#FashionVictim

by Amina Akhtar

  “They’re just so real.” He’d jumped into the car with me and Sarah, wanting to chat about our coverage. Sarah was forced to sit up front with the driver. I could feel waves of hatred emanating from the passenger seat.

  “Well, you wanted vérité.”

  “Awesome. Just awesome.” His hair didn’t move as he spoke, slicked and gelled into a black dome. I stared in fascination, all the while digging my nails into my palms. The pain was freeing. Greg continued talking, but I didn’t hear him. I felt only relief as the pounding in my head eased.

  “Don’t you agree?”

  “Hmm? Oh, yes.”

  “Great, then let’s do a photo diary for Sarah. That will be a perfect addition.”

  Sarah beamed, thinking she had stolen an opportunity from me. But this was, as Greg said, perfect. The last thing I needed was to have my photo splashed all over the site. Not all attention was good attention. Not everyone wanted their every nail color, outfit choice, and hair part posted for posterity. What if one of Mariana’s old friends recognized me? Disaster, that’s what.

  “I think that’s a fantastic idea!” I raved.

  “I’m so glad you agree. I was so worried.” Sarah reached back to pat my knee. “I didn’t want to steal your thunder. I mean, your little blog is doing so well.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t mind. I hate having my photo up. Besides, the idea suits you better. Fewer words for you since you aren’t much of a writer.” There were two methods for dealing with Sarah: compliment her or make her feel insecure. Negging was a totally appropriate workplace mode of conduct. If she felt like a loser, I could control her. If I made her feel lame, maybe she’d forget about anything Lisa told her. Then Sarah would see how great I was, and we could start hanging out seriously. The idea of hanging at Sarah’s apartment, playing dress-up, was almost overwhelming. I wanted her to say to me that I was perfect, I was everything she wanted in a friend. There’s nothing wrong with that. Nothing. Besides, I didn’t exactly have time to write her diary on top of my own work this week.

  “I can write, but—oh, hey, are you bleeding?” She recoiled.

  “What? Oh, I cut myself. Paper cut.” I had recut my palm.

  “Oh. On what, your invite?”

  “Um, yeah. My invite. You should totally wear your new necklace in the photos. It’s such a unique piece.”

  She brightened. “O-M-G, you’re so right!” I had already seen three copies of her Diana necklace at the shows. Whatever Sarah wore turned to gold.

  Sarah was getting more attention from the photographers than I was at the shows, which was dandy. Today she was wearing a shirt that looked like it was made from every crystal Swarovski had and a leather skirt paired with Uggs stiletto boots up to her thighs. It screamed, “Please take my photo!” She was vying with the bloggers for a coveted street-style shot. Sometimes she won, but often they did. I’d opted for a more sedate look—my usual all black, this time a Vivienne Westwood. And after shows, I ran quickly to the waiting car we’d ordered instead of standing with Sarah, which annoyed her every time.

  “Um, that was so rude,” she said after the Mary Ann Mark presentation.

  “You were having your photo taken, Sarah.”

  “So? You could have waited and held my purse.”

  “I’m not your assistant, so no.”

  She glared at me. I had said the wrong thing. Besties shouldn’t make friends do grunt work. It never works out. Just look at Paris and Kim. Sarah was going to have to see me as on her level, and she would. Soon enough.

  “Whatever, I’m your boss.” She sniffed.

  Her mood soured even more when she was forced to sit second row on day three. (I’d lost track of which day of the week it was. Time only moved ahead according to Fashion Week days.) I was next to her and loved it. For a brief moment, I had what I wanted. Sure, it wasn’t front row. But Sarah and I were together. At the finale, I was planning on grabbing her arm. Like friends do.

  Directly in front of us was the new blogger du jour: Zhazha. She was Russian royalty, from Siberia, so the story went. And she milked her persona for all it was worth. Zhazha was wearing a giant fur hat, despite the eighty-degree temperature outside.

  “W-T-F. I can’t even see anything!” Sarah muttered loudly enough for the Russian girl to hear. “Why does she need that giant babushka hat anyways?”

  “I think it’s a fur kubanka.”

  “How do you even know that?”

  I shrugged. “Do you want to trade seats?”

  Sarah glanced at me with disdain. “No, I want my seat. Excuse me. Excuse me!” She tapped Zhazha on the shoulder. The hat turned. “Could you remove your hat, please? It’s impossible to see over it.”

  Zhazha glanced at Sarah before turning to look at me. I half smiled.

  “No. It’s my outfit,” she replied, her accent thick and luscious.

  “Are you serious?” Sarah’s jaw had fallen open. She wasn’t used to being told no.

  “Sarah, just switch with me. It’s so not a big deal.”

  “No! Um, fur lady? Do you even know who we are?”

  I dropped my head into my hands.

  “Yes, you’re second-row person. I’m first,” Zhazha said. Her voice made me dizzy. I wanted to spread it on toast and eat it. She flashed a grin at me.

  “Ugh, whatever.” Sarah stood, deliberately bumping into Zhazha. She stomped her way over to a PR girl. You could see her gesturing and waving her arms wildly. The Lauren-bot nodded sympathetically and then took her to a new seat across the catwalk.

  “Your friend is a real bitch,” Zhazha said.

  I snorted. “She just likes to get her way.”

  “For you, I take my hat off,” she offered. I declined. I liked the fur outline. Besides, the clothes on the runway wouldn’t be half as exciting. “I’m Zhazha.”

  “Oh, I know! I mean, I’ve seen your blog. I’m Anya from La Vie. And, um, that was Sarah Taft.”

  Zhazha wrinkled her nose in the most adorable manner.

  “She’s a real bitch,” she repeated.

  She laughed. I tittered away with her. Fashion Week rules dictated that we gossip, we mock. Even about Sarah. The best way to communicate was to laugh at someone. So I giggled along with the Russian as she made fun of my bestie. I caught Sarah’s death glare from across the runway. I was going to pay for my treachery. I shrugged back at her. What was I supposed to do? I had to laugh. It was required of me. She had laughed at me first, so fair was fair. But I quieted down and tried to look forlorn and upset. See, Sarah? I’m with you.

  The lights dimmed, and the music began pounding. I smiled at Sarah once more and glanced down the row from her. I swore I saw Mulberry von Gratz sitting no more than ten seats from Sarah. With that horrible shoe smashed into her head. That bitch! Assistants don’t sit front row, ever. I waved to her, to be polite. It was that or kiss her after the show, and no way was I going to cheek-cheek shoe-face. The music was loud enough to drown out the buzzing in my ears.

  * * *

  “That fucking foreign bitch!” Sarah yelled as our car pulled away. “Can you believe her? And you. What were you doing talking to her?”

  “I was informing her of who you were.” Not a total lie. “But you have to admit she has style.”

  “Goddammit, Anya, you have the worst taste. That’s why you didn’t get the promotion, you know.” Sarah wasn’t happy, and it was my fault. “I can’t with you. She’s a roach! All bloggers are roaches!” Her eyes were wild as she repeated our joke. I just shrugged. The blogger had been nice to me. “You would like her. You’re a phony like her,” she hissed under her breath. I felt like ice-cold water had been dumped on me.

  Sarah held her phone a few inches from her face, using it to block me and everyone else out. I bet Zhazha would be nicer to work for.

  I should have lavished Sarah with all my love and affection. But my phone buzzing distracted me. Detective Hopper. Didn’t he know it was Fashion Week?

  “Hi, Detective.
”

  “Ms. St. Clair, we’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I know, I’m so sorry. It’s Fashion Week, and I’m running around like a crazy person. Is something the matter?”

  “We need you to come in.”

  I grimaced. Now? Was he fucking kidding me?

  “Today? Because I have more shows and presentations to do.”

  “Yes.” That’s all he said. No, sorry for fucking up your schedule, Anya. Nothing.

  “Fine, text me the address. I don’t have it in front of me. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Sarah ignored me and my conversation. She was busy clack-clacking on her phone. I’d have to read it later.

  * * *

  Detective Hopper was wearing a suit. I wondered if he ever got hot and sweaty through his crisp white shirts. He glanced at my outfit, which was a bit much for a precinct visit: I was wearing a Saint Laurent minidress with ankle boots. It would have to do.

  “It’s for Fashion Week,” I hastened to explain. “You have to dress up.” He just nodded, then led me into a meeting room. He didn’t even compliment my dress. Or my legs—and they looked really good.

  “Thanks for coming in; I know you’re busy.”

  “Um, sure. Is this about Mulberry? Have you found someone?” It had been a month and a half. The police had interviewed anyone and everyone who had ever interacted with Mulberry and come up with nothing. Mulberry’s parents were furious and writing editorials blasting the NYPD.

  “No, I wanted to ask you about Lisa Blitz.”

  “Lisa? What about her? You don’t think she did it?”

  “How well do you know Ms. Blitz?”

  “Not well. Just from around the industry. You know, we go to the same events. She’s really good friends with Sarah and Jack Archer. Sarah could probably tell you more. Although . . .” I paused a bit for drama. It was so important to take breaths. “I think they were having some sort of fight. I don’t really know, but you should def talk to Sarah.”

  Detective Hopper nodded. God he was pretty. The thought barely formed when I heard Sarah laughing at me in my head, calling me a phony. My shoulders tensed.

  “Have you seen Ms. Blitz lately?”

  I frowned. “Actually, no. Sarah’s been complaining that she hasn’t seen her since before Labor Day. And I haven’t run into her at shows.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Me? Huh. Let me think. It was either an event or . . .” I opened my calendar on my phone. “It was at a party two weeks ago, at the Gramercy. Why? Is something wrong? Did something happen to Lisa?”

  He looked at me. That same look he gave me when we first met, like he thought I’d tell him everything. And weirdly, I wanted to. I wanted him to know I’d killed three people this summer. A fucking personal record. I wanted to see the awe and admiration on his face. Shit, what if he could read minds? What if he could know everything I was thinking right now? What if he could see into my brain?

  “Detective, you have to tell me. What happened to Lisa?”

  “She was found in her apartment yesterday. Dead.”

  About time.

  I gasped. “Wait, like suicide?” I managed to ask. Always ask details about a death, but not too many. Be interested but not creepy.

  “We’re considering it suspicious for now. Why didn’t anyone report her missing? She’d been dead for a few days.”

  A full week, actually. But who was counting?

  I opened my mouth and closed it a few times. I call it fish mouth, but it’s good for emulating shock. Innocent people who have nothing to hide went into shock.

  “You’d have to ask Sarah. I think they were in a fight or something,” I repeated. This is what you did during Fashion Week: you talked shit.

  “Can you think of anyone who’d want to hurt her? Was she dating anyone? An ex-boyfriend, perhaps?”

  I shrugged. I didn’t know Lisa’s dating schedule. “No, not really. I mean, she wasn’t the nicest girl, but who is around these parts? But I don’t know who’d want to kill her. That’s just so . . . extreme.”

  “What about you? Did you have a thing for Lisa?” Me? Had I heard him correctly?

  “No, I’m not into girls.”

  He nodded. I knew why he was asking me about Lisa fucking around. The crotch lace. Cops are so unimaginative sometimes.

  “I heard you two didn’t really get along.” Silence. Bomb dropping. Who was talking about me? Who even knew about me?

  “It’s fashion. No one really gets along.” I shrugged. “Lisa wasn’t nice unless you had something she wanted. I didn’t. But beyond that, we tolerated each other.”

  He eyed me, and I was positive he could read my thoughts. Fuck, if I had to start wearing a tin foil hat, I was going to be pissed. Not a good look at a fashion show.

  “Neighbors saw a blonde woman going into Lisa’s apartment a few days before. Does that remind you of anyone?” My wig. They had mistaken me for Sarah. That was the best thing I’d heard all week.

  “Sarah,” I whispered. He raised an eyebrow at me. “Sarah said Lisa was upset she couldn’t crash at Sarah’s beach house for Labor Day.” It came out in a rush. “Shit, Lisa’s dead. That’s so messed up.”

  “We’ll be talking to Ms. Taft as well. She just hasn’t called us back.”

  I helpfully gave him her fashion show schedule. What are BFFs for? Sarah couldn’t be mad. I had to help the detective. It’d be weird if I didn’t. Still, I silently prayed to the fashion gods that she’d laugh this off. I also crossed my fingers and hoped he pulled her out of Marc Jacobs. In front of everyone. That would be amazing.

  * * *

  News of Lisa’s death spread like wildfire at the shows. I couldn’t help myself. I told everyone and anyone next to me, even if I didn’t know them. Gossip was a staple at shows, and for once, I had something juicy no one else knew yet.

  “Um, you heard about Lisa Blitz, from Cartel? She’s dead! The police are asking about her. They want to talk to Sarah Taft. Crazy, right?” And then I’d sit back as a very stylish game of telephone was played. By the end of the day, Sarah was rumored to have killed Lisa in a pre–Fashion Week meltdown. I snorted when I heard the latest tale. Sarah was the talk of shows, which was impressive even for her. (She could get a few murmurs about her outfits, but this was something else. All eyes followed her more than usual.) She should thank me. Lisa never got her this kind of attention.

  Sarah posted a selfie of herself crying, mascara running down her face. It was touching. On the bright side, she now had an opening for a BFF. This was my big break. I was going to console her. We could mourn Lisa together, talk about her ridiculous veils, and cry. And then I’d hug her, and she’d realize that I was her one true friend in this world. Who said the fashion world was heartless?

  * * *

  Sarah wasn’t dragged out of a show. Bummer, I know. The spectacle would have made my day. Instead, she willingly went to talk to the detective before her morning appearances the next day.

  “I’m taking the car so find your own way around,” she said coldly. She hadn’t spoken to me in a full day. Almost twenty-four hours of silence. I was miserable. I wanted to go with her, to hold her hand. To tell her it would all be okay. That Zhazha meant nothing to me. I wanted to know what she told the detective, whether she said I was a fake. If he knew, then they’d all know. It’d get in the papers or something. My panic was overwhelming. I took off a brooch I was wearing and stabbed my thighs repeatedly. Relief.

  * * *

  Sarah reappeared at the office a couple hours later, dressed in her best funeral attire. Head-to-toe darkness. Celia caught her and screamed. Actually screamed. This was not the look she wanted for Sarah at Fashion Week.

  “You cannot wear all black to the shows. You are not Anya! What will it say about us?” she yelled.

  “Um, my bestie died. I can’t even.”

  My heart hurt. I was her bestie. Not Lisa. When would Sarah realize that?
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br />   “We need to present a united front after Mulberry. We can’t look morbid. So you can and will even. I’m having some new clothes called in, and you will wear them. Or else.”

  Sarah just stared. Maybe she was mourning? I patted her hand later in the car. She pulled it away. I had no idea how to comfort her, but I had to try. Why was she so upset? When Meredith died, I got over it. Now it was Sarah’s turn.

  “Lisa would be really touched by this, but even she wouldn’t want you to give up your sense of style. She’d totally make fun of you for it.” She would.

  “What would you know, Anya? She hated you. So does Jack. Everyone hates you. Just look at you. You’re so not a La Vie girl.” The comment stung. She had learned from Celia. “You know what everyone is saying about you, right? That you totally faked your way here. Lisa told everyone what her little detective found.”

  It was a lie. It had to be a lie. I’d checked all of Lisa’s emails and scoured her apartment. He hadn’t found much. Still, I wanted to throw up. Sarah was lashing out, Dr. M would say. Don’t take it personally. (Whatever, everything was personal.)

  “Okay, then dress like an idiot and lose your job.” Fuck you too. Tough love. I couldn’t win with her.

  I ignored her sniffling for the rest of the day. How could she be this sad over someone who wore veils? If she wanted me as her one and only BFF, she had to realize I was awesome and that no one else mattered. If I could get over the whole betraying me thing, she could too. (I hadn’t, but whatever.) Dr. M told me I needed to value myself more. Besides, Sarah had to get it together. This was life; shit happens. You either dealt with it and went back to wearing Gucci, or you curled up in a ball and waited to die. Only the strong survived.

  9

  I waited for it. For that moment when Sarah would want me to comfort her. To tell her she would be okay, that Lisa’s death was ultimately good for all of us. But it didn’t happen. I didn’t even get to pet her hair.

  Instead, she turned to Jack. Not me.

  I couldn’t blame her; he was in the trinity. Or what was left of it. Since he only covered menswear, he wasn’t attending shows, but he rode in the car with us, forcing me to sit in the front passenger seat. He was her moral support. I needed a friend like that. I needed someone who would support me.