Being Audrey Hepburn

by Mitchell Kriegman

  He was dressed in a tux, his dark wavy hair slicked back the way it was when we first met. The gold flecks in his green eyes reflected the last of the lights from the fashion show.

  “I know it’s hard but there are things you need to know,” he said.

  “Are you okay?” I asked him.

  “Me? I’m fine. It’s about the bracelet.”

  “Why did you take it?”

  “I can’t talk here. Will you come with me?”

  “Hey Lisbeth!” Chase called. I turned. “We’re going out to celebrate. You’re joining us, right?”

  “Yes. Text me where. I need to do something first,” I said, trying not to look behind me.

  “Are you talking to someone?” Chase asked.

  I turned back to ZK and saw he was hiding in the shadows.

  “No, but I’ll catch up with you soon,” I said.

  “You’re sure?”

  I nodded and he left.

  “Follow me,” ZK said, half his face in shadow. And I did.

  64

  The stretch limo pulled away almost as soon as the door closed. In the darkness I hadn’t realized anyone else was there.

  “Nice of you to join us, Lisbeth,” Dahlia said, neatly tucked away in the back corner of her limo. Wearing a silver metallic Cavalli minidress with a plunging neckline and a broad silver cuff, she was provocative and intimidating at the same time. “ZK is lovely as always, isn’t he?”

  ZK watched impassively.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I think men are so much more attractive when they’re depressed, don’t you?” She examined ZK’s profile as if he were a curiosity in a store that she might buy. “They have this deep, brooding, desperate look when they’re disheartened, like trapped creatures. I think it’s sexy. What do you think, Lisbeth?”

  “I think you’re a monster.”

  “Oh now I’m a monster. That’s flattering,” she said as if it was the funniest joke in the world. Holding out her champagne glass, she waited for ZK to get the message. He filled her glass from a nearby bottle.

  “We enjoyed your little fashion show, didn’t we, ZK?” A glaze had settled in ZK’s eyes, which locked in a long-suffering expression of his that was familiar to me. “Join me in a toast to Designer X,” she said, holding up her glass, “and an end to the little pretend life you’ve been living.” Her laser-focused eyes bored into mine so intensely I felt like I would evaporate into nothing.

  “ZK, if you had any decency you’d stop this,” I pleaded.

  Dahlia threw back her head and laughed.

  “Decency?” she said, barely glancing at ZK. “I think that word left the family crest ages ago. Besides, ZK showed me this exquisite bracelet of yours.” She pulled Nan’s inscribed platinum band out of her silver clutch and waved it in front of me.

  “Give it back.”

  “That wouldn’t be much fun, would it?” She slipped the bracelet on and off her slender wrist. “That’s the problem with you, Lisbeth. You’re not much fun, and I like my friends to be more fun.”

  “I can see that I have deeply offended you, and I am sorry. But, please, I will never bother you again, please give me the bracelet and I will go away.”

  It was hard to describe the expression on her face. It was like the look of a cat pinning its claw down on a mouse’s tail. My begging delighted her.

  “You don’t bother me, Lisbeth. You’re not fun, but you’re entertaining.” Dahlia placed the bracelet back in her clutch and snapped it shut. “So tell us about your Nan? She sounds like a fascinating person,” Dahlia began, gazing into my eyes with mock seriousness. “Dulac—that’s her last name, isn’t it? Just like yours.” She laughed again, more of a cackle, really.

  “You couldn’t possibly understand anything about my grandmother. Nan is a wonderful person, with more grace and style than you or anyone you know,” I answered.

  “Oh really? Then I assume you are aware she’s also a tad notorious. Not to mention your grandfather—Sammy G—‘hardened criminals,’ I think, is the term they use.”

  “You’ve got it wrong. His name wasn’t Sammy. My grandfather’s name was Frank and he was just a construction worker.”

  Dahlia could hardly contain her pleasure.

  “So you grew up thinking he was a construction worker? What’s that expression they have where you come from? Fuhgeddahbouddit!”

  “Okay, stop it now, Dahlia,” ZK spoke up. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Take it easy, lover boy,” she replied. “We’ll be done soon enough.” She ran her hands through his hair like he was a pet. His eyes haunted, he looked horribly humiliated.

  “Poor ZK,” Dahlia said, studying his profile. “Even though the whole affair was my idea, I think he actually fell in love with you.”

  ZK shoved Dahlia’s hand away.

  “Stop the car!” he yelled, and the limo pulled to the curb. ZK opened the door and stormed out. The steam from a manhole cover rose up in the street. We had driven uptown, but I couldn’t see where.

  “Lisbeth, please get out of the car,” he said. Dahlia didn’t seem to care, so I slipped from the limo, relieved to be outside but concerned about the platinum band in Dahlia’s clutch. She watched the scene unfold as if she were viewing a play.

  “Lisbeth, this is the truth, and you might as well know because Dahlia is going to expose it,” ZK said. “Dahlia put a private detective on your case as soon as she met you. She pushed me to invite you to Soho House that night. The man who you thought was your grandfather is the Sammy G who gave that bracelet to your grandmother. He was a Mafia boss who had been in hiding for almost forty years until he died. He married a society girl named Simon Fleurice Dulac—your grandmother—who vanished mysteriously decades ago.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “None of this makes any sense. How can you be part of this with her? Why should I believe any of what you are saying?”

  “I know,” ZK said, as his whole body seemed to slump like a marionette whose strings had been cut. “You’re so different, Lisbeth. Wherever you came from, whoever you are. Everything is new to you, filled with possibilities. I have none, never have had any. In my world I don’t stand a chance,” he answered. “I had hoped you wouldn’t take me seriously, but you did. And the more I grew to appreciate you, the more I knew I would be bad for you. I made another shameful Northcott bargain in a history of bad bargains. My family was at stake. It was the only way.”

  I turned to Dahlia, who was enjoying the drama.

  “Dahlia, your private detective has simply mixed my Nan up with someone else,” I said. “Please just give me back the bracelet. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll disappear. Just leave Nan alone.”

  She paused, seeming to savor the situation. I thought for a moment that she might be gratified by how utterly devastated I was, how broken ZK seemed, and return Nan’s bracelet.

  “I can’t dear, sweet girl; it’s federal evidence. When we discovered the truth, I was obliged to consult the district attorney, an old friend of my father’s. There’s nothing I can do now. Oh, I forgot, I’ve been talking to a delightful New York Post reporter about you; he’s done quite a bit of digging, which was very helpful, including a certain Page Six photo.”

  Page Six. Those words felt like a punch in the stomach.

  “You’ve had your moment, ZK. I must admit, it was a moving performance, almost seemed like you meant it,” she said with a smirk. “It’s time to go.”

  His feet seemed glued to the street. Dahlia’s eyes hardened. “If you’d like me to hold up my end of the deal, do come along,” she said, and the limo driver closed her door.

  ZK walked around the limo almost as if his body had no choice. He barely glanced up as he ducked inside. But I saw in that mere instant his pleading eyes, the lost boy in all his agony.

  Dahlia lowered her window.

  “My dear, I think you can assume your life is ruined. I wish I knew how to make one of those evil
supervillain laughs. This would be the time for it, don’t you think?”

  65

  With every step it felt like I was leaving behind some part of myself. I compulsively moved forward, staring down at the sidewalk in that determined way people walk in the city where no one dares talk to you. I found myself at Central Park by Columbus Circle and realized I was only a few blocks from Tiffany’s.

  Even though the evening was winding down, the carriages and their sad horses were still escorting tourists through the park. Turning down Fifth, I saw the seamless glass box that was the Apple store glistening in the moonlight.

  Yellow taxis sped by as I approached the street corner at 57th. For the first time, it felt sad to peer up and see the familiar chiseled logo. Not at all like the times Jess and I, as so many girls, would bring our breakfast to eat in front of Tiffany’s windows.

  I gazed down Fifth Avenue.

  In a few hours, at dawn, the streetlights would still be on when Holly would arrive by taxi. Gazing up at the Tiffany logo, she’ll release an almost imperceptible sigh from her shoulders. Wearing her sunglasses in the morning twilight, she’ll float on tiny steps to the jewelry-showcase window and delicately take a cruller from a white bag with her long black gloves. She’ll gingerly remove the plastic top of her deli coffee cup and let it tumble into the paper bag, not spilling a drop.

  Without a soul in sight, she’ll examine the stunning display of diamond bracelets and miniature chandeliers, tilting her head ever so slightly, contemplating their elegance and beauty.

  I could see her standing before me in her fragile splendor. I had always assumed she was an early-bird window-shopper with an intimate knowledge of diamonds and pearls returning from some fabulous party.

  Now I realized she was outside staring in. She came to Tiffany’s because she needed to make herself feel better. She was endlessly searching for what she never had, sad for whatever she was missing. Just like me.

  She went to Tiffany’s that morning to feel safe. She must have been somewhere unsafe that night.

  Although it’s hard to find anything bad about Audrey, there must have been a dark side in her life that people don’t talk about. After all, she was a heavy smoker who liked a glass of bourbon. Rumors of affairs with married men and anorexia have been around forever—Audrey’s own version of the mean reds—but she kept her problems discretely hidden in a Givenchy dress where no one would see. I wished we could talk, Audrey and I, and she could tell me if she ever made it feel all right.

  It was time to go back to New Jersey.

  66

  I should have told them right away. Nan, Mom, Courtney, and Ryan were all sitting there waiting for me. I couldn’t imagine how unbelievably fast Dahlia had put her plan into action.

  “Pinched Givenchy!” was the headline on the front page of The New York Post lying on the kitchen table in front of them.

  My face was on the cover.

  I was wearing the dress.

  And the tiara.

  They had cropped out ZK and Dahlia.

  “I’ve done something terrible,” I said, which at the time seemed like a massive understatement. I waited for Nan or Mom’s reaction, but there wasn’t one.

  When the NYPD detectives picked me up for interrogation, they asked if I had a lawyer. I knew we couldn’t afford one, so I was given a public defender, who seemed even younger than me, like he was just out of law school. He seemed more terrified than I was of the press and was no help at all.

  Without any prior criminal record (I hadn’t even had one day of high school detention) and my name and face plastered on tabloids, I wasn’t considered a flight risk, so they sent me home to Jersey. After all, they didn’t have formal charges—yet.

  I had read the article on the PATH train home. The Post gave me the full tabloid treatment, I guess because it was a slow news day in a slow news week, and because their venerable Page Six had been victimized as part of the fraud.

  Dahlia slipped the whole story to some intrepid society reporter for The New York Post, who did his best to uncover the sordid details about me and Nan. It hadn’t taken long to search through their photo archive. I should have known that evidence of my Givenchy napping would surface.

  Pretty much everything in the article was true: how I had faked and photobombed my way among the Upper East Siders, freeloading in their world of conspicuous consumption—limousines, personal shoppers, weekends in the Hamptons—passing as one of them when I was a wannabe South Ender from Jersey.

  It featured a teary-eyed Tabitha Eden with a quote beneath her picture: “I felt devastated and betrayed. She wormed and manipulated her way into every aspect of my life. I regret every moment I knew her.” I assumed someone had written that line for her, but it made me sad regardless. How Dahlia persuaded Tabitha to be in the article I’ll never understand. The reporter discreetly kept Dahlia’s name out. No one would have known she arranged the whole thing.

  Back home in the kitchen everyone seemed stunned, except smart-ass, smirking Ryan. All the color drained out of Nan’s face when I got to the part about Sammy. And when I admitted how I let the bracelet get taken away from me, I couldn’t stop sobbing and threw myself at Nan’s feet. I hugged her legs, hoping she wouldn’t hate me, afraid to meet her eyes.

  “Wow,” Courtney finally said over my sobbing, “and I thought I was the bad girl in the family. Totally beats me.” Everyone laughed a little at that.

  “So is it true about Dad?” Mom asked, turning to Nan.

  Nan ran her hands through my hair. Her head trembled a little as she spoke.

  “I knew they would find out eventually,” Nan said almost in a whisper. “I’m just glad Sammy’s not around to see it.”

  “Can I tell my friends at school?” Ryan asked. Mom laughed a little.

  “Typical Ryan,” she said. “Just keep a lid on it, okay?” Then she turned to me.

  “Come here, Lisbeth,” she said. When I got up, I was surprised to see that she was holding out her arms for me. We hugged and I just kept sobbing. I don’t think my mom and I had hugged since I was tiny. Her arms were kind of flabby because she had lost so much weight, but her skin hadn’t shrunk. It felt good to feel close to her. I couldn’t help thinking that for the first time she didn’t smell of cigarettes and booze.

  There’s nothing like having your personal problems and the worst situation you’ve ever been in in your life put on national media for everyone to slice, dice, and dissect. As soon as The Post article came out, that very day, we clocked at least twenty-six threats on our phone at home. Unsurprisingly, my e-mail and phone number leaked out pretty quickly, but it took a little longer for them to find Lisbeth Dulac’s Facebook. The mere success of my blog, Limelight, was my undoing. And it happened almost instantly.

  Trolls are angry monsters who live under a bridge and eat goats by snapping their necks and drinking their blood while venting their inner rage on Instagram, Tumblr, and Facebook. I shut off my phone and stopped opening my e-mail account, but Limelight was a mess.

  “Liar,” “Fraud,” “Poseur,” “Hoax,” and the most troubling, “Con Artist,” were just some of the non-four-letter words I was called in the various news outlets, although liar and hoax do count, if you’re being technical. On the blog the words were much worse, the kind of sexually violent, unprintable words that only anonymous commenters can get away with.

  Misogynists, stalkers, serial harassers, and cyberbullies came to the site in waves. I learned the art of triage and skimmed to find out if there was any actual personally threatening data or just your normal everyday nasty invective. When our address on Pine Street popped up, I knew we were in deeper trouble and stopped looking.

  We changed our number a bunch of times, but stuff just happened. Someone using a falsified Uber account thought it was funny to send twelve limos to show up at our house all at the same time between 11:30 P.M. and 2:00 in the morning.

  It was raining the morning the police, wearing blue raid jackets,
stood outside our house.

  “We’re here to execute a search warrant,” the agent said as Mom let them inside. The search warrant gave the government authorization to seize “fruits of a possible crime,” even though I hadn’t been charged with anything. It made me wonder what the “fruits of my crime” were.

  Wearing blue nitrile gloves, they basically ransacked my bedroom and seemed pretty happy when they found my closet and all the Audrey Hepburn posters. They neatly rolled up the posters as evidence, tagged them, and put them in big plastic bags. I couldn’t help thinking what Jess would have said about their curatorial techniques. They took my computer and all my VHS and DVD copies of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday, and the other Audrey Hepburn movies. I have to admit, I wouldn’t have been able to watch them anyway.

  News trucks and reporters started crowding up the streets as another group of agents arrived and Mom let them in. What else was she supposed to do?

  When a woman wearing a dark blue business suit and dark blue blouse flashed her FBI medallion, we all knew they were here for Nan.

  Nan asked permission to use the bathroom, and they made a big show of checking out the downstairs bathroom before she entered, even stationing an agent outside the little window and ventilation fan in the back with another agent in front of the door. As if at eighty-one she was going to make a mad dash for freedom. Nan just wanted to tidy up her makeup and look nice for when they took her away. She didn’t even try to avoid the cameras as the feds walked her out of the house in handcuffs, head held high and smiling as bright as ever, wearing her patented double strand of white pearls.

  I couldn’t believe I had caused all these horrible things to rain down on my family.

  I climbed back upstairs, crawled into my empty closet, and cried.

  67

  “Lisbeth was the quiet one,” Mrs. Walker, my biology teacher from Montclair High, was quoted saying in a New York magazine piece. The article compared me to JT Leroy, the literary hoaxer who famously fooled Carrie Fisher and Asia Argento, and to Esther Reed, a con artist with multiple identities, both of whom were caught for masquerading as someone they weren’t for fame and profit. “I would hardly have ever expected her to steal a world-famous dress,” Mrs. Walker added condescendingly. I think they talk the same way about serial murderers.