Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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6

“It’s going to be fine,” I said, sliding my arms through the holes above my head. My heart was thumping so hard it felt like it might just pop out of my chest.

“Why didn’t I know I had asthma until now?” Jess asked, dropping down onto one of the swivel work chairs. “I’m so stressed I can’t breathe.”

“You’ll live,” I said as I carefully avoided sticking my hands through the neck opening.

Being a total Audrey fanatic, I knew from endless Internet searches that this was the dress that almost no one in the history of the world besides Hubert de Givenchy had seen and only one person had ever tried on—Audrey Hepburn. That’s because the actual dress Audrey wore in Breakfast at Tiffany’s didn’t exist. It was covertly destroyed under the supervision of the notoriously controlling Queen of Hollywood Costume and Wardrobe, Edith Head, and Audrey herself, at least that’s what every fan site on the Internet said. Edith Head was kind of the Wicked Witch of the West when it came to Audrey’s wardrobe.

But the dress in Breakfast at Tiffany’s wasn’t the dress Givenchy created for her anyway. Givenchy’s original, which had a slit along the left leg and a slightly shorter length, was even more exquisite and dazzling than the one in the movie. Givenchy designed the entire ensemble, adding the perfect accessories to match the gown: a bundle of pearls, a foot-long cigarette holder, and opera gloves. Hard to believe, but in those days Hollywood was prudish about showing a little leg—long before Angelina Jolie’s gams came peaking out of her dress at the Oscars. Even though Holly was supposed to be an escort kind of call girl, the studio didn’t want her to look like one.

Shimmying the dress over my hips, I was actually thankful, for once, that I didn’t have any. To think … I had to be the only person to try it on since Audrey Hepburn.

It’s a bit of a mystery, but most people assumed that the dress Audrey wore in the opening scenes of the movie was a Givenchy. In fact, the dress was a phony redesigned by Edith Head. The dress I was pulling on, with its weighted hem and opening at the leg, was one of three versions in existence that were all Givenchy originals. Audrey likely wore the hand-stitched version when she was fitted by Givenchy, but a photograph of her wearing the dress has never surfaced.

Edith Head’s version did away with the open leg and lengthened and tightened the bottom to deemphasize how “revealing” it was. That’s why Audrey had to take such tiny Geisha girl steps, almost waddling to the windows at Tiffany’s.

It seemed like there was some kind of agreement between Paramount and Audrey that Edith would destroy the two phony dresses she had made after filming, perhaps to save Givenchy the embarrassment of the bogus dresses floating around that were more sedate and conventional than his original design. It’s believed that they were taken apart and burned at the Western Costume Company’s cavernous warehouses in Hollywood.

The swoon-worthy dress was sliding down my back, and the black lining felt incredibly smooth against my skin, more like a silk hug than a dress.

Of the three dresses Givenchy created that still existed—all with the exposed hip-length slit down the leg—one, a machine-stitched version, was donated to the Madrid Museum of Costume and is permanently exhibited there. Another was sold at a Christie’s auction to an anonymous telephone bidder. That anonymous bidder is suspected to be none other than Posh Spice, who is an Audrey fanatic like me, but with money. They say she has an Audrey room in “Beckingham Palace” that she shares with her soccer hubby. I cringed to think what Audrey would have thought of her dress sitting in a Spice Girl’s mansion.

Lastly there was the Audrey-fitted original hand-stitched dress, which was the one I had just slipped on.

“Well, instead of sitting there—you could help?” I said, trying to adjust the shoulders.

“Sure, why shouldn’t I make it easier for you to get me fired?” Jess snapped off her blue gloves, stood up, and helped pull the dress down. Turning the hem, she had a surprised expression on her face. “Dude, this hand stitching is awesome.”

When she gently drew the zipper up, a tiny gasp escaped her lips.

“Ohmygod, Lisbeth, this dress fits like it was made for you.” The gown settled perfectly around my hips with a snugness and a lift I had never felt before.

My cheeks flushed with excitement as I searched for a mirror. Spotting one in the corner, I lifted up the dress, feeling the weights that Givenchy had strategically placed in the hem to ensure the fabric fell perfectly on Audrey’s body.

“You need shoes,” Jess said.

As she rummaged through her giant bag I pulled on the long black gloves.

“How about these?” she asked, holding up a pair of black patent stilettos like she’d just caught a pop fly as it was about to go over the left field fence.

“Ooh! Gimme!” I said, wondering why Jess would keep a pair of these CFM pumps in her bag.

Jess steadied me as I slipped into the heels. I didn’t want to sit down for fear I’d wrinkle the dress, imagining Jess trying to explain to the curator how the most famous dress in the history of all dresses ended up with my ass creases.

Jess’s shoes were too big (I wear an 8½, Jess wears a 10), but they were for looks, not for dancing, so I didn’t really care. I shuffled the rest of the way to the mirror like a kindergartner in her mother’s shoes, my heart floating in anticipation.

I was already hyperventilating when I saw myself for the first time. I seemed long and lean and elegant, and with Jess’s shoes, even the length was perfect. It just skimmed the patent shoe—an inch or so off the floor, and the fabric revealed just a tiny bit of my ankle. I could hardly believe my eyes. The black dress was perfection.

“You must be the best friend ever.” I glanced back at Jess. I’d never seen such a wide-eyed expression like that in her eyes before.

“I can’t believe how perfect you look!” A glaze had come over her eyes, as if she were mesmerized by a hypnotic illusion. “Wait! One more thing!” she said and ran out of the room.

She was gone for thirty seconds—but it could have been an hour for all I knew. I was busy staring at myself in the mirror. Someone entirely new was staring back.

“Sorry we don’t have the Audrey tiara.” Jess reappeared. “Jackie Kennedy’s will just have to do.”

“You just happen to have Jackie’s tiara hanging around in a drawer?” I was shocked.

“Nah, it’s a repro. We have like six of them back there. We use them for private events when the dresses are on display.” Jess grabbed a comb and a few clips out of her bag.

“Stop fidgeting and hold still; we might as well do this right.” She dragged a stepladder from the side closet to where I stood and carefully placed a polyethylene sheet over my shoulders to protect the dress and began cutting. Though she didn’t act like it, I knew she loved digging into my hair, pulling and teasing it into an updo.

“Ouch!” I yelped as she yanked an unmanageable chunk into submission.

“Shhh!”

I wanted to tell her that trying on the dress was enough, that she didn’t have to do this, but I didn’t think she’d stop anyway.

Jess is the queen of updos, mostly because her mom owns a beauty salon. Every Saturday morning since the time she was eight, her mom would drag her to the beauty shop to crank out hair helmets and elaborate chignons and poufs for the never-ending procession of brides, bridesmaids, mothers of the bride, and various Garden State big-hair fanatics. But I never knew how torturous it could be.

“Does it have to hurt so much?” I pleaded.

Jess pinned the final strands of hair into place, before tightly securing the tiara—directly to my skull, from the feel of it. Then she pulled out a pair of scissors and started cutting my bangs!

“Come on, Jess, now you’re getting carried away.”

Crap. My last bangs disaster took seven months to grow out to any degree of normalcy. I’d been stuck in the dreaded barrette stage for three months. She made cut after cut.

“Ha! I’ve been dying to do this for years,” she said, clipping maniacally.

Helplessly, I watched five-inch clumps of my agonizingly slow-growing hair float past my eyes and settle on the floor.

She stopped and searched through her giant bag; I stole a quick glance at myself in the mirror—it was flawless.

“Close your eyes. Just one more thing—don’t peek.”

I obliged, despite the fact that not seeing the dress every possible second was driving me insane. Did she have to stand in front of the mirror the whole time? Jess sprayed my hair with something, most likely the same stuff she uses to keep her own hair defying gravity for fourteen hours a day. It smelled citrusy, like tangerine. I tried to peak around her, but she smacked me on the side of my head like a child.

“Eyes closed—I’m not done yet.” I felt her applying eyeliner to my lids, powder to my cheeks, and a gloss to my lips.

“Okay, you can see now,” she said as I felt the plastic covering slip away.

I opened my eyes and a wonderful stranger smiled back at me from the mirror. She was beautiful and elegant. The kind of girl I wished I could be. Jess had performed a miracle. My normally mousy-brown hair was transformed; the tiny tiara gave just the right touch of sparkle to the clean and simple yet sky-high updo. My eyes were lined dramatically but delicately with smoky black eyeliner; my cheeks had just a faint blush, my lips a tender gloss.

Enthralled, I couldn’t stop gazing at this incredible creature. If only that was who I really was. The dress hugged my body, but, more than that, it gave me curves in places where I knew for a fact there weren’t any. It felt like it was made for me, even though the idea was flat-out ridiculous. Did I need further proof that Audrey Hepburn and I were connected in more profound, cosmic ways than I’d ever imagined?

I wondered what Audrey felt the first time she put on the dress. Did she know that it would change her life forever? For the tiniest second in time, wearing the original Givenchy, it felt as if Audrey and I existed together, in that moment, in that dress, like stars crossing.

I spun like a ballerina and couldn’t stop marveling at myself in the mirror. The front neckline was deceptively simple, but it made my neck and shoulders look wonderful. Of course, the back of the dress was where things became really interesting, the neckline sort of scooping down to attach to the back of the dress—my shoulders and parts of my back exposed, my pale skin a sharp contrast to the smooth black satin.

“Just awesome. Lisbeth, you look amazing,” she whispered.

That Givenchy guy really knew what he was doing when it came to the body of a woman, specifically the body of a woman like Audrey Hepburn. I’ve read the story online a hundred times … how Audrey, a twenty-four-year-old actress with only a few films to her credit, showed up at Givenchy’s studio wearing a simple T-shirt, cropped pants, and a touristy gondolier’s hat … you know, those hats with the blue or red bow dropping to one side. Givenchy, just twenty-six but already famous, thought he was meeting Katharine Hepburn, not Audrey Hepburn. He had never heard of her. He was unimpressed and barely gave her the time of day. But little Audrey waltzed right into Givenchy’s backroom. She won him over with her exquisite taste and indomitable spirit, marking the beginning of a successful and very long collaboration between artist and muse.

Givenchy took his cue from Audrey’s idea to highlight what other people considered her less than stellar features. He showcased Audrey’s rail-thin physique and long neck, making them assets of a new style and fashion. God knows how, but that Givenchy magic was working for me.

If I weren’t so conscious of how the dress caressed my hips and shoulders, I would have said I was having an out-of-body experience. I saw the result in Jess’s face.

With all the drama I could muster, I put my arm on Jess’s shoulder and gazed deep into her eyes and, using my best Audrey Hepburn voice, said, “Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Fred darling … I’d marry you for your money in a minute. Would you marry me for my money?” I raised my gloved hand to my chin and gave Jess that wounded-fawn look.

Jess’s bag and comb tumbled out of her hands to the floor.

“Who are you?!” she asked.

“Golightly,” I said, “Holly Golightly. I live downstairs. We met this morning, remember?” I struck a classic pose with my arm raised in a flourish like Audrey in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. All that was missing was the long black cigarette holder.

“Your accent is perfect,” marveled Jess. “You sound exactly like her. Exactly. Have you been getting lessons or something?”

“All my life. Every day since I was nine, darling.” I let out a small laugh à la Audrey.

“It’s mind-blowing, not a trace of Jersey. Come on, did you take speech class?”

“The rine in spine sties minely in the pline!” I said. “Oh, Freddy, you don’t think I’m a heartless guttersnipe, do you?”

Jess laughed so hard she flopped back down in the chair, which spun around and around. She couldn’t stop laughing, until the phone rang and she picked up the desk receiver.

“Hey Joe, what’s happening?” she asked. In a split second, the blood was draining from her face. “Shit!” She slammed down the receiver.

“What is it?”

“My boss came back. He’s on his way up right now.” Her hand was shaking—I’ve never seen her that panicked. “I am so totally fired.”

7

“We’ve got to get that dress off you!” Jess yelled.

I pulled off the gloves and stepped out of the too-big shoes, and we both reached for the dress’s zipper at the same time.

“Hurry, hurry!” she hissed. “Myers will be here any second.” Her fingers brushed mine out of the way. I wondered which would be worse—Mr. Myers, Jess’s boss, walking in to see me in the million-dollar Breakfast at Tiffany’s dress or walking in to find me naked.

Naked would definitely be better.

“The zipper’s stuck!” Jess said, and her face went white.

“Let me try.” I pushed down—no-go. I pushed down and jumped up at the same time. It wouldn’t budge.

“I am so fucked if I lose this job, Lisbeth,” she said and gave the zipper a massive yank that practically lifted me off the ground. I couldn’t believe that Jess was willing to risk tearing a million-dollar dress apart, but I guess it was her job on the line. She gave the zipper another huge dress-ripping pull, but it didn’t budge.

“Fucking fifty-year-old dress,” she said. The two of us tried to wiggle the zipper up and down, but it just wouldn’t move. No time for soaping or waxing, and there was no way to drag the dress over my head.

“Ohmygod, what if we have to cut me out of this dress?” I said. Jess gave me a nasty you’re-not-helping look.

“You have to get out of here.” I knew that voice of Jess’s. It was her take-charge voice, and you had no choice but to get on board with it.

“Okay, but where do I go? The closet? Your office? Under the table? Just walk by Myers and say ‘hello darling’ as I pass him in the hall?”

I watched her eyes dart around the room until she zeroed in on the door that led to the main gallery.

“Out there?! No way!” How could she think that was even a possibility?

“The party in the main gallery,” she said. “You’ll blend right in.” She scooped the black stilettos off the floor and shoved them at me. “Put them back on.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t know how…,” I said as I dropped the shoes on the floor and reluctantly stepped into them.

“Do it anyway. I have to save my job.” As we heard his footsteps in the hall, she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the doorway. I was lucky I didn’t break my neck wearing her too-big stilettos—at this point, Jess may have considered that an acceptable plan B.

“I can’t walk in these shoes!”

“Just do it!”

She shoved me out the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” Jess commanded. “I’ll come get you when Myers is gone.”

The door closed solidly behind me. After the panic and heavy breathing, everything was silent.

I looked around.

All dressed up in a Givenchy and nowhere to go.

8

I heard the murmur of martini laughter, the clinking of glasses, and champagne corks popping. I looked at the door I wasn’t supposed to wander away from and imagined the gallery downstairs and all the graceful, wealthy young things below.

What the hell.

Shuffling in my big shoes, I edged over to the railing and surveyed the party on the lower level.

A battalion of black-tied waiters and waitresses armed with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres weaved among the trust-fund babies. There were so many “familiar” faces rubbing shoulders below—all the people I knew but would never meet—glitterati, diva girls, famed and adorable. Girls size 00 with perfect tans and the latest Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Dolce & Gabbana. We grew up in Jerze reading about them, watching them on TV, and hearing about their endless parties. Jess always joked that those kids had affluenza, an enviable disease that included boredom, alcoholism, apathy, deviant behavior, and an unshakeable sense of entitlement.

Spotting Dahlia and Mr. Underwear-Man by the bar, it hit me why he seemed so familiar. Mr. Underwear-Man was ZK Northcott, oil and gas heir, a collector of vintage motorcycles and would-be actresses. Famous for being a one-date wonder, he’d been with every heiress, hottie, party girl, and up-and-coming movie bimbo from coast to coast. His picture had been taken on the red carpet a thousand times. But he never lingered with any of them long enough to become an item, so they didn’t actually write about him much. That’s why I couldn’t place him. Dahlia seemed almost out of his league, too heavy for a one-nighter.

“Excuse me, young lady…” The gruff voice of a museum guard snapped me out of my trance. It was Joe from Security.

Crap. Double crap. Totally busted, I felt myself start to cry. I’m sorry I’m wearing a million-dollar dress that I stole, I wanted to say, like a schoolgirl caught shoplifting. I wanted to confess every bad thing I’ve ever done. I pondered a hundred excuses to save Jess’s job and my ass, but none of them were any good.

“Miss, this area is restricted,” Joe said.

He hadn’t recognized me. How could that happen? Even though we’d said hello dozens of times, he had no idea who I was.

“You need to go back downstairs to the event,” he said curtly. Relief filled my body. Jess was right. I did blend in.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry … officer,” I said in my best Audrey voice. “I was just looking for the powder room. Would you mind awfully…”

“No problem at all, miss. Down the stairs, first door on the right,” Joe replied. His gruffness was gone, and he was actually smiling. Why Audrey was so successful with people became instantly clear to me. Her whole way of talking assumed that the person she was talking to was … well, nice, and would prefer to be helpful.

Joe watched me protectively as I stepped delicately down the grand staircase, methodically taking each step so that my giant shoes wouldn’t clomp, clomp, clomp on the marble stairs. With every move, the shoes slipped farther from my feet. I prayed I wouldn’t go down headfirst.

“New shoes,” I said over my shoulder, smiling winsomely to Joe. He smiled back, making sure I made it down safely before he continued on his rounds. I gave him an Audrey wave, stumbling for a second, then recovering, and kept going.

Close call. I must have looked so stupid. I knew Jess had instructed me to stay put, but I couldn’t ignore Joe, and she couldn’t really blame me for peeking, could she? When would I ever get another chance? Now I would really see if I blended in. But first, I’d have to do something about the clown stilettos that were killing my feet. Then I’d rush right back upstairs—after stalking of course, just a little bit. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone at the Hole!

Downstairs, there was a long line at the ladies’ room (it’s the same everywhere you go, isn’t it?). Everyone waiting was decked out and gorgeous. Too many people meant too many questions, so I tramped my way across the back of the main gallery where the action was and went down another empty, darkened hallway, in search of a less popular restroom.

As I walked along the hall, I saw a handsome man in an Armani tux alone, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His hair graying at the temples. Considerably older than the rest of the crowd, he was utterly sophisticated and distinguished. He had that tan that comes from St. Tropez or Martha’s Vineyard as opposed to Sizzletan in Parsippany, with its patented fast-acting spray and sweaty bacteria-breeding tanning beds.

He smiled condescendingly as I plodded along, trying to disguise my walk and hoping he wouldn’t examine me too closely. I took a sharp turn and score! Another ladies’ room. I pushed open the door, and nobody was there. Thank God!

Reaching into the nearest stall, I grabbed a yard of two-ply, wadded it up, and crammed it into the tips of my shoes. I slipped my foot back into the left shoe. Ahh, big improvement. Admiring myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe ten whole minutes had passed since I looked at the dress. As I grabbed for another handful of industrial-grade TP, I heard a soft moan.

Someone was there.

Time to stuff my right shoe and leave. Another moan. It was coming from the last stall on the right. Okay, I needed to get out of that bathroom and up the stairs. I crammed my foot into the shoe for a snug fit and headed for the door.

“Oh shit,” a voice said.

Then silence. After a moment, there was vomiting … retching, really. Yuck. I waited until she stopped. Damn, I couldn’t just leave her there.

“Are you okay?” I tapped gently on the stall door, but it wasn’t latched, so the door swung open. Splayed on the tile floor, her head resting on the porcelain basin and her silver dress hiked up around her hips was the Princess of Pop herself, Tabitha Eden. I couldn’t help noticing her exposed $175 La Perla thong—next week’s Us Weekly cover story in one shot.

“Who are you?” she demanded. She was totally intimidating, even though she was superwasted. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know if I could say my own name. I was speechless. I couldn’t stop looking at the pale circle of fine powder that sprinkled her flawless face, which was concentrated in a ring on the right side of her nose.

“Lisbeth,” I said finally with an Audrey Hepburn lilt. I’d never realized how pretty my name was until I said it that way. It sounded like another person’s name. Immediately, I cringed that I’d told her my real name. Not the best idea, though she would probably tell me to get lost anyway. Surprisingly, she tried to smile at me, which wasn’t easy in her condition. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a Page Six pop star!

“Hi.” She reached out her hand to shake mine but stopped. “I’m … I’m … I’m gonna be sick.” She turned to vomit in the toilet again. Leaning in, I held her perfect strawberry-blond hair away from her face while she threw up. Could I pull off walking around in a Givenchy dress (the Givenchy original) and stiletto heels? Not so sure. Could I help a friend puke her brains out? Totally up my alley.

As she vomited, I counted how many times I’d held a girlfriend’s hair while she spewed chunks. Vomiting leveled the playing field. How many girls hadn’t found themselves retching up fourteen mango daiquiris in a public bathroom at some time in their lives, right?

She wiped her mouth off. Staring up at me like a homeless puppy, she tried to say something, but she was puking again and barely turned her head back to the toilet bowl in time. Standing as far away from her as I could, I held her hair. Please, please, please—no backsplash—please don’t puke on me. I was painfully aware of the fact that I was wearing a stolen, irreplaceable, million-dollar dress, easily within hurling distance of a completely hammered pop sensation. I absolutely could not return Audrey Hepburn’s dress to Jess with barf chunks on it.

“Don’t you dare take a fucking picture of me,” she slurred.

“I wouldn’t,” I said, surprised at how insulted I felt. Why would she think that? “I don’t even have a camera.”

“Yeah right, what about your cell phone?” I shrugged, realizing instantly that I didn’t have my phone, my driver’s license, car keys, or anything that would identify me other than this magic dress, which wasn’t mine. “I have people who’d sue you.” Tabitha eyed me warily, trying to wipe the puke off her lips. Gently, I handed her another piece of TP.

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?” She seemed confused. “Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

“Well actually, I mean, I have one, just not with me at the moment,” I answered as politely as I imagined Audrey might have explained. I also figured that this was definitely not the time to scream to Tabitha that I was a huge fan of her music and her wild fashion sense.

She threw up again—kind of at the end of her run—not much came out, and she rested back against the side of the stall, exhausted. I walked back to the sink and wet a couple of paper towels. Returning, I handed her one for her lips and placed several on the back of her neck.

She softly moaned and gazed up at me. “You’re wearing a tiara.”

“Yes, that’s very observant for someone in your condition,” I responded. This made her laugh and totally broke the ice.

“These paper towels feel so good.”

“Yes,” I said, “towels on the neck cool you off nicely, and, as an added bonus, it won’t ruin your makeup.”

The bathroom door flew open, and there was the penetrating sound of a gaggle of giggly girls invading our privacy. Discreetly closing our stall door, I locked it, stepping deeper inside with Tabitha as the girls filled up the bathroom.

I put my finger to my lips, and Tabitha drew her feet to her chest in a little ball. We tried not to crack up as we listened to one of the girls pee in the stall next to ours. Listening to someone pee had never been so funny. We held our breath and managed to keep it together for another three minutes, eavesdropping on the random high-heeled socialites peeing and flushing. There was some idle chatter and no good gossip to speak of. Soon they were at the mirror checking their lip gloss. We heard the door open again as they left, and we burst out laughing. It was so ridiculous, we had to catch our breath and force ourselves to settle down.

“God, what am I going to do?” Tabitha said, still almost crying from laughter. “I can’t go back out there and face everyone like this.”

She really was a mess; I couldn’t just leave her there. “Let’s see how you look standing,” I said, pulling her up to her two wobbly feet and moving toward the sink. I scanned myself in the mirror, hoping I hadn’t damaged Audrey’s dress.

“Can I get someone for you in the main gallery?” I asked.

“I came alone,” Tabitha said.

She avoided making eye contact and sounded so abandoned that it made me feel sorry for her. It was hard to believe that a person as fabulous as Tabitha Eden could ever feel alone.

“If I go out there,” she whispered, “the paparazzi will have me on TMZ covered in puke within the hour. And if they don’t, one of my ‘friends’ will call them.”

“Darling, you didn’t really get any on your dress, and your makeup is fine.”

Taking another wet paper towel, I freshened her up a bit while I tried to think of some way to get her discretely out of the museum.

As an aside, I was very proud that I could do a decent “darling.” I’d had a lifetime of hearing it, that was for sure. No one in the history of speaking has ever said the word “darling” the way Audrey did. There wasn’t anything cloying or pretentious about the way she said it. On Audrey’s lips, “darling” was a friendly endearment, plain and simple.

“You do have a driver, don’t you?” I asked, trying not to giggle in disbelief that anyone was taking my Audrey Hepburn impression seriously.

“Yes, but I’ll never make it out the way I came in,” Tabitha said, almost crippled with fear.

“Well, I happen to know a back entrance that no one uses. Can you get your driver to meet us there?”

An expression of disbelief crossed her face. She grabbed her diamond-studded phone and thrust it in my direction. “Call Mocha,” she said.

“Mocha?”

“He’s my driver,” she slurred. “You call him.”

Taking her phone, I scrolled through her contacts for Mocha. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Mocha? I have, um, your guest here with me. She finds she is terribly tired and would like to avoid any attention. Can you please meet us at the back entrance on Eighty-second Street?”

He agreed, and I gave him directions to the freight doors. I’d been there a couple of times with Jess.

“Well then,” I said, “we’re all set.” I grabbed another damp paper towel from the sink and delicately dabbed at her beautiful face until all traces of the mystery white powder were gone. She closed her eyes and seemed utterly oblivious.

“Do you have any lip gloss?” I asked. She nodded and motioned to a tiny beaded bag on the floor by the toilet. That bag probably cost more than my mom made in a year, and there it was, sitting on the floor of a public toilet.

Fishing out the lip gloss between the makeup and pill bottles, I was struck by how lovely Tabitha was, even in this condition. Her electric-blue eyes went blank as I dabbed the gloss on her lips.

“Good as new,” I said. She wobbled and leaned against me, and I realized I might be overoptimistic.

“You don’t understand. We’ll have to cross the main floor with … all of them out there. I don’t think I can do it. What if I puke in front of everyone?” She was starting to panic, and her face was looking green again.

“Darling, you can do it. I’ll put my arm around you, you’ll lean against me, and we’ll laugh like I’m the funniest person in the whole world.” She smiled at the thought. I was so totally Audrey!

There were basic skills a girl learned in every high school in the state of New Jersey. Springing a shitfaced friend from the ladies’ room just happened to be at the top of that list. I’d even done it in the high school bathroom. Since I’d always been a supporting player in life, I was really good at it.