by Amina Akhtar
“The card says it’s the first bionatural organic cilia-woven jewelry line. What does that mean?”
“Oh, ew. It means it’s hair!” I laughed.
“No, like dog hair?”
“Maybe. Or bunny hair, like angora?”
“Oh, totes. It’s kinda cute, right? Just what I need for Fashion Week! I’ll have to show it to Dalia.”
And that’s how Sarah started wearing Diana’s hair around her neck. Di’s hair was too pretty to toss, and I wanted to give Sarah just the right present, something with meaning. Diana would have loved going to Fashion Week—and now she could! I wanted to tell Sarah it was from me. That I made it myself, just for her. But Sarah wouldn’t like that. She’d probably never wear it if she knew.
Detective Hopper left me a message. He wanted to get coffee. Was that a date? I pushed it back until after Fashion Week. Priorities, people.
I checked Sarah’s text messages while she went to get her nails done. Lisa and Jack. Always Lisa and Jack. When would I be invited to the group chat?
Lisa: Is there any way we could do NYFW without your freaky coworker?
Jack: OMG, you are so obsessed with her! LOL
Sarah: LOL, I wish. She does so much work tho.
Jack: You know what they say: you’re either a workhorse or a show pony.
Sarah: She’s such a workhorse.
Lisa: She even has the build for it. (crying face emoji) But really, you guys know she’s a fraud, right? Like, I’m getting proof.
Jack: Babe, you need to let this go. You’re starting to sound crazy.
Lisa: Ugh, whatever. You’ll see.
* * *
Labor Day weekend should have been one of rest. I had more than forty fashion shows to hit the following week, and all while wearing high heels. I needed to chill. But I couldn’t. Not with Lisa Blitz whispering about me at every turn. She was planning something big, I knew it. She was going to out me at shows. In front of everyone. I could picture her now, sitting front row with Sarah. Pointing at me. Laughing. Having me removed by security. Just envisioning it made me throw up.
Every minute I was awake, I thought about Lisa, and really, I should have been focusing on Sarah and what my next steps were. (Dammit, Lisa!) I imagined every single thing she’d say about me. Had she hired the investigator? Were there files on me? Would she run a giant exposé? I had to fix this, deal with it before everything blew up in my face. I’d be a laughingstock if I didn’t. Just a punch line to people like Sarah.
“No!” I screamed, throwing my Prada mules at my mood boards. “That won’t happen!”
My neighbor downstairs pounded on his ceiling.
Get it together, Anya. Fix this.
Unlike Sarah, Lisa was spending the holiday weekend in the city. She had claimed (to Sarah) it was to avoid the hoi polloi who flocked to the Hamptons. But the truth was that Lisa didn’t have a beach house. Sarah laughed about it at work.
“It’s so sad. She has, like, no money. She totally makes it work, but she’s been crashing at everyone else’s beach house all summer. Mine’s full this weekend.” Her parents were coming in to see her and lounge by the pool. Lisa was on her own. All alone. I didn’t ask why I wasn’t invited. I would be, soon.
“Is Greg joining you?”
She whirled her head around. “No, why, what have you heard? Do you know what he’s up to this weekend?”
I held my hands up in retreat. “No, I just was curious. Calm down.” Sarah pouted. Trouble in paradise. But more important, I had a chance to deal with Lisa Blitz.
When an opportunity knocks, grab it by the fucking throat. Or something.
Saturday came. I was up early. No sleeping in. No resting before the sartorial storm hit. I stood across from Lisa’s apartment on Eldridge Street on the Lower East Side. She was home, I was certain of it. I hadn’t seen her leave, and I’d been there for hours.
I buzzed her apartment; she let me in. I think she thought I was Sarah. I wore my blonde wig. I felt fabulous. Best purchase ever.
“Baaaaabe! Why haven’t you left yet?” she said loudly, throwing open her door. Then her face froze. She took in my wig, my clothes, my face. And then she laughed. “Oh my God, you are such a stalker!” She doubled over laughing. My hands flew to my wig. No, I was perfect.
I smiled and pushed her back into her apartment, closing the door behind me. “Lisa, let’s chat.” She rolled her eyes. “Listen, I’m not sure where you’re getting your weird info about me, but it’s not cool to spread lies.”
“Wait, you came here, dressed as Sarah, because I know about you? You are so pathetic!” Her face twisted as she taunted me. She was so ugly when she did that. If she had just been nice, even once, I would have tried to resolve this peacefully.
I shrugged to show I didn’t care. (God, did I care.)
“Wait ’til I tell Jack and Sarah. O-M-G, they won’t even believe it! That wig!” She laughed, holding her phone to text.
“Wait! I have a peace offering. Let’s have a glass and then move on.” I held up a bottle of Veuve. She pursed her lips but acquiesced. Lisa couldn’t resist free champagne, even in the morning. “Fab, I’ll pour.” I love opening champagne bottles. You squeeze, you don’t pop. All that foam everywhere is such a waste. I was in her tiny kitchen area, my back to her. I made a show of washing out the dust from the glasses but really, I needed to block her from seeing what I was doing. I dropped some fentanyl into her flute, poured the champagne, and turned back to hand it to her. “Cheers!” I had to know how much info she’d shared with Sarah. Not just her snide comments, but proof. I had no doubt that she had some. She knew too much.
“You know, we’re a lot alike. Self-made in a land full of Sarahs.”
She rolled her eyes at me as I said it. We should have been on the same side. Why didn’t Lisa see that?
“Except I’m not a fraud like you. ‘Anya St. Clair’ doesn’t even exist before a few years ago. What, did you pick the name out of a hat? Just make up something that sounded good? Who are you?” She narrowed her eyes, watching me. “What are you hiding? I’m going to find out sooner or later. You may as well tell me. My private eye is working the case. You’re going to be totally exposed.” She threw her head back and laughed. “It’s going to be so good! Anya the faker! You’ll never work in fashion again!” She snorted, wiping tears from her eyes.
I kept an idiotic smile on my face. “Jeez, Lisa, you really are obsessed with me! I guess I just wasn’t important enough to get Google hits. I can tell you all about me, but it’s really boring.” The sneer on her face fueled me. This bitch was enemy number one. “Look, if it makes you happy, pay some man to look into me. Hell, I’ll even sit down with him,” I lied. “But I’d really like us to get along. We’re not that different, you know.” Her eyes narrowed. “I say let’s have a truce and toast to a good Fashion Week.” Or to dropping this line of questioning. But she wouldn’t. She’d never let it go.
“Whatever. Let’s get this over with.” She threw back her champagne, swallowing it in one gulp. “Okay, get out.”
“Oh, come on. Let’s finish the bottle. It’ll go flat.” And I poured more. But her eyes were already glassy. She’d be out soon.
Lisa was a lightweight. I got no info out of her. My fault; I pour with a heavy hand. At least I styled her after the drugs kicked in. Dead Lisa wore three veils—one on her face, one over her crotch, and the third stuffed in her mouth. Her Chanel pearls were strung so tightly, they almost broke. Her accessories wall alone was reason enough to kill her. So much to choose from, so little time. But this was self-defense. Lisa was out to ruin me. She wanted to take my job from me, my livelihood. My friends. My social standing. Everything I’d worked so damn hard to achieve would be gone in a flash. I’d have to leave New York, go live in a yurt somewhere. All because of stupid Lisa Blitz. People like that don’t deserve to live. Dr. M would be so proud of me for taking action. For doing.
I searched through her computer files, emails, and
direct messages until I found what I was looking for. Emails from three different editors I supposedly worked for saying they’d never heard of me. Those bastards. And some calls and texts from her “guy.” My to-do list was growing every second. Faking your way into this world isn’t easy; it’s not less work. You have to constantly push to stay afloat. Be aware of attacks. Fucking Lisa and everybody like her didn’t get that I was self-made. She should have looked up to me. I was doing what she couldn’t.
The mystery guy she’d hired to dig up dirt on me had texted her a few times. The situation is resolved, I wrote. And then Venmoed a few hundred bucks to him from Lisa’s account. I screengrabbed some texts on Lisa’s phone before turning it off for good. I didn’t know what to do with it when I was done, so I decided to hide it in the cabinets at work. There was so much junk in them, so much of Sarah’s stuff, that no one would even notice.
I took one last look at the body, snapped a photo, and left. The rest of the weekend I spent watching Netflix and Law & Order. I was trying to feel calm, relaxed. One major thing on my to-do list was officially done at least. Line crossed through and all. Now to take on the rest.
8
It was finally here: Fashion Week. And I was down thirteen whole pounds and one and a half sizes. In the week leading up to my final weigh-in, I lived off of kale, water, and kale juice. I’d like to say I exercised a lot, but truthfully, after dealing with Lisa, I slept. Or rather, I kept passing out. (What was Labor Day for if not resting?) But the result was a five-pound drop in my weight in that last week, however temporary. Enough at least to do the story. I was pretty damn proud of myself, as was Dr. M. (Though he wasn’t happy with the methods I employed.) Celia, on the other hand, considered the entire experiment a colossal failure.
“You’ll just have to write it that way. That you tried and failed. Maybe the readers will enjoy the human touch.” She pursed her lips to show her disappointment. I was a failure. I was a (fat) loser to her. The idea of a La Vie girl being on the same footing as humans was repulsive in Celia’s world. We were better. We were the elite in every way. We didn’t age, we didn’t get fat, and we sure as hell didn’t have body issues. Evie, whose idea it was to begin with, smirked gleefully at me, her bony porcelain shoulders taunting me. She leaned in to whisper something in Sarah’s ear, and they both giggled. Those bitches. What would it be like to take a hammer and smash Evie’s pretty collarbone to pieces?
Despite my exhaustion, I had to admit, I looked fan-fucking-tastic. So I wrote the story, “How to Lose Two Dress Sizes in Less Than Six Weeks—We Tried It!” And I dished on all my cravings, my failings, the weigh-ins, the planks. Instead of photos of me, I ran shots of my food. It wasn’t the highest moment in my career, but the piece was a success. The commenters were all rather sympathetic to my cause, even expressing concern over what I’d had to endure. Diana said we were “crazy” to make me do it. (Thanks, babe! I knew we’d be friends.)
* * *
“Dammit! Lisa’s flaked again!” It was Tuesday morning, and Sarah was pouting at her phone. “She’s gone M-I-A on me. W-T-F, right? Like, Jack hasn’t heard from her either. Ugh, I hope she’s not mad about not using my beach house.”
I hid my smile. “Maybe she choked on that pearl necklace of hers,” I suggested.
“Not funny. I wonder if she’s mad at me.”
“Why would she be? You know how she is. Such a bitch.”
“She is not!”
I only nodded in reply. I’d wait for her to come around. It would happen, and I’d be there when she realized her friends were jerks.
* * *
“At least your outfits are less embarrassing now that you’re a normal weight,” Sarah said coldly as we hopped into our car to Spring Studios on Varick Street. “Just try not to make a horrible face in photos.” She was wearing a leather fringed Valentino dress in lilac. (She got caught in the door twice.)
We weren’t getting closer. She was sulking over Lisa. And taking it out on me. Or maybe she had Fashion Week mood. Everyone was extragrouchy when shows were on. I mutely looked out my window as we inched through traffic.
I knew what else was bugging her: Greg. Our publisher was causing a major rift between us. He had decided that our audience needed me to blog every up and down of this week. I was the “voice” of the people. Somehow, using Diana’s account to post happy comments made him think I was in sync with our readers.
“The readers get you. We need that, build some brand loyalty!” Brand loyalty. As if brands were ever loyal back. “And, Sarah, work with Anya to improve reader reaction to your stories. She has it down.”
She’d turned around and walked away.
Between Lisa vanishing and Greg’s attention, Sarah downright loathed me. But I didn’t get it. She was without a bestie; the trinity was down a member. (They just didn’t know it yet.) And Jack didn’t go to women’s shows (though he met Sarah at after-parties). Which meant she needed me, her friend, more than ever this week. Instead, she sulked and ignored me. She was this close to making me pick up her dry cleaning as penance. It was going to be a long week.
So far, the shows were not going well, and it was just day one. We sat snarled in New York City traffic. We should have taken the subway, but, as Celia liked to remind us, La Vie girls show up in black cars. Escalades if you wanted to be specific. Evie and Dalia had their own cars; their schedules were too crazy to ride with us. Evie had to work backstage with the beauty teams, and Dalia had to rush from accessories appointments to runway shows. Sarah’s schedule overlapped with mine, so I spent the better part of an hour stuck in traffic with her, as she alternated between ignoring me and whining that Greg was ignoring her.
“I mean, why don’t I have a blog? I’m, like, so much more interesting than you.”
“I don’t know, Sarah. You’ll have to talk to Greg.”
“But, Anya! It’s not fair!”
I wondered what would shut her up the fastest: smashing her head through the glass window or agreeing with her. I decided to go with the latter. Why ruin her pretty face?
“Why don’t you come up with an idea and pitch it to him and Celia? I’m sure they’re open to it.”
“Right, like you haven’t told them to not let me do anything. And, like, I don’t get why the readers have such shitty taste.”
“Uh, paranoid much? You’re my boss. Why would I work against you? And I do think you should have a blog or diary too. It’s only fair.”
“You’re right, I should. I want my own thing!” She nodded, wiping her nose.
“Then ask for it. Jeez, I didn’t ask for this blog, but I’m doing it.”
She did her bobblehead nod. She whipped out her phone and began texting angrily, no doubt to Greg. She was wearing her Diana necklace today. I stifled a giggle.
By the time we got to the venue, we were thirty minutes late, which meant right on time. (All fashion shows start at least thirty minutes behind, except for Marc Jacobs, who, after years of being hours behind, now started two minutes ahead of schedule.) We ran to check in.
“Name?” the Lauren-bot asked, clipboard in hand. They were multiplying despite my best efforts.
“Anya St. Clair. Here’s my invite and seat.”
“You’re not on the list.”
“Um, but I’m holding my invite and seat assignment. So obviously I am.”
“Hold on.”
I looked at Sarah, who shrugged and walked in, leaving me to deal with the robots.
“Sorry, you’re not on the list. Which outlet are you with?”
“La Vie,” I ground out. I wanted to take her headset and wrap it around her neck until she turned blue. I was having déjà vu.
“Oh. Oh! Sorry, let me see what we can do. We can put you in standing—”
“I have a seat assignment, and I’m going to use it. The rest is your problem,” I said, moving toward the seating area. Standing would be social suicide.
“Wait, sorry, we double sat, it’s our fault. We
have a new seat for you. Lauren, can you walk her in?” The Lauren-bot looked expectantly at her intern, a young girl who was holding a cup of coffee. A bot in training, baby Lauren guided me to my third-row seat (kill me) and then spilled her coffee on me when she tripped on her way back out. Disaster. I got up and walked out. A few eyebrows raised, but there’s only so much one girl can take. This was not the best start to the most glamorous week of the year.
I sat in the car, driving around the block over and over until the show was done.
“There you are!” Sarah exclaimed, climbing into the back seat. “Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“Because that idiot intern spilled coffee all over me, and I needed to dry my dress.”
“Stop! She didn’t!” Glee filled her eyes as she giggled helplessly. My face was burning. Sarah was laughing at me. She snorted with glee, her eyes tearing up. I was a joke to her.
“Kill me now. Thank God I’m wearing a cape—it covers most of it.”
“Why are you wearing a cape? Aren’t you hot?”
“We all have to suffer for our style, Sarah.” I sniffed. Keep it together, A. Never let them see you upset. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t.
The PR firm sent me a bouquet to make up for the show, but the damage was done. Someone was going to have to pay for this. I hated when Fashion Week started on such a bad note.
Tomorrow would be better.
* * *
It was just one week. I could get through this. I could deal with Sarah’s moods and tantrums, the seating snafus, and the relentless pace. I could do this. I was even wearing more comfortable shoes, now that block heels were in for the season. I’d learned my lesson on proper shoe attire from Diana. (See? We both learned something that night. And wasn’t that the point to life? Dr. M would agree.) But the constant pushing and shoving to get into a venue, the catty comments about what the audience was wearing, and the seat stealers were all getting to me. I was drained, and it was only day two.
On the bright side, Greg was loving my blog posts.