Being Audrey Hepburn

“Yes. And, well, the danger in an intervention is what you’d expect. If it fails, everything can become much worse. I remember the therapist advising that there could be a ‘subsequent period of strained communication,’ as he called it, and that we shouldn’t lose hope.” Nan gripped my hand and looked me in the eye. “In our case, that subsequent period of strained communication has lasted for twenty-three years.” I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “I try to hope,” she said. Nan stood up and went to the kitchen to collect herself. It was too much for her.

“Some tea, Lisbeth?” she asked, her tiny voice still weepy. I nodded yes. She returned a moment later with a tea setting on a silver platter, placing the tray down on the table.

“So Lisbeth,” she said, pouring me a cup, “I want to know what is going on with you. Where have you been, what have you been doing? What is your plan?”

There it was, the dreaded word “plan,” always looming over me like a guillotine, but I couldn’t pretend anymore. Not to Nan. Not even to Mom.

“I’m not going to college,” I said. “Not for nursing. Not yet anyway.” I waited for a reaction of disappointment to come over her face. But Nan was too cool for that.

“Really,” she said. It wasn’t a question, although it was. “Well, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know, but I want to try to get a job in fashion,” I said.

“Really?” This time it was definitely a question.

“You think I’m silly,” I said.

“Well, you know I follow your blog. And what do you call that other thing? A Tumblr?”

“You do?”

“I was a bit bewildered to see my maiden name, ahem,” Nan said, giving me a sly glance. I winced. “But then I saw you had thousands of followers and you have quite a lot of wonderful things to say and I agreed with it all!” she said. “I don’t know how you have time for so many entries. And such lovely photographs, by the way. Do you have a concrete idea how you’re going to work in the fashion business?”

I shrugged. I really didn’t have the slightest idea. Don’t ask how or why, but Nan’s question brought to mind the woman Tabitha introduced me to at her record party. Flo Birkenhead, that tiny intense woman with the close-cropped red hair who talked about ad placement, endorsements, and aggregators. I hoped I still had her card. I had heard of people making money on their blogs and Tumblr sites.

“Okay, well, we will have to come up with something, won’t we?”

I nodded, wondering how I could possibly have anything resembling a career.

“In the meantime, we have work to do,” Nan said with a sense of determination that startled me. “Even if your mother won’t talk to me, we have to make a plan that will work for everyone.”

42

Penthouse A.

I still had the thick cream-colored invitation in my purse. Dr. Newton wanted to run more tests, so Mom was still tucked away in her hospital room. But like King Kong ready to break his chains and roar, Mom was starting to go nuts. I heard she pleaded with her nurse friends, to “rip these fucking catheters out” and let her go back to work. For obvious reasons, they couldn’t. Plus, she was probably in detox withdrawal from stopping her alcohol consumption cold turkey, and I guess there were a few liability issues to work out. At least she was with people who could handle her better than Courtney or I could.

Before Nan and I could start our plan, I had to clean up a few pieces of business. I contacted Flo to have a chat about my blog and was happy she remembered me. As I expected, she was all business and promised to make a market analysis of Limelight and get back to me.

“I’m very interested in helping you build your brand,” she remarked. Me? A brand? Fingers crossed.

I was concerned about facing Tabitha. I felt like I had failed her; there was no other way to think about it. Robert’s intentions were disturbing, and I had no idea how Tabitha would feel about that, considering the results she had hoped for. Which is why it was so curious to receive her text.

“Come 2 my house 2 get ready b4 penthouse party ! ;)”

She was going, for real? I couldn’t fathom the relationship she had with her business manager-slash-trustee-slash-uncle.

“C u @ 9 ? It’s bn 2 lng bathroom buddy !! :*(” That didn’t sound like someone who was angry with me.

“ZK sez hi. He’ll be there. ;)”

The mention of those initials sent quivers down my spine as I remembered our kiss.

Once off the PATH train, I headed downtown to Jess’s place, rang the buzzer, and ran upstairs.

“What the hell?” I heard a voice say from inside the apartment as I reached the door. And then a moment later, “Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?”

“Hey Lizzy,” Jess said, standing in the doorway. She was smiling as always, her pixie hair frazzled, the blue dye fading turquoise. Five sewing pins were sticking out of the collar of her work shirt and a swatch of fabric dangled from her hand. We hugged, careful to avoid the pins.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me?” the girl behind her said with a

“Hey Lizzy, meet my girlfriend, Sarrah. She’s been helping me with some fittings.”

Sarrah had long, shock-red hair, recently dyed from what I could tell. She was wearing overalls and had lots of freckles on her face and arms, like some kind of trippy farm girl. She was very pretty but seemed unhappy.

“Hi.” She thrust out her hand to me. “I’ve heard all about you,” she said with a hint of displeasure. I noticed a tattoo in goth letters on her wrist that said BITTER SWEET.

“Good to meet you, Sarrah,” I said. I had met Jess’s girlfriends before, and they almost always had rough edges, which seemed to amuse Jess. Without fail, Jess’s girlfriends resented me, but this time I also felt a twinge of resentment, wanting Jess all to myself. I needed to talk to her about Mom, the crazy encounter at the St. Regis, and ZK and ask her if she’d seen Jake, but there wouldn’t be a way with Sarrah there.

“How’s your mom?” Jess asked. I guessed the moms had talked.

“Good, as far as I know. They still haven’t finished testing.” Sarrah was standing right beside Jess, clearly pla

“Hey, I just came by to pick up a dress if it’s okay.” Not really true, but it was the best excuse I could manage at the moment.

Sarrah was flat-out staring at me.

“Sure, let’s take a look,” Jess said. “Hey Sarrah, I would love some more hot water for my tea?” She held up her mug. Sarrah broke out of her daze, nodded, and trundled off obediently to the kitchen.

“She’s cute,” I said. “How long?”

“Three days,” Jess said. “Won’t last three more.” I tried to keep from laughing.

“Hey!” Sarrah yelled from the tiny kitchen across the room, and we both flinched. “Where do we keep the tea?” Jess rolled her eyes.

“I’ll be right back,” Jess whispered.

I took the opportunity to dash to the closet ahead of Jess. I couldn’t help noticing there were four newly modified vintage dresses, each one more wonderful and a bit wilder than the next. They weren’t there two days earlier.

There was another dress, as well. It didn’t seem like one of Nan’s but still had a retro flavor while at the same time being totally fresh and eye-catching. Longer in the back than in the front, it had a patterned black chiffon fabric with white leaves falling like snow clusters mostly at the top. The black overskirt was bouncy and light with only a few white leaves randomly placed, dissolving into pure black. The black underskirt was tight and sexy.

Along the hem, playful light-gray embroidery caught my eye. On closer examination, I realized they were words. Turning the hem in my fingers, I read them.