#FashionVictim

by Amina Akhtar

  Sarah cleared her throat. She wanted more of a response. I smiled, or tried to. It was more a baring of teeth. I wanted to ask her if she liked me still. No, if she loved me. If she believed Lisa. But I didn’t.

  “Where do we begin?” I asked.

  Sarah smiled triumphantly.

  “I knew you’d get on board. Okay, let’s go over our Fashion Week plan.” She chatted on about designers and models.

  I was only half listening. I could fix this, right? I could somehow find a way to make this work. Think, Anya, think.

  “Anya? Hello? Are you even listening? That is so something we need to work on. Like, you’re off in your own little world all the time. And stop muttering to yourself. It’s full-on creepy. That’s why you didn’t get promoted, you know. All your weird little habits and tics.”

  Sarah was right. I was not a La Vie woman. But I would be, even if I had to murder everyone to make it happen.

  “The bloggers will be dressed to kill.” I switched to a safer topic. Talk about anything else but me and my history.

  “I know. I hate them. They, like, come out of nowhere.”

  “Like roaches.”

  “O-M-G, yes!” She snickered.

  Roaches. That would be our joke. We’d say it again and again and then double over from laughing. Jokes were essential. I liked having them with BFFs. Meredith and I had one. We would always point out a boy and say, “That’s who you’re gonna marry.” And then laugh until we cried. She always picked the ugliest ones for me. She was such a bitch.

  “You know,” Sarah added, “if you work to make me happy, we’ll all be happy.”

  * * *

  Sarah went to lunch with Cassie. She did it to spite me. It was my nightmare coming true. But it just made her look bad. What was she even thinking, hanging out with an intern? I had to help her. For her own reputation’s sake.

  “Sarah, have you noticed Cassie’s wardrobe? It’s, like, the best,” I said when she got back. “I think she might be the best-dressed person at the mag. Now that Mulberry’s gone. Don’t you agree?”

  “The best? Anya, you need your eyes checked. I bet you she’s wearing something from a sample sale.” She spit the last two words out. Only poor people went to those. Unless it was the Manolo one, of course. Sarah crossed her arms as she eyed Cassie at her desk. “I mean, what is that outfit?”

  “Looks like Stella McCartney, current season. I just saw that dress in Barneys. So not sample.”

  “Where did she get the money to buy that?”

  “Maybe she has a trust fund? You’re not the only one with a rich daddy, you know.”

  “You’re one to talk. Where’d you get that Rick Owens jacket you’ve been wearing?”

  She had noticed my clothes. I had only worn it twice so far. You can’t rewear something that major too often.

  “Sample sale,” I lied.

  “Liar. It’s not on sale yet.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her.

  “Why is Cassie dressing like—”

  “Like she works here? Because she should. What’s the issue, Sarah?” I raised my eyebrow at her.

  “I just don’t like her. She’s bugging me. Always hanging around. Can we exchange her for another intern?”

  Success.

  “Just make her deal with Celia for a week. That’ll scare her off.” We both laughed. Best friends forever and ever. We were both standing up to talk. We were together.

  “Have you lost any weight?” Sarah scrunched her face. It was her sympathetic look. Or as close as Sarah would get to sympathy.

  “Ugh, like a pound? But I’m not eating anything. It’s not healthy. Celia won’t be happy until I have an eating disorder. Why is she so obsessed?” We were talking like friends. Like buddies. This was heaven.

  “It’s the Botox thing. You know . . .”

  “Uh, no?”

  “Her Botox doc retired, and she swears he was magic, and she won’t go see anyone else. So now she’s working out like a maniac so her husband won’t leave her. Also, I think she kind of hates Mulberry two-point-oh,” Sarah explained.

  “Bronwen, you mean?”

  “Yeah, what’s up with those crowns she wears? So weird.” Celia’s new assistant (who she still called Mulberry) always had flowers or plants in her hair.

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of cute.”

  “Ugh, you have the worst taste, I swear.” But she laughed.

  I had to keep the conversation going. She was into this, into me.

  “So Celia’s just going to get as skinny as possible?”

  “It’s the La Vie way!” She grinned.

  Sarah was right. The joke was that if you were above a certain size, you might get hired here, but you’d be forced to lose the weight (see: me). On the surface, the magazine was very prohealth. Lose weight the smart way, be healthy—all that jazz. But in reality, there were scales in the bathroom. At lunch meetings, some editors didn’t allow their assistants to eat the catered food that was provided. Celia liked to come off as someone who ate and drank whatever she wanted, but if you put a burger in front of her, she’d probably punch you for thinking she ate.

  But now I had an idea of what to do with Celia. I didn’t ask about Lisa. I didn’t want to ruin the moment. Our moment.

  That night after work, I made a Celia mood board. Then I logged into Diana’s account and went on a commenting spree. She loved all my pieces, hated Sarah’s. It was petty, but it would (hopefully) get Greg off my back since he didn’t think I was promotion material. Whatever, I’d show him.

  Dr. M checked in to see if I’d calmed down (I hadn’t).

  “Worry only about the things you can change. Everything else is out of your control.”

  He was right. I had to take control. “Thanks. You’re so right.”

  7

  “Where are we with the up-and-coming designers, Anya?” Celia asked loudly the next morning. She affected a faux Continental accent for good measure—it was the fashion voice. Women of a certain age in the industry all had it. Somehow, going to Paris four times a year meant they’d “studied” abroad. “Fashion Week is looming.”

  “The story’s done. I sent it to you last week for approval.”

  “Well, why didn’t you remind me?” She sniffed. I shrugged. There was no sense in arguing. “And, Sarah, update me on the models-to-watch piece.”

  “Well, we did the shoot, but—”

  “But?”

  “But it turns out that four of the models aren’t being cast this Fashion Week, so we can’t really say they’re models to watch.”

  “Then why did we use them?”

  “Because you liked them?”

  I closed my eyes as she said it, savoring the brief moment of joy as Sarah fucked up. It was the wrong answer. Celia’s eyes sent death rays. We all waited for Sarah’s head to explode. If she died, I’d be next in line for her job. But reality check: she was alive and my boss.

  I cleared my throat. “Can we just call up a couple smaller designers—perhaps the ones in my story—and ask if they can use the girls we shot so we don’t have to redo the entire spread?”

  Celia looked at me appraisingly. You made the wrong choice, Celia.

  “Good idea. Get on that. And how’s the diet coming?”

  Dammit, even a good idea couldn’t spare me this indignity.

  “It’s coming. I’m down eight pounds.”

  Celia just nodded.

  “If you think I’m going to help you call the designers, think again,” Sarah hissed at me as we walked to our desks. I wanted to slap her on the forehead. Hard. But she was my boss now. I had to get in line. Besides, I was the one who had to rewrite the story.

  “We can have Cassie call them, and I’ll rework the story for you.” See? I was helping her.

  “Whatever.” That was as much of an acknowledgment as I was going to get. I’d take it. “Anya, are those the new Pradas?” She pointed at my shoes. I nodded. They went perfectly with my leathe
r pencil skirt and Marni top. “O-M-G, did you copy me? They’re totally the same as mine!”

  No, hers were blue.

  “Sarah, your style is just so amazing, I couldn’t help myself!” I heard the words pour out of my mouth. I was worse than Cassie. I was kissing Sarah’s taut and toned ass.

  “It is, I know. But you can’t just copy people. Ugh, Lisa was so right about you.”

  Red. I was seeing red. Literally. Was this some kind of brain disease?

  “I’m sorry. I should have asked you first.”

  “At least you got them in a different color. Just check with me next time, okay?”

  I nodded. If I made Sarah happy, we’d all be happy.

  Our next meeting with Celia didn’t go much better. It was a run-through, where she approved clothes and accessories for an upcoming shoot. She liked all of us to show up, to provide input she would then ignore.

  “What the hell kind of shoe is this?” Celia held up a jeweled sling-back and waved it in Dalia’s face. “Seriously, what the fuck is this shit? Are we doing a tacky trend? This isn’t fucking India or wherever you’re from.”

  No one breathed. No one made a sound. Had she really said that out loud? I glanced at Dalia. She looked like she was going to strangle Celia. But she couldn’t say anything, not without getting fired. HR didn’t care about Celia’s antics. As far as management was concerned, she was a genius, and that meant she could say and do whatever she wanted. Even with brown and black models and actresses gracing our covers, our bosses were firmly stuck in decades past.

  The silence was killing me. You could hear someone’s jaw grinding, though not sure whose. I had to speak. I had to do something. My palms were sweating.

  “Um, I like that shoe.” I tried to smile. I heard Bronwen gasp from across the room.

  “No! No! No!” Celia screeched, before throwing the shoe. Later, Celia would claim she was merely tossing the offending footwear into the declined pile, but we all saw her aim for Dalia’s head, like a hunter lining up a kill shot. Dalia ducked, and the shoe hit Evie in the face. She had to walk around with a mark on her forehead for the rest of the day. (She’d get a “sorry-I-hit-you” present from Celia later.)

  I’d like to say that run-throughs aren’t usually such violent affairs. But they were at La Vie. It all depended on Celia’s mood. Tornadoes of shoes flew around us, earrings went airborne, belts were snapped so fiercely, we flinched. And yet Sarah placed Cassie front and center. It was cruel; she would get hit by flying accessories.

  “Cassie, you really need to sit here and take notes. We need to make sure we know what’s in and out of the story so we know what to write about.” If she’d added a cackle to the end, it wouldn’t have been out of place. She still hadn’t forgiven the intern for being so well-dressed. I smiled.

  “All I ask is that when we do a story on disco in St. Petersburg, you have the right accessories, Dalia. How hard is that?” Celia demanded, glaring at each of us in turn. “It’s disco, it’s Lenin, it’s glamorous Russia. It just works. But apparently, not for you. This intern”—she gestured at Cassie—“could do a better job. Perhaps we should give her the story assignment?”

  It really could have been worse. The story wasn’t yet killed; Dalia had a day to redo the entire concept. It wasn’t her fault. The idea was pretty idiotic. Celia had been weirdly in love with Russia for the last few weeks. She’d recently watched Dr. Zhivago and was obsessed. Maybe she had a new Russian lover?

  * * *

  The next couple days were a blur of Fashion Week preparation. Which really meant calling in clothes to “borrow” (and never return) for Celia, Sarah, Evie, Dalia, and myself.

  Cassie, meanwhile, was in charge of RSVPing for all our events. We couldn’t exactly be expected to do it ourselves. We each had about forty-five runway shows and presentations, along with dinners and parties every night. But it was a learning experience for her; Cassie got to learn what it was like to be invited to things. (Bronwen was handling Celia’s invites. They were always called invites, not invitations. Verbs as nouns and nouns as verbs were the fashion way.)

  “I thought you were getting your hair done?” Sarah stared at my head as I walked past her desk to get to mine.

  “I did?” Didn’t she see the waves and layers? How bouncy my blown-out hair was?

  “But it’s still the same color. Like, ew, Anya.” She wrinkled her nose. That meant she hated it.

  “We agreed I was just getting a cut.” I was not proud of this moment. She had decreed that I needed a new do, and off I went to John Barrett at Bergdorf. It was even layered the way she’d suggested. And she had been right, really—my hair was in need of some TLC. I wanted it to be Instagram worthy. I wanted her to love it.

  “Ugh, brown is so boring.”

  “Sarah, you didn’t mention dyeing my hair,” I said through my teeth. My heart was racing again. I needed a Xanax. I had done what Sarah asked me to do. Why wasn’t she praising me?

  “Whatever. You need to do something edgy with it. You’re just so . . . dull.”

  “Okay, sure. I’ll keep that in mind next time.” My voice was too bright, too loud. She was helping me. Like a friend does.

  “I mean, I bet Celia would love it if you went for the silver-gray look. Or lavender.”

  “That’s not really me.”

  “That’s the point! You’re boring!”

  I watched her wrap her long blonde hair into a topknot. I imagined using her locks to strangle the life out of her. Nothing was good enough for her. I knew that already, but now, as her underling, the point was made even clearer. Sarah had expectations no one could meet, mainly because they shifted hour to hour. She loved me, but she hated how I looked. She wanted me to take style pointers from her, but she never wanted me to copy her again. I rarely knew where I stood, and that made me anxious. Where the hell was my Xanax?

  I was desperate for a Sarah win. But the more I craved it, the more annoyed I got. At Sarah, not myself. She would never be satisfied. I glanced at my Instagrammed selfie from the salon. My hair looked good, dammit. What would it take for Sarah Taft to tell me I was perfect?

  Dr. M was not going to approve. He would give me an F for the week. He was the only shrink I’d ever met who graded his patients. The categories were physical health, social, dating, personal care, and overall well-being. You had to get at least a B in everything to make him happy and not up your meds. (I had to lie to pass.) He would so fail me on social. The mere thought of that made me panic. I needed to scream.

  Then my ears pricked up as I heard Cassie’s phone convo.

  “Don’t you know who I am? Yes, well, I work with Sarah Taft and Anya St. Clair, so I expect a good seat. It doesn’t matter if they’re already going, I need one too!”

  I glanced at Sarah, who frowned in reply.

  “Great, and can you send a car too—”

  I grabbed the phone out of her hand and hung it up. “In what universe do you think it’s appropriate to demand access like that?”

  “Well, I mean, I work here, so—”

  “No, you intern here. You fetch our coffee and our packages and transcribe our interviews, and if you’re lucky—and pull your head out of your fucking ass—you just may learn a few things while you’re here. But you most certainly do not work here!” I shouted the last part. The cubicles near us went eerily quiet. I knew I was taking my issues with Sarah out on Cassie. But it was helping, sort of.

  “But you and Sarah demand things all the time.”

  It’s true, we did. Sarah shrugged at this.

  “You are not me and Sarah. We have worked a long time in this industry. The PR companies know us. We only make demands when appropriate.” Lies. We demanded shit all the time. “They don’t know or care who the fuck you are! And right now, you’re about to be the intern who got shit-canned!”

  “Anya’s right, Cassie.” Sarah nodded. “You really can’t do that. I mean, you’re not even important.” Watching Cassie’s face f
all at that moment should have moved me. She was a kindred spirit, someone who just wanted acceptance. She wanted Sarah’s love. Just like me. But the idea of being like my intern filled me with disgust. She was so fucking needy. I despised her more than ever.

  “How many designers did you call and demand seats from?” My head was starting to pound. And with each throb, the sound of buzzing grew louder. I pinched the bridge of my nose to make it stop.

  “Eleven,” Cassie whispered.

  Sarah snorted. “Call them back,” she ordered. “Anya will supervise.”

  I nodded. This wasn’t one of those things where she was showing how much she trusted me. Sarah simply didn’t want to deal with it.

  “And email them for good measure. CCing me. Let’s hope Celia doesn’t find out.”

  Cassie wiped her eyes.

  “Just dial. I don’t have all day to fix your mistakes.” I glared.

  Sarah grinned at me. She was enjoying this. I had made her happy.

  * * *

  While I nibbled at my Celia-approved lunch (kale salad with lemon juice and nothing else), I thought about what to do about Cassie.

  “Give her a chance. She just goofed,” Sarah said. Had they made up behind my back?

  “Um, since when do you like her? You’ve wanted to get rid of her for days.” I stood up to watch her while we talked. Eye contact says someone is important to you, that you see them. Sarah didn’t even glance up.

  “I know, but she’s really good with my dry cleaning.”

  “She’s an intern, not your maid.”

  “Well, yeah, she’s cheaper than my maid.”

  “She’s always going to Greg’s office. I wonder what that means,” I said as innocently as I could. Sarah glared at me.

  “Is she? We need to fire her.” She seethed as she opened one of dozens of packages on her desk.

  “Oh, look at this!” Sarah held up her newest gift: a necklace with charms and beads hanging off a rather unusual matted material.

  “What’s it made out of?” I asked. I knew what it was. I was the one who made it for her. I swallowed a giggle.