Being Audrey Hepburn

My phone buzzed, and I took a quick glimpse to see who it was. Mom. I ignored it, turned off the phone, and buried it in my purse.

We reached the room within the room within the gallery. This space wasn’t actually part of the show. The walls were covered with huge canvasses and works of art of all kinds. It was so small it almost felt like someone’s office. It was the most exclusive place you could be in that moment. ZK and I were standing close enough to kiss. I took time to breathe him in, having dreamed of being this close to him ever since I saw him outside the Met, which now seemed like a lifetime ago. He smelled delicious, like apples and wine.

“You know, you’re bewildering,” he said with that self-amused expression of his. “In some ways, you seem far older than your years, and in other ways, you seem as if you’ve been in hiding your whole life.”

“Can’t I be both?” I asked.

He gri

She wore a Hervé Léger bandage dress so sleek and minimal that it was hard to call it a dress. What does it feel like to be almost naked among so many people? Her admirers didn’t mind. Men flocked around her as she talked, the center of attention. I hoped to duck her scrutiny, but within seconds her eyebrows arched as she observed ZK and me standing arm in arm. I felt myself shrinking from her penetrating glare.

“Mr. Northcott!” someone yelled from across the room, mercifully diverting us. An attractive young man with an open face, ringed by Renaissance curls of brown hair, waved us over. I gladly followed ZK away from Dahlia’s intense stare. The two men greeted each other with a big hug.

“Good to see you, Mr. Schnabel,” ZK said. This was odd. Where was El Schnabel, the PJ-wearing master painter? This Mr. Schnabel was well dressed and elegant and too young to be a godfather. His eyes lit up as he saw me.

“And this must be the lovely Lisbeth Dulac,” he said. “ZK has told me so much about you.” I couldn’t help feeling a bit confused as he bent down for a hand kiss, barely suppressing a schoolboy giggle. ZK smiled broadly, hardly able to hold back his laughter.

“Do tell,” I said, withdrawing my hand. “What would you two find so humorous?”

“Maybe you were expecting someone older and perhaps wider?” the young man with the Roman curls asked, self-amused. I hesitantly nodded agreement.

“That would be my father,” he said gleefully. “I guess it would have gone over better if I had worn my PJs?”

“Sorry Lisbeth,” ZK said. “It’s an old joke of ours.”

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the man said with a flourish. “Vito Schnabel. ZK and I have been best friends since Saint A

“Of course,” I said and managed to smile.

“Will you forgive us?” ZK said, putting his arm snuggly around me in a way that felt delicious.

“So are you a fan of my father’s work or is ZK just showing you off?” Vito asked, but then stopped abruptly and elbowed ZK.

“Um, Dahlia is … here.”

She was already upon us, looking as if she was about to crush the little plastic wine cup in her hand.

“Dahlia, it’s … so good to see you,” ZK began, dropping his arm from my waist. But Dahlia ignored him and turned her laser focus on me.

“You’ve been such a bad little mouse,” she said in a quiet voice that only I could hear. I could see in her eyes that she hadn’t forgiven me from the day before at Dolce & Gabbana. I struggled to sustain my poise. She leaned closer.

“Social climbing by nicking my boy?”

She waited for a response, but I didn’t have one.

“No clever quip this time? I’m not surprised. You’re out of your league,” she said and briefly glanced back at ZK. “He’ll be bored and unfaithful by the end of the evening.”

She turned to leave, and ZK grabbed her arm.

“Dahlia, be reasonable,” he said.

“ZK, I am always prepared to be reasonable when the situation demands,” she answered, then threw her cup of red wine across his shirt and casually walked away.

“Oops,” she said over her shoulder, smiling.

37

Swooping in, Vito whisked me away before I could say anything to ZK, who had scurried after Dahlia.

“There’s something I have to show you,” he said. I tried to track ZK as Vito escorted me across the room. “Have you seen Terence Koh’s white cock? It’s quite famous.”

“Pardon, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

He had walked me across the room. “Look.”

Gazing up, I saw mounted high on the brick wall the shape of a giant rooster outlined in neon tubing. I turned to catch a glance of ZK, but he was gone.

“Watch, it lights up!” he said, flipping a switch, and the rooster hummed, flickered, and flashed on, casting a white glow down on us. The joke was less than stellar even under the best of circumstances. To his credit, Vito seemed to know it was lame, but was intent on distracting me.

Vito’s cell phone buzzed. As he answered, I knew it was ZK.

“Yes, no problem,” Vito said. “Yes, she’s fine.” He closed his phone.

“Is he all right?” I asked.

“Of course! ZK is a pro. He’s had wine thrown in his face by the best.”

Why was that so not reassuring?

“He’d like us to meet him at the after party at my father’s house. He’s on his way there now. For a change of clothes,” he added.

Everyone was leaving, anyway. The visitors to the i

As our limo stopped at the giant Pepto-Bismol-colored building known as Palazzo Chupi, Vito told me the history of the old perfume factory that his father had bought and transformed into a palace, part art studio and part condo with a triplex penthouse. It was a giant Italian-looking pink building built on top of another building.

“This is my father’s Moby Dick, if Moby Dick was pink,” Vito said, laughing.

“Everyone thinks Dad lost money on it, but they’re wrong,” he added, as if I doubted him. I had never heard of it before. All I knew was that if Barbie had a Dreamhouse in Italy, it would look like this.

As soon as we passed through the nondescript wooden doors, we entered a world of visual extravagance. The ceiling was double height, and the walls were rough-hewn clapboard. My heels clacked against the black-and-white ceramic tiles, and there was a floor-to-ceiling painting splashed with bright reds, yellows, and blues. I wished Jess could see it so she could explain what it all meant. We took the elevator up to the top floor.

Entering his father’s penthouse, the huge fourteen-foot walls progressed from turquoise green to a faded mint and finally a wash of fuchsia. Against these colorful walls, the enormous art appeared even more intense. The paintings were just unbelievably large.

The size of the place made me feel very small and, without ZK, very alone. I didn’t feel brave anymore. As nice as Vito was, I didn’t actually know anyone here, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to stay. The image of ZK ru

Taking a glass of champagne from a waiter, I toasted my dubious achievement of living my dreams by pretending to be someone I wasn’t and felt a little better. I gazed over downtown Manhattan from the grand black-and-white tiled rooftop terrace. There were sweeping views of the Hudson River, where a lighted barge made its slow way down to the Statue of Liberty. To the north, I took in the illuminated architecture that made New York City seem like a fairyland at night.