Be Careful What You Wish For

by Gemma Crisp

  To: Nina Morey

  From: Lizzie Crawford

  Dear Nina, thank you for your interest in an internship in the features department of Britain’s number-one women’s lifestyle magazine, Marie Claude. As you may or may not be aware, the three-month internship is unpaid and shortlisted applicants are required to come in for an interview before the final candidate is selected by our features director. We are currently interviewing for our next internship, which starts Monday May 3. Would you be available to meet with Saffron Pickering, Marie Claude’s features director, this Friday at 10.30 am? You will find our address below. Please confirm you can attend the interview by return email.

  Kind regards,

  Lizzie

  Features assistant

  Marie Claude

  Nina was reading the email for the third time when she realised her phone was ringing. Grabbing it from the side pocket of her bag, she recognised the number of the front desk at Tess’s hotel. She didn’t bother to say hello, instead blurting out, ‘Oh my God, Tess, guess what, guess what, guess WHAT?!!!?’ She knew she was sounding scarily like a fourteen-year-old who’d just found out she’d won a date with Justin Bieber, but she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Hi to you too. What?’ Tess said in a resigned tone that was code for ‘I’ve been up since five thirty and have been dealing with incessant demands from guests all day, and the last thing I want to do is play guessing games so make this quick’.

  ‘I just got an email from the features assistant of Marie Claude – they’ve asked me to go in on Friday morning for an interview!’ Nina squealed, reading the email again just to make sure it wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

  ‘That’s great! What time? Where do you have to go? What are you going to wear? Did they ask you to bring anything with you, like story ideas or something?’ Excitement rose in Tess’s voice as she fired off questions.

  ‘It’s on Friday at ten thirty at their offices near the London Eye. They don’t mention taking anything with me. Shit, I haven’t even thought about to what to wear, I only got the email literally a minute before you called. Do you think I should go down the corporate road or wear something more on trend? I don’t want to look like I’m going to a fancy-dress party as Lady Gaga, but I need to look like I know the difference between Prada and Primark.’

  ‘At least you’ve got some time to think about it seeing the interview isn’t till the day after tomorrow – are you rostered on that morning?’ Tess asked.

  ‘No, thank God. My ten-day stint finishes tomorrow with an early shift, so I’ll have time to hit the shops afterwards if I need to buy something. I’ll have to workshop it tonight when I get home, sorry.’ Nina knew that Tess would probably be tucked up in bed by the time she walked in the door after clocking off at eleven pm, but this was an emergency.

  ‘I’m sure I’ll survive; just take everything you want out of the wardrobe and try it on in the living room so I don’t have to deal with the light being on.’

  ‘Roger that – I’ll be as quiet and as quick as possible, I promise. I’d better go. I need to finish my breakfast and email the Marie Claude chick back about the interview before heading to work.’

  ‘All good, there’s a new arrival walking in the door right now anyway. Talk later.’

  Nina ended the call and did a time check – she had twenty minutes in which to cram the rest of the baguette in her mouth, reply to Lizzie’s email and hoof it down to the Bickford, where she had to change into her uniform before making her way through the back-of-house labyrinth to the front desk for handover. Chewing furiously, she hit the ‘reply’ button and sent a quick email to the features assistant to confirm the interview on Friday. Then she gathered up her things and started walking towards Knightsbridge, while spooning muesli, honey and yoghurt into her mouth. ‘Johan will have kittens when I tell him,’ she thought. ‘Maybe I should keep it quiet and wait to see how the interview goes before I fill him in . . . ? Nah, never going to happen; not when we’re about to do an eight-hour shift together.’ As she disappeared into the Hyde Park Corner underpass, Nina felt excitement bubbling away in the cauldron of her stomach. Something good was about to happen – she just knew it.

  five

  Four weeks later, Nina was lurching across the Thames via the Waterloo Bridge, feeling distinctly average. Slurping water from a large bottle, she desperately tried to knock her hangover on its head before rocking up on the doorstep of Marie Claude HQ for the first day of her three-month internship.

  ‘What made me think it was a good idea to go to Freedom for a few drinks last night? Why didn’t Tess take me home after the sixth round of G&Ts? Bloody Johan, he was a mission to get me hammered. It’s fine for them, they’re both rostered on late shifts today,’ she bitched to herself as she counted down the seconds till the painkillers would kick in, knowing full well she only had herself to blame. She should have been tucked up in bed by nine o’clock, getting a bucketload of shut-eye to kick-start her new life, but instead she had been ricocheting around Freedom, celebrating the end of her hospitality career a little too enthusiastically. Thankfully she had realised it was time to leave after she’d drunkenly fallen off her chair, ending up with her head in a total stranger’s lap. ‘Classy, Nina, very classy . . .’ she berated herself as she tiptoed gingerly down the steps on the south side of the river and turned left towards the OXO Tower. She walked past the National Theatre and along Southbank, taking the same route as she had four weeks before when she’d fronted up for her internship interview. Lizzie, the stand-offish features assistant, had collected her from the reception area of Marie Claude’s editorial office and ushered her into a small meeting room where Saffron, the features director, was already waiting, surrounded by empty takeaway coffee cups. Ignoring her nerves, Nina had pasted on her most confident smile and gripped Saffron’s outstretched hand with slightly more force than she’d intended.

  ‘That’s quite a handshake you have there,’ Saffron had said in an upper-crust ‘Daddy, I want a pony’ accent, while she checked out Nina’s bright pink skater-style Topshop dress teamed with the black YSL Tribute knock-offs she’d bought from Zara the day before. Nina swallowed, about to apologise for her vice-like grip, but Saffron continued, ‘I always think you can tell a lot about a person from their handshake; there’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re holding a dead fish.’ She smiled. ‘Do they teach everybody to shake hands like that Down Under?’

  ‘Uh, not that I know of. My dad always told me to have a strong handshake; he also thinks that it has a lot to do with first impressions . . .’ Nina had trailed off, wondering why on earth she was talking about her dad, of all people.

  ‘Your father sounds like a very sensible man. Now, tell me a bit about yourself, Nina – what makes you get out of bed in the morning?’

  ‘You mean besides coffee?’ she had joked, looking pointedly at the collection of cups before she could stop herself.

  ‘Aha, a fellow caffeine addict, are we?’ Saffron had nodded approvingly. ‘That will come in handy, seeing our features intern does a coffee run for the team at least twice a day, sometimes more. Luckily, there’s a Pret just around the corner, so you don’t have to go too far. You’ll also be required to do the lunch run, if needed, especially when we’re on deadline. Transcribing interviews, photocopying, researching, writing call-outs to find talent for stories, following up reader requests, basically helping out with anything the team asks you to do. What you won’t be doing is schmoozing with celebrities, going to fabulous parties or playing in the fashion cupboard – I’ve interviewed too many wannabe interns who think their time here will involve being besties with Alexa Chung.’ She sighed wearily. ‘Not. Going. To. Happen.’

  ‘I’m not here to suck up to celebs,’ Nina had blurted out, the ghost of Cupcake lurking at the back of her mind. ‘I’m here because I really, really love magazines. I want to learn what makes the industry tick, how magazines are compiled, how the content is decided and how to write a
really great article. I know I won’t be doing any actual writing, but quite frankly I’d just be happy to breathe the same air as you guys. I’m willing to run and fetch whatever you want me to – as long as it’s not illegal!’

  Saffron had raised an impeccably groomed eyebrow as Nina finished her spiel. ‘I think you should meet the rest of the features team,’ she’d said.

  Three hours later, Nina’s phone had rung – it was Lizzie, telling her that out of the one hundred and fifty candidates who had applied for the internship, Saffron had chosen Nina. She’d given the Bickford four weeks’ notice, turning on the charm offensive during her last weeks so she could make the most of the guests’ deep pockets. She became an expert at casually mentioning she was leaving her job just as they reached for their Louis Vuitton wallets, and was pleasantly surprised at how many fifty-pound notes she’d accrued by the end of her shifts. Annika and Johan had organised a farewell party where she’d made endless promises to keep in touch and had gritted her teeth through the constant Devil Wears Prada jokes everyone insisted on telling her when they found out why she was leaving. She had called her bank and begged them to increase her overdraft limit and had uploaded most of the freebies she’d been gifted from the hotel’s guests onto eBay to boost her savings, which she now had to live off for the next three months. Eeeek . . .

  And now the first day of her new salary-free life had arrived – with a vicious hangover along for the ride. She pressed the buzzer and gave her name to the voice at the other end of the Marie Claude intercom, while sucking furiously on an extra-strength mint, hoping it would kill off any whiffs of eau de booze that might still be lingering. Pushing the door open, she walked up two flights of stairs, stopping halfway to change out of her ballet flats into a pair of high-heeled red suede ankle boots, before arriving at the frosted-glass doors with the name of the magazine emblazoned in silver. Desperately hoping she looked better than she felt, Nina presented herself at the reception desk. Behind it sat a girl with a full-on Afro, bright orange lips and a dove grey dress that Nina was sure she’d spotted on the catwalk in Victoria Beckham’s latest collection.

  ‘Hiya, you’re the new features intern, yeah?’ the girl said with a strong South London accent. ‘Saffy’s not in yet, but Lizzie is here – let me give her a buzz. Take a seat while you’re waiting.’

  Grateful to be told what to do so her throbbing brain didn’t have to think for itself, Nina perched on the white leather couch next to the reception desk as the receptionist dialled Lizzie. ‘The Australian is here. Yeah, your new intern. Oh. Really? Jaysus, the poor girl. I’m glad it’s her and not me! See you in a bit,’ she said cheerily, not bothering to lower her voice, despite the fact Nina was sitting less than two metres away. Turning towards Nina, she said, ‘Lizzie’s coming for you now. I’m Shantaya, but everyone calls me Taya. Welcome to Marie Claude.’ Her face broke into one of the most stunning smiles Nina had ever seen. Before she had a chance to introduce herself, Lizzie appeared, looking as welcoming as Jennifer Aniston would if Angelina Jolie had crashed her wedding.

  ‘Nina, come with me,’ she said abruptly. ‘There’s been a slight change of plan – you’ll still be sitting with the features team, but for the first four weeks of your internship you’ll be the acting PA to our editor-in-chief, Charlotte. Her new PA can’t start for another month and the temp we’d booked cancelled this morning, so seeing you have some receptionist experience, we figured you’d be a good fill-in. I presume that’s okay?’ As she spoke, she was leading Nina to the features department, which was positioned just outside what was obviously the editor’s office.

  Nina wasn’t sure if it was okay or not – acting as the editor’s assistant didn’t exactly sound like her cup of Earl Grey. She remembered all the jokes about The Devil Wears Prada at her farewell party and wondered if Charlotte was anything like the book’s villain, Miranda Priestley. Oh please God, no . . .

  ‘I forgot to mention that while you’re acting as Charlotte’s PA, you’ll get paid. Not a lot but it’s better than nothing, which is what you get paid during the internship. And when Charlotte doesn’t need you, you’ll help out with the features department. It’s the best of both worlds, really,’ Lizzie said, somewhat unconvincingly. Nina got the impression that the features assistant was getting a kick out of telling the new intern that she’d be at the mercy of the editor-in-chief’s whims for the next month and wondered why she already felt a prickle of animosity between them. ‘But Charlotte won’t be coming in today, she’s in Paris having lunch with Monsieur Lagerfeld, so you just have to take messages from anyone who calls for her.’

  Nina realised she didn’t have much of a choice. The situation wasn’t exactly ideal, but she wasn’t going to be a precious princess about it. There was nothing to be gained from stamping her feet and insisting that she was here for a features internship and nothing else. Four weeks wasn’t that long, and at least she’d be getting paid for her efforts. She’d never been a personal assistant before, but how hard could it be? It was just as well she didn’t have to deal with Charlotte in person today, though; she could sit and stew in her hangover while fielding phone calls and getting coffee. Maybe she could even read a magazine or two – surely that was considered legitimate work?

  ‘No problem, Lizzie,’ she assured the other woman, determined to be nothing but courteous, even though Lizzie was yet to offer her a shadow of a smile. ‘Where would you like me to sit? And could someone show me how to work the phone system?’ Nina continued to bombard the features assistant with questions, from how to get a computer log-in to where the bathrooms were, and making notes on how to transfer calls, who to put through straight away and, more importantly, who to take a message from after informing them that Charlotte was in a very urgent meeting and couldn’t possibly be disturbed, even though she was actually sitting in her office, gossiping with the advertising director while having her weekly in-office manicure.

  As the rest of the Marie Claude staff trickled in, Nina forced herself to ignore her hangover as the phone began to ring incessantly, and an avalanche of emails started pouring in from publicists desperate to know if the editor-in-chief would be gracing them with her presence at the launch of a new yoghurt/toilet freshener/scrapbooking website later that week (no . . . no . . . let me think about that for a second – no.) Then there was the avalanche of Marie Claude staff who all wanted a piece of the Charlotte pie – Nina started to explain to the mob who turned up in front of her desk that she wasn’t Charlotte’s new PA, she was actually the new features intern, just filling in until the new assistant could start. But no one seemed to care – all they wanted to know was, ‘What time are we expecting Charlotte? What do you mean she’s in Paris?! When will she be back? Does she have her BlackBerry with her? Why didn’t I know about this?! I need her to approve this new model for tomorrow’s shoot; the one we had booked has pulled out because her rock star boyfriend overdosed backstage in New York on the weekend. And now the photographer is having a tantrum because we couldn’t get his favourite caterers so the shoot is pretty much doomed – you don’t know how he can be when he doesn’t get his favourite roast beef with Yorkshire pudding just the way he likes it!! This shoot is going to be a complete disaster, I just know it!!! I don’t know why I bother sometimes, I really don’t!!!!’

  Throughout all the histrionics and exclamation marks, Nina nodded and smiled sympathetically as the fashion editor grew increasingly hysterical. She could feel Lizzie’s eyes on her from behind her computer screen, no doubt waiting to witness how she’d handle her first potential stumbling block as Charlotte’s temporary PA. She took a deep breath, determined not to crumble, although she was quite tempted to remind the fashion editor that there were bigger problems in the world at the moment than a no-show model and a picky photographer. She was on Planet Fashion now, she reminded herself with a shiver of glee, which meant these kind of hiccups had to be taken seriously. ‘Why don’t you send Charlotte the link to the new model’s website and
she can look at it on her BlackBerry in Paris?’ she suggested, desperately hoping that the editor did indeed have her BlackBerry with her and she hadn’t forgotten to charge it before she glided onto the EuroStar that morning. ‘And surely the other caterers can whip up roast beef with Yorkshire pudding for the photographer if you ask nicely? You never know, it may even be better than his favourite . . .’ The fashion editor looked at her like she’d just blasphemed, then shook her head and stalked off, with Lizzie quickly following.

  Nina became aware of an expectant silence behind her. Swivelling around in her chair, she came face to face with Saffron and the rest of the features team – Amelia, the associate features editor; Solange, the senior features writer; Kitty, the commissioning editor – all of whom she’d met briefly four weeks before. After stalking their by-lines in the magazine for so long, it was slightly bizarre to not only put faces to the names but to be sitting right in front of them, ready to help with whatever they needed her to do. But first things first – she could tell by the looks on their faces that they were all gagging for one thing: the same thing she was. Grabbing the nearest pen and scrabbling in the top drawer for a Post-it note, Nina injected a double shot of enthusiasm into her voice and asked in her best ‘eager intern’ tone, ‘Right then, ladies, who wants a coffee?’

  six

  ‘I want to hear ALL about it – how many celebrities have you met? What are the girls in the office like? Is the editor a total bitch or is she one of those inspirational Oprah-esque women who everyone adores? And most importantly, what killer outfits have you been busting out?’ Johan fired off multiple questions as they walked towards the pub near the Marie Claude office. It was Nina’s third day on the job and Johan had come to meet her for lunch on his day off, practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation of hearing all the salacious office gossip from the world of women’s magazines.