Being Audrey Hepburn

Celebrities I had seen on the blogs streamed in: Susan Sarandon, Sofia Coppola and her boyfriend, Naomi Campbell, Sean Pe

I heard a high-pitched squeal that resembled my name and turned to see Tabitha ru

“How’s the big date?” she asked. I couldn’t help looking disappointed.

“Dahlia threw a fit?” she said. “Classic. Dahlia rules ZK. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t quite,” I said, although I was lying. I had seen them together before, and of course I let myself believe that something was possible, despite the obvious. I felt foolish.

“You know ZK doesn’t have any real money.” Really? Neither do I, was all I could think. Sometimes when you hear something bad about someone you’re crushing on, it makes you want them more. Besides, wasn’t he more accessible to me if he didn’t have money?

“His father is one of those Madoff Millionaires, and they used to be one of the wealthiest families in America. That’s why he doesn’t stay around very long. He only goes where the money is,” Tabitha added. Well he was certainly making a mistake with me.

“Yes, well, I suppose,” I said, trying to sound above it all as if I understood, but wishing ZK would show up soon and tell me something that would give me hope again.

Drinks appeared, and as we talked I realized that Tabitha and I had grown comfortable together. Incredible when you think that the only person I’d stayed close to my entire life was Jess. Catching up with Tabitha was good, until her expression turned serious.

“I need to talk to you privately,” she said, giving a quick glance around. Her mood had shifted, and she seemed troubled. Grabbing my hand, she walked me across the terrace to a turquoise and pink alcove that was filled with one giant painting. The French words “je ne” were roughly painted in black across massive blue and white brushstrokes on a color-washed canvas followed by another word: “rien.” Tabitha was all seriousness now, not a trace of the bubbly Pop Princess.

“My mother’s husband just passed away—just the latest. Mother seems to have a knack for choosing husbands that drop dead.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“It’s okay. I only met him once. He was incredibly wealthy, as if my mother needed more money. Unfortunately, she postponed her trip again,” she said. “And I have to do something about my situation. I hate asking you to do this.”

I nodded. Do what? I had a sinking feeling about this. My eyes wandered to the canvas behind her. “Je ne … rien”—something about those words seemed familiar.

“Will you talk to him? He said he’d meet with you.”

I dug deep into my memory of high school French. “Je ne … rien”—“I do … not.” I do not … what?

“Talk to who?” I asked, distracted.

“Robert, of course,” she said. “I’m just asking as a friend. Robert has said he’ll talk to you about my demands. I think he’s willing to step aside.”

“Shouldn’t you hire a lawyer or something?” I asked.

“Never mind,” Tabitha said. “You don’t have to.” She seemed to be on the verge of tears again.

“I’m sorry, Tabitha. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

“You don’t realize that when you showed up, my life changed.” She grabbed my hand and squeezed it tightly. I guess that was true for both of us. “I don’t trust anyone else.”

I felt so bad for her. I wanted to make her feel better. I hugged her, and somehow it reminded me of the days when Courtney and I were close. When we were little, she was a tough older sister who was always protective of me. But those days were long gone.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before,” she said, tears filling her eyes, “someone substantial, someone independent.”

I hugged her. I knew I should feel proud that she looked up to me as an example. Yet I knew that if Tabitha ever found out that I had lied to her from the first instant we met, it was certain she would feel betrayed and hate me more than all the people she feared. And if she realized I was a nobody fake from South End Montclair, she’d be disgusted.

But even if we lived worlds apart, I knew that feeling of desperation and having nowhere to turn. I gazed up at the painting as we hugged, and I realized the word that was missing. “Je ne regrette rien,” which means, “I don’t regret anything at all.” The words were from a famous Edith Piaf song. I knew the song because Mrs. Lederer, my high school French teacher, would play it over and over for us.

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. Tabitha turned away, wiping the tears from her face.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, darling. I’ll help you any way I can.” I felt as if there was nothing else I could say.

“Thank you, Lisbeth. You’re the only one I could turn to. Everyone except you is such a total liar.”

“Yes, of course,” I mumbled in a daze. If she told me how wonderful I was one more time, I’d vomit. I felt like a total and complete fraud because, let’s face it, I was.

“Okay, I’ll text you the address tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

I tried not to panic.

“Is that too soon?”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Great! Well, let’s go find ZK and get another drink,” she said, instantly brightening. She was in her bubbly-party-girl mode again.

Across the terrace, ZK was wearily heading our way. Despite my better thoughts, I wanted to hold him. I wanted to tell him everything.

38

“Lisbeth, would you mind if I had a word with you?” ZK asked. His impeccable white shirt had been replaced by another identical impeccable white shirt. Looking more handsome than ever against the turquoise and pink alcove wall behind him, he still seemed exhausted.

“See you two,” Tabitha said. “Don’t mess with my girl, ZK.” He nodded.

“Be careful,” she whispered to me before leaving.

ZK and I sat close on the love seat, watching the party unfold. He was quiet.

I peered inside my purse and turned my cell phone back on. It buzzed repeatedly. I saw that all the messages were from Mom, six of them.

Sitting under the painting with the cryptic French words, “Je ne rien.” I felt very rien at the moment. The lively partygoers with their outbursts of spontaneous laughter contrasted severely with our subdued and utter silence.

Seriousness pooled in his hazel eyes. No matter, he was still pleasing to look at. Searching for any imperfection, I found none. There was no blemish, no freckles, only a tiny scar above his left brow, but even that seemed perfect.

“I should have known better,” he said, tugging at the cuff of his sleeve, adjusting it, pulling at his jacket and readjusting it as he spoke.

“You mean being with me tonight?” I asked.

“No.” He seemed a

“I meant getting involved with her to begin with.”

“Why? She’s elegant, obviously intelligent, and…”

“Quite wealthy,” he finished my sentence. “I do admire her. She knows what she wants and gets it. I’m just not that way.”

“Which part?” I asked.

“Let’s see, you choose: her wealth, getting what she wants, and my utter lack of ambition.”

“Phew, that’s a long list to choose from,” I said, and he laughed, flashing that million-dollar smile for a split second.

“Well, I think we should start with my utter lack of ambition,” he said. “That’s the most intractable problem.”

“Why did you run after her?”

“To tell her again what I’ve told her before.”

“And that was?”

“That we’re finished. She never believes me.”