by Amina Akhtar
“Meanwhile, Anya, that’s a rather colorful dress for such a solemn occasion,” Sarah noted. Everyone’s eyes swiveled over. I was wearing a Mary Katrantzou dress. It was black with an explosion of color. I wore a black bandage on my hand.
“Well, I decided to wear something that would honor Zhazha. She’d hate all black. She’d think it was boring.”
“Oh, God, you are so right!” Dalia exclaimed, downing her third glass of wine.
“Still, don’t you think it will look bad?” Sarah was trying to bait me. But my outfit was fucking perfect. I had tried on four different looks before deciding on it. I steeled myself. Sarah’s taunts would not faze me.
“Well, if anyone is offended, they can come talk to me.” I shoved a forkful of lettuce into my mouth.
“Offended by what?” Celia asked, rejoining our table.
“By Anya’s obviously inappropriate dress.” Sarah rolled her eyes.
Celia took in my outfit thoughtfully. “I think Mary Katrantzou is an inspired choice. Exactly what Zhazha would have wanted. And just enough black to make it occasion appropriate. Really, Sarah, when did you stop taking fashion risks?”
I bit my lip to keep from laughing. Always win sounded off in my head.
“Hey, Sarah, what did you do to Greg?” I asked, silencing the table.
“What? I didn’t do anything to Greg.” Her voice rose in pitch.
“Oh, weird, that’s not what he said. He said you were crazy and, like, watching him? And then he asked for help and then called the police.” I calmly took a sip of wine. Evie was grinning like a cat, enjoying the drama. Dalia’s face went ashen; she was too nice for the fashion world.
“Whatever. He’s so dramatic. We just had a fight.”
“So he won’t be telling the police anything? I don’t know how much more you can afford to have leaked.”
Her eyes went wide. She looked around at the table in disbelief. Sarah’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.
“Are you threatening me, Anya?” she growled. “Because I know plenty about you . . .”
I grinned. “Why would you think that’s a threat? Isn’t that interesting . . .” I stared at her until she looked away. I wanted to hug her. To gossip with her. But all of that was shoved so far down that I could only be cold. I turned to Celia. “Shall we go soon?”
* * *
The Russian Vodka Bar was dark. So dark, you felt like you couldn’t breathe. It was not a fashion destination.
Celia wrinkled her nose at the loud electronic music playing over a speaker. “Well, it’s a look” was all she said.
“Hello! You must be . . . Anya?” A man with dark, thinning hair and one gold necklace came up to me. “I am Dimitri, Zhanna’s cousin. Thank you for coming.”
“Dimitri, so good to finally meet you,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to dodge his hug. His cologne—Thierry Mugler’s Amen—enveloped me. I started coughing.
“Ah, you must be so upset still. Here, drink.” He handed me a shot and watched me expectantly.
“To Zhazha,” I choked down my shot. He nodded approvingly before pounding his own.
“And you must be Celia, yes?” The ritual was repeated until all of us had taken shots. Finally, Dimitri led us to a table and sat us down, joining us briefly. I hoped it would brief, at least.
“So, Dimitri, are the shots traditional in Russian memorial services?” Celia asked.
“We leave vodka and black bread for the body in Russia. Tonight, we do it up Brighton Beach style.” He gestured to the waitress to bring more shots.
“Brighton Beach style?” Sarah asked, shooting me a look.
“Yes, it’s where we live for last eight years.”
“I thought Zhazha was from Siberia?”
“Zhanna? No, no, she worked as waitress in my uncle’s bar. But then she became a model—Zhazha.” I felt Sarah’s accusatory eyes on me. “I should go say hello to more people.” He hopped across the room, greeting other guests, drinking more vodka.
“Did you know she was a fake when you brought her to us?” Sarah glared at me.
“She was a huge blogger. We needed her. What does it matter?”
“But she was a nobody!” We were all nobodies. Except for Sarah.
“Sarah, is this really the time or place? Zhazha’s dead.”
“Yes, yes it is!” Her voice bordered on hysterical. Then again, she had been beaten by a dead Brooklyn waitress. “You would like her. Both of you, fucking phonies. You’re both frauds!”
I kept my face still. I’d come too far to be taken down by her now. No one reacted to her accusation. I let out a breath. I was relieved no one cared.
“Girls, let’s not,” Celia said at last. “How long do we really have to stay here?”
“Twenty minutes; otherwise, it looks bad,” I noted.
“Then let’s get more vodka.” Celia gestured for another round while I scanned the room. It was mostly fashion people (including Jack, who sat down at our table, perched next to me), some bloggers, some of Zhazha’s weird fans (Flower Power and Simon were there but too scared to approach us). My Lauren-bot was in the corner, her shard glistening in the dim light. I thought I spied Zhazha herself, carrying her head around, but she ducked down a hall before I could catch her. She wouldn’t be tacky enough to show up to her own funeral, would she? Even Mulberry hadn’t done that. Well, this was Zhazha we were talking about. I kept staring, looking for her, and instead caught the eye of Detective Hopper. He walked over. Strutted. The man could do a mean catwalk. Jack let out a low whistle.
“Hello, Detective. You know everyone here.”
“Evening, everyone.” He nodded.
“Detective!” Sarah said. “Did you know that Zhazha was a fraud and Anya knew? Wouldn’t that give her, like, grounds for murder?”
He glanced at me before answering. Those eyes. “Yes, I did, actually. We’ve looked into Zhazha’s background. Anya told me, as a matter of fact.” I smiled to myself. He did like me. “But . . . say someone has had a lot of public fights with Zhazha and threatened her with witnesses around. And filmed her ex sleeping with Zhazha. That person would be a prime suspect.”
The color in Sarah’s face drained. “You don’t mean . . . me, do you?”
I fake coughed to cover up my snort.
“We’d like to speak to you tomorrow, Ms. Taft,” Detective Hopper continued, ignoring me. “Anya, may I have a word?” He grabbed my elbow and escorted me ten feet away. This was the most we’d touched in a while. My mind was doing cartwheels.
“You need to be careful with Sarah. Don’t hang out with her, cut down how much you’re alone with her.”
“So you definitely suspect her?” I wanted to hug him. If Sarah wouldn’t be my bestie, she’d have to pay for it. Her entire life was going to be an ode to me. I could kill her. It’s not like I hadn’t thought about it. Debated it. Made pro and con lists. But what I learned with Meredith is that it was over too quickly. Sarah wouldn’t suffer if I killed her. I wanted her whole life ruined. Love me or else.
“I can’t comment, you know that. All I can say is that I’d sleep better knowing you weren’t around her. We don’t know what she’s capable of.”
“Wait, you think about me before you sleep?” I grinned.
“That—that’s not the point. Anya, are you going to listen to me or not?”
“I am, but I had to come tonight. I promise, I’ll stay away from her.”
“Good. Also, we spoke with Greg Davies. Did he tell you anything?”
I nodded. “Just that she had filmed him. He was pretty hysterical.”
Detective Hopper looked grim as he shook his head. “We saw the footage.”
“We all saw the footage. She posted it online.”
“Listen, just stay away from her,” he repeated. He squeezed my arm and glanced at my bandage. “What happened to your hand?”
“Oh, home decor accident. I tweeted all about it.” Apparently he didn’t follow me on Twitter.
“Looks painful. Be safe.” He pointed at me. His finger was so close, I could lick it. (I refrained.) He left me standing there.
Back at the table, Sarah sat glaring, no doubt hoping she could kill me with just her eyes.
“What’s the matter, Sarah? Not in the mood to toast to Zhazha?” I asked.
“Fuck you, Anya.”
“What did the detective want?” Evie asked, aiming for innocent but failing.
“Oh, Greg went to see him. Something about you threatening him?” I stared at Sarah as I said it.
Jack gasped. “Oh, shit. Sarah, you need to get your ass a lawyer.”
“Shut up, Jack. You’re so not helping!” she wailed. He looked hurt for a second and then rolled his eyes. He held my hand.
“God, Sarah, you are such a psycho!” Evie grabbed a drink and threw it back.
“Sarah, I think you should leave,” Celia said while motioning the waiter for yet more drinks. Sarah dropped her head and then got up. No argument. She grabbed her coat and ran out of the bar.
“Wow, she’s going to take us all out,” Dalia said.
“Probably.” I shrugged. Jack hugged me. He was my friend now.
* * *
The next day, I wore a new Rick Owens dress (black with a sheer skirt attached) along with motorcycle boots by Givenchy. Was it a bit much? Yes, but after Sarah’s freak-out in front of everyone, I needed a solid look. Wearing four thousand dollars’ worth of clothing just for a Thursday may have seemed excessive, but welcome to fashion.
I was going to ascend today. Become a true La Vie woman. I wasn’t running around, making a scene at memorials. I wasn’t accused of killing Zhazha or Cassie or Mulberry or Lisa. I was keeping calm, dressing well, and doing everything Celia wanted. I hadn’t bled at work in days! I was her ideal La Vie girl. I had done it.
Sarah’s voice wafted over to me. “And this is my desk. Say hi, Anya!” she said, waving at me. With her was a teenage girl holding an iPhone, filming her.
“What’s this?” I tried to duck out of the video.
“My vlog, duh! The police want to account for my whereabouts, so I thought why not just put it on YouTube, right? Brillz, huh?” She grinned. It was brilliant. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Who’s she?” I asked.
The girl behind the phone smiled at me.
“My intern, obvi. This is Amanda. Say hi, Mandy!”
“Hi!”
“So this is Anya. She works for me.” Sarah moved to stand next to me.
“I don’t want to be on your stupid vlog, Sarah.” I covered my face.
“Anya, chill. No one cares about you. I mean, what is this outfit? Wait, you have like a tag or something. Hold on.” She yanked on my collar. Nothing happened. I was too aware of how close her hands were to my neck. She yanked harder.
“Just cut it, Jesus.”
“I got it!”
A horrible ripping sound filled my ears.
“Did you just tear my Rick Owens dress?” Deep, cleansing breaths. Inhale and exhale. Everything was going to be fine.
“O-M-G, I did. Ha ha, oopsies!” She giggled.
“You’ll have to pay for it to be fixed.” I was furious. My dress was ruined.
“Ugh, whatever. Don’t wear designer if you can’t handle wear and tear. A real fashion girl would know that.”
Right there, in front of little Mandy, I smashed Sarah’s head into my knee. And then on my desk. Over and over and over, blood splashing—
“Okay, we’re off! Toodles!” Sarah grinned. Then to the camera, “Anya is very tightly wound. I think because she’s totes in love with the detective we work with.”
This was not how I expected my day to go. I didn’t think Sarah would go full Kardashian with a camera. Or that she’d ruin my new dress. Or announce to the fucking world I liked Detective Hottie—Hopper. It was too much. It was as if the world had collectively decided to throw me in the trash. How could you fight that?
Sarah skipped happily down the hall, colliding into Celia and Bronwen. (The assistant wore a literal crown of thorns today.)
“What are you doing, Sarah?” Celia asked.
“Sorry, boss! Wow, Bronwen, doesn’t that hurt?”
“Have you gone down to the police station yet?”
“Not yet. But I’m recording my vlog for them.”
“Get down there, now. Straighten all this out. If I find out you didn’t talk to them today, so help me God, I’ll put Anya in charge of you.”
Sarah actually screamed then. I didn’t take offense. I’d make her grovel if I were in charge. Every menial task, every mean thing she said, I’d take out on her several times over.
“That’s what happens when you kill people,” I called out.
“I didn’t kill anyone!” she yelled back. Something flew my way.
“Sarah! If you throw one more thing, I will call security,” Celia scolded. She looked tired. I wondered if there was trouble at home, though I didn’t really care.
Sarah sobbed as she ran out. God, she was so emotional. She really needed to learn how to keep cool. I picked up the phone from where she had thrown it. It was still recording.
“We need to do something about her,” Celia muttered.
“The police will probably take care of it.”
“Will they?”
I shrugged.
“Bronwen, go get me a half-soy, half-almond milk latte,” Celia said.
And then I was alone.
I could erase the whole video. But I didn’t. A Sarah tantrum was pure gold. I could blur my face. Or the part about being a real fashion girl. But I left it. They were the ravings of a lunatic. I went to Sarah’s desk, giving her future audience a tour of her belongings. Her desk, not Zhazha’s.
I narrated as I opened each drawer to show what she had inside. Her collection of lipsticks and glosses, hair brushes, a box of tampons—and voodoo dolls.
“What’s this?” I held up six dolls. Each were named. Each had pins in them. Mulberry, Cassie, Lisa, Zhazha, Jack. And me. “Oh, shit.” I panned over each one before hitting stop. I couldn’t wait to send it to Detective Hopper. Should I cut that part about him out? No. The less edited, the better. I emailed myself the file and forwarded it to him along with a note, This happened today. No love notes. No emotion.
“Anya! What the fuck is this?” Celia bellowed twenty minutes later. The video was live and spreading on Twitter. Uploading took a bit, but the world had to see it. I was merely doing everyone a favor.
“Um, Sarah’s vlog. Did you see the voodoo dolls? There’s one for me. I can’t work here if she’s going to be allowed unfettered access. She’s a murderer, Celia!” I wiped my eyes with shaking fingers. A good touch, I thought. One of us had to go. And it would be Sarah. It had to be. A La Vie woman didn’t draw the wrong kind of attention.
“You’re right, you shouldn’t have to. But I’ll be real with you—if we don’t up our numbers, there’ll be layoffs. And right now, Sarah is the only reason people are coming to us. Her infamy is great for our traffic.”
“So you’re keeping a murderer over me?”
“No, no, of course not. We want both of you to stay.”
Commit, Anya. Commit to this moment. I stood up.
“No. I will not work with her. I quit. Effective immediately.” The words came out before I could stop them. Dr. M would say my ego was taking over.
Dread, that’s what I felt. Dread and panic and total and complete fear. My heart drummed in my ears. Have you ever lost a job? You know that moment when shit hits the fan and you have no choice but to accept what’s happening? I wasn’t fired. But how could I stay there? How could I go to work every day knowing Celia would always pick Sarah over me? That no matter what I did or who I did it to, Sarah Taft would win. She was born lucky and would always be lucky. The rest of us would have to claw our way up, make luck happen.
Okay, maybe emotion and ego won out this time. But how much is a girl supposed to take? I did
all the hard work. All of it! And Sarah was reaping the benefits. I was supposed to get the promotion. I should have been in charge. It was me, my work. I packed up my desk shoes in various tote bags and walked out.
Celia Avery would pay for this. She’d regret not choosing me, not making me her star editor. I giggled as I left the building. I felt better just thinking about what I was going to do to her.
19
Personnel changes at magazines are like celeb breakups. Every other fashion site and blog has to run who left, why, and who the winner was. Usually, that’s the magazine. But I’d be damned if I’d let La Vie win anything. They picked Sarah over me again. The insult. So I made sure to talk to a website or two, mentioning all the videos (Greg’s romps included). I dropped hints about the fingernails found in Sarah’s desk too. I’d been wronged, and Sarah was a murderer. Dr. M thought I was desperate for attention. But what did he know? He didn’t even read magazines.
Zhazha would have been by my side, laughing the whole way. I really did miss that stupid bitch. Why’d she have to go behind my back? If only she could have been a normal friend instead of such a needy soul sucker. But at least I wasn’t dealing with her whining right now. I was also kind of over Detective Hopper, especially since he insisted on calling me not to chat but to yell at me. I hated when people yelled at me.
“Did you have to drop the information about the case?”
“I said they should contact you. I didn’t give out any new info.” I didn’t, not really.
“Yes, you did.” His voice was stern. And sexy.
“Like what? And did you tell me it was confidential or off limits? Did you ask me to sign anything? No. And was any of what I implied wrong?”
I could hear him sigh. “First off, we haven’t connected Lisa’s case to Zhazha, or any of the others.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Second, no one needed to know about the fingernails. And now because of you, we have to do a press conference.”
“Well, it’s about time. People are getting antsy.”
“Hey, don’t tell me how to do my job!” he snapped.
“I’m not! But people want to know what’s going on. They’re scared.”