Holly Would Dream

by Karen Quinn

  It felt like I’d gotten whacked in the solar plexus. “Pops, keep looking for Kitty!” I yelled. “I’ll be right there!” I took a deep breath, and attempted to channel my anguish into saving what clothes I could. When the light turned red and there was a temporary lull in the traffic, I rushed into the street and grabbed the ravaged bits of fabric and leather lying in my reach.

  It had taken me years of secondhand trolling to find each treasured article, painstakingly collected from the best charity thrift stores and private school rummage sales in the city, bought for a fraction of its original price. Many I had redesigned and updated myself. I’d never had much in the way of possessions, but I had my clothes, and each piece said something about me. I started back into traffic to rescue more when Pops grabbed me. “Forget it. They’re just possessions.”

  “But…I’ll be destitute.”

  “Better that than road kill,” he said tenderly. “C’mon, Holly.”

  “Did you find Kitty?” I said.

  “Not yet, but we will.”

  I glanced back at the street, sick over my loss. There was the canary-yellow Diane von Furstenberg I’d bought at the Nightingale-Bamford rummage sale for six dollars. Six dollars for a dress that originally retailed for six hundred dollars! Now it had black tire marks running down the center. My Christian Lacroix armadillo handbag with its armor of rhinestones, chain link, and crystals lay pulverized on the road, like a carcass on a busy Texas highway. I’d found it at a rummage sale benefiting the Metropolitan Opera. Some society matron had to die for it to be donated. A rainbow of flouncy blouses, slim pants, and tailored jackets were being whooshed up Fourteenth Street by the cars to which they were affixed. Shoes were scattered, many thoroughly crushed, none with its mate. My vintage Venetian lace demi-bra was flying like a flag on the antenna of a shiny black Cadillac speeding west on Fourteenth.

  “I can’t look,” I said, covering my eyes, collapsing on my hands and knees. The artifacts of my world were gone. How could I possibly start my search over—secondhand stores, flea markets, charity sales, eBay—I wasn’t sure I had it in me. “I am strong,” I muttered. “I can do this.”

  My father helped me up and led me away, shielding me from the crash site. Then he gasped. “It’s a miracle!”

  I opened my eyes. “Kitty?”

  “No,” he said, pointing to my priceless, one-of-a-kind cherry tree Choos that lay strewn on the sidewalk, no worse for wear. It was like a tornado victim finding one treasured photograph, completely unharmed, in the pile of lumber, bricks, and rubble that used to be her home. Seeing them gave me hope.

  “Thank you, Lord,” I cried. “Now please, help us find Kitty.”

  We searched everywhere, behind trash cans, inside courtyards, under parked cars, in every nook and cranny within a five-block radius. I prayed he was curled up in some tiny space somewhere, which was his favorite thing to do. Pops led me back to the stoop. “Oh, my God, he’s go-o-one,” I cried. Salty tears spilled down my cheeks and into my mouth. My whole life was unraveling before my eyes and there was nothing I could say or do to stop it. I wasn’t sure which was worse—losing Alessandro or my precious Kitty.

  Pick Yourself Up

  POPS TOOK ME INSIDE Muttropolis, offering a place to stay as long as I needed it. I could have called Nigel or BL, but no friend could take the place of my father. “Here you go, Holly,” he said, gesturing to his bed. “It’s all yours. Make yourself comfortable.” BL had set aside a previously barren space for Pops, with an AeroBed next to a small night table and shadeless lamp. (Her paying canine guests slept in custom-made wrought-iron beds with Duxiana mattresses.) There was a small TV, but no rug, plant, or picture to make his little corner of the basement feel like home. The room smelled like dog, but after a few minutes you didn’t notice it.

  Two Chocolate Labs, a poodle, and a Chihuahua kept us company that night, all resting in their “suites” near a couple of newly rescued cats.

  “I’ll ask BL to make lost signs for Kitty,” I said. “She has his picture on her database from when I first found him.”

  “’Course,” Pops said. “I’ll post them around the neighborhood while you’re at work. Don’t worry, he’ll come home.”

  Practically everything I had left in the world was in that basement—the ratty sweat suit I was wearing, my quasi-stolen Jimmy Choos, a rhinestone tiara, my headgear, and my engagement ring.

  “Do you want to call someone?” Pops said, offering his cell phone. “A girlfriend, maybe?”

  “No,” I murmured. “Thanks for taking me in.”

  “That’s what fathers are for, baby.”

  I crawled onto Pops’ mattress, under his sheets. He made his blanket into a sleeping bag and set up camp at the foot of my bed. When we lived in Queens, Pops had given me the bed while he slept on the couch. He was generous that way.

  Tears spilled down my face. I tried to stifle my crying noises, but the sniffling sounds were hard to disguise. “Maybe you should get a job as a driver for a rich family on Long Island, huh, huh, huh. Then we could move out of the doghouse.”

  “What?” Pops said. “So we can have an apartment above the garage and you can fall in love with one of the handsome sons who lives in the mansion? Remember how things turned out when we lived on Park Avenue? Life isn’t like Sabrina.”

  “Why can’t it be?” I moaned. “Don’t we deserve a happy ending?”

  “I never should have let you watch those old films. They ruined you for real life.”

  “No, they didn’t,” I said, snorting up some phlegm. “They were my escape growing up. I really believed that someday you were gonna take me on a Roman holiday like you promised. Stupid, stupid me.”

  “C’mon, Holly, stop bellyaching,” Pops said. “Do you see me mooning over my life? Right now, my entire net worth is in my pocket—twenty-seven fifty. Do you hear me groaning about it? Do you?”

  “No,” I admitted, “and that’s nothing to write home about.”

  “You’re damn right it isn’t,” Pops said. “But you know what? I feel like the richest man in the East Village. You know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I have you.”

  “Yeah, and look how brilliantly I’ve turned out,” I groused.

  “Now, stop. In every great life, there’s angst,” Pops said. “Think about it. The best movies are the ones that put you through the wringer before the happy ending. Rejoice! This is your wringer, kid.”

  “So, in other words, if the movie of my life was An Affair to Remember, this would be the part where I got run over and paralyzed and missed my rendezvous with Cary Grant on top of the Empire State Building?”

  “You got it.”

  “How long do you think my wringer’ll last?”

  “It could be a while,” he said. “Mine started over twenty years ago and shows no signs of letting up.”

  “That’s encouraging.”

  He held out an apple. “Hungry?”

  “Thanks.” I sat on the floor by his side and took a bite.

  “At least we have each other,” Pops said. He got up and opened the cage door for a large chocolate-colored dog. “Have you met Benny yet?” he said. “He’s sixth-generation Labradoodle. Stays with us a lot because his human is some kind of Internet guru who consults all over the world. BL always puts him in the Presidential Suite. Doesn’t she, Benny? Yes, she does. You are so sweet, yes, you are,” he said, kissing the dog right on the mouth.

  “You shouldn’t do that, Pops,” I said. “He was just licking his balls.”

  Pops wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Sorry, Benny, Holly’s just jealous. C’mon, Benny. C’mon, boy.” The dog curled up next to Pops. “Benny’s a natural electric blanket. ’Night, Holly.”

  “’Night,” I muttered. After washing my headgear in the canine bathtub, I slipped it over my face and inserted the metal prongs into their holders. Even as my life disintegrated around me, I remained committed to orthodontia.

 
; I don’t remember ever being so spent. As I fell into a despair-induced coma, I wondered how I could go on. The next thing I knew, sunshine was streaming in the window and Pops was headed out with five dogs on leashes, all agitating to do their morning business.

  “Who let the dogs out? Who? Who?” he sang.

  The world would keep spinning whether I liked it or not.

  LATER THAT MORNING, I gave Gus his coffee and glazed doughnuts, and told him what happened the night before, sparing no details.

  He looked me over and sighed. “Say no more, my dear. You’ll need something from Corny’s closet. Come.”

  I sighed. What am I doing, wearing clothes that belong to the museum? It’s unprofessional, I thought. But what choice do I have? My wardrobe was decimated. I should never have taken that first suit the other day. Borrowing from the vault is getting easier and easier. It’s a slippery slope.

  “So what do you think?” Gus said, gesturing toward Corny’s collection.

  “Well, let’s see. It should be newer, nothing too valuable. I suppose it has to be black and somber looking,” I said. “I’m mourning the loss of my love.”

  “You mean Alessandro?” Gus said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Wait. I’m confused. Is he dead?” Gus asked, eyes wide.

  “To me he is.”

  A simple black cotton Prada dress circa 1990 would work fine. Corny had the perfect mesh veil that would have completed my grief-stricken widow look, but I passed on that. We were tearing down the Audrey Hepburn exhibit, so I needed to see what I was doing.

  Unforgettable

  The Audrey Hepburn retrospective at the National Fashion Museum is one of the most entertaining fashion exhibits ever produced in our city.

  —THE NEW YORK TIMES

  How can it miss with all the memorable roles Hepburn played in her life: Gigi, Holly Golightly, Sabrina Fairchild, Jo Stockton, Princess Ann, Eliza Doolittle, Reggie Lampert, Gabrielle Simpson, Maid Marion? It can’t and it doesn’t.

  —THE DAILY POST

  TANYA WASN’T IN HER office when I got to my desk. Good. My plan was to answer e-mails quickly, then hide for the rest of the day. The phone rang.

  “Get down here stat,” Nigel ordered. “Tanya and Sammie are five minutes away.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Tanya called Elaina to yell at her,” he said. “They’re at Starbucks. She’s still fuming over yesterday.”

  “What about yesterday?” I said.

  “You didn’t see the Post? I’ll tell you when you get here. Hurry. You’d best steer clear of her today.”

  My feelings exactly, I thought.

  When I arrived, Nigel and Elaina were standing in the Funny Face area of the show. Nigel was wearing his surgical magnifying glasses, inspecting the midlength wedding gown that Audrey wore in the last scene of the movie where she and Fred Astaire floated into the sunset on a river barge singing “’S Wonderful.”

  “There’s a slight worn spot on the bottom left side of the bodice,” Nigel said. Elaina recorded it on the form. For insurance reasons, every piece had to be scrutinized and irregularities noted before it was shipped out. They would be reexamined when they arrived in Rome, and checked again after they were returned to us.

  When I came up with the idea for the Audrey exhibit, I envisioned it as a series of separate mini black-box theaters, each featuring an original costume from one of Audrey’s movies with the scene where she wore it playing in a continuous loop on a screen behind the mannequin. That’s exactly how we set it up. Visitors could take a self-guided tour, wearing audio headphones, not only viewing the exquisite outfits Audrey wore but also watching the classic Hollywood moments in which they appeared. The videos added welcome sparks of life to the show without upstaging the costumes.

  Oh, how I adored Audrey Hepburn. As a little girl, I lived for her enormous smile, that melodic voice, and the way she said “rotha” and “mahvelous” and “cross my heart and kiss my elbow, dahling.” I still use her expressions anytime I can.

  After I grew up, I identified with her characters (who didn’t, right?)—Sabrina, the chauffeur’s daughter who never felt good enough until she morphed into a new and improved version of herself. When will that happen to me? When? Holly Golightly, my namesake, a young lady trying to transcend her background and make it in the big city. I live that struggle every day. Jo Stockton, a girl who would have loved to travel to Paris but couldn’t afford it. Someday I want to go abroad too, but I can’t afford it either. Gabrielle Simpson, the assistant to screenwriter Richard Benson, who helps write the screenplay when she was only hired to type. I’m so much more than an assistant too, but no one recognizes that.

  I probably shouldn’t say this, but I’ve always wished my life would unfold like an Audrey Hepburn movie, the kind with the happy endings—not like Roman Holiday where the princess chose duty over Gregory Peck. Hello-oh! What woman in her right mind would do that? Nor would I want my own leading man to be as old as any of Audrey’s on-screen lovers. Poor Audrey, having to kiss those liver-spotted geezers—Humphrey Bogart in Sabrina, Fred Astaire in Funny Face, Gary Cooper in Love in the Afternoon? Some things never change, I suppose. The same is true for salaries. It still peeves me that Audrey was paid $7,000 for Roman Holiday and $12,000 for Sabrina, while Gregory Peck earned $100,000 and Humphrey Bogart received $200,000. But I digress. The point is, I would rather be a character in an Audrey Hepburn movie more than anyone else in the world, including (especially!) myself.

  Audrey Hepburn wasn’t terribly famous when she was getting ready to make Sabrina. Roman Holiday had not been released. Paramount sent her to Paris to see Hubert de Givenchy and ask him to create her French costumes for the movie. He had never heard of Audrey and presumed his meeting with “Miss Hepburn” was with Katharine.

  When Audrey arrived, Givenchy was too busy preparing his new collection to design for her, so Audrey convinced him to let her use pieces he had already completed. She selected three dresses: For the scene where she arrives at the Glen Cove station and is picked up by David Larrabee, who doesn’t recognize her, she chose a gray wool suit with a cinched waist, double-breasted jacket, and calf-length skirt. This was accessorized with a light-gray turban hat, kid gloves, and a matching toy poodle. For the Larrabee ball, she selected a white strapless confection with an ankle-length skirt and detachable train. The bodice and skirt were embroidered with a floral design of black silk thread and shiny jet beads. Finally, for her date with Linus Larrabee, she picked a black cocktail number with a high boatneck, a calf-length ballerina skirt, and small bows on the shoulders.

  The first meeting between Audrey and Hubert was the beginning of a lifelong friendship and professional collaboration. Givenchy designed Audrey’s wardrobe for seven of her most memorable movies, including Funny Face and Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Here’s a choice little tidbit that sent tongues wagging—Edith Head took credit for all the costumes in Sabrina, and Givenchy wasn’t even given a screen mention. Later, Sabrina received six Oscar nominations and won but a single award—Edith Head for Best Costume Design. Even after that, she didn’t share the glory. For an industry based on beauty, the fashion world can be one ugly place.

  —AUDREY HEPBURN, ICON OF STYLE

  (SHOW CATALOG) BY HOLLY ROSS

  “Get in here now,” Nigel said, resting his magnifying glasses on top of his shiny head. “Tanya just arrived.”

  Yikes! I gently shut the door to the exhibit behind me until I heard it click. “So tell me, what happened after I left yesterday?”

  Nigel and Elaina glanced at each other, and then looked around to be sure no one was listening.

  “Well,” Nigel said, “it’s a good thing you got out when you did.”

  “It sure is,” Elaina added. “Martin started mouthing the answers from the back of the room.”

  “And he got caught?” I said breathlessly.

  “Not exactly. He got everything wrong,” Elaina said. “What does Martin
Goldenblatt know about fashion? Nothing. But Tanya and Sammie took him at his word and they kept losing. Tanya must have thought I was giving him the answers, but I wasn’t.”

  “You’re so honorable,” I said.

  “That wasn’t always the case,” she said. “I used to lie and cheat like everyone else, but A Course in Miracles showed me a better way.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That must be some powerful course.”

  As Nigel finished his paperwork on the garment, Elaina removed it from the mannequin. “It is. Give me a hand with this, would you?”

  Gently, we lifted the wedding dress off the fiberglass form that had been custom-made in Audrey Hepburn’s exact size. We laid the garment out flat on special tissue paper, wrapped it, and placed it inside an acid-free box.

  “Tanya got caught,” Nigel said. “Well, she didn’t; Martin did. And we were disqualified.”

  “NO!” I said, wondering if Tanya would blame me even though I wasn’t there. Yes, probably.

  “Over here,” Elaina said. She strolled over to the famous black dress Audrey wore as Holly Golightly. It had recently sold at auction to the house of Givenchy. They were kind enough to lend it to us for the exhibit, along with several other pieces.

  “Heidi Klum caught him,” Nigel said, as he began to inspect the iconic dress.

  “Well, cross my heart and kiss my elbow!” I said, wondering if anyone but me knew that expression came from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  “Heidi was antsy for the next show to start and was looking around the room,” Nigel said. “That’s when she spotted him.”

  “She whispered something into Valentina’s ear and Martin was busted. What’s My Line? was O-V-E-R,” Elaina said, signaling “cut” with her finger across her neck. “The Met’s getting the prize and I’m sure the Fashion Council won’t ever do it again.”