Текст книги "Being Audrey Hepburn"

Автор книги: Mitchell Kriegman

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

17

I felt like an operative for the CIA preparing to go deep cover.

The next phase of the Being Audrey project was to build a photo history of me appearing at superswanky events wearing Jess’s redo of Nan’s fabulous gowns.

There were only two problems, of course. The first was that my status as a New Jersey diner waitress didn’t exactly land me on the guest list of the city’s coolest parties. Solution? I’d just have to crash.

The second was that the press had no reason whatsoever to take pictures of me. Because, you know, I was nobody. So I was going to have to basically photobomb a bunch of trust funders and celebrities. I had a feeling that wasn’t quite as easy as it sounded.

Okay, three problems. What if I got caught? I’d be dragged out of the party and humiliated in front of the very people I had been trying to impress. The worst part, the part I feared most, was that my whole adventure would go up in flames before I’d even started. Solution? None.

Jess had arranged with a girl from one of her classes who worked as an assistant at a PR firm to get us into a Bar3 party as gossip bloggers. We ditched work at the Hole, which was no small sacrifice, considering we both needed the tips.

The first event was one of those sponsored parties for a new vodka made from really expensive designer potatoes in the Hamptons. No kidding. This was the kind of event where they paid a celebrity wrangler to populate the room with young movie stars and press-hungry celebstitutes and a few “real housewives,” plus all the gossip bloggers and reporter types they could beg, borrow, or bribe. This sort of party would be slumming for Tabitha and her crowd, so I wasn’t worried about running into her.

Inside, we flashed press IDs that we literally made on Jess’s printer and laminated an hour before. Jess was dressed in one of her slightly punk’d pixie getups and I wore the most bland and unremarkable outfit I could dig out of my closet. My black skirt, black flats, and white button-down blouse practically guaranteed I’d be invisible in the sea of New Yorkers. No one would notice me until I changed into tonight’s glorious ensemble.

We ducked into the bathroom, and Jess lifted the remade Dior out of the huge shoulder bag she always carries. The dress was outrageous. With a fitted bodice and a full tulle skirt, it was stunning. I was so excited I could hardly stand still. Jess didn’t do a lot to the dress, but her modifications were really fresh. It was kind of like the way rappers cop a riff from a classic song you know by heart and turn it into something so cool and original you couldn’t wait to get on the dance floor. Jess did the same thing, except with timeless couture.

It hadn’t been easy to get Jess going. I swear, I thought she was going to burst into tears when she made the first cut. I kept telling her, it’s not like she did anything but shorten it a bit and remove a little of the boning in the bodice to keep it from impaling me, a brutal side effect of my being so short-waisted. But Jess was completely freaked out about doing even that. If there hadn’t been a bit of damage to the hem already, I might never have gotten her over the hump. Of course, after that first adjustment, she was totally hooked.

In one of the bathroom stalls, I slipped into the dress while Jess stood guard. She insisted on a final touch-up, adding a little color to my eyes and lips. I half-expected her to spit on her finger and clean my face like Mom used to do when I was little.

Once dressed, we wished each other luck and discretely parted company. Making my way into the center of the party, I tried to get my nerve up to intrude on a few choice subjects. As a backup, Jess got ready to snap candids from the sidelines. If the police dragged me away, she’d get those, too, and sell them to The Post for bail.

I walked around the party for fifteen minutes, eyeballing various photographers, checking out who they were covering, and trying to work up the nerve to do something.

Bingo. One photographer had lined up two horse-faced banker types, which I figured would be an easy place to start. Old guys never turned down a young girl. I inserted myself between them, linking my arms in theirs as the photographer snapped away. My heart was beating as quickly as a hummingbird from the outright deception of it all, but at least there was one more photo of my alter ego. One of the old guys grabbed my ass, by the way.

Jess steered me over to a lineup of six debutantes who I assumed had wandered in from the hotel next door. They seemed so out of place, chatting away with deep Southern accents, wearing the old-fashioned deb look, long white gloves and all. I stepped into Jess’s shot and posed just as the flash went off, acting as if we were long-lost sorority sisters or something. My modified Dior in a sea of hillbilly debutantes.

Slipping away, I downed a flute of champagne from a waiter and photobombed another quick four shots, hanging out mostly in the background as if I was laughing or talking to someone. I wound my way to Jess, who was lingering by the bar to take a breather. She gave me a thumbs-up.

“The Dior really popped against all those traditional styles. It’s going to be a cool shot for my portfolio,” Jess said.

“Glad to oblige, my dear, but maybe we should leave before someone realizes I’m a total fake.”

“You’re probably right,” she said, “but get me a drink before we go? I’ve got to pee.”

“Sure thing and thanks for sharing.” I waved to the bartender for more champagne while mentally critiquing my performance. I was feeling pretty self-satisfied when a good-looking man sidled up to the bar in a black suit with a lavender shirt.

“Oh, how awful,” he said to no one in particular. He was assessing the same giggling gush of debutantes I had photobombed earlier. “A tsunami, don’t you think?” And to my terror, he turned as if he were talking to me.

“Pardon?” I asked. But I was really thinking: Oh my god, that’s Isak Guerrere.

Isak Guerrere, the handsome, uberfamous fashion designer who had owned and lost his own line many times and had become single-name famous for being Isak more than anything else. That and his fashion reality show, which I watched religiously. His rugged good looks made you wish he wasn’t gay. But the makeup defining his cheekbones and his jellied hair confirmed beyond a doubt that he was.

“I said, those debs are an utter disaster, a fashion tsunami, don’t you think?” His piercing eyes were unabashedly taking in every inch of me, my hair, my dress, my shoes. No detail eluded his glance. To say I felt like a deer caught in the headlights is an understatement. Fearing panic, I pushed my brain to say something, anything.

“Perhaps it’s a reenactment of a decisive moment in fashion history?” I offered, feigning nonchalance, crossing my fingers under the bar, hoping that would suffice.

“Ah yes, but fashion history is always subject to revision,” he said, smiling.

Returning from the bathroom, Jess froze in her tracks when she saw who I was talking to. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of their sockets.

“Speaking of which, what are you wearing, if you don’t mind my asking?”

I almost choked on my champagne.

“Manners, manners, my apologies. I’m Isak Guerrere.”

“Of course,” I said, recovering. “I’m a huge fan of the design you created for Natalie Portman for the Golden Globes. Pure Genius.” See? Six years of obsessing over celebrity blogs wasn’t all for nothing.

“Really? Well, thank you, that was one of my favorites,” he said offhandedly. “And you would be?”

“Lisbeth Dulac, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It felt more like playing a part in a play than a lie. Think Audrey. Think Audrey.

“Dulac,” he said, as though he were attempting to place the name. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. “Lisbeth Dulac,” he said, taking my hands in both of his, “do let us look at what you’re wearing.” I wanted to bolt, but the way he held my hands made me feel trapped.

“Vintage, Dior. Or is it?” His expression serious, his eyes wild.

Up close, his jellied hair made him look crazy, like a mad scientist. I did my best to be bright and pretty despite his scrutiny.

“Your dress is giving me a fashgasm,” he said. It was such a goofy thing to say that I couldn’t stop myself from giggling. Isak seemed slightly offended.

“Laugh if you like, but your dress is incredibly foolhardy, mildly blasphemous but stunning. And the designer would be?” he demanded.

Moving in closer to him, I whispered, “I hope you’ll understand that I can’t reveal the designer.” He eyed me suspiciously.

“It’s your secret?” He feigned shock but seemed intrigued and satisfied—for the moment.

“Yes, I appreciate your discretion.”

“Completely unique and perfectly fitted,” he whispered, “as exceptional as the wearer.” Isak flagged a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses.

“A toast,” he said, “to my very stylish new friend.”

I beamed. Jess was going to die when she heard what Isak had said about her dress.

“Thank you,” I said, bullet dodged.

Champagne flowed, and soon my worries bubbled away. Isak and I were laughing like the best of friends.

“Now tell me, Lisbeth, two things you’ve done recently that you’ve never done before,” he asked. He seemed so taken with me. Jess discretely snapped pictures from a distance.

“Well, I’ve met a wonderful fashion designer, named Isak,” I said.

“Thanks for the plug. That’s one, and two…?”

“Well, let me see. Oh, I started a blog.” I immediately regretted saying so.

“Indeed! Its name?”

“Oh, I’m embarrassed. It’s really nothing,” I said, meaning every single word of it.

“Come now.”

“Shades of Limelight, but I’ve only just started,” I said, feeling totally self-conscious.

“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I love the quote. It cuts both ways, clever girl,” he said. A little smile turned at the corner of his mouth. My heart sank, fearing I had exposed myself more than I should have.

Jess signaled we should leave. She probably could tell I was worried.

“Well, Isak dear, I can see we could chat forever,” I said, rising from the bar, “but it’s time for me to leave. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t realize how much I had been drinking until I stood up.

“I do mind quite a lot, but it’s been charming,” he said, standing and taking my hand. “I trust I will see you again soon?”

“I hope so,” I said and did my very best to exit gracefully without stumbling on my heels.

That night, Jess and I practically peed ourselves laughing as we clicked through the photos on her camera, reliving every glorious second of the adventure. Had we really gotten away with it so easily? Jess’s first redo was so spectacular that none other than Isak Guerrere had taken notice. I didn’t mention anything about the blog. I didn’t want her to worry.

The next night we planned to return to the scene of the crime—the Met.

A nagging part of me worried we were pushing our luck.

18

I couldn’t help mulling over in my mind the conversation with Isak. Every moment of our encounter was delicious. Although I faked every bit of my savoir faire, I had done so quite successfully. There seemed to be some value in that, as if I had stitched together a life and personality in real time as I talked to him. I had acted as if I were somebody, a person with a point of view and personality. Isak seemed to be genuinely interested in what I had to say.

I was also somebody with opinions, but they were buried down where no one would hear or see them. Now I had a reason to drag them out of the dark pockets of my mind and bring them into the light. Specifically, the “limelight.”

Spilling the beans to Isak Guerrere, of all people, meant that I’d have to actually make a few entries on my fledgling blog if I was going to make this work.

In order to comfort myself and get going, I imagined bravely talking to Isak as if my opinion mattered. I opened up the blog page and began writing my first full entry.

“Standing pigeon-toed in a new dress and posing with your head tilted at a 45 degree angle doesn’t hack it anymore,” I wrote. “If you want to find the heart of fashion, you need to start small—one detail at a time, one stitch followed by the next. It’s as much about removing the clutter as finding the next fashion design.”

I took a deep breath to read and reread what I had written. Satisfied, I continued.

“The film director Steven Soderbergh once said, The making of any art is just problem solving. You have to eliminate the versions that aren’t any good. Then you see what you have left.” I wasn’t sure where I had heard that quote, but at least I wasn’t quoting Chanel, like every other fashion blog.

“Fashion is certainly more than dressing your Barbie. It’s one choice at a time, step by step.” I thought for a moment before continuing.

“A button, a shoe, a glove that fits just right—that’s what this blog will be about. It’s about examining fashion from the ground up, detail by detail, appreciating the art and craftsmanship that goes into perfecting each item. Little by little, I’ll build from there to show you, my dear reader, that anyone can go from nothing to something and sustain your soul in all shades of limelight.”

Phew, it almost sounded pithy.

Laying out Jess’s modified Dior as well as a few items from Nan’s treasure trove, I clicked my little digital camera, photographing a few of the wonderful buttons Jess had added, the hem she had modified, the corner of the collar, the wonderful hand stitching inside.

I shot everything out against white, so that the photo frame was invisible on the blog page. I wanted just the bare, stark essentials. I ended with another quote I remembered from that fashion neophyte, Winnie the Pooh.

“Sometimes, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.”

I took a deep breath and went back and double-checked everything. Filling in the “about me” link, I wrote:

Hello. Starting a new blog is like starting a relationship. In the beginning, it’s fresh, promising, and new. I hope for both our sakes it stays that way. I pledge to be a good chum and post frequently and share a few designs from my friend, Designer X, a secret well kept who is fated to shine.

This was the beginning. Next stop—the Met.

19

Crashing another event at the Met was not our first choice. It was only because we couldn’t find anything else on the social calendar that we had any chance of getting into. Jess was still worried about Mr. Myers. There was nothing else going on in the museum that night, so the chances were slim that he’d show at an event like this. Mr. Myers wasn’t exactly a socialite.

Save the Cheetah Night was the name of the event. I hadn’t seen too many cheetahs lately, so they were definitely scarce. Although poverty also seemed like a worthy cause, I’d read there was compassion fatigue in the “what jewels should I wear tonight” set, so I guessed cheetahs were a tad easier to feel sorry for.

I was wearing the sky-blue silk taffeta gown, the very first one we’d found in Nan’s storage unit. Jess replaced a limp satin ribbon sash with a funky hand-beaded band and thinned out the tulle under the skirt, among other alterations. It was drop-dead gorgeous.

Slipping through a service entrance near the cafeteria, I sidestepped the beefy Men in Black security guys and snuck into the main gala without being noticed.

The anxious little beast in my belly was squirming around like crazy. Everywhere, I saw security cameras and guards. What if my presence jogged the memory of one of the security people or gave some detective the last clue he or she needed to put the whole escapade together? I took deep breaths.

Adam Levine from Maroon 5, who I consider a total sex god, was standing with a reporter and photographer from Us Weekly. The reporter was actually waiting for Adam and a couple other guys from the group to pose for a picture, so I just moseyed right up to them.

Seriously. I think that Nan’s taffeta gown gave me superpowers or something. Just before the photographer snapped the picture, I jumped in between them as if I’d started the freaking band myself. Adam sort of cracked up, posing with a funny grin on his face and putting his arm around my waist, just as the photographer snapped the picture.

“Wonderful, darling,” I said in my best Audrey voice as I twirled to face Adam, my back to the reporter before he could ask my name. I was shaking, but I channeled Holly Golightly and her “life is a continuous cocktail party” attitude.

“And how is the secret album coming along?” I whispered.

He seemed taken by surprise, quite clearly wondering who the hell I was and how I knew that he was working on a new album—just a total lame guess—aren’t they all working on one?

“Insane, actually, we just finished.”

“Lovely, can’t wait to hear it,” I said, smiling at the other band members as I sauntered off, my body tingling from my toes to my updo with a brazen sort of confidence I’d never felt before.

I couldn’t believe it, little me, a nobody from South End mingling with fancy-schmancy rock and rollers. Who’d have thought? I spied Jess on the balcony with her camera—she gave me a thumbs-up.

Ah, confidence … I can do this, I thought, until someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“I know what you’re up to,” he said, and I wanted to die.

I turned slowly to give myself a few extra milliseconds to formulate an excuse or find a getaway.

He wore a sharply styled black leather jacket. His face was sort of familiar, but I didn’t know why. My eyes met his. His wry smile gave the impression he knew me. Was that a good smile or an evil one? I couldn’t tell. His lively brown eyes were inquisitive and striking against the backdrop of his tousled auburn hair, and he was holding a video camera.

“Excuse me, I don’t believe we’ve met?” I asked with false bravado.

“Not formally, but I’ve seen you before,” he said. “Where was it, do you know?”

Panicked, I scanned his eyes, searching for intent. Was he the cameraman outside the Met that first night who turned the camera light away from me? Did he already know I was the same skinny girl in jeans gawking at all the celebrities on the red carpet outside?

I went full-on Audrey to distract him. It was my only option.

“Darling, I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure, which is unfortunate…” His burnished brown eyes connected with mine, and I froze. He examined me with such intensity that I blinked.

“Unfortunate?” he asked.

Oh jeez, how was I going to finish that sentence? What was I even trying to say? He was just a nosy cameraman … I had to get out of there.

“It’s unfortunate because I’m late to meet someone,” I said, scanning the room for an escape route. “Please excuse me.” I turned to leave.

“Wait,” he said, thrusting his hand in my direction. “Chase Reynold, Lux TV.” I smiled and offered my hand reluctantly.

“So nice to meet you, Chase Reynold, Lux TV,” I said. “Funny last name, Lux TV.” Now it was his turn to be flustered.

“Actually it’s just my production company. I had to put something on the camera. I’m a fashion shooter. I feed footage to Web sites, cover Fashion Week, parties, that kind of thing. Here’s my card in case you want more, uh, coverage.” He gave a quick glance up at the balcony where Jess was standing. She gave me a quizzical look, wondering what was going on.

“Well, that’s very interesting, but I really must be going.”

He laughed. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “Always making an entrance, then slipping away. Trying to control your image.”

“Uh yes, you’re absolutely right,” I said. “A girl has to preserve her privacy, don’t you think? I appreciate your confidentiality. Now if you don’t mind…”

My heart pounded ferociously as I walked to the bar. I asked for a glass of champagne and sipped it quickly. I stalled and then pretended to wave at someone and moved toward the exit. It was so lame and fakey. I certainly wasn’t fooling anyone but myself. I scanned the balcony for Jess, but she was gone. Chase Lux made me nervous. We needed to get out of there, fast.

“Miss Dulac, it’s so marvelous to see you again.”

I jumped, surprised to hear my fake name spoken by anyone. Turning, I found my new pal, Isak Guerrere.

“Aren’t you the girl about town? But you shouldn’t be hiding in the corner, pet, especially when you’re wearing yet another stunning party frock! Avoiding one of your many admirers, I assume?”

“What a pleasure it is to see you,” I said. I already loved Isak. He made me feel drop-dead gorgeous in the way only a gay designer could.

Giving me the once over, he twirled me like a ballerina as he touched the gown at my waist. “Certainly original fabric, but pristine. Another startling redux by … what did you say the designer’s name was?”

I giggled. “Isak, darling, you know I’m sworn to secrecy.” I took another sip of my drink, noticed the Lux guy move away, and felt comfortable again.

My phone rang, and I lifted it from my clutch without thinking.

“Hello, darling.”

“Lizzy, that you?” Shit. It was Jake. “You’re talkin’ kinda funny.”

My heart jumped, I hadn’t talked to Jake in three days. I’d missed him the night before at the diner because Jess and I ditched work, and there was another one of his shows the night after.

“Listen, Lizzy, after our shift do you want to—”

I panicked and hung up on him.

“Poor boy,” said Isak. How he could tell, I don’t know. I gave a tentative smile. But I felt like crap. I didn’t want to treat Jake like that, but I’d just spent the last hour doing my most convincing Audrey to an audience of reporters, celebrities, fashionistas, and one of the most famous fashion designers in the country, which meant if I uttered one more word in front of Isak, it would have blown my cover.

“Well, I’m very happy to see you here tonight,” Isak said, breaking the awkward silence. “These events can be so tedious.” He seemed oddly weary, as though party going was boring for him. I guess new meat like me was good for a change. “Perhaps another drink?”

Jess reappeared on the balcony, alarmed and motioning for us to leave.

“Isak, darling, you’re so wonderful, but our timing is inopportune. I’m on my way out,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

“So soon? Such a shame,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever will I do without you? I do hope that I’ll find you again at that event for your friend…” Before he could finish, the glare of a camera light was on us.

“Mr. Guerrere, can I get a quick shot of you two?” Chase Whatever was back with a self-satisfied expression, his eyes locking on mine.

My first instinct was to bolt. But it would appear suspicious if I did. So I snuggled right up to Isak and posed. How long could one photo take?

Chase laughed.

What had I done?

He leaned forward and whispered, “Uh, this is video. It’s okay for you to move.” He’d said “shot”—didn’t that mean photo? I felt my face flush red.

“Awfully sorry,” I said.

“In fact, movement is preferable,” Chase advised. Isak rolled his eyes. My palms began sweating, and my pulse pounded in my ears. Where was Jess? How could I get out of this? I knew I could pose for a camera shot—but video? I had never even YouTubed. This was absolutely out of my league.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” I whispered to Isak. “It was delightful to see you again, but I really must go.” The sad little beast inside was crying for help. But Isak firmly grasped my arm, never breaking eye contact with the camera.

“Not so fast, cupcake,” he said. “Stand, smile, and look gorgeous while I drone on about tonight’s worthy cause. You’ll be fine.”

I had two options: give in to my terror and run or stay and risk passing out. I decided there really wasn’t a choice. I prayed Jess could hold on.

“Of course,” I said, taking a deep breath to calm myself, trying very hard not to think about the video camera. I’d seen celebrities stand there as the cameras rolled, appearing relaxed and poised, and I grew determined to stand up straight and smile like someone who belonged there instead of what I really was—a Holly Golightly imposter in a fifty-year-old dress.

“So, Mr. Guerrere, you’re here at the Cheetah Conservation benefit. I know you’re a big wildlife supporter. What should we know about tonight’s event?” Chase asked.

Chase seemed to know that if he gave Isak a softball question, he would run with it. Isak, ham that he was, launched into a speech that sounded as if he were reading from a brochure. All the right words were there: “natural heritage,” “holistic approach,” “outreach,” and “race for survival.” He even had an anecdote about Jane Goodall.

I started to see spots in front of my eyes and realized I must be hyperventilating. But somewhere between willing myself to smile and hoping I wouldn’t faint, something magical happened. I found myself staring right down the lens of the camera, and, astonishingly, I felt warm all over. I actually loved standing there.

Then it was over, as quickly as it began. The warmth of the light went away, and the magic of that moment was gone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jess, up on the balcony. Her back was turned, and she was talking to someone. As she shifted, I realized what her panic was about. Her boss, Mr. Myers, was standing inches away, yelling right in her face. Shit.

“Thanks, Isak,” Chase said.

I instinctively looked down at my bare wrist to check my imaginary watch. “I am … very … late. Terribly sorry, Isak darling.” Isak and I exchanged air kisses, a first for me. It was just as goofy as it appeared in the movies and felt ridiculous.

“Chase, dear, it was so nice to meet you,” I said.

“We’ll meet again soon. I’m sure of that,” he said.

I tried not to worry what he meant when he said that.

I glanced up and spotted Jess out of the corner of my eye. Myers was gone, and she was frantically waving her arms at me like some sort of psychotic airport-runway worker. She seemed as if she might burst into tears at any moment.

It was time to go.