Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

“Certainly,” he said.

I smiled in thanks and he tipped his hat.

I stepped through the doors onto the street with my tiny white La Perla bag and my clothing bag and headed home feeling like a million dollars.

36

Once in the eleventh grade, I attended an art opening at my high school in South End Montclair. They hung paintings and drawings all the way up to the ceiling in the main entranceway of the school for a night. I think they even served juice and Coke. The kids who were good at drawing were buzzing with self-importance. Some of them were pretty talented. This one guy made these dot paintings that were almost like optical illusions, sort of ethereal visions of heaven that he called Change, Loss, Memory and AIDs. Then there was this girl who specialized in photographs of roadkill, mostly deer and rabbits. Sometimes she’d frame the actual flattened creature next to the photograph. I’m not sure what that statement was supposed to mean, but it started smelling pretty funky after a while. That’s what I used to consider an art opening.

Wrong.

Actually, I had never really been to an art opening before. Think fashion, celebs, glamour—a “Schnabel opening,” at the Mary Boone Gallery in Chelsea, was more like a Hollywood premiere.

El Schnabel, as ZK referred to him, would be the larger-than-life artist Julian Schnabel, as I discovered in a Guest of a Guest post. The bearded, barrel-chested, sixty-something art provocateur was famous for painting with broken pottery on giant canvases and making art-savvy movies that never quite made it to the Clearview Clairidge Cinema near me. Fashion-wise, he attended art openings in his jammies and slippers, wearing yellow-tinted sunglasses, looking like a homeless bum out squandering his lottery winnings. He was also ZK’s godfather.

ZK effortlessly swept us through the throngs standing outside, who stared at us like deer in the headlights of an onrushing sixteen-wheeler of boho-chic wealth and status. Art openings were challenging for even the most dedicated celebrity stalkers because the superstar art attendees tended to be better disguised and more clandestine. We brushed past the Olsen twins, those trench-coated spies from the Kingdom of Anorexia.

Holding on to ZK’s arm, I felt content to be completely swept up in his graceful motion as he expertly navigated the gallery overflowing with guests.

Inside, boldfaced names were sprinkled generously throughout the crushing crowd. My heart skipped as I brushed past James Franco wearing a knitted hipster beanie and holding a plastic cup of white wine. Even Courtney Love struggled to get to the main gallery. She wore a strapless white Vivienne Westwood dress that she had crammed herself into, looking like she would spontaneously combust, and railed at a security guard for not giving her better access.

I noticed that ZK seemed to make eye contact with a few key individuals as we moved forward. Some seemed to be security and some didn’t, but his eye contact miraculously parted the waves of people, enabling us to smoothly enter the very center of the gallery without pausing for a second. He had so much grace and bearing, everyone seemed to make way for him.

We came upon a thin old guy in bleached-white skinny pants and a white shirt that matched his shock of white hair. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him at first. ZK offered a quick bow, and the man smiled approvingly, then nodded hello to me before we plunged farther into the exclusive back room.

“What an interesting-looking man,” I said. “He looks like an old version of that Talking Heads guy,” I whispered in ZK’s ear.

“That is the Talking Heads guy,” ZK chuckled.

“Oh,” I said, feeling instantly embarrassed.

How would I keep up with ZK? Despite Tabitha’s wealth and fabulous music career, she wasn’t particularly sophisticated. ZK, on the other hand, was utterly well educated and connected. He was a consummate player, moving in and out of every strata of high society. I simply didn’t have the background to play on his level.

My phone buzzed, and I took a quick glimpse to see who it was. Mom. I ignored it, turned off the phone, and buried it in my purse.

We reached the room within the room within the gallery. This space wasn’t actually part of the show. The walls were covered with huge canvasses and works of art of all kinds. It was so small it almost felt like someone’s office. It was the most exclusive place you could be in that moment. ZK and I were standing close enough to kiss. I took time to breathe him in, having dreamed of being this close to him ever since I saw him outside the Met, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He smelled delicious, like apples and wine.

“You know, you’re bewildering,” he said with that self-amused expression of his. “In some ways, you seem far older than your years, and in other ways, you seem as if you’ve been in hiding your whole life.”

“Can’t I be both?” I asked.

He grinned and took my chin in his hand, lifting my head until I was looking into his eyes. I trembled, wondering if he would kiss me right there in front of everyone and what I would do if he did. A shrill cackle broke our moment, rising above all the chatter in the room. It was immediately recognizable as the icy laugh of Dahlia Rothenberg.

She wore a Hervé Léger bandage dress so sleek and minimal that it was hard to call it a dress. What does it feel like to be almost naked among so many people? Her admirers didn’t mind. Men flocked around her as she talked, the center of attention. I hoped to duck her scrutiny, but within seconds her eyebrows arched as she observed ZK and me standing arm in arm. I felt myself shrinking from her penetrating glare.

“Mr. Northcott!” someone yelled from across the room, mercifully diverting us. An attractive young man with an open face, ringed by Renaissance curls of brown hair, waved us over. I gladly followed ZK away from Dahlia’s intense stare. The two men greeted each other with a big hug.

“Good to see you, Mr. Schnabel,” ZK said. This was odd. Where was El Schnabel, the PJ-wearing master painter? This Mr. Schnabel was well dressed and elegant and too young to be a godfather. His eyes lit up as he saw me.

“And this must be the lovely Lisbeth Dulac,” he said. “ZK has told me so much about you.” I couldn’t help feeling a bit confused as he bent down for a hand kiss, barely suppressing a schoolboy giggle. ZK smiled broadly, hardly able to hold back his laughter.

“Do tell,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “What would you two find so humorous?”

“Maybe you were expecting someone older and perhaps wider?” the young man with the Roman curls asked, self-amused. I hesitantly nodded agreement.

“That would be my father,” he said gleefully. “I guess it would have gone over better if I had worn my PJs?”

“Sorry Lisbeth,” ZK said. “It’s an old joke of ours.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said with a flourish. “Vito Schnabel. ZK and I have been best friends since Saint Ann’s in Brooklyn … playing hooky, getting high, and sneaking into a thousand crazy parties and openings, and … what can I say, making silly jokes.”

“Of course,” I said and managed to smile.

“Will you forgive us?” ZK said, putting his arm snuggly around me in a way that felt delicious.

“So are you a fan of my father’s work or is ZK just showing you off?” Vito asked, but then stopped abruptly and elbowed ZK.

“Um, Dahlia is … here.”

She was already upon us, looking as if she was about to crush the little plastic wine cup in her hand.

“Dahlia, it’s … so good to see you,” ZK began, dropping his arm from my waist. But Dahlia ignored him and turned her laser focus on me.

“You’ve been such a bad little mouse,” she said in a quiet voice that only I could hear. I could see in her eyes that she hadn’t forgiven me from the day before at Dolce & Gabbana. I struggled to sustain my poise. She leaned closer.

“Social climbing by nicking my boy?”

She waited for a response, but I didn’t have one.

“No clever quip this time? I’m not surprised. You’re out of your league,” she said and briefly glanced back at ZK. “He’ll be bored and unfaithful by the end of the evening.”

She turned to leave, and ZK grabbed her arm.

“Dahlia, be reasonable,” he said.

“ZK, I am always prepared to be reasonable when the situation demands,” she answered, then threw her cup of red wine across his shirt and casually walked away.

“Oops,” she said over her shoulder, smiling.

37

Swooping in, Vito whisked me away before I could say anything to ZK, who had scurried after Dahlia.

“There’s something I have to show you,” he said. I tried to track ZK as Vito escorted me across the room. “Have you seen Terence Koh’s white cock? It’s quite famous.”

“Pardon, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He had walked me across the room. “Look.”

Gazing up, I saw mounted high on the brick wall the shape of a giant rooster outlined in neon tubing. I turned to catch a glance of ZK, but he was gone.

“Watch, it lights up!” he said, flipping a switch, and the rooster hummed, flickered, and flashed on, casting a white glow down on us. The joke was less than stellar even under the best of circumstances. To his credit, Vito seemed to know it was lame, but was intent on distracting me.

Vito’s cell phone buzzed. As he answered, I knew it was ZK.

“Yes, no problem,” Vito said. “Yes, she’s fine.” He closed his phone.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

“Of course! ZK is a pro. He’s had wine thrown in his face by the best.”

Why was that so not reassuring?

“He’d like us to meet him at the after party at my father’s house. He’s on his way there now. For a change of clothes,” he added.

Everyone was leaving, anyway. The visitors to the inner sanctum of Mary Boone Gallery were decamping en masse. Vito and I became part of an army of chic revelers, plastic cups of wine in hand, awaiting a limo to make our way downtown.

As our limo stopped at the giant Pepto-Bismol-colored building known as Palazzo Chupi, Vito told me the history of the old perfume factory that his father had bought and transformed into a palace, part art studio and part condo with a triplex penthouse. It was a giant Italian-looking pink building built on top of another building.

“This is my father’s Moby Dick, if Moby Dick was pink,” Vito said, laughing.

“Everyone thinks Dad lost money on it, but they’re wrong,” he added, as if I doubted him. I had never heard of it before. All I knew was that if Barbie had a Dreamhouse in Italy, it would look like this.

As soon as we passed through the nondescript wooden doors, we entered a world of visual extravagance. The ceiling was double height, and the walls were rough-hewn clapboard. My heels clacked against the black-and-white ceramic tiles, and there was a floor-to-ceiling painting splashed with bright reds, yellows, and blues. I wished Jess could see it so she could explain what it all meant. We took the elevator up to the top floor.

Entering his father’s penthouse, the huge fourteen-foot walls progressed from turquoise green to a faded mint and finally a wash of fuchsia. Against these colorful walls, the enormous art appeared even more intense. The paintings were just unbelievably large.

The size of the place made me feel very small and, without ZK, very alone. I didn’t feel brave anymore. As nice as Vito was, I didn’t actually know anyone here, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. The image of ZK running after Dahlia lingered in my mind. With a promise to find ZK, Vito, too, was gone.

Taking a glass of champagne from a waiter, I toasted my dubious achievement of living my dreams by pretending to be someone I wasn’t and felt a little better. I gazed over downtown Manhattan from the grand black-and-white tiled rooftop terrace. There were sweeping views of the Hudson River, where a lighted barge made its slow way down to the Statue of Liberty. To the north, I took in the illuminated architecture that made New York City seem like a fairyland at night.

Celebrities I had seen on the blogs streamed in: Susan Sarandon, Sofia Coppola and her boyfriend, Naomi Campbell, Sean Penn, Scarlett Johansson, and Courtney Love spilling out of her dress, looking like the oldest swinger ever. Everyone crammed onto the gorgeous terrace with its solid pink wall and magnificent views.

I heard a high-pitched squeal that resembled my name and turned to see Tabitha running my way. I was so happy to see her. We hugged.

“How’s the big date?” she asked. I couldn’t help looking disappointed.

“Dahlia threw a fit?” she said. “Classic. Dahlia rules ZK. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t quite,” I said, although I was lying. I had seen them together before, and of course I let myself believe that something was possible, despite the obvious. I felt foolish.

“You know ZK doesn’t have any real money.” Really? Neither do I, was all I could think. Sometimes when you hear something bad about someone you’re crushing on, it makes you want them more. Besides, wasn’t he more accessible to me if he didn’t have money?

“His father is one of those Madoff Millionaires, and they used to be one of the wealthiest families in America. That’s why he doesn’t stay around very long. He only goes where the money is,” Tabitha added. Well he was certainly making a mistake with me.

“Yes, well, I suppose,” I said, trying to sound above it all as if I understood, but wishing ZK would show up soon and tell me something that would give me hope again.

Drinks appeared, and as we talked I realized that Tabitha and I had grown comfortable together. Incredible when you think that the only person I’d stayed close to my entire life was Jess. Catching up with Tabitha was good, until her expression turned serious.

“I need to talk to you privately,” she said, giving a quick glance around. Her mood had shifted, and she seemed troubled. Grabbing my hand, she walked me across the terrace to a turquoise and pink alcove that was filled with one giant painting. The French words “je ne” were roughly painted in black across massive blue and white brushstrokes on a color-washed canvas followed by another word: “rien.” Tabitha was all seriousness now, not a trace of the bubbly Pop Princess.

“My mother’s husband just passed away—just the latest. Mother seems to have a knack for choosing husbands that drop dead.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. I only met him once. He was incredibly wealthy, as if my mother needed more money. Unfortunately, she postponed her trip again,” she said. “And I have to do something about my situation. I hate asking you to do this.”

I nodded. Do what? I had a sinking feeling about this. My eyes wandered to the canvas behind her. “Je ne … rien”—something about those words seemed familiar.

“Will you talk to him? He said he’d meet with you.”

I dug deep into my memory of high school French. “Je ne … rien”—“I do … not.” I do not … what?

“Talk to who?” I asked, distracted.

“Robert, of course,” she said. “I’m just asking as a friend. Robert has said he’ll talk to you about my demands. I think he’s willing to step aside.”

“Shouldn’t you hire a lawyer or something?” I asked.

“Never mind,” Tabitha said. “You don’t have to.” She seemed to be on the verge of tears again.

“I’m sorry, Tabitha. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“You don’t realize that when you showed up, my life changed.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly. I guess that was true for both of us. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

I felt so bad for her. I wanted to make her feel better. I hugged her, and somehow it reminded me of the days when Courtney and I were close. When we were little, she was a tough older sister who was always protective of me. But those days were long gone.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before,” she said, tears filling her eyes, “someone substantial, someone independent.”

I hugged her. I knew I should feel proud that she looked up to me as an example. Yet I knew that if Tabitha ever found out that I had lied to her from the first instant we met, it was certain she would feel betrayed and hate me more than all the people she feared. And if she realized I was a nobody fake from South End Montclair, she’d be disgusted.

But even if we lived worlds apart, I knew that feeling of desperation and having nowhere to turn. I gazed up at the painting as we hugged, and I realized the word that was missing. “Je ne regrette rien,” which means, “I don’t regret anything at all.” The words were from a famous Edith Piaf song. I knew the song because Mrs. Lederer, my high school French teacher, would play it over and over for us.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. Tabitha turned away, wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, darling. I’ll help you any way I can.” I felt as if there was nothing else I could say.

“Thank you, Lisbeth. You’re the only one I could turn to. Everyone except you is such a total liar.”

“Yes, of course,” I mumbled in a daze. If she told me how wonderful I was one more time, I’d vomit. I felt like a total and complete fraud because, let’s face it, I was.

“Okay, I’ll text you the address tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

I tried not to panic.

“Is that too soon?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Great! Well, let’s go find ZK and get another drink,” she said, instantly brightening. She was in her bubbly-party-girl mode again.

Across the terrace, ZK was wearily heading our way. Despite my better thoughts, I wanted to hold him. I wanted to tell him everything.

38

“Lisbeth, would you mind if I had a word with you?” ZK asked. His impeccable white shirt had been replaced by another identical impeccable white shirt. Looking more handsome than ever against the turquoise and pink alcove wall behind him, he still seemed exhausted.

“See you two,” Tabitha said. “Don’t mess with my girl, ZK.” He nodded.

“Be careful,” she whispered to me before leaving.

ZK and I sat close on the love seat, watching the party unfold. He was quiet.

I peered inside my purse and turned my cell phone back on. It buzzed repeatedly. I saw that all the messages were from Mom, six of them.

Sitting under the painting with the cryptic French words, “Je ne rien.” I felt very rien at the moment. The lively partygoers with their outbursts of spontaneous laughter contrasted severely with our subdued and utter silence.

Seriousness pooled in his hazel eyes. No matter, he was still pleasing to look at. Searching for any imperfection, I found none. There was no blemish, no freckles, only a tiny scar above his left brow, but even that seemed perfect.

“I should have known better,” he said, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve, adjusting it, pulling at his jacket and readjusting it as he spoke.

“You mean being with me tonight?” I asked.

“No.” He seemed annoyed at the thought. I’m certain he saw the skeptical expression on my face. He went back to adjusting his cuff and then his jacket sleeve until it was perfect.

“I meant getting involved with her to begin with.”

“Why? She’s elegant, obviously intelligent, and…”

“Quite wealthy,” he finished my sentence. “I do admire her. She knows what she wants and gets it. I’m just not that way.”

“Which part?” I asked.

“Let’s see, you choose: her wealth, getting what she wants, and my utter lack of ambition.”

“Phew, that’s a long list to choose from,” I said, and he laughed, flashing that million-dollar smile for a split second.

“Well, I think we should start with my utter lack of ambition,” he said. “That’s the most intractable problem.”

“Why did you run after her?”

“To tell her again what I’ve told her before.”

“And that was?”

“That we’re finished. She never believes me.”

Well, given a chance, I would raise my hand to be a member of the club that would never let him go.

“I’m so sick of living here. This city is old news,” he said. “I had an offer to move to L.A. I should have taken it.”

“Really? You’d leave everyone you know in New York?” I asked.

“Lisbeth, I live in a tiny fishbowl where everybody knows everything about my family, my love life, my net worth. You’ve managed to stay off the radar. I envy you.” Try living most of your life in South End.

“So, Dahlia is a more formidable ‘force of nature’ than you expected?”

“I’m sorry I thought I could handle her,” he said. “The problem is Dahlia thinks like a man. She thinks she can have whoever she wants whenever she wants.” ZK exhaled, exasperated, and I noticed something I hadn’t noticed before.

There was a haunted aspect to his eyes that struck me as lonely. Could the most dashing and sought-after bachelor in Manhattan feel that alone? On the couch, our fingertips made the briefest of contact, and flickers of warmth sparked beneath my skin. Startled, I drew away. ZK’s pleading eyes met mine. We both felt it. That much was clear. But I also felt wary and over my head.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You don’t have to put yourself through this for me.”

“Don’t say that,” he said, looking orphaned. I moved my hand toward his, and he held it gently. His soft hands felt warm; I sighed, hoping it wasn’t noticeable.

“You know what’s funny?” he asked.

“Nothing appears funny at the moment, do tell,” I answered. The night had turned so completely serious, not my Audrey fantasy at all, and I felt hugely guilty. I was play-acting, and this guy, who seemed above and beyond me, was spilling his heart out, having sacrificed a relationship with one of the wealthiest, most dazzling women in America. A relationship that perhaps he and his family needed.

“The funny thing is that the person who will be most disappointed is my father.”

“Really? Has he been vicariously living off your love life?” ZK gave me the most confused expression. “I was just making a joke,” I said biting my lip, “maybe not a good one.”

“If you knew my father, you’d know how utterly serious and demanding he is. My father expected a bit more of me.”

“Expectations are overwhelming,” I said. “I had a mother like that.” Oh great, now I was speaking about my mother in the past tense. I must have become light-headed with all the stress.

For a moment, he became extraordinarily serious, as if he were calculating something in his head. I thought he might be tempted to tell me the secret I already knew, about his family’s recent troubles. I couldn’t imagine the shame he felt in being the son of the man who squandered one of America’s greatest family fortunes. But I assumed it hung over his head the way my mom’s drinking and South End hung over mine.

My mother had expected me to become a nurse-practitioner; ZK’s family tasked him to restore the billions his father lost in a Ponzi scheme. Not the same but similar.

His eyes dropped down to our hands, our fingers entwined, and the seriousness lifted. He noticed Nan’s bracelet pooled at my wrist.

“What an interesting bracelet,” he remarked. “May I?”

“I suppose,” I said, then slipped it off and handed it to him, feeling inexplicably naked.

“Tuam tutam tenebo,” he read. Jeez, of course he could read Latin.

God, I hope he doesn’t ask me what it means, I’ll look like an idiot, I thought, realizing I never asked Nan what the inscription meant.

“‘I will keep you safe,’ but who is Sammy G?”

“A rap star?” I said, making another joke. “It was my Nan’s. I see your Latin isn’t rusty,” I added, hoping to cover for my abject ignorance.

“My Latin teacher literally beat us with a ruler until we learned every word of our lessons,” he said and returned my bracelet. I slipped it back over my wrist. I was surprised at how exposed I felt without it.

ZK rose from the love seat. “My apologies, Lisbeth, for a night of drama. You’re more than generous not to be screaming at me right now,” he said. “Allow me to get you a drink and we can discuss more pressing issues, like why El Schnabel hasn’t made an appearance at his own opening party in his own penthouse. People must be having fun somewhere … let’s find them.”

I rose to go with him but thought better of it.

“I’d love to, ZK, but I think I better go home,” I said, not believing my own words.

“Ah, now I’m really flying solo. Can’t I convince you otherwise?”

There really wasn’t a choice.

“Well, at least allow me to arrange a taxi for you.”

We silently walked to the elevator and rode down to the first floor. Outside, standing at the curb, he didn’t seem to know whether to hold my hand or not. I didn’t know what I wanted either.

A cab stopped at the curb, and at the last second ZK turned to me, my face gazing up into his golden-flecked eyes. He gently brushed an eyelash from my face and, catching me unprepared, kissed me, our lips pressing together, his arm sweeping around me, pulling me in with sudden urgency, making me want to open my mouth and close my eyes, my whole body molded around him. His kiss was so focused and intense that my fingers clutched for something to hold on to—his jacket, his hands holding my face, his hair.

“Hey buddy,” the cab driver said, “why don’t you guys put it in the cab. So I can finish my shift.” We were still on the street.

ZK released me, but he held my hand tightly, preventing me from entering the cab.

“You’re certain I can’t rescue this night and charm you endlessly?”

“You already have,” I said, catching my breath, “but I have to go.” I stepped inside the taxi, gathering myself, still tasting him on my lips.

After all, I thought as the taxi pulled away, I have a super-rat to meet tomorrow.