The Knockoff (15 page)

She kissed her daughter good-bye and walked slowly down the stairs, drinking in the room. Her flower arrangements looked pretty and fresh in mason jars.

The front door was open and Ashley was greeting guests on the front stoop. Early evening sunlight streamed in to dapple the attractive crowd, most of them dressed head to toe in black or white, with splashes of vibrant color on a shoe here or jewelry there.

Imogen was lightly brushing her lips across Ashley’s cheek to say hello when she heard Eve’s voice pipe up behind her, forcing the hairs on her neck to stand at attention. They would have saluted Eve if they’d been able.

“I thought I told you not to spend money on flowers,” Eve barked. Ashley, appearing uncomfortable for Imogen, turned her attention back to checking guests off on her miniature iPad.

“I didn’t. We got them free.” Bald-faced lies were unfortunately the best policy with Eve, who considered the free flowers with a new eye.

“Oh. Well then, they’re nice. I like them. When is everyone getting here?” Eve said, as though the already crowded room were completely empty.

The clatter of glassware and idle chatter from clusters of well-dressed guests already filled the intimate space. Trays of hors d’oeuvres were passed: thinly shaved tomatoes topping a dime-sized dollop of milky burrata on Parmesan squares, unnervingly large shrimp next to a silver bowl of cocktail sauce and salmon carpaccio with shaved truffles in bowls just twice the depth of a thimble.

Out of the corner of her eye, Imogen could see Donna Karan, wearing a wonderful black jumpsuit paired with an orange cashmere throw, engaged in a heated discussion with an Oscar-winning actor and his model wife. At the other end of the room Adrienne Velasquez of
Project Fashion
chatted up an attractive bartender with a slight Mohawk. The model Cara Delevingne held hands with her latest girlfriend
in a hushed chat in the corner. Salman Rushdie raised his hand halfway into the air in a finger-wiggling wave to Lily Aldridge and Stacey Bendet of Alice & Olivia. Imogen watched as the actor Alan Cumming, fresh off a new stint on Broadway and wearing a cropped tweed suit in a way few men could—or should, for that matter—crept up behind Alexandra Richards to give her a wet kiss on the cheek. Anjelica Huston and her handsome nephew Jack chatted in a corner.

Bridgett bounced across the room, a ball of excitement, her long legs ensconced in silk harem pants that flapped like wide Technicolor wings.

“I just came up with an idea for my very own app.” She lowered her already sultry voice conspiratorially as she spoke to Imogen.

“Tell me all about it, darling. I am sure it’s brilliant.” Imogen reached over to pluck a small piece of lint off of Bridgett’s black cashmere shell.

“Well, I want to create something that can live on their phones that will help my clients choose their outfits every morning. I want them to be able to input everything in their closet and then the app will tell them how to put it together each day to keep their look fresh.”

“Aren’t you worried it will make what you do irrelevant, darling?” Imogen asked, still convinced that most technology served to make someone somewhere irrelevant.

Bridgett thought on that for a second. “No, I actually don’t. They still need me to tell them what to wear and I think it could help me get new clients, ones who don’t have the time or the money to see me as often, who live in different parts of the country.”

Imogen considered this. It was a fair point. Bridgett putting herself on people’s phones would increase her reach from Beverly Hills to Capitol Hill.

“I love everything about it,” Imogen said. “I think you should absolutely go for it.” And Imogen knew the perfect person for Bridgett to speak with. His signature topknot sprung jovially up into the air as he walked through the door, completely at ease in this room of fashion royalty. He wore a high-waisted Thom Browne three-piece suit in burnt sienna atop a simple white button-down paired with
the same flawless loafers he had worn when Imogen first met him at DISRUPTTECH! She grabbed him by the elbow as he strolled past.

“Birdie, I want you to meet Rashid. Rashid is the founder of Blast! I think the two of you have a lot that you could talk about.” Rashid kissed her hand as Imogen left the two of them to talk apps.

Paloma Betts, a top buyer for Barneys with feathery ash-blond hair that framed her oval face, tottered over to Imogen in an intricately beaded black crepe minidress.

“Is that DJ who I think it is?” she asked. “She’s so hot right now.”

The DJ, Chelsea (she went by one name these days), a socialite turned DJ in a camouflage snowsuit, had set up at a small table in the corner underneath an oil painting of Imogen’s great-uncle Alfred.

Imogen smiled coyly. “It is.” She failed to mention that Chelsea had been Annabel’s babysitter just five years ago and was spinning at the party for free.

“You’re so hip.” Paloma swayed her head to a remix of Pitbull dipping into a Lionel Richie throwback.

I used to be
, Imogen thought. “Don’t go that far! I just pay attention.” Imogen shrugged. “I’ll give you all her information.” Paloma caught sight of Adrienne’s Mohawked bartender and sidled over to order her glass of rosé.

Scattered on tables were gift cards for Glossy.com, each one promising $50 to BUY IT NOW! Next to them were the despised black bracelets.

Imogen felt a warm hand on the small of her exposed spine. Her dress had a high, nun-like collar in the front, with a back that dipped dangerously close to her derriere. Thinking it was Alex, she turned seductively, only to come face-to-face, for the first time in practically a decade, with Andrew Maxwell.

“Immy!” No one called her Immy anymore. The years had been kind to Andrew in the way they always are to wealthy men. A smattering of gray was just beginning to show at his temples, but it suited him. His hair was now sculpted into a perfectly political helmet. His suit was impeccably tailored and the collar of his signature pink shirt immaculately ironed. He surveyed the room.

“Different from that tiny place we used to shack up in, right?”
Did he have to say that so loudly?

“Andrew, it’s wonderful to see you. Thanks for coming.”

“How could I ever pass up an opportunity to see the inimitable Imogen Tate in her element?” His teeth were no longer riddled with tobacco stains. Now they shone too brightly, reflecting light of their own back at Imogen. He gave his characteristically easy smile, one that brought wrinkles around his eyes that would have aged a woman but made a man appear rugged.

A sixth sense told her she was being watched.

Sure enough, Eve swooped past, hurling herself into Andrew’s arms and planting a boisterous kiss full on his lips. Eve hadn’t chosen any of the dresses Imogen had pulled for her. Instead she opted for her standby, another bandage minidress in black and white, her breasts swelling seductively out of the immodestly plunging neckline. How many of these bandage dresses did Eve have? Andrew planted his eyes squarely on her breasts and didn’t look away.

“You didn’t like any of the dresses we pulled for you, Eve?”

“Too old. Stuffy. Perfect for you. Not for me.”

“Well, you look beautiful,” Imogen said politely.

“Right?” Eve replied, pivoting on her heel to stroll into the corner of the room, where she huddled with three of her bloggers. Imogen rolled her eyes and began to circulate.

Imogen congratulated Vera Wang on a show very well done that morning before being bounced from guest to guest—the famous ballerina whose name began with an
O
but she could never remember it, the art critic with breath that always smelled like kitty litter, the creative director for Prada. She stopped short in the rear of the room, surprised to see teenage blogger Orly there, sitting quietly on one of Imogen’s mid-century white armchairs while she meticulously spread foie gras on a toast point, making sure the creamy pâté reached to the very edge. She added a dollop of grainy Dijon mustard before nibbling at the end. The girl’s appearance struck Imogen as fairylike, with her light blue eyes and matching hair, her slightly too large head floating above a slender frame.

She was so close to Annabel’s age that Imogen wanted to put her
hand on her head and ask the girl if she was having a good time and get her a slice of cake, but before she could approach her, Orly looked up and patted the chair next to her in a way that was wise beyond her years.

“I never know what to do at these things.” Her small hands fluttered like wings around her face as she talked.

“I think I am failing you,” Imogen replied, making sure to keep her tone as adult as possible so that she didn’t come across as condescending. “It’s my job as a host to walk you around and introduce you to everyone. No one really knows what to do at these parties. You’re not alone.”

The girl was so unlike Eve, completely guileless and straightforward. She didn’t bother to kiss Imogen’s ass because no one had taught her how.

“Walk with me a little.” Imogen offered her hand to Orly.

At the heart of the room, Massimo held court with the beautiful it girls. He loved interesting-looking people of both genders. Priscilla perched perfectly on the handle of his chair behind him. Imogen settled herself delicately onto his lap, making sure to shift the majority of her weight into her own legs, but knowing that he loved the attention of having a beautiful woman drape herself across him like this. She kissed him on the lips.

“I have hardly seen you all week.” She pretended to glower.

“That’s because I still sit in the front row and you lurk all the way in the back like a shifty little commoner taking all those delicious Instagram photos.”

“Massimo, meet Orly. I am sure you have heard all about her, but I think she could teach even you a thing or two.” Orly’s face lit up.

Metal clinked against glass and Imogen saw Eve trying to climb atop a chair. Two waiters rushed over to lift her up, attempting to pull her dress back down as it crept up over her thighs.

“HIIIIIIII!” Eve said to the room. This wasn’t planned. The plan was to let people mingle for the better part of an hour, before Imogen and Eve would,
together
, welcome everyone and talk a little bit about the new Glossy.com. It was evident this would be Eve’s show, not hers. The three bloggers Eve had been chatting with raced to the front
of the room, jabbing elbows at guests. Imogen had taken to calling them the Selfie-razzi, since they were Eve’s personal documenters.

“We NEED to get up there,” one of them shrieked.

“It’s, like, our job,” another one said to Cynthia Rowley as she practically shoved the petite designer against the wall. One began tapping the side of her Google Glass. The other two raised their phones up to record and snap Eve, not caring who they blocked behind them.

“So grunge is apparently back at this year’s Fashion Week.” Eve paused. “Either that or there are a lot more homeless people in Lincoln Center.” It was meant to be a joke, but the delivery and the reception crippled it at both ends as murmurs of disapproval hummed through the crowd. Eve continued unaware.

“I want to welcome everyone to this adorable little party we just threw together at the last minute.” Eve paused for a second as the star of
Project Fashion
walked into the room. “Heya, Gretchen.” She fluttered her hand as the supermodel gave a tight smile and nod.

“You don’t know how excited I am to launch Glossy-dot-com. Forget boring old magazines. This is the future.” Eve’s voice always had a certain authority to it, even when she was standing on top of a chair, but she didn’t know how to read a room. She wasn’t savvy enough to realize that this crowd loved magazines, had grown up in magazines, was supported by magazines still. But she kept going, doing the same spiel she gave in San Francisco. Imogen could hear the rustling around her crescendo as guests shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“I am so happy that we have so many amazing designers here in the room with us. I want to thank Timo Weiland, Olivier Theyskens, Rebecca Minkoff, Phoebe Philo. Alexander Wang, I’m wearing a pair of your booties right now.” Eve pointed at Thakoon. Alexander wasn’t at the party. The only thing the two men had at all in common was their Asian heritage.

“My goal is to make fashion exciting again. My goal is to bring all of you”—she spread her arms wide as if she were hugging the room—“into the motherfucking digital age, and I will not rest until I do it.” Eve believed that cursing for effect was a sure way to get people’s attention. Instead the crowd winced.

“I know what the Internet likes. It likes cats and side boob and beaver shots. We are going to find a way to take advantage of all of those things at Glossy.com to make us
the
destination for millennials to do all of their shopping.”

Imogen had never heard the words “beaver shot” spoken out loud. She took a deep breath and waited for Eve to finish before gently pushing herself forward. She placed a hand on Eve’s waist to alert the girl she was there and smiled up at her, making a small gesture meant to indicate, “May I?”

“I think Imogen wants to say something to you,” she said, visibly disheartened by the lack of enthusiasm for her speech.

Even Imogen, positive often to a fault, couldn’t think of a way to spin that terrible speech. She cleared her throat. “Thank you, Eve. Eve is a tech genius. I can’t begin to thank her enough for all of her hard work and everything she’s teaching me.” Imogen knew she had to repair the bad vibe in the room. “We live in a crazy Wild West of a new world. Who would have thought six months ago that my magazine would become an app? If I’d known, maybe I would have extended my vacation.” That brought a few titters. “You were invited here tonight because we consider you part of the
Glossy
family and we want to keep you in the loop about all of our future plans. We know that none of you had any shortage of parties to attend this evening, so we are grateful you chose ours. I know how important hashtags are these days. Please send out lots of tweets and Instagrams. We have an inkling of how to make this party go viral, so sit tight for a surprise. Drink up, eat up, thank Danny, your amazing chef, afterward and drink lots of water, because you don’t want to be hungover tomorrow.” Imogen raised her glass and the crowd applauded briefly before Chelsea drowned them out with the opening chorus of Iggy Azalea’s “Fancy.” While Imogen spoke, Eve had managed to scurry down from the chair.