Being Audrey Hepburn

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 first 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 ru

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 stu

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.