Being Audrey Hepburn

“Who are you?” she demanded. She was totally intimidating, even though she was superwasted. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know if I could say my own name. I was speechless. I couldn’t stop looking at the pale circle of fine powder that sprinkled her flawless face, which was concentrated in a ring on the right side of her nose.

“Lisbeth,” I said finally with an Audrey Hepburn lilt. I’d never realized how pretty my name was until I said it that way. It sounded like another person’s name. Immediately, I cringed that I’d told her my real name. Not the best idea, though she would probably tell me to get lost anyway. Surprisingly, she tried to smile at me, which wasn’t easy in her condition. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a Page Six pop star!

“Hi.” She reached out her hand to shake mine but stopped. “I’m … I’m … I’m go

As she vomited, I counted how many times I’d held a girlfriend’s hair while she spewed chunks. Vomiting leveled the playing field. How many girls hadn’t found themselves retching up fourteen mango daiquiris in a public bathroom at some time in their lives, right?

She wiped her mouth off. Staring up at me like a homeless puppy, she tried to say something, but she was puking again and barely turned her head back to the toilet bowl in time. Standing as far away from her as I could, I held her hair. Please, please, please—no backsplash—please don’t puke on me. I was painfully aware of the fact that I was wearing a stolen, irreplaceable, million-dollar dress, easily within hurling distance of a completely hammered pop sensation. I absolutely could not return Audrey Hepburn’s dress to Jess with barf chunks on it.

“Don’t you dare take a fucking picture of me,” she slurred.

“I wouldn’t,” I said, surprised at how insulted I felt. Why would she think that? “I don’t even have a camera.”

“Yeah right, what about your cell phone?” I shrugged, realizing instantly that I didn’t have my phone, my driver’s license, car keys, or anything that would identify me other than this magic dress, which wasn’t mine. “I have people who’d sue you.” Tabitha eyed me warily, trying to wipe the puke off her lips. Gently, I handed her another piece of TP.

“I don’t have a cell phone.”

“You don’t have a cell phone?” She seemed confused. “Who doesn’t have a cell phone?”

“Well actually, I mean, I have one, just not with me at the moment,” I answered as politely as I imagined Audrey might have explained. I also figured that this was definitely not the time to scream to Tabitha that I was a huge fan of her music and her wild fashion sense.

She threw up again—kind of at the end of her run—not much came out, and she rested back against the side of the stall, exhausted. I walked back to the sink and wet a couple of paper towels. Returning, I handed her one for her lips and placed several on the back of her neck.

She softly moaned and gazed up at me. “You’re wearing a tiara.”

“Yes, that’s very observant for someone in your condition,” I responded. This made her laugh and totally broke the ice.

“These paper towels feel so good.”

“Yes,” I said, “towels on the neck cool you off nicely, and, as an added bonus, it won’t ruin your makeup.”

The bathroom door flew open, and there was the penetrating sound of a gaggle of giggly girls invading our privacy. Discreetly closing our stall door, I locked it, stepping deeper inside with Tabitha as the girls filled up the bathroom.

I put my finger to my lips, and Tabitha drew her feet to her chest in a little ball. We tried not to crack up as we listened to one of the girls pee in the stall next to ours. Listening to someone pee had never been so fu

“God, what am I going to do?” Tabitha said, still almost crying from laughter. “I can’t go back out there and face everyone like this.”

She really was a mess; I couldn’t just leave her there. “Let’s see how you look standing,” I said, pulling her up to her two wobbly feet and moving toward the sink. I sca

“Can I get someone for you in the main gallery?” I asked.

“I came alone,” Tabitha said.

She avoided making eye contact and sounded so abandoned that it made me feel sorry for her. It was hard to believe that a person as fabulous as Tabitha Eden could ever feel alone.

“If I go out there,” she whispered, “the paparazzi will have me on TMZ covered in puke within the hour. And if they don’t, one of my ‘friends’ will call them.”

“Darling, you didn’t really get any on your dress, and your makeup is fine.”

Taking another wet paper towel, I freshened her up a bit while I tried to think of some way to get her discretely out of the museum.

As an aside, I was very proud that I could do a decent “darling.” I’d had a lifetime of hearing it, that was for sure. No one in the history of speaking has ever said the word “darling” the way Audrey did. There wasn’t anything cloying or pretentious about the way she said it. On Audrey’s lips, “darling” was a friendly endearment, plain and simple.

“You do have a driver, don’t you?” I asked, trying not to giggle in disbelief that anyone was taking my Audrey Hepburn impression seriously.

“Yes, but I’ll never make it out the way I came in,” Tabitha said, almost crippled with fear.

“Well, I happen to know a back entrance that no one uses. Can you get your driver to meet us there?”

An expression of disbelief crossed her face. She grabbed her diamond-studded phone and thrust it in my direction. “Call Mocha,” she said.

“Mocha?”

“He’s my driver,” she slurred. “You call him.”

Taking her phone, I scrolled through her contacts for Mocha. He picked up on the first ring.

“Hello, Mocha? I have, um, your guest here with me. She finds she is terribly tired and would like to avoid any attention. Can you please meet us at the back entrance on Eighty-second Street?”

He agreed, and I gave him directions to the freight doors. I’d been there a couple of times with Jess.

“Well then,” I said, “we’re all set.” I grabbed another damp paper towel from the sink and delicately dabbed at her beautiful face until all traces of the mystery white powder were gone. She closed her eyes and seemed utterly oblivious.

“Do you have any lip gloss?” I asked. She nodded and motioned to a tiny beaded bag on the floor by the toilet. That bag probably cost more than my mom made in a year, and there it was, sitting on the floor of a public toilet.

Fishing out the lip gloss between the makeup and pill bottles, I was struck by how lovely Tabitha was, even in this condition. Her electric-blue eyes went blank as I dabbed the gloss on her lips.

“Good as new,” I said. She wobbled and leaned against me, and I realized I might be overoptimistic.

“You don’t understand. We’ll have to cross the main floor with … all of them out there. I don’t think I can do it. What if I puke in front of everyone?” She was starting to panic, and her face was looking green again.

“Darling, you can do it. I’ll put my arm around you, you’ll lean against me, and we’ll laugh like I’m the fu