The Knockoff (28 page)

The tires screeched as he braked before causing a true collision, but his wheel still caught Alice square in the thigh, forcing the small woman to the ground. They say the brain slows down when terrible things happen. Imogen saw the phone’s entire arc through the air before it landed on the sidewalk, bounced twice and fell squarely in the gutter, which was filled with motor oil and rancid water. It was submerged in seconds.

“Nooooooooo,” Imogen shouted, diving for the puddle, splashing the grime all over her black cashmere turtleneck. She picked up the device and poked at it, aware that she now had a small audience staring at her as she knelt on the dirty New York City sidewalk. The screen was shattered, but she thought it might still turn on. She hit the power button. The phone whirred and lights flickered. Like an old dog, wanting nothing more than to please its master one last time, it made a valiant attempt to boot up for her. She silently willed it to work, promising to alleviate all manner of venial sins from her life if some higher power would just let this phone turn on so that Alice’s photos could be downloaded. But just as Imogen promised to stop saying “fuck” in front of the children and eating dark chocolate–covered espresso beans, the phone gave its last whimper and drowned right there in her hands.

Crying wouldn’t do any good. More than $100,000 had been lost in that puddle. Imogen couldn’t even look up at Alice, who, although shaken, appeared to be fine.

“You’re okay? Right?” Imogen asked.

The woman nodded.

“And you only used one phone for the shoot?” Imogen asked, still staring at the dark screen.

“Yeah.”

Imogen struggled to maintain a poker face as she rose and then walked straight into the trailer, where she locked the door. Leaving decorum on the sidewalk Imogen hurled herself onto the trailer’s small couch facedown and pounded her fists onto the plastic wall.

God, she was falling apart. When had she ever really done this? Fallen apart? Never…the answer was never.

When the doctors first found her lump, Imogen had ignored them for six days. For nearly a week she didn’t tell anyone, just kept going about her business. She knew the second that she admitted something was wrong everything would change forever. She had been right. Now she wanted to cry, but the moment felt too small for tears.

What the fuck had her life come to? She’d paid her bloody dues. She had steamed clothes. She had scrubbed studio floors. She had booked models and gotten permits for fifteen bloody years. Those fifteen years meant she didn’t have to do those things anymore. She’d worked her ass off so that she could happily sit at a desk and say yes and no and have lunches and make deals and never have to get down on her knees on a sidewalk and stick her hand into a disgusting puddle. She couldn’t do it anymore. She didn’t want to do this anymore. Eve had won. She had broken her. This is what it had taken, a photo shoot quite literally gone down to shit. Something like this had happened to her only once before, ten years ago. She had been doing a shoot on the Staten Island Ferry with Pamela Hansen. They had the boat for two hours and had to pay the city an exorbitant fee just for that. Ten years wasn’t so long ago, but still the professionals then preferred film. They shot at a breakneck pace, congratulating themselves on a job well done by popping a bottle of Dom Pérignon once they reached land at the Whitehall Terminal. Only after they were all slightly tipsy did they realize the camera had not been loaded with film. Thankfully, they had the money to shoot again the next day. Now that wasn’t an option.

Imogen didn’t hear the knocking at the door, didn’t realize Ashley was on the floor next to her until she touched her shoulder. She flinched at the touch.

“Is anyone else in here with you?” Imogen whispered.

“No. The door is locked.”

“How’d you get in?”

“I had the other trailer key.”

“Did anyone else see me?”

“No. I was careful.”

Imogen still didn’t want to look up.

When she finally spoke again, Ashley’s voice was calm and authoritative in a way that Imogen hadn’t heard it before.

“I think I can fix this,” she said.

“Did you get the phone to turn on?”

Imogen turned to the side and propped herself up on an elbow, not entirely ready to pull herself all the way into a sitting position just yet. “Alice’s phone is completely donesky. But there’s another phone,” Ashley said.

Imogen was ready to lie back down. “No, there isn’t. Alice only shot with one phone. She just told me.”

“Yeah, Alice did. But did you meet Alice’s assistant Mack?”

Imogen vaguely remembered a fabulous young gay dressed all in black from his leggings to his eyeliner, trailing behind Alice with an armful of lighting equipment. He was tall and lean and looked like he needed to be coaxed into fresh clothes each morning.

“I didn’t meet him,” Imogen said.

“He’s great. We talked a little when he helped me finish steaming. Anyway, he was behind Alice the whole time she was shooting. He had his own phone. I think he was taking his own pictures.”

That made Imogen sit up.

“We have backup photos?”

“We might have backup photos.”

Mack was a reluctant hero who knew better than to outshine his boss and mentor. God bless industries that had a very clear pecking order. Ashley managed to pry the phone from his hands.

Imogen could tell it was good from Ashley’s face as she swiped
through the photographs. She walked over to look over her assistant’s shoulder.

They weren’t Alice Hobbs photographs, but they were damn close. Mack hadn’t just shot behind Alice. He had worked the room, finding angles that even Alice hadn’t thought of. At one point he climbed up above the models, shooting them being shot in a moment that was so meta Imogen fell completely in love with it.

To her credit, Alice behaved as though Mack’s pictures were a gift from heaven. She wasn’t so easily ruffled, but Imogen could tell her ego was suffering a small blow.

“He is very talented,” she said to Imogen. “He’s been with me three years. I got him right out of Pratt. I bet I lose him now.” Imogen took a look at Mack, still sitting in the corner waiting for his instructions.

“You haven’t lost him yet, but you should sure as hell promote him.”

Imogen walked over to him and wrapped him in a huge hug.

“Mack, you saved the day.” The young man showed the start of a smile in a lopsided and handsome way, only the left corner of his mouth rising toward his cheekbone.

“You like them?”

“Like them? I love them. I would have loved them even if we hadn’t lost Alice’s photographs. You, my dear, are a true artistic talent. You’re one to watch!”

His grin reached from Madison to Fifth Avenue.

Ashley came up from behind and threw her arms around the two of them.

“Do we need to go back to the office?”

“We do.”

“Mack, we will be in touch with you and Alice.”

“Of course, ma’am,” Mack said, straightening his curved shoulders a little. “Thanks, ma’am”—Imogen still flinched a little at the word “ma’am.”

“Ashley, why don’t you Uber us a car,” Imogen said. “Actually, no. I think I can do it myself. I can Uber.”

S
now days in New York can be magical or hell on Earth. Every time a storm hits, the city is surprised anew and, without fail, more than two inches of accumulation stymies city services, delays schools and halts traffic in its tracks.

Winter Storm Zeus was all anyone could talk about as Ashley and Imogen were leaving the office later that night. Would the mayor call off school the night before or would they have to wait until the morning? Predictions varied depending on the meteorologist. The Weather Channel promised Manhattan would be buried beneath a foot of snow, whereas CNN reported a mere light dusting, nothing really to worry about.

Sixteen inches of powder blanketed the city by six thirty a.m. and it showed no signs of stopping. Parked cars perched like igloos on the sides of the street with nowhere to go. When Imogen opened her eyes, Johnny was already sitting cross-legged on the foot of her bed.

“No school?” he said, his blond curls spilling over onto his thick eyelashes.

“What’s it look like outside, little man?” Imogen said, pulling him into her body.

“Gimme your phone,” the little boy demanded. Imogen grasped toward the nightstand to retrieve it. He padded over to the window
and expertly opened up the camera to take a picture, then padded back to climb up closer to her head. Alex let out a grand snore into his pillow next to them.

“See, no school,” Johnny said pointing at the piles of white coating their street.

Imogen nodded in agreement. “Yes, no school. Probably no work either.” She checked her email. Nothing new. No word on whether the offices would be closed, but last time a snowstorm like this had hit, three years ago, Robert Mannering Corp. closed their entire office for three days. At the end of the day, it was up to her. She didn’t want employees out in this kind of mess, rushing to get in, possibly driving in hazardous conditions or getting stuck in a crippled public transit system. They worked online now. Wasn’t the beauty of the Internet supposed to be that anyone could work from anywhere? After she and Ashley returned to the office the night before they had gone through all of Mack’s pictures and agreed they would make an amazing feature, but it wasn’t set to run for a few weeks. They had time.

Imogen sat up in bed and straightened her back against the headboard, pulling Johnny into her lap.

From: Imogen Tate ([email protected])

To: [email protected]

Subject: Snow Day

The gods have decided to grant us a snow day. Work from home today. Obviously check in with your direct supervisors ASAP and make sure that you are meeting all of your regular deadlines, but right now it’s safer for everyone to stay put.

Keep warm and dry.

xx

Imogen

Alex let out a groan when she nudged him. Johnny ruffled his father’s hair.

“Daaaaaaaady, is time to wake up!” their son’s voice boomed.

Imogen leaned in to brush her lips against Alex’s scratchy cheek. “You might want to check in to see if the courts are going to be open today.” Her husband moaned a little again and then rolled right on top of Johnny, unleashing a torrent of tickles that made the little boy wail with laughter. He expertly and modestly wrapped the sheet around his middle like a toga as he strode over to the window.

“Nothing in this city is going to be open today,” Alex remarked.

Johnny leaped up and down.

“We should make pancakes.” His tiny cheeks flushed with excitement. “We should definitely make some chocolate chip pancakes!!!”

“Beignets,” Imogen said, feeling inspired and having a sudden, mouthwatering urge for the comforting, powdered sugar–coated New Orleans–style doughnut. “I’ll make us some beignets.” Her husband glanced at her with a healthy dose of skepticism, but smartly kept his mouth shut.

There was no way Tilly could make it downtown from her apartment on the Upper West Side. The snow continued to blow in drifts down Jane Street and up against the front door. Imogen could see some resolute neighbors, the ones with the kinds of jobs where a snow day would never be an option, bundled against the ice and the wind, fighting for each footstep as they slogged to reach the subway. No plows had reached the West Village and not even the most dogged taxi would make it down the road.

A few emails trickled in over the next six hours, but nothing earth-shattering. It seemed that everyone had taken her advice to have a lazy day. The content producers could obviously still post from home. It was nice to be able to give the girls a break.

Leaving Alex to do his own work remotely for a few hours, Imogen walked the kids over to Washington Square Park, where a giant snowball fight was in progress. At the far end of the park some older kids had built some of the biggest snowmen that Imogen had ever seen. Still, the snow was coming down so hard, both of her children lasted only thirty minutes outside before they begged to go back into their warm house for hot chocolate.

For a moment, walking home, with one child’s hand in each of hers, Imogen was lost in the contentment of it all, dreaming about her
life as a stay-at-home mom. She quickly dismissed the notion. This was nothing like what her life would be like. If she didn’t work, both of her kids would be in school all day and she would be bored silly.

Snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, giving everything a fine layer of shimmery sequins. A deliveryman passed them on foot, his head hung low, his weatherproof poncho flapping in the wind as he dangled six bags, three in each hand, like the scales of justice. His gait was at least twice as fast as theirs, determined to reach his destination while the food was still warm. It reminded Imogen that some people didn’t have a choice about going to work and that it was a blessing to be able to work from home when it was like this outside.

As the kids changed, Imogen signed into the TECHBITCH page.

My boss has an MBA, but no real work experience. Sometimes I think he was actually created in a lab…like a cyborg.

The other day we got $50 million in funding and the next morning pictures turned up on the Internet of our CEO rolling around naked in the money. I can barely pay my rent.

Does anyone post things about their jobs on Glassdoor.com?

I LOVE Glassdoor almost as much as I love this site!!!!!

What is Glassdoor.com?
Imogen clicked the link. It looked like a place where companies could post help wanted ads for jobs. As she poked around she saw that employees could also post reviews of the places that they worked. She entered
Glossy
into the search box. Nothing appeared. Then she entered Glossy.com. The rating system was based on stars. Out of five stars Glossy.com received an average of two, with twenty-five reviews. The first one Imogen read gave it only one star. The headline was:
When Mean Girls Grow Up, They Work Here
.

Pros
—Lovely location in midtown Manhattan in the very fancy Robert Mannering Corp. office tower

Healthy snacks provided (also some not-so-healthy snacks
)

Cons
—Crazy hours

Very cliquey, like high school

Does not act like a publishing company

Editorial director frowns if you eat the “unhealthy” snacks and makes you go to Spirit Cycle with her. Someone was fired for not going to Spirit Cycle with her. I mean SERIOUSLY!????? Who wants to go to Spirit Cycle with their boss?

It’s hard to get work done when the girl next to you is crying all the time
.

Horrible office morale
.

Advice to Senior Management—Management needs to learn to treat people like human beings. We aren’t your worker drones. Maybe don’t go on a juice cleanse if it makes you so mean you fire people
.

No, I would not recommend this company to a friend—I’m not optimistic about the outlook for this company
.

And another one:
A Lady Techie’s Worst NIGHTMARE

Pros
—As if!

Wait, sorry. There are good places to eat lunch by the office
.

Cons
—There’s absolutely no innovation in the technology here. It’s all about mimicking website designs and functionality from other websites
.

The tech team is looking to jump ship. Someone in management (why hide it on here, the Editorial Director) actually told me I could benefit from a juice cleanse, then she started calling me the Tubby Techie…to my face
.

The same Editorial Director is always asking the product team (ME) for people’s passwords so she can fuck with their email, their accounts, their documents and their social media. SHE LIKES TO PLAY GOD! She is terrifying. When I said no, she said she would fire me. I think she got someone else to do it
.

Advice to Senior Management—STOP SENDING US SEXY SELFIES OF YOURSELF. YOU KNOW WHO YOUR ARE. Also, it’s
bad for the company when you’re in the press for all the wrong reasons. Keep your personal life personal—not in the public spotlight—although you pretend you don’t like it…it’s obvious you do
.

One more:
THE JOB from HELLLLL!!!!!

Pros
—Maybe I’ll get hired by Vogue after this? Working with Imogen Tate is wonderful
.

Cons
—My boss is making her staff be in her wedding because she has no friends. It is so awkward. Too bad Imogen Tate won’t be working there much longer
.

Advice to Senior Management—Please just let us do our jobs. PLEASE!!!! Can someone help me get a contact at
Vogue?

The other reviews were more of the same. One mentioned Eve specifically, calling her the Cruella de Vil of e-Commerce. “We are all her puppies, expected to sit, stay and shit at her bidding.”

Imogen wouldn’t be there much longer? What the hell
. What did that disgruntled employee know? Who was that disgruntled employee anyway? For a second Imogen wondered if it could possibly be Ashley.

Her iPhone began vibrating on the tabletop with a blocked number.

“What the hell, Imogen?” spat a livid woman’s voice on the other end of the line.

“I’m sorry. To whom am I speaking?”

“It’s Alice.”
Why was Alice Hobbs screaming at me?

“Alice, darling. Wonderful to hear from you. What on Earth is wrong?”

“I know we lost the photographs I took on my phone for you yesterday and I am delighted that my assistant saved the day, but putting his pictures on the website for the shoot without crediting me when I spent weeks with you planning the concept, directing the shoot and setting up the majority of the photos that you used is just shitty. It’s really shitty. Beyond getting the credit…I wasn’t even given a
heads-up that anything would go online today. I assumed I would have some say in the photo selection process and the retouching and postproduction. What kind of an operation are you running over there?”

Imogen scrambled for some device that would get her on the Internet. She tried pantomiming that she needed a laptop to Alex and the kids over on the couch, but they raised their hands in confusion and then just waved at her. Finally she spotted an iPad lying on the floor and grabbed it. Out of juice.

“Alice, darling. Please hold on just one second.”

Imogen ran downstairs to grab the laptop, which took its sweet time whirring to life.

Imogen could hear Alice release a long sigh from the other end of the phone. “I thought that we had a certain level of both trust and professional courtesy. I’ve never, in all of my work with magazines, with websites, with commercial brands, been blindsided like this.”
Why was it taking the website so long to load?

“Imogen, are you there?”

“I’m right here, Alice.”