CeCe laughed and looked down at me from her desk chair. “She doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, right?” she asked, not waiting for an answer.
I stood up. “I’m organizing CeCe’s magazines.”
Daphne looked me up and down from head to toe. I was glad I had taken extra time to dress this morning, choosing a vintage eyelet skirt that was summery and a bit formal, and I had accessorized with a big belt and some wooden necklaces to make it casual. I could tell Daphne approved. She in turn was wearing size zero peach pedal pushers with a chic white blouse tucked in. She definitely went for the preppy, rich Southampton look. I watched her face and saw that she didn’t know how to respond, but suddenly she stuck out her hand.
“We haven’t met yet. I’m Daphne Hughes.” She liked to include Hughes. I’ve heard of some boss’s daughters going incognito so they could get down with the people, but Daphne was having none of that.
“Kira Parker.”
“Where are you from, Kira?” she asked.
“Philadelphia,” I said.
“Suburb or the city?” she asked.
“Right outside. Bryn Mawr,” I said, looking her carefully in the eye. I sensed that she liked to interrogate people and used it to get them to bend, but I wasn’t game for that.
“Are you in college?”
“Going to Columbia in the fall.”
“Good school. Ivy. I go to Brown,” she said, running her hand through her hair.
“I know. You mentioned that at the meeting.”
“Right,” she said, momentarily confounded. “What brings you to Skirt?” she asked more boldly.
“Cotton,” I said.
Suddenly she laughed. “That’s a funny way to put it. You won the Cotton internship?” she asked.
“No, my papa has a plantation. He did well this year, so I could afford to come to the big city,” I said. She looked confused and then I smiled. “Yes, I won the internship.”
I could tell she wasn’t used to being teased because she was suddenly finished with me and turned her attention back to CeCe. “CeCe, I wanted to ask if you could call your friend Mickey and ask him to put me and my girls on the VIP list again for Butter tonight. Getting in shouldn’t be a problem normally, but last night Jane threw up on Tobey. It was a total accident but they made a big deal about it, and so we’re kind of like banned for a week, which is so ridick, so could you call Mickster for moi? The VIP list should take care of things,” chirped Daphne.
“That should not be a problem,” said CeCe, like a soldier following a commanding officer’s orders.
Since my conversation with Daphne was over, I sat back down and continued cataloging. But Daphne then addressed me again.
“You are so lucky to be working with CeCe. This is the best job in the place,” she said with a fake smile. Oh yeah? Then why didn’t she want it?
“I tell her that, but she’s already told me she’s going to try to go for the internship with Genevieve,” said CeCe, waving her cigarette in the air as if this were the dumbest thing ever.
Daphne laughed and her eyes narrowed. “Well, don’t get your heart set on it,” said Daphne. Her voice was different this time. It was more of an order than helpful advice. Whatever. Now that she knew I had thrown my hat in the ring, let her try to compete with me. I can be a pretty good foe, if I do say so myself.
“She’s got a shot, Daph,” said CeCe. “Remember that Genevieve likes to toy with your father, show him who’s boss. She didn’t even let your stepsister get the job in her office, and Saskia made it known that it was the only place she wanted to work.”
Daphne’s face turned dark. “Well, Saskia is a fool, so I don’t blame Genevieve for dissing her. But Genny and I are dear friends. Many a fashion show we’ve spent huddled together trashing the idiotic celebrities in the front row. No way will she pick someone else over me.”
Daphne turned and glared at me to make sure I heard her.
“You’re probably right,” said CeCe, backing off.
“Anyway,” said Daphne, stubbing out her cigarette. “I should get back. There’s a sample sale at Chanel today and I don’t want to miss it. They said I could come extra early to peruse the goods before anyone else.”
“Lucky girl,” said CeCe.
Why the hell did she need to go to a sample sale when she could buy anything at full price? That didn’t seem fair.
“Bye, Kira,” she said, turning and flashing me a huge saccharine grin.
“See you later, Daphne,” I said coolly.
She paused for a second and then walked out the door. Now that I knew it wasn’t a done deal with Daphne working for Genevieve, I wanted that internship more than ever.
Chapter Five
I once asked my grandfather how he went from being thousands of dollars in debt after college to later running his own company (not at the Hughes level, mind you; he owned a chain of shoe stores). He told me it was all about having the right work ethic. While most zombies punch in and out, wish away the day, and live for the weekends, he threw himself into work wholeheartedly each and every workday.
“Be the first one there and the last one to leave,” he advised when I called him the night before my departure. “Don’t wait for someone to come to you—be proactive and seek out the work. Only then will people know they can count on you, and then you become indispensable.”
As resident Xerox whore and gopher girl, I found it hard to imagine any intern becoming that irreplaceable. But when Gabe and Teagan popped by CeCe’s office at the stroke of 4:59 P.M. to bail, I said I had more to do and that I’d meet them back at the ranch. They, along with all the other interns, were out the door so quick you’d think the building had a four-alarm fire—especially the Trumpettes, who vociferously announced their nightly plans upon departure: choice restaurant rezzies, nightclub lists, driver pick-up locations. They all went back to their various Upper East Side perches for disco naps before the preening process began.
But what would I be running off to, exactly? My depressing apartment? Another dinner I couldn’t afford? That was a waste of time, because what I really needed to do was to show everyone at the magazine how committed I was so that I could get the internship. I was sure that CeCe would not give me glowing props to Genevieve—especially if Daphne was my competition. I had to meet some of the editors and network. It sounds kinda kiss-assy, but, frankly, none of the other interns cared that much.
First I wandered down by the accessories department. Richard was gabbing on the phone and I didn’t want to interrupt him. Next I strolled to fashion, where I saw two editors on their knees packing for a Military Chic shoot.
“Hi,” I started, suddenly getting a little nervous as the two girls, both so stylishly accessorized with layers of delicate chains and chunky belts, turned around. “I’m Kira. I’m an intern in the bookings department, with CeCe, and, um, I was wondering if you guys need any help?”
“No, I don’t think so…” one said, wiping her brow while looking me over.
“Thank you so much, anyway,” said the other, which I assumed was my cue to leave.
“Okay, thought I’d check just in case!” I said, turning around.
“Wait—” said the first one. “Actually…come to think of it, we still haven’t unpacked the trunk from our Palm Bitch Acid Preppy shoot. Do you mind getting a start on that?”
“Sure!” I offered, beaming and psyched to be of use.
“There’s no way you can finish tonight. I mean, there are piles and piles of things to be labeled, packed in bubbleopes, and returned to the fashion houses, but you might as well crack it open and get started.”
The duo introduced themselves as Trixie and Lilly (Trixie was a petite Korean beauty and Lilly had almond eyes and chic shaggy brown hair). They were both in their twenties and were market editors at the assistant and associate level—probably what I would be right out of school, so it would be interesting to glean what they were typically up to.
I began the unpack
ing process, which was robotic but actually interesting. I opened velvet box after velvet box to find different pieces—pink and green bikinis, gold aviator sunglasses, sixties-era Jackie O head scarves, and wedgie ribbon-tie espadrilles. Each piece had a corresponding Polaroid in the Palm Bitch shoot box, which catalogued all the pieces that were pulled, sent, and shot for the story. It yielded a four-page spread but involved weeks of work and tens of thousands of dollars in expenses: airfare to Florida, an alligator trainer for the Everglades shoot, a photographer with his assistant, hair and makeup artists, the model, and the stylists and their assistants.
As I checked off each piece, wrapped it, and filled out labels for the returns to the Michael Kors, Gucci, and Ralph Lauren public relations departments, I got a good rhythm going. And ninety minutes later, I was finished.
“So I’m done, I guess. Anything else?”
Trixie and Lilly turned around, stunned.
“Finished? No way,” Trixie said skeptically, rising to survey my work. She must have thought I’d royally screwed up to have completed my task so quickly, but as she went over my packets and files, her eyes widened. “Lil, she just did this all,” she said, jawon-floor. “Kira, you rock!”
Lilly got up and came over, too. “Oh my God. You are like Supergirl! You just saved us hours of work, you little Speedy Gonzales!”
I beamed. It wasn’t rocket science—and it had been fun to see the inner workings of a shoot-in-a-box.
“And it’s like seven o’clock! You are the best intern ever; you’re working overtime for free,” she added.
“Well, I have no life,” I admitted. “I’m in New York for Skirt, so I might as well be at Skirt,” I shrugged, hoping I didn’t sound like the biggest dork on planet earth.
“Who else around here has no life?” a voice asked in the doorway. It was James, carrying a portfolio. “I feel like I’m in lockdown in Attica today. I haven’t left my desk once.”
“Hi, Jamesie,” Trixie said. “Do you know Kira? This chick just cleared out this mammoth steamer in like under two hours. We worship her!”
“Yes, I know Kira,” he said, giving me a trademark weak-in-the-knees-rendering smile. “And boy do I wish we had some help like that in the photo department. Our intern left at three o’clock. On a shoot day,” he said.
“Oh, how’s that Pier Sixty nautical chic thing going?” Lilly inquired.
“Fine, except the photographer’s assistant just called to say they need more berets. Apparently some ship with sailors just pulled in and they want to use them with the models. I don’t know where the hell to get berets. I hoped maybe you guys had some beret connection?”
“Not unless there’s a huge logo on them. I mean, we have a few in the hat room from fall and winter,” Trixie said. “But they’re kind of for women. Not sailory at all—”
“The props warehouse is closed,” said Lilly, looking at her watch.
James looked defeated.
“What about that place Weiss & Mahoney?” I ventured. “I read about it in Time Out New York once. Army surplus? I think they’re open late. I can call.”
“Didn’t I tell you? This gal rocks,” said Trixie.
I called the store and it was indeed open until eight o’clock.
“Great, that is so excellent. Thank you, Kira,” he said, relieved. “Gotta run, good night, guys.” He took off down the hall. Then I heard him stop and turn around, returning to our clothes-covered haven. “Hey, Kira?”
I turned from my piles of files.
“Ever been to a feature photo shoot before?”
Chapter Six
Okay, I have a newfound respect for models. I used to dismiss them as genetic mutants who were born blessed with killer bodies and perfect faces, and that was all they needed to get any guy they wanted and to secure enormous amounts of money. But believe it or not, there is work involved. Okay, don’t cry them a river; it’s not as tough as canning anchovies on an assembly line or mining for coal thousands of feet underground, but the catwalk is no cakewalk. Besides the actual standing around wearing skimpy clothing in freezing temperatures, people tell you that you look like crap all day. My self-esteem couldn’t take it.
James and I arrived at the Intrepid, that ginormous ship that’s famous for some reason or another, and we found the ten-thousand-dollars-a-day girls in bikinis contorting into unnatural poses. Some of the sailors were in the pictures, so they had their hands on the girls’ butts or were holding some girls in their arms. Ick, it all seemed so uncomfortable. I’m sure the pictures will turn out amazing, but the idea that you’d be dangled over the Hudson River by some pervy sailor who hadn’t seen a girl in ten months because he was out at sea and you’re all oiled up in this embarrassingly teeny bathing suit—yuck! You couldn’t pay me. Even ten grand. Okay, maybe for that fee I’d consider it. Not that anyone would pay ten dollars to see me in a bikini.
That aside, it was incredible to see all the action go down. For years I’d flipped through the pages of Skirt and been amazed by their magical photos, which were more creative and original than any other magazine. And to actually be there and watch the assistants running up and down, tucking in a collar, or tying a string on a bikini, or brushing aside an errant hair, was so interesting. I was psyched to see that the photographer was Jenny Toushé (pronounced Touchay), whose pictures I had always admired.
On the cab ride down to the army surplus store, James and I really didn’t have a chance to chat much because his cell phone was ringing off the hook, first with photographers, then with editors, and so on. I was waiting for the moment when Daphne would call, but she didn’t, and I was glad. It wasn’t until we had successfully distributed the berets to the sailors and helped the fashion assistant pick up the entire rack of flippers that she had knocked over that James and I were able to sit back, watch the action, and talk.
“Thank you so much for bringing me to the shoot. It’s amazing,” I gushed as I watched Jenny snap away at a model with a snorkel in her mouth, walking the plank.
“No prob. Glad you could come. Thank you for saving my ass with the army surplus lightbulb.”
“I could just sit here all night,” I said, sighing and taking a sip of the coffee that James had so nicely brought me from the craft service table—a gigantic spread with a delicious catered buffet that, natch, no one but us had touched.
“Really?” asked James. “You don’t find it boring?”
“Boring? Are you crazy? This is like a dream come true.”
James looked at me and smiled. God, he was cute. The more I looked at him, how he was clad in the most well cut black pants I had ever seen and a Radiohead T-shirt, the more I resented Daphne and her ability to lay claim to everything I wanted.
“I love photo shoots also,” he said. “Oddly enough, though, a lot of people find them boring.”
I wanted to say “You mean Daphne?” but I had to bite my tongue. I wondered how he and Daphne had connected. What would she see in a photo assistant? Wasn’t that beneath her?
“So how did you end up at Skirt?” I asked, feeling bold. He hesitated.
“Um, let’s see…well, I’ve worked a lot on photo shoots…” I nodded, and then he looked at me closely and leaned in.
“Okay, full disclosure. My stepfather’s a photographer, he’s done stuff for Hughes, and I got a lot of experience working for him.”
“Aha!” I said with a sly smile. “So you’re like a Trumpette?”
“Me? A Trumpette?” he asked with mock horror. I think he was about to defend himself and then changed his mind. “God, I guess so. Gross, I never thought of that.”
“Denial,” I said mischievously.
“Okay, okay, but let me defend myself.”
“Go ahead,” I said. God, I couldn’t believe I was being so flirty with this guy. It was so not me.
“Yes, I got experience through connections, but I have worked my share of photo shoots, and I did toil away every summer during college paying my dues as a lowly a
ssistant,” he said, hand to heart.
“What, you worked for your stepfather?” I asked with a smile.
“Not only him,” he said with a smile. “Avedon, before he died. Scavullo, Mario Testino. And then Wayne Priddy, this up-and-coming guy who rocks.”
“Wow, you’re lucky,” I said. “That sounds amazing.”
“But I also worked for Frank DeLine. You can’t tell me that was a walk in the park. The guy only likes taking pictures of young gay guys, not to mention that he sexually harasses every guy who works for him. That was torture!”
“Okay, but who’s your stepfather?”
“Victor Ledkovsky,” he said almost meekly.
Victor Ledkovsky? He was, like, the photographer of all time. He did everything for Hughes Publications. I had torn his photos from magazines hundreds of times, worshipping his elegant pix of Natalie Portman on a horse, or his hilarious shot of Maya Rudolph getting doused with orange soda. The guy was talented and prolific; he made Annie Leibovitz look like a lazy amateur. The fact that James was related to him was a whole new ball game.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said, really not knowing what to say. God, now it all made sense. James was one of them. No wonder he and Daphne were together. They’d probably known each other since they were fashion fetuses.
“Come on!” he said. “It’s not like that.”
I think he could see that my expression changed. To hear that James was one of them, it almost made me think he was a little lame.
“Don’t be unfair,” James said, reading my mind. “I want you to know that even though I knew Mortimer Hughes and Genevieve West, I applied for my job at Skirt without any help from them. I have a different last name than Victor, and I didn’t call Mortimer or use strings. I just sent in my application to human resources.”
“Well, you seem to know what you’re doing, so they obviously could sense a winner,” I said, shrugging, giving him the benefit of the doubt. “And how did you meet Daphne? By a catwalk in Dior swaddling clothes or something?” I teased.
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