Being Audrey Hepburn Page 22

  Drawing my trench coat tightly around me, hugging my purse, I entered the King Cole Bar. A fairy-tale mural of King Cole, serenaded by three fiddlers, covered an entire wall behind the bar.

  I lowered my oversize glasses and peered around the room.

  “Hello, Lisbeth,” an older man’s voice said from the table behind me. I turned to see Mr. Armani—Robert Francis—standing at his banquette behind me.

  “Oh hello, sorry I didn’t notice you when I came in,” I said as politely as I could manage.

  “Come join me,” he said, holding up a glass of champagne. “I promise not to bite.” He put out his hand and directed me to the chair. He couldn’t keep a smirk from creeping into the corners of his mouth.

  “Thank you,” I said and quietly stepped into the banquette.

  “You look stunning as usual,” he said. “What an original knack you have. You’ve remarkably established yourself as the new girl on the rise in such a short time and certainly garnered my attention. Quite an accomplishment.”

  He wore a deep-gray suit with a yellow tie and a pocket square, his salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed. Up close in the sunlight, he seemed older. I couldn’t help noticing his hands, their perfectly manicured nails delicate, almost vampirish. Robert Francis had a Dracula sophistication about him, I thought, a superficial elegance with a threat lurking beneath.

  “It’s nice to be able to spend time with you,” he said.

  “I didn’t really think this would be a social call,” I replied. He reclined in his seat, spreading his arms across the banquette, that devious smirk barely suppressed.

  “Oh? What were you expecting? Some furtive encounter filled with threats and demands?” he asked. “The trench coat, by the way, is quite wonderful and original. Your so-called Designer X?”

  I nodded.

  “Clever marketing, that,” he added. “The Limelight blog, as well. However do you keep so much going on?”

  I wanted to respond that it wasn’t that much going on, just me tapping in a blog entry or two before bedtime. And that the clever marketing was just my name for my friend who was a gifted, unheard-of designer and had worked hard for everything she had ever done and that no one I grew up with ever sat in an expensive hotel like this drinking champagne at 11:30 A.M. But I didn’t say a thing.

  “You’ve been here before, of course?” he asked, eyeing me unnervingly. I nodded yes, though I’d never been there in my life.

  “It’s my favorite hotel, an absolute time capsule, you know, built by John Jacob Astor the Fourth in the Gilded Age. If Astor came back, he would feel perfectly at home. Everything is exactly as he left it, including the butlers in white tie and tails scurrying about upstairs like little well-dressed mice. Astor himself collected the thousands of leather-bound books on the shelves over a hundred years ago, and not a volume has been moved since his tragic death.”

  “Tragic?” I asked, trying to calculate how many times I had met this odd man. I realized that each of his appearances had been more discomforting than the one before.

  “Indeed, don’t you know your history, young lady?” he admonished. “He died in the sinking of the Titanic. It was one of the great ill-fated romances of all time.”

  “No, I didn’t know.” I was intrigued to see how enthusiastic he was to talk to me. Not at all how he had behaved before. The hotel, this banquette, was clearly where he spent a lot of time. He enjoyed whatever game he was playing.

  “Well, eight years after the Saint Regis opened, Astor divorced his wife and married his secret lover, a lovely schoolgirl named Madeleine. She was actually a year younger than his son. Although these things happen all the time, it caused such a huge uproar that Astor fled with his young wife on an extended yearlong honeymoon through Egypt and the Middle East and the Orient to ride out the controversy. But after seven months, the lovely child bride became pregnant. Considering the state of child care in the Mideast, he decided to return to the States immediately. His misfortune is that he booked passage on the maiden voyage of the RMS Titanic.”

  “I take it they didn’t survive?”

  “Yes and no. As the ship was sinking, Astor helped his young pregnant wife and her dog Kitty through the cabin window into the last lifeboat.”

  “Funny name for a dog, Kitty,” I said. “Mrs. Astor must have had an interesting sense of humor.”

  “I suppose,” he answered, seeming annoyed at a detail he considered minor.

  “And what happened to Mr. Astor?”

  “He found a deck chair, lit a cigar, and perished as the ship went down. Now that’s the movie that James Cameron should have made. That’s a romance. But Hollywood prefers to spin tales about a pauper instead. The ninety-nine percent, I believe your generation calls it.”

  “That’s quite a story, Mr. Francis.”

  “Please call me Robert,” he said, immensely pleased with himself. I took a deep breath and gathered my courage to bring our conversation to the point. Being the fly in his spiderweb was exhausting.

  “Well … Robert, I appreciate the vivid history lesson, but I’d prefer to discuss what I came here for,” I said. “Tabitha has asked that you step aside and allow her to control her own affairs.”

  “Ah, a girl who gets to the point! Do relax, dear Lisbeth. Nothing bad is going to happen here. I’m sure the ghost of John Jacob Astor the Fourth would protect an attractive young woman such as yourself in his hotel,” he said, self-satisfied. “Have a sip of champagne. Are you hungry? Can I order you a something to eat?”

  “No thank you,” I said, feeling oddly helpless.

  He reached for his champagne glass, revealing a sleek platinum cufflink, and took a leisurely sip.

  “Very well, where to begin…” As he placed his champagne glass on the table, a Cheshire Cat grin crept into the corners of his mouth. “Clearly you don’t know your friend Tabitha very well or you would know that her mother is not in good health.”

  “I have heard that actually,” I felt compelled to say, growing irritated at his condescension. I took a sip of champagne to calm myself.

  “Her mother, Eva, came into quite a large fortune when her first husband died, and ever since she has drugged and boozed her way through Europe and Asia and South America, leaving poor Tabby alone and bereft with no one to care for her. In the process, Eva has remarried time and again with disastrous results. Now with the passing of her recent husband, she will likely inherit an even larger fortune. But she is an unreliable and selfish woman with no mothering instinct whatsoever. I’ve done my best to protect Tabitha’s trust while developing her natural singing and dancing talents. Spent quite a bundle on getting her the best of everything. You’ve met them.”

  I wondered how he knew I had visited Tabitha’s recording studio. Was Robert the “boss” they reported to?

  “We vastly overpay her people. That teenager, Bennie Larocco or whatever his name is, is an absolute annoyance, always asking for a bigger cut of royalties. At the same time, Tabby’s become quite a superstar, exceeding family expectations.”

  “Yes, I believe I do know most of that.” I was trying not to give him the satisfaction of appearing threatened. “So, if you are her benefactor and protector, as you say, why is Tabitha upset with you?”

  “An excellent question, to which I do not actually have an answer,” he said, lightly stroking the top of his own champagne glass with his fingertip, over and over, until it seemed intentionally inappropriate.

  “Her therapist tells me that being abandoned by your mother at such a tender age can be very traumatic. As a result, she has a huge amount of anger, and she projects that anger onto the people who love and care for her because she can do so safely. Her mother is nowhere around and too fragile. Hence I have become a convenient target. I simply want to help her.”

  He stopped and lit a cigarette. It was remarkable how he felt entitled to smoke anywhere. I expected the waiter, another customer, frankly anyone to object, but no one said a thing. He held his ciga
rette between his thumb and forefinger like one of those concentration camp commandants in a movie.

  “I’m curious, Lisbeth,” he said, smoke drifting from his lips, “why you didn’t tell Tabitha we were acquainted from that night at the Met?”

  I had been afraid he would bring that up.

  “Why were you waiting outside the bathroom?” I replied.

  “Because we were all worried about her. She’s tried before, you know.”

  He knew? The air went out of me, but I tried to keep my poise. I was feeling more and more baffled. If he knew, then why did he allow her to be alone in the bathroom?

  “I tried to stop her from getting the prescription,” he said, as if reading my mind, “but was unfortunately unsuccessful. Needless to say, I’ve excommunicated that doctor.” From his expression, I knew he sensed my confusion.

  “Dear Lisbeth, this all boils down to one thing,” he said, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto a bread plate. “Who are you going to believe?”

  “Tabitha, of course. She’s my friend,” I said. “Why should I believe you?”

  He raised one of his aristocratic eyebrows. “Because I’m her uncle, of course,” he said, taking another draw on his cigarette. Was he her uncle, really? Her protector, her business manager, her super-rat, a creep, and everything rolled into one? Something didn’t feel right. And he was so offhand about it all.

  I remembered Nan’s words from her friend Sammy G … “a liar’s mouth can be full of truth, but he’s still a liar.” Who should I believe, Tabitha or Robert Francis? I had no way of determining the truth about Robert Francis, but in my gut I knew his intentions couldn’t be good.

  “Well, Tabitha said that you wanted to speak with me about her situation. That’s why I’m here,” I stated.

  “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I arranged this meeting to have the opportunity to speak with you,” he said, his gray eyes narrowing. “You’re young and lovely, an impressive new friend with enormous business potential, and Tabitha listens to you. The business possibilities alone would have attracted my attention. I’m not sure where you met Tabitha or how you knew she was in that bathroom that night, but I find you riveting and I thought we should meet under … well, more favorable circumstances.”

  Robert’s eyes held me locked in some kind of trance until I managed to pull myself away. I stared down at the table, counting the silverware, hoping to regain my composure.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. Nothing but my trench coat had turned out as I planned.

  “How about a toast to people not being as they seem?” he said. “You know, sometimes the bad people aren’t so bad and the good people aren’t anywhere as good as they think they are,” he added. My hand trembled as our glasses touched.

  “I am entirely willing to discuss Tabitha’s situation, once I’ve gotten to know you better,” he said. “I suggest you join me at the party I’m having next Friday evening.” He took a cream-colored envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it to me.

  “Tabitha has already agreed to come. I hope you don’t mind that I asked her in advance. I promise you, it will be quite pleasant.”

  I held the invitation, its creamy paper thick and luscious between my fingertips. Embossed in a delicate gold script were two words: PENTHOUSE A.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Lisbeth,” he said, rising, a smirk like he’d flashed before returning to his face. I was surprised at the sudden end of our conversation. I stood self-consciously.

  “I’ll consider the invitation, of course,” I said, feeling dismissed.

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “I hope to see you soon.”

  I pulled up my scarf and put on my shades and left the hotel, walking several blocks to be sure no one could see me before I headed down the stairs to the nearest subway stop.

  Checking my purse, I saw the invitation and the screen of my phone glow and realized it had been buzzing with calls and text messages.

  They were all from Courtney.

  40

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Courtney screamed as I walked in through the back screen door.

  Wearing a baggy gray T-shirt that was three sizes too big and sweatpants, Courtney was bending over the stove. No makeup, no tube top, no fuzzy boots. She was cooking smiley-face pancakes as Ryan poured buckets of syrup on a stack on the table.

  “Hey, sis, you’re just in time for dinner,” Ryan said.

  “Don’t you answer anyone’s texts anymore?” Courtney barked.

  “I don’t remember you answering every text I’ve ever sent,” I said over my shoulder as I headed upstairs to my room. I was relieved Mom wasn’t in the kitchen. I threw my stuff on the bed.

  “We need to talk now!” Courtney yelled after me, sounding exactly like Mom.

  “I’m changing my clothes,” I yelled back from the top of the stairs. Grabbing a T-shirt, some underwear, and my comfiest pair of jeans, I headed into the bathroom and turned the shower up as hot as I could stand.

  I hated being home.

  Twenty minutes later, my hair was washed and the weirdness of Robert Francis was fading. As I brushed out the tangles, I realized something was odd. Courtney was making pancakes for Ryan. Courtney hated Ryan almost as much as she hated me, and she was making him pancakes for dinner. Mom wouldn’t like that.

  Dropping my damp towel in the hamper, I walked down the upstairs hallway, searching for signs of Mom. Was she hungover? I hated going into Mom’s room. You never knew what you were going to find. Peeking cautiously into her darkened bedroom, I could see that her sheets were all tangled and a mess as usual, but no Mom. I made my way downstairs.

  “So what’s going on?” I asked Courtney.

  “Ryan, enough syrup, eat your pancakes,” she instructed.

  “Why pancakes?” I asked.

  “There’s nothing else in this fucking house to eat.”

  “Mom hasn’t been shopping?” I asked.

  “Where have you been for the last four days?”

  “What difference does it make? And why are you suddenly acting all Supernanny with Ry?” I asked.

  All the color drained from her face. It seemed like Courtney didn’t know what to say. “Just get your ass to the hospital. Mom has cancer.”

  * * *

  I didn’t remember driving to the hospital or parking my car or saying my name. All I could think about was the endless times that I had avoided her calls, deleted her texts, or turned off my phone so I wouldn’t have to talk to her. I was always afraid she would ask me about school, so I ignored her when maybe she wanted to tell me about … I couldn’t even say the word to myself.

  I sat in the waiting room feeling more alone than I had ever felt in my whole life. I was afraid to call Jess and ashamed to call Nan. They both knew what I had been doing for the last four days. Mom had been in the hospital for three days.

  The large beige waiting room was filled with rows of mauve chairs and ferns. Fox News blared from the TV perched in the corner of the ceiling. I was the only one there, and it felt like torture. I remember wondering if the ferns were real or if someone actually watered them. There were well-used stacks of magazines and a stand filled with brochures covering everything from chronic bed-wetting to hepatitis B.

  After a while, I couldn’t remember what I was waiting for. Had the receptionist said a doctor would be with me soon? I couldn’t recall. But I recognized some of the nurses walking by, who whispered when they saw me. They knew my mom. I wondered how they felt. Was she as nasty to them as she was to us? I was certain my mother had told them all that I was going to school to become a nurse-practitioner. They probably still thought that was true.

  My mind flashed back to the last time I saw Mom, when Ryan was acting like such a wiseass. I kept remembering her rubbing her arm and sliding down the sleeves of her blouse. It seemed obvious now. She must have had tests, I thought. She already knew she had cancer.

  “Don’t go off the rails,” she ha
d said. “You’re the only dependable one left.” In my head, I couldn’t stop hearing her say that over and over.

  My mind was in a fog. I felt like I had to do something. I decided to ask to see my mother as soon as possible, but as I stood up a doctor approached me before I could say anything.

  “Lisbeth Wachowicz?”

  “Yes?”

  “You mother is being evaluated for hepatocellular carcinoma,” said the doctor. He seemed barely five years older than me. Had his mother wanted him to go to medical school? Did he want to become a doctor? Was he glad he did? His name was stitched into his starched white coat, Dr. Kenneth Newton. He was tall and skinny as a rail and wore black-framed eyeglasses.

  “In English, please?” I asked. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and paused a moment.

  “Liver cancer. We know she has severe cirrhosis of the liver and we’re trying to rule out cancer,” he said.

  “From drinking?”

  “Ten years or more of heavy drinking can cause the cirrhosis to form, but there are a number of factors such as how much a person drinks, what they drink, how their body handles alcohol, their underlying medical condition, medical history, genetics. Women who are heavy drinkers are at a higher risk than men.”

  “So, yes?”

  “Yes,” he responded grimly.

  “But she’s been drinking forever. What happened? Why now?”

  “Your mother was on her second shift when she became disoriented and confused,” he said. “We have a number of safeguards here, and I pulled her in for testing. The liver detoxifies your body, and if the liver isn’t functioning correctly, toxins can be released into your bloodstream. It’s usually the high ammonia levels that cause confusion and behavior changes,” he said. “That’s what we tested her for.”

  Jeez, I guess going to med school pays off.

  “Is she in pain?”

  “No, actually there are no nerve endings in the liver itself,” he said. “Once we normalize her blood levels, she’ll be her old self again, up to a point.”