Being Audrey Hepburn

Then there was the new girl, Crystal. She was totally put together in that Jersey way, with heavy makeup, cosmetically perfect teeth, plucked eyebrows, spray-bronzed skin, thick accent, and a great bod. I grew up respecting girls like Crystal because, contrary to popular belief, they aren’t necessarily promiscuous, no matter how they dress, and they are smart and tough.

Crystal took all of Jess’s shifts and was scoping everybody out. High on her list was Jake. She was already hip to the fact that there was something between us—just because he wouldn’t look at me. My phone buzzed again.

“Can’t wait 2 see you darling ;) what time is Mocha comin ?”

My shift ended at 1:30 P.M. How could I turn down a Fifth Avenue shopping spree with the fabulous Tabitha Eden? I already had the modified couture combo in the garment bag that Jess had given me. It’s not like I would ever get to wear that anywhere else.

“2:30 ?” I texted back.

For years I’d surfed the endless pictures of Paris and Nicky, Kim and Kourtney, the Olsen twins, and everyone else dressed in their latest as they balanced an avalanche of shopping bags from Jeffrey’s, Chanel, Lanvin, Alice and Olivia, and others on Rodeo Drive, Fifth Avenue, or Oxford Street. The ritual of the celeb shopping trip was as much about what you wore as what you bought. This could be my only chance to see what it was like.

Buela had her eye on me, so I had to look busy. I kept moving, covering my tables, cleaning, and finding little projects like restacking the to-go containers behind the counter. My phone buzzed.

“Soooo where ?” Tabitha texted.

Since Jess’s East Broadway address was too downscale and I hadn’t yet found that friendly Manhattan doorman I might talk into fronting for me, my first thought was a hotel lobby, something on the Upper East Side. If I could find an address near a hotel, I could step out as Mocha arrived.

I watched the last few moments tick by on the diner clock. At 1:30 P.M. sharp, I punched out my time card and grabbed the garment bag from the locker. Buela gave me the evil eye for being quick to leave, but I kept going.

*   *   *

The Mark Hotel on Seventy-seventh and Madison was described on its Web site as “situated in the heart of Manhattan’s most elegant neighborhood.” I figured that would do and texted Tabitha.

“16 E 77 ST.”

That address was just a few doors down from the Mark according to Google Maps. I reached the hotel a half hour early and slipped through the lobby, ducking into the bar restroom, where I changed in one of the bathroom stalls.

Unzipping the garment bag, I discovered that Jess had left me a surprise. She had transformed a pair of Nan’s Ferragamo flats from the 60s, overdyeing them in a deep, lush red and adding a small heel to match. The shoes were stu

After a touch-up in the mirror, I emerged with my remixed Chanel and True Religions, ready for an afternoon of rampant consumerism, even if it would be only window-shopping for me. I figured there was plenty of time to be on the street and grab Mocha before he began ringing doorbells. I walked over to the Concierge to check my garment bag with my old clothes but as I took my ticket, I saw Mocha through the massive picture windows walking up to the townhouse door early.

I ran quickly to the car, hoping he’d follow. “Mocha, darling! Over here!” I yelled. But he had already pushed the buzzer. He turned, confused. If someone was home, they would be coming down, and soon it would be difficult to explain.

“My apologies, Miss Dulac,” Mocha said and hustled back to the limo to open the door.

“It’s my Nan. I don’t want to wake her,” I said. “She doesn’t quite handle the stairs the way she used to.” As I entered the limo, I almost fainted when I slid inside.

Tabitha, sitting comfortably in the back corner, had watched the whole thing.

“You’re here!” I said, barely able to disguise my confusion.

“Will she be okay?” she asked.

“Who?” I asked, sitting, hoping we could leave immediately.

“Your Nan,” she replied.

“Oh, Nan! Yes, of course … we have a nurse … yes … ole Betty, must be as old as Nan. She’ll be fine … but this is her day off. Anyway, it’s all fine.” I wasn’t sure I even knew what I was saying anymore.

Tabitha wore a blush cashmere cardigan over matching silk shorts and white Louboutins, all highlighted by the glittering rose cuff on her wrist—Tiffany’s latest metal “discovery”—RUBEDO. We’re talking seventy-five-hundred smackers for that kind of bling. I know how much it cost because they advertise it like crazy on the Tiffany’s Web site. In her arms, she was holding a white slipper of a dog that perfectly matched her shoes that I recognized from her publicity shots: Galileo, a Pomeranian.

As we drove away, I stole a glance back at the townhouse entrance, where a very a

“Is there a problem?” she asked.

“Oh, no, everything’s fine,” I said and wondered if I had blown it. Tabitha seemed subdued. I realized I sounded heartless about Nan, even though everything was utterly fabricated.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Tabitha said quietly. “We need to go somewhere first.”

Galileo barked.

That didn’t sound good.

32

Tabitha was silent. There was definitely a bad vibe in the limo, which made my mind race and my stomach ache. I was the most weak-willed poseur ever. I started to panic. Was Tabitha experiencing one of her mood swings?

“You know, darling,” I said, summoning my i

“I’d rather not,” she said. Her tone of voice reminded me of the time in the bathroom when she demanded to know who I was, severe and regal despite her dress being up around her ears. It occurred to me that she was most arrogant when she had something to hide.

“I have to go to the studio first.”

“The recording studio?” I asked.

“Yes, I’ve been avoiding it,” she answered. “But I need to tell you something.” I folded my hands in my lap and tried to remain composed and calm. “I need someone there with me, and I wasn’t sure you’d come along if I told you first.”

I tried to think of some way to respond. There was a long pause before she spoke again.

“You might as well know the night you showed up, I had taken a shitload of pills. I was trying to kill myself,” she continued. “That would have been a great TMZ story, right?” She seemed as if she might fall apart. The image of her beaded purse on the bathroom floor flashed through my mind. I remembered fishing for lip gloss and finding all those bottles of pills.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know…”

“It should have worked. I did some blow, too, but it made me throw up.”

I became keenly aware of Mocha in the front seat. The glass partition was closed, but couldn’t he be listening? How much did he know?

“Then you showed up out of nowhere,” she said. “I had the pills. I would have taken more, but you were there and you helped me. No one else would have.”

I felt bad for her, and at the same time I felt like a total liar.

“I know who you really are,” she said, and I froze, suspended, unable to breathe, waiting for what might come next. “You’re an angel. Someone somewhere wanted me to survive, and I know with you here now, I will.”

I let out an audible sigh, exhaling sharply despite my desire to be unobtrusive.

“I don’t understand,” I said, trying to take the focus off me. “Why did you feel you needed to do such a thing to yourself? You have everything,” I added quietly, “to live for.” Tabitha rolled her eyes, a

“Because I hate every single thing about my life,” she said, her eyes tearing up, trying to hold it back. She turned and stared out the window again. “You probably can’t understand because you don’t live your life pretending to be someone you’re not.”