Being Audrey Hepburn

“I am so fucked if I lose this job, Lisbeth,” she said and gave the zipper a massive yank that practically lifted me off the ground. I couldn’t believe that Jess was willing to risk tearing a million-dollar dress apart, but I guess it was her job on the line. She gave the zipper another huge dress-ripping pull, but it didn’t budge.

“Fucking fifty-year-old dress,” she said. The two of us tried to wiggle the zipper up and down, but it just wouldn’t move. No time for soaping or waxing, and there was no way to drag the dress over my head.

“Ohmygod, what if we have to cut me out of this dress?” I said. Jess gave me a nasty you’re-not-helping look.

“You have to get out of here.” I knew that voice of Jess’s. It was her take-charge voice, and you had no choice but to get on board with it.

“Okay, but where do I go? The closet? Your office? Under the table? Just walk by Myers and say ‘hello darling’ as I pass him in the hall?”

I watched her eyes dart around the room until she zeroed in on the door that led to the main gallery.

“Out there?! No way!” How could she think that was even a possibility?

“The party in the main gallery,” she said. “You’ll blend right in.” She scooped the black stilettos off the floor and shoved them at me. “Put them back on.”

“I can’t do that. I don’t know how…,” I said as I dropped the shoes on the floor and reluctantly stepped into them.

“Do it anyway. I have to save my job.” As we heard his footsteps in the hall, she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the doorway. I was lucky I didn’t break my neck wearing her too-big stilettos—at this point, Jess may have considered that an acceptable plan B.

“I can’t walk in these shoes!”

“Just do it!”

She shoved me out the door. “Don’t go anywhere,” Jess commanded. “I’ll come get you when Myers is gone.”

The door closed solidly behind me. After the panic and heavy breathing, everything was silent.

I looked around.

All dressed up in a Givenchy and nowhere to go.

8

I heard the murmur of martini laughter, the clinking of glasses, and champagne corks popping. I looked at the door I wasn’t supposed to wander away from and imagined the gallery downstairs and all the graceful, wealthy young things below.

What the hell.

Shuffling in my big shoes, I edged over to the railing and surveyed the party on the lower level.

A battalion of black-tied waiters and waitresses armed with champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvres weaved among the trust-fund babies. There were so many “familiar” faces rubbing shoulders below—all the people I knew but would never meet—glitterati, diva girls, famed and adorable. Girls size 00 with perfect tans and the latest Gucci, Louis Vuitton and Dolce & Gabbana. We grew up in Jerze reading about them, watching them on TV, and hearing about their endless parties. Jess always joked that those kids had affluenza, an enviable disease that included boredom, alcoholism, apathy, deviant behavior, and an unshakeable sense of entitlement.

Spotting Dahlia and Mr. Underwear-Man by the bar, it hit me why he seemed so familiar. Mr. Underwear-Man was ZK Northcott, oil and gas heir, a collector of vintage motorcycles and would-be actresses. Famous for being a one-date wonder, he’d been with every heiress, hottie, party girl, and up-and-coming movie bimbo from coast to coast. His picture had been taken on the red carpet a thousand times. But he never lingered with any of them long enough to become an item, so they didn’t actually write about him much. That’s why I couldn’t place him. Dahlia seemed almost out of his league, too heavy for a one-nighter.

“Excuse me, young lady…” The gruff voice of a museum guard snapped me out of my trance. It was Joe from Security.

Crap. Double crap. Totally busted, I felt myself start to cry. I’m sorry I’m wearing a million-dollar dress that I stole, I wanted to say, like a schoolgirl caught shoplifting. I wanted to confess every bad thing I’ve ever done. I pondered a hundred excuses to save Jess’s job and my ass, but none of them were any good.

“Miss, this area is restricted,” Joe said.

He hadn’t recognized me. How could that happen? Even though we’d said hello dozens of times, he had no idea who I was.

“You need to go back downstairs to the event,” he said curtly. Relief filled my body. Jess was right. I did blend in.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry … officer,” I said in my best Audrey voice. “I was just looking for the powder room. Would you mind awfully…”

“No problem at all, miss. Down the stairs, first door on the right,” Joe replied. His gruffness was gone, and he was actually smiling. Why Audrey was so successful with people became instantly clear to me. Her whole way of talking assumed that the person she was talking to was … well, nice, and would prefer to be helpful.

Joe watched me protectively as I stepped delicately down the grand staircase, methodically taking each step so that my giant shoes wouldn’t clomp, clomp, clomp on the marble stairs. With every move, the shoes slipped farther from my feet. I prayed I wouldn’t go down headfirst.

“New shoes,” I said over my shoulder, smiling winsomely to Joe. He smiled back, making sure I made it down safely before he continued on his rounds. I gave him an Audrey wave, stumbling for a second, then recovering, and kept going.

Close call. I must have looked so stupid. I knew Jess had instructed me to stay put, but I couldn’t ignore Joe, and she couldn’t really blame me for peeking, could she? When would I ever get another chance? Now I would really see if I blended in. But first, I’d have to do something about the clown stilettos that were killing my feet. Then I’d rush right back upstairs—after stalking of course, just a little bit. I couldn’t wait to tell everyone at the Hole!

Downstairs, there was a long line at the ladies’ room (it’s the same everywhere you go, isn’t it?). Everyone waiting was decked out and gorgeous. Too many people meant too many questions, so I tramped my way across the back of the main gallery where the action was and went down another empty, darkened hallway, in search of a less popular restroom.

As I walked along the hall, I saw a handsome man in an Armani tux alone, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His hair graying at the temples. Considerably older than the rest of the crowd, he was utterly sophisticated and distinguished. He had that tan that comes from St. Tropez or Martha’s Vineyard as opposed to Sizzletan in Parsippany, with its patented fast-acting spray and sweaty bacteria-breeding ta

He smiled condescendingly as I plodded along, trying to disguise my walk and hoping he wouldn’t examine me too closely. I took a sharp turn and score! Another ladies’ room. I pushed open the door, and nobody was there. Thank God!

Reaching into the nearest stall, I grabbed a yard of two-ply, wadded it up, and crammed it into the tips of my shoes. I slipped my foot back into the left shoe. Ahh, big improvement. Admiring myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe ten whole minutes had passed since I looked at the dress. As I grabbed for another handful of industrial-grade TP, I heard a soft moan.

Someone was there.

Time to stuff my right shoe and leave. Another moan. It was coming from the last stall on the right. Okay, I needed to get out of that bathroom and up the stairs. I crammed my foot into the shoe for a snug fit and headed for the door.

“Oh shit,” a voice said.

Then silence. After a moment, there was vomiting … retching, really. Yuck. I waited until she stopped. Damn, I couldn’t just leave her there.

“Are you okay?” I tapped gently on the stall door, but it wasn’t latched, so the door swung open. Splayed on the tile floor, her head resting on the porcelain basin and her silver dress hiked up around her hips was the Princess of Pop herself, Tabitha Eden. I couldn’t help noticing her exposed $175 La Perla thong—next week’s Us Weekly cover story in one shot.