Summer Intern Read online

  Summer Intern

  Carrie Karasyov & Jill Kargman

  Contents

  Chapter One

  It was totally surreal: There I was in the midst…

  Chapter Two

  After the meetings, we were divided into groups for our…

  Chapter Three

  “And you are…?” asked the ice-cold voice as I lingered…

  Chapter Four

  After work, Gabe and Teagan took me to our pad…

  Chapter Five

  I once asked my grandfather how he went from being…

  Chapter Six

  Okay, I have a newfound respect for models. I used…

  Chapter Seven

  I came home, starry-eyed but exhausted. I hiked up the…

  Chapter Eight

  “You’re quite the little worker bee, aren’t you?” asked Daphne.

  Chapter Nine

  The next night, Daphne ‘n’ company brought me to what…

  Chapter Ten

  Back at work, I felt like a double agent—bosom buds…

  Chapter Eleven

  Jane popped by CeCe’s office as my boss was taking…

  Chapter Twelve

  I avoided Daphne the rest of that tense afternoon. The…

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was time.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “It’s okay,” Gabe cooed, holding my hair back as I…

  Chapter Fifteen

  Back slaving in CeCe-land, my newly empowered ego was just…

  Chapter Sixteen

  “How about this? It would look awesome on you with…

  Chapter Seventeen

  I bounded out of bed and to my clothing rack…

  Chapter Eighteen

  When I emerged from the subway on Eighty-sixth and Lexington,…

  Chapter Nineteen

  What came next was an Academy Awards–style montage of burgeoning…

  Chapter Twenty

  The grand glass-ceiling ballroom of the Manhattan Museum of Art…

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “There you are!” I said, trying to be casual but…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next day at work I felt hit by a…

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Hey, Kira, can I talk to you?”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  After passing out in a shivering damp mass under my…

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Hi, Matt, where are you?” I asked, walking along Seventy-second…

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  I tried to lay as low as humanly possible the…

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I was unprepared for what went down the next day.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  After an Oscar-worthy reenactment of the war zone that was…

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Luckily I didn’t have too much time during the weekend…

  Chapter Thirty

  After a night of full MSG binging, I returned to…

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Ready?”

  Epilogue

  I always love a good update, so let me just…

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Other Books by Carrie Karasyov & Jill Kargman

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  It was totally surreal: There I was in the midst of a dizzying, glittering collage of designer duds being pushed around on racks by leggy black-clad editors, with a soundtrack of whirring modems, ringing phones, and French accents playing in the background. There were models on go-sees with the bookings department, who were having Polaroids snapped of their gaunt, shiny faces. There were crocodile handbags from Hermès, Valentino, Chanel, and Marc Jacobs being gathered up for a shoot of “Scaley Chic” reptilian accessories. There was an armed guard from Van Cleef & Arpels with a briefcase cuffed to his arm as he transported gems for the “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” story, and a beret-wearing photographer having a loud fight with the sittings editor about renting out the Central Park Zoo’s entire polar bear sanctuary for a ten-page layout of winter’s best fur coats.

  I was in the frenzied offices of Skirt magazine—the top of the top in fashion, pop culture, and beauty; the bible for any aesthete; the cool girl’s forecast for what’s hot and what to wear, listen to, even eat (i.e., carbs = the devil). It was a kaleidoscopic mix of hipsters, hotties, and badasses, all yapping a mile a minute on teeny cell phones with a stress level you’d more likely expect to see at the Pentagon rather than at Hughes Publications, the mag’s parent company. But in the Gehry-architected glass-and-steel offices, the buzz of calamities at deadline was deafening. Like a trunk arriving in St. Bart’s with the wrong bikinis. A beauty associate screaming at a makeup artist that the tweezing for the brow story was too arched. A beeper informing a fashion director of a snag in a Missoni dress on location. Drama was all around. And I had just reported for my introductory summer intern meeting in the gleaming glass conference room. I took my place at one of the empty seats, heart pounding. A platter of baked goods and buttered bagels sat untouched as people streamed into the room.

  Beside me were my two roommates for the next two months, whom I’d only briefly met earlier that morning: Gabe, a gorgeous androgynous rocker-type with cheekbones one could slash a wrist on, and Teagan, a multiple-pierced Goth gal who was still striking and beautiful despite the sharp objects protruding from her face.

  Gabe and Teagan had both arrived a couple of days before me and had already paid a visit to the Skirt office. The accessories director had immediately taken them under his wing, filling them in on all the need-to-know gossip.

  When the meeting commenced, we were each asked to introduce ourselves. For example: “Gabe Tennant. Sagittarius. Midwesterner. Hung over.” My new roomie got some chuckles.

  My turn was so yawnsville: Kira Parker from Philly. I’d won the internship through a fashion sketch submission contest sponsored by Cotton, one of Skirt’s big advertisers. I was headed to Columbia in the fall. I also blurted out that I was “psyched” to get to know the city, and the second the words came out of my mouth like in a cartoon bubble, I realized I sounded hot off the Greyhound. Oh well. When we were all done, each editor explained which department they headed up, and then Alida Jenkins, the executive editor, took the floor to describe how the intern program worked.

  She was ten minutes into her speech, explaining the guidelines of what working at Skirt would entail, when the door to the conference room burst open. Standing on the threshold were three extremely well dressed girls, all with different shades of stick-straight long hair (the hair of the one on the left was dark brown with caramel highlights, while the one in the middle possessed the whitest hair outside of a Scandinavian country and the one on the right had the same honey color as Heidi Klum.) They were all clutching Venti-size cups from Starbucks and appeared to have been laughing at some hilarious joke that was so amusing they couldn’t stop giggling even when they noticed that the meeting was already in session.

  Now me, I would have been mortified to make such a ruckus that every head in the room whipped in my direction, but these girls didn’t seem at all fazed.

  “Oh my gosh, Alida! Did you start without us?” asked the white blonde in the center. She suddenly looked down at her watch, which I could see from across the room was a solid gold Cartier tank with small diamonds. “Cecilia, you didn’t tell me it was ten-fifteen,” she said accusingly to the Heidi Klum look-alike. With that watch, who needed their friend to tell her what time it was?

  “That’s okay, Daphne. Come on in. We’re just getting started,” said Alida with a tight smile.

  “Sooooo sorry, Ali
da,” said the platinum blonde girl. She strode up to Alida and gave her an air kiss on the cheek.

  Instead of sitting down, the white blonde—obviously the leader of the pack—turned to face the other ten interns who were seated in the room.

  “I’m sure I missed the name game, so I’ll introduce myself now. I’m Daphne Hughes, this is my second summer interning here, and I go to Brown.” She looked around the room to make sure everyone was paying attention. I moved my eyes to her friends, certain that they would now take the stage, but before they could, Daphne continued. “Listen, I just want to say that I know you all are probably really nervous right now, but don’t worry. Everyone is really sweet here, and that’s why it’s the best magazine on the planet, so don’t stress. Of course, they’ll work us hard, won’t they, Alida?”—she didn’t pause to let Alida answer—“But it will be so worth it. This is the best way to get your foot in the door if you want to have a career in the fashion world.”

  This girl was gutsy. What she had said was basically neutral, but it was the way she said it that was sort of, I don’t know, offensive. She was so confident. And patronizing. It was as if she owned the place.

  “So, now I’ll hand it over to you, Alida, but let me also introduce my friends, because they hate public speaking. This is Cecilia Barney,” she said, motioning to Heidi Klum’s clone, “and this is Jane St. John,” she said, pointing to the brunette.

  Both girls lowered their eyes and smiled slightly. “Say hello!” commanded Daphne.

  Her friends mumbled something and Daphne smiled as if to say “these guys,” and then they all walked to the front row and sat down.

  “Okay, so let’s continue,” said Alida.

  The rest of the meeting progressed and Alida explained protocol, rules, safety, and everything else. I listened attentively, but every once in a while my eyes were drawn to the backs of Daphne, Cecilia, and Jane. Just their posture seemed intimidating.

  Finally, the meeting was wrapping up, and Alida took on a serious tone. “Lastly, I want to say that you will all be assigned to different editors by the end of the day. Once you get your editor, there can be no trading, unless the editor requests a change. But there is one position that will not be decided today, and that is the most coveted one: assistant to Genevieve West, the editor in chief.” Alida said Genevieve’s name with reverence. “That will be rewarded in two weeks’ time and based on performance. It is a demanding job, and only one of you will get it. Even though it’s challenging, no one will get an education like the one they get under Genevieve’s tutelage. So I suggest you all work hard at your various posts, because that is the only way you have a chance at working in the editor in chief’s office.”

  I knew then and there that I had to have that internship with Genevieve. That would be like the apex for me. I planned to bust my butt over the next few weeks, take additional assignments, offer to help anyone, and do whatever was needed to get that job.

  Daphne raised her hand and Alida nodded. “Last year Genevieve had two interns—why not this year?” asked Daphne petulantly.

  “She thought it got a little hectic, all the people in her office,” said Alida.

  “She’s such a nut,” said Daphne with obvious fondness. “Okay, girlies,” she said, rising and signaling to her friends. Then they all stood up.

  Alida seemed surprised slash annoyed that Daphne had called an end to the meeting but didn’t say anything and instead stood up also. “The sign-up for which editor you want to work for is over here,” she said, motioning to the corner.

  Daphne and her friends continued walking out of the room. “I’m working for you again, Alides,” said Daphne with a smile. “And put Cecilia down with Richard and Jane down with Stephanie,” she said, more of a command than a request.

  Alida nodded, her brow furrowed. It was obvious that Alida was not psyched for Daphne to work for her again.

  As soon as Daphne and her gaggle left, everyone else seemed to exhale and ran over to the sign-up sheet. Did they have some sort of prior knowledge of who was nice and who wasn’t? ’Cause I sure didn’t.

  “Who are you going for?” I asked Gabe.

  “I put myself down for Warren Frank. He’s a queen, too, and brilliant with photographers. I heard he’s a bit of a diva, but I think I can handle it,” said Gabe.

  “What about you?” I asked Teagan.

  “Slim pickings, but Viv Mercer, the sittings editor.”

  I glanced at the list. All that was left was CeCe Ward, the bookings editor who was supposed to be the devil, or someone named Mary-Elizabeth Fillerton, who worked in fact-checking. I didn’t want to spend the entire summer stuck in some room surfing the net to find out what year Cindy Crawford and Richard Gere divorced or other boring stuff like that, so I took a deep breath and wrote my name down next to CeCe’s. I prayed that rumors of her nefarious exploits were exaggerated. But it didn’t matter, anyway, because I planned on working there for only two weeks before I made my move to the editor in chief’s office.

  When I noticed everyone had left the room, I leaned into Gabe and Teagan.

  “So what was the deal with that girl Daphne? She seemed to think she, like, owns the place,” I joked.

  “Sweetie, she does own the place! Didn’t you hear her last name?” asked Gabe.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Hughes. As in Mortimer Hughes. As in her daddy is our boss’s boss’s boss, the big kahuna,” said Gabe.

  I took a deep breath. Ahhh, now I got it. Wow. No wonder she was so bossy. And confident. I guess billions’ll do that.

  Chapter Two

  After the meetings, we were divided into groups for our office tour. I stuck with Gabe and Teagan, trying to Xerox each person with my eyes, cataloging them one by one into a mental face book. Despite her five-inch Manolo Blahnik stilettos, Alida had a fiery-quick pace that was hard to keep up with in my studded ballet flats. I trailed her through the circuitous route around the high-ceilinged fashion zone as she gave us the lay of the land, like the bar scene in Goodfellas, minus the guns.

  Gabe leaned in to whisper a hilarious running commentary, which had me in stitches. A crazy-looking woman stormed through the hall on her cell phone, ranting to Air France about lost luggage.

  “That’s your boss, CeCe Ward, the model bookings editor,” he said, wincing. My heart suddenly sank. “The rumor is if you bring her a latte with one percent milk instead of skim, she’ll not only throw it at you but also puke up the forbidden sips she already swallowed,” he testified.

  “Shut up!” I marveled incredulously. And horrified.

  “Oh yeah,” added Teagan. “She supposedly fainted at Fashion Week backstage at Galliano ’cause she’d eaten one croissant flake in three days.”

  I knew this world would be obsessed with image, but that was too much. I was in for it with this CeCe person.

  “This is the photo department,” Alida said, pointing to a sunlight-filled studio with drafting tables and loops to study negatives from recent shoots.

  “Pardon me,” said a voice behind us, interrupting my fascination with the flawless view of the Hudson River through the photo department’s panoramic window. I turned to find the most gorgeous guy carrying about five black briefcases. He was tall and thin, with brown hair and enormous caramel eyes flanked by the thickest eyelashes I had ever seen.

  “So sorry, it’s portfolio drop-off today,” he added, smiling as he lugged the piles of slick portfolios over to a corner drafting table. He walked back to where we stood in the arched doorway. “Hey, sorry about busting by there. I’m James.”

  He reached out to shake my hand, and before I even blurted out “Kira” I spied Gabe and Teagan nudge each other and smile. Alida had already moved on for the rest of the tour, and we hurried to catch up. We weren’t seven steps away when Gabe launched.

  “Honaaaay, you were blu-shing! Is he a scorcher or what?” he razzed. “James Carlson. We met him yesterday and I almost collapsed. I mean, I almost nee
ded a defibrillator like in ER. He’s the photo assistant editor. He went to Brown, and is Zeus come down from Mount Olympus. I mean, bring me that on toast points for breakfast any day.”

  Shoot, I was blushing. My darn face always belied every emotion with a color—green for sick, yellow for tired, blue for cold, and red hot for the heat of embarrassment. “He is cute,” I admitted sheepishly.

  “And, drumroll—” said Teagan, winking at Gabe. “He’s straight. Sorry, Gabe, he doesn’t play for your team, my sweet.”

  “Alas,” mooned Gabe. “Thy speaketh the truth. He is as straight as the new Armani pencil skirts for fall.”

  We arrived in a corner section of the office that looked a lot less glamorous than the labyrinthine lanes we’d walked to get there. There was a bullpen of cubicles, each with a phone and computer. Gabe and Teagan plopped down at their desks and showed me my station next to them.

  “The Trumpettes got the best desks by the windows, naturally,” sneered Teagan.

  “Big shocker,” added Gabe.

  “The who?” I inquired.

  “The Trumpettes. You know, Daphne and her gang. It’s the clique of heiresses who get jobs here every summer ’cause Daddy’s an advertiser or BFFs with Genevieve West—the editor in chief—or someone megawatt,” Gabe explained. “Band of beeyotches.”

  “They all roll on in leisurely at like ten-fifteen on their studded cells with blown-dry locks. Total brats on parade,” said Teagan, rolling her eyes. “A bunch of years back, Cartier Trump had the gig thanks to her billionaire pop, and the name for their gaggle stuck.”