#FashionVictim Read online

  “Oh, just my bracelets—they’re bothering me,” I said in rush. He nodded. My face felt hot. “Do you have any leads?”

  “We’re still investigating. Nothing I can comment on right now. But we may need to speak with you again.” I nodded. He wanted to speak to me. Was that good or bad? He smiled, and I left, quickly.

  The “Twenty-Six Best Funeral Looks” article came out the next day. Celia was included, posing in that ghastly ruffled Alexander King dress. The unholy trinity—Sarah, Jack Archer, and Lisa Blitz—were all given proper placement. Sarah had worn a sedate and boring Tory Burch dress in the hopes of looking appropriately sad after her social media snafu. Everyone had the decency to look somber in the photos, but they still did their best street-style poses: ankles crossed, head angled downward, chin titled, hand on hip.

  * * *

  Dr. M wasn’t thrilled with the developments at work. No surprise there; dead bodies weirded him out. And the whole police thing rattled him. He worried so much about me.

  “Anya, are you anxious?”

  Our relationship was the best I’d ever had. Dr. M was in his midfifties and wore round glasses. His hair had turned grayer over the last five years. (We’d been together for at least thirteen, since my teen years.) Things had gotten rocky between us some years back. He was mad at me for not progressing quickly enough, but you can’t rush good mental health. He threatened to cut me off, fob me onto some new shrink in training or something. I felt like killing him when he said that, but we worked it out. Now he said he’d never leave me again.

  “Um, maybe. But mostly because someone was murdered near me. But otherwise, I’m okay.” I smiled to show him I was fine.

  “But the police?”

  “O-M-G!” I said it just like Sarah: oh-em-gee. “You should see the detective. He’s so pretty. He and Sarah would make excellent babies together.”

  He shot me another worried look. “Do you think perhaps you’re putting Sarah on too high a pedestal? That she may not be as perfect as you think she is?”

  “Uh, no. You’ll see when you meet her. I mean, she and I have so much in common. We could be sisters.”

  He cleared his throat. “Maybe you need some distance from Sarah.”

  I glared at him. “No. The more Sarah likes me, the higher my profile will be. Dr. M, that’s how Fashionlandia works.” We had had this argument before. He felt I was putting too much effort into getting Sarah to love me. I think he was just jealous I had someone else in my life.

  “Doesn’t that mean you’re using her?”

  “What? No. No! We’re helping each other. I help her manage her workload. And in turn, she’ll help me climb the ladder.”

  “Are you still writing her stories for her? You said you’d stop.” He was disappointed in me.

  I shrugged. “She needs me. Anyways, you did always say I should aim high.” He did. He said it to me constantly. Anya, do better. Stop lashing out at people. I was merely doing what he told me to. I was aspiring; I had goals. And Sarah Taft was the key to achieving them all.

  “But you’re putting conditions on your friendship,” he pressed. “If she doesn’t help you, then what?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just being friends with her elevates me. Don’t you see?” He had to get it. I had come in as a nobody. As some girl who liked what she saw in magazines. I was lower than nothing. And now I had the chance of being the BFF of Fashionlandia’s top star. Short of chilling with the Hadids, this was the pinnacle.

  “I’m just concerned. Shouldn’t you focus on your work and being happy?”

  I sighed. “This is my work. What’s the point of doing a good job if no one notices?”

  “I notice.”

  “You don’t count. You’re paid to like me. Or not hate me.”

  “What happens if Sarah doesn’t want to be friends? You two are competing against each other. What if it drives a wedge between you?” Dr. M was such a worrywart. I’d simply have to win the promotion. Invites and accolades would pour in. Sarah would embrace me as her equal. And if that didn’t happen, if somehow I lost, I’d have to fix it. Fix her. But that wouldn’t happen. This was my destiny.

  He shot me a pointed look.

  “I know what you’re going to say. It’s Meredith all over again.” Why did he have to always bring her up? Meredith was gone. Dead. I would never have to see her again, but Dr. M was obsessed with her. With my relationship to her. She was just some psycho I was friends with when I was a kid. We grew apart; that happens to all besties eventually. And then she died. It was her own fault.

  Dr. M blinked.

  “It’s not the same!” I insisted. “Meredith was totally different.”

  He sat back.

  “Whatever, you weren’t even around then.”

  The same. Hmph. Meredith’s name began with an m. Like Mulberry. And Mariana, the old me. Anya was the new me. The fashionable me. Safe from Google searches and prying people. I grew out of m names. Except for Dr. M. I was way into s names and words now. S for superb. Stunning. Sartorial. Sarah. I even had an s in my last name. It truly was kismet. With an s.

  * * *

  “Have you lost any weight? Are you even trying?” Celia was facedown on the ground in her office, hovering a foot above the carpet. “It’s been, what, a week? You should be down ten pounds by now.”

  “That’s not even healthy.”

  “Fuck healthy. You need to be thin. Look at you.”

  She swiveled her head up from her plank, which she’d now been holding for two minutes. Her furrowed brow was an alarming shade of red.

  “You’re never going to be a real fashion editor if you don’t look like one. And editors at La Vie are not chubby. This is not the way to win a promotion, Anya.”

  “I thought the promotion was traffic related.”

  “Do not argue with me. Until you can hold a plank for five minutes and fit into a size two, this experiment is a failure. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Celia.”

  “Good. Now get down here and plank.”

  “I—what?”

  “You heard me, plank!”

  The buzzing drill in my head was back. Was I dying?

  “But I’m not warmed up.” I had to get out of here.

  “Excuses, excuses! You will never get anywhere with that attitude. On your knees. Now!”

  I wasn’t going to win this battle. I kicked my heels off (Manolos, obviously) and sank down to my knees. Was the promotion really worth it? I imagined reporting to Sarah every day, having to do menial tasks for her. Pouring her drinks while she chilled with Marc Jacobs or taking her shoes to be reheeled. It would be a nightmare. I’d never catch up to her.

  “Okay, now get in position and . . . go!” Celia commanded.

  I hoisted myself into a plank, or as planky as I could go in skintight jeans. I cursed under my breath. Celia hadn’t budged from hers even once.

  “Keep going! You can do it!”

  I was going to kill this bitch.

  “Everyone starts somewhere. Keep it up!”

  I was going to make her suffer.

  “Just ten more seconds!”

  I was going to rip her heart out and eat it on top of a giant plate of pasta.

  “And done! Great job! Now go have your protein shake—you earned it, finally.”

  “Thanks, Celia. That was fantastic.” I flashed as many teeth as possible, the buzzing in my ears growing louder. Bronwen, her new Mulberry, smiled as I walked by.

  I hustled back to my desk and stood, popping barbiturates to dull my headache. Dr. M said my headache pills were fucking with my memory and I shouldn’t take them anymore. But they worked better than the pathetic over-the-counter shit.

  “It’s your own fault, you know,” Sarah said, shoving avocado slices into her mouth.

  “What? I can’t hear you over the noise.” I motioned to my ears.

  “It’s your own fault!” she shouted.

  “Oh.”

  “You just
need some willpower. Size two is the maximum you should be. She wanted you at a zero. But I told her it wasn’t possible. I mean, you have such big-girl bones.” She said the last part pityingly.

  I wanted to punch her. I wanted to rip her blown-out-to-perfection blonde hair until she was bloody and bald. I wanted her to say I was stunning and gorgeous, her ideal vision of a best friend. Be cool, Anya. Let it all wash over you. Nothing bothers you. I looked at her and laughed loudly . . . for ten seconds. She furrowed her brow. I wanted to stab my head with scissors until the pain ended and the world went quiet.

  “But you look good, Anya. I mean . . .”

  Smile and the world smiles with you.

  She shifted focus to her phone. A group chat with the unholy trinity, no doubt. Jack and Lisa, always around. Sarah snickered as she typed. Was she talking about me? Were they all laughing? I needed to see the texts. Thank God I’d installed parental monitoring software on her phone. I sat down at my desk and pretended to work while I pulled up the app.

  Sarah: Wait what are we doing later? I wanna go outttttt. (Kissy face emoji)

  Jack: There’s that party tonight.

  Lisa: But it’s in Brooklyn. (Sad face)

  Sarah: Ew! Gross. OMG, you guyyyyys, Celia made the whale do planks. Planks! Can you die? (Crying laughing emoji)

  Lisa: OMG, you should have filmed it. Record that shit so we can all laugh.

  Jack: I’ll bring popcorn.

  I was not a whale. I was barely a size six. Fine, a six to eight. I wanted to scream, to pick up my computer and smash it on my desk. But that wasn’t an adult reaction. I was supposed to breathe when I felt like burning everything down. Because Dr. M said breathing would make that impulse go away. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t.) He had this big thing about walking and breathing. That somehow, with each step you took and every breath you exhaled, your troubles would melt away. He used to make me go on superlong walks with him. So annoying.

  But the trinity was mocking me. I would never be accepted by them. And with them around, by Sarah. They made her act so petty. Couldn’t she see I was above that? Above them?

  Remember, Anya, you’re a winner. Dr. M said mantras were helpful in getting my mind on track. Eyes on the prize, all that bullshit. I took a sip of my protein shake—thirteen grams of protein, zero carbs, eight calories, and absolutely no flavor.

  “Oh, aren’t those amaze? I love them!” Sarah gushed, leaning over the partition. “I drink them all the time.”

  I tried to smile without gagging.

  “If you drink two of those a day and water, you’ll lose all the weight. Trust me,” Sarah said wisely.

  “Oh, you’re so smart, Sarah!” Cassie, our intern, chimed in. She had been hired to help us out while she got school credit and was always hovering around. She probably heard and saw a lot. Had she seen me in the cupboard with Mulberry? No, couldn’t have. She’d have told someone by now. She was getting close to Celia’s new assistant, Bronwen. They were bonding over their administrative duties. Bronwen was blonde and wore flowers in her hair. Cassie was brunette and followed Sarah around like a puppy. She had painted her nails just like Sarah’s: pink and silver. I hated Cassie. I hated Jack. I hated Lisa. I needed some motivational poster that told me to turn my hate into love, my frown upside down. Maybe a kitten hanging by its paws. Or Cassie hanging by her neck.

  Sarah was wearing the new Prada mules (in blue), and they looked stunning on her. I needed to buy a pair, ASAP.

  * * *

  I spent the weekend working on mantras, breathing, and learning to control my thoughts. Okay, fine, I watched Law & Order and had Chinese food delivered. But on Monday, I was ready for the week. I sat at my desk, breathing deeply. A Diptyque candle in the John Galliano scent burned next to my computer. Dr. M felt it was important to center myself first thing. Because before you knew it, one wrong thing led to another, and your day was ruined.

  Besides vegging, I’d updated my mood boards over the weekend. One for me and a new one for Sarah. Finding photos of her was ridiculously easy. When you’re rich and famous, or society famous, everyone writes about you. Weird blogs and fancy magazines were obsessed with the Tafts. Where they holidayed, summered, shopped. (There was, I learned, a distinct difference between holidaying and summering. The latter was done in the Hamptons only.) There were profiles upon profiles of Sarah. Of her life at fancy boarding schools. Of her wardrobe. I’d read them all so much that I had memorized the details. Younger Anya loved to see every photo of Sarah. I held them up to my chest and wished again and again that we could trade places. That I’d wake up in her body, in her family home, with her parents. With her wardrobe.

  Sarah and I are a lot alike actually. We’re both only children. Our parents were absent. Hers were off yachting while she was stuck with the nanny. Mine died in a horrible car accident, leaving me with an ugly scar on my arm and my inheritance (in a trust. Jerks). We were both abandoned, sent away to school. Sure, Sarah’s was more upscale and elite, but Dr. M said I had as good an education as was possible, all things considered. You know, those schools for kids like me are never that great.

  You’ve probably never been to one of those schools—for damaged and difficult kids. For wayward girls. Call them whatever you want, but they’re basically prisons for tots. I spent nine years in one before leaving at eighteen. Nine long years of following rules and being medicated. Yes, ma’am. No, sir. I sure am sorry for everything. All because the police believed I had done something to Meredith. I hadn’t acted traumatized enough for their liking. I had a dead bestie and dead parents. I was walking trauma! The police are the worst.

  I wasn’t alone-alone back then. This isn’t a fucking pity party. Don’t go all Mulberry on me. I had roommates. New girls throughout the year, each year. I never learned their names. What was the point? They were in and out. I was there to stay.

  But I had my magazines. Photo spreads that promised me a better life, a life like Sarah’s. Sarah had been photographed from the day she was born. Sarah with her folks, Sarah as a toddler. Sarah walking down the runway as a teen at socialite fashion show. That’s the age I first saw her. We were both fifteen. Her perfect face stared out at me. She would smile then. Now she poses. The magazines that featured her promised me that life. So long as I bought the clothes and wore the right makeup. I, too, could be on a sunny beach surrounded by hot models. The people shown weren’t stuck in a school full of freaks, in a bedroom barely large enough for two twin beds, with the windows covered in bars. The magazine people were happy, gorgeous. No shitty friends or clueless parents. No drugs, no doctors.

  I used to rip up each issue and cover my walls with the pages using scotch tape and chewing gum. Happy families like the Tafts could be mine, the magazines promised. I could be pretty and rich and loved by everyone. But even better than that, I could be envied. And I wanted that more than anything else. I wanted someone to make mood boards of me.

  Sarah was destined to be my friend, even back then. And you just can’t argue with destiny. I applied at La Vie two years ago just to be near her. And look at me now! We were almost BFFs. So close.

  “There you are!”

  I looked up to see Greg Davies standing over my desk, his wrinkled Adidas tracksuit looking out of place in the chic office. He was our publisher and Celia’s boss (and therefore my boss).

  “Did you see this?” He waved a paper in front of me. Greg used to be a model, or so he said. Catalog, at best. He was only five foot nine, and as much as he tried to hide his accent, his Staten Island roots betrayed him. His black hair was always slicked back, and I could see chest hair poking out from under his track jacket. The only jewelry he wore was a diamond pinky ring and a gold Rolex.

  “No, what is that?”

  “It’s a comment! Engagement!”

  “Let me see.” I took the sheet, which turned out to be a printout of one of my stories—“Ten Date-Night Dresses Straight from the Runway.” Designers had given recommendations on what to wear
on a first date. It had done quite well. But at the bottom, Greg had circled—in red sharpie—a nasty comment from a troll. The comment said, simply, U r stoopid.

  I sighed.

  “Look at this one!”

  He shoved another paper in my face. It was my “Ten Ways to Survive a Social Faux Pas” piece, and my regular internet troll, fasi0n-419, was giving it his or her all: This story iz a faux pas. WTF? and This iz so stoopid. If sighing burned any calories, I was so ahead of the game today.

  “These comments kind of suck.” I grimaced.

  “They do. So let’s tweak our content for the readers. They’re who we do this for. They drive traffic. Make them happy or else.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll find a writer who can make them happy. That goes for you too, Sarah.” He moved toward her desk. Sarah stood to stare at him. “I want more comments. Happy comments. For both of you. Understand?” He pointed at us both with one hand, using his thumb and pinky. We nodded before he walked away.

  “Was that all he wanted?” Sarah was annoyed.

  “Yeah. Ugh, I hate the commenters.”

  “I didn’t know we had any. But really, why is anyone even talking about your stories? Mine are so much better.” She sniffed as she said it even though her stories were my stories. “I mean, who even reads you?”

  “Sarah, are you . . . jealous right now?”

  She gasped, then narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Of what? You? Puh-lease.” She flipped her hair for emphasis. “There’s nothing about you worth being jealous over.” She smiled coldly.

  “I dunno. I don’t see Greg running here to see you.”

  Her face darkened even more. “You know what? Fuck you, Anya.”

  5

  I cycled my legs, left, right, left, right, pumping them as sweat dripped down my face and chin, pooling onto my chest. The music was loud. Too loud. The instructor was a peppy little wisp with no body fat. She smiled as she yelled at us, “Cycle harder, be a warrior!”