Being Audrey Hepburn (18 page)

“Told you I’d see you again,” Chase said so that only I could hear as Tabitha dragged me along. I felt totally confused.

“No worries,” she said. “It’s always hard to concentrate when you have an admirer watching you.” She laughed and instantly another watermelon-ginger cocktail appeared in our hands. The drinks kept coming. Tabitha threw them back like sodas as we moved our way through the rooftop crowd.

“Everyone loves you,” she gushed, her eyes closing as she talked. After five or so drinks, if my count was correct, she seemed dangerously unsteady. Who wouldn’t?

I drew her into a shadowy corner. The girl just didn’t know how to “regulate her alcoholic intake” as we said back home. Why weren’t her girlfriends looking out for her? Speaking of which, where
were
her girlfriends? Where I came from, if a hottie like Tabitha started acting shaky, the guidos closed in like vultures. A girl depends on her peeps to keep her safe. I figured if I could just get her out of the action for a second, she might be able to catch her breath.

“I’m so happy you came, I’ve been so out of it, I realized I hadn’t texted you the details, sometimes I get totally spaced. I was worried you wouldn’t come,” she said, throwing back her head and looking exhausted. “This party would be such a drag if you weren’t here.”

Her voice was so slurry and she just rambled, so I didn’t really absorb what she was saying. I just wanted her to feel better. “You have such lovely friends, Tabitha, and they all adore you,” I said. “I’m sure you would have been fine. After all, it’s your party.”

“It’s so
not
true; you don’t understand.” Wobbling on her high heels, she leaned close into me and whispered, “I didn’t want this party. I didn’t want to even record the album.” She slid back into the corner and seemed to become smaller. This girl definitely needed a two-drink max.

“So … why were you talking to them anyway?” she asked, her face an expression of pure petulance and paranoia. I tried to grapple with her margarita mood shift.

“Talking to who?”

“You know, Dahlia and ZK. He’s okay, but she’s a terror.”

I surveyed the party. What was Tabitha asking? The deck was getting so crowded I couldn’t believe how many hip-hoppers, music-biz insiders, ingenues, and party boys were there. I tried to focus, but the watermelon cocktails clouded my brain, too. Weren’t ZK and Dahlia
her
friends? Hadn’t she asked ZK to check me out? Otherwise, why did ZK know to text me?

“Poor Tabitha—we’re looking out for her.” Wasn’t that what he’d said? ZK, Dahlia, and Tabitha had all seemed like such good friends, although I agreed Dahlia seemed pretty scary.

“How do you even know them?” Tabitha asked, like a spoiled brat trying to hide her hurt feelings. Maybe she was more smashed than I’d thought. None of it made much sense.

“Don’t worry, darling,” I said in my most reassuring Audrey accent. “I ran into them at an event ages ago, and quite coincidently they were here when I came in. I hardly know them at all.” She glanced up at me with that same disoriented expression I recalled from the Met bathroom floor. Tabitha was so odd. She morphed from superconfident pop queen to abandoned child in seconds.

“Were you talking about me?” She seemed genuinely concerned.

“Actually no, we were talking about me!” I laughed because, unbelievably, it was true. “One thing you can always be sure of, darling,” I said, taking her hand in mine, “I never gossip about my friends.”

Tabitha’s eyes brightened, and it occurred to me that maybe she’d been worrying about ZK and Dahlia since we rode the elevator together and just hadn’t had the nerve to say anything about it.

“Oh my God, what’s he doing?” someone near us yelled. There was a commotion across from the DJ at the center of the pool. We tried to see what was going on. A gorgeous-looking guy bounced playfully on the end of the diving board, stripping off his shirt. He had one of those uberperfect hairless bodies, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he waxed, or threaded, or blasted his follicles with some industrial-grade laser.

“Isn’t he a spokesperson for Power?” a woman standing next to us asked. She was wearing thigh-high boots and practically drooling over the guy.

“You’re right!” her too-pretty-to-be-straight companion agreed. “By the way, is Power a cologne or an energy drink? I forget.”

The new spokesman for whatever tossed his shirt into the crowd and dropped his pants. The entire party gasped. He had not a scrap of underwear whatsoever. Not even a thong or
anything
other than his anatomical parts, if you know what I mean. At least we knew he wasn’t a spokesman for underwear. The security guards rushed him, and he dove a perfect half pike into the pool to a round of applause.

“Come on,” Tabitha said, reenergized. “Follow me.” As security fished the flasher out, we scooted along the poolside behind a group of stuffy Wall Street warriors who were smoking cigars and observing the action. Tabitha gave me a mischievous grin.

“Watch this,” she said and hip checked some random guy. He didn’t know what hit him. Cell phone, Armani suit, keys to his Porsche (I assumed)—all in the pool. Another guy almost fell in and regained his balance until somebody off balance elbowed him, got pissed, and pushed another dude, who grabbed a lady standing next to him. She teetered on her high heels until both of them fell into the water.

Soon it was sheer mayhem as everyone pushed everybody else into the pool. Tabitha grinned, delighted. She grabbed my hand, and we slipped down the stairs to the Drawing Room, giggling the whole way, hearing screams and laughter from above.

“Let’s hide here for a while,” said Tabitha as she flopped onto a red velvet love seat. “Cozy, right?”

I checked out our little refuge and the rest of the room. The wall of concert speakers on the small stage seemed out of place with the plush sofas, armchairs, and soft lighting. Tabitha’s band, Coma Romance, was on stage, finishing their sound check. I didn’t know if Tabitha was a promotional genius or just a kook, but her prank brought the entire pool crowd downstairs. They crammed into the small space like lemmings.

Coma Romance’s lead guitarist, Max Ferme, looking very emo, shuffled up to us.

“Tabby, we’re ready to rock,” he said in an emotionless monotone as if playing in a Top 40 band was the most boring thing in the world. I knew the names of all of the guys in Tabitha’s band by heart, having seen every one of her videos about a million times. Max was the one who always seemed totally bored no matter how hard they rocked. He seemed even more low-key in person.

“Do I have to?” Tabitha whined.

Max rolled his eyes.

“I’m about to get swallowed up, Lisbeth,” Tabitha whispered. “I don’t want to wait so long to see you next time.” She paused, suddenly worried. I thought she might break into tears. Then, just as quickly, her mood brightened. “Come shopping with me next week, okay?”

“Shopping? Ah, of course, I’d love to,” I said. Yeah right. Couldn’t wait to use my maxed-out two-hundred-dollar-limit prepay.

“Really? That’s so cool!” Tabitha squealed. “I know just the place—this new store on Fifth…” She stopped, frozen midsentence.

“That was quite a stunt you pulled on the rooftop, Tabitha,” an authoritative voice said. Staring down at us was the old guy in the Armani from that first night at the Met, Robert Francis.

“Hello Robert,” she responded, looking uncomfortable. He leaned in to give her a kiss. She closed her eyes and turned her cheek in a formal manner to accept it as if she were taking bad-tasting cough syrup.

“Nice to see you again as well, Miss Dulac.” He leaned forward to kiss me, too. In high school Health and Home Economics, they had skipped right over social kissing and gone directly to condoms and STDs, so I had no idea why accepting a peck from someone I disliked was good manners. But following Tabitha’s lead, I turned my cheek.

Tabitha stared at me oddly, and I realized she didn’t know that I had encountered Mr. Armani after helping her escape through the freight exit at the Met. More troubling was that he acted as though he expected me to say or do something. What did he want? Was I supposed to blab to Tabitha about the “plans,” which I knew nothing about? I put on my happy face and ignored him, completely clueless what to do next.

After a couple of excruciatingly long moments of the two of us fervently praying he would go away, Robert Francis politely wished Tabitha good luck with the new album and departed. We both breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know Robert, too?” Tabitha asked, regarding me with suspicion.

“Not really. I met him shortly after I encountered you in the … well, bathroom.” I figured there was nothing to lose by being honest. Reminding her that the first time we met her head was in a toilet had to count for something. “He simply asked how you were.”

“That’s a laugh. And that was all?”

“Pretty much.” I wondered if I should in fact ask her about her “plans,” whatever they were.

“Figures.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“My keeper, my prison warden. It’s a long story,” she said. “But I’m not worried about him anymore. Mother’s coming back soon, and she’s going to make him go away.”

“Your mother? Where is she?” I asked. “I’d love to meet her…”

“Tab, love, we have to begin,” Max interrupted. He was holding a headset mic with an earbud out to Tabitha. Who knows how long he had been standing there with his hangdog face? The band appeared ready to go, and the crowd was growing rowdy for a bunch of rich kids in fancy clothes.

Tabitha let out a dreary groan, grabbed the mic from Max, and headed for the stage, yelling over her shoulder, “I’ll explain everything when we go shopping! Can’t wait!”

The band kicked into a club beat, and not a minute later she strutted across the stage, dancing and singing.

Surprisingly, people kept saying hello or nodding to me as they passed by, as though I were actually part of this crowd. Maybe they’d noticed me hanging out with Tabitha. Maybe it was the dress. Either way, mission accomplished.

I felt like I’d successfully passed in a world that seemed utterly unattainable to me only a week before. Every single moment so far had been more interesting and exciting than any moment I’d spent in South End Montclair.

I scanned the room, taking in the dancing crowd. They loved my BFF Tabitha Eden, the Princess of Pop. My eyes found ZK, who was watching me from across the room again. He acknowledged my glance and made his way toward me through the crowd.

He circled around and slid in close behind. “How do you manage to get everyone talking about you?” he said in my ear. “You’re the ‘it’ girl of the evening.” His voice sent delightful shivers down my spine.

“I’m just here to support Tabitha’s brilliant new release. And you?” Was Tabitha paranoid about ZK and should I be suspicious? It was all too much to understand, and besides he was so delicious to look at.

“Me too,” he said. “Thank goodness for lip-synching, right?”

Really? Wasn’t Tabitha actually singing? I strained to get a better view. The band was playing for real, but it was all so loud, I couldn’t tell. Tabitha danced around the stage like a crazy girl, never standing still long enough to see if she was actually singing.

“Next Saturday is the Schnabel opening,” ZK said over the music. “If you aren’t already going, would you give me the pleasure of your company?” Inside my head, I think my brain exploded. He wasn’t actually asking
me,
was he? I’d have gone anywhere with ZK, a Costco opening or a monster truck rally, as if he’d ever do that kind of thing, even to a Schnabel opening, whatever that was.

There was just one problem. “What about…?”

“Dahlia?” He glanced over to Dahlia, who was languidly laughing, surrounded by no less than five drop-dead-gorgeous Euro types, French or Italian, all with perfectly styled clothes and fashionable stubble. She was gesturing, touching each suitor eagerly waiting for her attention. I guess what they said about her in the gossip Web sites was true.

“Dahlia is a force of nature,” ZK said. “She has other amusements to preoccupy her.” I didn’t have a clue what he meant. But everything that had happened was a whirlwind; what I saw, heard, felt, and wore. Was it real or had I been dreaming?

I let myself linger on ZK for just a second longer, thinking about the way he had been watching me most of the night. He was gorgeous, rich, and well connected. I was nobody. It would be pure insanity to think that he and I could ever end up together. There was no way. I’d never be able to keep Audrey going long enough to make it work.

I saw Dahlia walking our way, and I figured it was time to go, better not to get my hopes up and spend too long at the ball.

“I’ll text you the details tomorrow,” ZK said. I nodded yes and gazed one more time into his amused eyes, wondering what he was really thinking.

If I ever wanted to preserve my memories of this charmed fantasy fling, I needed to drop out of sight immediately. I had already stayed way, way later than I’d ever expected to.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

I’d forgotten about Jake.

26

“R U STILL @ CLUB? XOXO ME.”

I waited for Jake to answer.

Nothing.

Crap.

As I hit the summer night air outside the Soho House, I felt woozy. Watermelon and ginger sounded so harmless at the time, plus all those greyhounds before with ZK. I had reached my daily requirement of vitamin C for sure … tequila maybe more than required.

Limos were still lining up as a new shift of parties and scenes were beginning. Where had I parked the Purple Beast? The river parking lot. Right, that seemed ridiculously far away. And where was Reilly’s? I’d never been there before, although I knew it was on the strip near the diner. I was sure I could find it somehow. Maybe springing for a taxi would be the safest thing. Checking in my peacock-feathered clutch, I fished out all of fifteen dollars and eighty-six cents—barely enough to get my car out of the lot, let alone all the way to Jersey in a cab. Was Jake even still there?

“PLEASE DON’T B MAD @ ME,” I texted.

“Hello, fashionable companion,” a voice behind me said.