by Amina Akhtar
“Fine. The press conferences aren’t up to me. I don’t decide when those happen. Anyways . . .” He paused, calming himself down. “I can’t reach your doctor. Have him call me. We can’t clear you without talking to him.”
“He’s so forgetful. Just email him. It’s probably easier.” I gave him Dr. M’s email address. He checked it often, but I had to remind him. I even had to check his email for him some days. We were close enough that he didn’t mind.
“Thanks.” He hung up.
Our relationship was clearly in a rough patch. That was to be expected. Seventy percent of office romances don’t work out. Proven fact. Some things were beyond even my control. (Maybe I could pitch a story to someone about not dating coworkers. “Workplace Romance: Road to Disaster or Honeymoon in the Conference Room?”)
* * *
I needed to focus on plan C (for Celia). I had to bide my time, because it would be really suspicious if anyone dropped dead right now. Sure, I’d just thrown Sarah’s pretty little head under the bus, but I’d also walked out in a huff. Too risky. So I waited a week, pacing around my apartment, drawing up contingency plans, and coming up with my final exit strategy. Then I wardrobe-planned because outfit changes were key. Okay, fine, I also binge-watched Law & Order.
* * *
It was finally C-Day. I had a meeting at two PM at the La Vie offices with Celia, Greg, and possibly human resources. Celia had been really vague on the phone about the whole thing.
“We just need to clear the air. How’s two? I have Botox in the morning, so you know.” (I did. I had copies of everyone’s calendars.)
Celia and Greg were either hoping to lure me back or trying to see if I was going to sue them. (Emotional distress? They pushed me to murder?) Companies didn’t care about retaining talent anymore; they only cared about covering their asses. That was the real problem with the editorial world these days. The grand old days of developing real genius on your staff had died out. Now it was all about marketing dollars and social engagement.
At one PM, I put on a Stella McCartney metallic sweat shirt with matching sweat pants—thank god for athleisure. I added gold Jimmy Choo pumps. No black; I had to shine. The rain outside wouldn’t ruin my power-bitch dressing.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was sitting in Greg’s office waiting for Celia. The forced small talk was making me suicidal. Every time there was any noise—someone’s phone pinging; a computer ding; his own squeaky, farting shoes—Greg would jump out of his skin. Poor guy. He was such a nervous nelly. I wish I’d been there for his conversation with Detective Hopper. But even some things I wasn’t privy to.
Greg paced the room, looking at his watch like a nervous tic. Pace, pace, pace, stare. Pace, pace, pace, stare. “I don’t know where Celia is. She’s never this late.”
“She did say to come at two, right?”
“Yeah. Let me call her assistant.”
By 2:30, we both knew Celia wasn’t coming.
“Okay, well, I’m leaving. This was a waste of my time, Greg.”
“Anya, no, wait! Look, I know the situation with Sarah is tenuous, but we need you to stay. You’re a key member of the team.” The team. There was no team. He just wanted someone to do the work. “I don’t know where Celia is, but I’m asking you to reconsider.” He leaned in and quietly added, “Please don’t leave me alone with Sarah.”
“What you and Sarah do is none of my business. I can’t stay at a publication that doesn’t want to protect its employees.” I had practiced my speech, trying to balance the perfect amount of outrage and boredom.
“Excuse me, Mr. Davies?” Bronwen stood at the door, her crown of gardenias slightly askew on her head.
“Is she here?”
“No, she hasn’t returned and isn’t answering her phone. Um, should we call someone?”
“Call who?”
“I don’t know. With everything that’s happened here . . .”
“Has Sarah been here all day, Bronwen?” I asked. She shook her head. The gardenias bounced around.
“No, she’s out today. I don’t know where.”
“Try Celia’s husband first, and then if you get nowhere, we can call the detective I know.” She smiled, looking relieved.
“See, Anya—” Greg started.
“Don’t. This is your mess.”
I wrinkled my brow in worry and checked my phone. I opened the Kardashian app and watched a makeup tutorial. I knew exactly where Celia was: where I had left her. Barely alive, unable to see or speak, but probably able to breathe. Maybe able to breathe? I was, like, 99 percent sure she could still inhale oxygen.
When no one had heard from Celia by 3:30, I suggested going through her calendar to see where she’d been earlier.
“She had a ten AM, but that’s it,” Bronwen said.
“But where, Bronwen?” I asked.
“Oh, at her Botox doc.” She smiled, crinkling her nose.
“And have you called them?”
“Should I?”
Greg and I stared at her until she picked up the phone. I tapped my foot impatiently, pointedly checking my watch. Greg’s eyebrow twitched. Was that a new tic?
“I see, okay, which hospital? Thank you.” Bronwen hung up. “She had an accident and was sent to Beth Israel.”
“What happened?” I asked, frowning.
“They said she had a reaction to her Botox and is in the ICU.”
“That doesn’t make sense. She’s not allergic to Botox. She practically gets weekly injections.”
“Anya’s right, something is off. I think we should call the police.” Greg’s whole head was twitching.
I was already dialing Detective Hopper. “Hi, it’s Anya. Listen, I’m at La Vie. I was supposed to have a meeting with Celia, but she didn’t show up. She supposedly had some accident with her Botox doc, and we’re worried something happened. Can you meet us at Beth Israel? Great, thanks.” I turned to Greg. “I’m going to the hospital. If you want, you can join me.”
When we got to the emergency room, Celia’s husband, David Avery, was already there, pacing. He filled us in, though he hadn’t heard much. I wanted to ask him, Did she plank through dinner? Make him eat kale every day? Poke his stomach to see if he had gained weight? Did she intone that an Avery didn’t leave dirty dishes in sinks? Or was she actually nice to him?
We waited for Detective Hopper to come, hoping he’d be able to find out more. He walked in the doors looking grim but hot. His suit looked a bit disheveled. I tried my best to not lick my lips.
“Walk me through what happened.”
No hello, no kiss on the cheek. Two steps forward, five steps back.
David told him what he knew, and we jumped in with what Bronwen had told us. Hopper went to speak with the nurse.
“Okay, I’m going to go to this Glowing Skin place,” he said when he came back. “If there’s any change in her condition, please call me.” With a nod of his head, Detective Hopper left. Just like that. No Be careful, Anya, no See you later, Anya, nothing. No mention of thinking about me or anything. Rude.
* * *
I’d like to say that I was at Celia’s side when I heard the news, that I was holding her hand, feeding her ice chips or some shit when the phone rang. But I was getting a much-needed manicure. Good beauty maintenance cannot be avoided. And all my extracurricular work was hell on my hands. I glanced at the caller ID while the woman filed my nails. Hopper.
“Hi. Any news?”
“We arrested Sarah Taft today.”
“You what?” I said a little too loudly. The nail tech glared at me, and I smiled apologetically.
“She was identified as the person who attacked Celia.”
“So it wasn’t an accident?”
“No, the amount of Botox in Celia’s bloodstream was enough for a toxic overdose. A woman fitting Sarah’s description checked in for an appointment and was seen fleeing Celia’s room. A nurse at the doctor’s office said Celia identified Sarah in a brief moment of consciousness.”
That blonde wig was worth its weight in gold.
“Wow. Just . . . wow. I didn’t know you could overdose on Botox.”
“The amount in Celia’s system was the highest ever recorded. It’s a miracle it wasn’t lethal. There’s more. When we arrested Sarah, we found needles and Botox vials in her apartment. It’s pretty open and shut.”
“She really did it. Oh my God.”
“We’re waiting on her lawyer, and we’re going to arraign her soon.”
“For just Celia or for the other cases too?”
“Right now, just this. We don’t have any proof she committed the murders, though she’s our number-one suspect right now. But we’re questioning her and hoping to get more evidence.” He hesitated. “Anya, if and when she gets out on bail, I want you to be very careful. She’s very dangerous.”
I tried not to smile. “Yeah, okay, I will. This is a lot to mull over. I just can’t believe it. I mean, I know we all suspected it, but it’s still so shocking.”
“Take care, Anya.”
“Thanks, Detective.” I hung up, nodding to my nail tech. “You know what? Maybe we should do bright red. I think it’s a far more festive color, don’t you?”
I smiled while she buffed my nails, picturing Celia passed out from the Haldol injection I gave her, unable to move or do anything while I topped off her Botox. Seriously, the security at those boutique medispa joints was ridiculously lax. Any lunatic could walk in, claim she has an appointment, and do whatever she wanted. Injecting a full syringe worth of Botox into each eye had seriously been so much fun. Squish squish! I had no idea what it all would do to her, but I was pretty positive she was going to be blind, at least. If she lived.
As a bonus, I was fairly certain she’d wet herself in the end.
“Oh, Celia, a La Vie woman never makes a spectacle of herself,” I said, mimicking her voice. I giggled again, the nail tech watching me. “Sorry, that tickled,” I said, making a face.
* * *
Sarah was charged with one count of attempted murder in the first degree, one count of assault, and one count of impersonating a doctor. The DA was still mulling over revenge porn charges, but that was a separate case. Her bail was $500,000, which was paid by her parents—though they didn’t want her home with them. Sarah was released with an ankle bracelet to monitor her comings and goings. If she was found guilty, she’d get life in prison.
Can you imagine, poor Sarah Taft in jail? I tried to keep a serious look on my face as I imagined her in an orange jumpsuit for the rest of her life. No highlights. No facials. Would she go to the same prison as Martha Stewart?
The papers went wild the second they found out. “Killer Fashion Editor Sarah Taft Gets Caught! Botox Butcher Heads to Big House!” And then of course came the think pieces, the long essays about what could possibly drive someone like Sarah to maim and kill, about the pressures of the fashion industry. One of them quoted Dalia. (Finally, her day in the sun.)
The evidence against Sarah was pretty bad. She just hadn’t been that careful. Apparently, she’d rented a mailbox nearby where the Botox had been delivered. The employee there identified her as the blonde who’d rented it—under the name Cassie Sachs but paid for with Sarah’s credit card. The Glowing Skin Institute identified her as the person who came in (under the name Frou-Frou Taft) that morning and then disappeared. And Sarah herself couldn’t offer up an alibi, mainly because she had been passed out in her apartment with no one to verify her location. She didn’t remember me dropping by with Celia’s supplies. Why would she? I snuck in while she was asleep and gave her a Haldol injection in her thigh. Intramuscular injections were the best. The tiny needle hole would never be found. So Sarah snoozed her way through Celia’s attack. No alibi, no way out.
With Celia incapacitated and Sarah essentially on house arrest and not allowed within twenty feet of any La Vie employee, the only person overseeing the magazine was Greg. Which was how I found myself on the phone with him, agreeing to come back to work.
“Anya, come back now. It’s safe!”
“Why should I? You guys screwed me.”
“I know and I’m sorry. We’ll fix it. Promotion and raise.”
“Fine.” I hung up.
I had conceded, but I had nothing else cooking at the moment. Sarah was ruined. Celia was pretty much dead. Greg jumped if you so much as said his name. I had won. I had everything I wanted. So why was I feeling so meh? I was missing something. I needed to get back to work, and that meant going back to La Vie.
I wore a black lace Moschino pencil skirt, black studded Valentino ankle boots, a tuxedo blazer (also black, obviously), and bright-red lipstick. I was the HBIC now. We were in the smaller conference room for our editorial meeting. There was a pall over the entire office. As if everyone was in mourning. Or realized they could have died too.
“Like, everyone only wants to talk about Sarah and the murders!” Evie was also wearing black. I glanced around. In fact, everyone was in dark colors. Was this what it meant to belong?
“I know, it’s really annoying.” Dalia nodded.
“So let’s give everyone what they want.” Too many uncomprehending eyes swiveled my way. I sighed. “Let’s write about life with Sarah, working here, first person and all that. People will go bananas.”
“Can we do that?” Evie asked.
“Why not?” I shrugged.
“Okay, so who writes it?”
“Well, I can write what it was like to be her work BFF and sit next to her every day. And maybe one of you can pull together a slideshow of Sarah’s best photos?”
“O-M-G, that’s so good,” Dalia said.
“What can I write?” Evie asked.
“What was your relationship like? Maybe something about going out with Sarah?”
“I can do that. We did do a beauty trip to St. Bart’s together.”
“There you go. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
It may have been crass to turn Sarah and her legal woes into a story package for our readers, but it really helped with traffic. Celia was right about that. We could never say she was a killer, only an alleged one, but we could write what it was like to work with, travel with, and hang out with an alleged murderer; how it made us feel; and how we barely escaped with our own lives. “A La Vie Special Report: Our Lives with Sarah Taft” did exceptionally well, breaking our records and, at one point, breaking the site. The jail-themed fashion spread may have been a bit much, but if we didn’t have a sense of humor now, when would we?
“This is awesome!” Greg raved. He had gotten some of his color back. How disappointing.
“Thanks, Greg. You know, I think just adding that personal touch really helps.”
I sat at my desk at lunch eating sushi with white rice (suck it, Celia). Taking Celia’s office would have been inappropriate. People would have talked, and appearances were everything. After all, her body was still warm. Until she died, I had to toil away back where I had started. And from what I could glean, David Avery had no interest in pulling the plug as long as La Vie was paying the bills. Some bitches got killer condos. Celia got to be a vegetable for the rest of her life. Them’s the fashion perks.
I dipped my spicy tuna roll in some high-sodium, gluten-full soy sauce while reading the latest news about the case. Sarah’s lawyers and PR team were working overtime to sow seeds of doubt in the populous: “There are other editors at that magazine who had more reason to kill. Why aren’t we looking at them?” Sarah’s legal team was smart. The DA had a strong circumstantial case against Sarah, and any jury would probably convict her. The best thing her lawyer could do was introduce an alternate theory.
Like, say, that I did it.
I wish I’d had a lawyer like this when I was a kid being questioned about Meredith. But whatever, the past is the past. No do-overs, no backsies. I wasn’t going to let lawyers or Sarah Taft or anyone else pin this shit on me. I wouldn’t rest until Sarah was locked up, until little Miss I-Ha
d-the-World’s-Most-Perfect-Life got a taste of what life was really like. With nothing left, no one to turn to, she’d be forced to love me. I would be her sun and stars, before it all went black. And I’d laugh at her. She’d know what it was like to be unfriended. My coworkers may not have listened, but the local tabloids would. I had to show I was above suspicion. And there was only one way to do that: I had to die.
20
Planning your own death takes a lot of effort. It’s not just the way you’re going to die; what you wear also matters. When the EMS guys came, I wanted to look fabulous. I think I’d gone through my entire closet twice before I gave up and went shopping.
I combed through the racks on Barneys’ eighth and ninth floors before taking a break in the fifth-floor shoe mecca. This was home. I decided I needed to buy a new pair of Manolos. After all that hard work, it was the least I could do, and some metallic d’Orsay pumps were screaming my name. After all, I did get that promotion—in the end. And Greg gave me a $20K raise. Imagine that! If only Celia could see what I was doing to the site—she’d have a fit. But she was still in the hospital, sucking on that tube with no visitors. Her husband and Bronwen had abandoned her for some peace and quiet in Tulum.
My phone rang in the middle of shopping. To my surprise, it was Detective Hopper. He’d gone a little radio silent on me after Sarah’s arrest. Some people just don’t handle breakups well.
“I hope you’re not calling with bad news . . .”
I heard him cough. “Sort of. I hate to tell you this, but Sarah Taft made bail.”
“I know. I saw it online.”
“Yeah. Right. Look, just steer clear of her and you’ll be fine. And if anything happens with her, anything at all, call me. Okay?”
“Um, sure.”
“Anya, be safe.”
“I will, Detective. Thank you for everything.” I hung up. That was all the good-bye he was going to get from me. We had a good run, but nothing lasted forever. I needed to find someone new to obsess over. Someone who didn’t need to talk to my shrink.
* * *
It was strange, but I was actually looking forward to dying. It was going to be painful, sure. I imagine a lot of deaths are. But think of what it would accomplish. The end goal was what mattered. I would win. Not just this battle, but the war. And don’t kid yourselves: this was a war. Against Sarah, against Celia, against all of La Vie. They were all against me. Even when things went my way, even when they let me do what I wanted, they were against me. They’d never let me be one of them. They were just biding their time, waiting. Lulling me into a false sense of security. But eventually, they’d attack. I couldn’t let that happen. Just imagine the public outcry over my death. It was going to be glorious! It’s kind of like when you want to stage your own funeral just to see who goes and what they say about you.