Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

62

The taxi smelled of cigarettes and mildew as I watched the dunes and scrub pines whizz by. The Hamptons sky was clouding up. A light rain was falling, or was it just fog? I opened all the windows. It felt good on my face.

I checked the Jitney schedule and realized there were only two buses left that could take me back to the city in time for Jess’s show. Four days ago I thought the Jitney was special; now they were just buses, glorified Greyhounds.

Too much had happened that I couldn’t understand, that I couldn’t twist into part of my Being Audrey game. Everything had turned too serious for that.

I arrived at the Jitney stop, and there were dozens of people waiting to get on, part of the mass exodus that happened every weekend in the Hamptons. You could almost hear the sucking sound of people leaving the eastern end of the island. I didn’t have a chance. I’d have to wait for the next bus.

My phone buzzed, and I dreaded to check it.

“WHERE R U ?!” It was Jess of course. The little creature inside my stomach woke up, very unhappy.

“We go on at 7 PM!!”

I was trying to calculate how long it would take to get from the tip of Long Island to Chelsea on the west side of New York City and if it was even possible in the Hamptons’ summer traffic. I began writing a text, but before I could finish …

“R yur ppl coming?”

I deleted my text to begin writing an explanation, trying to find some way to justify myself and why I was late, when I received another text.

“R u comin ?!”

I had to stop and take a breath.

“Yes :)” I thumbed as quickly as I could.

☺ She texted in return.

I sighed, physically and emotionally exhausted, meditating on the smiley face.

On my phone I blogged a new Limelight entry as if I had no worries in the world. I figured it was my one last-minute shot at making Jess’s show a success, even if I couldn’t be there.

Tonight is the Night! The Designer X Pop Up show only happens if you are there! Style mavens, cynical fashion hipsters, fashion addicts, runway fanatics, designer devotees, loyal followers. See her runway show in person. Show your designer devotion. Satisfy your need for immediate gratification. Come take your pictures. Post them everywhere. Rock your Instagram with pix of Designer X’s new looks. Only you can make it happen. #xbelowtheline2nite.

As the fully packed Jitney pulled away onto route 27, my last hope for arriving in time, I madly blasted everyone on my list of followers.

I called Isak, but there was no answer, so I texted him again.

“Designer X … Below the Line Gallery 7pm !! Please say you’re going !! :)” If Isak made it, I would be okay. I left messages at Flo’s office for her and Gabby to come.

I squinted down the street, but the next Jitney was nowhere in sight.

I sat on my roller with my garment bag in my lap and worried. I had to be realistic and think of what I could do other than just break down and sob because that’s the only thing I felt like doing. Undone by ZK, I had left everything unfinished. Because I was unhappy, I guaranteed that no one would be happy with me.

I wondered how Jess could forgive me. My Audrey project was coming to an unfavorable end, letting down my best friend, losing ZK, Tabitha, and Jake without a clue what I would do with the rest of my life.

“Hey Lisbeth!” a familiar voice called out. “Need a ride?”

I turned to see Chase in his white van. “I thought I’d drive by just in case. Just a wild hunch, figured I might find you here.”

“Tell me you’re not some weird stalker?” I asked. Chase laughed, getting out of his van, embarrassed in front of all the other people waiting for the Jitney.

“No. Okay. Yes. I told you I’ve had you on my radar for a while. Just saw your blog entry, and I figure you needed someone to shoot that fashion show of yours. Am I right?”

I was speechless.

“Well, I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, grabbing my suitcase and putting it in the back of his van. “Let’s hurry. I’ve got to do some tricky driving while I pull together a crew if we’re going to make this happen.”

63

There was a succession of texts as Chase madly wove his van through the expressway traffic taking access roads and conduits that I thought for sure would wind up at a dead end.

“It’s 6:30 and NOBODY’S HERE :/”

“You promised … :*(”

I decided not to respond. We were either a half hour away or going to be stuck in traffic forever. I would be there or not.

I had to do a quick inventory of what we needed. Like music. We hadn’t even considered that. I figured I might know one person who would be willing to show up at the last second and sent a text. While I was texting, my phone buzzed again.

“We are supposed to start in TEN MINUTES !!”

“Tell her to stall.” Chase insisted, looking over my shoulder as we zipped around the line of cars exiting the Midtown Tunnel.

“Will be there soon :)” I texted back. I saw the three dots that meant she was responding when my phone died. I plugged it into Chase’s car charger and waited.

“Are we going to make it?” I asked.

“Shouldn’t be a problem. Do you want to change?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Designer X—don’t you have something of hers to wear?” He was eyeing my garment bag. At Tabitha’s I hadn’t been able to bring myself to put on Jess’s dress.

“I’m supposed to change here in front of you?”

“No!” he said, looking mortified. “Back there, behind the equipment crates.”

I crawled my way to the back of the van, out of Chase’s line of sight, as it bounced around, and stripped down to my underwear, pulling out Designer X’s exquisite signature creation. In the bumpy minivan I stared at it, afraid to put it on.

Slipping on the tight nude satin underskirt, I felt the familiar hug of it and pulled up the rest of the dress, the overskirt and the blouse. It made me feel exactly as it had when I tried it on the first time.

“This is your signature dress,” I remembered saying to Jess. “Isak will love it. Everyone will.”

It’s something every woman can tell you—there’s one pair of shoes or a sexy bra that makes you feel beautiful and strong in those gut-wrenching moments—like going to a wedding after breaking up with your boyfriend or to some terrible high school reunion.

I guess guys have their lucky underwear or shirts, like Jake and his flannels. Jess’s dress gave me that sensation. It communicated through the fabric, cut, and texture. The van came to a stop.

As I put on my heels, I peered out the tiny dirty window in the back of the van. I could make out two other vans that seemed as though it might be Chase’s crew already unpacking. I saw Sarrah and a man I assumed was the gallery owner on the street screaming at each other. That couldn’t be good. Squinting, I could see Jess on the sidewalk, totally stressed, surrounded by her models sitting on fire hydrants, leaning against streetlights, sitting on flattened cardboard boxes on the curb in her finest designs.

I tried to open the van door from the inside but it wouldn’t budge, so I pounded on the window. When the door opened I almost fell on my face.

“Sorry about that,” Chase said. “Gotta get that fixed.”

As soon as Jess saw me, she let out a scream and ran over. She was wearing one of her self-made tiered iridescent skirts and her vintage Sonic Youth T-shirt tied at the waist. Over her shoulder she carried the ever-present monster bag filled with all kinds of emergency makeup, hair spray, and sewing stuff.

We both screamed and hugged.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” I said.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, but what are we going to do?” she said.

“I don’t know. Why are all the models outside?”

“What?! You don’t know? I texted you.” My cell phone was still connected to the car charger.

“Know what?”

“There’s no room!” she shouted.

I took in the whole scene for the first time and almost fell into shock. Serious apoplectic shock. There were literally hundreds of people everywhere. The tiny gallery was crammed with them. And really cool people, I might add. Hundreds of fashionable people had converged on the Below the Line Gallery, proof that the posting and e-mail blasts worked. These were at least some of the fashionistas who followed my blog. I wanted to stop and examine each and every one of them—how they were dressed, their ages, their style. But there was no time.

“I guarantee you, they were not here twenty minutes ago,” Jess said. “It just happened.”

Chase sauntered over. “You’re the promotional genius,” he said, giving me a smirk. “Where are we setting up?” People were clogging the street. Cars were honking, having trouble getting by.

“There’s not enough room,” I said, stunned.

“Gee, you just figured that out?” Chase asked. He eyed Jess. “This could take awhile.”

“Well, we’ll just have to go up there.” I pointed to the elevated highway above us. “Have you ever shot up there?” I asked. Chase acted like he was afraid of me, as though I might bite him.

“Do you mean—the High Line?”

The High Line is an official New York City park built on the rusty remains of a derelict elevated railway that used to wind down the West Side Highway. It is now filled with walkways, plantings, seating areas, and little amphitheaters. Jess and I would walk up there every time we went to the stores in the Meatpacking District. There were happenings and events staged up there every day. Jess and I had talked about it, but never in our wildest dreams did we think we’d have the chance to do a fashion show there.

“Yeah,” Chase said. “I’ve shot a bunch of times for Tommy Hilfinger after he waited about three months to get a thousand permits from the mayor’s office.”

“Can we do it on the fly? It’s a pop-up, right?”

Chase grinned. I could see he was into it.

“Okay, boss, it’s your show.” Chase whistled to his crew, and they sprinted ahead with all of their equipment and lights.

“Have all the models come with us. I’m sure everyone else will follow,” I said. Jess and I began marching straight down Ninth Avenue, just ahead of our entourage of provocative models in their dazzling dresses and a horde of gawking fashionistas gathered behind us. It felt like a movable party. It felt like we could take these people anywhere.

“There are no chairs and no stage,” Jess said to me as we walked. “Where will the important people be?”

“With everyone else,” I said. “Who knows who’s the most important person in this crowd anyway? They all could be.”

As the crowd snapped pictures with every conceivable camera and phone, we made our way to the High Line stairs at Fourteenth Street. They would post these pictures on their Instagram and Twitter accounts, but we had to make sure that the runway was the show they’d remember.

Walking into the covered Chelsea Passage, where the High Line cuts through the Chelsea Market building, we encountered a sea of cool blue fluorescent light that bathed the tunnel columns mingling the High Line’s industrial architecture with the cityscape around us.

Chase had already set a backdrop curtain, and we took the models behind there. Massive concert speakers and a DJ deck already had been set up on either side of the runway, and there was my friend Bennie doing a last-second tech check.

“Lisbeth baby! I knew you’d call me!” Curly-haired Bennie, wearing a funky pinstripe suit and shades like some tripped-out mobster, was scratching an electronic turntable. He had gotten my text. Jess and I felt like the littlest kids at the biggest party of our lives.

“You’ve got about thirty minutes, I figure, before the cops shut us down, so we have to start right away,” Chase yelled over the rising din of people settling in. “Good luck.”

Everything in Jess’s monster bag came out. We lined up the girls, touched up their makeup and hair, straightened the lines of the dresses, pinning anything back that didn’t look right. Then, abruptly, the lights went out and the whole area was dark, muted, and quiet. In hushed whispers, Jess reordered the models at the last second.

A spotlight snapped on, and Bennie kicked up the music, cranking the volume. An infectious beat reverberated, turning the cavernous space into a giant stereo speaker.

“Go! Go!” Jess yelled, pushing the first model onto the stage.

Bright flashes lit up the architecture as a wall of fans with iPhones and photographers fired their shutters. The models had to walk toward that blinding spotlight just concentrating on keeping their heads up and putting one foot in front of the next while trying to look natural. I’m not sure they could see anything in the extreme contrast of dark and light.

I slipped out from behind the backdrop to see the show and the audience from the wings. Jess’s last-minute sequence ordered the dresses by color, and it was a revelation.

The show opened with a series of white looks that quickly evolved. Sea-foam green was followed by solar yellow and honey orange. Little by little the bolder colors emerged, illuminating the chiffon dresses and the layered skirts within skirts.

The dresses came to life with attractive details—a ripple of sequins, a plunging neckline, a backless dress, a cuff—offering new energetic concepts of style and design. The shimmering blues were the most stunning. They had an almost stellar depth.

No ordinary models, Sarrah’s friends were an entire show unto themselves. They were as lithe and lovely as any girl who had ever hit the runway. But these were massively tattooed, slash-and-burn, hard-core, multiracial beauties with some seriously hairalicious hairstyles.

One girl had the words BROKEN DREAMS tattooed across her chest in goth lettering. And of course the most ravishing, purest one of all was Jannush, a tranny friend of Sarrah’s who strutted down the stage in mile-high stilettos. Truthfully, the models were the perfect contrast to the dresses themselves, and the tattoos were a counterpoint to Jess’s lyrical inscriptions.

Sarrah had contributed in other ways as well. She had taken some of Jess’s journal entries, the ones stitched into the hems of the dresses, put them on a loop on her computer, and projected them across the ceiling above the models. The audience ahhh’d and oooh’d at each one, loving it.

VIP spotting turned up some surprising people. I waved to Flo, who had brought Rachel Zoe with her. Flo gave me the proudest smile and a thumbs-up. I scanned the crowd and thought I spotted Gabby but wasn’t sure. There was a lady in a strange lavender outfit who seemed important. And then Betsey Johnson and Isak! Where had he been? Thank God he was here. He threw me a kiss.

The lighting was austere and dramatic. The music was shamelessly danceable. It was an instant pop-up fashion event for Designer X beyond our fondest hopes, but the dresses and looks warranted all the attention.

As Jess told me before, a dress had only one chance to make an impression, and after that it had to deliver on the cut, the style, and fabric. The first opportunity was the only opportunity, and this was it.

Sarrah’s model friends were a big hit, too, and I’d never thought girls that tough would blush and giggle, but they did. And Jess … what can I say about the best friend a girl could ever have? She had already made me seem to be someone way more sophisticated than I could ever have seemed myself. At the same time, she was the kind of friend who never stopped laying it on the line. While never wavering in her support of my crazy ideas, she kept me centered and honest even when I was telling the biggest lies of my life.

And me? I was just glad that I didn’t let her down.

The girls did three passes, switching dresses furiously in the back. After Jess and I had finished the last turnaround, we held hands as the models made their walks for the finale.

After the last model had made her turn, a chant went up: “X, X, X!” Soon everyone was chanting, “X, X, X!” It was time for Designer X to take a bow, only Jess was seized with stage fright.

“You’ve got to go, and you know it,” I said. “Come on, step out in front for once.”

“No. It’s your moment. You created Designer X. You drove me to do this crazy thing, and you invented a name for it, dragging me into it until I had to do the best work I could possibly do.”

“It’s the designer who ends the show,” I said, but I could see the wheels turning in her head before I finished speaking.

“Not when you’re wearing my best dress.”

All the models had taken the stage and joined the audience in clapping and chanting. Bennie dropped a totally ecstatic pop beat that sounded like little musical bubbles colliding. As everyone chanted “X, X, X,” Designer X and I held hands and took the runway triumphant. I did a spin in Jess’s finest dress, and we both took a bow.

It was over almost as soon as it started. Apparently the cops had been there for the last ten minutes but were nice enough not to shut us down. Chase was tearing the whole thing apart as fast as he put it up.

Bloggers, tweeters, and the like swamped us from all sides with cameras, microphones, and smartphones.

When I introduced Isak to Jess, they bonded immediately, instant best friends and colleagues. As more and more people gathered around Jess, I slipped away. I found a bottle of water and a quiet corner and tried to bring my heartbeat down to a normal level. Finally I could catch my breath.

“That’s quite a show you pulled off, Lisbeth,” a voice said from the shadows.

“Who is that?” I said and turned to see ZK emerging into the light.

“No. You can’t just show up like this.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding out his open hand. “More sorry than you will ever believe. Can we talk?”

“I don’t know,” I said, stepping away from him.

He was dressed in a tux, his dark wavy hair slicked back the way it was when we first met. The gold flecks in his green eyes reflected the last of the lights from the fashion show.

“I know it’s hard but there are things you need to know,” he said.

“Are you okay?” I asked him.

“Me? I’m fine. It’s about the bracelet.”

“Why did you take it?”

“I can’t talk here. Will you come with me?”

“Hey Lisbeth!” Chase called. I turned. “We’re going out to celebrate. You’re joining us, right?”

“Yes. Text me where. I need to do something first,” I said, trying not to look behind me.

“Are you talking to someone?” Chase asked.

I turned back to ZK and saw he was hiding in the shadows.

“No, but I’ll catch up with you soon,” I said.

“You’re sure?”

I nodded and he left.

“Follow me,” ZK said, half his face in shadow. And I did.

64

The stretch limo pulled away almost as soon as the door closed. In the darkness I hadn’t realized anyone else was there.

“Nice of you to join us, Lisbeth,” Dahlia said, neatly tucked away in the back corner of her limo. Wearing a silver metallic Cavalli minidress with a plunging neckline and a broad silver cuff, she was provocative and intimidating at the same time. “ZK is lovely as always, isn’t he?”

ZK watched impassively.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I think men are so much more attractive when they’re depressed, don’t you?” She examined ZK’s profile as if he were a curiosity in a store that she might buy. “They have this deep, brooding, desperate look when they’re disheartened, like trapped creatures. I think it’s sexy. What do you think, Lisbeth?”

“I think you’re a monster.”

“Oh now I’m a monster. That’s flattering,” she said as if it was the funniest joke in the world. Holding out her champagne glass, she waited for ZK to get the message. He filled her glass from a nearby bottle.

“We enjoyed your little fashion show, didn’t we, ZK?” A glaze had settled in ZK’s eyes, which locked in a long-suffering expression of his that was familiar to me. “Join me in a toast to Designer X,” she said, holding up her glass, “and an end to the little pretend life you’ve been living.” Her laser-focused eyes bored into mine so intensely I felt like I would evaporate into nothing.

“ZK, if you had any decency you’d stop this,” I pleaded.

Dahlia threw back her head and laughed.

“Decency?” she said, barely glancing at ZK. “I think that word left the family crest ages ago. Besides, ZK showed me this exquisite bracelet of yours.” She pulled Nan’s inscribed platinum band out of her silver clutch and waved it in front of me.

“Give it back.”

“That wouldn’t be much fun, would it?” She slipped the bracelet on and off her slender wrist. “That’s the problem with you, Lisbeth. You’re not much fun, and I like my friends to be more fun.”

“I can see that I have deeply offended you, and I am sorry. But, please, I will never bother you again, please give me the bracelet and I will go away.”

It was hard to describe the expression on her face. It was like the look of a cat pinning its claw down on a mouse’s tail. My begging delighted her.

“You don’t bother me, Lisbeth. You’re not fun, but you’re entertaining.” Dahlia placed the bracelet back in her clutch and snapped it shut. “So tell us about your Nan? She sounds like a fascinating person,” Dahlia began, gazing into my eyes with mock seriousness. “Dulac—that’s her last name, isn’t it? Just like yours.” She laughed again, more of a cackle, really.

“You couldn’t possibly understand anything about my grandmother. Nan is a wonderful person, with more grace and style than you or anyone you know,” I answered.

“Oh really? Then I assume you are aware she’s also a tad notorious. Not to mention your grandfather—Sammy G—‘hardened criminals,’ I think, is the term they use.”

“You’ve got it wrong. His name wasn’t Sammy. My grandfather’s name was Frank and he was just a construction worker.”

Dahlia could hardly contain her pleasure.

“So you grew up thinking he was a construction worker? What’s that expression they have where you come from? Fuhgeddahbouddit!”

“Okay, stop it now, Dahlia,” ZK spoke up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Take it easy, lover boy,” she replied. “We’ll be done soon enough.” She ran her hands through his hair like he was a pet. His eyes haunted, he looked horribly humiliated.

“Poor ZK,” Dahlia said, studying his profile. “Even though the whole affair was my idea, I think he actually fell in love with you.”

ZK shoved Dahlia’s hand away.

“Stop the car!” he yelled, and the limo pulled to the curb. ZK opened the door and stormed out. The steam from a manhole cover rose up in the street. We had driven uptown, but I couldn’t see where.

“Lisbeth, please get out of the car,” he said. Dahlia didn’t seem to care, so I slipped from the limo, relieved to be outside but concerned about the platinum band in Dahlia’s clutch. She watched the scene unfold as if she were viewing a play.

“Lisbeth, this is the truth, and you might as well know because Dahlia is going to expose it,” ZK said. “Dahlia put a private detective on your case as soon as she met you. She pushed me to invite you to Soho House that night. The man who you thought was your grandfather is the Sammy G who gave that bracelet to your grandmother. He was a Mafia boss who had been in hiding for almost forty years until he died. He married a society girl named Simon Fleurice Dulac—your grandmother—who vanished mysteriously decades ago.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “None of this makes any sense. How can you be part of this with her? Why should I believe any of what you are saying?”

“I know,” ZK said, as his whole body seemed to slump like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “You’re so different, Lisbeth. Wherever you came from, whoever you are. Everything is new to you, filled with possibilities. I have none, never have had any. In my world I don’t stand a chance,” he answered. “I had hoped you wouldn’t take me seriously, but you did. And the more I grew to appreciate you, the more I knew I would be bad for you. I made another shameful Northcott bargain in a history of bad bargains. My family was at stake. It was the only way.”

I turned to Dahlia, who was enjoying the drama.

“Dahlia, your private detective has simply mixed my Nan up with someone else,” I said. “Please just give me back the bracelet. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll disappear. Just leave Nan alone.”

She paused, seeming to savor the situation. I thought for a moment that she might be gratified by how utterly devastated I was, how broken ZK seemed, and return Nan’s bracelet.

“I can’t dear, sweet girl; it’s federal evidence. When we discovered the truth, I was obliged to consult the district attorney, an old friend of my father’s. There’s nothing I can do now. Oh, I forgot, I’ve been talking to a delightful New York Post reporter about you; he’s done quite a bit of digging, which was very helpful, including a certain Page Six photo.”

Page Six. Those words felt like a punch in the stomach.

“You’ve had your moment, ZK. I must admit, it was a moving performance, almost seemed like you meant it,” she said with a smirk. “It’s time to go.”

His feet seemed glued to the street. Dahlia’s eyes hardened. “If you’d like me to hold up my end of the deal, do come along,” she said, and the limo driver closed her door.

ZK walked around the limo almost as if his body had no choice. He barely glanced up as he ducked inside. But I saw in that mere instant his pleading eyes, the lost boy in all his agony.

Dahlia lowered her window.

“My dear, I think you can assume your life is ruined. I wish I knew how to make one of those evil supervillain laughs. This would be the time for it, don’t you think?”