Being Audrey Hepburn Read online

  “Hope is a kick in the teeth,” Mom always said. Maybe that was why she never visited. It was just so weird how troubled Mom was, when her parents seemed so perfect and loving.

  “Someday, Lisbeth, I expect your own memories will be as exciting to you as mine,” said Nan.

  “As if,” I said, flipping the page. “Now tell me again about the time you fell in love with the jazz drummer at your first debutante ball…”

  We plunged. The beginning pages were all photos and society-column clippings from before Nan met my granddad. I loved those photos. Nan dressed in pearls and white chiffon for her debutante ball or poised and elegant on the arm of a dapper young man or gracefully posing with my great-grandparents in a crystal ballroom.

  And so many dresses.

  “You had to have five ball gowns, at least four cocktail dresses, and all the accessories to lunch in and to wear to tea, cute little hats and several pairs of matching gloves,” Nan said. “It was really quite something.”

  “I wish I could see you in just one of these dresses,” I said. “You were so beautiful.”

  “They still fit, you know,” she said, “every one.”

  “You don’t still have them, do you?” I’d been in Nan’s little apartment a million times, and I’d never seen any of these dresses. “Are they here?”

  “Not here—there’s not enough room. I know it’s extravagant, but I couldn’t bear to give all of them away. I always thought I’d give the ones I kept to your mother, but she had no interest.”

  “Where are they?” I realized how urgent I sounded. She laughed, and I did, too.

  “I haven’t been out there in years. They’re packed away in one of those big concrete storage places by the Holland Tunnel entrance. Pay the bill every month.”

  No way. My heart was racing.

  “Oh Nan! Can I please see them?” I begged. “Please, please?”

  “Of course! You can have them.” She laughed. “Or what’s left of them. They’re all yours if the moths haven’t gotten there first. I haven’t visited that place in almost twenty years. Dearest, bring me that little music box over there, would you please?”

  I crossed the room, fetching a little heart-shaped music box with a crystal lid, and placed it in Nan’s lap. As she opened it, the box played “Moon River.” We looked at each other and grinned.

  “See, I love Audrey almost as much as you do.”

  She slipped a little key tied with a pink ribbon out of the box and gently dropped it in my hand.

  “Alpha Building, unit 504.”

  “Holy shit. I mean, wow. Thank you!” I said, tracing the outline of the key in my palm.

  “So are we going to watch this movie or not?” asked Nan.

  “We are!” I laughed and reached for the remote.

  I hit PLAY and Audrey came to life again. Nan and I snuggled together, holding hands while we watched Tiffany’s. When it was over, I hugged Nan close once again, thanked her for everything, and said good-bye.

  As I made my way to the Beast, my phone buzzed with another text from Tabitha Eden.

  “Do u really exist ?!”

  I couldn’t believe how many times Tabitha had texted me. Honestly, I’d figured she’d get bored when I didn’t respond and forget about our bizarre encounter in the Met bathroom that night.

  “U better b my +1 this wkend !! ;) don’t make me go alone !! >.<”

  Alone? How could she possibly be always so alone all the time? At her own party for her new album? It was so weird, I felt bad for her. I was dying to go, but I had to be realistic. I couldn’t possibly show up at her record party. Tabitha and her A-list friends were bound to figure out that I wasn’t actually the reincarnation of Audrey Hepburn.

  Besides, I didn’t have a thing to wear, did I?

  I gazed at the little key with the pink ribbon and wondered.

  15

  The instant I left Nan’s, I phoned Jess, begging and pleading with her to meet me at the Room-2-Spare Self-Storage.

  “Why are we meeting at eleven o’clock at night at some danky storage unit by the Holland Tunnel?” Jess asked.

  “I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” I answered.

  A half hour later, we were walking down the main corridor past the lockup. It was so close to the tunnel entrance that you could hear the constant grind of cars and trucks downshifting.

  “Okay, just tell me your mother finally murdered your little brother and we’re stashing the body in a container that you’re shipping to Brazil.”

  “How did you know?” I laughed as we walked down the dimly lit aisle with the flickering fluorescent light, searching for the elevator.

  “Seriously, Lisbeth, stop walking.” Jess grabbed my arm. “Why are we here?”

  “Because you’re my friend and a fashion genius.”

  “And?”

  I dangled the key in the air in front of her face. “What would you say to haute couture gowns from the fifties and sixties?”

  “Um … yes…?”

  “I was at Nan’s and she told me she’s been saving her fancy debutante gowns all these years. And naturally, I thought my favorite fashionista just might want to take a peak.”

  “No way.” Jess’s eyes lit up. “Well, what are we waiting for?” She was sprinting down the aisle. “C’mon, c’mon!”

  I followed behind her, peering cautiously into each doorway we passed. These storage buildings were serial-killer creepy, just the kind of place where you might have a run-in with a couple of axe murderers.

  “Here it is!” shouted Jess. She was holding the elevator door, dancing around like her feet were on fire. “Hurry, hurry.”

  I followed her into the elevator and pushed the button for the fourth floor, and nothing happened. The elevator smelled like urine. Finally it jerked upward screeching, metal against metal.

  The buzzer dinged as we hit the fourth floor and just sat there. It took another twenty seconds for the door to open. I hated when elevators did that; like, instead of opening, the car might dead drop, crashing through the elevator shaft into a bottomless pit where nobody would hear you scream.

  The door creaked opened.

  Jess sauntered confidently out into the hallway. Nan’s storage was only a few units down. Jamming the key into the lock, I couldn’t turn it either way. It was stuck.

  “Come on,” said Jess. “Let me try.”

  “I’m on it,” I said, jiggling the key up and down.

  “I’m about to die of anticipation. I can’t wait.” Jess was hopping up and down. I pulled the key out, stuck it back in, and shimmied it back and forth until I felt the lock give way.

  “Taa daa!” I threw open the door.

  It was pitch-black.

  “There’s got to be a light,” Jess said.

  Even though it was creepy, I groped around in the dark for a few seconds. The switch stabbed me in the palm, and I flipped it on.

  In the flickering fluorescent light, we saw a few antique chairs and a mahogany armoire wrapped in plastic. I recognized some of them from Nan and Grandpa’s old house before she moved into the manor. There was a floor-length gilded mirror, an antique gold-leaf vanity, and framed portraits of people I didn’t recognize leaning against the walls.

  “That one looks like you!” Jess said, pointing to a portrait of a young girl.

  “Dead relatives, I guess.”

  “Or maybe Nan as a kid?” Jess asked. It was hard to tell.

  “Look at this,” I said, digging deeper into the dimly lit room.

  A crystal chandelier poked out from the corner of a large wooden crate in the corner, glittering faintly. A plush black chaise, which seemed like it should come accessorized with its own lounging movie star, was wrapped in plastic nearby.

  “Why in the world does your Nan keep all this stuff in storage?”

  “You’ve seen my Nan’s place at the manor. The weight of that chandelier alone would bring down the ceiling.”

  “Then why doesn’t sh
e just sell it all?” Jess asked.

  “She’s sentimental, like me,” I said. “She probably doesn’t want to part with any of it.”

  “Just don’t let your Nan turn out to be one of those old ladies who eat cat food and ramen noodles, and when they die you find out they have eight million dollars stuffed in a mattress.”

  “I’m pretty sure her primary food group is cheesecake. But next time I visit, I’ll check her mattress.” I was nervous with anticipation. “So where are the dresses?”

  Jess dragged a plastic-covered inlaid sectional table out of the way and was digging around in the back.

  “Oh … my … God!” she said. I scurried around the table and a few other crates to see. At the very back, stacked against the wall, were more than a dozen heirloom storage boxes, plus a couple of big plastic bins marked SHOES and HANDBAGS.

  Jess pulled a box off the stack and tossed it to me. I carefully lifted the lid. Inside, wrapped up in a see-through plastic clothing bag, was a gorgeous sky-blue taffeta gown. Jess unzipped the bag and lifted the dress from the box. It appeared as vibrant and spotless as if it were new. I went to touch it, but she stopped me.

  “Are your hands clean?” she demanded. Spoken like a true museum nerd.

  “Yes, Mom,” I said, holding my hands up for her to see. I lifted the hem and we both examined the fabric as the magnificent dress fanned out before us.

  “This is couture,” Jess said breathlessly. “Vintage couture. I’d say this dress is probably worth thousands.”

  My heart was pounding as I dragged down another box. Inside was a silvery-gray tweed Chez Ninon suit with a pink collar.

  “I’ve never heard of this one.” I handed it over to Jess, her eyes wild and excited.

  “Wow. This is exactly the kind of suit Jackie Kennedy wore. You know, everybody thinks that Jackie was wearing a Chanel suit on the day that JFK was shot. It was actually a Chez Ninon line-by-line copy of a Chanel made with Coco Chanel’s approval, because Kennedy’s father didn’t want Jackie to appear to be wearing snooty French clothes. As if everyone didn’t think Chez Ninon was French. Of course, the jacket is a little shapeless and the skirt hits the knee. That’s the way they made them in those days.”

  We tore through the boxes like kids on Christmas morning. There were suits from Lilli Ann, Chanel, Nina Ricci, and even Irene. There was a midnight-black beaded art deco evening bag, gowns made by every designer you’ve ever heard of and some only Jess knew. I held up a gorgeous black organza cocktail dress while Jess inspected a red chiffon gown.

  “Oh my God,” she squealed. “This is a red Valentino. Red! Do you know what a big deal this is? And there’s a green one, too.”

  “Whoa, look at that plunging neckline.” Good ole Nan. She was the real thing to pull off a dress like that one.

  “Look at this boning.” Jess pointed it out on a gold brocade gown. “I mean, who needs to breathe?” The designer in Jess couldn’t be suppressed. With every dress she touched, she couldn’t help commenting on how fashion had changed over the years.

  “That History of Twentieth-Century Fashion class at FIT is really coming in handy,” I joked. She hardly heard me.

  “You know, I have a pile of Chanel buttons I found in the garbage on Fifth Ave. after work one day that would be perfect for this,” she said, holding up a dark red Chanel dress.

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. I stripped down to my underwear and pulled on an emerald-green cocktail dress with a fitted bodice and a full skirt.

  “What are you doing?” Jess asked. “Be careful!” She helped me slip into the green wonder, and her eyes lit up as she zipped me into the gown.

  “You look fantastic. It’s weird, but your body is made for these kinds of dresses.” She inspected the dress from every angle, turning over the hem and the sleeves. “Your Nan is a couple of inches shorter than you are, but you’re on the short-waisted side, so all your tallness is in your legs.”

  “Huh?”

  “It just means that the dresses will be a little shorter on you than they were on her, but bodice and hip-wise, you’re pretty close to the same size. Of course, her boobs are bigger than yours.”

  “Everybody’s are, but thanks for reminding me,” I said.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” she cracked.

  “Short’s good, right?”

  “Yeah, more contemporary,” Jess said. I spun around in the gorgeous emerald-green cocktail dress before the floor-length mirror, and even though we were standing in a concrete closet, I might as well have been in the grand ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria. I felt like I’d traveled back in time to a world where all the rules were different, where I was no longer bound by my mom, my hometown, and my limited prospects.

  I couldn’t wait to see the rest and reached for the bins containing shoes and jewelry, pulling out everything I could get my hands on. The shoes, I confess, were sort of a letdown. There were a couple of cute pairs of flats, but most of the heels were pretty boring and very dusty.

  One smallish box left.

  Inside—the jewelry, oh, the jewelry—a jaded Juliana rhinestone necklace, jeweled drop earrings, enameled bracelets, and sparkling flower brooches. I felt giddy when I spotted the last item at the bottom of the box—a velvet sack with a drawstring. I opened it and pulled out a tiny rhinestone tiara. So totally Audrey.

  It was like finding buried treasure.

  My mind raced, thinking what it would be like to be the kind of person who wore dresses like these; the people I’d know, the parties I’d attend, a life filled with glamorous possibilities.

  I would give anything to have Nan’s social abilities, her sly intelligence and humor. My own upbringing was so hopeless. Being raised by wolves would have been better than Mom and Courtney. I’d give anything to live the way Nan had, with enough elegance and poise to float through New York society as “one of them.”

  Jess placed the jade Juliana necklace around my neck, hooking it in the back, its breathtaking teardrop gemstones sparkling even in the dim light. That’s when it struck me.

  “Do you think you could, you know, update these?” I asked.

  “What? No way, they’re art!” Jess said, replacing the lid on the jewelry container. “They shouldn’t be altered; they should be preserved. Nan should donate these to a museum. Maybe the Met, maybe the Smithsonian. Most of them are pristine. It would be criminal to alter them.”

  “But they’re fashion. They’re meant to be worn,” I said firmly. “Their destiny is to be worn. Preferably, some place fabulous. Like, say, a recording-industry party.”

  Jess was silent; her jaw hardened and her eyes glowered.

  “Dude, are you insane? We are lucky, LUCKY, that we got away with the whole Audrey thing without getting caught. You know what happens if somebody figures that out? I’m still waiting to see if Joe reviews the security camera footage. I’m hoping they record over them every night, or I get fired. Fired! And both of us get hauled off to jail. End of story.”

  “Nan doesn’t think we’d actually do any jail time,” I offered.

  “Oh. My. God!!!! Seriously? You told Nan? What part of ‘we can’t tell anybody about this, ever’ was unclear?”

  “Calm down. The police were at my house—not for me—for Ryan, and I freaked. Nan asked, and you know I can’t lie to Nan. She won’t tell anyone. She thought it was funny.”

  Jess shook her head and exhaled sharply with disappointment. “You’ve got to be effin’ kidding me. I can’t believe you’re planning to risk my job just to go to another cocktail round with the trust-fund crowd. To be Tabitha Eden’s groupie.”

  “It’s not about Tabitha. And we’re not talking about the Audrey dress. It won’t have anything to do with the museum.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “You don’t think that when this whole charade blows up in your face and they start asking questions, they won’t trace it right back to Page Six, the Met, and that gala?” I hadn’t thought about that.

 
“Don’t be mad at me,” I said. “You’re the one who’s always saying I should find something to be excited about.”

  “I meant a career! Shit, even a hobby. Not risking public humiliation, unemployment, and jail to pull an Audrey Hepburn con job on a bunch of socialites and your sad little pop star.” Jess sat down on the chaise lounge, looking annoyed. “And what would you gain if you pulled this off?”

  I paused.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Dude, I think it’s cool and everything, but where does it go? Do you want to become some kind of professional poser at parties for a career?”

  She was right. I didn’t have a plan or goal—other than to get to that record party to see what it would be like to hang out with Tabitha Eden for one more night. I craved one more sip of starlight. But how much of a plan did Cinderella have when she went to the ball at the prince’s castle, anyway?

  “I’m sorry, Jess. I’m just miserable,” I said. “I feel like my life is hurtling down a mountain at a thousand miles an hour and the destination is all wrong. Last night at the Met in Audrey’s dress, something happened. I know I was a complete fraud, but there was a spark of something inside me that I just can’t let go of. It wasn’t just the dress that fit me perfectly; it was the whole feeling that there was this other person inside me. It’s different for you. You’ve always known what you were meant to be. But I’ve been clueless until now. Last night I could feel it. I could taste it. But if you don’t help me, I’ll never be able to touch it. I don’t know how, but I feel like it could change my life forever.”

  A sad, puzzled expression crossed Jess’s eyes.

  “You know it’s not like you can just put on a dress and waltz into some world you don’t belong in,” she said. “Don’t you think they’ll check up on you and wonder who you are? Where you came from? What you’re doing there? These are blue bloods. They hang with blue bloods.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was too painful to think about being stuck where I was. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to cry. When I opened my eyes, Jess had picked up the Dior and was holding it up to her body, looking in the mirror. She inspected a tattered piece of the hem.