Being Audrey Hepburn Page 13

  “Louboutins!” I squealed. I couldn’t help it.

  “Scored them on eBay. Had to repair the heel. They’ll only work for a night or two.”

  “Almost as good as a glass slipper,” I said, bending over to put them on. Shoes had begun to be a bit of a challenge. Jess and I had gone to her favorite thrift store at St. Luke’s Church in Hell’s Kitchen and found a pair of very cool snakeskin stilettos with these funky crystals and some strappy sandals that she embellished with tiny strands of pearls and a pair of mismatched but coordinated brooches, but we couldn’t find anything formal.

  The great thing about the Louboutins was that they were invisible. Stylish and current enough not to out me as a poseur, but so go-with-everything neutral that no one would remember them from one event to the next.

  I stood as far back as I could in the Hole’s speckled and ancient ladies’ room mirror, until my back was almost right up against the peeling pink wall. The stunning green of the dress looked wondrous, even in the flickering fluorescent lights.

  “You ready?” Jess asked.

  The two of us gathered up my stuff and shoved it back into her bag. I gave Jess a quick hug before we headed out the door.

  “You’re the best,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek.

  “Aren’t I, though?” Jess laughed, almost blushing. “Call me later. I want every detail.”

  I snuck out the back way and walked across the parking lot to my awaiting Purple Beast.

  “Whoa. Lizzy, is that you?” Jake Berns in all his flanneled glory was leaning against his car waiting for me. “I figured I’d get here early to make sure you knew the way to Reilly’s tonight. Look at you—all this to see my band? You look like a dream.”

  His eyes twinkled in the moonlight.

  “Crap, I meant to tell you.”

  Realization darkened his expression.

  “Ah,” he said, lowering his eyes, “that’s not for me.”

  “I’m so sorry, I just have this other … it’s this thing … I promised to go and…” The words kept rushing out and none of them sounded good.

  “Who? Who did you promise?”

  “A … friend. No, not the kind you’re thinking. I want to see your band, I swear I—”

  “You’re dressed like that for a friend?” he interrupted. “Didn’t you promise me?”

  I had no idea what to say.

  “Damn.” He dropped his arms at his side and hung his head.

  “I’m sorry. I really am. I’ll leave as soon as I can. I won’t stay late. It’s just something I have to check out for myself, and then I’ll leave. I promise.” The last word echoed in silence.

  He kicked around the gravel and dirt at his feet, but he didn’t say anything.

  I ran for it, across the parking lot to my car, and didn’t look back because I didn’t want to see the expression on his face.

  24

  I parked the Beast at a riverside lot and walked the four blocks to the Soho House. The closer I walked, the denser the crowd became with paparazzi, celebrity stalkers, and other gawkers. I wondered how I would get in. Gathering my courage, I plunged.

  The beefy doorman stood in my way and informed me that this was a “members only” joint. Which meant he knew that I wasn’t. How could he tell? Or did they say that to everyone? Was it because I was wandering around looking absolutely clueless? Shit, I hoped ZK put me on the guest list somewhere. Then I realized that he didn’t even know my last name.

  “I’m a guest of ZK Northcott,” I said, beginning to feel a panic that I might have come all this way and not even get in.

  “Wait here,” the doorman said and stepped back, speaking into his walkie-talkie.

  It was called the Soho House, but it wasn’t in Soho, which was that part of Manhattan that was like the biggest, most expensive shopping mall imaginable and took up twenty-six square city blocks. A café sandwich there costs more than a steak in Jersey. The Soho House is actually in the Meatpacking District, where they used to pack raw meat for the aforementioned steak but don’t anymore. These days, they mostly pack trendy, six-figure-salaried twenty- and thirtysomething Manhattanites—which was meat of a certain type, I suppose. These trendsetters and trendettes tend to rendezvous in restaurants at 10 P.M. for dinner and end up at exclusive rooftop hotel bars and party into the early hours of the morning.

  A gorgeous girl with a severe blond bob, a red wrap dress, and stiletto heels was marching my way. She carried an iPad, which seemed odd considering how she was dressed until I realized that she was a high-tech clipboard Nazi, Mistress of the Door and Keeper of the Holy Guest List. I mustered up my best Audrey and made the first move.

  “Pardon me. I’m meeting ZK Northcott, has he arrived?”

  “And you are?”

  “Lisbeth. I’m a guest of ZK’s.” I’d already mentioned his last name once, and I didn’t want to sound like a name-dropper suck-up, like, oh yeah, ZK and I go way back. I felt pretty fakey anyway calling him by his first name, er, initials. I hoped she couldn’t hear my knees knocking together.

  Her fingers swiped through the iPad pages, and I could see the rejection buzzer in her eyes that was set to go off any moment, tick-tick-ticking, resulting in the most cringe-worthy five words: I don’t see your name.

  “Lisbeth Dulac?” It took me half a beat to remember my new last name.

  “Um, yes,” I muttered.

  She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Your dress is awe-inspiring.”

  “No way?” Jess’s design work had scored another victory. “I mean, thank you … darling,” I corrected. I had to watch out for my normal me-speak.

  I’d practiced my “darlings” for this very occasion, watching all of Audrey’s movies to match her cadence as closely as possible. I’d step-framed Breakfast at Tiffany’s to listen to every single instance where she’d said “darling,” which, by the way, is exactly forty-four. But I found myself spouting “darlings” without even thinking about it.

  I had called my sister Courtney “darling” the night before by accident, and she looked at me like I was possessed. And when I “darlinged” Buddy, one of the regulars at the diner, he laughed and said, “Sure thing, honey cakes.”

  “Miss Dulac, if you don’t mind, I must ask…” Uh-oh. Here’s the part where she would say: Aren’t you a lowly waitress from South End Montclair masquerading as well-to-do trust-fund baby?

  “Aren’t you…” Her voice was getting all squealy and schoolgirl, which was totally weird considering her stiletto heels and shiny red lipstick. “Aren’t you the Limelight blogger?”

  My God. A fan. I couldn’t believe it.

  “Why, yes … c’est moi,” I said, finally finding some use for those great grades in high school French.

  “Oh my God! I absolutely adore your blog,” she said. “I’ve been reading you for ages.” This struck me as hilarious, as I’d actually only been blogging for about a week and a half.

  “I was so impressed with Isak Guerrere’s comments. He just loves you!”

  “Yes, of course, Isak is such a dear,” I said, trying to sound blasé.

  “You have such a great look,” she gushed.

  “Thank you.” I couldn’t help but beam. I actually had a look! She went on and on, and I started to notice people staring at us. I guess she did too and pulled it back a notch.

  She leaned close to me and whispered, “I should have known it was you when I saw your dress.”

  “Darling, you are much too kind.” I really wanted to hug her and jump up and down. But I figured this wasn’t quite the place for it.

  “Well, Miss Dulac, I’m sure you have more interesting things to do tonight.” She gave me a wink, and it took me a heartbeat to realize that she was probably referring to the famously handsome ZK Northcott.

  I panicked for a second when it occurred to me that she might ask for my ID or something. Stuffed in the lining of my peacock feather bag was my regular old New Jersey driver’s license and my fake ID
, which wasn’t any better, because it was just Courtney’s old license. Both of them pegged me as that far-less-than-fabulous girl from South End Montclair.

  “Mr. Northcott is waiting for you in the Billiards Room. Please come this way.” She turned and I followed. Humiliation averted. I guess getting carded was something they only did on my side of the river. Drinking restrictions must be optional in a place like the Soho House.

  We took the elevator to the fifth floor. The multifloored Soho House was like a giant layered cake with each layer more fabulous than the one below. I’d read about this place on TMZ and even taken a virtual tour on their Web site: drawing rooms, billiard rooms, private dining rooms, and apparently a whole spa, all topped off by a breathtaking rooftop pool, which all the gossip blogs said was the hottest place to be. Capping it all—only if you belonged, of course—were handsomely designed hotel rooms, with egg-shaped bathtubs where members could stay with their guests. Which, I guessed, was helpful if you were ever too wasted to drive home or had other things in mind.

  We entered a stunningly appointed room filled with warm light and dark wood walls, highlighted by brass fixtures, marble-topped tables, velvet drapes, and chandeliers.

  Lots of suits and heels crowded around the bar. It was low-key while being upscale at the same time. On my way in, I saw Alicia Keys laughing and drinking a mojito while playing pool and suppressed my urge to snap an Instagram pic with my phone. I was bowled over by the glamour of it all—every girl in the room was drop-dead gorgeous, even the waiters and waitresses were good-looking.

  “Finally, the mysterious Lisbeth Dulac has arrived!” ZK rose from his leather wingback chair. He kissed me on both cheeks, and my skin almost sizzled where his lips lingered on my face. Really, I could get used to the whole kiss-kiss thing, too.

  “You’re stunning tonight,” ZK said, lowering his eyes, and I thought about how much nicer that sounded than the “Yo Lizzy, you look hot” that guys said on the other side of the bridge. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting and talking with ZK Northcott, aka Mr. Underwear-Man.

  A waiter arrived instantly.

  “I’m drinking greyhounds tonight. May I offer you one?” ZK asked. I had no idea what a greyhound was, but I figured out right away that it wasn’t a dog or a bus. I smiled and said yes. It had to be alcohol, and I needed some to calm my nerves.

  My eyes wandered from his caramel-colored eyes to his full lips to his sturdy jawline, down to his shirt that was opened just enough beneath his perfectly cut navy blue jacket. I forced myself to stop there. Phew.

  He regarded me with those amused eyes of his, and I smiled back. If I wasn’t standing right there, just a few inches away, I’d swear that no guy this flawless actually existed outside of an Abercrombie catalog. And yet there he was. No backlighting or airbrushing or hair-blowing fan necessary.

  “I feel like we see each other everywhere, but we never get to talk,” he said, moving a little closer, his head tilted down, without breaking eye contact.

  It struck me as a funny thing to say since we’d only just met once, a little over a week ago. But my heart thumped wildly anyway.

  “Who knows?” I laughed. “Maybe we would have nothing to say.”

  “That can’t possibly be true,” he said. “Tabitha talks about you nonstop. You’ve made quite an impression on her, and I’m dying to know more about you.”

  “Why, there’s nothing to say, darling. I’m just a free spirit.”

  “Even a free spirit has to come from somewhere.” ZK smiled. I could see he was going to be persistent.

  “I’d much rather hear about you,” I insisted, oddly at ease. Somehow Being Audrey made it easier for me to talk to someone like ZK, while I was so apprehensive trying to be myself around Jake.

  “What’s left to say that hasn’t been said already? I’m a Northcott.” He laughed. “There’s probably not a single person in this room that doesn’t know my entire family history, good, bad, and wretched.”

  “And is your personal history wretched as well?” I asked. He laughed.

  “Well let’s just say I’ve been notoriously thrown out of a variety of elite high schools and Ivy League colleges for various instances of inappropriate and lewd behavior, a tradition of my own making, which I hope to continue into the future and bequeath to my children.”

  “Impressive,” I said. “And is that all there is to ZK Northcott?”

  “Pretty much. You might say I was born with a silver spoon up my ass and I’ve never gotten over it.”

  “That must be a painful burden to bear,” I said as deadpan as possible.

  “Yes, very.”

  “Well, I think you’re doing a fine job of handling it,” I said, and we both cracked up. The waiter arrived with our greyhounds, which tasted pretty much like a screwdriver with some supertart grapefruit juice instead of the usual Tropicana I was used to. Freshly squeezed, I assumed.

  “Now it’s your turn,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

  “It’s quite tedious, dear.”

  “Bore me.”

  I’d decided that staying close to the truth would be the easiest way to keep myself out of trouble. I had enough difficulty remembering my new pretend last name without adding any fake relatives or pets into the mix.

  “Well, I have an ailing mother who travels a lot and is never at home, a wildly irresponsible sister I never see, and a brother who is always in trouble.”

  “Ah, your brother sounds like a man after my own heart.”

  “Yes, I’m sure you could tutor him in the finer points. And then there’s my dear Nan who drinks champagne and eats cheesecake all day. See? Nothing quite as exciting as your life.”

  “There must be more. Is that all you’ll tell me?” he teased.

  “For now.”

  “You are very … intriguing,” he said as he put his arm across the back of my chair and leaned in closer. Glasses of grapefruit juice and vodka were arriving and disappearing quickly, and I swear it seemed as if we were flirting. How I could be chatting up one of the most handsome eligible men in New York City was astonishing. But I was determined to keep my wits about me.

  “I’m delighted that you wanted to meet for drinks, ZK,” I said, “but I’m a little curious as to the reason. Truthfully, we’ve barely met.” The last thing I wanted to do was to kill the vibe, but ZK was moving too fast. I needed to have some understanding of what he had in mind and why he texted me.

  ZK sat back in his chair, unbuttoning his jacket, and turned thoughtfully, thinking for a moment. “Beyond the fact that you’re absolutely lovely?” he asked.

  I smiled, taking in his amused eyes. He seemed so boyish at times.

  “I’ve been trying to help Tabitha out. The girl is such a mess and there are so many poseurs and hangers-on in the music business.”

  Tell me about it. I knew a little something about that subject.

  “I want to make sure she doesn’t get hurt,” he added.

  “That’s kind,” I said.

  “Tabby’s had an especially hard time. I’m sure you know about her mother…? Tragic woman, actually, incapable of handling her own affairs or Tabitha’s from the time Tabby was a toddler. Very little stability in her life, I’m afraid. Someone had to step in. Lots of men coming and going—lots of stepfathers. Her mother has been in rehab so often that she met two of her last husbands there. One was the manager of Blondie, the Cars, and all of those seventies groups. Then there was an Italian duke who actually had a fiefdom in some remote corner of Italy—Bomarzo, I think. And last year her mother married this new quite wealthy but seriously ill fellow. Who knows how long that might last; he happens to be a founder of Soho House. Or the So-So House as we call it. This place is so over, isn’t it?”

  Really? I’d just gotten here and it was already out of fashion?

  “Tabby and I grew up together, the same schools with the same friends. We’ve all known each other for so long that it’s like a club—which makes everyone extremel
y tedious, by the way. I feel like I’m playing tennis with the same people over and over again.” He laughed and I did, too, although I didn’t have a clue what it was like playing tennis with anyone. “But, curiously, none of us knows you.”

  I nodded, as though I understood perfectly.

  “You’re a mystery girl.”

  “But isn’t every girl?”

  “Not to me,” he said, never taking his eyes off mine. “New York is just a tiny bubble, all the same people everywhere you go. You, Lisbeth Dulac, are a red gown at a black-and-white ball.”

  I felt like we had somehow moved even closer to each other, kissing distance. I felt little sparks flying between us, as ZK’s eyes met mine, and I wondered if it was unmistakable to him as well or if I was just crushing. I could have sat there gazing at him forever.

  “Which black-and-white ball?” interrupted a slender blonde approaching at my side. I immediately recognized Dahlia Rothenberg. ZK and I instinctively pulled away from each other.

  She was gorgeous. Opulent. Oh, and of course ZK’s date at the Met that night. Where had she come from? Had she been listening to us joking and laughing?

  Surprise barely registered in ZK’s face, and he smoothly rose to kiss her on each cheek. “Dahlia, you’re looking radiant.”

  It was true, she did. Radiant was the perfect word. Like the sun. It must have been exhilarating to be the center of the solar system. She wore an elegant, buttery strapless gown, her pale skin shimmery and translucent. I couldn’t help but wonder how she got it that way. Probably diamond-dust facials or snacking on the stem cells of small children.

  “Where’s Tabitha? Vomiting in a corner somewhere?” Dahlia asked and put her arm in ZK’s as if she were staking a claim.

  “Don’t be so harsh,” said ZK. “You know she’s under a lot of pressure.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It must be emotionally taxing to be a singer when you can’t actually sing.” I felt a sudden urge to defend Tabitha, her music was totally Top 40. Besides, weren’t they all old friends?

  “I think she has a wonderful voice,” I said. ZK and Dahlia smiled conspiratorially. Dahlia seemed to suppress an urge to laugh.