#FashionVictim

by Amina Akhtar

  I didn’t have a mantra for this moment. So instead, I sank deeper into my self-loathing. It’s what kept me going.

  By the time lunch rolled around, rumors were flying. The story was that Cassie had been murdered by an ex-boyfriend, and it had something to do with Mulberry. It was all over Twitter, and once again, #FashionVictim was trending. The wave of hysteria the office was riding was delicious and contagious. Celia was starting to break. She had security escort her to and from her office and check her car for any intruders.

  Evie actually ate carbs in her zest for life. “If I need to outrun a maniac, paleo just won’t do it!” She had a point, though her six-inch platform stilettos weren’t going to be much use either. Which of course meant I had to do a utilitarian fashion story for the website: “Combat or Couture: Twenty-Five Pieces You Can Rock From Bootcamp to the Boardroom.”

  All these extra murder-related blog posts were adding to my workload. Granted, it upped my profile, but I was now writing three stories a day (including Sarah’s), compared to everyone else’s three a week.

  Greg was ecstatic over my sudden newsiness. “It’s so timely! We need more of these. Is there anything we can do about getting out of bondage or duct tape?”

  “Um, I don’t think so, but perhaps the beauty and fitness departments will know?”

  “Genius idea, Anya.” He high-fived me. I washed my hands.

  * * *

  The following Monday, Celia decided drastic steps had to be taken. She walked out of her office, looked at me and Sarah, and said, “Let’s go.” We followed her to a waiting car. Once we were in the back of the Escalade, Sarah asked where we were going.

  “To see Henri.” Henri was Celia’s psychic. Everyone in fashion had a psychic, astrologer, tarot reader, or some sort of spiritual adviser that we took with us to dinner parties, a coveted accessory that told your future or the state of Mercury like a clock. I myself had two astrologers, a medium, and a spiritual fêng shui master. So far, I was winning the psychic race. (Though not one of them had foreseen death or murder in my life, so I wasn’t sure what I was paying them for.)

  Henri lived in Sutton Place in a second-floor walk-up. It was a nice building, but with his clients, he could no doubt afford better. He excelled in fashion matters, deftly helping Celia pick her wardrobe, her assistants, the new trends, and more. For this, she bought him a new Mercedes. She explained just how big a deal he was in the car ride over. “He helps me with everything.”

  “Henri!” she called, swooping into the door. “We need you.” She sat on a chaise lounge, her coat taking up the entire length of the piece. Sarah perched on the edge while I stood near the door. Faded, floral wallpaper was covered up by photos of Henri’s customers. Like at a dry cleaner’s, there were framed and signed headshots everywhere. On nearly every flat surface were piles of crystals. Sarah’s mouth dropped seeing them all. They were so shiny, so pretty. Just like her.

  “Darling! I knew I’d see you today.” Henri was wearing a silk kimono with feathered mules. His movements were so graceful that I wanted to ask him to teach me his ways.

  “And this is Anya and Sarah,” Celia said.

  “A pleasure!” He held his hand out. His brown hair was delightfully bouncy. Was it a wig? Where did he shop?

  “Lovely to meet you,” I replied. Don’t read my mind. Don’t read my mind.

  “So what can I do for you ladies today?”

  “You must read them!”

  “Celia, you know that’s not how it works. Let’s first have tea, shall we?” His voice was that melodious tone older gay men in New York have, though I wasn’t positive he was gay, simply dramatic. Henri’s divining process involved making us drink hot tea with heaps of sugar. “It makes us sweeter,” he said with a wink. Somehow this would tell him which of us he could “read.”

  Watching Sarah ingest carbs was worth everything. We held our teacups (mismatched sets that only added to the charm). She grimaced, chugging back her cup. I slowly sipped mine, gritting against the overwhelming sweetness.

  “Her. I’ll read her.” He pointed at me.

  This could not end well.

  “Give me your shoe.”

  “My what?”

  “Your shoe.”

  “Don’t be difficult, Anya. Just give it to him,” Celia said wearily.

  I took off one Stella McCartney mesh pump, hoping my foot didn’t stink. He waved it around and then stuck his face deep inside the arch, inhaling as if his life depended on it. I glanced at Sarah. She sat transfixed.

  “Okay, I know.” He set my shoe on the table. “Give me your hands now.” He held both hands and put one on his forehead, one on his chest. My skin prickled. I needed Purell. “You are up against many things now. You fight now—for love, maybe? But there is something else. Maybe you’re fighting for . . . life? No. Yes. I see danger around you. Death. Someone wants to do you harm.”

  Celia gasped. “Oh my God, Anya. What if you’re next?” she shrieked.

  “You must fight if you want to win,” Henri continued, ignoring her. “You can have what you want. Okay? You will win. Can I keep your shoe?” He let go of my hand and nodded to my pump.

  “Uh, no, I think I need that.”

  “Pfft, fine.” His voice shifted. Gone was the musicality, replaced by the cold and flat New York accent. “That’s all I’m reading today. Next time, honey, bring me a pair of shoes. Size twelve. Celia, darling, ciao.” She dropped a couple hundred dollars onto his table, and we filed out, completely silent. What had just happened?

  None of us said a word in the car ride back. Sarah and Celia eyed me like I was about to fall to pieces. But had they missed the part where he said I’d win? I was wondering if Henri would have to die and if he knew it. Fucking psychics.

  It didn’t take long before Sarah told all of editorial that I was next on the kill list. It was ordained, she said. The stars wanted it. I just rolled my eyes whenever someone mentioned it.

  “Anya, you really should take this seriously!” Sarah scolded me as she moved a lock of hair behind my ear. By becoming the next target, I was suddenly cool and chic. It was as if I was her perfect friend: short term and trending. I’d take it. BFFs—as long as forever was a few weeks, at least.

  13

  Dr. M decided I needed an emergency session after the Henri show. He didn’t like the “direction” things were going, whatever that meant. He was such a worrywart. He even made a house call, which was, like, so rare for him. He only did it for me. I was his favorite patient.

  He held up a photo of Sarah at some gala I wasn’t invited to. She was looking off camera, her face angled so you saw more than a mere profile and wearing what I called her inflamed vagina outfit: a fuchsia dress with hood by Valentino.

  “This is who you’ve been freaking out over?” He shook the photo. “This girl?”

  “Woman,” I corrected him. He always called us girls.

  He took off his glasses and cleaned them. “Frankly, Anya, I’m concerned that you’re heading into a level of obsession beyond my help.” I opened my mouth to argue. He raised his hand. “This fashion world that you’ve wanted to be a part of, well, it’s messing with your head. Don’t you see that?”

  I stared at him.

  “Anya, I care for you like you were my own. But you need to stop. Stop thinking you’re not good enough. That another pair of shoes will change your life. It won’t. This Sarah isn’t better than you. Enough is enough!”

  “That’s not fair!” I yelled. “You’ve always told me to better myself. Well, I am. I have goals—like you wanted. I want to be better and perfect just like Sarah! Look how far I’ve come. From reading the magazines to working for one. Come on, Dr. M. You have to see that I’m achieving what I always wanted.” We stared at each other for what seemed like ten minutes. (Try thirty seconds.) Then he sighed. White flag waved.

  “Fine. You’re right. You’ve come far. But let’s discuss what you need to improve. What is it you think would make
you ‘perfect’?”

  Sometimes I swore he was blind from a head injury. What did I need to change to be the chicest girl in Fashionlandia? Everything. But he’d hate that answer.

  “I have to lose weight, be more popular. Show Sarah that I’m amazing.”

  “But, Anya, you are—”

  “By your standards, sure. But this is fashion, Dr. M. Everything is different, harder. You only get ahead if the powers that be like how you look!” I was whining. “I need to look like I belong in a photo shoot! That I’m cool and chill and don’t care. I need to affect—what’s that word? Not boredom . . .”

  “Ennui?”

  “Yes!” I jumped up and clapped. “I need to ennui the fuck out of my life. You’re brilliant, Dr. M.” If I acted blasé and like nothing affected me, I’d be cool. I’d be someone Sarah wanted around her.

  He gave me an F for the week; my self-esteem issues were out of control.

  * * *

  I wore my Rick Owens jacket over leather pants and a silk blouse. My shoes were the yellow Pradas. It was a look. Sure, the police had just been to our offices last week, and yesterday a shoe-loving psychic said I may die, but parties still needed to be attended. I had changed my outfit in the women’s room so I was fresh and perfect for my after-work event. I had no idea what this party was for, but I was going with Sarah and Jack. Together. My mood boards were working.

  “Anya, don’t you agree?” What was Sarah talking about?

  “What?”

  “Weren’t you listening?”

  “Not really.” I shrugged. I was doing my best to be too cool. Above it.

  “Ugh, you’re the worst!” I didn’t reply. “Jack, did you hear what Celia’s psychic said?” He turned to face us. “Anya is going to die next.”

  “Ha!” he said. “Didn’t think suicide was your thing.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Better watch out, Jacky. You could end up on my list.” We both snorted at that. Murder, it was hilarious. How edgy of us.

  “Okay, but just make sure I look good in the autopsy photos. My left is the better side.”

  “Obvi. I’ll talk to the coroner. We’ve gotten très close.”

  “Can you two stop it?” Sarah threw her hands up in the air. “You’re both so ridiculous. People are dead. People we know. Knew. This is so not funny.”

  Jack and I exchanged guilty glances.

  “You’re right, boo,” Jack said. “Gallows humor. It’s easier to joke about it than to worry who may be next.” He put his arm around her. I should have been the one comforting her.

  “If we die, we die, Sarah. Stop acting like you care.” I caught a glimpse of her hurt face before turning to scan the crowd. Had I gone too far?

  “Meow. You are such a bitch, Anya. I approve!”

  “Thanks, Jack. That tops the list of my accomplishments. Your approval.” I rolled my eyes to show how much it didn’t mean to me. Ennui it.

  “God, what crawled up your twat and died?” Sarah pushed me out of her way to go to the bar. There were waiters with trays at this event, but apparently she needed her time away from us.

  “She’s so sensitive lately.” Jack frowned. “Do you think she’s taking the Cassie thing personally?”

  “Only because she needs a new servant.”

  He laughed. “How am I only just now discovering you? Seriously, Sarah never told me you were like this. I wonder if she’s jealous of you.”

  Jealous? Of me? My head started spinning. Maybe I’d keep Jack. If only to get more dirt on my true BFF.

  “Please. She’s got everything. What is she jealous of? My extra cushioning?” Self-deprecation was a way of hiding pain. But it also made you cool. (But being ugly and lame was not actually cool.)

  “Um, she’s not as smart as you. That really bugs her. She gets way jealous. Hello, the cameras? Wait, does she know that Cassie was, you know . . .”

  “Fucking Greg? She didn’t believe me. But who knows?” I was trying to be nonchalant, totally easy breezy. Sarah was jealous of me. Me! “Besides, being smart isn’t that chic. Fashion girls aren’t smart.” We giggled. “Why are you telling me this, anyways? Aren’t you her friend?”

  “You’re both my friends. Anyways, I think she’s scared one of us might die next.”

  “Oh.” One of us, meaning me. Thanks, Henri. That psychic fraud had worked wonders. “Maybe we should go to her and—”

  “Group hug!” That wasn’t what I was thinking, but the idea made me giddy. A hug? The three of us? Oh-em-gee. We walked over to Sarah, who was a whole twenty feet away. She was talking to some girls we didn’t know. They stepped back as they saw us approach.

  “Babe, we love you!” Jack cooed, motioning with his head for me to join in.

  “Yeah, we do. Sorry for being so facetious back there.” There. Not too much. Jack grabbed my arm, and together we enveloped Sarah in the only threesome I’d ever had. To my surprise, she hugged back.

  “Thanks, guys. I’m just, like, really freaked out. Cassie worked for us. We should be scared.”

  “We are, and we get it. The humor is just a way to deal. Right, Anya?”

  “Um, right.” We linked arms with Sarah in the middle. I felt like I was going to faint.

  “But the three of us are in this together. The fucking musketeers! The three amigos!” Jack shouted the last part. Eyes swiveled to us. The party was watching us, watching me link arms with Sarah Taft. This had just become the best night in history.

  “Yeah, totally.” I felt stupid even speaking. “Anyone who wants to get to you will have to go through me first.” Sarah smiled at us both.

  “You guys are the best.” And we hugged once more. “Oh, hey, Anya? Babe, will you get my dry cleaning tomorrow? I just can’t.”

  It was so perfect, I wanted to throw up.

  * * *

  My ennui mood board had spreads of models looking balefully at the camera, old Calvin Klein ads with Kate Moss (vintage!), and even a cutout from The Gashlycrumb Tinies. I was going to be so perfectly nonchalant that everyone would adore me. I wanted to draw glitter hearts everywhere, but that was the opposite of what I needed. Instead, I put my own photo up, a shot of me smiling. Then I crossed out my face in black sharpie.

  Jack’s board got an update too. God, there was always so much work to do. Update this, kill so-and-so. I wish people understood how hard we worked in fashion—all to make it look effortless, easy.

  Jack was my friend now. Or was he? Did I have friends besides Sarah? I should have asked Dr. M about it. It was all so confusing. I made a new pro/con list, all things Jack:

  Pros: He was bringing me and Sarah together. He liked my outfits. He told me secrets. He defended me against Lisa.

  Cons: He could take it all away any moment. Whenever he wanted. If I didn’t keep entertaining him, it would be over. I’d have to keep him happy forever. What if I couldn’t do it?

  “I’m not a fucking dancing monkey!” I shouted. I was alone. The only response was my downstairs neighbor pounding on the ceiling. He sucked. I wished he’d fall out of his window or something.

  Someone was knocking loudly on my door. Was it Detective Hopper? Was this it? Had I gone one too far? I looked through the peephole. An irate man stood before me. My downstairs neighbor.

  “Yes?” I opened the door slowly.

  “Keep it the fuck down, lady!”

  “Excuse me? I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m working, in silence.”

  “I hear you yelling constantly. You’re fucking nuts!” He moved forward, and I slammed the door shut. He screamed. I’d gotten his finger. Shit. He was going to make trouble. I had to do something. I called Travis, the doorman.

  “Hi, there, it’s Anya in 29D. Frank from 28D’s pounding on my door and trying to get into my apartment. What should I do? Can you get the police here?” I sniffed.

  Frank left after a few minutes, with the encouragement of Travis, who knocked lightly on my door. “Miss St. Clair, everything should be ok
ay. I’m sorry about the disturbance. He’s been told to leave you alone from now on.”

  I nodded. “I mean, if I’m being at all loud, come and talk to me. But he was screaming and trying to get in here. Is he on drugs? He is, right?”

  Travis shrugged. “Couldn’t say.” He could. The doormen knew everything about our lives. “But he has had some issues. If he bothers you again, please let me know.” I thanked him, handing off a fifty-dollar bill. He deserved a good tip. His eyes lit up. “I think his girlfriend left him or something. It’s why he’s always home and in such a bad mood.”

  I nodded. “Of course. That makes sense. Poor guy. He needs some cheering up.”

  “And a life.” Travis grinned as he said it.

  Travis was right. Frank did need a life. Why did I attract these bitter weirdos? First Diana, now Frank. I didn’t make a mood board for him. There was no point. I didn’t want to get that involved. But I did want him out of my life. Plus, he gave me something to ask Sarah about the next morning. People love being asked their opinions. It makes them think you love them (I did). She’d know just what to do about Frank.

  “Can you have him evicted?”

  “I wish. I think he’s just bummed over a breakup. Or so my doorman said.”

  “O-M-G, you know what you should do? Pretend to be a secret admirer. Send him chocolates or something. It totally works.”

  I nodded. Sarah had the best ideas.

  * * *

  “More champagne,” Zhazha said to the woman next to her, who scrambled to grab a glass from the trays wandering the room. “I love champagne,” Zhazha declared to applause around her. The Lauren-bot by her side smiled cheerfully.

  “Everyone does, babe.” Jack laughed. We were all at a dinner for some new product launch. An intimate dinner, meaning twenty people. Three of those people were us. Sarah wasn’t here. She was invited, of course. But she couldn’t make it. She was resting, she said, after last night’s “emo party.” (Her words.)

  Jack worked the room like a magician. He was even better at schmoozing than Sarah. He remembered names, and when he didn’t, he called everyone babe or boo. It worked. The room loved him.