a long time. Valerie was her only support, her trusted advisor, and I certainly hadn’t intended to interfere. I watched as Valerie put on her cherished glasses and examined the dress again.

“She’s right, Tabitha,” Valerie said after a moment. “I’m not sure why I never saw that before.” Tabitha brightened. “Your friend Lisbeth is quite astute,” she continued. “Do you have any other suggestions?”

“Well, do you mind me adding?” I waited for the nod from Valerie. “You might try mixing and matching a bit more, like this Dolce and Gabbana blouse with this piece,” I said, grabbing a vintage skirt from a nearby table that was part of a window display they were putting together. I couldn’t believe I was acting like such an expert. It was so much fun to get my hands on these clothes and play with them.

“It’s nice to see you with such an intelligent and sensitive friend,” Valerie said to Tabitha. “And she has such a terrific sense of design.” Tabitha glowed instinctively, as if she had been singled out herself.

“You do have the most incredible taste,” Tabitha said, relieved that Valerie had given me the seal of approval. “You just see stuff and put it together. No wonder your fashion blog is so incredible.”

“Fashion blog?” Valerie asked.

“Yes, Valerie, Lisbeth is that Shades of Limelight blog,” Tabitha said. “Isak Guerrere loves it.”

“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of that one, but I have to admit I’m a bit of a Luddite,” she said. “I will definitely look it up.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“And I’ll make a note to the marketing department to send you some samples to review,” she said and scribbled herself a note. “You never know, they may even ask you to consult for us.”

Consult? Me? Hmmm, I could only hope.

Moments later, Tabitha strutted in front of the mirror in a jade-green romper with knee-high boots. “So, which ones are you getting?” she asked, looking at her hips in the mirror. “You absolutely have to get the silver dress. I’m not letting you leave the store without it.”

“I’m not sure,” I said, trying to think of any excuse she might believe other than “I only have thirty-seven dollars in my purse, and my credit cards couldn’t pay for this even if they weren’t maxed out.” My skin flushed, embarrassed that window-shopping wasn’t going to cut it any longer.

“And you absolutely have to have those shoes.”

When Valerie returned for Tabitha’s clothes, Tabitha said simply, “I’ll take them all, except the lilac dress of course,” and gave me a nod.

Then Valerie turned to me, awaiting my choices. I was tongue-tied. They expected an answer.

“Lisbeth will take the silver dress and the leopard heels,” Tabitha jumped in.

Valerie quickly whisked the dress and shoes out of my dressing room and took them to the counter. Tabitha changed back into her clothes, and we walked over to the counter to pay.

How would I get out of this? I struggled for the barest hint of a plan. I put my bag on the counter and began digging through it and was struck with an idea.

“It was here a moment ago,” I said, just loud enough that Tabitha could hear. Then I gave Tabitha a desperate look. “Shoot,” I said, rifling through my bag. “It’s gone!” Valerie wasn’t sure what was happening. But she registered my alarm. “I can’t find my wallet!” I said.

“Did you misplace it somewhere here?” Valerie asked.

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said, feigning distress. “I’m sure I had it earlier.” I was getting so worked up, even I thought I might manage to burst out in tears.

“Are you okay?” Tabitha asked.

“Do you think it could have been stolen?” Valerie asked.

“I just don’t know,” I said. “It’s not about the money or the cards. It’s that the wallet was a gift.” Meanwhile, I had been digging in my bag so long, I couldn’t help actually coming across my actual wallet, but I kept that to myself.

“Well, let me call Security immediately,” Valerie said. She turned to pick up a phone nearby.

“I’m so embarrassed. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone,” I said. “I was certain I took it this morning, but maybe when I changed handbags? Or did I drop it at the studio? No need to bother Security.”

“I’ll call Mocha now to check with the studio,” Tabitha said.

“It’s not a problem, dear. Security will be here in a moment. Meanwhile, Erica…? Please check everywhere,” Valerie said, and Erica, her assistant, began assiduously checking every corner of the dressing area for a wallet she’d never find.

“Perhaps it would be best if you wouldn’t mind holding these, and I’ll just come back later.”

“Absolutely,” Valerie said. Ah, finally, my plan worked. No harm, no foul.

“No, no, don’t worry,” Tabitha insisted matter-of-factly. “Just add her things to my tab.” Ugh, that was considerably worse.

“Oh no, you shouldn’t,” I said, yanking the shoes and the silver dress away from the counter.

Tabitha shrugged. “It’s really no big deal.” Valerie reached out her hands for the dress and shoes. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights. After a few agonizing seconds, I handed them over. It was so unfair—two against one.

“I promise to pay you back,” I said and bit my tongue, literally, wishing I could swallow those words as soon as they left my mouth. Only someone without money worries about her friend buying her something when she doesn’t have the cash to pay for it. Wealthy people simply don’t worry about such things. I had outed myself. What a mess. Tabitha regarded me with concern. I didn’t see a way out of this. I summoned my saddest face, hoping to distract her.

“Lisbeth, it’s okay. I’m sure we’ll find your wallet,” she said. “And if I can’t buy my friends something, what good is all the money? I’m sure you’ll return the favor someday,” she said.

“Valerie, ring them up.”

“You simply don’t have to,” I said.

“Don’t be silly,” Tabitha said, “it’s nothing.”

It’s not nothing, I thought. It’s five thousand dollars.

35

With my wallet charade behind me, Tabitha and I could both relax. Tabitha seemed to forget my faux pas immediately, no longer self-conscious that I wasn’t buying anything. Now she could get down to seriously splashing the cash on Fifth Ave.

During this shopathon with Tabitha, I discovered an aspect of shopping I never knew existed—shoptailing—the art of shopping while partaking of numerous cocktails. Forget Breakfast at Tiffany’s—think Champagne at Versace. Barneys was just the beginning. Leave it to Tabitha to discover how willing merchants were to ply their clients with champagne and martinis to lubricate their shopping desires. And we’re not talking about your standard Jersey drunken mall crawl. Tabitha threw herself into such a frenzy of buying and drinking that surely she would wake up from a shopping coma at some point wondering why she bought all of this stuff. On the other hand, her closet was likely already overflowing with tons of purchases that she wouldn’t have a clue where or why she bought.

I smiled and declined to imbibe. Besides, I had found a better way to get high. As we waltzed through Fendi and Cartier, then Prada and Gucci, I stopped worrying about my worthless credit card. I couldn’t even buy what the shopgirls were wearing, but I could steal pure nirvana under the bright lights of Fifth Avenue’s impressive shops.

I sauntered through the artfully displayed stacks of clothing, each item an example of the world’s most incredible designers and craftspeople. The entire history of Western civilization sewn into every stitch, polished into every jewel, filling up every room.

I put on an air, poised and aloof like a discerning collector who deigned not stoop to purchase. These were places “where nothing bad could happen to you,” as Audrey said in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the sure cure for the mean reds, the evil yellows, the blues, and everything else that made you pull out your hair. Even the haughty mannequins seemed like approving gatekeepers.

Judging by these stores, the world was an intelligent, exquisitely tasteful place, with no detail too small to refine. Here, designers and craftspeople infused mere everyday garments—a shirt, a skirt, a pair of flats—with creativity and perfection. While my friend Tabitha bought the store wholesale and pounded back the cocktails, I floated in therapeutic retail bliss. No one knew my wallet was empty but me.

The D&G Fifth Avenue store was a wonder. Shop clerks arranged even the hangers an equal distance apart. I learned from Jess how bold and wonderfully structured their clothes were, and I had also posted a little blog entry on their silk Le Smoking blouse. A pair of beige stiletto peep-toes shot through with chocolate brown and gold piping fascinated me. With all of my Designer X couture, shoes were the missing element we were still looking for.

Tabitha noticed the store manager talking to her staff as we were preparing to leave. A slightly older woman, better dressed, joined them. They were chatting away in hushed tones.

“Lisbeth, this is so weird,” she said. “But I think they’re talking about you.” Immediately, I became paranoid.

“Why on earth would they?” I said, pretending nonchalance.

Tabitha giggled. She found this amusing, I assumed, because usually they would be talking about her—after all, she was the celebrity.

“I think they think you’re reviewing their store,” she whispered.

“Why? I mean, how could they…?”

“You don’t have any idea, do you? Don’t you realize your pix have been reposted everywhere? My fans even ask about you, and they’re like twelve.” She smiled so broadly, I could tell that she felt the association with my blog gave her special props. If anyone knew what a schlumpy nobody from South End I was, they’d change their mind instantly.

“Well, that’s perfectly flattering, but I never intended to make such a splash,” I said.

“It doesn’t hurt that there are shots of us together on the Web, I assume,” she added.

As the older woman walked over to us, I couldn’t help noticing her shoes. She wore leopard-print, sky-high stilettos, but her stride was as firm as if she were wearing army boots.

“Pardon me?” she said. “I hope I’m not being presumptive, but would you be Lisbeth Dulac?”

“Of course she is,” Tabitha blurted out. She was tipsy as all get-out.

“Well, I’m the head of Dolce and Gabbana in-store marketing. We’re just enormous fans of your blog.” She waited for me to answer, but I stood in stunned silence. In retrospect, I realized that she interpreted my silence as being haughty.

“Well,” she said after a moment that seemed to last forever, “we would like to provide you with a few samples of our new line of handbags.” With a finger snap, she signaled the store manager waiting attentively in the background, and instantly an army of store clerks brought out six shopping bags filled with the very latest D&G handbags.

As I stood there speechless, everyone was waiting for me to say something. Tabitha gave me a little kick, and I blinked.

“I know a critic of your integrity may not accept gifts,” the woman continued, undaunted, as if she were presenting to a CEO of some important organization, “so naturally we will be glad to have them picked up after you have had a chance to peruse them.”

“Why, thank you,” I managed to stutter out. She seemed greatly relieved that I had broken my silence.

“That’s absolutely wonderful,” she said and held out a little black and gold D&G card. “If you have any questions or ever feel as if you might like to keep any of the bags, please don’t hesitate to call on me. Can we help you out to your car?”

As the army of store clerks swept us and our loot out of the store, I noticed the woman in the leopard stilettos glancing back at her store manager, who nodded emphatically as she hung up the phone. It seemed an odd thing at that moment. I don’t know why, but I wondered who they could be calling. We spun through the revolving doors, having no idea what was waiting for us outside.

For maybe two seconds, it felt as if we were in the middle of a TMZ video. Ten or more burly leather-jacketed men with cameras poured out of cars as they skidded to the curb, shouting and snapping pictures of us like sharks devouring guppies. At first, I felt excited that everyone was making such a fuss, but that changed quickly. As the mob of paparazzi attacked, we found ourselves in the equivalent of a slow-motion car wreck.

“Chill out. Guys, chill out,” Tabitha said calmly. So many more of them were taking pictures of her. I guessed she was used to it. I wondered where Mocha was.

“Hey, Tabitha, how have you been?” one shouted as if he actually knew her.

“Sing for us, Tabitha,” another said.

“Give me a break,” she said.

A crowd of tourists gathered and through the flashes of light I saw Chase with a crew standing outside Harry Winston, across the street. Would he swoop down on us, too? After all, he was one of them. As I saw Mocha aggressively working his way through the thick crowd, I held one of the D&G bags in front of my face.

“Hey, Tabby, who’s your new girlfriend?” one guy asked, and I wondered what that meant. A camera flash went off almost point-blank in my eyes, and I began to panic.

“Back off!” I heard her say. I worried Tabitha would slug someone in a drunken rage. We were jostled, mauled, and surrounded. There was no way out. Being photographed seemed beside the point. It flew through my mind that the stiletto-heeled marketing director had contrived this entire sequence to get these photographs, regardless of whether I reviewed her bags or not.

“We’re just doing our job, Miss Eden,” someone shouted. In the darkening light, the flashes were dizzying, like a strobe, and I was losing my balance.

As one of the beefiest of photographers walked right up to me with his camera poised to flash, I grabbed one of the D&G bags to shield my eyes. He gripped my arm, pulled the bag away, and shoved his camera up to my face. The flash stunned me, and I stumbled. I saw the sidewalk before I crashed.

But nothing happened.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at Chase. He was holding me up. In the chaos, I hadn’t even seen him slip in. He unceremoniously set me on my feet, as one of his crew held a giant white card, those big sheets of foam board they carry for video shoots, to protect us and give us room to recover.

The paparazzo tried to squeeze around, but Mocha had finally broken through and was standing guard. He seemed ready to throw a punch. Chase stepped in front of Tabitha and me as they removed the card.

“Dude, you’re ruining the shot,” one of the men said.

“This is my interview,” Chase said, and though he was a pipsqueak compared to the hefty photographers, he didn’t seem like he was bluffing.

“Who the hell are you?” another photographer asked as Mocha started shooing away the rest of them.

“Love you, Tabitha,” the beefy guy said as he left. As if. Chase and his crew began gathering their gear.

“Thanks, Chase,” I said, embarrassed, trying to pull myself together.

“I’ve seen you before,” Tabitha asked suspiciously.

“I’m a fashion shooter for Lux.” Chase gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I just wanted to make sure you guys were all right. I’ve got to get back to a shoot across the street.”

His phone buzzed.

“Shit. Here now?” He looked up, and I saw the stunned expression on his face and what he was looking at—Dahlia Rothenberg and her entourage approaching.

Dahlia wore a tight beige skirt with towering heels and a see-through blouse under a YSL boyfriend jacket—it screamed money, power broker, and sex in the same breath. There was a makeup person trying to catch up behind her. As she made long, elegant strides our way, I could see the curl of her wicked smile. I wanted to run.

“Lisbeth, nice to see you,” she said, swooping in, her eyes all daggers. “Slumming with our little Tabby?”

Chase leapt to make amends. “My apologies, Miss Rothenberg. We had just set up for you when we saw…” But Dahlia walked right past him.

“It’s nice to see you’re finally getting a touch of class, Tabby, trying to buy something with taste instead of wearing those slutsuits you usually wear.” Mysteriously silent, Tabitha seemed easily intimidated by Dahlia. Then again, Dahlia rendered everyone speechless, and you could see the satisfaction on her face. We had just been through this crazy situation, yet she managed to make us feel apologetic. For reasons unclear to me, I felt uncharacteristically obligated to stand up for all of us.

I took a deep breath and did my best to channel Holly Golightly at her most flamboyant. “I’m so sorry, Dahlia,” I began. “We’ve just had the most ghastly time at Dolce and Gabbana, not a bit ‘dolce,’ I’m afraid.” Then, dipping into Holly Golightly’s goofy French, “The entire mise-en-scène was très fou, but nothing more fou than this little paparazzi disaster. Please accept our apologies for the delay.”

Dahlia was stunned. Either she was aghast at my backbone, offended by my mangled French, or thought I was plain crazy. But who cares? When you have nothing to lose, you have everything to gain, I guess. After all, I was just a Jersey girl. I recognized that our little Fifth Avenue confrontation was essentially the same trash talk that went down in the girls’ locker room at Montclair High, only we were wearing better clothes.

Dahlia took the longest time glaring at me, hoping I’d sizzle to vapor, I suppose. If I hadn’t just rambled on in the silliest way, I assume, I would have. But on this strangest of days, I had something I don’t think I’ve ever had before—audacity. Why the effin’ not? I thought. I wanted to make the sign of the horns and dance around her sorry ass like some football player who’s made it to the end zone.

“Well, thank you, Lisbeth,” she said finally, regaining her composure. “Chase, come along. I only have a few moments now, or we’ll have to reschedule.” She spun around and walked back toward Harry Winston, awkwardly waiting to cross the street with Chase following obediently behind her.

Tabitha seemed dazed as we piled into the limo and headed “home” to East Seventy-seventh Street. We sunk back into the black leather seats, and she looked at me with a sense of admiration, it seemed. I felt for a moment like the older sister I never had. As Mocha pulled up to the Mark, I stopped worrying about my fake address and told him to let me off by the lobby. He deposited the Dolce & Gabbana handbags inside with the young hotel doorman’s help. Tabitha hardly noticed me leave—she was pretty hung over anyway.

There I sat in the middle of the Mark Hotel lobby with all those bags and not a clue where I should go or what I should do. I felt only disgust for the D&G marketing woman and these handbags that were likely worth thousands of dollars. I considered hocking them on eBay. I remembered the little black and gold card in my purse, and the tiniest thought occurred to me. I rose, and the attentive doorman sprinted over immediately.

“Can I be of service?” he asked.

“Would you retrieve an item I checked?” I asked, handing him the ticket from the concierge. “And also if you wouldn’t mind, please call the number on this card and have them collect these bags? I’d be so grateful.”