“People are rocking the trends, having fun,” I say, using Tasty-speak. It’s easy to talk to Rico. “It’s counterintuitive for a season with so many dark points of reference, but I think fashion this summer is playful.”
“Exactly! Brilliant, darling! Your finger is on the pulse,” Rico cries.
A very un-playful-looking girl in nosebleed-high black platform heels and a cobwebby black lace dress that covers her ass by millimeters drifts by us. Her black feathered handbag incorporates a stuffed owl. Reese Malapin.
“Except for her. She’s not so playful.”
“Do you know her?” Rico sounds concerned.
“Not really. She’s the assistant of someone I met tonight.”
“Well, stay away, sweetie. She’s certifiably clinical. That girl is known for taking the Tasty aesthetic way too far. I mean, everyone has an eating disorder, but she’s been hospitalized, which is not chic. And her Goth statement is well executed but…I’m sorry, is today Halloween? I don’t think so.”
“I think she’s pretty,” I volunteer. She wasn’t nice to me, but I remember those broken blood vessels on her fingers and the way she told me about her senior thesis at Harvard, and feel sorry for her.
“Oh, Lord save me from pretty,” Rico wails. “Anyone can be pretty, but only Kate can choose a tattered frock, pair it with what look like scuba shoes, and wind up looking like a breath of fresh air.”
I’ve never thought of myself as stylish. I blush.
James reappears with a glass of champagne in each hand and gives them both to Rico. For a second, his questioning hazel eyes search my flaming face and my blush deepens. He quickly looks away.
“There’s no more where that came from,” he says.
“I’m going to powder my nose, if you know what I mean,” says Rico, and suddenly, James and I are alone together.
“I like Rico. He’s so funny he reminds me of a friend of mine from work—I mean from my old job. How did you meet him?” Uh-oh. I’m babbling.
“Craigslist. I landed in New York a few years ago with a thousand dollars, a couple of cartons of cigarettes, fifty-seven rolls of film, and a tropical disease. Rico was the only prospective roommate who wasn’t scared off.”
“How charming,” I say, sarcastically, though of course it is charming to imagine him loose in the world, skinny and down on his luck. I can’t look at him directly for too long without getting light-headed and having to look away. “What kind of infection?”
“Malaria.”
“Weren’t you taking drugs?”
“Not the right ones.”
“That’s crazy they didn’t give you mefloquine, chloroquine, proguanil, Daraprim…” The words are hopping out of my mouth against my volition. He didn’t bother to take anti-malarials in the first place. He doesn’t care about the names of the medications.
There’s a pause that’s uncomfortable for me. Think of something more meaningful to say, I tell myself.
“So the crazy thing is that I haven’t seen my mom since I was sixteen,” I blurt. “And she was a fashion designer, and everyone here knows her. I haven’t talked about her with anyone for years either, and all of a sudden everyone’s asking.” And now I’m bringing it up voluntarily. Have I lost my mind?
He inclines slightly toward me, eyes intense. “Why haven’t you seen her?” he asks. Maybe he is interested. And now that I’ve begun, my crazy nerves prod me onward.
“She just left home. She didn’t tell us why. It had to do with her career. Fashion consumed the nice, normal, down-to-earth woman that my mother used to be.” I hope my voice isn’t too bitter.
James seems nonjudgmental. “What’s that mean?”
“She got into designing because she liked to sew. It was a creative pursuit, not about glamour and getting your picture in the paper. When I was little she made us the mother-daughter McCall’s patterns.”
“Go on,” James says. A dark-tan girl passing by in an attractively clinging white tank top does a double take, but he doesn’t notice.
“Anyway, my mom loved to design, and she wanted to make real clothes, with appliqués and silks and expensive linings. To see her dreams realized, she needed Manhattan. This was before my aunt Victoria could help her out with connections.”
“Aunt Victoria?”
Oh, right, he doesn’t know about Victoria. “My aunt’s the one I’m living with this summer and who got me the internship. She married well and is now a prominent art dealer. But this was years ago. Eva was on her own.”
He nods. I keep on overexplaining, something I tend to do when nervous.
“She sewed the first sample dresses herself in our living room. I’d try them for size—a ten-year-old girl and the typical fashion model have about the same figure. Then we’d drive together into New York to show to editors and buyers.
“The early successes were great. My dad was thrilled for her. We celebrated at the local ice-cream parlor when the first store placed an order.” I glance at James to see if he finds this dorky, but he doesn’t react. He’s from Ohio, I remember; he should be able to handle it. “Later on Eva accused my dad of wanting to hold her back, but I don’t think he did. He didn’t care that we weren’t invited to her parties. He didn’t mind that she spent nights in the city. But she decided that there was a conflict, and if he denied it, he was being ‘passive-aggressive’ or ‘guilting’ her.”
“When did she change?” James asks me softly.
“I don’t know. It was gradual. She started showing at Fashion Week in New York. And of course then she had to go to the parties. And then she had to go to parties even when it wasn’t Fashion Week. By the time I was in my teens, it was her in trouble for coming home late smelling like cigarette smoke. Or for missing the last train and having to take an expensive yellow cab all the way to our house.”
“That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Kate. And this is inconvenient but…Lillian alert. She’s heading straight for us.”
I look over and see her, gliding in our direction like a shark fin. The crowd seems to part for her. Her ice-cold, thousand-yard stare gives no indication that she’s looking at us, personally, but she’s definitely looking in our direction. James and I simultaneously step further apart.
“She’s got to have better people than us to talk to,” I whisper.
But she doesn’t. She floats up, severe and inhumanly gorgeous.
“Miss McGraw. Mr. Truax.” Her voice is deadpan and thrilling. Again I find myself transfixed. I shiver and fold my arms over my chest.
“Hey, Lillian,” he says. “I didn’t know you were fond of the flare-legged jean.”
I’m amazed that he jokes with her.
“I’m friendly with many types of trouser, cherie,” she says silkily.
If it weren’t impossible, I’d think she was flirting with him.
Lillian’s gimlet gaze rakes over me. “I see you’ve found the party circuit,” she says. “I’m impressed.”
I’m not sure I should credit Annabel with my presence or keep her name out of it.
“Kate’s one to watch,” Lillian tells James. “I discovered her myself in Bryant Park last month and I knew she’d turn out to be one of us.”
James turns to me, as if saying, Med school, riiight.
“Lillian, I’m only a summer intern. I’m going to med school in the fall.”
“I think you might change your mind about that, dear.” She smiles. Her dainty little fangs—I can think of no other term for her super-long incisors—wink out at us.
“Well, Tasty is a very interesting place to work.” I don’t want to be impolite and contradict her. And she’s way too terrifying to argue with.
“Of course it is. Now run along, dear, and show these very original shoes you’re wearing to Kristen. You’ve met her, I assume.”
Lillian Hall noticed my shoes. I’m honored. “They’re made from recycled tires,” I tell her.
“Incredible. Go tell Kristen all about it. I need to talk to
James about a little issue we’re having with the party pages.”
And though I really don’t want to leave James with her—or leave him at all—what choice do I have?
“Good-bye, Kate,” she says.
FINDING KRISTEN, unfortunately, means finding Lexa, since the two of them are standing together. I lurk behind a woman talking to a man in a pink velveteen blazer, wondering what to do.
“Breathtaking, darling,” the woman says to him. “You are owning that color.”
“You don’t think it’s too predictable?”
“No. You’re killing it. And the bag is stunning.”
He’s carrying an oversized leather mail sack, embossed with the Prada label.
“They only made six hundred and sixty-six of them, and more than half were promised to celebrities. Wilmer wanted one but he wasn’t on the list.”
My dilemma is as follows: If I go talk to Kristen, Lexa is going to see me and be really, really pissed off. But if I don’t, I’m disobeying a direct command from Lillian. I duck around the guy with the rare Prada bag and approach the group.
Lexa’s beady eyes bore into me. She looks like she swallowed a hairball.
“Kristen?” Every time I have to address a coworker, I feel uncouth. This never used to happen at my old job.
Kristen raises her eyebrow. “Yes, Eva’s daughter?” she asks, rubbing her nose inelegantly with the back of her hand. Either she’s just snorted some coke or she wants people to think she has. Her I’m-too-cool-to-act-corporate demeanor should put me at ease, but it doesn’t.
“Lillian thought you might be interested in my shoes.”
“She what? Your shoes? I’m offended by that.”
I freeze. Offended how? Why? But then Kristen laughs. “Kidding,” she says. “Produce this fabulous footwear and I will opine.”
“The shoes I’m wearing.”
Kristen looks down, frowning. “Are they…?”
“They’re not scuba shoes. They’re leather-free, cruelty-free slip-ons made from recycled tire rubber.”
“I like it,” she says. “I think green fashion is here to stay.”
“So I’ve heard.” I’m ridiculously grateful that she likes my shoes.
“Darling, we need to talk,” Lexa interrupts, drawing me away from the group.
“I don’t have much time,” she says. “Have you seen if Patrick McMullen is here yet? I have to be uptown at the Conflict-Free Diamonds dinner in twenty minutes, and then back downtown for Molecular Biology by ten.”
“I’m sorry. Who is Patrick McMullen?”
She scowls. “Only the king of New York society photography. You can’t miss him.”
“I haven’t seen him.” I try to be helpful. “But James Truax is here taking pictures for Tasty. He’s behind that modernist sculpture talking to Lillian. He can shoot you till Patrick shows up.”
Lexa processes this statement for a few seconds. “Well, he’s not A-list but he’ll do in a pinch,” she says. Then she makes an obvious effort to school her face into a concerned look. “I hope you feel we can be open with each other, Kate.”
Is this how a boss about to fire her employee would start a conversation? With Lexa, I can’t be sure. But she can’t be happy I’m at this party. And I probably shouldn’t get Annabel in trouble by admitting that she invited me.
“Please, say whatever you need to say.”
“A person’s family is a very important part of her social persona. You should have confided in me immediately about who your mother was. A blood tie to even a very minor Somebody is something to be proud of,” she says breathily. “And it doesn’t hurt me to have an intern whose mother was—and this is how I’ll put it to the tabloids—‘a cult figure who went insane and dropped out of the fashion world in the late nineties.’”
“I really wish you wouldn’t.”
Long pause. Then she says encouragingly, “And your name will be in the paper, too.” Her eyes flicker over my shoulder. “Oh. There’s Patrick.”
“Lexa,” I ask her as she walks away, “does this mean I’m reinvited to the Tasty Girl meeting tomorrow?”
“Don’t be silly, darling,” she replies. “Of course you should be there!”
I walk back to where Lillian found us and look for James, hoping to pick up where we left off. I wonder if he was truly interested in my sob story, or just being polite. In hindsight, I didn’t give him much room to talk. I spot him talking to Rico and Matilda, the designer. “Hey!” I bravely insinuate myself into their group.
“I want to know who it is,” Matilda is saying. “It’s like the Inquisition all over again.” Rico looks amused. James looks nervous.
“Why do you think we know who StakeOut is, darling?” Rico asks.
“I refuse to be interested in that drivel,” James adds.
“It’s a witch hunt,” Matilda replies bitterly. “And it’s asking for trouble.”
“I wish I could help you.” Rico shrugs, but his demeanor strikes me as a bit too blasé. He knows more than he’s saying.
James says, “Excuse me,” and stalks off. I’m wounded. Doesn’t he want to continue our conversation? I thought we were connecting. At least I was connecting.
“We’ve got to go!” Annabel suddenly appears beside me and grabs my arm. She’s followed by Kristen Drane, Noë, and Reese, who is smiling mysteriously. “This party is about to become a major buzz kill,” Kristen adds.
“Okay,” I say. “Where are we going?”
Kristen makes eye contact with Matilda. “Two girls were just found murdered and stuffed into a catering van outside.”
She says it so casually I think she must be joking, but Rico’s stories about the fashion murders clue me in that this is not the case.
Matilda looks shocked but not too upset. “Somebody’s getting greedy,” she says, her mouth sour. “I’d like to know who it is.”
“Me too,” Kristen replies. “I’d like to have a little talk with them.”
“I think that we would all like that,” Noë interjects.
All I can think is, Two people were murdered? My hands start to shake.
Rico, for once, is silent, pressing a hand to his chest, looking stricken.
“We want to get out of here before the police come,” Annabel says. They turn to go. My feet won’t move. My chest feels buzzy with fear and adrenaline. Annabel pulls me toward the exit. “Come on! They’ll shut off the music and close the bar and take statements until we’ve missed the rest of the night’s parties.”
“Been there, done that,” I joke weakly, but she doesn’t smile.
“Annabel, how can you think about going to another party right now?” I say. I look around for Rico, whom I consider a friend and someone I’d want nearby in a time of crisis, even if it is possible he’s the StakeOut blogger. But we’ve lost him in the crowd. “Wait. I need to find someone.”
“Come on, there’s no time!” Annabel tugs. “We’re going to lose Kristen and those guys.”
The police—dozens of them—are just pouring into Gramercy Park as our glamour-clique hits the sidewalk. We hurry past the catering van, which is surrounded by black-clad spectators, the funeral-look for once grimly appropriate. Through the open doors I see a spill of strawberry-blond hair, a ruffled blouse, and a foot in a sparkly Repetto ballet flat streaked with vivid scarlet blood.
I’m trembling. There are tears in my eyes. I feel as if my body is going to break down. Those are the same girls I saw air-kissing and complimenting each other’s outfits earlier. And now they’re dead.
Kristen notices my distress and snorts in either sympathy or exasperation, I’m not sure which. “Do you want some Xanax?”
“No. I think it’s natural that I’m upset right now.” The fact that the rest of them aren’t is surreal.
Kristen shrugs, pops a pill, swallows it dry, and then lights up a cigarette. “Two great tastes that go great together,” she says.
“Where are we going next?” Noë asks. She’s t
aken a compact out and is touching up the gloss on her puffy, possibly collagen-injected lips.
I can’t believe that they want to go to another party. I want to go home. But I also don’t want to be alone. A brief discussion has us hailing cabs on Park Avenue South. I hang back. On some level I’m aware that this is my chance to hang out with senior editors, but really, people have died. Reese Malapin tucks her arm into mine.
“What are you thinking about?” The girl has a truly morbid curiosity. I wonder if she’ll change her personality when fashion decrees that sweetness and light are back in.
“The girls who just died,” I tell her. “Aren’t you?”
“I didn’t know them.”
“I didn’t, either! But a serial killer is out there stalking people in our industry.”
“Fashion has always been a target,” Reese says. “We’re blamed for all of society’s ills. Every disenfranchised guy in the world, when he goes off his meds, wants to kill a model. Or sometimes an actress.”
“And that means you don’t care?” My voice sounds shaky, even to me.
“Of course I care, but I’m not going to act like it,” Reese says calmly. “I wouldn’t give the murderer the satisfaction. You should look at how the senior staffers act and emulate them.”
I should? I’m still processing this piece of information when Annabel snaps her fingers in front of my face (a lovely habit she’s picked up from Lexa). “This is our cab,” she says. “And look”—from within her fashionably huge shoulder bag she pulls out a square of folded denim—“Cheer up. I got you a pair of jeans.”
We do a “walk-through” of the opening party for the restaurant Molecular Biology, which Lexa mentioned earlier. I knock back a drink, trying to calm my nerves, and am immediately unpleasantly tipsy. I keep seeing the splatter of blood, turning black in the girl’s spun-silk hair, and imagining various scenarios. Were the two friends killed inside the van? How did they get in there? They must have left the party willingly, with the killer. Did I see them talking to anyone else?
The way everyone from Tasty is ignoring what just happened is making me feel even sicker. I find myself trailing the hors d’oeuvres guys, trying in vain to consume enough foam balls (since when is foam food?) to settle my stomach. The room is packed, thunderously loud, and filled with clouds of chili-pepper smoke from the open kitchen. Some of the conversations I overhear are about the murders—news travels fast—but mostly I hear self-absorbed chitchat uttered by people with dazzling, plastic smiles.
Blood Is the New Black Page 8
