Summer Intern

by Carrie Karasyov

  He laughed. “I knew her when we were young—not quite the diaper years, but in grade school tangentially—and then I went to boarding school in Europe. I met up with her again only when she came to visit the offices in December, when I started working here.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I nodded.

  “Kira, I know sometimes people think stuff when someone’s going out with the boss’s daughter. It’s not like that. She’s great and we have fun together. I just hope the rest of the office doesn’t think that’s how I hold on to my job. I’ll probably end up having to work twice as hard to move up the ranks as it is,” he confessed.

  So Daphne was “great.” Knife to my heart. No one wants any guy to tell them how crazy he is about another woman.

  “You know,” he said, flashing his huge grin. “I don’t say these things lightly, but I have a feeling that you’re going to do really well in this biz.”

  “Really?” I asked, instantly feeling my cheeks flush to a shade not unlike a strawberry.

  “You’re someone who’s obviously got her stuff together and you have the confidence and taste to succeed. Not to mention that everyone is loving you,” he said, standing up.

  I looked up at him. Loving me? Everyone? Taste?

  “More coffee?” he asked, holding out his hand. I handed over my cup.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  I dreamily watched him walk over to the food table. God, he was cute. And he said I would do really well. And I really felt like he wasn’t giving me a line, that he appreciated my style and me. And hell, it made me want him so badly. Why was Daphne Hughes the luckiest girl in the world?

  Chapter Seven

  I came home, starry-eyed but exhausted. I hiked up the stairs, thrilled to get to the top, as if I’d just scaled Everest, only to find a note affixed to our paint-chipped door: “Yo, Kira! We’re around the corner at Milk & Honey—you better meet us there, beeyotch! XO G ‘n’ T.”

  I smiled and stood there on our doorway perch for a second. On the one hand, I felt so tired I was convinced I’d be comatose within seconds of hitting my prison cot. But on the flipside, I was in New York! I was young! I had the coolest job on earth! I could sleep when I was dead.

  Milk & Honey, an unmarked speakeasy, was virtually impossible to find. I paced the whole block, peering down several rat-infested alleyways, before two giggling lovebirds emerged from a doorway. I watched them mack against a graffiti-covered wall as I squeezed by them into the hidden, crowded narrow bar. A DJ spun old-school eighties music as a cool crowd got down to the tunes. As I busted through to the back, I saw Teagan sipping a concoction and Gabe, naturally, dancing on his chair, voguing better than half of Madonna’s dancers.

  “Yaaaaay!! You made it!” he screamed ecstatically over the music, as if I were Angelina Jolie bringing foodstuffs to Sudan. “Girl, you get your butt up here and shimmy with me this instant!”

  I looked at him, knowing there was no way I could muster up the energy to shimmy.

  Teagan saw my face and laughed, offering me a seat next to her.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “Well, I—” Just thinking of James, I was suddenly the purple rose of Cairo. “James took me to a shoot. It was so amazing…”

  It took Gabe exactly 1.3 nanoseconds to jump down and sit next to me. “Girl! Oooooh, you got it bad. Look at her, Teags!”

  Teagan nodded, her plum-painted lips curled into a sly smile. They so had my number.

  “Guys,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s sooo not happening. His dad is Victor Ledkovsky!”

  “Shutterbug numero uno,” Gabe marveled.

  “Yeah, so that makes James fashion royalty.” I sighed. “Just the perfect match for Princess Daphne.”

  “She blows,” said Teagan with arms crossed. “She took three editors out for lunch today to Osteria del Circo! I mean, hellooo, buying the good recommendations for her Genevieve internship at all?”

  “Total white-truffle-risotto-as-bribery,” agreed Gabe.

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do but stay focused and plug along,” I said. “That’s what I came here to do—slave away, not chase some office crush.”

  “Yeah, but don’t get your hopes up,” said Teagan, before turning her back to Gabe and changing the topic to a dissection of some band.

  Teagan’s words stung. I liked her and Gabe, but it rubbed me the wrong way that they had already cast themselves as sort of renegade outsiders and made no attempt to ingratiate themselves to the Trumpettes or any of the editors who favored the Trumpettes. It’s like they had chips on their shoulders. I didn’t want Gabe and Teagan to classify me as one of them. It was too early to make allegiances. My sole focus right now was to get that internship.

  And slave away I did. The next day I was sent to pick up CeCe’s dry cleaning. Not from the dry cleaner. From the JFK Airport customs warehouse—she shipped her clothes to Paris because they had “the best dry cleaners on planet earth,” according to her. Sheesh, talk about clothes being the love of one’s life. I had never been to Paris, but all of CeCe’s jackets had.

  I was doing other various menial tasks throughout the morning when I heard Alida on an intern patrol. Sometimes, when a crisis would arise, Alida or some editor would yell, “Does anyone have a spare intern?” All the other interns suddenly made themselves scarce, pretended to be busy, or just plain hid in the bathroom. But not me. That morning I’d just finished calling twenty-three agency bookers to confirm go-see appointments for their models and was free to heed Alida’s call.

  “Hi, thanks, Kira,” she said, frantic. “There is an emergency.” She was breathless. “Liv Tyler’s makeup artist’s assistant’s dog walker got sick with food poisoning from sushi and is foaming at the mouth!”

  “Oh my gosh, what should I do?” I asked.

  “I need you to go to the Carlyle, pick up the dog, and walk it before they get in the limo for the shoot.”

  I subwayed uptown in the scorching heat, got the pooch who was in the lobby with the second assistant waiting for me, and we strolled through the burning, sweat-inducing humid haze as I stopped every few steps to pick up the pellets of poo. Glamorous!

  Back at the office, CeCe demanded I go buy her three pairs of panty hose. I know interns are the lowest level of scum at a fashion magazine, but I still resented the way she asked me—sorry, ordered me. At least have the common decency to say please. I trudged to Bergdorf, almost being mowed down by fanny-pack-wearing tourists, and finally returned with the goods and was about to collapse.

  CeCe carefully examined the wares, nostrils aflare. “No! No! No!” she cried as if I’d just cut up her family pictures. “Nooo! I asked for Donna Karan Collection, not DKNY! This is the bridge line! You idiot! I have to do everything myself!” she scoffed before storming out into the hallway.

  Standing by in head-to-toe Roberto Cavalli and Valentino, respectively, were none other than Daphne and Jane, who bore witness to the dramatic exodus. While Jane took a phone call on her rhinestone-studded cell, Daphne lingered by the doorway as I tried to retrieve the hose that CeCe had flung around the hall in her rage, raising her eyebrows in a condescending manner. “Don’t worry,” she said patronizingly. “You didn’t know about bridge lines; it’s okay. That means it’s the designer’s lower-priced, B-level line,” she said.

  “Yeah, I kind of knew that. I just didn’t see anything but DKNY,” I said in my defense. “She didn’t really specify…”

  “Here at Skirt,” Daphne said as if she were ruler of the universe (though, stupid me, I guess she was), “just assume that editors don’t need to specify. They always want the best.” She smiled and nodded, happy to toss me the precious kernels of her wisdom, and sauntered off. I saw James had turned the corner and had seen the scene, so I turned on my nondesigner heels and retreated to CeCe’s office.

  Still fuming over first CeCe’s and then Daphne’s attitudes, I sought out something to keep my mind busy. I soon found Alida, who was on her hands and kne
es going through files. I took over, alphabetizing them perfectly so she could go get a blow-out before meeting her boyfriend. Before I knew it, it was eight o’clock. I was about to leave when I saw a light on in Richard’s office.

  “Hi, sweets!” he said, surprised to see me. “Where’s your posse?”

  “Oh, they left. Everyone’s gone, I just thought I’d check if you need anything.”

  “No, no, it’s okay,” he said. “I have to take Polaroids of all these new accessories and I’m wiped out working on my new story.”

  “I can take them,” I offered, content to distract myself from the embarrassing debacle by plunging into work mode. Before Richard could object, I sat down to organize the piles of bags, hats, scarves, gloves, and wallets for fall. I snapped away and catalogued the goods for an hour as he worked at his desk on jewelry layouts for a big bling story.

  The entire time, I was brooding over the mishap with CeCe’s stockings and how irate I was that Daphne had witnessed the whole scene. I knew that Daphne would always have an easy life, getting everything she wanted without ever trying, but I prayed that this internship wasn’t part of it. There had to be some karma somewhere out there, right?

  After a while, we heard footsteps coming down the hall.

  “That you, whore?” Richard asked.

  James appeared in the doorframe. “Oh, am I whore now, Richard?”

  “Ooops, sorry, James. Thought you were that skank Fifi. Why’re you here?”

  “I went out for a bit but had to pop back to finish up, and was about to head home when I saw your light,” James replied as he caught sight of me on the floor. “What are you still doing here?” he asked. “I think you just may be the most devoted intern in the building, Miss Kira.” Why did hearing my name come from his mouth give me chills?

  “Just helping Richard.”

  “You’re a lucky man,” James said to Richard. “Kira is the best. They just don’t make ’em like you. I wish my intern stuck around past four o’clock! Well, bye, guys,” he said, and left to go as he caught my eye. “Have a good night, Kira.”

  Two beats later, Richard launched. “Can you believe that hottie is banging that little brat?” he said. “Gagsville.”

  I smiled, not wanting to tip my hand about my would-be swoonfest over James, but nodded knowingly and kept working.

  “Genevieve’s been in Paris and I just know when she gets back she’ll give that Daphne whatever post she wants,” he said. “What a brat.”

  “You really think Daphne will get the internship?” I asked.

  Richard smiled at me sympathetically. “You want it?”

  “It’s, like, my dream job,” I confessed.

  “I will totally put in a good word for you, sweets. I hate to be a heartbreaker, but you should know that Daphne really rules the roost here. It’s lame, but true.”

  “So you think it’s not even worth trying?” I asked, dreading his answer.

  “You should totally try. You never know,” said Richard encouragingly. But I had a sinking feeling that he did know.

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re quite the little worker bee, aren’t you?” asked Daphne. Her tone was friendly, but I sensed a more sinister undercurrent.

  “I don’t know, that’s what we’re here for, right?” I asked.

  We were in the conference room, organizing samples from ten young and up-and-coming jewelry designers whom Alida wanted Genevieve to feature in the magazine. I had been typing up call sheets for the following week’s Zebra Power shoot when Alida popped her head in CeCe’s office to borrow me. I was so psyched when she explained the mission, and congratulated myself on all my extra hard work that I was sure prompted me to be chosen. But all happy feelings deflated when I saw that Daphne was also assigned to the task. We’d been working together for an hour, lining up pendants, necklaces, and bracelets, mostly chitchatting about the fact that Jessica Simpson had been chosen for the next cover. We both agreed that it was a bad move on Genevieve’s part. Jessica was so not Skirt. Everything was actually going well until Daphne decided she was done and plopped down on the couch.

  “I like your attitude,” said Daphne. Her tone was definitely that of a boss talking down to an employee.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  As I lined up some jade earrings, I noticed Daphne playing with her Elsa Peretti heart pendant and eyeing me before glancing down at her watch.

  “You know what, Kira?” she asked with grave importance. “I want you to come to lunch with me and my girls today.”

  She announced this in such a way that she sounded as if she had just given her kidney to someone on dialysis. But regardless, I was kind of flattered. It was weird, because I knew in my heart of hearts that Daphne was a totally self-serving manipulative person, but I was intrigued to find out if there was more to her than that. Okay, I know it seems like that thing when the popular girl suddenly notices you and all reason goes out the window. But the popular girl is popular for a reason. Sure, Daphne’s father owned the place, but was that really all there was to her? I’m sure Cecilia’s and Jane’s parents were something major also, and yet they were like children of the corn, blindly following Daphne around. And what about James? There must be something he saw in her to date her. He hardly seemed superficial. Plus, I couldn’t help but wonder why she was suddenly interested in me. This was my chance to figure her out.

  “Um, okay, that sounds good,” I said, finally. I could only imagine what Gabe and Teagan would say.

  “I’m very excited. This, I think, will be fun,” she said, giving me an appraising look as she stood up.

  “Great,” I responded tepidly, and with that, Daphne tossed her Chanel bag over her shoulder and we headed to the restaurant.

  My heart sank when I glanced at the prices on the menu. Thirty bucks for pasta? That was so decadent. I was kind of regretting this lunch. I barely liked the company, and to have to dole out that much cash? Daphne must have noticed my face because just as I was scanning for a salad and realizing the cheapest thing on the menu was a side order of boiled spinach, she leaned in and said:

  “And lunch is on me, my treat.”

  “No, it’s okay,” I protested.

  She waved her hand in the air. “No, no. I took you to a really nice place, and I insist on paying. So order what you want.”

  “Thanks,” I said softly. Phew.

  “So Kira, we hardly know you! Tell us about yourself,” said Daphne, focusing her attention on me after we placed our order.

  I looked across the table at Jane and Cecilia, who were nodding with serious faces, urging me on with the same intensity that Dr. Phil uses to urge child molesters to fess up.

  “Well, um, what do you want to know?” I asked.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” asked Jane.

  “Not right now,” I said. I didn’t really want to get into that topic.

  “Any love interest?” Daphne asked, her eyebrow arched. Yes, I wanted to say, I want your boyfriend.

  “Not really. I’m kind of, you know, burying my head in right now, trying to work. But what about you guys?” I asked, turning my attention to Jane and Cecilia.

  They were much more eager to talk about themselves (enough about me) and launched into a diatribe that lasted through our entrees. Cecilia was deciding between two guys, both really gorgeous and with private jets, she pointed out. Vasilis was a Greek shipping heir who once dated Brittany Murphy (she told me that three times, as if that gave him street cred) and he adored her, but she wasn’t sure if he could be faithful. Then there was Max, who was so fun and owned a really cool club downtown, but he didn’t have a country house, and what was she supposed to do on the weekends? Her parents had been incredibly foolish and bought their estate in the rolling hills of central Connecticut, which, although trendy now and worth millions more than they paid for it (she assured me), was super boring. She wanted to be by the beach.

  Jane had been dating Percy Fairbanks, a British lord (second cou
sin to Prince William) for two years. He was the sweetest guy in the world but her parents couldn’t stand him because he hadn’t gone to college and had no future plans. He was thirteenth in line for the throne, so he’d have to off the twelve dudes in front to even get a crown. Her parents wondered what she would have to talk about with him in the years to come. Judging by how dim Jane seemed, I couldn’t imagine it would be a problem.

  Then Daphne took her turn. “Well, you know I’m going out with James. He’s Victor Ledkovsky’s stepson, which is so funny that we have the whole fashion thing in common.”

  Right. Hilaaarious!

  “But James’s real dad is Matthew Carlson—you know, the Matthew Carlson.”

  Of course I knew who the Matthew Carlson was. He founded Carlson Airlines and Carlson Movie Theaters. That was James’s father? God, I never would have guessed. This was even more strange than the stepfather connection. He was so low-key, whereas his father was a total publicity whore.

  “They’re not close, but he’s, like, his only son, so he’s still his heir,” said Daphne, nodding her head as if Matthew Carlson might have some little bastard baby somewhere who was polishing a gold pacifier, readying for a fight for Daddy’s dough.

  “Right,” I said. “So what is it you like about James?”

  “He’s really sweet. Very caring, very thoughtful,” she stated, almost as though she were reciting the facts.

  “He’s such a doll! He gets her little gifts all the time,” squealed Jane.

  “And those letters he writes you!” added Cecilia. “I would die if one of my men wrote those.”

  Daphne nodded, pleased. “Yes, sweet.”

  I nodded along with them, burning with jealousy. It struck me that Daphne wasn’t swooning or giddy about James at all; it was more cold, like he was some trophy boyfriend thanks to his DNA, not his charms.

  “You know what, Keerster?” asked Daphne. “We need to set you up. Girls, who do we have for Kira? She’s so chic and pretty, we gotta find someone good.”