Being Audrey Hepburn by Mitchell Kriegman Read Free Book Online Page A

it?). Everyone waiting was decked out and gorgeous. Too many people meant too many questions, so I tramped my way across the back of the main gallery where the action was and went down another empty, darkened hallway, in search of a less popular restroom.
    As I walked along the hall, I saw a handsome man in an Armani tux alone, pacing and talking on his cell phone. His hair graying at the temples. Considerably older than the rest of the crowd, he was utterly sophisticated and distinguished. He had that tan that comes from St. Tropez or Martha’s Vineyard as opposed to Sizzletan in Parsippany, with its patented fast-acting spray and sweaty bacteria-breeding tanning beds.
    He smiled condescendingly as I plodded along, trying to disguise my walk and hoping he wouldn’t examine me too closely. I took a sharp turn and score! Another ladies’ room. I pushed open the door, and nobody was there. Thank God!
    Reaching into the nearest stall, I grabbed a yard of two-ply, wadded it up, and crammed it into the tips of my shoes. I slipped my foot back into the left shoe. Ahh, big improvement. Admiring myself in the mirror, I couldn’t believe ten whole minutes had passed since I looked at the dress. As I grabbed for another handful of industrial-grade TP, I heard a soft moan.
    Someone was there.
    Time to stuff my right shoe and leave. Another moan. It was coming from the last stall on the right. Okay, I needed to get out of that bathroom and up the stairs. I crammed my foot into the shoe for a snug fit and headed for the door.
    “Oh shit,” a voice said.
    Then silence. After a moment, there was vomiting … retching, really. Yuck. I waited until she stopped. Damn, I couldn’t just leave her there.
    “Are you okay?” I tapped gently on the stall door, but it wasn’t latched, so the door swung open. Splayed on the tile floor, her head resting on the porcelain basin and her silver dress hiked up around her hips was the Princess of Pop herself, Tabitha Eden. I couldn’t help noticing her exposed $175 La Perla thong—next week’s Us Weekly cover story in one shot.
    “Who are you?” she demanded. She was totally intimidating, even though she was superwasted. For the first time in my life, I didn’t know if I could say my own name. I was speechless. I couldn’t stop looking at the pale circle of fine powder that sprinkled her flawless face, which was concentrated in a ring on the right side of her nose.
    “Lisbeth,” I said finally with an Audrey Hepburn lilt. I’d never realized how pretty my name was until I said it that way. It sounded like another person’s name. Immediately, I cringed that I’d told her my real name. Not the best idea, though she would probably tell me to get lost anyway. Surprisingly, she tried to smile at me, which wasn’t easy in her condition. I couldn’t believe I was talking to a Page Six pop star!
    “Hi.” She reached out her hand to shake but stopped. “I’m … I’m … I’m gonna be sick.” She turned to vomit in the toilet again. Leaning in, I held her perfect strawberry-blonde hair away from her face while she threw up. Could I pull off walking around in a Givenchy dress ( the Givenchy original) and stiletto heels? Not so sure. Could I help a friend puke her brains out? Totally up my alley.
    As she vomited, I counted how many times I’d held a girlfriend’s hair while she spewed chunks. Vomiting leveled the playing field. How many girls hadn’t found themselves retching up fourteen mango daiquiris in a public bathroom at some time in their lives, right?
    She wiped her mouth off. Staring up at me like a homeless puppy, she tried to say something, but she was puking again and barely turned her head back to the toilet bowl in time. Standing as far away from her as I could, I held her hair. Please, please, please—no backsplash—please don’t puke on me. I was painfully aware of the fact that I was wearing a stolen, irreplaceable, million-dollar dress, easily within hurling