#FashionVictim Read online

  I hated Soul Cycle. Every second on my bike made me want to murder the bitch next to me. (That would be Celia.) If the bikes weren’t bolted to the ground, I’d throw mine on top of her. This had been her doing. She pounced on me first thing Monday morning, as I sat down at my desk with hot coffee.

  “There you are!” Celia grabbed my arm. “Let’s go do Soul Cycle. I signed us up for the nine thirty class. Did you bring shoes?” She half dragged me to the elevators. My coffee was abandoned. Sarah waved.

  “Come on, keep pushing! Do this for yourself! You’re worth the sweat! The pain! Cycle through it!” I hated the cheerful instructors telling me to feel the rhythm. It was forty-five minutes of pure hell. I closed my eyes, cycling as hard as I could. I could be thin and happy if I did this more often. I could get my rage out on the bike. I could be like Sarah.

  I got chills thinking of her, and not in a good way. I dreamt about her last night. Again. Her hair billowing behind her like at a photo shoot. She’s laughing, her perfect teeth glinting.

  “Be a legend! You can do this!” the instructor roared at us.

  The dream was a bad one. Sarah was mad at me. She told me she likes Cassie, that she and Cassie are going to hang out now. Cassie was joining the trinity. Can you believe that? Hanging out with an intern? Quel nightmare. It was just a dream though. And dreams have no power. Sarah would never betray me like that.

  “Everyone, cheer for yourself! Give yourself the applause and approval to live your life!” The instructor was soaked through, her skin glistening. I bet she never binged on cheesecake. “You did it! I am so proud of you!”

  I was going to drown her in a bucket of her own sweat.

  “This keeps me sane.” Celia giggled, climbing off her bike. I wanted to devise a torture device that made Celia ride until she died. Or better yet, start my own class: Psycho Cycle. It’d be the ideal workout for today’s woman: half the class has to get away from crazed killers (spoiler alert: they die), and the rest of us come out looking like Kaia Gerber. Million-dollar idea.

  Celia was so mellow after the workout, she touched my arms and shoulders as if we were friends.

  “You know, I don’t want to tip the scales, but you’re ahead in my little competition.” She winked at me.

  My heart stopped. I was winning. I was going to be Sarah’s boss, and then Sarah would have to hang out with me whenever I wanted. I was going to be a real La Vie woman. Everything was going the way I wanted.

  Sarah was at her desk when I came back. My leg muscles were vibrating. I was certain they had turned to Jell-O during my workout. She laughed when she saw me.

  “Kill me” was all I could say.

  Sarah looked gorgeous, as always. Her lips were so glossy, it was mesmerizing. Her secret? She applied five coats of gloss (by Fenty), waiting ten seconds between each coat. Watching her make fish faces while she did it brought me such singular joy. (Matte lips were out.)

  The day got even better after I discovered the name of my number-one fan (thanks to the IT guys. They were so helpful. I almost felt bad I ruined their computer closet). Diana Williams—username: fasi0n-419—was the troll commenter getting Greg so excited about “engagement.” I didn’t know what I was going to do with her—hug her for making Sarah jealous or lash out at her for leaving such shitty comments. Greg’s “or else” hung in my mind. I was going to have to keep an eye on Diana.

  * * *

  I was remarkably cheerful the next morning as I settled into my desk. Maybe there’s something to that whole endorphins thing after all. My cheekbones were practically jagged. Soul Cycle and not eating were making me thinner, but was that any way to live? Chalky shakes and kale until I peed green for the rest of my life?

  I felt pretty damn good, until I noticed printouts left by Greg. Diana’s comments on my recent stories were once again circled in red sharpie. She’d made her displeasure known by commenting This is lame and U don no fasion again and again. She left each comment nine times, just to get her point across. My morning protein shake began to rise in my throat.

  “Celia’s looking for you,” Sarah said curtly. She didn’t say hi or stand up to deliver the message. Didn’t she want to see how good my cheekbones looked? Maybe she had gotten comments too. I hurried to Celia’s office.

  “Oh, good, you’re here. I think what your diet needs is the right motivation. So hop to it.”

  I looked at her blankly until I realized, with horror, that she was gesturing to a scale. “You want to weigh me?”

  “Yes, every morning. I told you we’d have weigh-ins. This should inspire you not to cheat.” Gone was girlfriend Celia. In front of me was boss bitch Celia. But we had bonded the day before. We’d sweat together. She’d touched my shoulder.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, I’m serious. Now get on.”

  My day had officially gone to hell. I hated Wednesdays. They were the worst days.

  “Now, Anya. We don’t have all day.”

  I stepped on the scale and watched as Celia recorded my weight in a notebook. Fashion people never let you forget that you don’t belong.

  “And you’re five foot four?”

  I nodded.

  “I think ten pounds won’t be enough. You’re almost one hundred thirty pounds. You need to be one hundred and ten. By Friday, you have to be down five pounds. Understand?”

  That left me two days. I cleared my throat. “Um, Celia, yesterday you said I was in the lead for—”

  “That was yesterday. What have you done to please me today? Nothing. The only way I could promote you is if you lose the weight. A La Vie woman is not obese.”

  Celia pinched my stomach through my caftan (it was a chic caftan). She held the fabric, skin, and fat in her fingers, eyeing it clinically. “All of this has to go. Oh, and I was thinking, we really should do a post on planking. I mean, isn’t it the best thing ever?”

  Her mouth hung open, waiting for a reply. I was still shocked by the fat pinching. My mind went into a rage-induced blankness. I had to reply.

  “Well, haven’t we already done that story?” We had. Several times over.

  “Yeah, but this time we’ll do a new one!”

  “Okay . . . ‘Fifteen Ways to Make Planking Work for You’? Something like that?”

  She wrinkled her nose to show she was thinking. It was her way of avoiding frowning.

  “Or ‘Ten Ways to Add More Planks to Your Day.’”

  “That’s it! That’s perfect! You may be chubby, but you’re a genius!” And with that, I was dismissed. Chubby. I was chubby. The buzzing was at deafening levels. I want to say I didn’t cry. My eyes welled, but I did manage to hold it in, at least until I got to the bathroom.

  I had to call Dr. M for an emergency phone session before I did anything rash.

  * * *

  “But I feel so violated,” I whined. The ladies’ room was thankfully empty. My voice echoed off the tiles.

  “Mariana, you know how to stand up for yourself. I don’t know why you’re playing the victim now.”

  “Anya. I wish you’d call me Anya. Like, Mariana is dead.” There was an edge to my voice.

  “Sorry, dear. Force of habit. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just stand up for yourself. Remember, Anya, nobody likes a victim.”

  “I know. And there’s Lisa. She and Sarah called me a whale.” I sounded like a child tattling. Dr. M sighed.

  “You know how to handle this. How to handle yourself. Be a doer, not a whiner.”

  Way harsh, Dr. M, but also spot on. I was a doer. And I’d have to do something about Lisa sooner rather than later.

  After my conversation with Dr. M, I made myself go back to my desk. I held my head up and smiled at everyone who walked by. I was fine. I was breezy. See? I was smiling.

  “I’m going to grab lunch. You want something?” Sarah popped up and peered at me with curiosity.

  Had she heard me with Dr. M? I didn’t have anywhere private to talk except the restroom. I thought no one else came in. I waved her away, staring at my computer. I had to do something about Celia. I was not a victim. Maybe I’d wait until my promotion. Then she’d learn to not overstep boundaries. (That was another Dr. M-ism; boundaries were some kind of mental-health boogeyman or something.)

  I raided the art department and began cutting out health photos from our archives for my diet mood board. Maybe I’d get a La Vie body by osmosis. The mood board would help, at least until I figured out what to do about my boundary-crossing boss.

  At my schools, they fed you nothing but carbs. Starch on starch on starch. I didn’t know if it was a weird health thing—like, with enough carbs, we’d all crash eventually—or if they were just cheap, but I learned to inhale my potatoes with macaroni salad. I learned to love them. But now I was at La Vie, and carbs were on the don’t list. I had to change. I had to be better. I scrawled Size Two in a sharpie at the top of my board.

  I started another board on Detective Hopper. It was filled with Law & Order images and Gucci men’s runway pics. He hadn’t checked in with me in almost two weeks, not since the funeral. Should I call him? No. My need for attention was going to ruin me. I had to play it cool. I drew a heart on his board. See? Nothing but love and positive vibes.

  * * *

  My improved cheekbones and I took a tour of a few events after work. I had no idea who or what they were for. It didn’t matter. Every night there were countless parties to attend. I usually did drive-bys, popping in, kissing a few cheeks, downing a drink, gift bag in hand. Tonight I wanted to show off my thinner face, have someone tell me how good I looked. I needed that. I got out of my Uber near the Highline Hotel. It used to be a monastery and still had the forbidding look of a religious building. It was a favorite location
for clothing presentations and parties.

  Male models held trays of red and white wine, welcoming everyone with a smile. I grabbed a red, took a sip, and grimaced. People who cheap out on wine selection shouldn’t go into party planning.

  The usual panic started to rise up. Every event, every time I walked in, I had that moment of Fuck. What am I doing here? I glanced around for a familiar face. Any familiar face. Walking into a room full of the rich and fabulous can make anyone doubt herself.

  I spotted Lisa’s frizzy hair escaping out from under a vintage hat. (There was an attached veil. Can you even?) It was her look, her way of setting herself apart. She only wore vintage, paired with bold-red lipstick. Her dress was forest green. Greens, beiges, pale pinks, and corals always reminded me of institutional walls, the strange palette all schools and lock-ups shared. Sarah and Jack were standing next to her. Jack had on a mishmash of colors that should have clashed but didn’t. I had to go over there. I had to say hi, despite just seeing Sarah at work. Why hadn’t she told me she was coming to this?

  “Hey, guys.” I raised my eyebrows in lieu of a wave.

  “Hey, Anya. Cute dress,” Lisa said. I had changed into a black, sleeveless dress by Opening Ceremony. I couldn’t tell if Lisa was being facetious or if she liked it. Her perpetual smirk kept me guessing. Dr. M’s voice whispered in my head, Be a doer.

  “Hey,” Sarah added.

  “I love the accessories this designer is doing.” Lisa turned to me. “Don’t you?”

  I shrugged. “I guess. Not my thing.” I had no idea who she was talking about. The designer I was wearing? Or the one who was throwing the party?

  She laughed. “No shit; we can tell.” What did that even mean? “I heard you’re Celia’s new pet project. How’s the weight loss going?”

  “Great, down a lot. So close to my goal weight,” I lied. But I had cheekbones.

  “Your face looks almost gaunt,” Jack said approvingly. He even smiled at me.

  “You still shouldn’t be drinking wine. What with all the calories. Such a shame—you’d be so pretty if you lost the weight.” Lisa’s mocking voice echoed in my ears until all I could hear was her and my heart beating like a drum.

  My head felt like it was going to explode, and my face burned. Deep breaths, find a mantra. Do something! (Kill her. No, don’t. Not yet.) I wanted to scream that she was a frizzy-haired bitch.

  I cleared my throat. This was it. I was going to take her down. “Aw, thanks, Lisa, so sweet of you!” Okay, it wasn’t the most cutthroat thing I could have said. Not even close. I smiled politely at her, which seemed to enrage her.

  “Is your dress fake too?” she hissed.

  “Lisa, I love that you make do with used clothing. That’s so . . . cute.”

  I glanced at Sarah. She was grinning. She enjoyed this.

  “Whatever. Don’t think I don’t know about you. Because I do. And soon I’ll know more.” Lisa spat the words out.

  The ominous threat hung in the air between us. What did Lisa know? No one knew me, who I used to be. I wanted to grab her by the throat and force her to tell me.

  I shrugged. “Whatever you say!” Bright smile, wave, exit. Exit now. I’d like to say I didn’t spend the rest of the evening focusing on Lisa and her threats. But that’d be a lie. And Dr. M said telling lies only hurt you. But he didn’t have to survive in Fashionlandia.

  I stopped to buy myself a new present on the way home. A blonde wig, long and wavy. Like Sarah’s hair. Like Meredith’s. They were both blondes, but Mer had that supersoft kid hair. The wig cost a fortune; the good ones always do. I tried it on when I got home. It made me look like Sarah’s sister. I was perfect. This was exactly what I needed.

  That and Lisa’s head on a fucking platter.

  * * *

  I wore black jeans (denim and leather was always a winning combo), a black silk tank, and an asymmetrical blazer. All from Barneys, my happy place.

  I was determined to be happy and positive. To not let the party from the other night get to me. Fuck Lisa and her taunts. I was better than her. But my mood soured right as I got to my desk. Left on my chair were more printouts of my stories with comments. Diana’s comments. Greg had written in red sharpie, Do better. Or else.

  “Dammit,” I muttered.

  “What?” Sarah asked.

  “More shitty comments. Are you getting them too?”

  “Not really. I guess my stories are just better than yours.”

  I closed my eyes. My head was already pounding. How could this be happening? This Diana person was targeting me. Did I know her? Did we go to school together? I had to talk some sense into her. She was seriously messing up my work life.

  Which was weird because Diana had no life of her own. I’d stood outside her apartment yesterday after work. I skipped all my parties; this was more important. I saw Diana come home, go upstairs. She dressed in boring outfits from the Loft. She wore no makeup, and aside from a pedicure—which I unfortunately had to see thanks to her heinous flip-flops—it was clear she wasn’t trying. She was not a La Vie woman. So why was she trying so hard to get my attention? Diana needed to get—or lose—a life. Maybe I could talk to her, woman to woman. Or break her fingers off—snap, snap, snap—so she couldn’t comment ever again.

  “Why is Greg so obsessed, anyway? Doesn’t he know you shouldn’t read the comments?” Sarah didn’t answer me. She was busy clack-clacking on her phone.

  Fucking Diana. What was her problem, anyway? Why my stories and not the ones I wrote for Sarah? Trolls were the worst. They picked on one person and tried to break them. I’d seen other editors deal with them. Evie had one that always called her ugly. (Okay, it was me, LOL.) But Diana just hated me.

  I stewed. All damn day. Every word I wrote, I wondered what Diana would think. Not Sarah, but Diana. This commenter was winning, and Greg would fire me if I didn’t do something. Or at least not promote me. That “or else” echoed in my head. Followed by Dr. M’s advice: “Be a doer.”

  “Anya! Did you weigh in today?” Celia bellowed. TGIF.

  Dammit. Also, my Fitbit broke. The fashion gods were clearly against me. Sarah looked like a beam of sunshine was following her around. Life was not fair.

  When I got home, I started to finalize my Diana plan. Then I ordered a new Fitbit. Essentials. The rest of my evening was spent searching through Sarah’s emails. She always used the same password: Blondie1. I liked to read through them every few days. She hadn’t mentioned me, like, at all. What was wrong with her? Maybe she was trying to be stealthy. There was something endearing and exciting about being her secret friend. Also, she was definitely porking Greg. I had to save her from her bad choices. This is what BFFs did. We were the dream team, even if Celia wanted to pit us against each other. I saved a few emails, including one to Evie about how much she hated Mulberry.

  I ordered Prada mules in yellow. They were just like Sarah’s.

  * * *

  My Manolos were completely soaked through with blood. Goddammit. They were ruined. I don’t know what I was thinking wearing stilettos tonight. But I ran straight here from work and didn’t change. Not even Martha-freaking-Stewart could DIY these babies back to wearable condition. Whatever, at least my new Pradas were at home. Gotta love Net-a-Porter’s insanely quick turnaround. A black shopping bag containing a designer shoe box can make any Monday better, even today.

  Still, I wondered if I could write them off on my taxes.

  Diana’s apartment in Chinatown was disgusting. From the outside it looked normal. But once I got inside, I was horrified. The woman had never heard the words cleaning lady. There were moldy food cartons everywhere. Pizza boxes (with leftover crusts) piled up on her floor, takeout-containers-turned-biohazards in the kitchen. And God, the soured milk stench, the source of all things putrid.

  And here I was contemplating taking my fucking shoes off. Fact: at least fifteen different diseases can spread from skin-to-skin contact. But I was going to have to swallow my pride and fashion sense and put on my flats. The indignity of it all. I tried imagining Sarah’s face when she saw this place and burst out laughing. As if.

  I kicked my right foot, shaking some of the excess blood off. A towel would have been helpful, if Diana had any. I put the saw on the ground and limped over to the bathroom.