The Knockoff (5 page)

All the lights were out when the doors opened onto the floor of their apartment. Constance and Arnold, her parents, were down in West Palm Beach for the week. Living with your parents wasn’t so bad when your parents were never around.

“Yeeeeeep!” Ashley exclaimed to absolutely no one, as she scrolled down through AngelRaise. She’d gotten another $10,000 investment for SomethingOld.com. She shimmied through the apartment, turning on all the lights. She hated being in the dark. Ten thousand dollars would help a lot with the development costs to build the app and website for her side project. SomethingOld was a monthly subscription service, kind of like Netflix, but for clothes—vintage clothes.

Ever since she was allowed to take the 6 train down to the East Village on her own, Ashley had loved nothing more than scouring vintage clothing stores for unique pieces. Her collection spanned more than her two closets in the apartment. By now she had six mini storage units of amazing stuff. But it wasn’t for her. SomethingOld would find out a person’s taste and their size. It would know a lot about the pieces they already owned in their wardrobe and then, along
with Ashley’s curatorial eye, it would send subscribers a vintage item every four weeks. It was like having a personal shopper send you a gift every month, except it would be a gift of something crazy and cool from a completely different time.

As she put the leftover half of the pad Thai in the fridge to take to work the next day, Ashley wondered what Imogen would think of SomethingOld.

She stripped off layers of clothes to just boy shorts and a tank top before padding out onto the small terrace behind her bedroom, where she kept her little urban garden. The slight chill in the air felt good after being in the sweaty bar for so long. She’d felt a little silly when Imogen asked about her living arrangements, but come on. This made sense. Her parents had this big old apartment. She liked space. She liked having this little garden. Didn’t Imogen’s daughter like cooking? Ashley plucked a handful of perky mint leaves to take to the office in the morning.

Imogen and her husband had long ago fallen into a routine. Alex took off at six thirty to hit the boxing gym most days and a couple mornings a week Imogen’s Pilates instructor would come to the house to work out with her. She’d planned to do a light workout today, but Evangeline had canceled at the last minute, citing menstrual cramps. It could be time for a new trainer.

Finding herself alone, Imogen indulged in one of her new dangerous habits. She stood completely naked in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, wiping the condensation away from the glass reflecting her torso. Her middle was softer than she would have liked, but still on the thin side. Skinny fat was what her mother would have called it. She stared at her new tits. She’d never called them that before the surgery, preferring the word “breasts,” or even “boobs” with a slight giggle, but now “tits” felt right since these lumps of flesh on her body weren’t hers. They were rounder and definitely harder to the touch. She traced the symmetrical vertical scars from the nipples to the base. Something about this daily confrontation balanced her, as long as she didn’t let it carry on too long. As
usual, she allowed herself only three minutes staring at her body in the bathroom mirror before dressing and starting her day.

An hour later, Imogen strolled quietly through the Four Seasons, enjoying the swish of her beautiful black knee-length crepe Chanel dress and the
click-clack
of her suicidally high black leather Manolo Blahnik pumps.

“I am open-minded and nonjudgmental,” she repeated to herself like a mantra before mentally noting Eve’s giant dangly earrings and fire-engine-red nails when she spotted her across the lobby. Eve simply had no style. What was that thing Ralph told her once over dinner after the Paris shows? “Style is very personal. It has nothing to do with fashion. Fashion is quick. Style is forever.”

Eve’s choice of a powder-blue bandage dress showed much too much skin for so early in the day, and Imogen noted the goose pimples dotting the girl’s broad shoulders.

Despite the grand lobby there was something intimate and inviting about the Four Seasons. The staff always remembered Imogen’s name, and without her having to ask, Frederick, the maître d’, brought over an extra-hot skim cappuccino. She had once used him as an extra in a
Glossy
photo shoot and he relished the small bit of fame. Frederick made a small bow to her, revealing a perfect bald circle at the crown of his head. He knew how to make anyone feel like the most important person in a room filled with politicians, software tycoons and big-name designers.

“The queen has returned.” He smiled. Imogen enjoyed the flash of intimidation that briefly crossed Eve’s features. The girl visibly bristled and immediately launched into work chatter, avoiding the kinds of niceties that people with actual experience in business make sure to go through before getting to the point of any professional meeting.

Eve gesticulated wildly to emphasize her points, violently flinging an arm and knocking a cup of milk from the table. The growing pool of ivory liquid nearly spilled onto Imogen’s lap before Frederick deftly swept in with a tea napkin. Eve paused for a moment and stared at Imogen’s bare wrist. “Where’s your bracelet?”

“What bracelet, Eve?”

“Your Glossy.com bracelet. I left one for you on your desk.” Imogen
cringed, remembering the slick black rubber band she’d tossed in the waste bin. “That was sweet of you, Eve, but it isn’t really my style.”

Eve grew apoplectic. “We all wear the bracelet, Imogen. We’re a team.”

“I don’t think that bracelet goes with Chanel, Eve.” (“It’s black. It goes with everything. And it isn’t just a bracelet. It’s a FitBoom! It measures all your steps, calories and metabolic rate.” Tugging at her own black bracelet, allowing it to snap sharply against her skin to punctuate her annoyance, Eve came in.)

It took only ten minutes for her former assistant to arrive at the pièce de résistance, the reason they were meeting for an expensive breakfast instead of gnawing on hemp-seed granola while staring at computer screens with the other worker bees back in the office.

“I can’t get the designers on board without you,” Eve admitted sheepishly. “God. You would think they hated the Internet. They hear ‘app’ and want nothing to do with us. You know these people. You know who we need to work with and you know what to say to get them on board.”

It was true that Imogen had the respect and the ear of practically every fashion designer from Manhattan to Milan. Editors in chief enjoyed their real rock star moment in the nineties, before being replaced by Food Network chefs and ultimately tech billionaires and personal trainers as the celebrity careers du jour. Imogen remained beloved inside and out of the industry for one simple reason: she was nice. That was her biggest selling point, and why she was still a little bit famous. Every interview about her began with a variation of the same line: “Imogen Tate seems so perfect that we wish we could hate her but she is just sooooo lovely.” Why not be nice? It wasn’t really any harder than being mean.

The universe underscored the point about just how valuable Imogen’s connections could be when one of the fashion elite, Adrienne Velasquez, breezed by the table, blowing Imogen a kiss and asking after Alex. Adrienne was the fashion director over at
Elle
magazine and she’d recently turned into a huge television star after becoming a judge on a Bravo reality show on which fledgling designers competed to create the most outrageous outfit, typically out of bits of fabric
found in trash bins. Adrienne’s co-hosts were former supermodel Gretchen Kopf and the head of the Fashion Institute of Technology, Max Marx.

Eve turned bright red.

“You actually know Adrienne Velasquez?” she yelped as Adrienne departed to join Gretchen and Max at a sun-dappled corner table.

“Of course I do,” Imogen said, uncertain why Eve was so surprised.

“I just love her. She’s my absolutely favorite fashion personality in the entire universe. Oooooo, I never miss an episode of
Project Fashion
. Never! Do you think you can call her back here?” It grew embarrassing as Eve began to do something that resembled hyperventilating. Imogen had to remind herself that the industry was different now. Adrienne was on television. She was a real celebrity. It wasn’t Eve’s fault that she didn’t understand how totally and completely unprofessional it would be to ask for Adrienne’s autograph. Adrienne was a fashion director. She had Imogen’s old job, for Chris-sakes.

Imogen gave Eve a big smile and for a moment enjoyed having the upper hand. “Let’s eat for a bit and then say hello on the way out.” The rest of breakfast was dominated by talk of Fashion Week logistics. The “action item” for next month, as Eve put it, stabbing at her egg white omelet each time she said the word “action,” was to rule online coverage for the shows in New York, Paris, London and Milan. This would be the first year Imogen wouldn’t travel for the Europe shows, as apparently Glossy.com had “no budget” for it. Imogen didn’t grow up with money, but she had quickly grown quite comfortable around it when she was given the privilege to travel the world for work. She and Bridgett always took rooms next to each other and would throw parties every single night during Fashion Week, all on someone else’s dime. It was always someone else’s money. She thought Alex would leave her six months into their relationship when he surprised her in Paris only to find a hairstylist giving her a blowout each and every morning in the privacy of her room. It was a lifestyle that was just so easy to slip into, all very fizzy when you were made to feel like a real VIP. Imogen had to work hard when she returned to prove she really
was the down-to-earth girl Alex fell in love with. Some days she even had to convince herself.

The next bombshell was that Eve wanted Imogen to throw Glossy.com a launch party at the end of Fashion Week, and Eve needed reassurance that Imogen would invite all of her fabulous friends, making no bones about the fact that she wanted unfettered access to Imogen’s contacts.

When the bill came, Eve changed the subject. “Introduce me to Gretchen now,” she demanded unceremoniously.

Adrienne was gracious as always when Imogen introduced the stuttering Eve, who immediately asked to take a selfie with the entire table. Gretchen Kopf was rising gracefully from the table to kiss Imogen on the cheek when Eve wrapped her arm around her shoulders and stretched her phone out in front of them.

“Smile!” she ordered Gretchen, Adrienne and Max. The trio was used to this drill and gave their best selfie faces before turning away from Eve and the camera to grab their things from the table.

But Eve wouldn’t be deterred. “I’ll tag you in that photo, okay? Gretchen, we want you on board for the new
Glossy
app.” Eve burst like a bubble of caviar. “And you
have
to come to our party!”

“Now may not be the best time, Eve,” Imogen tried to gently place her hand on the small of Eve’s back. Gretchen and Max glanced at each other and then at Imogen, not wanting to be rude, but also not wanting to have to awkwardly turn down a business proposition in the midst of a polite breakfast.

“Of course it is. We are launching the new site! Gretchen and Max and Adrienne are perfect. They must be involved.” Eve played the role of the recalcitrant child and Gretchen, ever the mediator, smoothed the situation perfectly. She was well practiced in the art of making a fan feel welcome and then turning her attention elsewhere to end their interaction before it became too taxing on her. She smiled and touched them before purring: “I should let you get going” in a way that made you believe she was doing you a favor by dismissing you.

“We will call you, darling,” she said in her sexy German accent.
“Let us call you.” Imogen whispered a barely audible “thank you” to Gretchen before guiding Eve like a child gently out the exit.

Midtown traffic was dense by nine a.m. as Imogen raised her hand in vain for a taxi with its light on. Eve fumbled on her iPhone to see if Uber would send a car her way. Imogen opened her mouth and then shut it.

A black car sidled up to the curb.

Eve pulled down hard on the end of her dress as she fell into the Town Car. “Aren’t you getting in?” Eve tapped her foot impatiently.

“No. I’m not,” Imogen replied sternly. Eve barely had time to gather her limbs inside the vehicle before Imogen slammed the car door a bit too firmly for her.

Ever since she’d arrived in New York the week before college, Eve Morton had wanted to be one of those people who took cabs with abandon, who didn’t constantly stare at the meter and think about how many meals the cab fare would add up to. She could count on one hand the number of cabs she took the first year she lived in the city.

Now that she actually made a living wage, better than a living wage, although not nearly anywhere near the absurd salary they were paying Imogen Tate (when did they decide that magazine editors should be paid like brain surgeons?), she enjoyed watching the meter rise and knowing she could afford it. It was something she actually missed when she took one of these sleek black Uber Town Cars and the fare was charged automatically to a credit card on file and no money ever changed hands.

Eve knew better than anyone that Imogen was not tech savvy. Part of her job as Imogen’s assistant had been to print out and then reply to all of her emails. Pretty standard assistant stuff back then. Still, she had assumed that her old boss had caught up with technology in the two years she had been away at school. The entire world had caught up by now.

Breakfast went okay, she thought.

The way Imogen handled the Adrienne Velasquez situation was just so completely uncool though. It wasn’t as if Eve couldn’t make friends with Adrienne on her own if she wanted to. Imogen was so weird about the whole thing. People like Imogen were so precious about their networking, about how and when they would bring you into their circle. Thank god her generation didn’t behave like that. Eve loved how connected she felt to all her peers. If she was friends with them on Twitter that was equal to being besties in real life. She didn’t discriminate. The old guard of fashion had so many bullshit hierarchies and unspoken rules. It was frustrating.