The Knockoff Page 5

  Their fridge in those days was filled with beauty products and the kitchen shelves were laden with vintage sweaters. Rails and rails of clothing racks on wheels lined the walls. It was little more than a one-bedroom closet with small nooks carved out for sleeping.

  Had it not been for that apartment and that sense of ambition that can only be born out of struggle, she wouldn’t be who she was today.

  Before Imogen could write the new breed of Glossy girls off as flighty nitwits, they revealed their own elaborate business plans, each one more violently ambitious than the next. In her spare time one created a website that allowed women all over the world to shop from one another’s closets, borrowing items for short or long amounts of time, based on a barter system. Another was determined to build a social network that expressly focused on shoe-shopping. They didn’t speak about positions like editor in chief or even CEO. They spoke in terms of equity, customer acquisition and fund-raising rounds. They spoke about billions of dollars.

  “Success to me is doing something you’re passionate about. It’s kind of my goal one day to have my own company, to be part of something that is going to do something meaningful and make the world a better place. That’s why I’m in tech,” Mandi said.

  Was tech the industry they worked in now? They seemed so innocent. They still lived at home and yet they juggled all these projects at once. They were hardworking. She felt a certain energy, but couldn’t explain what it was. Imogen had no idea how her magazine could exist only online. She could tell that these girls couldn’t imagine a future in which it existed anywhere but.

  By the end of the night, three glasses of wine nipping the neurons in her brain, Imogen felt threatened again. The way the girls lived might be childish, but their ideas were adult. They were personally stunted but brilliant with business acumen. Their technological prowess and self-awareness were intimidating. One thing she was learning about this generation was how secure they were in the knowledge that they were all very special snowflakes.

  She was almost relieved when an email from Eve gave her a reason to make her excuses and leave.

  From: Eve Morton (EMorton@Glossy.com)

  To: Imogen Tate (ITate@Glossy.com)

  Im,

  You’re probably SO overwhelmed. Breakfast tomorrow morning, 8:00? We’ll talk about everything. You don’t hate me or anything now? I sure hope not. LOL. I need you on board for this. The new site is going to be SO AWESOME. WE ARE GOING TO DISRUPT THE FASHION INDUSTRY!!!!!!

  xo

  E.

  With that Imogen ordered a glass of water instead of another wine and politely said her good-byes.

  From: Imogen Tate (ITate@Glossy.com)

  To: Eve Morton (EMorton@Glossy.com)

  E.

  8:30. The Four Seasons. See you there.

  Best,

  Imogen

  Perry piped up as Imogen drew a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of her wallet.

  “I am going to get the bill with my Amex so I can get the points. Does everyone want to just Venmo me?”

  Imogen handed over the bill. “Do I want to what? I have cash. I’ll give you a hundred.”

  “It would be so much easier if you could Venmo me,” Perry insisted. Not for the first time that day, Imogen didn’t understand the verb coming out of someone’s mouth. She worried for a moment that she was acquiring a rare neurological disease, the kind that made you forget the meanings of simple things you had known for years.

  “It’s an app,” Perry said. “Venmo. It transfers the money right from your bank account to my bank account.”

  “But I could also just give you money,” Imogen said plainly. Perry looked at the hundred-dollar bill like it had a disease.

  “I hate carrying cash. This is soooooo much easier.”

  “It really does seem easier if I just hand you actual money,” Imogen said, too tired to argue with the girl, practically forcing the hundred-dollar bill into her hand.

  Ashley grabbed the hundred from Imogen and gave Perry a look. “I’ll Venmo from my account. It can be glitchy sometimes. Share a cab with me?”

  They were finally able to hail a taxi after walking a block over to Madison Avenue. “Do you mind just dropping me on the east side?” Ashley smiled generously before she began furiously moving her thumbs on the keyboard of her iPhone. Imogen nodded and turned her eyes to her own device as the cabbie clicked the meter on. Alex relieved Tilly, the nanny, an hour ago and was waiting in bed for her; his emails had a tinge of attitude about her not being home when he had obviously made an effort to see her before going to sleep.

  Imogen felt uncomfortable sitting in silence. “What are you working on?” she asked Ashley.

  She was startled by the small talk. “Oh, I’m not working now. I’ll work more when I get home, of course. I was just doing Seamless to make sure my Thai food arrives right when I walk in the door.” Imogen nodded.

  Perhaps it was the wine that made Imogen more curious about the persistent typing.

  “Are you still ordering food?”

  Ashley laughed. “No. Now I am ordering men. I’m on my Fixd.”

  “Your what?”

  “Fixd. It takes your Facebook and Twitter and Instagram friends and then matches you up with the hottest ones based on location and key words in your captions, tweets and profiles to find men you would be compatible with who are within a one-mile radius.

  “I mean, I’m not looking for one right now.” Ashley blushed. “I’m not that kind of Fixd person. I don’t order men to my door. I’m just kind of looking for someone to maybe hang out with this weekend.”

  “Well, that seems convenient” was all Imogen could think to say. Ashley shrugged as the cab pulled to a stop to let her out. “You go on a lot of dates…but you know it really weighs on the soul when you have to, like, break up with one or two guys via text every week.” They awkwardly exchanged a fashionable kiss on each cheek as Ashley got out of the taxi to the promise of pad Thai and perhaps a weekend date.

  Imogen was no stranger to late nights. Her and Alex’s busy professional lives demanded they attend a certain number of social events a week, from cocktail parties to benefits to impromptu dinners with investors and advertisers on her end and attorneys and politicians on Alex’s. But somehow this evening exhausted her. The girls from the office had this limitless energy, fueled no doubt partly by the slim blue tablets of Adderall many of them had on hand.

  Her stomach tightened and from Forty-Second Street to Fourteenth she allowed herself twenty-eight blocks of self-pity. What the hell was she doing? As if he knew she was burrowing into a den of despair, the only person she wanted to talk to at that very moment rang her cell phone.

  “Ciao, bella.”

  “Ciao, bello.”

  Four years ago, Massimo Frazzano, then a fashion editor at Moda magazine and one of Imogen’s former interns, had just finished a half-marathon in Montauk. Doctors would later say that he might have been slightly disoriented and dehydrated from the race because instead of diving into the deep end of his pool, he plunged headfirst into the shallow end, clipping his chin on the bottom and shattering his C4 vertebrae. He was floating facedown when his partner, Scott, found him less than a minute later. They managed to revive him on the scene and helicoptered him to Manhattan, but after eighteen hours of surgery the doctors told the assembled crowd, including Imogen, then massively pregnant with Johnny, that Massimo would never walk again. They warned that he might not even regain use of his arms. Massimo didn’t speak to anyone for days. Scott worried he would do something drastic to harm himself. Four days later Massimo invited everyone back to his hospital room.

  He was propped up in bed, a bandage around the top of his skull, his head completely shaven. Imogen bit her bottom lip so that the pain would keep her from crying.

  “I’ll walk again,” Massimo said smoothly, without any doubt in his voice. “I’ll walk again.” That was that. From that day on Imogen n
ever felt sad for him when they were together. He wouldn’t allow it. He was just too much fun. She left their frequent dinner and shopping dates feeling renewed and inspired. His nervous system was impaired in a way that made it difficult for him to sweat. With Scott’s help, he developed a line of organic salves to soothe and moisturize his damaged skin. It turned out there was a market for exactly that. His products soon graced the shelves of Barneys and Fred Segal. Massimo was still in a wheelchair, but through grit, determination and reconstructive nerve surgery he regained the use of his arms and wrists. Last year he began feeling sensation in his stomach and his lower back. The day Imogen went in for her own surgery he told her he was starting to feel the difference between hot and cold in his upper legs.

  Massimo was right beside Alex in that drab cancer ward when she opened her eyes after her own procedure. He was the one who taped a photograph of her dancing on the beach with the kids to the hard plastic footboard of the bed. It kept falling off no matter how many pieces of Scotch tape she stuck to its back. He didn’t allow her even a minute to feel sorry for herself.

  “Alex, let me have a peek beneath the sheets. This set of boobs is definitely an upgrade,” he said with his typical humor, reaching for her bandages with a well-manicured hand. Selfishly, Imogen often thought of him as a gift. Massimo was the reason she could never let her own fears for her health allow her to wallow too long in the shallow pool of self-pity.

  Riding in the cab, she recounted her first day back to her friend. He grew silent for a beat.

  “You know what I love about you as an editor, Im?”

  “How my legs look in Manolos?”

  “That too. I love that you’re always willing to step outside the box. You’ve never shied away from a challenge. Now might be the time that you decide to take on something new. Something really hard and really different that could totally change your life.”

  He always said the right thing, the thing that coming from anyone else would read like a saying from a stale fortune cookie, but from him worked wonders on a wounded soul.

  “When will I see you, my dear? First day of Fashion Week?” he asked her.

  Massimo had stayed on as a contributing editor to Moda after his accident and would often joke that the wheelchair was the best thing that had ever happened to him because it got him front-row.

  “You will, darling. I simply can’t wait to get back to something I know! Do you need me for anything? Will Priscilla be with you?” Massimo loved beautiful women, as evidenced by Priscilla, his assistant and nurse, who was a dead ringer for a young Naomi Watts with the shiniest hair Imogen had ever seen.

  “She will. We need to find her a good man, or a good woman, whichever she prefers. She needs something more than pushing an invalid around town all day.” They bantered for one more minute, until the taxi pulled in front of Imogen’s redbrick town house. Only after she hung up the phone did Imogen realize she’d forgotten to ask Massimo what happened to Molly. She tipped the driver well for putting up with her chatter in the backseat.

  Alex obviously had made a valiant effort to stay awake, but he was slack-jawed and gently snoring while sitting up in bed, his wire-frame glasses still covering closed lids and long lashes. Imogen kissed both of the children good night before gently urging Alex’s body into a prone position without waking him and wrapping her arms around his taut middle. His middle relaxed into hers. She relished the feel of the soft flannel pajama bottoms he had worn for the past ten years. His skin peeked through at the backs of the thighs where the material had worn thin. Alex hated throwing anything away and Imogen would at some point need to secretly plot how to replace these with an identical pair of pajama pants. He stirred when she buried her head between his shoulder blades.

  “I adore the fact that my wife still comes home smelling like tequila after twelve devoted years of marriage to me,” he mumbled, rolling to face her and pulling her hand up to his lips. “Have you had a day?” he mumbled through her fingers. Ever since the surgery Alex had stopped asking her “How was your day?”

  “I’m so tired, Al,” she whispered, with the weight of the next twenty-four hours already crushing her.

  “I know, baby. I know. I want to tell you that it will get better tomorrow, but I don’t want to lie to you.”

  “No, really, lie. Please, do lie.”

  He smiled and she took off his glasses. She kissed him before rolling over and letting him hold her. Sleep took time, but finally came.

  —

  Ashley Arnsdale kept tapping away on her phone as she walked through the lobby of 740 Park Avenue, the very same building her parents brought her home to twenty-four years earlier, two days after she had been born. She stopped briefly at the front desk, where JP, the night doorman, handed her a brown paper delivery bag of gluten-free pad Thai from Golden Lotus on Eighty-Fourth Street.

  In the elevator she switched applications from Fixd to AngelRaise, the hot new angel investing app.

  All the other girls from work had been so candid about their side projects with Imogen over drinks. It had been a little ridiculous. Ashley didn’t want her new boss to think she was distracted all day by some other passion project. She wasn’t distracted all day. She was maybe sometimes distracted a little, but she stayed focused on Glossy when she was at Glossy. She really loved the job. And she enjoyed working for Imogen Tate. That woman was something else. Eve…she had thoughts about Eve. Blergh.

  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 doo
r, 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.