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Chapter 130 – Givenchy
🕑 Added 2025-08-21 16:36:41 +0000 UTC
With a gentleman’s grace, Hubert de Givenchy pulled out Audrey Hepburn’s chair and helped her sit. From the way they exchanged glances and words, it wasn’t the casual familiarity of old spouses—it was the luminous warmth of two people who still looked at each other as if love itself lingered in the air. Even their eye contact seemed to hum with a thread of connection.
Watching them, Henry couldn’t help but think of a word that didn’t yet exist in this era: male bestie.
Of course, in later times the term would gather plenty of baggage. But here, it was perfect. Not a lover, not just a friend—something deeper, somewhere in between.
No wonder Hepburn’s two ex-husbands had bristled at Givenchy. What man could watch his wife gaze at another with such unguarded affection and not feel something crack inside?
Yet Henry could also see the boundary. Their intimacy was real, but it stopped short of the final step. They danced right up to that invisible line and never crossed it.
As the one sitting closest to this quiet storm, Henry found himself mulling over a classic question: which is worse—emotional betrayal, or physical? Where do men and women draw their lines in the sand?
Once all three were seated, a waiter arrived with water and menus. But Audrey waved them away with a smile. “Give us a surprise.”
“Chef’s choice,” essentially. Not common yet, but some bars and restaurants allowed diners to surrender the decision to the kitchen.
Henry excused himself briefly, pulling the waiter aside. He explained quietly about Audrey’s delicate stomach—a consequence not of vanity diets, but of near-starvation during her war-torn childhood, and years of constant travel. Givenchy, meanwhile, was robust and healthy, but jetlagged from flying straight in from Paris.
The restaurant’s chef, Henry noticed, had both a culinary diploma and a German nutritionist’s certificate proudly displayed on the wall. He trusted the man would know what to do with the details he’d just given.
When Henry returned, Audrey and Givenchy were already deep in conversation.
“You’ve barely recovered from what happened,” Givenchy said, concern etched in his features. “And now you’re running back to Africa again?”
“Because people there need help,” Audrey replied simply. “What other reason do I need?”
“At least rest a few days,” he pressed. “I thought my schedule was madness, balancing design work and being creative director at LVMH. Yet you—supposedly retired—you’re more frantic than I am. When was the last time you even stayed in Switzerland for more than a breath?”
“Life doesn’t wait, Hubert. My time grows shorter, and there is still so much to do. Rest will come eventually, but until then, I want to leave as much good behind as I can.”
Givenchy sighed. “Oh, Audrey. Your legacy already eclipses mine. And still you think it isn’t enough?”
The weight of mortality tugged at the table. For two people of their years, the question was no longer what to build, but what to leave behind. The word death hung unspoken, threatening to darken the mood.
Audrey refused to let it. With a mischievous sparkle, she patted Henry’s shoulder. “Do you know how I met this boy?”
Givenchy played along, curiosity warming his eyes. “No. Was it an interesting story?”
“It was Catherine who introduced us,” Audrey said slyly.
“Catherine!” Givenchy laughed. “And how is she?”
“Stronger than me, as always. But listen to this—when Henry first met me, he said, ‘Oh. That Hepburn.’” Audrey mimed a crestfallen look so perfectly it could have been stagecraft.
Henry groaned, burying his face in his hands.
Givenchy chuckled despite himself. “You didn’t.”
Henry sighed, resigned. “I did. A not-so-close friend in Los Angeles knew I admired Hepburn, and lured me with the promise of a private dinner. In my excitement, I forgot there are two Hepburns in Hollywood. I met the other one first—and made an absolute ass of myself. I nearly ended up in the hospital with a broken nose for my trouble.”
Givenchy’s laughter broke free. “Ah! Then I was lucky. When I made the same mistake, my Hepburn didn’t rearrange my face.”
The tale of Katharine Hepburn breaking Howard Stark’s nose with a single punch was a legendary bit of Hollywood folklore—soldiers in World War II hadn’t managed it, but one actress had. No photos existed, no public details, but everyone knew it was true. Even decades later, reporters never tired of asking about it.
Shared humiliation made for strange camaraderie. In that moment, Givenchy understood why Audrey had brought Henry. This wasn’t just dinner—it was a chance to relive an old joke at his expense. Both Hepburns shared a wicked streak of humor, and their targets rarely stayed angry for long.
Men bonded differently than women. A single shared wound—or in this case, embarrassment—was often enough.
Givenchy studied Henry anew. The young man wore an Armani suit—respectable, though to Givenchy’s eye, anything not tailored bespoke was “cheap.” Still, he sensed something beneath the ill-fitting fabric.
“I know many who imagine stars and icons to be flawless, larger than life,” he said, leaning forward. “When reality intrudes, they grow disillusioned—sometimes even angry that we are not their fantasies. What about you, young man? Now that you serve Audrey Hepburn as her assistant… what do you really think of her?”
The question landed sharp, almost like a test. Was Givenchy subtly warning him off? Drawing boundaries around the woman he adored?
Audrey, for her part, widened her eyes in mock innocence, fixing Henry with a gaze that could have melted steel.
He realized he couldn’t dodge this one.
