Being Audrey Hepburn

“I’m a guest of ZK Northcott,” I said, begi

“Wait here,” the doorman said and stepped back, speaking into his walkie-talkie.

It was called the Soho House, but it wasn’t in Soho, which was that part of Manhattan that was like the biggest, most expensive shopping mall imaginable and took up twenty-six square city blocks. A café sandwich there costs more than a steak in Jersey. The Soho House is actually in the Meatpacking District, where they used to pack raw meat for the aforementioned steak but don’t anymore. These days, they mostly pack trendy, six-figure-salaried twenty- and thirtysomething Manhattanites—which was meat of a certain type, I suppose. These trendsetters and trendettes tend to rendezvous in restaurants at 10 P.M. for di

A gorgeous girl with a severe blond bob, a red wrap dress, and stiletto heels was marching my way. She carried an iPad, which seemed odd considering how she was dressed until I realized that she was a high-tech clipboard Nazi, Mistress of the Door and Keeper of the Holy Guest List. I mustered up my best Audrey and made the first move.

“Pardon me. I’m meeting ZK Northcott, has he arrived?”

“And you are?”

“Lisbeth. I’m a guest of ZK’s.” I’d already mentioned his last name once, and I didn’t want to sound like a name-dropper suck-up, like, oh yeah, ZK and I go way back. I felt pretty fakey anyway calling him by his first name, er, initials. I hoped she couldn’t hear my knees knocking together.

Her fingers swiped through the iPad pages, and I could see the rejection buzzer in her eyes that was set to go off any moment, tick-tick-ticking, resulting in the most cringe-worthy five words: I don’t see your name.

“Lisbeth Dulac?” It took me half a beat to remember my new last name.

“Um, yes,” I muttered.

She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Your dress is awe-inspiring.”

“No way?” Jess’s design work had scored another victory. “I mean, thank you … darling,” I corrected. I had to watch out for my normal me-speak.

I’d practiced my “darlings” for this very occasion, watching all of Audrey’s movies to match her cadence as closely as possible. I’d step-framed Breakfast at Tiffany’s to listen to every single instance where she’d said “darling,” which, by the way, is exactly forty-four. But I found myself spouting “darlings” without even thinking about it.

I had called my sister Courtney “darling” the night before by accident, and she looked at me like I was possessed. And when I “darlinged” Buddy, one of the regulars at the diner, he laughed and said, “Sure thing, honey cakes.”

“Miss Dulac, if you don’t mind, I must ask…” Uh-oh. Here’s the part where she would say: Aren’t you a lowly waitress from South End Montclair masquerading as well-to-do trust-fund baby?

“Aren’t you…” Her voice was getting all squealy and schoolgirl, which was totally weird considering her stiletto heels and shiny red lipstick. “Aren’t you the Limelight blogger?”

My God. A fan. I couldn’t believe it.

“Why, yes … c’est moi,” I said, finally finding some use for those great grades in high school French.

“Oh my God! I absolutely adore your blog,” she said. “I’ve been reading you for ages.” This struck me as hilarious, as I’d actually only been blogging for about a week and a half.

“I was so impressed with Isak Guerrere’s comments. He just loves you!”

“Yes, of course, Isak is such a dear,” I said, trying to sound blasé.

“You have such a great look,” she gushed.

“Thank you.” I couldn’t help but beam. I actually had a look! She went on and on, and I started to notice people staring at us. I guess she did too and pulled it back a notch.

She leaned close to me and whispered, “I should have known it was you when I saw your dress.”

“Darling, you are much too kind.” I really wanted to hug her and jump up and down. But I figured this wasn’t quite the place for it.

“Well, Miss Dulac, I’m sure you have more interesting things to do tonight.” She gave me a wink, and it took me a heartbeat to realize that she was probably referring to the famously handsome ZK Northcott.

I panicked for a second when it occurred to me that she might ask for my ID or something. Stuffed in the lining of my peacock feather bag was my regular old New Jersey driver’s license and my fake ID, which wasn’t any better, because it was just Courtney’s old license. Both of them pegged me as that far-less-than-fabulous girl from South End Montclair.

“Mr. Northcott is waiting for you in the Billiards Room. Please come this way.” She turned and I followed. Humiliation averted. I guess getting carded was something they only did on my side of the river. Drinking restrictions must be optional in a place like the Soho House.

We took the elevator to the fifth floor. The multifloored Soho House was like a giant layered cake with each layer more fabulous than the one below. I’d read about this place on TMZ and even taken a virtual tour on their Web site: drawing rooms, billiard rooms, private dining rooms, and apparently a whole spa, all topped off by a breathtaking rooftop pool, which all the gossip blogs said was the hottest place to be. Capping it all—only if you belonged, of course—were handsomely designed hotel rooms, with egg-shaped bathtubs where members could stay with their guests. Which, I guessed, was helpful if you were ever too wasted to drive home or had other things in mind.

We entered a stu

Lots of suits and heels crowded around the bar. It was low-key while being upscale at the same time. On my way in, I saw Alicia Keys laughing and drinking a mojito while playing pool and suppressed my urge to snap an Instagram pic with my phone. I was bowled over by the glamour of it all—every girl in the room was drop-dead gorgeous, even the waiters and waitresses were good-looking.

“Finally, the mysterious Lisbeth Dulac has arrived!” ZK rose from his leather wingback chair. He kissed me on both cheeks, and my skin almost sizzled where his lips lingered on my face. Really, I could get used to the whole kiss-kiss thing, too.

“You’re stu

A waiter arrived instantly.

“I’m drinking greyhounds tonight. May I offer you one?” ZK asked. I had no idea what a greyhound was, but I figured out right away that it wasn’t a dog or a bus. I smiled and said yes. It had to be alcohol, and I needed some to calm my nerves.

My eyes wandered from his caramel-colored eyes to his full lips to his sturdy jawline, down to his shirt that was opened just enough beneath his perfectly cut navy blue jacket. I forced myself to stop there. Phew.

He regarded me with those amused eyes of his, and I smiled back. If I wasn’t standing right there, just a few inches away, I’d swear that no guy this flawless actually existed outside of an Abercrombie catalog. And yet there he was. No backlighting or airbrushing or hair-blowing fan necessary.

“I feel like we see each other everywhere, but we never get to talk,” he said, moving a little closer, his head tilted down, without breaking eye contact.

It struck me as a fu

“Who knows?” I laughed. “Maybe we would have nothing to say.”

“That can’t possibly be true,” he said. “Tabitha talks about you nonstop. You’ve made quite an impression on her, and I’m dying to know more about you.”