Imogen had $500 to spend on flowers for their big party. A complete party order from L’Olivier would top $5,000. Eve’s thoughts on the subject were clear: ‘Fuck flowers. They won’t add to my ROI.’ Imogen believed flowers could make or break the ambience of a party. The scent elevated the mood and completed a scene. When they first started dating, Alex picked up on her love of fresh flowers right away without her even having to mention anything. Once a week without fail he would bring home the most beautiful arrangements of lilies, hydrangeas and roses, letting her believe all the while that he had been the creative genius behind their construction. Years later she learned he had befriended the owner of a small Koreatown flower shop, charming her with the few phrases he knew in Korean and spending way too big a chunk of his assistant U.S. attorney salary to purchase them each week. Song Lee still owned that shop in what was now a flourishing flower district. Imogen crossed her fingers that Song would be game to help her now.
She headed downtown from Lincoln Center during lunchtime the day before the party, enjoying the twenty-five-block walk, replacing her high-heeled Isabel Marant booties with ballet flats.
Much to her dismay, Song was not there. A beautiful girl with a hint of Song’s strong cheekbones, wearing a tight orange tank top over brown leather leggings, tapped away at an iPad behind the cash register.
‘Mom went to Korea for a few months to take care of my grandma. She’ll be back in October if you’re planning, like, a wedding or something,’ the girl said in perfect English without looking up. It was a marked contrast to Song’s charmingly broken language skills. A name tag above her right breast read ELEN.
Imogen smiled. ‘I’ll miss your mom’s expert eye. She always knows how to help me stretch a dollar when it comes to decorating for my events, but maybe you could help me. We are throwing a party for Glossy.com tomorrow night.’
The girl’s eyes widened. ‘I love Glossy!! I just downloaded your new app.’ Imogen tilted her head in interest. ‘It’s great. I ordered a pair of Charlotte Olympia cat slippers yesterday. BUY IT NOW!’ She raised her fist in the air as she shouted out the site’s signature tagline.
‘Yes, BUY IT NOW.’ Imogen made a small shake of her own fist in solidarity, and then awkwardly received a fist bump from Elen, which made her feel quite silly.
‘I can help you pick some things. You sure are cutting it close, huh? Most fancy companies place their orders months in advance. We’re gonna have to work with what we have in the back. How much do ya want to spend?’
Imogen didn’t want to say the number. She felt ashamed telling this girl who’d just spent $545 on those Charlotte Olympia cat slippers that she had less than that for flowers for a ‘fancy’ party. So she fibbed.
‘The party is pretty low-key … small, very intimate guest list. We already did a huge flower order last month. I would have ordered it with you, but we had to use one of the company’s big vendors. I just need accent flowers now really. I am so embarrassed I didn’t think to order them sooner. In fact’ – Imogen winked – ‘I am just going to pay for them in cash out of my own pocket right now so that no one will notice the oversight.’ She pulled five crisp hundred-dollar bills out of her wallet.
‘Your party is tomorrow night?’
‘It is!’
‘I can help. This is perfect for the leftovers.’
‘The leftovers?’
‘The flower industry is soooo wasteful.’ Elen rolled her eyes. ‘We always over-order and we never give flowers to a customer unless they will last for a full week after the day the person buys them. That makes it look like we are selling shoddy flowers. Not good, ya know? So the leftovers are flowers that look great today and will probably be good until, like, next Tuesday. They’re just a little older than the new flowers. Sometimes we give them to the deli owners at a good price. A lot of them just get thrown out. Come on. I’ll show you.’
Elen led Imogen through the narrow store, past the finely organized refrigerators of lilies, orchids, peonies, dahlias, amaryllis, tulips and succulents. They walked through a door so short Imogen slouched to enter the back room, the heart of the shop, the part the customers never got to see. The floor here was cement and covered in a light dusting of sawdust. Off to the right was another glass-doored fridge, this one a little dirtier, a little older, singing a dull hum to the two women.
‘There. Those are the leftovers. Go through them. I can give you a great price for whatever you take. I remember you now. Mom talks about you. She says your husband is a real babe.’ Imogen was still pleased any time someone told her how attractive he or she found Alex. She didn’t need the validation. She knew her husband was a babe, but it made her feel good that she was the one who’d landed him, even if it was through a weird twist of fate and a drug-addicted ex-boyfriend.
‘That he is. I am an incredibly lucky woman.’ D.I.L.F. – that’s what one of the other moms drunkenly said about Alex during a school Christmas party.
Despite its dusty face, the leftover fridge was a treasure trove of beautiful flowers, some with a brown leaf here or a droopy petal there, but mainly still perfectly intact. Imogen sympathized with this lot, whose expiration date came sooner than they expected, before they had a chance to fulfill their destiny walking down the aisle at someone’s wedding.
Imogen buried her face in a bunch of magnolias, their heady vanilla scent sending her back to the very first photo shoot she had done in New Orleans. Molly brought her down there just a few months after she landed in America. Imogen had never seen anything like that city. The smells, the crumbling old mansions in the Garden District, the melting pot of brown, white and black faces, jazz wafting through the trees … it was like living in a movie. There was always a party going on. Oh my god … and the food. She’d eaten beignets from Café Du Monde every morning. The imaginary smell of the sweet dough with the real magnolias made her want to buy a plane ticket. She took them all from the fridge.
Elen was once again engrossed in her electronic device when Imogen emerged, her arms laden down with the leftovers. The girl surveyed the bunch. ‘I’ll charge you $450 for ’em all, and then give me the remaining $50 and I’ll get them where you need them to go.’ Imogen provided her address and texted Tilly to expect a delivery.
Eve was sitting on the couch in Imogen’s office.
‘What are you wearing tomorrow night?’ Imogen still felt jarred every time Eve was so casual with her. She knew it was unfair that she felt this way, and with anyone else she would have felt guilty for still thinking of her as her subordinate once they had been promoted to a position like Eve’s, but something inside her still expected Eve to address her with the respect she gave during their first two years together. Imogen didn’t want her lounging on her couch, her dress creeping high on her thighs, long legs stretched into the middle of the room, her hands behind her head.
‘I asked Zac to pull me something from his new collection,’ Imogen replied, crossing her own legs as she sat down.
‘Can I do that too?’
‘It might be too late, but I can give him a call.’
‘Is he coming to the party? I just love him.’
‘I’m not sure yet.’
Eve pouted, pushing her thin lower lip over the even thinner top one.
‘Can’t you make him come?’
Imogen laughed. ‘I can’t make anyone do anything.’
‘We can ban him from the site.’
‘We won’t ban one of the best women’s designers in the business from our app. How does that benefit us?’
‘Is anyone even coming? Jesus, your job is to be fabulous. Are you going to be able to pull this off?’ How much longer can I endure this little brat talking to me like this?
‘The party will go down as a night to remember. It’s going to be wonderful, Eve. You’re a size two right now, yes? Let me put in a quick call. We’ll get a few options over here for you to try on later this afternoon.’
Alex took the kids out to a movie for the night, freeing Imogen to spread her promptly delivered leftover flowers on newspaper she’d laid out around the sitting room. Tilly directed her to look at Pinterest, where the new hipster trend was #DeliFlowers – flower arranging with cheap store-bought stems.
The process of the flower arranging became strangely meditative. Matching color with color and shape with shape and then shape with color energized all of her senses and made Imogen feel creative in a way she hadn’t in months. She clutched a bunch of white magnolias with pale pink peonies, lilies of the valley and chamomile in her right hand, using a pair of nail scissors to snip off a few brown leaves before wrapping a black ribbon firmly around the stems. She was adding odd branches and greens to a tall mason jar when her cell phone rang. Holding a wide white ribbon in place with her teeth, she put Massimo on speakerphone.
‘Darling, what are you doing?’ he purred.
‘Making flower arrangements for the party tomorrow night.’
‘You know you can hire people to do that kind of thing, right?’
‘Isn’t it more fun to do it this way?’ Imogen knew that without telling him Massimo would infer that her getting her hands dirty had something to do with Eve.
‘I won’t keep you then. Just wanted to say I’ll see you at seven tomorrow.’
‘Oooh, I am so happy you’re going to be able to make it. I know there are a million parties tomorrow night.’
‘But no other party will have Imogen Tate.’ She laughed at that. ‘I’ll let you go.’
‘Well, thank you for calling, sweetheart. I’m happy to know that at least one person will be coming.’
‘Oh, stop it. Priscilla will be wheeling me about, so there will be at least two people there!’ Imogen loved him so much. ‘Oh, and Im. I don’t know if you’ve heard but herbs and weeds are all the rage in flower arranging these days. Just a tip!’
Herbs. What did that mean? What kind of herbs? Weeds?
Imogen wandered into the tiny backyard garden she’d started, then stopped, and started and stopped more than a dozen times. Gardening was something she actually enjoyed, but life consistently got in the way of a real commitment to a green thumb. In the back, by a very small goldfish pond, was Annabel’s small plot of neatly planted vegetables, bordered by her herb garden – rosemary, thyme and mint all madly overgrown. She grabbed a bunch of mint and rosemary. What the hell? she thought, as she added them to each of the arrangements.
An hour later Imogen was faced with ten centerpieces that made her bloom with pride.
‘Better than I could have done.’ Alex snuck up behind her, wrapped his arm around her middle and kissed her on the shoulder. ‘Did Song help?’
Imogen shook her head and leaned into her husband. ‘Song’s in Korea! I met her daughter Elen.’
‘Elen was about twelve years old last time I saw her,’ her husband said, scratching his head. Imogen laughed.
‘It’s been too long since you’ve gotten me flowers then. You must’ve seen her about six years ago, because she’s now a very beautiful young woman and I have no doubt that you would’ve noticed her.’
‘I don’t notice any beautiful women except my wife.’ He nuzzled her neck, the daylong growth of his beard scratching her in a way both pleasurable and familiar.
‘Where are the kids?’
‘Upstairs. I fed them too much popcorn. They’re in a food coma, both ready to hit the sack.’ Alex yawned. ‘So am I. Joining me?’
‘In a little bit. I want to finish up here, if that’s all right?’
‘Of course.’ Alex surveyed the flowers again. ‘That Elen is almost as talented as her mother, the woman who helped me win my wife.’
Imogen didn’t know why, but she wanted to keep her newfound talent to herself for the time being, make it something that only she knew she was any good at.
‘She’s a talented girl! I’ll be up in just a few minutes. Start reading to the kids and I’ll come along soon to finish up.’
Oh, how she missed the days of a glam squad coming into the office to get all the girls – all the editors and advertising reps – ready for a big event together. Hairstylists, manicurists and makeup artists used to descend in a pack on Robert Mannering Corp., turning the office into a giant spa for an entire day before a party.
Now Imogen just asked Allison, her favorite stylist from the salon, to come over and give her a blowout at the house.
‘Who’s coming tonight?’ Annabel perched on the ottoman at the foot of Imogen’s bed, her orange backpack at her feet, ready for a night at Suki Abraham’s house down the street.
‘Whoever was free,’ Imogen said distractedly, trying not to let the guest list make her too nervous. Ashley had a lengthy list of RSVPs, which flooded in just minutes after the Paperless Post had gone out, all typed out by diligent assistants, but Imogen knew better than anyone that everyone simply RSVP’d for everything during Fashion Week and then scattered where the wind and their Town Cars took them. She never wanted to be early for her own party, but this time she couldn’t be too late either.
Imogen had to ignore a barrage of texts from Eve.
>>>>What r u wearing?<<<<
>>>>How shld I do my hair?<<<<
>>>>Whoze coming??<<<<
>>>>Y aren’t U ANSWERING
MEEEE!!!!! 
<<<<
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.
The sounds of the party – small talk and nibbling – resumed.
‘That’s it?’ Eve hissed into her ear. ‘That’s all you’re going to say? We spent five thousand dollars to make sure these people aren’t hungover? We invited them here to get them on board with our app.’ What exactly had Eve wanted her to say?
‘That isn’t how business is done in this world, Eve,’ Imogen hissed back, irritated by Eve’s gumption when all she had done was save her neck. ‘These things take time, patience and schmoozing. I think I know more about how this is done than you do.’
‘We need them now. We needed them yesterday. You didn’t even get the guest list right. I know most of the people here already.’ Imogen looked around and knew that wasn’t true. Eve couldn’t have already been introduced to half these people, except possibly when they rang her phone years ago. ‘I wanted new people at this event and you didn’t deliver.’
Eve stalked off to the bathroom, leaving Imogen with her mouth agape. While she was talking Alex had joined the crowd at the back of the room. He picked his hand up to wave and then rushed forward when he realized she was upset.
‘Great speech. Short and to the point. Let them drink at night and do their business during the day,’ he reminded her. It was something Carter Worthington had told him years ago at one of their advertiser schmooze fests when Alex, after a few too many margaritas, had asked her boss what exactly was the point of spending so much money on their events.
‘I have to deal with Eve.’ Imogen kissed him quickly and then took off for the bathroom. She heard Eve before she saw her, giant heaving breaths echoing through the hall. Imogen knocked on the door to her own powder room. ‘Eve, it’s Imogen. Can I come in?’ She heard the lock unclick.
Eve was covered in a fine layer of sweat. There were no tears on her cheeks, but her face kept contorting in a way that suggested it would prefer to be crying.
‘I think I’m having a heart attack,’ Eve sputtered. Her chest heaved, which caused her entire body to begin shaking.
Imogen grabbed a Kleenex from its tortoiseshell box to wipe off the edge of the sink before she leaned gingerly against it. She had experience with anxiety attacks. You had to wait them out. Back when they lived together in their shoddy little apartment, Bridgett suffered from at least one a week, brought on by anything from a bad day at work to seeing a rat on the subway, before her doctors found the right cocktail of drugs to keep them at bay.
The bathroom was small and cramped. Imogen stood so close to Eve that it would have been easy to touch her. By stretching her arm out just a few inches she could have put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but the very idea of touching Eve now, this new iteration of Eve, made Imogen recoil. She stayed as far away from the girl as the confined space would allow, but still she could hear Eve gnashing her teeth together – a sound like a well-heeled boot crunching over gravel.
Eve’s breath came in stilted waves. ‘They hated me,’ she moaned, pulling at her curls, yanking them down around her chin and then, like a child, putting the end of one in her mouth to suck on it. ‘Everyone here hates me. I failed tonight.’ Imogen was worried the girl was going to hyperventilate. The tears finally came and Eve reached out to hold on to the hem of Imogen’s dress the way a drowning man would clutch at a life preserver. Only the mascara on her left eye had smeared. The right remained perfectly intact.
All of the party’s previous joy was siphoned away by each word from Eve’s mouth. ‘You need to breathe.’ Imogen emptied out her glass of champagne and ran cold water into it. ‘Drink this.’ She handed her two Xanax. ‘Take these. Wipe away your tears.’ Did she sound too motherly?
Eve glared at her through her gasps, her face turning the color of merlot. ‘You wanted this party to suck, didn’t you?’
Imogen’s heart sank. Nothing she did was going to help. Eve had the manners of a psychopath. It was in these moments that Eve reminded Imogen of her old dog growing up, a Jack Russell who had been perfectly well behaved in their London flat, but revealed his true colors on a day trip out to Kent. Nutkin forcefully escaped from an open car window, running straight toward a small lamb that had been caught in the barbed wire at the edge of a field, its leg bent at a ninety-degree angle and bleeding. Once Nutkin smelled blood there was no turning back. He was an attack dog cloaked as a city dog. The shepherd’s boy got Nutkin with his shotgun shortly after the dog killed the sheep. It was Nutkin’s fate. He was born like that. Eve was born like this.
Rage clouded Eve’s eyes as she glared up at Imogen. ‘Why do I even keep you around?’
Dropping her voice, Imogen glared back at the insolent little bitch.
‘Watch it, Eve. I wanted this party to be a success just as much as you, and so far it is. You have some of the most powerful people in the fashion industry in that room right now and they are more than happy to speak to you about Glossy-dot-com. If I were you, I wouldn’t let that opportunity slip away.’
Eve lifted her face and stared dully into space before standing up and turning to the sink. Imogen barely had a second to jump out of the way before the girl vomited next to her. She watched as Eve chugged the glass of water and then threw the Xanax into her mouth.
‘Get out. I need a few minutes.’
Imogen shook her head in disbelief. ‘Get yourself together before you come back to the party, please,’ Imogen said coolly before she slipped sideways back out through the door, brushing against Andrew Maxwell, the only person standing in the small hallway between the sitting room and the backyard.
‘Is she all right?’
‘As a human being, no. Right now I think she will be fine. You certainly have your hands full, Andrew.’ He moved his hand toward his head, wanting to run it through his hair, before thinking better of mussing it up and bringing it back down to his pocket.
‘She’s just a perfectionist, Imogen. She just wants this project to succeed.’
Imogen gnawed on her bottom lip. ‘That isn’t what she wants. She wants this project to be all hers.’ She regretted the words the second that they came out of her mouth, knowing that Eve probably heard them and that if she hadn’t, Andrew would most definitely repeat them.
When she emerged from the bathroom, Eve looked worse for the wear. Imogen tried to ignore her as Eve kept to the edges of the party, typing furiously on her phone, stopping only briefly to whisper in the ear of Addison Cao, conspicuous as always in a blue crushed velvet suit, before hopping into a black Uber without saying good-bye.
Soon after Eve left, Imogen’s surprise arrived. She was going out on a limb here, but from the little bit she understood about how things went viral on the Internet, she thought she had a shot at making this work. Her friend Ginnifer (one of the mommy gang from school and a longtime volunteer with the ASPCA) arrived right at the stroke of nine with a crate of wiggly, squiggling rescue puppies. It wasn’t really her idea. It was Annabel’s. The night before, as she had fretted over the party being a disaster, her daughter peeked her head over her iPad.
‘Just bring in a bunch of puppies,’ Annabel said matter-of-factly.
It sounded ridiculous. ‘Why, darling?’
Her daughter shook her head. ‘Because … the Internet,’ she said breezily as she walked up to her room.
Of course her daughter was right.
The crowd at the party went wild. So many Instagram videos were taken, phone batteries died. There was a miniature melee to get close to one particularly grumpy-looking little bulldog named Champ. Dog hair covered couture, but no one cared, and nine adorable puppies got homes they never could have dreamed of.
The party went until midnight. Once Eve left it turned into such a good time, the night becoming boisterous and buoyant. Or maybe it was all in Imogen’s imagination that everything grew louder and less serious. Furniture was pushed to the side of the room to allow for flailing limbs to catch a beat. The crowd danced like they were in the basement of the Ritz.
Fashion Goes to the Dogs
By Addison Cao, WWD columnist
Fashion went to the dogs last night at the Glossy.com party to celebrate yet another Fashion Week. Returning editor in chief Imogen Tate hobnobbed with fashion royalty old and new, including Donna Karan, Thakoon, Timo Weiland, and Carolina Herrera, at her gorgeous West Village town house. By the end of the night, no one was paying any attention to the posh set. Seriously! It was all about the puppies. God bless the Internet. It just might be the most Instagrammed party of all of Fashion Week after Tate brought in a crate of adorable adoptables. #Perfection.
Not everyone was delighted. Glossy.com’s new editorial director, Eve Morton, slipped out of the bash early …