by Raquel Belle
I keep moving straight out of the bar. I don’t have the energy to deal with Lydia now. In fact, it looks like she’s already latched on to a new victim. I notice one of the college-aged interns delivering a fresh glass to her from the corner of my eye as I walk out the front door.
On the subway ride home to Brooklyn I take another look at @LuxeOnLex and the post. A sexy luxury account is a smart move for this competition and is sure to be a success. But these girls haven’t seen my boy Pepper yet.
I can’t believe I’m going to end up working on a Monday night — orchestrating a photo shoot with my dog, no less. I smile to myself ruefully. Trust Sarah to kick my ass into working overtime. She’s always been like this. It was the same in college. I felt like I was always running to keep up with her energy and ambition. She made me a better man in the process. I never told her that.
I also never told her the truth about my sudden departure for the army: that my older brother Bryce had been killed overseas just days before graduation, leaving me to question everything about my life’s path. I felt guilty. Survivor’s guilt, I guess they call it. I had previously contemplated going with Bryce when he enlisted but Sarah had convinced me to stay in school and finish my degree. It was the smart thing to do but when he died, my grief also became mixed with guilt. All I could think was: While my brother died fighting for his country, I had been pursuing a college degree and thinking about all the money I would earn when I graduated.
I never told Sarah about his death. Had she known, she would have been there for me. She would have supported me in my decision to enlist, too. His death was so sudden — and so was my urgent need to enlist afterwards, my desire to finish what my brother had started. I think a tiny part of me at the time was also afraid that if I told Sarah in person, I wouldn’t go through with it. The thought of her crying at the news of it all — Bryce’s death, my leaving — was too much. So I just disappeared, leaving only a letter.
After I was injured and sent back to the US, I moved to my hometown of Chicago. I needed to be closer to family during rehabilitation; it helped. I thought about calling her but it didn’t seem like the right time. How could I leave her and then call her back to my side, as if I expected her to nurse me back to health — after I had so abruptly left her alone? So I focused on my rehab and on getting better and stronger with each passing day. I had multiple surgeries on my leg to remove shrapnel left behind by the IED. Then there were months of physical therapy. Eventually I was able to start jogging again. That’s still my preferred mode of exercise to this day: A long run with Pepper lets me blow off steam, break a sweat, and leave the bad memories of combat — not to mention Bryce’s death — far behind.
When the army wouldn’t take me back, I was forced to rejoin the real world. So I got a starter job at a small ad agency in Chicago, later transitioning to the P&B offices there. I’ve been working my way up ever since. And I’m determined to keep on my upward path — which means scoring that VP of Social Media position at the P&B New York offices now.
Chapter 5
Sarah
The only problem with creating a luxury-focused Instagram account is that you need to actually lead a luxury lifestyle if you’re going to successfully populate it with enough material. I don’t. Shit.
On Tuesday, Amanda and I hit the streets of New York to remedy that problem. First stop? Sak’s Fifth Avenue’s shoe department for some Christian Louboutins. Well, not that I plan to really buy them.
“Just find the most over-the-top, gaudiest model you can. Grab a pair to try on. And then we’ll take a quick shot.”
“I don’t think they let you just ‘grab’ the Louboutins. We’ll probably have to ask a sales girl to help us.”
“That’s fine, do you know your size?”
“That’s easy. Seven. Always.”
“Perfect. Here we are. Just act snobby and then she’ll probably be nice to you. I’m just going to hover around and pretend to look at other shoes. Then I’ll pop over when you’re ready for your photo op.”
I hate coming to these kinds of places. I feel like the salesgirl can see right through me as I approach her. I wore an expensive wool skirt and silk blouse today, just for this, but I’m positive she can x-ray through my clothes and see that the underwear and bra I’m wearing are from the Victoria’s Secret sales rack.
“Uh, I’d like to try these on please?” I hold out the pair of rhinestone-encrusted red-bottom heels I’ve picked up. “Size seven?” Why do I have to phrase everything like a question when I’m nervous.
The girl gives me a cold look but presses her lips together in a forced smile. “Fine. One moment please.” She acts like I’ve made her perform some arduous task; I remind myself that it’s actually her job.
I peek over my shoulder at Amanda, who is rummaging through some Valentino pumps at the next table. She catches my eye and winks. I motion to her to come over. I’ll need her to take the pictures in a second.
The salesgirl returns and hands me the box. I delicately undo the tissue paper, painfully aware that I’m about to put on a pair of shoes that cost more than two months’ of my salary.
“Good choice,” Amanda remarks simply, eyeing the shoes with reverence. She must be having the same thought.
“I can’t quite…” I’m trying to slip the shoes on but they’re too snug at the front.
“Louboutins run tight! Just give it a little push,” Amanda encourages me.
I strain to get my foot into the shoe but I’m worried a rhinestone will pop off any second. The salesgirl must be having the same thought because she suddenly materializes before us:
“Can I get you a different size, perhaps?” Her voice drips with barely masked disdain.
“Uh, I don’t know, I’m usually a seven. I don’t understand why these don't…”
“Louboutins always run small,” she interjects. “You should always go up at least one shoe size when trying them on.” She pauses before staring me down and finishing with “If you actually owned a pair, you’d know that.”
Harsh. I just stare at her for a second, slightly shocked at her attitude.
“I’ll get you an eight.” She snatches the heel I’m still holding in my hand out of my clutches and whisks it back into the box, walking away briskly.
“Whew, what a bitch,” Amanda murmurs next to me.
“I know. But I mean she works on commission and she must know we aren’t going to buy these.”
“At least now we don’t have to bother hiding the fact that we’re just here for the photos.” Amanda grins.
When the girl comes back, she’s brought both a size eight and a size nine “just in case.”
Amanda’s right about one thing: Now we can take pictures openly and shamelessly. And these shoes photograph like a dream.
“These are the most photogenic shoes I’ve ever seen,” Amanda remarks from the floor, where she’s lying down on her belly for the perfect shot.
The salesgirl, standing a few feet away, looks absolutely mortified at what is going down in her department.
“Take a look.”
I squat down, shoes still on, to take a peek at the pictures she’s taken. “Oh these will be perfect for @LuxeOnLex. I think we’ve got it.”
“Did you say @LuxeOnLex?” The salesgirl sidles towards us.
Shit. Busted. “Uh, yeah, it’s an Insta account — ”
“I know all about it!” She cuts in excitedly before I can explain. “A friend of mine works at an ad agency and told me about this competition. You’re LuxeOnLex?! Oh my gosh, I love the account you’ve created. I follow you — I’m @shopgirl929!”
“Thank you!” I smile, pleasantly surprised.
“Can I show you some different models? I mean you already chose the best pair but we have some others that would look great and totally fit your profile’s style.”
“Uhh — ”
“Yes, that’s an amazing idea!” Amanda jumps in. She turns to me. “You should have some bac
kup pictures in your camera roll. We can’t run out looking for brand name high-end stuff every day.”
“Totally,” the salesgirl nods knowingly next to her.
“Well, okay then. Just one thing,” I turn to the girl. “I’d be really grateful if you could be discrete about this whole thing? At least until the competition is over?”
She nods and gives me a genuinely warm smile. “My lips are sealed.” She went from snotty to friendly so quickly — the wonders that Instagram fame can accomplish!
In the end we actually do leave with one pair of shoes — Amanda decided to splurge after the salesgirl offered up her employee discount for us to use.
“Here, you carry the bag,” she instructs as we walk back to the office.
“Gee, is this in exchange for you being my photographer? I get to carry your shopping bags?” I tease her.
“No, we just want you to look authentic! You should be the one carrying a Christian Louboutin bag into the office, not me.”
She’s got a point. I take the bag. Of course, the first person we run into as we enter the office is Jake Baker.
He sees the bag and gives me a sly smile. “Shopping on your lunch break to keep up with the rich girl image?”
“Just a little treat to prepare for my upcoming promotion,” I shoot back easily. I’m in such a good mood after being recognized by a stranger, I won’t let his attitude rattle me today.
“Yeah, beware Jake. And tell Pepper to watch out because @LuxeOnLex just got recognized by a fan.” Amanda backs me up, as always.
“Really? Cool.” He seems genuinely surprised. And maybe a bit impressed? “Pepper and I will have to step up our game I see.” He gives a last grin and walks away.
I turn to Amanda: “This was awesome but I’ll need more than pics of shoes if we’re going to make this account a real winner.”
“I’m already one step ahead of you. Remember my cousin Clyde?”
“Oh gosh,” I groan, “How could I forget?” I spent an incredibly awkward Fourth of July barbecue hosted by Amanda’s aunt and uncle at their home on Staten Island. Her cousin Clyde was dropping cheesy pickup lines on me the entire time. It was years ago but the memory is still fresh.
“I know, I know. He can be super cringe,” she says, reading my mind. “But he also happens to have a brand new Lamborghini...”
“Oh, wow. How on earth did that happen?”
“Yeah, when his dad died he left him some money. Of course he blew it all immediately on a flashy car,” she laughs: “Probably in the hopes of scoring a hot girlfriend.”
“Did it work?” I’m nearly doubled over with laughter at the thought of Clyde in his signature tracksuits, the only thing he wears, behind the wheel of such a flashy vehicle.
“Not yet. Point being, I’m positive he would be happy to have us come by and let you take some shots of the car. Oh and I didn’t mention the best part.”
“Oh gosh, tell me. Do I need to sit down for this?”
“It’s bright yellow. Like banana yellow. And he had a custom black racing stripe added to the side. It basically looks like a giant bumblebee.” She erupts in a fresh stream of giggles.
“Maybe we can Photoshop out the stripe.”
As amusing as the prospect is, Amanda is right: A loud car is exactly what @LuxeOnLex needs to round out the profile. Later that week, we head to Staten Island to meet up with Clyde — who is as much of a gentleman as he was before.
“Chicas, girlies, welcome! So, Sarah, babe, you gonna make my car famous or what?”
“I’ll do my best, Clyde. Thanks for loaning it to us for some pictures.”
“IT!? Baby, it’s a her. My Lambo is a lady. Pure class.”
“Yeah, because you can’t get a real lady.” Amanda mutters under her breath. It’s my turn to give her a nudge. Clyde is a cheese ball but it is nice of him to let us take pics with the car, with zero credit given to him. I don’t want to piss him off.
“Sorry,” I reply to Clyde, “we will be sure to take good care of her.”
“Great, here’s the keys. Let me know when you’re done.”
Amanda and I don’t waste any time snapping a series of photos. We keep on going until the sun starts to go down and the light fades.
“Okay, I think we’ve done all we can. We don’t have enough light to get any more decent shots,” I tell Amanda.
“No worries, you’ve got loads of great ones already. I’ll stick around for dinner with Clyde and the family. Do you want to join?”
“No, I’m good. I should head home.” I hand her the keys to the car. “Tell Clyde I said thanks and bye.”
“You’re a coward,” she grins. “Fine, I get that you don’t want to spend an entire dinner listening to his come-ons. See you on Monday — enjoy your weekend! Try not to work the entire time.”
“I’ll do my best. See you Monday.”
On the way home I flip through the photos. Amanda’s right. There’s more than enough here. With the black stripe, the car does look uncannily like a bumblebee — but it’s nothing some Insta filters can’t fix.
Having scanned through my own account, I decide to take a peek at Jake’s. He was almost nice earlier in the week when he found out I’d been recognized as @LuxeOnLex by the Sak’s salesgirl. I wonder what @Jake_and_Pepper are up to?
I grin at the first picture to pop up: A shirtless pic of Jake at the gym, pumping iron. Looks like I’m not the only one who knows that sex sells. A thin sheen of sweat is glistening on his shoulders and pecs.
Has his stomach been photo-shopped? I zoom in to check if the six-pack I’m seeing is real. Well, shit. It is. He wasn’t sporting those washboard abs when we were dating. I guess all of those years of army training have paid off.
The other pictures are a mix of him and his everyday life, interspersed with images of Pepper — who, I have to admit, is indeed Instagram gold. A cute, black, short-haired Labrador whose tongue always seems to be lolling out of his mouth. He and Jake make a winning combo.
When I get home I pass out immediately. The competition on top of my regular workload has me exhausted.
Waking up on Saturday I’m thankful to have a day off work with nothing to do. I’ve got enough shots to keep the account going until Monday or Tuesday of next week. No luxury hunting today.
Today, I’m not @LuxeOnLex, I’m just Sarah. And Sarah is about as un-luxurious as they get. I choose one of the Lamborghini photos — a shot of me behind the wheel, a NY Knicks baseball cap pulled far over my eyes so you can’t see my face. #NoFilterNeeded.
I post the photo and then head out for my favorite Saturday-morning routine: a long walk through Cobble Hill, the adorable Brooklyn neighborhood I call home. Then I head along the water, peering over at the island of Manhattan in the distance.
I can’t believe this is my life. I can’t believe I get to work there. You can actually see the building where the P&B offices are headquartered, rising above the rest — a shining beacon representing everything I hope to achieve.
Usually I’d grab a smoothie for this stroll but I’m treating myself with something a bit less healthy today: I finish up my walk by picking up a six-piece box of double-glazed doughnuts and a huge coffee from the bakery around the corner.
As I head back towards my apartment, I notice my phone vibrating furiously in my pocket. My Insta notifications are blowing up — that last picture I posted must be a hit. I smile and pause on the sidewalk so I can take a peek.
Woah, loads of comments! This is great. Engagement is important. I start to read through them.
“This girl is a fraud.”
“She’s no luxury babe; this car isn’t even hers.”
“I heard she doesn’t even live in Manhattan; she’s a Jersey girl.”
Yikes! Nobody wants to be mistaken for a Jersey girl. Where are these people getting this information? That’s just the tip of the iceberg. The negative comments continue, 20, 30, nearly 40 of them rack up before my eyes as I stand there on the s
idewalk, shaking. What’s going on? Did the Sak’s girl out me?
Then I take a closer look at the accounts that are posting. They’re mostly fake. Each one has just a few followers and almost none of them have profile pictures. I feel anger start to set in as I realize what’s going on: JAKE.
He’s clearly created a bunch of fake accounts to smear @LuxeOnLex’s name. Why can’t he just focus on his own account instead of messing with mine?! Of course, he must have seen my numbers blowing up over the past week and realized he couldn’t compete. At least not by playing fair.
I’m still standing on the sidewalk staring at my phone, seething, when the sound of a dog’s barking finally forces me to look up. Speak of the devil. Is that…?
“Hey there, stranger.” Jake smiles and surveys me from head to toe. “Taking a break from the luxury life today?” He grins.
Why does he have to catch me now? I’m wearing ratty sweatpants and an ancient New York University t-shirt that literally has a hole in it. And I’m carrying not one doughnut but a box of six.
I’m already pissed about the fact that he’s been messing with @LuxeOnLex — and now even more pissed to be caught in such a state. I can feel my ears coloring. I hate that they always give me away; I wonder if Jake remembers this detail about me, the fact that they turn pink when I’m annoyed. He’s just staring at me, his smile growing, a knowing look on his face. Yeah, he remembers. Shit.
Chapter 6
Jake
“So now you’ve invaded not only my workplace but my neighborhood, too?”
Whew. She must have seen the negative comments all my shadow accounts had been leaving on @LuxeOnLex’s last photo.
“You really should work on your greetings, Sarah. Good to see you.”
“Well, what are you doing here?” Her ears are getting more vibrant by the second.
“Sorry to burst your bubble but I’m not stalking you. I do live here. Right in that building across the street actually.” I nod my head towards the old brownstone.