Summer Intern

by Carrie Karasyov

  “Okay, sorry, I won’t give you my two cents,” said Teagan, heading off to her room.

  “Thanks,” I said. I didn’t need her two cents if they made me feel like one cent.

  “Don’t worry, honey, he must’ve got laid up. A mellow night in will do you some good,” said Gabe, hugging me.

  By eleven, I was in pj’s, face washed, still bewildered, when my cell rang. It was Matt, apologizing profusely. He’d bumped into an old friend from Holt Academy and then he tried to call me but his phone battery died, and he was incredibly sorry but wanted to make it up to me. After being so excited and then so let down, I was at least happy to know he was (a) alive and (b) still into me, so I brushed off my annoyance and asked him to come to the FDI event with me.

  “But you have to show up on time to the event, Matt,” I said. “It’s part of my job.”

  “Don’t worry, Kira, I’ll be there,” he promised. “Sleep tight.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The grand glass-ceiling ballroom of the Manhattan Museum of Art was of gargantuan proportions. Urns the size of Olympians were overflowing with white flowers as lighting technicians dangled from thirty-foot-high poles, installing just the right scheme of hues to make the beautiful people look even more beautiful. Gabe, Teagan, and I had all come straight to the ballroom that morning as instructed, with our gowns (borrowed from the fashion closet with permission) in garment bags, which we stowed in the coat check. There was so much to be done—I couldn’t believe the stark hall would be transformed in eight hours into a lavish, petal-covered, luxurious ball for the crème de la crème to air kiss, clink glasses, and dance the night away.

  First Alida had us sit with the event planner, Langley Veer de Veer, to double check that all the seating cards, table assignments, and place cards matched up—a nightmare would be to have an advertiser arrive to their assigned table only to find there was no place for them. So I went over the list three times with a fine-tooth comb with Cecilia, who was also assigned to the task. We were courteous to each other, and although I should maybe have been a little harsher considering she and Jane dropped me like a hot potato when Daphne had moved on from me, right now I didn’t care. I had a newfound confidence with Matt. Before I knew it, Cecilia had disappeared like the wind. It figured.

  Gabe was laying out the cards, each fresh from the on-site calligrapher’s pen, in alphabetical order on a bed of giant peonies. Twenty florists from Veer de Veer’s design team labored on every centerpiece as two thousand votives were placed around the room, illuminating the space with a warm and radiant glow.

  Next the slipper chairs were brought in with their custom upholstered cushions, and Gabe and I tied a half-yard of chocolate brown velvet ribbon around each linen napkin.

  It was magical watching the whole thing come together. Not even in the wedding pages of Town & Country or InStyle had I seen such an opulent affair. It was what I imagined ragers at Versailles to be. And then some.

  Finally, as every minute detail came together before our very eyes, it was time to quickly change so we could assume our places checking in guests as they climbed from their limos onto the red carpet. Skirt had taken over the back section of the museum to use as a makeshift dressing room. I unzipped the garment bag with excitement; this was the first time in my life that I would don a dress by a real designer. Trixie had helped me pick out the gorgeous emerald-blue strapless Rochas dress and had lent me divine silver Sergio Rossi heels from his personal collection. (I wondered what Sergio Rossi did with his personal collection of high heels, but never mind.) I felt like a princess. I mean, Jennifer Aniston had worn this very dress on our June cover, and now I was wearing it! And it was, like, twenty-five thousand dollars to boot!

  Richard sweetly handed me some gorgeous Temple St. Clair earrings that he had “borrowed” from the accessories closet and adjusted the hem of my skirt before pronouncing me “gorge” and rushing off. Although Teagan and I were not really talking, we were still cordial, and I was grateful when she offered her perfume bottle. I nervously sprayed some as a final touch.

  I took my place with Gabe and Teagan behind the table, which was covered with a stunning embroidered lace cloth and sheets of paper with every guest’s name. One by one they entered like swans, fluttering and preening, every hair in place, every diamond shining, every stitch of clothing immaculate.

  After most of the arrivals had teetered off and Alida told us that we could go to our table, in waltzed Daphne. Miss Hughes, who had been absent from the preparations all day, was in haute couture from Dior and had clearly been at a salon to get her chignon that perfect. She wore a small delicate diamond comb in her updo, and casually held what I recognized as a Van Cleef & Arpels vintage diamond necessaire clutch. Behind her were Jane and Cecilia, both in equal photo-ready form. So that’s where Cecilia went. I should have known the Trumpettes would skip the toils of preparation only to arrive fully glossed while we were left to shove a brush through our locks under the fluorescent lights of the museum bathroom.

  After another stream of various boldfacers, in walked James, and I did a double take. I was used to seeing him in T-shirts and other casual fare, so it was a shock to see him wearing proper black tie, and I have to say it looked amazing. I loved it when men wore the old classic tuxedos and loathed how most of Hollywood felt the need to jazz up their suits. Did they think it was edgier? Why mess with something that works? But James clearly didn’t feel the need to do anything, and the result was perfection.

  “Kira,” he said, coming up to our check-in table. “You look…really beautiful—” There was such sincerity in his earnest expression, I was extra struck by his compliment.

  Before I could answer, Alida interrupted.

  “Kira! Hi, I need you to come with me to help with the back door,” said Alida, harried and flustered. “Selma Blair’s limo is at the back, and I need you to guide her through to the cocktail reception.” I got up, giving James a “what can I say?” look, and followed her obediently. Selma Blair? I could never have imagined that I would be meeting celebrities! And she turned out to be so sweet, although I was too starstruck to make any real conversation.

  Next I helped usher guests from the reception into the main hall, which by this point was so beautiful with the bursting peonies and flickering candles that I couldn’t wait to see Matt and have a dance with him. Where was Matt? I wasn’t wearing a watch, but I knew that it had to be past the appointed hour. I hoped that he was already here somewhere, but as I made my way through the crowd and past the waiters serving hors d’oeuvres, I couldn’t find him.

  After an interminable cocktail hour (during which time I went to the front entrance three separate times to see if Matt had arrived), we took our seats. Our interns’ table was miles away from the dance floor.

  Just as we were sitting down, Daphne arrived holding her table forty-seven calligraphied place card. “This is table forty-seven?” she asked, aghast. “I can’t believe it! I’m at the interns table?”

  “Well, you are an intern,” James said, sitting down with a smile. I was glad he was at our table. He didn’t seem fazed by having to sit near his ex.

  “And you’re not. So why are you at our table?” snapped Daphne.

  “I requested your table. I thought it would be more amusing.”

  I could tell that Daphne was seething. She kept looking around, craning her neck to see guests entering. I had been keeping my distance from her of late, which actually wasn’t hard because she seemed like she was finally forced to do some work for once. Working for Genevieve was no joke. Daphne was constantly called out to greet every Tom, Dick, and Harry fashion person who came to see Genevieve, and it wasn’t so glamorous fetching coffee for Kate Hudson or getting chicken nuggets for Colin Farrell. Sometimes I’d see Daphne sitting at her desk outside Genevieve’s office and I actually felt bad for her. Just a little. No more long lunches with her friends—Cecilia and Jane would wave to her as they took off to La Goulue—and no more doing fun st
uff like helping with the shoots or going through the cool new clothes. Daphne’s gig was strictly clerical. And with two assistants above her, she was the low man on the totem pole.

  That said, I still would have wanted the job. The access was undeniable. And I would want that feeling of winning, because that’s what it was. Daphne and I were alike in that way: We had always won everything we wanted. I did it through hard work, and she did it through the lucky gene pool. But whatever. Let her have the job. She was still all fired up about her “responsibility” to find the person stealing clothes out of the closet, always making surprise cameo appearances to check on people in there (once erroneously accusing Trixie of stealing a vintage T-shirt, which, much to Daphne’s embarrassment, turned out to be her own; Trixie produced the receipt), and talking loudly in the kitchen about what suffering would befall the person who was filching the goods. I wondered if Genevieve had made the whole thing up as a cruel joke just so she could sit back and watch Daddy’s little girl eavesdrop on everyone and turn into the loathed office narc, but despite her knowledge of fashion, Genevieve didn’t seem that clever to me. It was Alida, after all, who ghostwrote Genevieve’s “Letter from the Editor.”

  In any event, Daphne mattered little to me now that our competition had ended.

  In the meantime, I shook hands with Jane’s and Cecilia’s guests, wondering why Daphne hadn’t invited anyone. She obviously wanted to be on the prowl. And with her heaving cleavage and piles of bling, I was sure she’d snag her fish of choice. I scanned the room before sitting down—still no sign of my date. The waiters had placed small salads in front of us with poached lobster and vinaigrette, and I didn’t want him to arrive in the middle of dinner. The empty seat next to me felt like an elephant in the room, and when I glanced across the table, my eyes locked with Daphne’s.

  “So, Kira, where’s your date?” asked Daphne with a raised brow. She was one down from me, seated on the other side of Matt’s empty place.

  “He’s probably on his way,” I said confidently.

  “Late again?” Teagan asked. My blood boiled. How dare she! And in front of everyone? But before I could say anything, I felt a hand on my bare shoulder.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Matt said, kissing my cheek and taking his seat. He looked a bit disheveled, hair slightly wet, coat unbuttoned, as if he had raced to get there. I was psyched to see that he was wearing a tuxedo but a little bummed that he had foregone the usual bow tie and chosen the more modern long black tie. I glanced at James’s outfit with envy. Matt leaned in, gave me another kiss on my cheek, and whispered, “I wanted to look perfect for you.” All of my anger melted. I shot a smug look at Teagan and then turned back to Matt, noticing Daphne staring at him with saucer eyes. Cute, huh, Daph?

  Matt and I giggled over our first course, and I was thrilled to see Daphne checking him out slyly. I knew she wanted to get the four-one-one on him, but I hoarded him through the appetizer just to drive her a little crazy. When the time was right and he told her all about his life, she would be green with jealousy. It wasn’t until the main course arrived, and I was forced into a dull conversation with Cecilia’s boring boyfriend on my right, that Daphne got a chance to give Matt the inquisition. Where was he from? Where did he go to school? Oh really? Holt Academy? Harvard in the fall? As soon as she learned all the pertinent and impressive details, I saw her turn on her charm. That was it. It was grossing me out how obviously predatory she was about my date. I was just about to sharpen my cat claws when Alida summoned me.

  “Kira,” she said. “I need you to come help me with some press shots—”

  I looked around the table, annoyed. On the one hand it was flattering that Alida had come to me for help, but on the other hand why did it seem like I was the only intern who was pulling my weight around here? The Trumpettes were being treated like guests of honor, and even Gabe and Teagan were laughing and refilling their champagne glasses, chatting away with a hot waiter from Pulp who Gabe had picked up the night before and asked to accompany him.

  I wanted to respond, “No, Alida! It’s not okay!” but instead I whispered to Matt that I would be right back and obediently followed and helped her corral various socialites for press shots for the four pages of party pictures we would be running.

  It took forever, and let me tell you, these heels may be beautiful, but they were not meant to be worn. At least worn by someone who had to stand around pulling people into pictures and bending down to help socialites adjust their hems or pull up spaghetti straps. I know the deal was that we had to work to earn our keep there, but I was frustrated. I just wanted to get back to Matt and enjoy the party. It wasn’t fair that I was the only one working! Out of the corner of my eye I saw Matt clearly charming everyone, including Daphne, who had her head thrown back in laughter as she delicately fingered a small diamond locket around her neck. She could have her heiress’s choice and here she was, trying to lure my date!

  As things started to wind down, I finally got back to my table, only to find Gabe, Teagan, and Gabe’s date. “Where’s Matt?” I asked.

  “He, uh…” Gabe trailed off.

  “He took a walk with Daphne,” replied Teagan, not smugly, but sadly. “Sorry, Kira.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “There you are!” I said, trying to be casual but fearing that my voice was betraying me.

  “Hey,” said Matt, with an expression I couldn’t read. It was obvious, however, that Daphne was less than thrilled that I had found them. And boy had it taken a while. I had gone back and forth around the entire ballroom, upstairs to the painting exhibit, and had walked the long hallway with the early American folk art cases, only to discover Matt and Daphne sitting on a bench by the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the museum’s greenhouse.

  I wanted to say, “What the hell were you thinking?” but instead I said, “The band is still playing. Any interest in heading downstairs?” It was important to play it cool. I didn’t want Daphne to think I cared that she had absconded with my boyfriend. But what the hell was he thinking? He would bear my wrath when we were alone.

  “Sure,” said Matt.

  “Let’s go downstairs,” said Daphne suddenly. “Derek Wombley—you know, the new Calvin Klein model? Well, he’s been begging me to dance with him all night.”

  “Well, if Derek Wombley has been asking you to dance, we should really hurry,” said Matt in a teasing tone.

  Then he linked one of his arms with me and the other with Daphne and started running down the hallway. “Matt, stop! I can’t run in these shoes!” I said, giggling.

  Daphne was also running but finally yanked her arm from Matt’s. “What are you doing?” she said harshly. “I don’t want to ruin my outfit.”

  “Well, excuse me, Miss Magazine Heiress,” teased Matt.

  Daphne looked at me, who was laughing, and at Matt, who was waiting for her response. I could tell she was deciding whether or not to freak out or to laugh it off. She chose the latter.

  “You are a madman, Matthew!” she said, straightening her dress and continuing on.

  Matthew?

  Matt and I followed her down the stairs, and when we returned to the ballroom, she immediately broke off from us and went in search of her male model. When she was distinctly out of earshot I turned to Matt.

  “Why did you wander off with her? She’s so lame,” I said.

  Matt looked at me and smiled. “Jealous?”

  “No.”

  “Jealous!” said Matt, pulling me in for a hug.

  “You’ve heard me talk about her, you know how I think she sucks,” I said, not wanting to sound bitchy, but sounding bitchy.

  “You were MIA for like an hour! What was I supposed to do?” asked Matt.

  That was true. But still.

  “Yeah, but why did you go upstairs?” I knew I sounded like a jealous girlfriend, but I didn’t like the whole situation.

  “Kira, don’t get panicky. I wanted to get away from all these so
ciety people. They give me the heebie-jeebies. Like I said, there are a ton of my parents’ friends here. So I asked Gabe if he wanted to check out the art and he was preoccupied with his new boyfriend, but Daphne volunteered. What could I do, say, ‘No, you can’t come?’”

  Yes! “I guess not,” I admitted. “Well, what did you talk about?” I asked as he grabbed my hand.

  “You know, people we knew in common, boarding schools, country clubs, that sort of stuff.”

  “Oh,” I said. For the first time I felt like it might be a problem that I was not from the fancy world that Matt and Daphne live in. But Matt read my mind.

  “Listen, don’t let your mind go crazy. Let’s take off. I know you didn’t get any dinner, so let’s head over to Cipriani and have a late-night supper, okay?”

  I smiled and nodded.

  We had a great time at Cipriani. Until the bill came and Matt realized he’d forgotten his wallet and I had to pay for the dinner on the credit card my parents gave me for emergencies. I knew he would pay me back, but it was a stressful feeling, putting a two-hundred-dollar late-night snack on Dad’s AmEx. I guess the theory that rich people never carry cash is true, as Matt never had any on him.

  Matt stayed over again and things got even more hot and heavy than usual. I finally had to practically put a barrier between us. I wasn’t exactly thrilled with him tonight—besides, I just wanted to wait. He seemed understanding, but slightly annoyed, and he rolled away without cuddling with me like usual. My fairytale evening had turned into a pumpkin.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next day at work I felt hit by a cyclone as I was in the middle of an editor tug-of-war with three different people needing my help. Alida won out. I packed trunks for her big fall shoots in the Caribbean, Sicily, and Africa, and then reorganized her entire office before she sent me out to Top Shoe Repair to collect all the scuffed sandals from the last cover story.