Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

41

Nan and I hugged for so long I lost my sense of time. When I lifted my head, there was only darkness outside her window. It chilled me to think of Mom sleeping in the hospital with tubes coming out of everywhere.

“They love her so much,” I said. “I could see it in their eyes. They knew about her drinking, but they still loved her.” I felt weepy again. So did Nan, her soft little hand holding mine in an iron grip.

“I always knew she had it in her,” Nan said, shaking her head. “But with me she was so angry, and her drinking made everything impossible.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

“It’s wonderful she’s with friends,” Nan said, firmly patting my hand and straightening herself on the couch. Nan had tried to visit three days earlier when they admitted Mom, but Mom wouldn’t see her. I couldn’t even process how that must have felt to Nan.

“Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “Your mom and I will be close again some day. I’m sure we will. As you know, things can be very difficult between mothers and daughters.”

“Do you want to talk about it at all? I mean, what happened between you and Mom? You don’t have to,” I said.

Nan regarded me in silent sadness.

“You have been my shoulder to cry on for so long, you can cry on mine, too.”

“I don’t know,” Nan said, trailing off into her own thoughts. We sat there for a while, holding hands, stuck in the sadness of it all, until I felt Nan stir. “I guess we were unlucky,” she began. “There is a history in our family of rebellious daughters. I certainly know that. But the time just ran away from us. And we grew further and further away from each other.” Just like me and Mom, I thought.

“Did you ever try to stop her from drinking?” I asked.

“Of course, and unfortunately that was another unlucky part.” Nan looked so sad as she said those words. For the first time, she seemed old to me. I knew she was old, of course, but I never thought about her that way until she started talking about Mom.

“What did you do?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t pushing too hard. But with Mom in the hospital, I wanted to know.

“You know, it’s not like on those reality shows they have on the television about intervention where nine times out of ten they seem to succeed,” she said. “I’ve read quite a lot about it. Many times, the percentages aren’t really very good.”

“So you and Grandpa actually did a full-on intervention?”

“Yes. And, well, the danger in an intervention is what you’d expect. If it fails, everything can become much worse. I remember the therapist advising that there could be a ‘subsequent period of strained communication,’ as he called it, and that we shouldn’t lose hope.” Nan gripped my hand and looked me in the eye. “In our case, that subsequent period of strained communication has lasted for twenty-three years.” I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I try to hope,” she said. Nan stood up and went to the kitchen to collect herself. It was too much for her.

“Some tea, Lisbeth?” she asked, her tiny voice still weepy. I nodded yes. She returned a moment later with a tea setting on a silver platter, placing the tray down on the table.

“So Lisbeth,” she said, pouring me a cup, “I want to know what is going on with you. Where have you been, what have you been doing? What is your plan?”

There it was, the dreaded word “plan,” always looming over me like a guillotine, but I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not to Nan. Not even to Mom.

“I’m not going to college,” I said. “Not for nursing. Not yet anyway.” I waited for a reaction of disappointment to come over her face. But Nan was too cool for that.

“Really,” she said. It wasn’t a question, although it was. “Well, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I want to try to get a job in fashion,” I said.

“Really?” This time it was definitely a question.

“You think I’m silly,” I said.

“Well, you know I follow your blog. And what do you call that other thing? A Tumblr?”

“You do?”

“I was a bit bewildered to see my maiden name, ahem,” Nan said, giving me a sly glance. I winced. “But then I saw you had thousands of followers and you have quite a lot of wonderful things to say and I agreed with it all!” she said. “I don’t know how you have time for so many entries. And such lovely photographs, by the way. Do you have a concrete idea how you’re going to work in the fashion business?”

I shrugged. I really didn’t have the slightest idea. Don’t ask how or why, but Nan’s question brought to mind the woman Tabitha introduced me to at her record party. Flo Birkenhead, that tiny intense woman with the close-cropped red hair who talked about ad placement, endorsements, and aggregators. I hoped I still had her card. I had heard of people making money on their blogs and Tumblr sites.

“Okay, well, we will have to come up with something, won’t we?”

I nodded, wondering how I could possibly have anything resembling a career.

“In the meantime, we have work to do,” Nan said with a sense of determination that startled me. “Even if your mother won’t talk to me, we have to make a plan that will work for everyone.”

42

Penthouse A.

I still had the thick cream-colored invitation in my purse. Dr. Newton wanted to run more tests, so Mom was still tucked away in her hospital room. But like King Kong ready to break his chains and roar, Mom was starting to go nuts. I heard she pleaded with her nurse friends, to “rip these fucking catheters out” and let her go back to work. For obvious reasons, they couldn’t. Plus, she was probably in detox withdrawal from stopping her alcohol consumption cold turkey, and I guess there were a few liability issues to work out. At least she was with people who could handle her better than Courtney or I could.

Before Nan and I could start our plan, I had to clean up a few pieces of business. I contacted Flo to have a chat about my blog and was happy she remembered me. As I expected, she was all business and promised to make a market analysis of Limelight and get back to me.

“I’m very interested in helping you build your brand,” she remarked. Me? A brand? Fingers crossed.

I was concerned about facing Tabitha. I felt like I had failed her; there was no other way to think about it. Robert’s intentions were disturbing, and I had no idea how Tabitha would feel about that, considering the results she had hoped for. Which is why it was so curious to receive her text.

“Come 2 my house 2 get ready b4 penthouse party ! ;)”

She was going, for real? I couldn’t fathom the relationship she had with her business manager-slash-trustee-slash-uncle.

“C u @ 9 ? It’s bn 2 lng bathroom buddy !! :*(” That didn’t sound like someone who was angry with me.

“ZK sez hi. He’ll be there. ;)”

The mention of those initials sent quivers down my spine as I remembered our kiss.

Once off the PATH train, I headed downtown to Jess’s place, rang the buzzer, and ran upstairs.

“What the hell?” I heard a voice say from inside the apartment as I reached the door. And then a moment later, “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“Hey Lizzy,” Jess said, standing in the doorway. She was smiling as always, her pixie hair frazzled, the blue dye fading turquoise. Five sewing pins were sticking out of the collar of her work shirt and a swatch of fabric dangled from her hand. We hugged, careful to avoid the pins.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the girl behind her said with annoyance. Jess looked amused, as if she expected the question.

“Hey Lizzy, meet my girlfriend, Sarrah. She’s been helping me with some fittings.”

Sarrah had long, shock-red hair, recently dyed from what I could tell. She was wearing overalls and had lots of freckles on her face and arms, like some kind of trippy farm girl. She was very pretty but seemed unhappy.

“Hi.” She thrust out her hand to me. “I’ve heard all about you,” she said with a hint of displeasure. I noticed a tattoo in goth letters on her wrist that said BITTER SWEET.

“Good to meet you, Sarrah,” I said. I had met Jess’s girlfriends before, and they almost always had rough edges, which seemed to amuse Jess. Without fail, Jess’s girlfriends resented me, but this time I also felt a twinge of resentment, wanting Jess all to myself. I needed to talk to her about Mom, the crazy encounter at the St. Regis, and ZK and ask her if she’d seen Jake, but there wouldn’t be a way with Sarrah there.

“How’s your mom?” Jess asked. I guessed the moms had talked.

“Good, as far as I know. They still haven’t finished testing.” Sarrah was standing right beside Jess, clearly planning to listen to everything we said like some kind of twisted chaperone. Jess shot me a knowing look.

“Hey, I just came by to pick up a dress if it’s okay.” Not really true, but it was the best excuse I could manage at the moment.

Sarrah was flat-out staring at me.

“Sure, let’s take a look,” Jess said. “Hey Sarrah, I would love some more hot water for my tea?” She held up her mug. Sarrah broke out of her daze, nodded, and trundled off obediently to the kitchen.

“She’s cute,” I said. “How long?”

“Three days,” Jess said. “Won’t last three more.” I tried to keep from laughing.

“Hey!” Sarrah yelled from the tiny kitchen across the room, and we both flinched. “Where do we keep the tea?” Jess rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Jess whispered.

I took the opportunity to dash to the closet ahead of Jess. I couldn’t help noticing there were four newly modified vintage dresses, each one more wonderful and a bit wilder than the next. They weren’t there two days earlier.

There was another dress, as well. It didn’t seem like one of Nan’s but still had a retro flavor while at the same time being totally fresh and eye-catching. Longer in the back than in the front, it had a patterned black chiffon fabric with white leaves falling like snow clusters mostly at the top. The black overskirt was bouncy and light with only a few white leaves randomly placed, dissolving into pure black. The black underskirt was tight and sexy.

Along the hem, playful light-gray embroidery caught my eye. On closer examination, I realized they were words. Turning the hem in my fingers, I read them.

As we talk the words fall away. They fly like seeds in the wind, clinging to the hem of your dress before they disappear.

The words made the dress a secret message. Was it from Jess’s journal? It was startling and provocative, just what you’d expect from Designer X.

“So you like it,” Jess said confidently. I turned. She must have been watching me.

“Like it? It’s mind-blowing.” I felt the air go out of me. Jess was so talented, I felt like I was bathing in her brilliance.

“I’m getting tired of the asymmetric hem length; I might change that. Try it on,” she offered, lifting the dress out of the closet. “It should fit.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, noticing Sarrah watching us from the kitchen.

“It’s for my show. I made it with your measurements.”

I stripped down to my underwear and slipped on the tight skirt and overskirt and then the blouse.

“It needs to be a tad tighter at the waist,” she said, staring into the full-length mirror propped against the wall.

“Jess, I think it’s perfect.”

“Then wear it tonight.”

“What? Really? It’s one of a kind; it’s your original…” I stammered.

“They all are,” she said. “Do me a favor, Lizzy, wear it. I’m sure you’re going somewhere fantastic tonight. That dress deserves to escape this closet and be worn. What did you used to say? Its destiny is to be worn?”

I smiled while Sarrah, holding a tea bag, watching us from the kitchen, seethed.

43

The doorman greeted me at Tabitha’s building on North Moore Street in Tribeca. He was just a few years older than me and had that unshaven-Euro-model look. His uniform must have been designed by Comme des Garçons. Fanciest doorman I’d ever seen, no joke. He was a perfect fantasy. After all, who wouldn’t want a good-looking guy who is always nice and opens doors, hails cabs, and carries heavy packages for you?

“Please let me help you with your bag,” he said. I only had a garment bag with the latest Designer X creation inside. It seemed a little silly, but I acquiesced, feeling very indulged. He pushed the PENTHOUSE button as I entered the elevator.

I heard Tabitha’s familiar high-pitched squeal as the door opened.

“You’re here!”

She was standing in a comfy pink bathrobe with her hair up in a towel, Galileo yapping at her feet. It was good to see her again, and I appreciated how happy she was to see me. Walking into her penthouse apartment, I was totally awed.

The Princess of Pop truly had pop-star-worthy digs. The cherrywood floors and staircase were so deeply lacquered I could see my reflection as I walked in. There was a high-tech kitchen that was so pristine that it seemed impossible Tabitha had ever boiled water in it. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves complete with a library ladder on rails was utterly impressive. Tabitha’s collection of leather-bound literature was remarkable, though I doubted there was a book on those shelves that had ever been touched. The living room had a view of New York City on three sides.

“Hurry,” she said as she skipped barefoot up the spiral staircase at the back of the living room. “Come up to my bedroom and help me pick out what to wear.”

I followed. The second floor was even more sensational. Calling it a bedroom seemed a poor way of describing the place. There was a large built-in mahogany desk, a plump couch, upholstered chairs, an antique wooden coffee table, and a sleek designer bed that seemed to be floating on air, all of which faced onto an open terrace with views of all of Lower Manhattan. You could even see the Statue of Liberty.

“In here!” Tabitha called. I wondered where she could be.

She poked her head out of a doorway “Hello? Come on, I need help.” I followed her and found myself in an enormous walk-in closet.

I know from closets. Even with tons of hangers, clothes, and shoes, this was significantly more than a closet. Nothing like the smushed-in cozy closet I had at home. All the bedrooms in my house could fit in there. This was a closet you could get lost in for days.

It reminded me of the showroom where we tried on clothes at Barneys. At the center of the room was a gorgeous French walnut armoire with a full-length mirror.

“What do you think of this?” Tabitha said, posing in a black leather halter and black harem pants, looking like an upscale relative of JWoww’s. She could tell from my expression that it wasn’t my favorite. “Okay, okay, give me a second.” She ducked back behind the armoire.

“So, how are you?” I asked, wondering where we stood relative to my meeting with Robert.

“Great!” she said from behind the armoire before popping her head back out. “Thanks to you!”

“Me?”

“What about this?” She was wearing a nude-colored, skin-tight, studded tank dress and some strappy sandals. It was very close to being naked.

“Well, that’s an interesting dress. I like the sandals,” I said.

“I don’t like it either,” she replied, frowning, and ducked back into her vast racks of clothes. I contemplated the rows and rows of shoes. This walk-in was the final resting place of so many of Tabitha’s cocktailing shopping sprees. You could dress an army of pop stars from this one closet.

“I don’t know what you said to RF, but it certainly worked,” she said.

“Really?” I asked.

Tabitha popped back out in her underwear.

“Robert said he’s willing to start the process. And my mom is coming, so we’re going to meet in the Hamptons. You have to join us. We’ll celebrate!”

The Hamptons? For me, the Hamptons were a bigger fantasy than I dared ever dream of, even bigger than New York City. After all, in Jersey we have the Jersey Shore, the McMansions of Brigantine and the old historical houses of Cape May, but nothing compared to what I had heard about the Hamptons. I hadn’t fully comprehended that summering in the Hamptons was a likely requirement for a Park Avenue Princess or a SoHo Darling.

“We desperately need a little getaway, and I want you to meet my mother.”

“I have a few obligations,” I said. “So I can’t say for sure.” My mother for one. Then there was the fact that I still had no means of supporting myself and Jess’s show. Although Jess didn’t have an exact date, we wanted to time her show at FIT to Fashion Week at the end of the summer. How much she would need me before, we hadn’t discussed. We both knew she could stage the show herself. Getting people there was the problem. She would kill me if I didn’t make that happen for her.

“Well you’ll have to let me know. You should definitely come,” she said.

“Thank you for asking. That’s quite nice of you.”

“I hear you’ve contacted Flo. She’s coming to stay with me, too,” Tabitha said as she pulled on a skirt. “You certainly know how to get around.”

“I’m just not quite sure if there’s anything she can do,” I said. “But she’s so lovely, and it’s just a small hobby of mine.” Tabitha made a half smile as if she didn’t believe me, and I thought it better to change the subject.

“So Robert is giving you what you want? Are you surprised?”

“Not really. You talked to him, right?” she said, hidden from view.

“But Tabitha, we didn’t really talk about very much.”

Tabitha popped back out again. “Oh really? It didn’t seem that way to Robert,” she said. She was half-dressed in a sheer black-and-white dress and tights. The kind of thing Lindsay Lohan might wear at her tackiest. Tabitha noted my expression.

“I don’t really like this, do you?” I didn’t even have to answer.

“Damn, I just don’t have anything to wear.” She ducked behind the mirror. “I just bought these.” She thrust out a pair of black and nude heels. “What do you think I should wear with them?”

Clearly she wasn’t in the mood for a serious talk. I scanned the closet. I plucked a black silk shirt with spiky beaded sleeves and sorted through the hangers and endless dresses until I found a short black mini.

“Try this,” I said. She took the two hangers, ducking behind the armoire again.

“By the way, RF said you were absolutely stellar and impressive,” she said as she dressed. “He said he admires you.” She reappeared, her strawberry-blonde hair falling in luxurious waves over the black silk shirt.

“What do you think?”

“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

“Good. We’re all ready to go,” she said and noticed for the first time what I was wearing. “Wait, aren’t you getting dressed? What’s in the bag?”

44

Robert greeted us at the door, and you’d think I was his long lost daughter. He was holding Morris, a tiny shih tzu that all the girls cooed over as they passed by. The apartment was magnificent with floor-to-ceiling windows and enormous unobstructed views of the Hudson. There was a huge skylight over the oversize dining room, and if it ever got dark enough in New York City, I’d bet you could see the stars from there.

“Allow me to give you the tour,” Robert offered as Tabitha and I followed him from room to room. It was jarring how quickly Tabitha’s mood had shifted again. She and Robert seemed fine with each other. I didn’t know what to make of it.

Partygoers were everywhere, young girls lounging on the couches picking at hors d’oeuvres and sipping sugary pink martinis, men smoking cigars and playing billiards.

On the rooftop garden, guests reveled beneath the towering Empire State Building, which loomed overhead and seemed close enough to be next door, its upper stories glowing red, white, and blue. But everyone seemed so used to it they didn’t notice. Ho hum, another dazzling skyline, another gorgeous view. I found myself in awe of it all.

There were huge paintings in all the rooms like the ones I’d seen at Palazzo Chupi and in the Mary Boone Gallery, and the place was packed. Music blasted from invisible speakers in each room, young girls danced and writhed to the beat, and bars were set up at every corner. Though it was only 9:30, the crowd already seemed to have imbibed significantly more than usual.

Scattered throughout the apartment were attractive, refined, slightly woozy young women. Interspersed were noticeably older men, some of them Robert’s age and even older, chatting and flirting.

I turned to Tabitha to remark on the intense number of young girls, but she was gone. Only Robert was there, holding Morris and surveying the scene like Dracula presiding over his subjects. I almost expected to see his fangs come out.

Back inside, I wondered if ZK was actually here or if Tabitha simply said so to lure me.

“May I offer you something to drink?” a waiter summoned by Robert asked, carrying a tray of the sugary pink cocktails. I sipped one, wondering how I let myself be convinced to come to Robert Francis’s penthouse. An antique clock sitting on the fireplace mantel reminded me that I’d forgotten again to call in sick to work that night. Work. Jake. It all seemed so far away. I flashed on Mom, Courtney, and Ryan.

“I’m flattered that you actually came to my little gathering,” Robert said, waking me from my trance. “I didn’t think you would, considering our last meeting.” I felt curiously silent, and he seemed not to mind that I wasn’t responding. I remember trying to come up with something witty to say.

“You look absolutely stunning. Wearing a new Designer X creation, I see. I wouldn’t expect anything less. I hope you’ll introduce me to your designer at some point. I’d love to invest. Perhaps a show this fall? We should talk about that right away. Come, let me show you the rest of the penthouse.”

I sipped on the foaming pink confection, feeling oddly lightheaded and thinking how I might excuse myself to find Tabitha. I wanted to sit down. I wouldn’t put it past Sleazebag Mr. Armani to add something narcotic to these pink drinks. It took a moment to realize that the short tour had ended. We were in an enormous room with vaulted ceilings, a large mirrored armoire at one end, and a bed at the other.

Scooting across the floor, Morris jumped up on a footstool at the bottom of the bed and barked as if expecting something. Robert said a few words I couldn’t quite understand and offered me a flute of champagne, which I groggily accepted. As I tried to make sense of where I was, a light crossed the room and reflected in the mirror. I saw an immense tiled bathroom and Robert’s silhouette entering the light.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and I remembered wondering, Right back from where? To where? What was I doing here? Why was I in his bedroom? I thought about the St. Regis and the story of Jacob Astor and his schoolgirl wife. I felt like I was going to be sick.

I staggered, and Morris yelped at me. The incessant barking gave me an instant headache. I could see him yapping at himself in the mirror. I wanted to just fall on the bed and go to sleep, but in my reflection I saw myself in Jess’s new dress and felt the urge to get out of there.

I burst out of the bedroom and ran past the partygoers, who barely noticed me, until I reached the terrace and the summer night air, breathing in and out as deeply as I could, until I felt a little better. I found a bar and drank two glasses of water to clear my head.

Still groggy, I sought out a room filled with partygoers and sat on an armchair in the corner to rest. I resisted the desire to close my eyes for fear I’d fall asleep, and decided to keep moving. I needed a bathroom to throw water on my face. I must have turned around without knowing and found myself a few steps away from the bedroom I had run away from moments ago.

The door opened, and there was Robert in his bathrobe, smoking a cigarette and holding Morris. I stepped back in the shadows so he wouldn’t see me, and I watched as he took a girl, my age, just like me, gently by the elbow into his room. He paused for a moment, scanning the hallway until his eyes met mine.

He nodded, a slight smile on his lips, and dragged the door closed behind him.