by Amina Akhtar
“I call my cousin Dimitri. He takes care of it.”
“Sounds like you have experience, Zhazha.”
“I take care of my problems,” she boasted. Was she really saying this out loud? In an office with a killing problem? Should I slap her or kiss her? I wasn’t quite sure.
“She’s not your friend,” she added.
“And you are?”
“Of course.”
“No one’s really a friend when you work here, Zhazha.”
* * *
The papers ran a couple more stories about Sarah, just to remind us all that the murders of Mulberry, Lisa, and Cassie had yet to be solved. There was a sidebar on the Greg videos and the investigation into whether they were revenge porn. There were rumors of some big exposé on the magazine coming out soon. Celia was pissed. But she was also pleased with the Zhazha photo shoot. So it all evened out.
“Oh, just look at these photos.” Celia sighed, sitting back in her chair. She held up the contact sheets from the Hitchcock shoot so I could fawn over them. Zhazha as Tippi Hedren, with birds all around her, including a falcon perched on her shoulder. Zhazha as Marnie, stealing cash while it poured outside. Zhazha in the famous shower scene but shot at the Plaza Hotel adorned only in jewelry. And for Vertigo, wearing bold stripes and splayed on a chaise lounge.
“This was a brilliant idea. So glad I thought of it,” Celia added.
I bit my lip until it bled.
“Absolutely genius, Celia.” I wiped my mouth.
“She’s going to do wonders for the magazine.”
We were that desperate for better sales. All the murders had scared away advertisers, and we were losing revenue at a terrifying pace.
If we made the deadline, Zhazha was going to be the saving grace of La Vie. And looking at the spread, I could see why. If you didn’t let her open her mouth, she was lovely. She did well as a Hitchcock girl. Staring at her shots made me happy, not because she looked damn fierce (she did), but because everything was clicking together. I was (finally) a success. I was a magazine person.
“Anya, these are so chic. But I need you to rein her in a bit.” Celia’s Botoxed brows tried to frown. They failed. “I mean, she’s like a giant fucking toddler. ‘I want this, I want that.’ What is wrong with her? She’s been here, what? Three months? And she thinks she owns the damn place.”
“One month, actually.”
“What? That’s it? Jesus.”
In that one month, Zhazha had managed to turn the entire office against her. I’m not even exaggerating.
She’d waved her Georges Pike bracelet (from the Zhazha line) in Dalia’s face, taunting her that no one had ever made jewelry for her.
“You’re the jewelry editor. You should impress the designers more.”
Zhazha had set her sights on Evie next.
“Is this good cream?” She held up a bottle.
Evie nodded. “Totally. I use it myself.”
“Oh.” Zhazha threw it in the trash.
And then there was me. She bitched about me to anyone who would listen. She even emailed Celia to say I was stealing ideas: Anya steals her stories. She is a thief. Her ideas aren’t hers. I can help with this. As if. I may be a phony, but I’ve never stolen ideas. I wanted to say I wasn’t surprised by what she did, that I knew she was only ever on #TeamZhazha, but her betrayal hurt for a moment. A day. Fine, I had a full session with Dr. M about it. It’s hard to fake-like people and not really fall for them.
“Do you know she had the nerve to email me complaining about you?” Celia asked.
“About me?” I aimed for an appropriately puzzled look on my face. Of course not, Celia. How would I know that? Zhazha was advancing to full backstabbing La Vie girl at an admirable pace.
“Yeah, she said you were stealing her work. The girl can barely write two words.” She had loved the blogger just a few moments ago. But the only constant with Celia was that she changed, constantly.
“At least she’s helping with traffic. Maybe we should have her work out of the office.”
“Maybe. And Jesus Christ, give her a makeover, would you? She’s wearing Cavalli today. She’s giving me such a headache. Put her in some Jil Sander or something.”
“And there’s that whole dead-bodies thing . . .”
“What dead-bodies thing?”
“Oh. Zhazha said she knew how to get rid of dead bodies. And then someone tweeted that she had a bloody past? Like, with the Russian mob or something? I don’t know. Maybe we should—”
“Oh, great, just what we need. I’ll handle it.”
I was dying to be in that HR meeting. “So, um, is Sarah coming back? She said she was working on it?”
Celia rolled her eyes. “All of you will be the death of me. Yes, she wants to come back. But only if the team is comfortable with it.”
Us? Me? Holy shit, I had power over Sarah’s life?
“I think we can make it work.” If I was going to have a Judas next to me at work, I’d rather it were Sarah.
* * *
I needed to forget all about my work issues. No Sarah, no Zhazha, certainly no Celia. Just a quiet night watching my beloved Stabler. Except the episodes airing were newer ones. What was the point of SVU without Stabler? Annoyed, I threw popcorn at the TV while scrolling through Twitter.
There Zhazha was, subtweeting me. When your bestie is a fake. [Crying emoji face]. Her bestie? For a second, it felt great; I was flattered. Then I realized, she called me a fake. Did she know somehow? Who could have told her? My mind flashed to the Highline party with Lisa. The trinity, together.
I knew who’d told Z. Jack. He had to. Unless somehow Sarah was going to the blogger behind everyone’s backs. That would be surprising; Sarah hated Zhazha. No, it was Jack. Had to be. Maybe he needed to be taught a lesson? The idea depressed me. Jack was fun, I liked him. And now I had to kill him. Why was making friends so hard as an adult?
The next day, I got to the office, and there was Zhazha, sitting at my desk, trying to go through my computer. I wanted to paint a B in blood on her yellow dress. B for backstabbing bitch. Instead, I smiled.
“What are you doing?”
“My computer is not working,” she said by way of explanation.
“It looks fine to me. You won’t be able to use mine without my password, you know.”
Loser. What was I thinking? Zhazha was a social-climbing nobody who would only go higher if I let her. I had traded the queen of the New York social world for her.
It took a few days before I could do anything about Zhazha. I had to wait for Celia to send Zhazha’s spread to the printers for the January issue. It was nearly a stop-the-presses moment, but they made it and were being whipped up. Perfection.
And then suddenly, there was Sarah.
I thought I was imagining her. Her hair wavy and cascading just so. Her lip-glossed mouth was open in a snarl. She was wearing a black fitted dress and black heels. Sedate for Sarah; she was like the ghost of La Vie past. And she was standing in front of her old desk, her face furious.
“Seriously, move your shit off my desk, whore!” she shrieked.
“I will not move! You go, or I’ll call the police!”
“Sarah, are you real?” I whispered.
“What is all this noise?” Celia bellowed. Bronwen stood behind her, covering her ears. Celia looked at me, the one person not making a peep.
I sighed. “Um, where should Sarah sit?”
“Figure it out, ladies. You’re adults. And do it quietly, or heads will roll.” That was her favorite new phrase these days. She said she liked the imagery it conveyed.
I called the managing editor’s office, and the only open desks were with the copy department, one row over.
“The copy department?” Sarah shouted incredulously. “I can’t sit there!”
“You can and you will.” I grabbed her by the elbow. “Right now, all eyes are on you, and not in a good way. You need to clear your name. Be more agreeable, easier to de
al with. Suck it up for a little while, and then we can fix this, okay?”
She nodded mutely. No objection. No yelling. Wow. I needed to be no-nonsense Anya with Sarah more often. I wanted to hug her.
* * *
Sarah was back, but her status in our group had plummeted, thanks in no part to her new neighbors. (The copy department was like hanging with band geeks, or theater kids, or other weird tropes from high school movies. Sarah may as well have dyed her hair purple and worn striped thigh-highs.) I had no idea why she hadn’t waited until this was all over to come back. Wait until the murderer was caught (LOL) or at least until after the holidays. Christmas was in one week. Sarah should have been with her family in Connecticut. Instead, she was with us. (Did that make us family?)
Evie and Dalia still came to my desk, forcing Sarah to get up and come along. Worse, she had to spend time with Zhazha.
“Where are we going?” Sarah asked as we all trudged toward the cafeteria.
“Froyo,” Dalia answered.
“Oh, but I’m not doing sugar or dairy.” We all shot her a look. Pack dynamics insisted she submit to our will, or else. “I guess I can today. Whatever.”
Sarah was weak now. We could all sense it.
Zhazha joined us too but would never eat the yogurt. I think she just wanted to keep an eye on Sarah. She waved her party invites in Sarah’s face, laughing. (I’d like to say Sarah didn’t take the bait, but come on. It’s Sarah.)
In response to her dwindling social life, Sarah decided to reinvent herself. Gone was her Valentino and Gucci. She now wore Rick Owens and Isabel Marant. Pieces that could have come from my closet—if we were the same size. I was thrilled and annoyed. That was my look. Celia would have thrown a fit if Sarah had tried to wear any of it to our holiday party, but Sarah wasn’t allowed to attend. (The party sucked. The powers that be decided we all needed to keep a low profile, so we had Veuve in the cafeteria.)
Yet outside the confines of our office, Sarah’s star was strangely rising. Apparently, being suspected of murder was the chicest thing on the goddamn planet. Fashionlandia loved a good scandal. Forget Cartier dinners; she was headed to underground raves and roving dance parties in subway tunnels. Brooklyn brands invited her to their holiday bashes.
Having Sarah back in the office, even dressed in her most gothic attire, made me jubilant. Sarah was back—for me. She wanted to go back to how we were. I didn’t care that she laughed at me before or said we weren’t friends. Or threatened me. Okay, I did, but I know why she did it. She was just scared of getting too close to me. That had to be it. I started finding ways to hang with Sarah one-on-one during the day. Lunches, fake appointments, shopping trips to Barneys.
“You know, I heard Zhazha says shit about you to everyone,” she said to me over Caesar salad. “Jack showed me the texts she sent him. Anya, you can’t trust her.”
I waved my hand. No big deal. “Oh, they’re just texts.” I didn’t want to give away how much the Russian blogger’s backstabbing upset me. Never let anyone know how you really feel. Never. They’ll use it against you.
“No, it’s worse than that. Listen to me, okay? I’m trying to help.” Sarah looked serious. She looked concerned.
“Since when, Sarah? You’ve never tried to help me.” Not the way I helped you.
“Whatever, I care, okay? See?” She held up her own phone. I hadn’t checked her texts in a while. Or anyone’s. I could offer an excuse that I was busy with the holiday season, but honestly, I was tired of reading mean shit about myself. But there it was. A message from Zhazha: Let’s put the past behind us, Sarah. I want to be friends. Let’s get drinks. Without Anya. LOL. Sick of her.
Now that Sarah was back, the blogger was trying to broaden her reach. If the two of them became friends, they’d be unstoppable. Zhazha had clearly realized that even if Sarah still hadn’t. If they became friends, they’d have no use for me.
I glanced from the phone to Sarah, and there it was. The pity in her eyes. I felt my panic, my anger, my overwhelming desire to break something. But I didn’t. I ate my salad, drank my Diet Coke.
“Let’s go to the fifth floor and look at shoes,” I said, smiling.
Sarah nodded, and the topic of Zhazha was dropped.
But I didn’t let it go. We shopped, and I thought of Zhazha. So much betrayal in such a short time. She could teach a class on backstabbing at the Learning Annex. By the time we got back to work, I knew one thing: it was time to unfriend my little Russian.
* * *
During Fashion Week, Zhazha got free rooms at a hotel a mere two blocks from her apartment. That was so chic. The rest of the time, she lived in a duplex in Gramercy. The apartment was gorgeous, with a wide, open area for the living room and kitchen. The bedroom was up one of those winding iron staircases that always look so lethal. One fall, and you’re done.
I had invited myself over under the guise of exchanging Christmas gifts. Friends did that, right? (I’d gotten her a picture frame and some champagne. I’d left a gift for Sarah in her desk too: handmade voodoo dolls, one for each of us at work, including Lisa.) Zhazha was upstairs changing outfits. Thirty minutes later, she clunked down each step, her platform boots barely fitting on the rungs.
“Okay, now, what did you want?”
“We need to talk.” I poured her a drink.
“About what?”
“Zhazha, are you happy with our setup?”
“Happy? I work, I get paid. I live here. What else is there to be happy about?”
“Sure, okay. But is La Vie nourishing you? Is your soul being fed?” Smile.
She stared at me blankly. I moved farther away on the sofa, keeping a good measure of distance.
“What about dating? Are you dating anyone?”
She gave me a strange look. “Are you hitting on me, Anya?”
“Oh, no. Sorry, I was just wondering what else was going on in your life. With fashion, it’s important to have other things to focus on.” I kept the idiotic smile on my face.
“Ah, okay, I understand. I see Greg once in a while, but it’s not great. The sex is terrible.”
I grimaced, nearly gagging on my champagne. What magnetic pull did that man have over everyone? Was it his gelled-back hair? “It can be hard to find good men when you’re working so much.” I was boring myself. I had to keep the conversation flowing. I couldn’t very well ask her why she sucked so much. Confronting her would be pointless. She’d bat her lashes, purse her lips, and pretend all was fine.
“You’re right. But that’s the price for being us.” She laughed.
“Oh, sure. Let’s toast! To working women!” I watched her finish her champagne and quickly poured her another glass. But there was no need—her eyes were already getting glassy.
“Anya, I—” And she was out. Even if she had the tolerance of, well, a Russian hooker, enough benzos would knock her out. Thank God for Dr. M and his free samples.
But she wasn’t dead yet. I put on gloves for what was coming next.
I felt for a pulse—weak, but still there. I could drop a house on her and she’d still live. The girl was as strong as an ox. Russians were just bred differently, I guess. I grabbed her by the armpits and dragged her into the bathroom. (If you think it’s easy to drag a limp body down a hallway, think again. Thank God for Tracy Anderson’s arm workout.)
Once there, I stripped her naked. From a purely artistic point of view, Zhazha did have a great body. But I was glad to see she had stretch marks and cellulite too. Some things were universal. I know, I was being petty. But I think I was allowed this moment. I took a deep breath and heaved her into the tub and then propped her up. Angles are always of the utmost importance. Then I turned the shower on—so the blood would be minimal.
I reached into my bag and pulled out my knife: an eleven-and-a-half-inch blade made from balsa wood. Exactly the same make as the one in Psycho. Authenticity mattered. I started stabbing. Seventeen stab wounds later—just like Janet Leigh—I decided to add s
omething special. I took out my handsaw (I really should buy stock in Black & Decker; this was the third one I’d bought from them) and sliced through her pretty neck. I had to put some effort into the spine, but finally, her head came off. I placed it in the tub and turned off the water. Using a paint brush I’d brought with me, I wrote a note in her blood on the shower wall: “Heads will roll.”
I stepped back to admire my work.
Even disassembled, she made such a pretty corpse, I’d give her that. And though it wasn’t quite the same as her spread in the upcoming issue, which was already at the printers and couldn’t be pulled, it was similar enough to cause a stir. Yes, it was derivative—the Gucci shows last February already had heads as accessories—but I think it still worked.
I waited for the familiar rush of endorphins to wash over me—but nothing came. I felt nothing. No rush of excitement, no sense of accomplishment. Just nothing. But I didn’t dwell on it. Not at Zhazha’s. (I’d talk to Dr. M about it. He’d know what was wrong.)
“Maybe next time someone helps you like I did, you won’t be such an ungrateful bitch. Oh, Merry Christmas.”
Style bloggers were just so impermanent these days. One day they’re on top of the world, the next, they’re toe up in the morgue.
Steps taken: 11,940. Calories burned: 1,202.
16
Pop quiz: How long can a blogger go without posting on Instagram before her fans panic?
Answer? Seven hours.
Zhazha’s loyal legion of followers freaked when they hadn’t seen a photo of her jewelry, her bright-red lips, her heavily mascaraed eyes. Comments multiplied on Zhazha’s Instagram. Unfortunately for them, it was the holidays. We were all off for a few days, and none of us paid much attention to what Zhazha was or wasn’t doing.
It wasn’t until January 2, over a week after she was killed, that a photo of Zhazha’s head was posted to Instagram. It looked so peaceful sitting in the tub while her body sagged against the corner. I captioned it Zhazha for Gucci. It got more attention than the brand’s latest campaign. (As Greg would say, “Engagement!”) People went batshit. You’d think they’d never seen a decapitated corpse before. It was like a boy band breakup, only more dramatic and with far more lip gloss.