#FashionVictim Read online

  “Manolos may be the most comfortable shoes, Diana, but when they’re wet, they’re brutal to wear,” I lectured while climbing over the debris of clothes, shoes, boxes, cable wires, coat hangers, and crumbs of who knew what, trying to not gag the entire way. Vomit equaled DNA. Sometimes it was only my paranoia that held me together.

  There were ripped yellow towels on the floor of the living room. They looked like Diana had bought them at least five years ago, and that was probably the last time she washed them too. Gross. Eye on the prize, Anya. Focus.

  I squeezed each shoe in a towel, soaking up as much blood as I could. I’d have to destroy them. What a pity. Such craftsmanship. The arch was pure art, the way it cradled your foot. It drew the eye up a woman’s leg, just so. It took talent to create shoes like these. Well worth the $595 I had spent on them. I put the wet shoes back on and wiped down where I had stepped. No prints.

  I lifted Diana’s head by her hair—which was a rather pretty shade of brown with naturally red lowlights. I knew they were natural because (according to her credit card statements) she only went to get a trim at MasterCuts every two months. Did everyone have perfect hair but me? I cut her mane off. Waste not, want not.

  I had watched her all weekend before deciding to just pull the trigger. Get it over with, Monday be damned. After she’d let me in, I’d Tasered her, and now she was a bit worse for wear. Was she getting it? Was this all going over her head? God, why was she just staring at me like that, glassy eyed?

  “If. You. Hadn’t. Been. A. Goddamned. Annoying. Troll. We. Wouldn’t. Be. Here,” I said, emphasizing each word with the buzzing of my electric saw.

  Diana had nothing to say to me.

  The human and pig anatomies are shockingly similar. Which is why I’ve taken three different pig butchering courses at the Bedford Cheese Shop, honing my skills on the blade. It’s trendy to want to butcher meat, especially if you’re a girl. Fabulous course, by the way. Highly recommend it. So after severing Diana’s arteries first—both the carotid and femoral—and bleeding her into large bowls, I fired up my saw again.

  When I was finished, I had to do some major cleanup. This night was amateur hour. Still, rule of thumb when trying to move a body: don’t leave a mess everywhere. The last thing an overworked cleaning lady needs is a wall of splatter. Hey, I care, okay?

  * * *

  When I got home, I ordered a new pair of Manolos from Barneys. I know, I just got the Pradas. But I deserved a treat after all my hard work. Instead of blue, I went with red. It was more apropos. Yes, definitely red. Diana had inspired me.

  Steps taken: 32,045. Calories burned: 2,184. Celia would be so fucking happy with me.

  Countdown to Fashion Week: twenty-one days.

  6

  The weeks leading up to Fashion Week always pass in a drunken blur. Summer cocktails, rosé on a rooftop, invites to Montauk (as long as you promoted the brand hosting you)—I did it all. It was required, and frankly, I needed to toast myself. Diana’s comments had turned positive. It wasn’t a sudden 360, but she was loving my work—and hating Sarah’s. Greg now flashed thumbs-ups at me in the hallway.

  Diana started commenting, This is good. Then she wrote, Your so smart! But what really made me like the dead troll was when she wrote on Sarah’s stories: You r so lame. I laughed for five minutes straight in the ladies’ room over that.

  “I just don’t get our readers!” Sarah wailed. I was at her desk, patting her back reassuringly. Greg had left printouts on her desk. Did he lecture her about engagement while they were fucking? I made cooing noises at her. That’s what you were supposed to do, right?

  “Ouch! Anya, not so hard.” She swatted my hands away.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. My face grew hot.

  “Ugh, this better not fuck up my promotion,” she added.

  There was no way Sarah would win. But just in case, I’d already started doing a shitty job writing Sarah’s stories, making them all but impossible to read. She hadn’t even noticed. (Sarah had stopped reading what I wrote for her a while back. She trusted me, she said.)

  But I’d make it up to her. We were going to the same event tonight. She didn’t know that. It was my surprise for her.

  My phone rang.

  “Anya St. Clair,” I said, using my best phone voice. Authoritative and slightly husky.

  “Ms. St. Clair, it’s Detective Hopper.” Silence. I opened my mouth a couple times. This was it. He was going to tell me I was being arrested. For Mulberry. And Diana. Wait, they didn’t call ahead of time to make an arrest reservation.

  “Detective, how are you?” I smiled as I said it. You can hear when people smile.

  “I’m afraid we need more information on Mulberry von Gratz. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Of course. What do you need?”

  “Well, we know about her life outside of work, but no one has said who her office friends were. You know, work pals.” Oh, I knew.

  “Huh that’s a good question. The assistants kind of keep to themselves. Like, they’re too busy to socialize, you know? Perhaps she commiserated with other assistants? I can ask around for you.”

  “You mean you don’t know? Why is it that no one at La Vie seems to know who she was friends with?”

  “No one? Oh, you asked Celia about it, didn’t you?” I laughed. “Sorry, it’s just that she wouldn’t know. She barely knows the names of her assistants. It’s very hierarchical here, you know?” He did. He got me. Him and his green eyes.

  “So you can get me what I need?”

  “I can try. I’ll call you back. I have your number.” His card was on my bulletin board. It had been one month since Mulberry’s death, and the police had seemingly questioned everyone. They’d come up with nothing.

  “What was that about?” Sarah stood, leaning on the flimsy wall between us.

  I shrugged. “The police want to know who Mulberry’s work friends were.”

  “Ha, she didn’t have any.” Sarah giggled.

  “Maybe Cassie would know?”

  “Maybe.” She paused. “Why’d they call you and not me? Rude.”

  I nodded. Why did he call me? Did he just want to talk to me? I felt my face get warm.

  “O-M-G, you’re blushing! Ha! You so like that cop.”

  “I do not.” I rolled my eyes. I didn’t. We were working together on Mulberry’s case, that was all. “I’m gonna go ask the other assistants if they know who Mulberry hung with.” I didn’t want to do that. But I also didn’t want to sit under Sarah’s interrogatory gaze any longer than I had to.

  Before I left for the day, I left a voice mail for the detective. I practiced what I meant to say in the bathroom. I wanted to be light and easy. I had nothing to hide. I was helping, even!

  “Hi, Detective. It’s Anya St. Clair. I asked around, and most of the assistants didn’t really hang out with Mulberry. They said they spoke with her in passing, but no one, like, hung out with her. Hope this helps!” I put my face in my hands after I hung up. Ugh, I sounded like a loser.

  * * *

  The event tonight was at the Gramercy Hotel rooftop bar. Sarah was already there when I arrived, holding court with Lisa and Jack. Jack wore yellow pants with a T-shirt, somehow looking both ultracasual and chic. Lisa was in some awful vintage number. Sarah wore gingham head to toe. Around them, girls were dressed in their very best prairie looks. Just like Sarah, a few weeks back. I rolled my eyes. I was in my summer black.

  “Hey, guys.” I aimed for bored, nonchalant even.

  “Hey, Anya,” Jack drawled. He wore sunglasses and was scoping out the waiters.

  “Oh, surprise, Wednesday Addams is here,” Lisa said. Sarah giggled. “Um, all these seats are taken,” she added, motioning to the empty chairs next to them. (No one dared sit unless invited.)

  “Aw, by your imaginary friends? How cute, Lisa!” I plopped down. I hated her. Maybe I could make her night miserable enough that she’d back off. She turned to Sarah, sneaking a glance at me.

  “Did I tell you about that story we ran recently? It was all about hiring a private detective to . . .” She paused and glanced at me. “Investigate things. People. Dig up dirt. He’s so interesting.” She took a big sip of her champagne. I mentally willed her to choke on it and die.

  “Oh, cool,” Sarah said. She was bored; you could hear it in her voice. The conversation wasn’t about her. A real friend would know to always keep Sarah engaged.

  “Oooh, we should totally hire him for something!” Jack piped in. “I mean, maybe he could find out who killed that girl. What was her name again?”

  “Mulberry.” I was the only one who said it.

  “That’s not a bad idea,” Lisa said. “But I may want him to investigate something else. Someone else.” She grinned at me. “What do you think, Anya?” The way she said my name told me everything. Lisa knew. She knew I wasn’t real.

  I shrugged. Never let them see you freak the fuck out. That’s when they win. “It’s your money, Lisa.” I didn’t care. I didn’t. She wouldn’t get under my skin. She glared at me. Her taunts weren’t working.

  “O-M-G, guys, you know how I used to work at Fashionista? Well, isn’t it weird how at the same time I was there, Anya was supposed to be working there?” She laughed, loudly and harshly. “And my friend at New York has never heard of her. Bizarre when it’s all on her résumé.”

  She had just escalated this to all-out war. I closed my eyes briefly. I could take my glass of champagne and shove it in her mouth. Force Lisa to chew on glass. The imaginary sound of chomping paired with the image of blood pouring from her mouth sent a thrill up my back. That would teach her to talk shit about me.

  “Lisa, I was a contributor. So I wouldn’t be in the office or on the masthead even. Hello?” I shook my head, smiling. I pantomimed This bitch is crazy. “Anyways, I have all the clips if you want to see them.” I was bluffing. I had written stories, but they’d never run anywhere. But Lisa didn’t need to know that. Story links got lost all the time with redesigns.

  Sarah looked puzzled. Lisa leaned in to whisper something to her. I was going to be sick.

  “Guys, I don’t mean to throw water on this, but I know people who’ve worked with Anya,” Jack chimed in. “Like, sorry, but the girl’s legit.” He winked at me. What did that mean? I winked back. Sarah nodded along.

  “Ugh, whatever. Can you just go sit somewhere else in your funeral garb? So over this.” Lisa dismissed me. Fine, she practically shoved me off the rooftop with her words. Sarah looked slightly confused, but then she shrugged. I had to know if she believed Lisa. Fashion didn’t care if you faked it; they just didn’t want you to get caught. It was too messy.

  What if Sarah—and by extension, everyone—fell for Lisa’s antics? I’d be ruined. I had to do something. But short of shutting Lisa up permanently, I didn’t know what I could do.

  “Guys, I think Greg is cheating,” I heard Sarah say as I left. Just when things were getting good!

  The night hadn’t been a total loss. Jack Archer had defended me. I had no idea why, but it seemed I needed to reevaluate my relationship with him.

  * * *

  It was the week before Labor Day weekend when everything came crashing down. Fashion Week started in six days. My gray silk blouse was soaked through by the time I got to work (even though I took a car). My entire body was sweating. Sarah, of course, looked perfect. Slightly dewy, but no unsightly dark spots. I stupidly imagined this would be the worst part of my day, being gross and sweaty. (I had to change into a La Vie T-shirt courtesy of marketing. How embarrassing.)

  I was summoned to Celia’s office and part of me hoped it was about the promotion. She said she’d decide by Fashion Week. But the rest of me wondered if she had come up with some new draconian way to make me svelte. What if she planned on sending me to a fat camp for the weekend?

  “Anya! Finally.” She was sitting behind her desk, her Louboutins on the floor next to her. Celia never wore them when in her office unless she was meeting with someone important. The shoes looked good, but they were hell on your feet. Not like Manolos. “So I want you to know that you’ve made some great improvements over the last month or so.”

  I nodded. Was this it? Would she tell me I had won? Would Sarah now report to me and do everything I ordered her to? The mere thought made me dizzy. My stomach did flip-flops. I prepared myself to be gracious. A perfect winner.

  “But I don’t think you’re ready to be promoted.”

  Did everyone in the world gasp in unison?

  Celia’s mouth moved, and it made the sounds. I know I heard them. But none of this was real. It couldn’t be. I was supposed to win the promotion. The buzzing noise was back.

  “But my traffic is up. I have the reports! I got good comments, even!” I could hear the whine in my voice, and I hated myself for it.

  “Dear, I know. And you worked your butt off. Figuratively, at least. But Sarah embodies the La Vie woman so effortlessly. It’s almost unfair to pit her against anyone.” She made that scrunched-up face that said, You’re sad, oh well. “Sarah will be the style editor. You will now report to her. And to me still. Especially in regard to your diet.”

  She continued to speak, but I didn’t hear her. This was like that nightmare you have where you’re standing in front of a classroom and you’re naked, and everyone is dead and bleeding. This wasn’t real.

  “This isn’t real,” I repeated out loud.

  “It is. It’s done. I want you ladies to handle how things will work, but keep in mind, Sarah is very concerned about your behavior. All this acting out that you do. I get it, you’re different. You’re artistic, even—or you think you are. But you simply must start behaving like a proper La Vie woman. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  I stared at her. I’d have replied, but I had no idea what to say.

  “You can’t be such a goddamned loose cannon, Anya!” she snapped at my silence.

  I nodded and forced myself to smile. What did she mean? I’d have to ask Dr. M about it.

  “Thank you, Celia. I will be sure to improve.”

  She nodded. “Good, good. And keep up the level of work you’re doing. You’re so close to being a La Vie woman.” She was being charitable.

  “May I ask—you mentioned weeks ago that I was the front-runner for the job. What can I improve on?” There, I was trying to be better. That had to count, right? If you’re going to have to eat shit, at least find out why.

  Celia rolled her eyes. “At that moment, you were. But Greg felt Sarah should get the job. And he made some compelling arguments. Now, the matter is closed. You can go.” She shooed me. I had killed Diana for Greg, to make him happy. And it was all for nothing. Sarah was dating him. I should have seen it coming.

  “Thanks for even considering me, Celia,” I said stiffly. “I’ll speak with Sarah about . . . everything.”

  I was certain I walked through the door, but suddenly everything went black. The next thing I recalled, I was sitting at my desk. My hands were bleeding from my fingernails digging into my palms. I had lost to Sarah Elizabeth Taft. I’d report to her. I’d never be her equal in the eyes of fashion. I’d trail behind her, fetching coffee like I was Mulberry. I’d sit at least a row behind her at shows. I wouldn’t get invited to the best events. I had failed to aspire. I was nothing but Sarah’s minion now.

  “How’s my favorite employee?” Sarah sang out, her voice carrying over several rows of cubicles. She had announced it to everyone. I was a loser.

  I glanced at her, nodded, and pretended to look at my computer monitor. My blood dripped onto the keyboard. I needed to clean myself up.

  “Where are you going?” Sarah demanded as I stood up. I held up my hands. She actually shrieked. “What the hell happened? Ew, go clean it up. You’re such a biohazard, Anya!”

  I walked down the Murder Hallway, nodding at Mulberry, who watched me from her closet. She hadn’t left the office yet. Why was she still here? Celia would have to call security.

  Alone in the bathroom, I washed my hands, wincing as the cold water hit my nail marks. I had gone deep. I wanted to break things, compelled to destroy more than myself. I took off my shoe and smashed it against the mirror. The stiletto snapped in two. I took a deep breath and screamed as loudly as I could. I screamed until my throat hurt. I needed to talk to Dr. M. Stat. I bandaged my hands and dialed his number.

  “Anya, is it really a big deal that you didn’t get the promotion? Come on, be honest.”

  “Yes! What the hell do you mean, not a big deal?” Hadn’t he been paying attention?

  “You’ll still be doing the same work. And maybe you can learn from Sarah. Is a heavier workload really what you want? Let her carry the weight.”

  “But now she’ll never respect me. No one will respect me. I’m gonna be a nobody for years!” I was wailing. I was making a scene. Thank God I was alone.

  “Then maybe she wasn’t meant to be your bestie, as you say.” He chuckled then, as if he’d made a good joke.

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”

  “You need to be calm and rational. Think of this as an opportunity to grow.”

  “Whatever. I’ll talk to you later.” Maybe it was time for a new shrink. Dr. M just wasn’t getting me anymore.

  Back at the cubicles, Cassie was sitting on a stool near Sarah’s desk, holding a notepad.

  “Okay, so this is what we need to do. I want you to order some crystals. Oh, and some sage spray. The vibes in this office are horrendous, especially after Mulberry.” The intern studiously wrote down everything Sarah said. “Call my guy in Arizona.” Sarah always had a guy. “Oh, good, you’re back.”

  Her eyes shifted to my hands and then the shoe I held. She shrugged. My drama wasn’t her business.

  “Listen, I know it’s gonna be an adjustment to take orders from me, but I promise nothing will really change. We’ll still be Sarah and Anya. You’ll see. This is going to be great.”

  I nodded, fishing out a pair of spare heels from desk drawer. Every respectable fashion girl had extra pairs at her desk. I had six. Something for every kind of emergency. Flats, boots, block heels, stilettos, evening shoes, and even sneakers.