Oh Yeah, Audrey!

by Tucker Shaw

  “Hmm,” Bryan said, holding his finger over his lips, scrutinizing the dress. “Not bad. It’s maybe an inch too long, and it’s not falling quite as perfectly as I’d like, but—” He zipped up the dress and took a step back.

  “But what?” I said, spinning in the mirror.

  “But with the right shoes—” he said.

  I went up on my tiptoes.

  “It will be fabulous.”

  He was right.

  It doesn’t fit me as perfectly as it fit Audrey, that’s certain. And my shoulders are definitely broader than hers, not as delicate. But I’m in it. The dress fits me. And I’m going to wear it.

  I look down at my new shoes, a pair of strappy black heels that Bryan picked out for me at Stuart Weitzman that afternoon. (“My treat,” he said. “And my offering to the fashion gods. They’ll strike me down if I let you wear that dress with your loafers.”) They glisten in the mirror. Bryan was right. The shoes make the dress look even better.

  The dress. The perfect black shift with the flirty skirt. The ten-thousand-dollar dress that Audrey Hepburn herself, the most beautiful person ever, made famous. It’s impossible.

  And yet, there I am in the mirror, standing in the bathroom of an unimaginably glamorous hotel room, wearing an unimaginably glamorous dress, just minutes from an unimaginably glamorous date with an unimaginably charming stranger.

  Is this really me?

  Stuart Weitzman was only one of our stops. We shopped all afternoon, the four of us, totally ignoring the itinerary. Instead of a walking tour of Breakfast at Tiffany’s landmarks, we did an SUV tour of uptown’s most exclusive stores. Bergdorf’s. Bendel’s. Barneys.

  I, of course, was having a hard time paying attention to anything. I was thinking about my date with Dusty.

  Dad texted me again while we were at Barneys. Hi, Gem. Call when you can.

  “Whatever,” I said aloud. I knew exactly what he wanted. He wanted to say he was worried about me, that he wanted me to come home so he knew I was safe. But I don’t know. It’s more than that. I mean, he was never so protective before Mom died. Sometimes I think all he really wants is just to hang out. To talk. To be with someone because he can’t stand being alone.

  Can’t he just get off my case for one day? Is that too much to ask?

  “It’s not my responsibility,” I said.

  Trina heard. “You say something, Gemma?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Sorry.”

  I texted back to Dad: I’m fine. I’m with my friends.

  What friends?

  That’s the problem with texting with Dad. As soon as you answer him, it’s like he thinks it’s an invitation to some kind of text conversation. Which it is not. I was just answering him so he would know that I’m alive, and fine, and that he didn’t have to call the cops or send out a search party or anything like that. He could stop worrying about me and leave me alone for a change.

  “Are you OK, Gemma?” Bryan asked. “Did you say you wanted to be left alone?”

  “Was I talking out loud?” I answered.

  “Um, yeah,” Trina said.

  “Sorry,” I said, and I texted to Dad: I’ll call you later.

  “Sorry, guys,” I said. “My father’s just being—” I shook my head.

  “Annoying?” Telly offered, which sounded right.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Something like that.” Only, it was more than that.

  “I get it,” Trina said. But I’m not sure she really did.

  Bryan paid for everything. Trina got a pair of black cigarette pants and a black sleeveless turtleneck pullover. Telly found a crisp white, men’s-style button-down shirt and a pair of skinny jeans.

  After helping me get ready, the others have now gone over to Seventy-first Street to photograph themselves in front of Holly Golightly’s apartment building, so I’m alone in the suite at the Four Seasons, standing in the glass-and-marble bathroom.

  “It’s not a date,” I said to Trina just before they left. “I’m just going out with him for a couple of hours. Just for dinner. It’s the least I can do after he gave me that dress.”

  “So you’re going out with him as a favor?” she said.

  “That’s not what I mean. Besides, I’ll be back way before the movie.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “It’s OK, right?”

  She paused for a minute, as though she were checking with herself. “Of course it’s OK,” she said. “I mean, if a guy like that asked me out, I’d go. And seriously, to get to wear that dress? I’d be pissed if you didn’t go.”

  “Really?”

  She grabbed Telly by the arm. “Do you want to go over to Holly’s apartment and take pictures of ourselves on the steps?” she asked.

  “One minute,” Telly said, then she leaned into my ear. “Good luck, Gemma. Remember, tonight it’s all about you.”

  “It’s all about Audrey,” I said.

  “No,” she whispered. “It’s all about Gemma.” Then she let Trina drag her toward the door. “We’ll be here when you’re done!”

  “Are you coming?” Trina yelled to Bryan.

  “Just a second,” Bryan said. He was fussing with my shoulder strap.

  “Is Trina mad?” I asked Bryan after the door closed.

  “Don’t worry about her. She won’t even miss you.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “Gemma, this is huge. He bought Audrey Hepburn’s dress so you could wear it! Do you really think that any of us would hesitate for a minute if we had the same opportunity?”

  “You mean, you’d put on this dress and go out with Dusty if he asked you to?”

  “Of course! And you owe it to us—to Oh Yeah, Audrey!—to wear that dress!”

  “I can’t believe I’m going out in this, Bryan.”

  “I can,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

  “What if I rip it?” I said. “Or spill something on it?”

  “Be brave! And come straight back to the Four Seasons after dinner. You’ll tell us everything, and we’ll freshen up your makeup, and we’ll all go over to the Ziegfeld together.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise. Your hair looks amazing,” he said, adjusting my ponytail.

  I curtsied.

  “Now, I only have two pieces of advice,” Bryan said. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, and remember, you’re wearing the dress. The dress isn’t wearing you.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, own it, girl! Take that dress out for the night it deserves!”

  “I’ll try,” I said.

  “Don’t try. Just do it. And Gemma?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be afraid to be swept away. It doesn’t happen very often.”

  Then Bryan kissed me twice, once on each cheek, and left the suite to join the others.

  6:58 P.M.

  I’m standing by the baby grand, looking out at the New York skyline. The sunlight is just starting to go golden. All I can hear is me, breathing.

  My phone vibrates. It’s a text from my father.

  Not now, I think. I ignore it.

  A phone on the wall rings. I’m afraid to answer it, afraid it might be Dad. Afraid he might have found me.

  It stops ringing, then starts again.

  I answer it.

  “Gemma Beasley?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is Rebecca at the front desk. There’s a young man here for you.” She whispers, as if she’s put her hand over her mouth to disguise what she’s saying. “And he’s cute.”

  “Thank you,” I say, hanging up the phone.

  I check my reflection. At least I think it’s me. One last swipe of lipstick and I grab my phone and hotel key card and step away from the mirror.

  I’m not Gemma Beasley.

  I’m Holly Golightly.

  7:05 P.M.

  We pass Tiffany’s on the way to SoHo, rounding the corner from Fifty-seventh St
reet in a big black sedan that isn’t exactly a limo but is still bigger than a normal car. I can tell because I can cross my legs.

  The New York air is glittering in the silky, honey-colored seven o’clock light. “The magic hour,” they call it in the movie business, or at least that’s what Bryan said once.

  “It was pink this morning,” I say quietly, and I wonder if there’s any place more beautiful in the world than Fifth Avenue right now. Probably not.

  “What was?” Dusty asks. His hair is pushed back, a couple of strands falling over his forehead: an English schoolboy look. His eyes shimmer, gray and blue and flecks of gold together, sleepy and alive at the same time. “What was pink this morning?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Just . . . everything.”

  “You make me smile,” Dusty says, and he does smile. He’s wearing slim, stiff denim jeans, a white V-neck T-shirt, and an open tuxedo jacket, and I’m wearing a ten-thousand-dollar dress. I should feel overdressed. But I don’t. I feel as glamorous as Audrey Hepburn.

  Dusty reaches over and takes my hand, brings it to his lips. He doesn’t kiss it, he just holds it there. His lips are soft, and I wonder what it would be like to—

  Dusty gives me back my hand, gently placing it on the seat between us. I touch my hair. I can’t believe this is happening.

  Yes.

  We pass by Tiffany’s, and it fades into the city behind us.

  7:25 P.M.

  The taxi pulls up to the curb next to a sign that says WYANDOT.

  “Is this the restaurant?” I say.

  “No,” Dusty says. “I just wanted to make a stop here first. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Where are we?”

  “It’s his new gallery,” Dusty says, pointing at the sign. “Larry Wyandot. The Wyandots are the most important art-dealer family in the city. Maybe the world. They’re hosting an opening tonight for Xi Xi.”

  “Who?” I say.

  “Xi Xi,” Dusty says. “He’s a Taiwanese painter. His work sells for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Sometimes millions.”

  “Millions?”

  “Millions.” He offers his hand as I step out of the car. I’ve never been around people who can spend millions of dollars before. How should I behave?

  “Watch your feet,” he says, guiding me over a puddle. His eyes crinkle into a smile.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking his hand. I see my reflection in the window of the car, and I remember: I’m Holly Golightly. I know exactly how to act.

  Inside, the massive, white-walled gallery space is crowded with people. Tall, skinny people with sleek hair and glasses of wine. I feel like I’m entering a room full of supermodels, human beings crossed with spiders, with legs that reach as high as my shoulder. The women wear skirts that are short in the front and long in the back, with turquoise necklaces and silver wrist cuffs. The men wear pastel suits tapered tightly at the ankles, no socks with their loafers.

  I don’t see any art.

  “I thought this was an art gallery.”

  Dusty just smiles. “Glass of wine?” he asks, his eyes twinkling, gesturing toward the bar at the back of the gallery.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “How about a club soda? I mean, you know, sparkling water?”

  I accept, and we push our way through the spider people. I watch the floor as I walk, careful not to trip over the maze of elegant shoes. As we approach the back of the room, the crowd begins to thin, and I start to see the art. It’s a series of tiny paintings, all of them hung right at waist level.

  “That’s weird,” I say to Dusty, pointing at a group of people bent over in front of a painting. “Kind of makes it hard to see, don’t you think?” I can just make out the painting they’re admiring, which shows a man divided in two, one side a military uniform, the other side a priest’s garb. I wonder what it means.

  “Not really,” he says. “I mean, no one’s really here to look at the art anyway. I mean, a few people obviously pretend to, but that’s not really the point of this party.”

  “Then what are they here for?”

  “To look at one another, to see who else is here. To see how they measure up.”

  “Oh,” I say.

  “You never know who you’re going to run into at a party like this,” he says. “For example, look behind you.”

  “Famous people?” I say. I’ve never seen anyone famous before.

  “Sometimes,” he says.

  What am I doing here?

  I pull out my phone to take a picture of the crowd to send to Bryan and Trina and Telly. There’s an alert on the screen, saying I have a text. From Dad. Again. I stare at my phone for a second, but I don’t open the text.

  “Everything OK?” Dusty asks.

  “Yes,” I say. “It’s nothing.” I slip my phone back into my handbag without reading the message or taking a picture. Audrey wouldn’t take pictures. Not that she had a smartphone, but still. She’d play it cool. So I’ll play it cool. And I’ll read Dad’s text later.

  We wander over to examine a small painting. It’s a bird, standing in a tree and looking out over a field, only when you look closer you realize it’s not really a bird, it’s a girl, bent over and dressed in a jacket of feathers. It’s titled Flying Lessons.

  “I wonder what it means,” Dusty says.

  But I don’t wonder. It’s a girl who wants to be something different. Who doesn’t think she belongs in the world as a girl. She wants to belong someplace.

  “I think it’s about—” I start to explain.

  Just then, a shock of blond hair swings in front of me, and a young woman materializes from behind it. “Dusty!” she exclaims. “I haven’t seen you in forever!” Her eyeliner has a short uptick at the end, like a cat’s-eye, but not quite.

  “Hey, you.” Dusty leans over to kiss her on the cheek. She’s wearing a black maxidress and carrying a leather-trimmed chocolate handbag over her forearm.

  He takes my hand and gestures at the woman, who is now facing me directly. There’s something familiar about her. “Gemma, I’d like you to meet Blake.”

  I smile nervously and switch my clutch from one hand to the other.

  “Hello,” I say quietly, trying to figure out where I’ve seen her before.

  “Great dress!” she says to me. “Whose is it?”

  I start to point at Dusty, because it takes me a minute to realize she’s asking me who designed it, not who owns it.

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s vintage.”

  Dusty wraps his arm around my waist, rescuing me. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he says.

  “It’s so . . . I don’t know, it’s like something Audrey Hepburn would wear,” the woman says, looking down at the skirt. “Oh, my God, is that a feathered fringe? I’m dying, it’s gorgeous.”

  “My Gemma has great taste,” Dusty says.

  I exhale. My Gemma. Like I belong with him. Like I belong here, in New York, at this party, with these people.

  “Well, I’m flying out to Barcelona tonight and I still have to pack!” She turns to me and holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Gemma,” she says. “Love that dress!”

  She kisses Dusty’s cheek and saunters toward the door.

  “She’s beautiful,” I say.

  “Yes. She is. But so are you.”

  “Yeah, right!” I say.

  “I’m not kidding.” His gray eyes dart back and forth, first fixed on my right eye, then my left. He takes my other hand and the rest of the gallery—the spider people, the clinking glasses, the din of conversation—disappears. He holds my fingertips.

  “You’re enchanting,” he says.

  I freeze. Enchanting. It’s the magic word.

  Enchanting.

  Me, Gemma Beasley, who didn’t exactly run away from home last night but did leave Philadelphia without so much as telling my father or anyone else there, and who is now wearing one of Audrey Hepburn’s dresses in the most exclusive art gallery in New York City, who is being star
ed at by the most handsome boy I’ve ever talked to, a boy who’s taking me out for a once-in-a-lifetime night in New York City, a boy who thinks I’m enchanting.

  This beautiful boy.

  7:40 P.M.

  I have to go to the ladies’ room.

  Dusty walks me to it. Inside, I text Trina and Bryan. OMG, you guys. You won’t believe where I am.

  Bryan answers. Don’t tell us, Gem! We want to be surprised. We’re going to dinner now. See you soon. #sweptaway

  8:15 P.M.

  What’s our next stop?” I ask when we’re back outside. Not that it matters, I say to myself. It’s not like I’m going to object.

  “We’re headed to NoHo,” Dusty says. “It’s just a few blocks. I thought maybe we could walk. It’s so nice outside.”

  It really is nice out. It’s a warm June evening, with just a little bit of a breeze. There was a swift shower of rain when we were in the gallery and now the air feels fresh. I breathe deeply and I feel like myself again.

  “Do you like seafood?” Dusty holds out his hand and I take it, and we walk.

  “I love seafood,” I say.

  “Really?”

  “Really. I don’t know why. My parents hate it. Especially my mom. She can’t stand anything fishy, not even shrimp.”

  “I thought—”

  “Yeah. Sorry. That probably seemed weird. Sometimes I talk about her like she’s still here. Don’t worry, I’m not crazy. I know she’s dead.”

  “Do you miss her?”

  “Every day.”

  “Can I ask you a weird question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did she ever annoy you?”

  He’s right. It is a weird question. But he asks it so easily that he makes me want to answer.

  “She still does, sometimes,” I say. “Like when I’m getting ready for school, and I’m taking a few extra minutes to figure out what shoes to wear, I can hear her in my head sighing and tapping her fingernail on her watch, all ‘Hurry up, Gemma, this isn’t a fashion show, you know.’ Which of course makes me take even longer to get dressed, just to spite her, which is extra stupid because, you know, it’s all in my head.”

  Dusty laughs.