by Amina Akhtar
I heard them whispering behind me.
“I can’t stand her. She’s a fraud.”
“Oh, come on. You know Lisa was a jealous bitch.”
“Ugh, Jack, if you only knew.” What did that mean? “She’s the worst. God, look at her clothes,” she snickered.
I glanced down at my outfit. I was wearing a denim jacket with Gucci splashed all over it. With a little black dress of course. What was wrong with my look? Don’t react, Anya.
“I do know. I told you. But do you really think she did it? I mean, look at her.” I felt eyes on the back of my head. Don’t turn around. I pretended to be busy on my phone. I was texting Dr. M. Help me! NYFW is a disaster! He didn’t reply. It felt like the world was against me today.
“You’re right. I’m just really sad about Lisa.”
Jack made comforting cooing noises at Sarah. I should have been doing that.
“When’s the funeral?” she asked. I wanted to pipe up, tell her I put it on her calendar for her. But didn’t. All I could hear was Sarah saying I was the worst.
“Uh, while you’re in Europe. But there’s going to be a memorial after, don’t worry.” Sarah strangled out a sob. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to join in. But I wasn’t welcome.
Worse than that, she was blaming me for Lisa’s death. Me? As if. She should be blaming Lisa. No, she should be thanking me—Lisa wore veils. I couldn’t believe Sarah was acting like this.
It couldn’t go on. I had to distract her from it. How do you make someone forget her so-called friend was murdered? You know how. You have to get her to focus on her favorite person: herself. I like to call these lightbulb moments because, hello? Flash of genius.
After all, Sarah was still seething over Zhazha. The blogger was everywhere. At every show, front row. And more incredibly, she wore a new outfit to every appearance. Zhazha went from Saint Laurent to Balenciaga to Gucci in a flash. I had no idea where she changed, but in one hour, I saw her wearing two very different outfits.
The street-style photogs grew in number exponentially each season. They had started with one or two, and now an entire horde of them clogged the sidewalks outside each venue. And yet not one was paying attention to Sarah, despite her best efforts. Not when Zhazha promised them new looks at every show.
“God I hate that Russian bitch,” Sarah muttered as we exited the car. Not to me, to Jack. I didn’t exist in Sarah’s world right now. I was, at best, her employee. I had to change that. I had to show Sarah how much she really did care for me. Her love for me was there, deep down. Like, buried in a hole, covered in cement deep down. She and I were kismet, meant to be.
Dr. M would tell me I had an insane need for approval. Um, duh? My entire life was about getting teachers and doctors to sign off on me. To say I was doing well, following the rules. You don’t just turn that off once you’re in the real world.
So Sarah would see how perfect I was, how well I did actually fit into her life. I’d make her see. I straightened my shoulders and very deliberately walked over to Zhazha. The blogger would be my friend, I was sure of it. At least until Sarah came around. We even chatted like old pals. I caught Sarah glaring. We had four shows that day with Zhazha. By the third show, Z and I had exchanged contact info and a promise to do drinks with Dalia, who was my new seatmate. (Sarah refused to sit with me as long as I was “buddying up with that Russian whore.”) Sarah wouldn’t even look at me. Was she telling everyone I was a fake? That I didn’t belong there? Each second she ignored me sent me deeper into panic mode. If she didn’t start paying attention to me, loving me soon, I was going to lose it. And that’s a major don’t during Fashion Week.
“Her accessories are amazing,” Dalia said. She meant Zhazha, not Sarah. And she was right. Dalia glanced at my own bag, a vintage Dior saddlebag. “Oh, chic.” Approval. It wasn’t from Sarah, but I’d take it. I beamed. I had winged my eyeliner just like Dalia did. I wonder if she noticed.
By the final show, Sarah had had enough. I watched with fascination as she shoved her way to the center of the photographer throng. We were just outside the Cedar Lake stage, with cobblestones everywhere. Not my favorite place to get to, but the catwalk inside was fabulous.
“Out of my way!” Sarah bellowed before breaking out five different poses. She was so engrossed in the flashes going off that she didn’t notice Zhazha walking her way. Blinding light, photographers yelling. The buzzing sound was roaring in my head. You’re a phony, Anya. A fraud. Do it now. She’ll expose you. This will make her need you. She’ll finally love you. I tried to shut out the intrusive thoughts—that’s what Dr. M called them—but it was too late. Look at her outfits, I heard Sarah sneer. Her taunting laughter echoed in my head. I had to do it. I had to shut the noise out, to refocus. To show Sarah how much she needed me.
Sarah was already flying through the air.
People around us gasped.
Sarah screamed. I froze. What had I done?
Zhazha claimed innocence. It was maybe her giant bag that had done it—was Sarah okay? She cooed her concern, trying to help my boss up. It wasn’t Zhazha’s fault. No one noticed me. They never did. That’s the good part of wearing all black. I blended in with everyone. Who looks at the ugly chicken when peacocks are around?
My blog that night included shots of a resplendent Zhazha in a fur cape and, next to it, a shot of Sarah sprawled on the stone steps. She’d wanted her photo to appear on the site more often, didn’t she? Her wish was my command.
I did feel a teensy bit bad when I saw Sarah wearing a cast and sling later. But it wasn’t my fault. Intrusive thoughts weren’t real; they couldn’t hurt anyone. Except maybe mine were taking over? The whole scene had been like an out-of-body experience. I saw myself push her, and I couldn’t stop it. I made a note to talk to Dr. M about it. BFFs don’t trash each other’s outfits like that. I had to do it. I had to make Sarah refocus, from dead Lisa to me.
Back at the office, Celia was loving Zhazha, despite the thrashing Sarah took (or because of it; Greg was tripping over himself to take care of our little wounded dove, and it was pissing Celia off).
“She’s wearing fur in this weather. That is so damn chic,” she said approvingly. “Anya, get her in here, ASAP.”
“Of course. Though I did see Annie from Mince taking her away in a car. And it didn’t help that Sarah cursed her out. I had to do a lot of apologizing.”
“Dammit. Should we send her flowers?” Celia asked.
I smiled. “Better. Send her caviar.”
“Brilliant.” It looked like I had just made friends with La Vie’s newest star.
* * *
Zhazha was my new ally. And she’d managed (without trying) to make Sarah look like a fool, which made Sarah need me even more. Sarah was practically useless with her broken arm.
I sent a couple ounces of Petrossian to Zhazha’s rooms at the Gramercy Park Hotel, along with several bottles of champagne and a note that said, We adore you. Let’s talk more? xx Anya. If I didn’t already hate myself and everyone else, I’d probably vomit over the “xx,” but that was how it was done. At least it wasn’t as bad as Kisses! or Love you! or Oh my gosh, you’re amaaaaaaaazing!
Still, I poked my finger with a staple until it bled to punish myself for the shitty note. It reminded me there may be a soul in there still. I watched as the blood kept pooling and pooling, a deep crimson circle—
“What are you doing? Are you bleeding again?” Sarah screeched, interrupting me. She winced slightly as she shifted her arm. She looked like a bird, standing there in front of me. Her blazer was draped over both shoulders. We were at the office before the day’s shows started. She was talking to me again. See? It had worked. A broken bone was the perfect distraction from grief.
“What? Oh, yeah, my hand slipped,” I muttered.
“Well, get a Band-Aid, you freak. Why do you always cut yourself?”
“How’s the arm, Sarah? Still broken?”
“Ugh, yes. That stupid commie bitch�
��”
“Is getting a spread in the magazine.” I grinned. Zhazha was new, hot, and so very in.
“No! She can’t be!”
“She’s the new it girl. Dalia’s working on her accessories as we speak.”
Sarah’s face reddened as she processed the news. For a moment, I thought she was actually going to cry. Good. Let her. I felt a twinge of joy at the thought. You always hurt the ones you love the most.
“I’m going to tell Greg.”
“You do that, but it won’t help.”
“Yes it will! He’ll stop it!”
“Zhazha will lure in new advertisers and younger readers. So good luck.”
I enjoyed watching her face as she realized I was right. The blogger was going to be huge, and La Vie needed in on her momentum. Sarah pouted. I should have hugged her, told her how cute she was. But I had had enough rejection from her this week.
“Ugh, just get a Band-Aid, would you?”
I put my finger in my mouth.
“You are so gross, Anya.”
I bared my blood-covered teeth at her and winked before heading out to my next show. She flinched. She hadn’t said a word about missing Lisa.
I started my Zhazha mood board that night.
* * *
I needed total silence. Why I thought I’d find that in New York City, I’ll never know. But those rare moments when the roar of the traffic sounds like waves at the beach, the jackhammering has ceased, and your neighbors have stopped fucking too loudly are the closest to bliss any of us will ever get.
White-noise machines. Calming music playing. Deep breaths and ohhmmming until you are too zen to care that a toddler is jumping up and down one floor up. None of that worked for me. Each and every sound was an assault on my senses.
To properly make a mood board, to have it magically come alive, you needed quiet. Not really come alive. That’s crazy. But to bloom in your head and heart. To take over, to channel your ardent wishes, you needed to focus. How could I focus when my neighbors kept screaming? (She was obviously faking it.) I had to shut out everything screaming inside my head. Lisa’s taunts. That pitying look Mulberry gave me. Diana’s stupid comments. And the detective who kept leaving me voice mails.
I shook my head. Not now. Focus on Zhazha.
My Russian friend (that word again, friend) was so easy to be inspired by. Photos of her filled slideshows on every fashion site. She was the new girl to watch, the Russian czarina pouting just so at the camera in head-to-toe red. A shot of her carrying a bag that was just on the runway and not available to purchase yet. (God, that was hot.) And then her holding a bottle of vodka in her hand for a not-so-subtle moment of sponsorship.
She was perfect.
But she wasn’t my BFF.
Look, just because had a small tiff didn’t mean Sarah and I had broken up. She needed space to grieve, and while in that dark hole, she’d finally see the light. The Anya light. Sarah would realize I was the only way forward. That what happened in the past—in my past—didn’t matter.
Ever since her promotion, Sarah had been ordering me around, and Fashion Week made her extrabossy. I’d even gotten her lunch for her, carrying it like a pathetic assistant while she whimpered about her arm. I didn’t even spit in it. I wanted to. (Imagine watching her eat something that came from inside me. Oh, heaven.) Anya, get this. Write that. O-M-G, fix your hair. I love-hated every second of it.
I set the two boards together. Zhazha versus Sarah. Who did I want more? Did I really have to choose? Couldn’t I have it all?
I can usually tell when it’s time to move on from BFF-dom. You just don’t care about the person anymore. You feel nothing. They’re an annoyance. My first BFF, Meredith, was like that. I couldn’t wait to be rid of her. That’s the thing with kids. It’s so easy to move from group to group. But even then, the idea of Meredith having a bestie after me really made my stomach hurt. That wasn’t possible. I was the ultimate. I was everything.
I didn’t want to get rid of Sarah. She was my everything. Dr. M said I was merely infatuated and that this would pass. Eye roll. Sarah and I were destined to be BFFs. But, she needed to step up if we were going to make it, or she’d end up like Meredith. Why Mer had to play with matches like that I’ll never know. Doesn’t mean I tried to stop her. No, I watched her burn.
Everyone whispered about me back then, like they were now about Zhazha. Maybe she and I were soul sisters? I drew a big heart on Zhazha’s board in red glitter. It was so her. On Sarah’s, I drew a mustache on her photos in black. We were going to have to talk this through. Until then, I had a new distraction: Zhazha. I took my gloves off and threw them in the trash. Why make a mood board if you’re going to smudge it with fingerprints?
* * *
Finally, the longest week ever was over. The team was headed to Europe—without me. Celia, Sarah, Dalia, and Evie were hitting London, Milan, and Paris. The gloating was insufferable. Despite missing Lisa’s funeral, Sarah was happy again. Europe did that to people. She was going to be attending the Burberry, Gucci, and Valentino shows, and I wasn’t. I tried to not let the idea of three weeks without her get to me. This would be good for us. Sarah had to learn to miss me. Absence made the heart grow fonder and all that shit.
“I can’t wait to go to Selfridges! And Harvey Nichols! And . . .” Sarah droned on for a while. “Anya! Are you listening?”
“Not really.”
“Don’t you want to know where we’re going to go? I mean, while you’re stuck here?”
I didn’t bother replying. I couldn’t go to Europe even if I wanted. And I didn’t want to go. Really, I didn’t. I swear.
Fine, I was seething with envy. But all that schmoozing was too exhausting to maintain. The European shows were on top of one another: London bled into Milan, which bled into Paris. I didn’t know how Sarah did it. Maybe she was better at this world. This life. But no, I didn’t want to go to Europe.
Besides, there was that issue with my passport. Dr. M handled it all for me. The name change, the new identity. He swore the papers were filed. But sometimes I ran into issues. Better to just avoid the whole mess. London and Paris were on my “one day” mood boards.
“I mean, Riccardo Tisci is just so dreamy! Aren’t you so jelly?” Sarah asked excitedly.
“Mmhmm.”
“Anya! Admit it!”
“Sarah, one of us needs to hold down the fort. Have a lovely time.”
“It must be sad that you’re just not cool enough to go to Europe with us.” A saw was going off in my head.
“Is Greg going to be here alone? I hope he doesn’t get bored.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Whatever, he’s meeting me in Paris.” Sarah rolled her eyes, as if I were stupid for even mentioning him. She was going through a large box that had been delivered. She jumped up and down and, with one useful arm, carted it to Greg’s office. I didn’t ask.
At least she’d be in Europe with a broken arm. A broken yet still nearly perfect arm in a chic sling. She’d walked around the final New York Fashion Week shows as if she were in a Helmut Newton spread. Her slings (she’d rotated a few different ones) were made from black leather, fur, and even Swarovski crystals. By the end of the week, copies of them had started to appear. I even spotted Mulberry all slung up.
“Oh, bee-tee-dubs, I assigned Cassie a story. So she could get a byline,” she said later as she left the office. She grinned at me. She had done it to fuck with me, I knew it.
“You did? Oh, great!” Kill them with kindness and enthusiasm if you can’t kill them at all. And killing Sarah was not part of my plans. A dead Sarah couldn’t give me what I needed most: her. I didn’t bother asking what she’d assigned. Knowing Sarah, it was something like, “Oh, write a story on clothes.”
I was determined to leave the office and watch more SVU. I had missed the team, and I was sure they missed me. That lovable Detective Munch. Ice-T. Benson and Stabler’s solid asexual partnership. I wish Sarah and I had that r
elationship.
Once the Fabulous Four (their words) decamped, I took pleasure in knowing Sarah had no real friends with her. Jack stayed in New York, and Lisa was dead and buried. Her funeral hadn’t gotten the red carpet treatment Mulberry’s did. Lisa was self-made, trying to become someone. Sort of like me. You’d think we could have bonded over that. What happened to sister solidarity? (I wondered if the police had any leads. I made a note to call Detective Hopper.) Now Sarah had only Dalia and Evie.
The office was downright pleasant with everyone gone. Even Greg stayed on his side of the floor, sulking for lack of attention. Cassie would go visit him, which made me gag on my lunch. I was working weeks ahead, our calendar filled with stories. I got so much done. I opened my mail and Sarah’s mail and filed for her. I emailed Sarah anything important that came.
Thanks, babe, she replied. Also, why do you keep calling me Meredith?
Cassie was, sadly, the only distraction I had. Zhazha was in Europe; a few brands had paid for her airfare and hotels.
She began sauntering in later and later, much like Sarah. She wore similar outfits to Sarah’s (as seen on Instagram). Cassie even started wearing lip gloss like Sarah and responding to me in acronyms and abbreviations. She had highlighted her hair so it was a touch blonder. She was like a Sarah doll come to life, only not as perfect as the real thing. Cassie didn’t have the bone structure to be Sarah. She was the fake sugar version, SarahLite.
And she was outdoing me in her devotion. I hated her and myself at the same time.
“Did you file your story yet?” I asked the Monday after everyone had left. Sarah and the team had been gone four days.
“O-M-G, totes forgot! I’ll get to it. But first I need to walk Frou-Frou.” Frou-Frou was Sarah’s albino Pomeranian. Dogs had been a key accessory at Fashion Week, so Sarah had run out to buy one—just in time for her to fly to Europe without it.
Every day brought a new mini-Sarah into the office. Soon Cassie’s clothes seemed to come straight from Sarah’s closet. And maybe they had. She did have a key to her apartment. I had to tell on her. Sarah had to know.