#FashionVictim Read online

  “You really need to take a course in how to get your photo taken. I mean, it’s just tragic.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “What’s tragic?” Celia walked in wearing leather shorts. For someone in her early forties, she managed to make them look good. Her secret? Planks. Celia was the master of the five-minute plank.

  “Another bad photo of Anya,” Sarah said, gesturing to me.

  “Another one? You just can’t represent us if you look like an ugly whale!” Celia glared, waiting for me to acknowledge that my hideous deformation of not looking like Gisele Bündchen would be the ruin of La Vie. I nodded, attempting to put on a sorrowful face. I hated today. I hated Sarah Taft.

  “We can’t all be perfect, Sarah.” I aimed for venomous, but it came out sounding slightly forlorn. I hated how much I loved her. She was wearing a floral dress by Preen with cowboy boots. Her look screamed “fresh off the prairie.” I wanted to churn butter right then and there.

  If Blake Lively and Blake Lively had a baby, it’d be Sarah Elizabeth Taft. Tall, willowy blonde, and rich, Sarah was born to be a fashion editor. She was wearing Chanel by the time she was two—there were photo spreads in magazines. Shots of toddler Sarah playing with her mom’s Birkin were so damn chic. (My mother only ever splurged on Coach.) Her parents were heirs of heirs, owning some coffee bean factory or plantation or something. No one really knew anymore, except that at some point there were slaves and it was all rather scandalous. She had the kind of life magazines claim is possible if you only aspire a bit more. Make the effort, spend the money.

  Sarah possessed a magical gift: she could make anyone, anything hot. She simply had to wear it, Instagram it, or glance in its direction. If you were her friend, you were in the front row. I’d seen it unfold before. She’d graced Lisa Blitz and Jack Archer with her attention, back when they were loser nobodies. And a few months later, they were fashion fucking royalty. Total upgrade. Just by snapping photos with Sarah, Lisa got funding for the site she was launching. Jack booked stylist gig after gig and then landed at a men’s mag. Sarah was the source of all things fashionable. Everything I wanted.

  On the flip side, if Sarah hated something, it was never seen again. Piles of bags were tossed out because she decreed they were lame. You never wanted her to wrinkle her nose at your product, at you. It meant it was ugly. That you were ugly. If she welcomed me into her life, I could be everything. I could be amazing.

  I could be her.

  When I first started at La Vie two years ago, I did as Dr. M instructed and told Sarah how much I admired her, that she inspired me. She was my reason for getting into fashion. It was my first day, and I was young and really dumb. I wasn’t a true fashion girl yet. Dr. M was thrilled that I’d been so open and honest with my feelings. That moron. For the next two years, Sarah brought it up every chance she could, rubbing salt in my wounds.

  “I want salad for lunch. Let’s go. You should have one too. You’re, like, so puffy.” She did the nose wrinkle. “Since I inspire you, you’ll skip the burger.”

  I wanted to die each and every time. Sarah couldn’t be won with earnestness. I should have known that. But when I stopped responding to those taunts, she picked something else to lord over me.

  “Anya, are you still doing your little blog?” She’d erupt into giggles over the word.

  Blogs were lame, she’d decided. I had killed my blog once I got hired at La Vie. It was a means to an end. With the right amount of faked articles, bought traffic, and paid followers, you too can be the hot new shit. Photos of me at the same events as Sarah (sneaking in when the door bots weren’t looking) and write-ups of fabulous runway shows I never attended filled the site. I overheard conversations and reported them as if they had been spoken to me. None of it was real. Fake it ’til you make it. (My résumé listed magazine jobs I’d never held. No one remembered. Staff turnover is brutal in the media world.) There was no set list of credentials to get hired at fashion mags. No requirements beyond passing the edit test and dressing well—and having a good (faux) reference or two. I was just another young editor no one paid attention to. And it was all worth it because now I was here, an editor at La Vie.

  “Okay, well, let’s get to it. What’s on the agenda?” Celia said, clapping her hands. As the HBIC (head bitch in charge), Celia always led the FFD meetings. Mulberry sat in the corner scribbling notes, next to our intern, Cassie. Cassie stared at her phone throughout the meeting.

  “We need to do our Fashion Week preview,” Dalia Joshi, our accessories editor, offered. She was the only person on staff who was nice to me and also one of the only minorities in editorial. She was Indian. (There was another brown woman on staff in the sales department, but we never mingled with sales. Ever.) Dalia should have been the beauty editor; her skin was perfect and glowing. She also posted really amazing how-to beauty videos on her own time. (I watched them studiously; my winged eyeliner had never looked so good and I learned how to contour.) But Celia wouldn’t ever think of having a brown woman run La Vie’s most lucrative department.

  “What if she has to do TV? No, that will never work. We’re not an ethnic magazine.”

  Insert facepalm emoji here.

  The accessories department was professional purgatory. There was nowhere to move on to from there. At best, Dalia would get hired away by a brand. If she were lucky.

  “Right. So new designers, who’s doing that?” Celia asked. I raised my hand. She shot me a look but acquiesced. She was still mad about the photo. But I wasn’t ugly like the Elephant Man; bad angles happen to good people. “Great, I want Alexander King in there.”

  “Sure thing.” I smiled. Always smile. Dr. M taught me that. Smiling makes people like you.

  “Sarah, can you do a shoot on the models to watch? Nothing too crazy; it’s just for the website.”

  “Of course, Celia.”

  I knew what this meant. Sarah would pick the models, and I would write it for her. That’s how it worked with us. She used to want me to eyeball her pieces for her, tweak a few things. Soon that shifted to me writing everything based off Sarah’s notes. I was the better writer, so of course I did it. I was helping her. I enjoyed it, as a matter of fact. Writing Sarah’s stories brought us closer together. Sarah had to talk to me about her thoughts sometimes. We were almost friends. We were united.

  “What else?”

  “We should totally do something on crash dieting for Fashion Week,” Evie Rose Smith, the beauty editor, chimed in. “You know, how to lose twenty pounds in a month. That sort of thing.”

  “Is that even possible?” Celia asked.

  Evie shrugged her bony shoulders. “Probably not, but it will be funny to find out.” She snickered.

  I felt everyone’s eyes on me as the room grew quiet.

  “Let me guess . . . this one’s for me?” Smile.

  “Well you are trying to lose weight,” Sarah said in her most charitable voice. “I mean, you’ll never fit into a size two if you don’t do something drastic.”

  “Very true.” Celia nodded, scrutinizing my chest and arms. “Great. Work with Evie on this. Keep a log of everything you eat. And daily weigh-ins. Oh, and remember: A La Vie girl does not cheat on her diet. That’s it. Thanks everyone. Anya, Sarah, stop by my office.” She walked out of the room with Sarah and Mulberry on her heels.

  I trudged after them, dreading whatever torture Celia had cooked up for us next. Sarah was already sitting in Celia’s office, smiling coyly, when I arrived. Mulberry smiled at me sympathetically as I walked in. (I hated that. I didn’t need pity from an assistant. Who did she think she was?) Celia sat behind her black leather desk. She’d had her office redone six months ago, wanting more “dramatic texture.” Her chair was upholstered in chinchilla fur; the ones across from her were covered in sequins. Clearly she didn’t want us to ever feel comfortable sitting in her office. Celia’s Louboutins were lying on the floor. The smell of feet tickled my nostrils.

  “Ah, Anya, good, you’re here. Shut t
he door.” She rested her chin on her index fingers. This was her serious face. “Now, as you know, you’ve both been here for a while—”

  “Some of us longer than others,” Sarah cut in. She wasn’t wrong. She’d been at La Vie for years, starting as an intern, then assistant, then assistant editor, and finally, associate editor. Years that she had on me. I’d come in with the same title as her but was paid fifteen thousand less. But it was worth it. I worked next to Sarah Taft.

  “And you’re associate editors. Well, I’m going to promote one of you to style editor. The other one will report to your former colleague.”

  “Um, who are you promoting?”

  “Good question, Sarah. Promotion will be based on traffic. The person who does the most to boost our traffic on the website wins. You each have until Fashion Week to prove you have what it takes.”

  “But what does that have to do with—?”

  “No buts, Sarah. You’re dismissed.” Celia had already picked up her phone and was yelling orders to Mulberry.

  Sarah was my competition? This was bad. Celia loved Sarah. Sarah was perfect. Sarah was gorgeous. Sarah was my reason for even being here. Sarah had been here longer than me—but I didn’t want to be her inferior. That would be social suicide. If I worked for her, I’d be stuck fetching her coffee, not having drinks with her. But if I were her boss, everything Sarah would be invited to, I would too. (It was, like, masthead law of nature or something—the higher you were on it, the more people wanted to see you and be near you. Invites would simply pour in. Like magic.) Our seat assignments at shows would be nearly identical. Right now, I usually sat behind Sarah. No one knew who I was. But next to her, our bags touching, whispering my runway thoughts to her, I’d be just like Sarah. No, better than. Because I was self-made. She’d have to accept me as her friend. And being Sarah’s friend would make me untouchable.

  “Wow, can you believe that?” Sarah asked when we were back at our desks. A low wall stood between us, separating our cubicles. I hated it. I could only see the top of her head unless I popped up like a meerkat (which I did twenty times a day). Her side was covered with love notes from designers. Mine had to-do lists and editorial calendars.

  “Crazy,” I agreed.

  “I mean, traffic? That’s, like, so not our job!”

  I shot her a look, staying quiet. Maybe this wouldn’t be that hard after all. I had more than six weeks to best my bestie, and my work outshone hers every day. Sure, I wrote her work, but I didn’t make it as good as mine. I’m not stupid.

  “Besides, it’s so not fair to you,” Sarah continued, her voice dripping with pity.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “Everyone knows that promotions are based on your social standing, no matter what Celia says. And you have none. You’re a total nobody. Seriously, no one knows who you are. Which is just so sad because you’re, like, really great.” She tilted her head, nodding as she said this.

  She thought I was great! My heart skipped a beat. But she was right about the nobody part. No one knew me, or anything about me. I would have to show her and Celia that I deserved the new title. And any money that went with it. Living on less than fifty thousand a year was impossible when you had to be fashionable. The shoes alone cost me more than my rent. Thank God my trust fund was still full. I had to win this. Be brave, you can do it. Mantras were useful. I would win, I’d show her.

  “What’s the matter, Sarah? Scared of some competition?” Bravado, my only weapon.

  “Um, okay, whatever!” She laughed. “I’d be totally happy if you won the promotion.” She widened her eyes as she said it. That meant something, right? I felt strange. Like a balloon puffing up.

  “Aw, thank you. And I’d be happy if you won too.”

  “Good, because I will.”

  Before I could hiss out my reply, I heard Celia screaming at some poor soul that she was going to ruin them.

  “Goddammit!” Celia threw her door open and stalked up and down the hallway (still barefoot), yelling at anyone who was stupid enough to make eye contact. Celia wasn’t a crazy boss, exactly, but when something didn’t go her way, it was best to stay out of sight. She stopped at our cubicles and took a few deep breaths.

  “Do you girls know anyone at White & White PR?” We both nodded.

  “Of course we do,” Sarah said enthusiastically. “What do you need?”

  “I need my fucking Alexander King dress! So call your friends over there and get it!”

  Sarah paled at Celia’s tone. When I became her boss, we’d get manis and pedis together and expense it.

  Celia turned to me.

  “Lauren said she’d send it over this morning,” I practically squeaked. “Doesn’t Mulberry have the info?”

  “Mulberry can’t find the emails,” Celia ground out before stomping back to her office.

  “We’ll take care of it, Celia.” I glanced at Sarah as she picked up the phone. When she hung up, she sighed heavily. “Nothing?”

  “Nada. They have no idea where Lauren what’s-her-name is, and she has the dress. How fucking inconsiderate. I mean, I bet she’s over at Mince right now handing it to their fashion department. That’s our dress to debut!” Mince had stolen three dresses from us in the last four months. They were designer exclusives, launching to the world on our pages. The versions on the runway were often not what ended up in stores. So it was necessary for us to get the best looks first. We were known for it. And Mince was kicking our ass.

  Ugh. Be a team player, Anya. You can do this. Insert whatever other stupid corporate euphemism here to make what I had to do easier. I called Lauren’s cell phone.

  “Hey Lauren! It’s Anya.” My voice was so chipper, it made my head hurt.

  “Anya! What’s up, babe?”

  I cringed. “Nothing much. Listen, I think there was a dress that was supposed to come here for Celia.”

  “Oh, shit, the Alexander King didn’t arrive? O-M-G, my assistant forgot to send it! So sorry babe!”

  My shoulders tensed. “Celia’s not happy.”

  “Oh, fuck. Okay, tell her I’ll bring it there myself in the next hour.”

  “Cool, thanks.” I hung up.

  “Sarah!” Celia yelled from her office.

  “Shit,” Sarah muttered. She ran to Celia. I could hear her saying she had no idea where the dress was and maybe she should find a new one. Time for my move.

  “Actually, guys, Lauren said she’s bringing it within the hour,” I said from the door. “There was some mix-up with delivery, and she’s really sorry about it.”

  Celia shot me one of her steely stares and nodded. “Good job, Anya. That’s how you get a promotion.”

  “But you said it was going to be based on traffic!” Sarah cried.

  “It’ll be based on what I want it to be, okay? You’re dismissed.”

  “You could have told me you found the dress,” Sarah said while walking back to our desks.

  “You didn’t ask.” I smiled.

  Smiling makes people like you.

  * * *

  Thirty-eight minutes later, Lauren ran in, sweating and out of breath. I checked her eye for any signs of stabbing or blood but found none.

  “Hey, Anya! I—I have the dress,” she wheezed.

  I nodded and picked up the phone to call Mulberry. Celia’s assistants never lasted long, but there was a bonus if you got through an entire year. We called it the shit payout. Mulberry had been there for ten months, which was a record at La Vie. She was blonde—they were always blonde—and the daughter of a former model and hedge fund guy. People think models and rock stars usually get together, but the real matches are the bankers and the catwalkers. Money talks. It’s also how Mulberry landed this job.

  “You can have a seat right here.” I led Lauren to the extra chair at my desk (for minimeetings). Mulberry came running over, wearing a pair of vintage Marc Jacobs backward heels. You know, the kind that looks like the heels were hacked off with a machete. They ca
me out in spring 2008—totally vintage. But right as she got to Lauren, her ankle buckled, and down Mulberry went, like a wounded giraffe. I heard cackling next to me.

  “God, she can’t even walk in heels.” Sarah laughed.

  Mulberry wasn’t getting up. She rolled around moaning, acting as if her ankle had broken. It hadn’t. Nothing snapped; I have an ear for these things.

  “Get up,” I ordered. “Take those ridiculous shoes off and get back to your desk.”

  “But they’re my faves,” she whispered, crying.

  She was crying over shoes. I wanted to slap her. I wanted to take those shoes and smash her head in. She had pitied me, that idiot. I wanted to watch her bleed, to wipe that look from memory. Instead, I took a deep, coping breath.

  “Honey, you can’t cry over something like this. This is fashion. Celia will fire you. Now get the fuck up and do your goddamned job.” I turned on my heel (Valentino rockstuds) and walked back to Lauren. “So sorry about that. She’s new,” I lied. “Let’s go in to see Celia.”

  I led her to Celia’s office. The buzzing noise was back. Were they doing construction in the building? Could this day get any worse?

  Celia was happy. No, Celia was fucking thrilled: her Botoxed lips almost smiled. The dress had arrived; I had saved the day. Points for me. The promotion would be mine. But when I turned back to my desk, I caught a shimmer out of the corner of my eye.

  The shard was sticking out of Lauren’s eye again. Six inches of mirrored glass hanging out of one of her baby blues for all the world to see. Just what was she playing at? How had she hidden it before?

  “Anya? Is there anything else?” Celia asked.

  “What? Oh, um, no.” I hurried back to my desk.

  “I don’t even know why you helped her,” Sarah’s voice came over the cubicle wall along with more buzzing.

  “What?” Was she making the noise? Was there a vibrator over there? You think I’m joking, but you’d be surprised at the shit publicists send us. But when I looked over the cubicle wall, nothing.

  “Why’d you help Mulberry? She’s obvi a loser.” Sarah really despised the girl. It was a socialite thing; they were sworn frenemies. But Mulberry was no Sarah. Sarah was perfect.