by Karen Quinn
Also by Karen Quinn
Wife in the Fast Lane
The Ivy Chronicles
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Karen Quinn
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks
of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Quinn, Karen.
Holly would dream/by Karen Quinn.
p. cm.
“A Touchstone Book.”
1. Hepburn, Audrey, 1929–1993—Fiction. 2. Fashion design—Museums—Fiction. 3. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3617.U575 H65 2008
813'.6—dc22 2007042717
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-8395-0
ISBN-10: 1-4165-8395-5
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
To Mark, Schuyler, Sam, Mom, Dad, Michael, and
Don—the seven wonders of my world
Acknowledgments
IF I COULD THANK every one of my readers and booksellers here by name, I would. Your support is such a gift. Please contact me anytime through my website—www.karen quinn.net or at www.myspace.com/authorkarenquinn. I am the author who always writes back.
I am grateful to my agent, Robin Straus, who has been an amazing champion from the beginning, along with my international agent, Sarah Nundy at Andrew Nurnberg Associates. Special thanks to my wonderful editors, Trish Todd, Susanne Baboneau, and Kate Lyall-Grant, and future editorial star Libby Vernon. I am so lucky to work with you.
To my husband, Mark Quinn, thank you for supporting my writing habit and not making me get a real job. Kisses and hugs to my teenagers, Schuyler and Sam Quinn, even though you no longer want to be seen with me.
To Regena Thomashauer, the inner circle, the Palace staff, and all the goddesses at Mama Gena’s School of Womanly Arts for their encouragement, inspiration, and sisterhood.
Thank you to my early readers for your brilliant notes and boundless enthusiasm: Shari Nedler (Mom—who willingly read the novel seven times), Kathleen Stowers (whose generosity knows no bounds), Kathleen Smith (who also provided invaluable counsel on ball gown construction), Judith Levy, Brooke Stachyra, Tatiana Boncompagni, Stan Zimmerman, Jim Berg, and George Wilman.
Special gratitude to Dr. Valerie Steele, director of the Museum at Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, for your expertise and willingness to teach me just enough to be dangerous. Let the record reflect that the shenanigans that happen at the fictitious museum in Holly Would Dream would never take place at FIT.
Thank you to the crew and passengers I met on the Silver Whisper, the Crystal Symphony, and the Emerald Princess. You provided me with more inspiration than you’ll ever know. A quick disclaimer: Captains on cruise ships do not have romantic liaisons with passengers (I’m told it’s against the rules), and every cruise ship has a working morgue on board in the unlikely event that one is needed.
Grazie to Vivian Barsanti from the Hassler Hotel in Roma for showing me your sumptuous suites and for sharing stories about Audrey Hepburn’s stay there while making Roman Holiday. And to the staff of Il Palazzetto, I will never forget the nights spent at your lovely terrace bar overlooking the Spanish Steps. Grazie for the hospitality.
Thank you to Dr. Jonathan Goldenthal.
To Tiffany Cammarano, for one of the funniest bits that made it into this novel. To Julie Nelson, for her resplendent Santorini opera debut. To She She Walker, who, in the spirit of the great courtesan Cora Pearl, served herself for dessert and gave Holly the perfect way to demonstrate her own newfound cheek.
The spark for this book came from my love of romantic comedies of the 1950s—Roman Holiday, Sabrina, An Affair to Remember, just to name a few. There are so many stars of that time who served as muses for this novel: Cary Grant; Deborah Kerr; Doris Day; Grace Kelly; Gregory Peck; and of course the lovely, talented, and graceful Audrey Hepburn. I would like to recognize the following writers and directors for making these classics that brought joy to so many people, including myself: Claude Anet, George Axelrod, Philip Barry, Marc Behm, George Bradshaw, Truman Capote, T.E.B. Clarke, Mildred Cram, George Cukor, Delmer Daves, I.A.L. Diamond, John Dighton, David Dodge, Stanley Donen, Julien Duvivier, Blake Edwards, Leonard Gershe, John Michael Hayes, Alfred Hitchcock, Ian McLellan Hunter, Henri Jeanson, Harry Kurnitz, Ernest Lehman, Alan Jay Lerner, Delbert Mann, Leo McCarey, Nate Monaster, Richard Quine, Stanley Shapiro, George Bernard Shaw, Donald Ogden Stewart, Peter Stone, Samuel A. Taylor, Dalton Trumbo, Billy Wilder, and William Wyler.
And finally, I am grateful to my friends and family who have extended a hand as I’ve journeyed down this most extraordinary writing path: Amy Aho; Theresa Attwell; Carol Becker; Anna Bidwell; Beth Blair; Meris Blumstein; Scott Bond; Ellen Bregman; Candice Broom; George and Betty Buckley; Marcia Burch; Athena Burke; Stuart Calderwood; Nichole Cannon; Claire Chasnoff; Jane Cleland; Jennifer Cohen; Claire Cook; Stacey Creamer; Laura Cunningham; Katherine Cusset; Robin Daas; Charlene Dupray; Randy Dwenger; Beverly Erskin; Amanda Filipacchi; Judy Finnigan; Kathleen Frazier; Danielle Friedman; Robyn Spizman Friedman; Bonnie Fuller; Lorenza Galella; Emily Giffin; Victoria Goldman; Ken Gomez; Phyllis Goodman; Heather Graham; Stacey Green; Shelly Griffin; Richard Hine; Ron Hogan; Scottie Iverson; Tracey Jackson; Benjamin Jones; Caimin Jones; Judith Kahn; Jill Kargman; Pam Keogh; Chris Lloreda; Richard Madeley; Jamie McDonald; Murray Miller; Nancy Moon; Don Nedler; Michael Nedler; Ben Neihert; Quen Anne Sherwood Nicholas; Elizabeth Noble; Benny Ochman; B. L. Ochman; Eva Okada; Candice Olson; Beth Phoenix; Joanne Porzio; Lynne, Vic, Wendy, Janet, and Ted Quinn; Erica Recordan; Alessandro Ricciarelli; Elvira Ryder; Nancy Salz; Leslie Schnur; Linda Spector; Dame Lori Sutherland; Joanne Tombrakos; Linda Warner; Amanda Weil; and Jamie Wells.
My own life has been much more than a fairy tale. I’ve had my share of difficult moments, but whatever difficulties I’ve gone through, I’ve always gotten the prize at the end.
—AUDREY HEPBURN
Prologue
ONCE UPON A TIME, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, there lived a brown-haired girl in a spacious apartment on Park Avenue, in the most desirable building in New York City, if not the world.
The apartment was enormous indeed, and had many servants. There was a maid to dust the Picassos, a chef to cook ten-course dinners, two pilots to fly the his-and-hers jets, and a landscape architect to tend to the terrace and roof gardens.
There were workers to service the indoor pool, the indoor racquetball court, the rooftop pool, and the rooftop tennis court.
There was a chauffeur of dubious distinction who had been imported from England to drive the family and care for their six shiny automobiles.
Also among the staff was a man of no particular title who took care of the family’s toy poodle named Noodle.
This man of no particular title was father to the brown-haired girl who was called Holly. The two of them lived in the servants’ wing of the grand apartment on Park Avenue.
As it happened, the mistress of the mansion, a woman of considerable taste, had a deep admiration for romance films of the 1950s, and most especially, for a certain actress by the name of Audrey. For her viewing pleasure, she had assembled a collection of Hepburn films, along with her other favorite classics from the golden age of cinema.
Wh
en her father was off brushing, bathing, or exercising the dog, Holly was allowed to amuse herself by watching any movie she desired. Every day after school, she would eagerly visit the media room, where she would lose herself in a simpler time when the clothes were beautiful, the men debonair, and the women unforgettable.
There was Sabrina, the awkward daughter of a chauffeur, who after going off to Europe and returning an elegant and sophisticated woman, was pursued by two brothers of great wealth and charm.
There was a shy, funny-faced book clerk in New York named Jo who became the toast of Paris, where she was transformed from caterpillar to butterfly by discovering her gift in the world of high fashion.
There was a princess called Ann who rebelled against the duties of her station by escaping her luxurious shackles for a Roman holiday with a newspaperman whose true motives were less than pure.
For the little girl who lived with her father in the sprawling apartment on Park Avenue, life was as close to heaven as one could get on the island of Manhattan.
Then one day, everything changed. Holly’s father, the chef, the maid, the pilots, the landscape architect, and the chauffeur of dubious distinction were all told to pack their bags and leave, for the owner of the apartment had suffered a reversal of monumental proportion and would no longer be able to keep the staff in the style to which they had become accustomed.
With great sadness, Holly and her father gathered their belongings and journeyed to another place. In time, Holly’s father secured a home for himself and his little girl in a one-room studio with a window facing a brick wall in Astoria, Queens, some ten miles from the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Her father drove a cab and played piano in jazz clubs, while Holly went to school, then came home to cook, clean, sew, and manage the tiny household.
Holly’s father rarely got to see his little girl anymore. Their life had gone from blissful and gay to bleak and gloomy. To remind them both that life could be as wondrous as a fairy tale, Holly’s father assembled his own collection of Audrey Hepburn’s most endearing films. Each night, after finishing her chores, Holly would play one and transport herself on a marvelous cloud of romance and style to an enchanted world where endings were happily ever after and dreams almost always came true.
New York City
The Look of Love
I HAD ONE FOOT OUT the door, late as usual.
“You should see yourself right now,” Alessandro said. He wore loose cotton yoga pants and no shirt.
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“I should have said something before,” he started. “But—and don’t take this the wrong way—that skirt’s too short. It makes you look cheap. If you want to be a curator, you’ve got to dress up more.”
I took a deep, centering breath. “How cheap? Hooker cheap?”
Alessandro cocked his head thoughtfully. “I’d say—”
I interrupted him mid-cock. “Never mind, I’m changing.”
Alessandro followed as I scurried to the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes in my wake, throwing on the Versace linen suit I’d snagged for sixty bucks at the Lucky Shops charity sale last year. “There, now what do you think?”
He reached out and pulled me toward him until his head rested on my shoulder. “Mmm, pretty! You know, the only reason I told you is because I love you and I want you to get that promotion.”
“I know.”
Alessandro moved his hands up my back and then around the front, cupping my breasts in his palms.
My organs went all aflutter. Sex on a school day?
He stroked my breasts, let out a sort of moan-sigh, and pressed his morning protuberance into my groin. “Do you remember when we first met?”
“Mmmm,” I murmured, meaning, Yes, of course I do, my love.
“That was before your boobs drooped.”
I pushed him away.
“Holly, I’m just saying. If you don’t wear a bra, your tits will be to your knees by the time you’re fifty.”
I whipped off my jacket and shirt. Glancing at my boyish figure, I knew my boobs wouldn’t sag if I hung clothespins from my nipples. Still, I put on a bra to make Alessandro happy.
Alessandro Vercelli was my knight in shining armor, kind of. Six feet tall, slim, messy black hair, dark brooding eyes, he resembled a Latin Gregory Peck, one of my favorite actors. If I scrunched my eyes just right, he looked exactly like Gregory Peck, and like Gregory, Alessandro was a solid, dependable guy. He was always by my side whether I wanted him to be or not.
Unlike other boyfriends I’d had, Alessandro cared deeply about my professional success. Clothing had forever been my passion. Growing up, I’d first been inspired by the sumptuous costumes created by designers during the glamour years of Hollywood—Givenchy for Audrey Hepburn, Valentino for Marlene Dietrich, Coco Chanel for Katharine Hepburn. Later, I discovered a knack for making my own clothes.
Fashion awakened my senses like nothing else. Anytime I felt stressed, I’d jump on the subway and go to Bergdorf’s. It calmed me right down. In the hallowed reverence of the store, I’d take in the aroma of designer gowns and unapologetic overpricing. It felt like nothing bad could happen to you there. With Alessandro’s encouragement (and savings), I enrolled in the Fashion Institute of Technology, majoring in history and museum studies. When I needed him, Alessandro was there.
Last year, after spending nine months as Motel the tailor in an off-Broadway revival of Fiddler on the Roof, Alessandro was cast as the beast in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It was a huge step up for him and I brought all our friends to the opening night to cheer him on.
After five years of living in his East Village rent-controlled apartment, Alessandro proposed. Like many rent-controlled tenants, he was there illegally, but who was I to judge? The place was small, yet comfortable: pressed-tin ceilings, a marble fireplace, plank wood floors, and a toilet that flushed at random. Wait, where was I? Oh yes, Alessandro’s proposal. It was time. At thirty-five, the expiration date on my egg carton was nearly past. Marrying him made sense.
A famous Hollywood writer once said that in the 1950s you wrote your scripts for Cary Grant, but you ended up with Rock Hudson. Truth be told, I wrote my script for Gregory Peck, but ended up with Alessandro Vercelli.
After replacing my jacket and shirt, I slipped my headgear over my face and inserted the protraction hooks into the molar grips. Last Valentine’s Day Alessandro had surprised me with an orthodontic gift certificate to move my canines back. Romantic, yet practical. That’s my Alessandro! The doctor told me if I wanted my teeth perfect by the time I walked down the aisle, I should wear it twelve hours a day, so I commuted in it.
“Have you seen my glasses?” I asked, squinting.
“Try the fridge.”
“The fridge?” I thought, worried for my sanity.
“Why aren’t you wearing your contacts?”
“I need solution. I’ll get some on the way to work. Oh, and don’t eat too much at lunch. We’re meeting the caterers at six-thirty. Remember, they’re giving us a tasting of everything I picked for the wedding.
Alessandro frowned. “I completely forgot. I’m sorry. It’s too close to my call time. But go without me; whatever you choose will be fine,” he said, retrieving the glasses. “Here, and take this. It’ll bring you luck.” He handed me his two-dollar bill, the one he credited with getting him the part in Beauty and the Beast.
I folded the money into my bra. “Oh, but how sweet. Thank you. You won’t need it?”
“Nope,” he said. “Today’s your day.” He kissed me on the lips (well, really on the metal face-bow of my headgear).
I looked around for Kitty, the three-legged Maine coon I’d rescued from the Con Edison softball fields.
“There you are, you sneak,” I said, picking him up, holding him to my face where I could feel the vibration of his purring.
“I made you lunch,” Alessandro said, handing me a turkey sandwich wrapped in foil.
“Thanks,” I said, admi
ring his face, so handsome and rugged.
“Why are you scrunching your eyes like that?” he asked.
“Was I scrunching again? Sorry, bad habit. Break a leg tonight,” I said, flitting out the door into the muggy air.
“No, you break a leg at the meeting,” he yelled. “I love you.”
A Foggy Day
HUSTLING DOWN AVENUE A, I stopped to pick up breakfast for my father (better known as Pops), and coffee for me. I love Dunkin’ Donuts, especially those chocolate glazed munchkins, but boy do I take issue with them (the company, not the doughnuts). Every time a local store goes out of business in Manhattan, a bank or a Dunkin’ Donuts shop takes its place. It’s ruining the character of our neighborhoods.
I spotted Pops, with his naturally curly beard, wavy silver locks, clear blue eyes, and weathered face. He was puffing away on a cigarette clenched between two knobby fingers. Part Jed Clampett, part Cary Grant, he presided over the stoop in front of Muttropolis Groom and Board, next to his shopping cart full of street treasures. Pops was a jazz musician slash panhandler who had driven a taxi until he was fired last year. It was a blessing, really—these days he barely made enough to lease his cab and cover gas. Plus, he always got lost, even on the way to places he’d been to a thousand times.
Six months ago, he was evicted from the one-room apartment in Queens where he’d raised me. It was a rent issue (as in he’d stopped paying it). I helped him arrange temporary quarters in Muttropolis’ basement as a trade for walking the dogs. My friend Bobbie Liberty “BL” Ochman owns the shop. She had been looking for someone to mind the furry guests staying at her “Club Bow-wow” and Pops had always had a knack with animals. A scruffy, quasi-homeless dog minder wouldn’t go over so well uptown, but East Village liberals loved the idea.
“You look fetching today, princess,” Pops said. Raindrops were starting to plink on the sidewalk and the air was ripe with the scent of rotting trash.
