by Amina Akhtar
We didn’t know anyone else at the dinner. There was the girl whose name I could never remember. It was floral, and she based her whole look on a different plant each month. This month’s theme was cherry blossoms, and she wore cotton-candy pink. Next to Flower Power was the drawing guy. His shtick was to scribble a few lines and call them fashion illustrations, even though his images looked like squiggly smudges, fashion Rorschach tests. I called him Simon, after the kid’s show. You know the one. It was always on reruns. He did all those chalk drawings. Like body outlines for tots. At the other end of the room, Jack was talking with two girls. One was Mulberry. I would have to ask him how he could stand the shoe in her face. So distracting.
Zhazha was next to me, talking to a Lauren-bot and Flower Power.
“Oh, Anya! You’re little Z’s friend?” the bot cooed. She’d set her sights on me, and now I was doomed. This was my third event where Zhazha had appeared, and every time, I was her friend. Not Anya St. Clair, La Vie editor. But Zhazha’s pal.
I bared my teeth at her. “Is that angora?”
She nodded.
“Did you know that when they get the fur from the bunnies, you can hear them scream?”
She gave me a confused look, not sure if she should keep smiling.
“It’s amazing, really, the screams. They almost sound human. All so you can wear a fluffy pink sweater. Cute.”
I caught Jack’s maniacal grin. He loved it. He loved me. The Lauren-bot frowned, confusion flashing across her face. Her programming must have been on the fritz.
“What is this dinner for?” Zhazha asked me, loud enough to make the Lauren-bot flinch.
“Fuck if I know. I hope the food’s good at least. Is there anyone here worth talking to?”
“No.” She shrugged. “But they want to talk to us.”
“Correction, they want to talk to you.” I wasn’t jealous. I swear. If they ignored me, I wouldn’t have to make conversation. Besides, I was used to it.
“Anya, don’t hog all of Zhazha’s attention. You get her all the time. Time to share!” the Lauren-bot admonished.
“What’s this dinner for?” I asked her.
“It’s for the launch of a new capsule collection of vitamins,” she said proudly.
“A capsule collection of vitamins? Seriously?”
“Yes, they’re great. And we had designers create the outer casings. So very chic.”
“Is the formula at all different or special? Will it make you live longer or fight disease or anything?”
“No, we can’t make those claims. But they’re really pretty!” She beamed, as if waiting for applause. A waiter walked around with a tray of pills, and I had to agree they were pretty. One was Rothko inspired, another went for Jackson Pollock. There was a square-shaped vitamin that I imagined was hard to swallow.
“That one’s very editorial,” the Lauren-bot said, nodding enthusiastically, the go-to phrase for when something was heinously ugly but a good stylist could fit it into a magazine shoot. It’d never sell.
“Well, anyways, you all should try the vitamins! And have more drinks,” she chirped. More alcohol came out. We were toasting health supplements by guzzling booze, eating hors d’oeuvres of pâté and caviar, and then having a heavy dinner.
“Give me, I’ll try it.” Zhazha reached out her hand, each finger covered in at least two heavily bejeweled rings. She made it work. Zhazha puckered her lacquered red lips and opened up to swallow the skull vitamin. Dry, no water needed. “Now I’m healthy.”
I imagined she was beaming. I couldn’t tell for sure because Zhazha was wearing sunglasses despite being indoors and it being evening.
“Oh, that was chic,” Jack noted. “Dry swallowing. Girl.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I nodded along. Go with it, Anya. Pretend you belong.
“Anya, what are you working on lately?” he said. “Sarah said you were buying chocolates for someone . . .” They had been talking about me again.
“What? Oh, no. She suggested I do something like that for a nasty neighbor I have. He’s such a pain in my ass. But really, he doesn’t deserve chocolates.”
“Oh.” Jack made a face. “That’s not nearly as exciting. I was hoping you had a hot affair we could discuss.”
I was boring. I bored Jack.
“I wish. You?”
“Ugh, like Death Valley over here. Z? What about you? Who are you dating?”
She grinned at us both. “It’s a secret.”
“O-M-G, dish, now!” Jack grabbed our hands in excitement.
“I can’t. It’s a secret,” she repeated. “We will work together soon.” They were going to work together? But that meant . . .
“O-M-G.” I was horrified. “Tell me you’re not.”
“What? What did I miss?” Jack asked. He glanced at each of us.
“You’re seeing Greg?” I whispered it so only the three of us could hear me.
Zhazha grinned again and flashed a thumbs-up at me.
“Holy shit.” Jack dropped our hands. “Isn’t he with Sarah?”
“Was with Sarah,” Zhazha corrected.
“Goddammit. That’s just . . .” I glanced at Jack. He nodded. He got me. It was gross. Wrong. Mean. “I hope Sarah knows.”
“She will now.” Jack texted her.
I closed my eyes. This was going to be bad. Sarah would be devastated. It was bad enough Greg slept with every intern he could. But Zhazha? She was Sarah’s sworn enemy. Somehow it would all be my fault. I would be to blame, and Sarah would hate me for the rest of her life. Or this week. Her newfound devotion to me courtesy of Henri would be over. Dead and buried.
We were saved by a literal bell.
“Okay, everyone, let’s all find our seats!” The Lauren-bot called out, a silver bell in her hands.
We walked into the dining room, where a gorgeous table had been laid out. I had to give them credit—the space and venue were fabulous. It was in a not-yet-opened hotel near the far west side of Midtown. No one came here; it was impossible to find. And yet, stunning. The table was laid out in all white with crystal. I guess the vitamin biz was lucrative.
We all found our seats. Jack plunked down next to me, ignoring the seat assignment. Zhazha was farther down the table.
“What the fuck do we do about Zhazha and Greg?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing we can do. Did you text Sarah?” He nodded. “So I guess we wait and see what she wants.” I felt nauseous. There was going to be drama, and we were going to be pulled right in the middle of it. If Sarah’s personal life was going to implode, I preferred to be out of the line of fire.
“Anya, tell them about the intern,” Zhazha demanded from her perch four seats away.
Oh, God, make this evening end. Please, just kill us all. I want it to be over.
“What?”
“The intern, who died.”
“Zhazha, that’s not appropriate.”
“Wait, your intern was the one who was butchered?” Simon asked, his face red with excitement.
“Well, it’s an open investigation, and we really aren’t allowed to talk about it.”
“But, like, do they know who did it? You can tell us!” Flower Power gave it her best shot.
“No, not—”
“I heard it was Sarah Taft,” she continued. “Didn’t she lock the intern in her apartment to work like a slave? Can you imagine? So bananas!”
Jack gasped in horror. “Take her name out of your mouth! Sarah is the sweetest person ever,” Jack hissed.
I nodded along. No laughing, Anya. Be serious. Sarah, a murderer? It was hilarious, right? It was one thing to point the police in her direction (hello, self-preservation) and another for the industry to think she was a total psycho. I wanted to clap my hands. Bloody Sarah, fashion killer. God, it sounded so good. Sarah could make anything sound good.
“Well, I mean, I heard she killed Mulberry von Gratz too,” Simon said.
Now everyone gasped.
“And Lisa
. Wasn’t she your other bestie, Jack?” Flower-Power said.
Jack blanched. “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said stiffly. “Anya, maybe we should leave. This place blows.”
The Lauren-bot made a mewling noise. “No, please stay. Guys, we should talk about more appropriate things,” she said. The crowd seemed to listen.
Jack grabbed my hand under the table and squeezed it. Hard. What did that mean?
As we were tucking into dessert (kale sorbet), there was a commotion at the door. We all glanced up, ready to be entertained by some new bit of gossip or outlandish behavior. Anything could happen tonight. It was a full moon.
Sarah Taft stormed into the room.
Flower Power nearly fainted at the sight of her.
“Anya! There you are!” Sarah swooped in, kissing me on the cheek. I heard a few gasps behind me as the table grew silent. “Jacky!” She sat in his lap, ignoring everyone around us.
“Sarah, what’s up? Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.
“Fabulous. I got your texts, honey. I was celebrating being single. It turns out my boyfriend was dating some Russian hooker. Oh, hi, Zhazha.” She waved.
You could hear a knife drop.
“Anyways, I figured I’d come get you two so we could blow this joint.”
“Yeah, um, we should go.” Jack hopped up carefully, holding Sarah so she wouldn’t fall.
“Good. I’m worried you might D-Y-E,” she said to me.
“Dye? My hair?”
“No! Die! Like Henri said!”
“Wait, you came here drunk because you thought I might die?” Was she actually worried about me?
“Yes! Is that so hard to believe? Anya, we’re like sisters. That, and you shouldn’t hang out with hookers.”
We were like sisters. Dr. M would be thrilled to hear this news.
“Who’s Henri?” Simon asked in a whisper.
“Henri is almost the most amazing psychic!” Sarah said, slamming her hand on the table. “And do you know what he said?” The table shook their heads in unison. “He said Anya was the next to die.”
And cue the gasps.
I groaned. “It’s not that dramatic. Come on. He said I just had some battles to fight, that’s all. And then he tried to steal my shoe. So pardon me if I don’t believe him.”
“Whatever, Anya. I’m here to escort you home.”
“But . . .” Flower Girl piped up. She was still splayed in her chair, blinking with confusion.
“Yes?” Sarah swiveled to her.
“How do we know Anya’s safe with you?”
The room fell silent. Sarah’s eyes narrowed before she picked up my half-empty glass of champagne and tossed it back.
“Are you fucking serious? Who even are you? Like why are you even talking to me? Anya, Jack, let’s go.”
“No, Anya, I take you home,” Zhazha offered.
“Listen, you commie bitch, Anya’s my friend. If anyone’s going to watch her back, it’s me.” For a moment, Sarah looked like a banshee. A gorgeous, blonde shrieker, ready to bring ruin to her foes. But really, she needed to comb her hair and redo her makeup.
Jack shrugged. We got our coats and left. I mouthed Sorry to everyone, but inwardly, I was jumping for joy. What the hell had just happened? Was I dreaming? Was this a hallucination?
We climbed into a waiting taxi outside.
“Sarah, are you okay?” I asked.
“No, I’m not okay! Greg and I broke up because of your friend! And he was sleeping with Cassie. Why didn’t you tell me, Anya?” I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. How many times did I warn her? “And then, there you two were. With Zhazha! What kind of friends are you?”
“She was invited to the dinner. I had nothing to do with it.”
“It’s going to be fine, Sarah. Let’s all go home.” Jack rubbed her back.
“I know. We can make voodoo dolls of Greg. That would be fun, right?” I offered.
Sarah sniffed, wiping her nose. “I think I want to be alone after all.” She got out of the car at the next light. “Maybe tomorrow you two will start acting like my friends. Oh, and Anya, my dry cleaning isn’t going to pick itself up.”
We said nothing en route to Jack’s apartment. He hugged me as he got out.
“You did great, Anya. Seriously. You’re a great friend to her. To us.” Was this what having friends was like?
* * *
There was an ambulance and fire truck outside my apartment. Part of First Avenue was blocked. Was everything on fire? My life was crumbling into a pile of ashes. I got out of the cab and walked over to a crowd of onlookers.
“What happened?”
“Someone’s dead,” one person said. “Overdose maybe.” She shrugged. She was clearly enjoying the spectacle but didn’t care too much about the details.
I moved toward the building.
“Hold it, miss.” An officer held his arm out to stop me.
“I live there. Can we go in, or is there danger?”
“Which floor?”
“Twenty-nine.”
He radioed in and then waved me through. Only one elevator was working. On the way up, it stopped on twenty-eight, and when the doors opened, I saw a gurney with a sheet-covered body. I pushed the “Door Close” button and went to my floor. I needed to decompress. The night was too much. I was certain the moon had done all this. An eclipse or something was bringing the crazy out. Henri should have warned us.
Whenever I felt deeply unsettled, I showered. It was the only way to stay sane. Wash away everything. Don’t worry about anyone else. Wash my makeup off, scrub myself clean, and smother my skin in rejuvenating serums. And then I could begin again. Refreshed. Renewed.
Tomorrow would be a new day. I didn’t ask what horror it would bring. But I knew something bad was going to happen. I said a prayer to the fashion gods and went to sleep.
14
I woke up in the best mood imaginable. Sarah Taft was worried about me! She’d come to get me (and Jack) last night. I had done it. I had manifested and aspired my way to this. To her. Now I’d be part of Sarah’s royal court.
I jumped out of bed and kissed my Sarah mood board. These things totally worked. I should do a YouTube how-to on them. They were like serious voodoo or something. Now what to wear as the new bestie of Sarah Taft? I wondered if she wanted matching necklaces. I’d always wanted one of those and found some supercool crystal skull ones that would be amazing to wear. I’d buy them just in case.
I opted to wear my work uniform: leather leggings, a cashmere sweater (the Row), and Isabel Marant motorcycle boots. All black, all the time. I had to pick up Sarah’s dry cleaning and three pairs of shoes from the Leather Spa. It’s what besties did. By the time I got to work, Sarah was already at her desk, sucking down an iced latte. It was always a latte (iced skinny vanilla latte), never a coffee.
“Hey, Sarah.”
Silence.
“How are you feeling today?”
Crickets.
“I have your shoes and clothes.” I felt stupid carrying everything. She pointed to a chair, and I dropped everything in a heap.
The buzzing in my ears started up. It was like a saw going off inside my head. If I gave in to it, it’d take over. It would be all I could hear and be. The sound screamed to me that I had failed. I was a failure. I couldn’t even make Sarah love me. I wasn’t worthy of her. I sat at my desk, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. A coping mechanism courtesy of Dr. M. It didn’t work completely, but now the roar was a dull noise. I popped a barbiturate just in case. You can never be too careful. Or medicated.
* * *
Celia made two big announcements during our weekly meeting: First, Zhazha was coming aboard. And second, we had to do some major outreach to Cassie’s family and put on a good public face. She looked at me while she said that last part. I groaned inwardly.
“But where will Zhazha sit?” Sarah asked.
“Wherever she wants,” Celia snapped. �
�Now, Anya, I want you to spearhead the Cassie situation. Reach out to her family, see if there’s anything we can do. Send flowers for her funeral, that sort of thing.”
I made a face.
“Ugh, what?” Celia demanded.
“It’s just a bit late for all that, don’t you think? The funeral was last week—”
“It was? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Mulb—Bronwen! Did you know?”
Bronwen nodded, her face so dewy, it looked like she’d just splashed water on it. “Yes, but it was in California. I sent flowers already.” She was wearing an orchid in her hair.
“Oh. Good thinking.” Celia nodded at her assistant. “Anya, can you call your police buddy and see if they need anything from us?”
“Sure thing.” Detective Hopper was not my buddy. He made that clear on Monday. He was watching me, waiting for me to slip up. Well, screw that. I’d go on the offense.
Celia looked me up and down and sucked her breath in. “It pains me to say this because we’ve had a difficult few weeks, but you really need to get back on your diet. I’m going to have you go see my doctor. He’s a wonder. He can get you anything you need to help you lose weight.”
“Um, I don’t think that’s necessary, Celi—”
“Nonsense. We can’t have you talking to the press looking like that.”
“I’d rather not—”
“Just do it, Anya, or heads will fucking roll, okay?”
And with that, I was dismissed. Do it or die. She and Greg didn’t manage us so much as threaten us.
“I can’t believe that!” Sarah said as we walked to our cubicles.
She was speaking to me! Relief melted through me.
“I know, me dealing with the Cassie sitch?”
“No, like, W-T-F, Zhazha gets to sit wherever she wants? And she’s fucking Greg. Just gross.” She shuddered.
“Didn’t you used to fuck him too?”
“Anya, don’t be so disgusting.” Had I imagined her and Greg?
“Anyway, it was really sweet of you to come get me last night.” I had to show her I cared.
She smiled. It was cold, cruel. Only Sarah could make a smile terrifying and thrilling. I should have taken the warning. But I didn’t. I wanted to ignore what was about to happen. I had aspired. This should have been my moment.