by Cat Marnell
Anyway. Why am I blathering about these guys? There were real celebrities at this party whom I should be telling you about. I was thrilled to find myself smoking Parliament Lights outside with Alex, Jessica, and her friend Bee Shaffer—Anna Wintour’s daughter. Young Bee had recently helped her mom launch Teen Vogue, the digest-size monthly that everyone in fashion and publishing was gaga for. Bee was so nice—personable and giggly—plus very cute with her shiny brown hair and her head-to-toe blue tie-dyed Zac Posen ensemble and her ciggie. (I just love a teen smoker—don’t you?)
We went back inside and joined Jessica’s mother, who was deep in conversation with Bee’s mother, Anna. Then we were all standing there in a group: Anna Wintour, Anne and Jessica McNally, Bee Shaffer, Alex and me.
“Having a good birthday?” Alex said under his breath. I nodded dumbly. I’d only been talking his ear off about magazines for an entire year; that’s why he’d brought me to this party. (Best. Boyfriend. Ever.) I couldn’t believe I was in the same orbit with these people!
I tried not to stare, but it was hard. The editor in chief of Vogue was literally two feet away. I could smell her Chanel No. 5. I snuck peeks at her tennis arms, at her immaculate blowout. She was so perfect. Anne McNally was, too. I felt like a crusty gutter punk standing next to the two of them with my grown-out Adderall haircut, beat-up strappy sandals, and dumb denim Fendi baguette full of Dentyne Ice and broken cigarettes. Anne and Anna were so . . . together. I couldn’t imagine either of them getting hammered, much less addicted to anything. They were too successful—and creative and beautiful and smart and powerful. I wondered how you became a woman like that.
Chapter Seven
THE FALL OF 2004 WAS the beginning of an infamously obnoxious era of New York City nightlife—so you just know I had to be there. Clubs had started cluttering far West Chelsea, north of all the art galleries. This followed the popularity of Bungalow 8, with its palm trees and striped booths where you’d see Prince sitting all alone like a weirdo. Drunk America’s Next Top Model contestants were always falling through coffee tables; an MTV star would be rubbing his dick up on you at the bar . . . and you wouldn’t know if it was on purpose. Anyway, then this huge place Marquee opened around the corner on Tenth Avenue; it had two stories and a fab clear staircase. That’s where Alex and I were all of the time.
And after Marquee, another zillion clubs popped up. Within a few years, the whole area was nuts! It would be so gridlocked on West Twenty-Eighth Street at three o’clock on a Monday morning that the drunk girls trotting in high heels and miniskirts outside your window would be making better time than your taxi. There would be an Escalade not moving in front of you, and your cabdriver would snarl something and lean on his horn, and the drivers in the taxis behind you would lean on their horns, and finally teenage, bright orange Lindsay Lohan—these were the salad days of her reign of terror—would jump out of the SUV and dash into the club. Then traffic would finally move. And this was, like, every night.
Alex and I had both moved uptown, but we weren’t living together. My new place—an airy sixteenth-floor studio in a high-rise called the Colorado on East Eighty-Sixth Street—was pretty dope. You could see half of the Upper East Side from my windows. And the tops of the trees in Central Park, which was a few blocks away. Alex’s apartment was nearby, too—he was on East Seventy-Fifth Street—but we weren’t getting along. We suspected each other of cheating when we were apart (I was doing him dirty, truth be told), and when we were together, we were constantly up in each other’s phones.
Things usually got stormy around five in the morning, after we’d returned from the club.
“EEEEEEYYOOWWWWWNAUUGRHH!” I’d wail, smashing a plate over my boyfriend’s head. Then SMASH! SMASH! SMASH! I’d throw all his plates to the kitchen floor, one after another.
Other early mornings, I’d come over when he wasn’t answering his phone and find him passed out on the sofa after a night out. I’d try to shake him awake, and when he wouldn’t come to, I’d just slap him in the face—over and over! Hard!
“WAKE UP!” Slap. Slap. “Asshole!” His friends would just gawk.
Alex was no saint. His favorite move was to snatch my flip phone and snap it in half. Omigod, it used to drive me crazy. I’d replace it and then a week later, he’d grab that phone out of my hand during another brawl and throw it out the window! I’d run out onto East Seventy-Fifth Street half-dressed and howling. I’d be barefoot, sobbing, and digging through the trash when the cops arrived, which they did every other week.
Alex’s neighbors hated us. They started petitioning to have him thrown out of the building! Someone even posted a sign in the lobby that was all, “THE TENANT IN 4B BEATS WOMEN.”
When we weren’t throwing down, our relationship was boring. Alex was selling weed out of his apartment, so the buzzer was constantly ringing; he could never go anywhere. I’d sit with him and his friends while they watched Yankees games or The Sopranos, but I couldn’t engage with them or what was on the screen. Have you ever taken a lot of speed? You literally cannot watch TV! It’s very weird. Instead, I’d be all tweaky and in the corner, reading the New York Post.
“Ha-ha,” I’d say when someone told a funny story—which is different from laughing. The meds were flattening me right out.
That’s what happens when you double your doses. Oh yes! Unbeknownst to my boyfriend, our toxic relationship wasn’t entirely to blame for my recent behavior—for the detachment, for the paranoia, for the aggression. I was cranked!
I had a new psychiatrist. In New York, doctors put their names on plaques outside their buildings, and I passed Dr. M.’s like sixteen times a day. It was on my block. Eventually, one afternoon, I gave him a ring. A receptionist answered; she sounded about eighty thousand years old. I told her I was looking for a shrink, since mine had “recently retired.” (Uh-huh.)
“Do you have insurance?” she asked. I wasn’t sure, so I called my mom. I did have insurance—through my college. Then I called the doctor’s office back. I would be covered for the appointment! The receptionist squeezed me in.
I showed up a week later dressed to impress. I’d never tried to score pills from a stranger before. Would it be hard? Dr. M. was ancient, too.
“I’ve been taking eighty milligrams of Adderall every day for five years,” I told him on my first visit. “And Ambien to sleep.” It wasn’t technically a lie; I just didn’t mention that Dr. Dad was already sending me these medications from out of state.
“Okay,” Dr. M. said, writing the scripts.
Then I went to Rite Aid across the street to fill ’em up. I sat and read tabloids until they called my name. The grand total was . . .
“Two dollars,” the cashier said. I practically skipped away from the pharmacy counter. As soon as I hit the escalator I popped an Addy like a Mentos. Health insurance was like magic! I couldn’t believe I hadn’t known about it before.
* * *
After a year at Nylon, I was ready for another magazine—and I knew just where I wanted to go: Teen Vogue. I even had an in: the beauty director, Kara Jesella, had been the beauty editor at Nylon before Charlotte, and they were good friends. Plus, Kara’s assistant Holly had just graduated from Eugene Lang. Charlotte helped me score an interview, and I got the internship! I’d be there two full days a week: Tuesday and Thursday, from ten to about six. Once again, I’d get school credit—which meant I didn’t have to go to actual college classes as much. Fantastic.
Teen Vogue! I was psyched but also a teensy bit terrified. It was a real fashion title—under the editorial umbrella of Anna Wintour. The digest-size monthly was full of wealthy girls posed on Marimekko-print beanbag chairs in their Park Avenue bedrooms, explaining how they accessorized their Spence uniforms with Chanel barrettes and Delman flats. I was more of an accessorize-your-Juicy-Couture-sweatsuit-with-cigarette-burns kind of slag. What was I going to wear? I stood in my closet, despai
ring: I had approximately nine thousand pairs of “Thong Song”–era Frankie B. low-rider jeans, five ratty split-seam rabbit fur jackets, and enough miniskirts to dress a THOT army, but nothing for Teen Vogue. The vintage rock T-shirts I’d spent a fortune on to fit in at Nylon weren’t going to fly, either. Argh.
Secondhand stores! They’re fantastic in New York City, particularly on the Upper East Side. I could find whatever I wanted, especially since I was twenty-two and absurdly skinny (everyone consigns stuff they can’t fit into anymore). The secret to finding gems is to take as much prescription speed as humanly possible: this way, you won’t get tired as you plow through the racks. I spent days at INA, Tokio 7, and Michael’s on Madison Avenue, hunting for the designers I saw in the magazine. In the end, I bought Cacharel blouses with Peter Pan collars, Miu Miu smock dresses, Marc Jacobs Mary Janes, and a Hussein Chalayan skirt for a fraction of what they’d cost new. I thought it was all ugly as fuck, but hey, that’s high fashion, right? Blame Miuccia Prada.
Unsexy, disgusting outfits in place, I was finally ready for my first day. Wasn’t I? Not really. I was a nervous wreck that morning! I messed up my “minimal” makeup twice. My liquid eyeliner had to be subtle and on point, but I just could not get it perfect—and it had to be perfect. Perfect perfect perfect! I mean, this was Teen Vogue.
When I left the Colorado, it was nine thirty, and I was supposed to be at Condé at ten. And it was raining. I hustled to the train as best I could in my new velvet Marc Jacobs pumps and a brown Prada pencil skirt. When I finally got underground, I saw that the entire Eighty-Sixth Street 4/5/6 station at Lexington Avenue was flooded. Really flooded. Mammoth puddles. I could no more leap over this mess in my tiny, tight skirt than I could have levitated over it à la David Blaine.
WHY?! I screamed to God, not unlike Russell Crowe in Darren Aronofsky’s Noah (a film I was forced to watch—incidentally—at my most recent rehab).
God-fucking-dammit. I tried to tiptoe through the shallowest bits, and my shoes got soaked through and stained with swampy subway-station water. It was horrible! The situation on the other side of the puddles was even worse. The platform was a mob scene. Which meant that the trains were all screwed up. Everyone was peering into the tunnel, tsk-tsking. The minutes ticked by.
AUUUUUUUUGGGHHH, I stood there screaming inside my head.
When the subway finally arrived, it was nine fifty-five. Everyone jammed on it like we were in Tokyo or something. And then the train kept stopping in the tunnel. I hadn’t eaten since the afternoon before—amphetamine, honey—and there was hardly any oxygen in there. After a few minutes, I was panting like a pervert on a creepy phone call. Then I was seeing . . . black . . . spots . . .
“Are you okay?” the woman pressed up next to me said.
“No,” I rasped as I collapsed. The train car was so packed that I couldn’t even fall! I just crumpled in the knees.
“LET HER SIT!” a man shouted. Someone cleared a seat for me, and I put my head between my knees.
When I finally got to Teen Vogue, it was ten forty-five. I was nearly an hour late, with ruined shoes—and practically berserk.
I greeted Holly, the beauty assistant, like I’d just run her dog over with a car.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Omigod. I am so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m—”
She cut me off.
“Relax,” Holly said. She was born and raised in Brooklyn, and had freckles and long, golden hair. We’d go on to be real-life friends. “It’s okay. Things happen.” I exhaled. The lesson: always eat breakfast before your first day at your dream job, Adderall girls. And wear shitty flats when you commute.
* * *
Teen Vogue was quiet. As I’ve already said, it was an intense environment dictated by the cult of Anna Wintour. Even though Vogue was three floors up, her presence loomed. In the beauty department, we didn’t even talk among ourselves: everything went through AOL Instant Messenger. Well, almost everything.
“You guys have to do better!” This would be the beauty director, Kara, bitching out Holly and Fiorella—the associate beauty editor. Her voice would carry through the gray-carpeted office. “I don’t know what else to tell you!”
Someday I’m gonna be in a meeting like that, I’d think dreamily. Fi and Holly would emerge looking sheepish. I never knew what they’d done wrong.
But most of the time, you could hear a mascara drop (literally—they were always rolling off our desks). Kara would instant-message Holly her breakfast order at quarter past ten—fashion magazines start the day at ten, not nine—and Holly would IM me at my intern desk, and I’d grab Kara’s dining card and zoom down to the fourth floor. Or I guess I couldn’t really “zoom” anywhere in my stupid secondhand YSL wedges. It was more like I clip-clopped. Clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop. That is the sound of interning!
If I was lucky, there would be someone interesting in the Frank Gehry–designed cafeteria, like Si Newhouse, who owned Condé Nast. He was short and old and really cute; he always rocked a gray sweatshirt over a neon-yellow polo. He’d be slowly helping himself to things at the fruit salad bar. I’d grab Kara’s smoothie and two turkey sausage links. Then clip-clop clip-clop clip-clop. I’d hustle back upstairs and deliver her food. Service with a smile.
“Thanks!” Kara would say.
“Of course,” I’d answer. Then I’d go right back to my desk. Holly would have forwarded me ten call-ins. I’d stay busy all day.
It felt great to be back at Condé and around all the exotic birds I’d admired since Vanity Fair. I was particularly impressed with Jane Keltner, the beautiful young fashion director, who wore five-inch stiletto black patent leather Louboutins. People said she was going to be an editor in chief someday. And then, of course, there was the actual editor in chief, Amy Astley, who was blond and willowy—a former ballerina. She’d been the beauty director of Vogue when Anna handpicked her to helm Teen Vogue. And Kara was great, too. She was a real writer, and an academic feminist. She’d gone to Vassar and had a reputation as a “smart” beauty editor. (“She’s, like, really smart,” Charlotte had told me.) Sometimes I got to sit in on story meetings in Kara’s office. She had funny convictions about beauty products. (All beauty directors do—but I didn’t know that yet.)
“Eye shadow?” she’d exclaim, when Holly pitched an item. “Nobody wears eye shadow! I don’t know one person who wears eye shadow!” I was the eye shadow queen in my nightlife drag, of course, but I wasn’t about to argue.
But no one, of course, compared to Anna. She was always around.
AW is on the floor! Holly would IM me warnings. I never knew exactly what to do with this information, except to shut up even more than usual and look alive. Then, sure enough, Anna would stroll by with Amy. She’d look at everyone—including me—with this curious laser stare. She was not afraid of making eye contact. A true queen. I practically want to get up from my computer and genuflect on my sheepskin rug just typing her name over and over. What a woman!
Incidentally, my internship coincided with the impending release of Front Row, the “scrupulously researched investigative biography” of Anna by Jerry Oppenheimer. (Other Oppenheimer tomes: House of Hilton: From Conrad to Paris and Martha Stewart: Just Desserts.) It was a huge deal: everyone at Teen Vogue was obsessed with “the book that has no name”—as Kara called it—even though it hadn’t come out yet. When it did, we all dished (over AIM), mostly about the allegations that she’d had a love affair with Bob Marley! Do you die? Swag on, Anna.
* * *
I spent the semester doing standard beauty intern stuff: calling in products, e-mailing publicists for press releases. Printing them out. I had my own Condé Nast e-mail address, so I didn’t need to worry about mispronouncing things over the telephone anymore. (Not that I would have—by then, I was practically fluent in beauté.)
When I wasn’t at my desk, I was in the beauty closet. It was s
mall—and dangerous! No, it really was. Things are already always clattering down on your head when you’re a beauty intern, and the closet situation at Teen Vogue was particularly precarious, with wonky, off-kilter shelves. One time a bottle of Thierry Mugler Angel nearly gave me a black eye. The footstool I used to reach everything was a joke—it had wheels—I was always flying off it. But who cared? There were heaps of intriguing items to play with. Teen Vogue got way better stuff than Nylon. I hung out in there secretly testing things—with mixed results. Let’s just say that there’s a reason that the Lancôme “freckle pencil” is no longer on the market today.
Being a good intern was easy. I wrote down instructions, and I always had a pleasant smile frozen on my face. It was like being in an improv workshop at acting school: I just kept saying yes, yes, yes. If I said no even once, then game over—or so I imagined. I never said no, so I didn’t get a chance to find out!
There was nothing that I wouldn’t agree—cheerfully—to do. For example: do you know what a “beauty sale” is? Well, neither did I when Holly first asked me to do one.
“No problem!” I said.
I had no idea what I was in for. Most magazines host beauty sales a few times a year, and everyone is allowed in: receptionists, messengers—even the cashiers from the cafeteria. If you can ever get into one, go! They’re the best sample sales in town. The beauty closet essentially gets emptied out and moved to a conference room, and every item costs only a dollar. Then the money is donated to a charity like Dress for Success. Everybody wins!