I walked around the party for fifteen minutes, eyeballing various photographers, checking out who they were covering, and trying to work up the nerve to do something.
Bingo. One photographer had lined up two horse-faced banker types, which I figured would be an easy place to start. Old guys never turned down a young girl. I inserted myself between them, linking my arms in theirs as the photographer snapped away. My heart was beating as quickly as a hummingbird from the outright deception of it all, but at least there was one more photo of my alter ego. One of the old guys grabbed my ass, by the way.
Jess steered me over to a lineup of six debutantes who I assumed had wandered in from the hotel next door. They seemed so out of place, chatting away with deep Southern accents, wearing the old-fashioned deb look, long white gloves and all. I stepped into Jess’s shot and posed just as the flash went off, acting as if we were long-lost sorority sisters or something. My modified Dior in a sea of hillbilly debutantes.
Slipping away, I downed a flute of champagne from a waiter and photobombed another quick four shots, hanging out mostly in the background as if I was laughing or talking to someone. I wound my way to Jess, who was lingering by the bar to take a breather. She gave me a thumbs-up.
“The Dior really popped against all those traditional styles. It’s going to be a cool shot for my portfolio,” Jess said.
“Glad to oblige, my dear, but maybe we should leave before someone realizes I’m a total fake.”
“You’re probably right,” she said, “but get me a drink before we go? I’ve got to pee.”
“Sure thing and thanks for sharing.” I waved to the bartender for more champagne while mentally critiquing my performance. I was feeling pretty self-satisfied when a good-looking man sidled up to the bar in a black suit with a lavender shirt.
“Oh, how awful,” he said to no one in particular. He was assessing the same giggling gush of debutantes I had photobombed earlier. “A tsunami, don’t you think?” And to my terror, he turned as if he were talking to me.
“Pardon?” I asked. But I was really thinking: Oh my god, that’s Isak Guerrere.
Isak Guerrere, the handsome, uberfamous fashion designer who had owned and lost his own line many times and had become single-name famous for being Isak more than anything else. That and his fashion reality show, which I watched religiously. His rugged good looks made you wish he wasn’t gay. But the makeup defining his cheekbones and his jellied hair confirmed beyond a doubt that he was.
“I said, those debs are an utter disaster, a fashion tsunami, don’t you think?” His piercing eyes were unabashedly taking in every inch of me, my hair, my dress, my shoes. No detail eluded his glance. To say I felt like a deer caught in the headlights is an understatement. Fearing panic, I pushed my brain to say something, anything.
“Perhaps it’s a reenactment of a decisive moment in fashion history?” I offered, feigning nonchalance, crossing my fingers under the bar, hoping that would suffice.
“Ah yes, but fashion history is always subject to revision,” he said, smiling.
Returning from the bathroom, Jess froze in her tracks when she saw who I was talking to. Her eyes looked like they were going to pop right out of their sockets.
“Speaking of which, what are you wearing, if you don’t mind my asking?”
I almost choked on my champagne.
“Manners, manners, my apologies. I’m Isak Guerrere.”
“Of course,” I said, recovering. “I’m a huge fan of the design you created for Natalie Portman for the Golden Globes. Pure Genius.” See? Six years of obsessing over celebrity blogs wasn’t all for nothing.
“Really? Well, thank you, that was one of my favorites,” he said offhandedly. “And you would be?”
“Lisbeth Dulac, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” It felt more like playing a part in a play than a lie. Think Audrey. Think Audrey.
“Dulac,” he said, as though he were attempting to place the name. Obviously, that wasn’t going to happen. “Lisbeth Dulac,” he said, taking my hands in both of his, “do let us look at what you’re wearing.” I wanted to bolt, but the way he held my hands made me feel trapped.
“Vintage, Dior. Or is it?” His expression serious, his eyes wild.
Up close, his jellied hair made him look crazy, like a mad scientist. I did my best to be bright and pretty despite his scrutiny.
“Your dress is giving me a fashgasm,” he said. It was such a goofy thing to say that I couldn’t stop myself from giggling. Isak seemed slightly offended.
“Laugh if you like, but your dress is incredibly foolhardy, mildly blasphemous but stunning. And the designer would be?” he demanded.
Moving in closer to him, I whispered, “I hope you’ll understand that I can’t reveal the designer.” He eyed me suspiciously.
“It’s your secret?” He feigned shock but seemed intrigued and satisfied—for the moment.
“Yes, I appreciate your discretion.”
“Completely unique and perfectly fitted,” he whispered, “as exceptional as the wearer.” Isak flagged a waiter with a tray of champagne glasses.
“A toast,” he said, “to my very stylish new friend.”
I beamed. Jess was going to die when she heard what Isak had said about her dress.
“Thank you,” I said, bullet dodged.
Champagne flowed, and soon my worries bubbled away. Isak and I were laughing like the best of friends.
“Now tell me, Lisbeth, two things you’ve done recently that you’ve never done before,” he asked. He seemed so taken with me. Jess discretely snapped pictures from a distance.
“Well, I’ve met a wonderful fashion designer, named Isak,” I said.
“Thanks for the plug. That’s one, and two…?”
“Well, let me see. Oh, I started a blog.” I immediately regretted saying so.
“Indeed! Its name?”
“Oh, I’m embarrassed. It’s really nothing,” I said, meaning every single word of it.
“Come now.”
“Shades of Limelight, but I’ve only just started,” I said, feeling totally self-conscious.
“I’m sure it’s wonderful. I love the quote. It cuts both ways, clever girl,” he said. A little smile turned at the corner of his mouth. My heart sank, fearing I had exposed myself more than I should have.
Jess signaled we should leave. She probably could tell I was worried.
“Well, Isak dear, I can see we could chat forever,” I said, rising from the bar, “but it’s time for me to leave. I hope you don’t mind.” I didn’t realize how much I had been drinking until I stood up.
“I do mind quite a lot, but it’s been charming,” he said, standing and taking my hand. “I trust I will see you again soon?”
“I hope so,” I said and did my very best to exit gracefully without stumbling on my heels.
That night, Jess and I practically peed ourselves laughing as we clicked through the photos on her camera, reliving every glorious second of the adventure. Had we really gotten away with it so easily? Jess’s first redo was so spectacular that none other than Isak Guerrere had taken notice. I didn’t mention anything about the blog. I didn’t want her to worry.
The next night we planned to return to the scene of the crime—the Met.
A nagging part of me worried we were pushing our luck.
18
I couldn’t help mulling over in my mind the conversation with Isak. Every moment of our encounter was delicious. Although I faked every bit of my savoir faire, I had done so quite successfully. There seemed to be some value in that, as if I had stitched together a life and personality in real time as I talked to him. I had acted as if I were somebody, a person with a point of view and personality. Isak seemed to be genuinely interested in what I had to say.