Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (23 page)

“Lovely. Maybe we can Skype.”

“Yeah, maybe. I’ll text you.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“You too.”

With that, he hung up. The cab was at a standstill somewhere in Midtown. I looked out the window and shuddered at the sight of the enormous Macy’s. It reminded me of the time I’d eaten pot brownies and gotten lost in the Macy’s at the Beverly Center during high school. It was one of the hardest days of my life. No matter how much I tried, or where I went in the store, I literally couldn’t find my way out. I spent seven hours in there and was about to resign myself to a life of living among midpriced, American designer diffusion lines, when a
security guard found me and escorted me out of the store. It was a waking nightmare.

Finally the cab turned a corner and we were flying toward home. It was on the West Side Highway that I had a realization: Charlie is like Macy’s. He’s accessible to the masses, he’s sensible, and he has everything I need, but nothing I really want. Like kitchenware and comforters. I don’t want any of that shit. Robert, on the other hand, is like Barneys. He has everything I want and need, like Missoni towels and The Row backpacks. And because of that, he makes me feel a little crazy at times. But now Robert was the one losing control of himself too. Maybe he and I were more in sync than I’d realized and maybe that’s why we loved each other so much. Our connection was animalistic. It was full of fire. It was ancient.

Everything became crystal clear to me. I had to break things off with Charlie before things got completely out of hand. Robert was The One. He always had been. It was settled. I would go home, put my purchases away, get on Skype, break up with my boyfriend and his very small penis, and find Robert/Roberto and tell him that I’m in love with him.

W
hen I got back to Charlie’s, I was flustered and starving, so I ordered a pepperoni pizza from Domino’s and started doing my nails to try to center my chi. I’d executed a perfect French manicure and was celebrating this victory with a slice of pizza when I realized Babette had clearly taken over my body/mind. Domino’s? French mani? I spat out the bite of pizza and threw the rest down the garbage chute. This could not happen. Not while
Vogue
was on the line. I tried every trick up my sleeve to get ahold of myself, but nothing seemed to work. I slapped myself, took two Xanax, took a bath, nearly Whitney Houston–ed, got out of the bath, and then lay in bed shaking for most of the night.

I woke up in the morning wearing silk leopard-print
pajamas. I had no idea where they’d come from. I checked my bedside clock. It was 8:35. I could hear Felix pounding on my front door, and I could feel Babette pulsing through my veins. FUCK. There was no way I could enter the halls of
Vogue
like this. I couldn’t let my alter ego sabotage me again, but I was powerless against her. So, under Babette’s spell, I called the office and left a quick message that I’d gotten a really “big bad period” and would be late to work, then let Felix in. I was trying to get dressed, but I couldn’t find anything to wear, it was all too chic.

“I’m gonna need you to take me to a few stores really quick,” Babette said to Felix.

Three hours later, once her brief yet dreadful shopping spree was done, she slathered herself in Thierry Mugler Angel and changed into an Herve Leger bandage skirt, a Bebe leather crop top, a denim jacket, giant, sparkly platform Louboutins, and a rhinestone necktie, all in the backseat of Felix’s SUV. Once dressed, Babette realized that her hair was not cooperating with her outfit.

“Feeeeeeelix?”

“Yes, Miss Walker?”

“You know that feeling where you just need bangs?”

“I’m bald, Miss Walker.”

“Exactly. Stop here for a sec.”

They stopped in front of the first salon Babette saw so that she could get chunky bangs. She also had one of the salon’s manicurists apply pointy, leopard-print gel tips to her nails.

Then she was ready to go to work. Babette strolled into the office at 1:27 p.m.

“Hey, bitches!” she said loudly to the people who worked in her area. “I hope you’re hungry because I brought McDonald’s breakfast for everyone! It’s kinda cold because it’s been sitting in the car, but I had a hash brown and a McMuffin on my way over here—okay, I’ll be honest, I had two—and they were still totally yumster,” she squealed, passing out an assortment
of McMuffins and hotcakes to my stunned coworkers. “Notice anything different about me?” she hinted, pointing to her face. “I got baaaaaannngggssss—”

“Babe, what the fuck are you doing?” hissed Kate, grabbing Babette’s arm and pulling me into the
Vogue
closet.

“Oh, hey. Nothing, just here to work. Should I tweet a pic of my new bangs?”

“No. Here, put this on for the love of God,” Kate said, thrusting an ivory Oscar de la Renta cashmere shirt at Babette. “Lose the necktie and that horrible crop top thing. If Anna sees you wearing those, she’ll fire both of us. And here—” She shoved a pair of black Manolo Blahnik pumps at her. “You need to burn those Loubs.”

“I—”

“No. Don’t say anything. Just do it. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but I don’t have time to discuss it because you’re late for the swimwear shoot, so please get over there and try not to act like a freak.” Then she left in a huff.

The rest of the day was disastrous in ways that are hard to talk about because it ended with me losing the only job I’ve ever semi-liked. The following tweets that Babette tweeted from
Vogue
’s account should give you an idea of what was going on and why it was so dark.

@voguemagazine 1:40pm:
Crying on the floor of the accessories closet. Why is everyone so mean here?

@voguemagazine 1:45pm:
It’s like you try to do something nice for your coworkers by bringing them McDonald’s and they don’t even care. #overworked #underappreciated

@voguemagazine 1:50pm:
I miss Robert.

@voguemagazine 2:11pm:
Swimwear shoot, starring Karlie Kloss and a bunch of beefy male models. Snooze.

@voguemagazine 2:15pm:
I’m over Karlie Kloss.

@voguemagazine 2:22pm:
She’s so tall it’s scary. Almost too tall. #KarlieKloss

@voguemagazine 2:24pm:
These male models smell weird but I’m still totes DTF.

@voguemagazine 2:30pm:
brb, gonna go take care of some business (aka touch myself).

@voguemagazine 2:45pm:
Dear assistant who just found me in Anna’s office, I was only smoking a cigarette under the desk because I’m addicted to them. NOT doing anything else. Swearsies.

@voguemagazine 2:57pm:
I’m literally starving.

@voguemagazine 3:34pm:
Holla! Ordered a delish lunch from @cheesecakefactory. Just one slice of cheesecake lol maybe three.

@voguemagazine 4:00pm:
FASHION.

@voguemagazine 4:05pm:
BCBG clutches are so cute but everyone here hates them. #why

@voguemagazine 4:10pm:
I think Anna’s hair is actually a wig.

@voguemagazine 4:29pm:
Grace Coddington’s hair is SO FRIZZY girl. You’d think Anna would have made her get a Brazilian blowout by now!

@voguemagazine 4:41pm:
“Karl Lagerfeld is the chicest Nazi in the industry.”—André Leon Talley

@voguemagazine 4:52pm:
ROBERT.

A
round 5:00 p.m., I was escorted out of the building and told to never come back. Felix drove me home. Somewhere along the way back to the West Village I transitioned back into myself. Babette was gone, but the damage had been done. Before I got out of the car I fired Felix, for obvious reasons. What kind of driver are you if you can’t tell when your client is having a nervous breakdown and needs to be quarantined instead of taken into her place of business?

I was in complete denial about what had just happened to me. Robert? Babette?
Vogue?
I had landed myself on Anna Wintour’s blacklist, right next to Kim Kardashian, and I had bangs that would take at least six months to grow out. I couldn’t even deal. Not one part of me was able to process the shit show that was this day. I drew a hot bath and just as I was about to get in, my doorbell rang. Standing at the door was Charlie’s doorman, Donald, who handed me an unmarked box that he claimed had been dropped off by a messenger. Fuck. It was probably a gift from Charlie. My eyes filled with tears, thinking about how far away he was, how much he trusted me, how much I was fucking everything up.

I took the package into the kitchen and opened it, hoping it would be Google Glass, or a Rolex, or at the very least a set of jade bangles, but it was none of those things.

The box was filled to the brim with unopened black lipsticks.

I shoved the box off the counter, and black lipsticks flew everywhere. Fucking Thalia! I thought confronting her in Gstaad had put an end to her reign of terror, but I was wrong. Apparently she was in New York and wasn’t going to stop until I was dead.

But you know what? I was happy Thalia had followed me to New York. If Babette was going to destroy everything that mattered anyway, I wanted Thalia to kill me. This was my perfect out. I went into the kitchen, took out several knives, some duct tape, and some heavy-duty trash bags, and brought them into the bathroom. I arranged them neatly on the bathroom counter, took a roofie, and got in the bath fully clothed. It was my time.
Come and get me, Thalia,
I thought to myself.
End me. I’m ready to die.

But I didn’t die.

I woke up ten hours later, completely disoriented. The water was freezing and I felt like Leo in that scene from
What’s Eating Gilbert Grape.
My dark reality was coming into focus. Thalia hadn’t killed me, and now bits and pieces of my day were floating through my head like the trash that floats through the East River. I got in the shower and just stood there crying. Why hadn’t she come for me? I’d made it so easy for her. All she had to do was put me out of my misery.

Leaving the shower meant facing the shitstorm my life had become. I had no job, no prospect of happiness, soon I’d have no boyfriend, and now my untimely demise was imminent. I was safe in the shower. Warm. Isolated. Denial. But I couldn’t
stay in there forever. I was at least clearheaded enough to know that. So I got out, grabbed a towel, quickly dried myself off, and cocooned under the covers on Charlie’s bed.

“Please let it be over soon,” I said to God, or myself, or whoever the fuck cared to listen. “Please.”

I
f you’ve ever heard the ringtone for Skype, then you’d know that it’s perhaps the most horrible way to be woken up from a deep sleep. I accepted Charlie’s call despite the fact that I looked unpresentable on every level.

“There’s my girl.”

“Hi.”

“What’s wrong, Babe? You look truly worn out.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look that fine. You look sad.”

“No. Really, I’m fine. I just . . . miss you. That’s all.”