Being Audrey Hepburn

I sauntered through the artfully displayed stacks of clothing, each item an example of the world’s most incredible designers and craftspeople. The entire history of Western civilization sewn into every stitch, polished into every jewel, filling up every room.

I put on an air, poised and aloof like a discerning collector who deigned not stoop to purchase. These were places “where nothing bad could happen to you,” as Audrey said in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, the sure cure for the mean reds, the evil yellows, the blues, and everything else that made you pull out your hair. Even the haughty ma

Judging by these stores, the world was an intelligent, exquisitely tasteful place, with no detail too small to refine. Here, designers and craftspeople infused mere everyday garments—a shirt, a skirt, a pair of flats—with creativity and perfection. While my friend Tabitha bought the store wholesale and pounded back the cocktails, I floated in therapeutic retail bliss. No one knew my wallet was empty but me.

The D&G Fifth Avenue store was a wonder. Shop clerks arranged even the hangers an equal distance apart. I learned from Jess how bold and wonderfully structured their clothes were, and I had also posted a little blog entry on their silk Le Smoking blouse. A pair of beige stiletto peep-toes shot through with chocolate brown and gold piping fascinated me. With all of my Designer X couture, shoes were the missing element we were still looking for.

Tabitha noticed the store manager talking to her staff as we were preparing to leave. A slightly older woman, better dressed, joined them. They were chatting away in hushed tones.

“Lisbeth, this is so weird,” she said. “But I think they’re talking about you.” Immediately, I became paranoid.

“Why on earth would they?” I said, pretending nonchalance.

Tabitha giggled. She found this amusing, I assumed, because usually they would be talking about her—after all, she was the celebrity.

“I think they think you’re reviewing their store,” she whispered.

“Why? I mean, how could they…?”

“You don’t have any idea, do you? Don’t you realize your pix have been reposted everywhere? My fans even ask about you, and they’re like twelve.” She smiled so broadly, I could tell that she felt the association with my blog gave her special props. If anyone knew what a schlumpy nobody from South End I was, they’d change their mind instantly.

“Well, that’s perfectly flattering, but I never intended to make such a splash,” I said.

“It doesn’t hurt that there are shots of us together on the Web, I assume,” she added.

As the older woman walked over to us, I couldn’t help noticing her shoes. She wore leopard-print, sky-high stilettos, but her stride was as firm as if she were wearing army boots.

“Pardon me?” she said. “I hope I’m not being presumptive, but would you be Lisbeth Dulac?”

“Of course she is,” Tabitha blurted out. She was tipsy as all get-out.

“Well, I’m the head of Dolce and Gabbana in-store marketing. We’re just enormous fans of your blog.” She waited for me to answer, but I stood in stu

“Well,” she said after a moment that seemed to last forever, “we would like to provide you with a few samples of our new line of handbags.” With a finger snap, she signaled the store manager waiting attentively in the background, and instantly an army of store clerks brought out six shopping bags filled with the very latest D&G handbags.

As I stood there speechless, everyone was waiting for me to say something. Tabitha gave me a little kick, and I blinked.

“I know a critic of your integrity may not accept gifts,” the woman continued, undaunted, as if she were presenting to a CEO of some important organization, “so naturally we will be glad to have them picked up after you have had a chance to peruse them.”

“Why, thank you,” I managed to stutter out. She seemed greatly relieved that I had broken my silence.

“That’s absolutely wonderful,” she said and held out a little black and gold D&G card. “If you have any questions or ever feel as if you might like to keep any of the bags, please don’t hesitate to call on me. Can we help you out to your car?”

As the army of store clerks swept us and our loot out of the store, I noticed the woman in the leopard stilettos glancing back at her store manager, who nodded emphatically as she hung up the phone. It seemed an odd thing at that moment. I don’t know why, but I wondered who they could be calling. We spun through the revolving doors, having no idea what was waiting for us outside.

For maybe two seconds, it felt as if we were in the middle of a TMZ video. Ten or more burly leather-jacketed men with cameras poured out of cars as they skidded to the curb, shouting and snapping pictures of us like sharks devouring guppies. At first, I felt excited that everyone was making such a fuss, but that changed quickly. As the mob of paparazzi attacked, we found ourselves in the equivalent of a slow-motion car wreck.

“Chill out. Guys, chill out,” Tabitha said calmly. So many more of them were taking pictures of her. I guessed she was used to it. I wondered where Mocha was.

“Hey, Tabitha, how have you been?” one shouted as if he actually knew her.

“Sing for us, Tabitha,” another said.

“Give me a break,” she said.

A crowd of tourists gathered and through the flashes of light I saw Chase with a crew standing outside Harry Winston, across the street. Would he swoop down on us, too? After all, he was one of them. As I saw Mocha aggressively working his way through the thick crowd, I held one of the D&G bags in front of my face.

“Hey, Tabby, who’s your new girlfriend?” one guy asked, and I wondered what that meant. A camera flash went off almost point-blank in my eyes, and I began to panic.

“Back off!” I heard her say. I worried Tabitha would slug someone in a drunken rage. We were jostled, mauled, and surrounded. There was no way out. Being photographed seemed beside the point. It flew through my mind that the stiletto-heeled marketing director had contrived this entire sequence to get these photographs, regardless of whether I reviewed her bags or not.

“We’re just doing our job, Miss Eden,” someone shouted. In the darkening light, the flashes were dizzying, like a strobe, and I was losing my balance.

As one of the beefiest of photographers walked right up to me with his camera poised to flash, I grabbed one of the D&G bags to shield my eyes. He gripped my arm, pulled the bag away, and shoved his camera up to my face. The flash stu

But nothing happened.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself looking at Chase. He was holding me up. In the chaos, I hadn’t even seen him slip in. He unceremoniously set me on my feet, as one of his crew held a giant white card, those big sheets of foam board they carry for video shoots, to protect us and give us room to recover.

The paparazzo tried to squeeze around, but Mocha had finally broken through and was standing guard. He seemed ready to throw a punch. Chase stepped in front of Tabitha and me as they removed the card.

“Dude, you’re ruining the shot,” one of the men said.

“This is my interview,” Chase said, and though he was a pipsqueak compared to the hefty photographers, he didn’t seem like he was bluffing.

“Who the hell are you?” another photographer asked as Mocha started shooing away the rest of them.

“Love you, Tabitha,” the beefy guy said as he left. As if. Chase and his crew began gathering their gear.

“Thanks, Chase,” I said, embarrassed, trying to pull myself together.

“I’ve seen you before,” Tabitha asked suspiciously.

“I’m a fashion shooter for Lux.” Chase gave me a conspiratorial wink. “I just wanted to make sure you guys were all right. I’ve got to get back to a shoot across the street.”