Being Audrey Hepburn

“Lisbeth, you don’t understand. You only have one chance, and if you’re not ready when they see you, they’ll never come back,” Jess said. “It’s like a dress—it’s all first impression. If you have depth and talent and skill after that, great, but if the first impression fails, you’ve failed.”

“I’m sure you’ll be ready.”

“We’ll see. Now shut up for a minute while I try to finish your hair.”

She cut the sides up around my ears, which was weird because I hadn’t felt my ears free of hair for longer than I could remember. The final strokes took away sections from my cherished bangs so they were lighter and shorter. There certainly was no going back now. I admired her work in the mirror: ultrashort, feminine, with a feathery touch.

“This will be great in the Hamptons,” I said.

“What?” Jess practically dropped her scissors.

“The Hamptons,” I said. “Tabitha invited me for a few days.”

“But the show…” she trailed off. She seemed tired. “You’re going to miss my show.” She had the sound of inevitability in her voice.

“No, I’ll be back in time,” I insisted. “It’s not like I’m going to another country.” I hadn’t expected her reaction.

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

“But you don’t have a date yet or the space?”

“Not yet, but when we do it will be sudden. It will all happen at once.”

“And I’ll be there,” I added. “Besides, I’m doing all my posting and promotion online. I might make more co

“Lisbeth, what’s happening? You’re not becoming one of them, are you?” she asked, a sad glint in her eye. “You’re actually summering in the Hamptons. You’ll just get swept away with all of their million-dollar houses, their lives.”

“No, I’ve handled it so far,” I said, wondering myself if it sounded true.

“Listen, we’ll have to do it like a pop-up show anyway, don’t you think? We’ll get more attention that way,” I added.

“Oh, I don’t know that kind of thing; you’re the queen of promotion. All I know is that I have two more dresses to finish. I have models to find and audition. I have to do fittings. All before Fashion Week starts. It’s too much.” She sounded hopeless.

Walking over to the closet, I lifted a few dresses to see how she was doing.

“These are amazing,” I said. “You’ve outdone yourself, Jess.” Each and every dress bore her trademark—the lines of her journal sewn into the hems of her designs.

“You’ve created an entire vision. Oh my god, this one…” I picked up a soft orange chiffon dress with the tight blush silk skirt. Like the first patterned black one with the snowflakes, this was a dual dress—fairy-tale chiffon on the outside and sexy satin underneath. The asymmetric hem was gone, and the new color concept was eye-popping.

“This is your signature dress,” I said, almost breathlessly. “I’ve never seen anything like this. You could do this in a thousand different colors and it would work. Isak will love it. Everyone will.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, plopping down on the bed, sounding like she was in too much pain to think about it.

Kicking off my shoes, I stripped down to my underwear. I had to see if it felt the way it looked. I slipped on the tight satin underskirt. It felt sculpted, almost the way Audrey’s Givenchy felt that first time. Pulling up the overskirt and blouse, I felt the intimacy of its illusion—body-shaping underneath but a freedom of movement—an absolute perfect construction.

The dress combined two contradictory spirits—floaty and loose on the outside and tight and form-fitting underneath. It exuded sexuality and confidence, beauty and power, simplicity adapted to fabric. I couldn’t help wondering why no one else had ever designed such a dress. Its wearability, even with the tight satin skirt underneath, could only have been designed by a woman.

A little smile crossed Jess’s face as I twirled before the mirror, but I could see she was fading on me—I had to do something immediately.

“Okay, measurements. Fittings. Plans. I’ll stay tonight and try on everything. We’ll get a head start right now,” I said. “I’ll work on the marketing and pla

“Ugh, God save me,” Jess moaned.

“Then I’ll come back a few days before and we’ll get everything set and make sure my blog followers and Isak are there.” She gave me a sideways glance, trying to decide if I was for real.

“Come on, lazy bones, let’s do it,” I said, walking over to the bed and dragging her up on her feet. Then I went to the stove to make coffee.

That night I tried on everything. One after the other, each dress was spectacular. It was like living a fairy tale or playing princess when we were kids. Everything was cool, feminine, and dazzling.

Jess took notes on adjustments.

We designed the order of the show with the orange chiffon the last, and I put together my first thoughts on a guest list.

A big problem to solve was where the show should be staged. Jess was still waiting to hear about the FIT auditorium. School was in its lighter summer session and she was hoping that one of her teachers would help her get it. But I insisted that it had to be held away from the school. Jess couldn’t seem to understand why.

“Because Designer X doesn’t go to school,” I said. “Designer X needs to appear fully formed out of nowhere and be fiercely fabulous.”

“Only there is no Designer X except on your blog,” Jess said wearily. “I’m just a freshman fashion student from New Jersey having her first independent show. I am not ‘fully formed,’ and I don’t have any fabulous co

“Jess, you’re more than that. It’s not enough to design a great collection—you have to make a splash to get the right kind of attention.” I tried to think of alternatives for a moment.

“Doesn’t Sarrah work in an art gallery somewhere?” I asked.

“Please, not more Sarrah,” she said, shaking her head.

I hated bringing up Sarrah so much, but I was determined to make Jess’s debut incredible, and I knew that Sarrah was so infatuated with Jess that she would help.

“Yeah she works at Below the Line. It’s one of those storefront art spaces under the High Line. But can’t we worry about that later?” I could see that Jess’s eyes were glazing over. She seemed overwhelmed by it all.

“Sarrah has to get permission for you to have the show there,” I said. “And it has to be off calendar. Maybe on Fashion’s Night Out—that’s in five days—when everyone’s in town and the press is trying to find a good story. Something new. Can you be ready by then?”

Around the time we were freshman at Montclair High, A

Almost immediately, it became a huge worldwide event and a prelude to fashion week. All the stores in the city that sell clothes stayed open until midnight, handing out free champagne. It was a great night for happenings and off-beat news stories.

“I don’t know,” she said, exhausted.

“The actual show is going to take all of a half hour. Promise me you’ll ask Sarrah?”

“That’s too much. I can’t promise anything right now. I’m too tired,” she said, collapsing onto the bed. I flopped down next to her. We were both ready to drop off to sleep.

Jess turned to look at me. We stared into each other’s eyes, as Jess admired her work on my hair.

“You’re the best friend … ever,” she said.

“No,” I began, “I’ll never be able to hold a candle to you.” But she never heard me.

Jess had fallen asleep.

My Jess. Then I dozed off, too.

The next morning I woke early. I let Jess snooze away. I tiptoed to the closet, stacked a few of Nan’s remixed dresses into a clothing bag, and then filled one of Jess’s monster bags with shoes and purses. If Tabitha and I partied every night for five days straight, I was ready.