the whole thing up by adding another row of pearls and random filigree beads either side of the orchid, thereby turning a pretty pendant into a dramatic layered show-stopper …
A little way behind me, somebody says, ‘Good evening.’
I spin round, wondering, for a split second, if madness really is setting in, and if – seeing as I was talking to the sofa a few moments ago – I’m starting to hear the sofa talk back to me.
But it’s not the sofa. It’s someone perched, in fact, on the arm of the sofa.
And that someone is Audrey Hepburn.
OK, first things first: obviously it’s not actually Audrey Hepburn.
I mean, I may just have been chatting to my new sofa, but I’m not 100 per cent crackers, not yet. Obviously there’s no way this is the real, bona-fide, sadly long-dead Hollywood legend Audrey.
But second things second and third things third: if she’s a lookalike, she’s a bloody good one (she’s dressed exactly, but I mean, exactly the same as the Audrey Hepburn I’ve just been watching on screen: black dress, sunglasses, triple-strand pearls and all); but, more to the point, what the hell is an Audrey Hepburn lookalike doing in my flat in Colliers Wood at eight thirty on a Wednesday evening?
Before I can ask this question – while, in fact, I’m still doing a good impression of a goldfish – she gets to her feet, leans slightly over the melamine worktop and extends a gloved hand.
‘I very much hope,’ she says, ‘that I’m not barging in.’
Wow.
She’s got the voice down absolutely pat, I have to say. The elongated vowels, the crisp, elocution-perfect consonants, all adding up to that mysterious not-quite-English-not-quite-European accent. Exactly the way Audrey Hepburn sounds when you hear her in the movies.
‘But how did you get in?’ I glance over at the door, which I’m sure I locked when Olly and Jesse left. There’s no way she can have come in that way … Unless she has a key, of course … ‘Oh, God. Did Bogdan send you?’
Her eyebrows (perfectly arched and realistically thick) lift up over the top rim of her sunglasses.
‘Bogdan?’
‘The man who owns this block. Owns most of Colliers Wood, by the looks of it.’
‘Colliers Wood?’ she repeats, as though they’re words from a foreign language. ‘What a magical-sounding place!’
‘It’s really, really not.’
‘Where is it?’
‘You’re joking, right?’
She stares at me, impassively, from behind the sunglasses. (Oliver Goldsmith sunglasses, I can’t help but notice, in brown tortoiseshell, so she’s certainly done a thorough job of sourcing a fantastic replica pair from some vintage store or other. Or some shop that sells exact-replica Audrey Hepburn gear, because that necklace she’s wearing is an absolute ringer for the one the real Audrey was wearing on my iPad screen a few minutes ago.)
‘It’s in London. Zone Three. Halfway between Tooting and—’
‘How wonderful!’ She claps her hands in delight. ‘I adore London! I lived here just after the war, you know. The tiniest little flat, you wouldn’t believe how small, right in the middle of Mayfair. South Audley Street – do you know it at all?’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I know South Audley Street, but I don’t know where you … rather, where Audrey … look, I don’t mean to be rude, but you have just sort of … showed up. And I’m not sure I’m happy about other people having keys to the flat, so perhaps you could tell Bogdan …’
‘Darling, I’m awfully sorry, but I really don’t know this Bogdan fellow at all. In fact, it’s just occurred to me that you and I haven’t introduced ourselves properly! I’m Audrey.’ She extends a gracious hand, emitting a waft, as she does so, of perfume from her wrist: an oddly familiar scent of jasmine and violets. ‘Audrey Hepburn.’
‘Right,’ I snort. ‘And I’m Princess Diana.’
‘Oh, my goodness!’ She bows her head and drops into an impressively low curtsey. ‘I had no idea I was in the presence of royalty!’
‘No! I mean, obviously I’m not …’
‘I should have realized, Your Highness. I mean, only a princess would have jewels like that.’
I’m confused (make that even more confused) until I realize that I’m still holding Nora’s half-finished diamanté and pearl-bead necklace in my hand.
‘No, no, this isn’t real.’ I shove the necklace back into the bead-box. ‘And I’m not Your Highness. I’m not a princess.’
She glances up, still balanced in her curtsey. ‘But you said …’
‘Yes, because you said you were Audrey Hepburn. Now, don’t get me wrong, you’re doing a fantastic job …’
Which she really, really is, I have to admit, the longer I stare at her.
I mean, I know anyone can recreate the Breakfast at Tiffany’s look without too much trouble – the dress, the sunglasses, the beehive – but she’s really cracked the finer points, too. Her hair isn’t just beehived, it’s exactly the right shade of chestnut brown; her lips are precisely the right shape and fullness; her complexion is Hollywood-lustrous and oyster-pale.
Oh, and it’s just occurred to me that I can pin down that familiar jasmine-y, violet-y scent, after all: it’s L’Interdit, the Givenchy perfume created specially for Audrey Hepburn, of course. Mum and Cass gave me a bottle of it several Christmases back.
‘Does it take a really long time?’ I suddenly blurt out.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The whole Audrey look. The hair. The make-up. Does it take a really long time?’
‘Oh, well, I have dressers to help me when I’m working, if that’s what you’re asking about. And of course I have darling Hubert to make me the most perfect frocks – this is one of his that I’m wearing right now, in fact! Do you like it? He’s such a brilliant designer – and, trust me, it takes some brilliance to put me in a long dress and not make me look like an ironing board! – and such a dear friend, too!’
As she talks, a second possibility is starting to dawn on me.
Which is that she’s not an extremely good professional lookalike but is, in fact, an escaped lunatic.
Because she really seems to believe that she is Audrey Hepburn. In the way that you hear about people really believing that they are (usually) Napoleon, or Jesus Christ.
