Being Audrey Hepburn

by Mitchell Kriegman

  “We probably found these dresses just in time,” she said.

  “Yeah, nothing lasts forever,” I added wistfully, watching her turn the Dior inside out, running her fingers along the stitching.

  “My profs would consider your suggestion blasphemy,” she said. “Taking a pair of scissors to a vintage Dior or reworking a Cassini is crazy.”

  “Aw, come on, we don’t have to treat these dresses as history. It’s the perfect combo of everything you know and what you want to do,” I said. “Besides, the dresses are mine. Nan gave them to me.”

  I hated that I sounded like a child saying that, but I could see her mind was working a million miles a minute.

  “That’s breaking a lot of rules,” Jess said.

  “Yeah, we don’t want to break any rules,” I said. Hidden in the corner of her mouth was a budding smile dying to come out, and I knew I had a chance.

  “Well, I guess everyone gets to do some idiotic thing before going to college.”

  “You’re the best friend ever,” I said, throwing my arms around her and squeezing her tightly, trying to ignore that she’d just said the word “college.”

  “Don’t you forget it,” she said.

  “It’ll be our little project,” I added. “We’ll call it Being Audrey Hepburn.”

  She should have said no, but she didn’t.

  16

  I needed a secret identity.

  “Lisbeth Dulac.” I figured that would work. It was Nan’s maiden name, so it seemed like less of a lie, better than picking a random name out of a phone book.

  Sliding the closet door closed, I retreated to the privacy of my tiny childhood refuge. Tabitha’s record party was three days away, and I needed more than just luck and Nan’s old dresses.

  Phase 1, Jess and I agreed, was to create a Facebook page. It was the quickest way to invent a present and a past, something that could be googled, proving that the new “me” existed. I wasn’t a tech wiz, but, like everybody, I grew up on Facebook and knew a thing or two.

  I chose May 4, Audrey’s birthday, and a birth year three years before my actual one and then opened a new account with a bogus e-mail, but my fingers froze on the keyboard when it was time to start filling in the details. I didn’t have a clue how many languages Lisbeth Dulac spoke, what her favorite music was, or what high school she attended.

  Sinking into the pillows, I tried to get my head around the situation. Every piece of information I entered could be the one that blew my cover and exposed me as a fakester. It made my brain ache trying to think about it. The soft hum of the minifridge lulled me, making it impossible to keep my eyes from closing.

  The sound of Nan’s music box playing “Moon River” was swimming round and round in my head until I awoke, realizing the song was actually the muffled sound of my phone ringing buried beneath the pillows. Groggy, I answered and figured it was Jess calling. She’d help me figure this out.

  “Hey, wuz up?”

  “… Lisbeth?”

  I froze. Whose voice was that? Crap.

  “Lisbeth? Is that you?”

  My God. Tabitha.

  I powered off my phone and dropped it on the floor like it was red hot. I panicked. Shit.

  Then I thought, My voice message.

  Crap. If she called back and heard my normal, goofy, homegirl message, the whole plan was cooked. I had to move faster than Tabitha’s little manicured fingers on her jewel-encrusted phone.

  Powering my phone back on, I went to the phone settings, voice mail greeting and selected default—then sunk back into the pillows, watching, waiting, heart beating. My thoughts raced. Maybe it wasn’t her after all.

  Clearly there was at least one problem with living a fantasy life—it made me paranoid as hell.

  The phone lit up, playing “Moon River” in my hands. I let it ring through, and allowed myself to breathe.

  For a split second, I actually considered forgetting the whole scheme. I wasn’t the kind of girl that lied, even on normal stuff. When I told a lie, I got this queasy, fluttering feeling in my stomach like there was a little trapped creature down there who couldn’t get out.

  Even when the little beast calmed down, the second I thought about the lie again, the creature began bouncing around. So I just didn’t lie that much—except to Mom about college, I guess. That wasn’t so much a lie as an omission.

  Checking the phone, I saw that Tabitha hadn’t bothered to leave a message. Was she losing interest?

  I worried how long Page Six would keep my photo posted, so I dragged it from the Web page to the desktop. I cropped out ZK and Dahlia and created a perfectly good FB picture. But what about the other details?

  For sure, everybody lied on Facebook. My sister, Courtney, had a friend, Stephanie, who claimed that a gossip Web site guy was paying her to go to his parties—free bottles of tequila, limo rides, three-course meals, swag bags, and nobody cared if she had an ID. All she had to do was tweet how hot the parties were. It turned out it was just her building an excuse for her flaky, alcohol-soaked behavior. Blatant embellishing was the norm for how good you were doing, how great the party was, and how drunk everyone got.

  My phone buzzed, and I looked at the screen.

  “Hey you ! ;)”

  Shit. I’d have to say something. What would Audrey do, I wondered. What if Audrey had grown up in the age of digital distraction?

  Audrey knew all her faults and figured out how to make them work for her. She had an inventory of things she disliked about herself—bumpy nose, eyes that were too wide apart, chest too flat—I could relate to that and more. But she developed her own sense of style and found her own look—the updo, gigantic sunglasses, a simple, elegant wardrobe of classics.

  Audrey Hepburn created Audrey—like Cinderella without a fairy godmother. I wanted to be my own fairy godmother, too, given that I hadn’t seen anyone with a golden wand my entire life.

  “CALL ME !! TEXT ME !!”

  I imagined Audrey on Facebook. No, she’d never do that. But maybe a blog? A blog could be my magic wand, helping me create something out of nothing.

  I envisioned flamboyant opining’s on fashion and life. I imagined blog entries while traveling with my beloved Nan. I could post from anywhere around the world without ever leaving home.

  “Jst called… Was that u ??” Tabitha wasn’t giving up this time.

  Like it or not, it was a moment of truth. Either move forward and renew contact or pack it in. Screwing up my courage, I texted back.

  “I’ve been traveling. Jst boarding my flight now. I’ll be back in time 2 see you @ your party.”

  “Can’t wait !! ;)” I added.

  There was no turning back now. I had to remind myself to breathe.

  Okay, I thought, just make some choices and get this done.

  I discovered there were dozens of ways to blog anonymously, so I created a page where I posted the links to a few worthy causes that Audrey would have supported, a party calendar from Guest of a Guest, and a few of my favorite New York stores that I’d never be able to buy anything from. It still seemed pretty empty; I had so little to work with.

  The Page Six Web lift was perfect for “about me,” but the blog needed a title and some kind of image. I thought back to the night Jess and I unlocked Nan’s storage area, remembering all the dresses we saw, the paintings and the jewelry. I dug in my bag, found Nan’s tiny rhinestone tiara, and marveled at it.

  It said everything. I took a picture of the tiara with my phone and placed it at the top of my blog page.

  Using Bodoni Seventy-Two font, the one they used for the titles in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I typed the name of my blog above the tiara. Shades of Limelight—it just came to me. It’s from one of my favorite Audrey quotes.

  For the first time, I was putting myself out there, exposing myself to some of the limelight … just not too much, I hoped.

  “Kk see u soon ;)” Tabitha texted.

  I started to text back but figured in fir
st class they were already serving me cocktails.

  So I had a new identity and a blog—but did I have anything to say? Strong opinions were the key to Audrey Hepburn’s success.

  Now if only I had some.

  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.