Read Online The Knockoff by Lucy Sykes, Jo Piazza - Free Book Online
Authors: Lucy Sykes, Jo Piazza
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size. It would know a lot about the pieces they already owned in their wardrobe and then, alongwith 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 door, 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. Asusual, 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.
“The queen has returned.” He smiled. Imogen enjoyed the flash of intimidation that briefly crossed Eve’s features. The girl visibly bristled and immediately launched into work chatter, avoiding the kinds of
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 door, 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. Asusual, 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.
“The queen has returned.” He smiled. Imogen enjoyed the flash of intimidation that briefly crossed Eve’s features. The girl visibly bristled and immediately launched into work chatter, avoiding the kinds of
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