Be Careful What You Wish For

by Gemma Crisp

  ‘So far, so good,’ Nina replied, ‘despite you pouring G&Ts down my throat the night before my first day. Luckily the editor was out of the office having lunch with Karl Lagerfeld in Paris, so me and my raging hangover didn’t have to deal with her. I just answered the phone, replied to emails and helped the features team with transcribing. So yesterday was the first time I met Charlotte.’

  ‘She’s the editor?’

  ‘Editor-in-chief, actually. Yep, she’s been the editor for a couple of years; before Marie Claude she was the editor of Grazia. What do you want to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you even need to ask?’ Johan said.

  Nina smiled and asked the barmaid, ‘Can I get one gin and tonic and a Diet Coke, please?’

  ‘Diet Coke?’ Johan repeated incredulously.

  ‘Unlike you, I have to go back to work – it wouldn’t be a good look if I walked in reeking of booze and slurring my words, would it? Monday was bad enough, so I need to behave myself. Plus I don’t think Lizzie, a girl who I have to deal with quite a bit, likes me very much so I don’t want to give her any opportunity to spread a rumour about the new intern being an alcoholic,’ she half-joked, thinking she wouldn’t put it past her. Ignoring Johan’s disappointed look, she collected the drinks and led the way to the large communal table in the middle of the room.

  ‘So what’s Charlotte like? Is she Miranda Priestley’s long-lost sister?’

  ‘She’s . . . interesting. Very glamorous and polished, decked out in the most amazing head-to-toe designer gear, but for someone who’s very successful and in charge of a magazine brand that is supposed to inspire and empower women by tackling serious issues, she seems to be a bit of a neurotic, spoilt brat.’

  ‘I love it! Tell me more. Does she throw tantrums when her lunch isn’t heated up to the right temperature or something?’

  ‘Not that I know of, although she went out for lunch yesterday and today. It could definitely be on the agenda. From what I’ve heard the staff say, she doesn’t have a lot of confidence in her decisions, whether it’s who to put on the cover, what to wear in her editor’s letter photo or which order the stories should run. It drives the features girls mad because they’ll get briefed on an article but then she’ll change her mind five times about what angle she wants it to have, whether it should be a first-person point of view or have expert advice mixed with narrative; stuff like that. So the writers can be halfway through a three-thousand-word article and she’ll suddenly decide that instead of a serious investigative piece she wants a fluffy, celebrity-filled trend report. And then she also spends the magazine’s budget like it’s her own bank account – I had to hide her from the managing editor yesterday after a massive invoice arrived from the car company.’

  ‘Why? Had she crashed it or something? And what’s the difference between an editor-in-chief and a managing editor?’ Johan asked.

  ‘The managing editor mainly deals with all the invoices and budgets, so they’re the ones who hold the purse strings. Apparently Charlotte had asked her previous PA to book a car to take her and her boyfriend to Glastonbury, but she wasn’t sure how long she wanted to stay. So instead of sending the driver back and booking a time to pick them up again, she got him to wait outside the VIP entrance for the entire time they were there, which ended up being three days – at a rate of seventy-five pounds an hour. You do the maths.’

  Johan drained his G&T with an impressed look on his face. ‘It sounds like Charlotte could give Cupcake a run for her money. So even though she was going to Glastonbury for personal reasons, she still charged the car to the company account?’

  Nina nodded. ‘I think there might be something in her contract about using the car service for big events where she needs to be seen, and I guess she figured Glasto was one of them. Although I get the impression that the managing editor had other ideas. Shall we order food?’

  While they waited for their meals to arrive, Johan filled her in on all the Bickford gossip. His favourite guest, AJ Armstrong, had arrived for his annual three-month stint in one of the large suites, preferably the one with its own private entrance at the back of the hotel so his visitors could come and go as they pleased. And AJ always had a lot of visitors when he was in London, particularly young male ones. The only son of a disgustingly wealthy landowner in Kent, AJ looked like a well-bred country Englishman from central casting. But you only had to catch the gleam in his eye as he watched Johan faff around the Bickford’s front desk to realise that all was not quite as it seemed. It had reminded Nina of a hawk watching its prey, but Johan loved the attention. That wasn’t surprising, seeing Johan loved any attention, especially if it was from a good-looking guy in his late thirties who also happened to be stonkingly rich.

  ‘Do you think he’ll ever ask me out?’ Johan asked, before shovelling a huge portion of bangers and mash into his mouth.

  ‘Would you go if he did? You know staff aren’t allowed to fraternise with the guests outside of work,’ Nina chided him as she picked at her caesar salad. ‘Then again, that never stopped Sofia . . .’

  ‘Exactly! And if she could get flown to Dubai and stay in that plush seven-star hotel, thanks to Sheikh El-Shamed, then why can’t I go for a drink with AJ Armstong?’

  ‘Because he hasn’t asked you,’ Nina said promptly, then followed it up with, ‘and Sofia was sacked when Mr Farrington-Smyth found out about her Dubai trip.’

  ‘Hmmm, I guess you’re right,’ Johan admitted reluctantly. Then he brightened. ‘Although if I was AJ’s boyfriend, I probably wouldn’t need to work anyway so it wouldn’t matter if I got fired . . .’

  ‘Alright, princess, don’t get too far ahead of yourself. I suspect AJ Armstrong has plenty of guys who’d be happy to go for a drink with him, so take a ticket and get in line. I’ve got to get back to work. What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?’

  ‘Going to the gym to work off those bangers, then I might see who’s around Soho for a coffee or something. I really should call my mum at some stage too; it’s been a while since Mutti heard from me.’

  Johan’s parents lived in a small town near Munich, blissfully unaware that their youngest son was a champion batter for the other team. They were under the impression that Nina was his girlfriend, a situation that Johan was in no hurry to rectify – after all, technically she was his girlfriend, just in a platonic way. Luckily, neither of his parents liked travelling so he didn’t have to worry about them turning up in London for a surprise weekend to see him in his natural habitat, although he always remembered to remove the posters of a half-naked David Beckham and hide his gay porn magazines under his mattress before he Skyped them, just in case they caught a glimpse of something suspicious on the webcam.

  Five minutes later, Nina was back at her desk in the Marie Claude offices, surreptitiously checking for any lettuce remnants lurking in her teeth before dialling her voicemail to see if there were any messages for Charlotte. Just as she finished writing them all down, already knowing full well that Charlotte would never call any of them back, the woman herself made an appearance. So thin she made a chopstick look like it should sign up to Overeaters Anonymous, she was dressed in head-to-toe Gucci, except for the sold-out Céline bag that was draped over her arm. Walking through the office, she called out to Martin, the magazine’s long-time art director, who rushed to her side. Nina could hear their conversation get louder as they approached Charlotte’s office.

  ‘Martin, darling, I’m not sure about this cover shoot next week. Do you really think Chantelle Sainsbury is the right person for us? I know that talent show she’s on is hugely popular and she’s married to that footballer, but she’s a bit common for Marie Claude, don’t you think?’

  ‘Charlotte, the shoot has already been confirmed; it’s taken us months to secure time with Chantelle. We’ve already promised her publicist the September cover so if we don’t go ahead with it, the PR will blackball us – not only for any future covers with Chantelle, but with all the other cel
ebs on her company’s books too.’

  ‘Oh rubbish, that’s what they all say,’ Charlotte said airily. ‘I never listen to their pathetic threats – they know that we’re the number-one women’s lifestyle magazine in the country; they need us more than we need them.’

  ‘If it was any other celeb, I’d agree with you, but it’s Chantelle – she’s the nation’s sweetheart. Plus it’s an exclusive. All the other magazine editors would burn their Prada media discount cards on the spot if it meant they could shoot her for their cover.’

  ‘And perhaps that’s exactly why we shouldn’t. If everyone else is so desperate for her, maybe it would be better to shoot her for an inside story, but run someone else on the cover. That would show everyone that even though every other rag is desperate to have her on their cover, she’s not yet worthy of a prestigious Marie Claude cover.’

  Nina caught sight of Martin’s face as they stopped outside Charlotte’s office – it showed a mix of disbelief and frustration. She didn’t blame him. Since she’d become part of the Marie Claude team, the favourite topic of office gossip was the Chantelle Sainsbury shoot – how it’d taken almost six months of negotiations to get the shoot date locked in, not to mention all the demands that had to be met to keep Ms Sainsbury and her PR company happy. As green as Nina was, even she knew Charlotte was being unreasonable. After all that hard work, it didn’t make sense to throw away what would probably be a best-selling cover just because of Charlotte’s ego and exaggerated views of where Marie Claude sat in the magazine food chain. Despite the magazine’s impeccable pedigree, the last circulation audit had reported a double-digit percentage slip in sales. It was still the best-selling magazine in the UK, but only just – its closest competitor was now snapping at its Manolo Blahnik heels. ‘Maybe that’s why Charlotte is panicking,’ thought Nina. ‘And when you panic, you make stupid decisions.’ Suddenly she realised Charlotte was talking to her.

  ‘Tina, get me an Americano – extra hot – and a plain pretzel. Then grab a camera and dictaphone from the features team and go do some vox pops on what people think of Chantelle Sainsbury. Not just any people – choose women who look like Marie Claude readers. Covent Garden is probably the best place, if you can avoid the tourists. Actually, ask them if they read the magazine before you ask them about her; I’m not interested in people who aren’t our audience. We need to get an idea of whether she’s Marie Claude cover material or not.’

  ‘Isn’t that what the research department is for?’ asked Martin, before Nina could say anything.

  ‘Oh, bugger the research department! They always sit on the fence and never give you a definitive answer when you ask them about the popularity of celebrities. I haven’t bothered with the research people for months; I’d rather the interns hit the streets to get our own idea of what the public thinks, so that’s what Tina is going do.’

  ‘Uh, it’s Nina, actually,’ Nina said, hoping she didn’t sound too pathetic.

  ‘What?’ Charlotte said tetchily. ‘Oh, right. Nina. Yes. Well, hurry up, Nina, I won’t be impressed if Pret have run out of pretzels by the time you get down there.’

  ‘Of course, Charlotte. I’ll be right back.’ Grabbing her wallet, Nina waved at Taya as she scooted past the reception desk and clattered down the stairs. Pushing open the doors of the cafe around the corner, she gave Charlotte’s order and waited for the coffee to be brewed.

  ‘So how’s being Charlotte’s slave working out for you?’

  Nina immediately recognised the bitchy tone and turned to see Marie Claude’s features assistant in the line behind her. ‘Oh Lizzie, hi. It’s good, thanks. I’m just getting her a coffee and a pretzel, then she’s asked me to go to Covent Garden to do some vox pops to see what people think about the cover,’ Nina told her.

  Lizzie’s face lost its smirk and her eyes widened. ‘She’s asked you to do what?’ she choked out. ‘Vox pops?! That’s my job. I’m the vox-pop princess of Marie Claude! I had to wait three months before she trusted me enough to do them. You’ve been here for what? Three days? Did she ask you to take me along?’

  Nina looked at Lizzie’s face, which had become red and blotchy. She was obviously upset, but there wasn’t much Nina could do about it – she wasn’t going to lie, just because Lizzie was throwing her toys out of the pram.

  ‘Uh no, she didn’t. Maybe she figured you’re too busy doing other stuff for the features department? She gave me quite detailed instructions so I should be okay by myself, but can I call you if I have any problems?’ Nina was trying to leave Lizzie with a scrap of pride, but the features assistant didn’t seem to appreciate the gesture.

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Lizzie snapped. ‘If Charlotte thinks you’re up to it, let’s see how you go. But believe me, if you don’t come back with exactly what she’s asked for, you’d be better off not coming back at all,’ she warned, before stalking off empty-handed. Nina stared after her, wondering what all the fuss was about – after all, it wasn’t like Charlotte had proclaimed that Nina would be spending five hours interviewing Chantelle Sainsbury for the cover story; it was just some random vox pops. But Lizzie obviously felt her turf was being stomped all over by the new girl, on top of whatever else she’d done to rub her up the wrong way. As Nina collected Charlotte’s coffee from the barista, tucked the pretzel into her bag and headed out the door, she had the horrible feeling she’d just made her very first enemy in the publishing industry.

  seven

  Looking around the private room of the swanky members club in Shoreditch, Nina nudged Tess. ‘Can you believe it’s our leaving party? Truth be told, I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to Australia . . .’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, but it’s not like you have any choice,’ Tess reminded her. ‘There’s the small problem of your visa expiring in a week, so it’s time to go, sunshine. But it’s not like you’re going back to the same old place – it’ll be exciting moving to Sydney and starting our new lives there. I don’t know about you, but after three years in London, I can’t wait to kick back at North Bondi Italian and perve on cute surfer boys with a glass of prosecco in my hand.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess,’ Nina said grudgingly. ‘I just feel like I’m on a roll here – I’ve finally found what I want to do with my career and have managed to get a foot in the door of the British magazine industry, and now I have to pack up and start all over again in Sydney, where I don’t know anyone and no one knows me.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, drink a concrete milkshake and harden the fuck up,’ Tess said exasperatedly. ‘It’s not like you’re moving back without any magazine experience on your CV – you scored a coveted internship at a globally recognised magazine, where they absolutely loved you. If that reference from Charlotte doesn’t open doors for you, then nothing will.’

  Despite throwing herself a pity party, Nina knew Tess was right. Her stint at Marie Claude had come to an end the week before; as Nina had told the features team before she walked out the office door for the last time, it had been the best three months of her life. Loving photocopying, transcribing and the endless coffee runs more than any human being should, she’d joked to Johan that she’d found her spiritual home. Even the original hiccup of being Charlotte’s assistant for the first month had worked to her advantage – from what Saffy had told her, Charlotte had made an art form of pointedly ignoring all the previous features interns, but seeing Nina had been her acting PA, she had been forced to acknowledge her existence after Josephine, her new assistant, had started. She’d even tried to keep Nina on as her PA, only backing down when the HR department pointed out that Josephine’s contract had already been signed and it would mean paying out three months’ salary if they reneged on their offer. Of course, Nina had no interest in becoming Charlotte’s PA on a permanent basis, but Charlotte hadn’t consulted her before talking to HR – she’d just assumed that what Charlotte wanted, Charlotte got. Even after Nina had gladly done her handover to Josephine and officially started her features internship
, Charlotte would still sometimes single out Nina to do her bidding, much to Lizzie’s obvious fury. After their run-in during her first week, Nina had watched her back whenever Lizzie was around – she didn’t blame her for being peeved after Charlotte had decided Nina was the flavour of the month, seeing Lizzie was the more experienced staff member who’d been there for much longer, but Nina wasn’t about to shoot herself in the foot. If the editor had taken a liking to her, for whatever reason, who was she to argue? Especially when Charlotte would come back from breakfast with yet another fashion advertising client, loaded up with gift bags of accessories and clothes which were way too high street for her designer tastes, and dump them on Nina’s desk with an offhand ‘There you go Nina, just throw them out if you don’t want them.’ Score!

  As Tess got caught up chatting with some of her hotel friends, Nina headed to the bar. Catching sight of herself in the mirrored wall behind the bottles of Tanqueray, Patron and Grey Goose, she untucked the hair behind her ears and smoothed her blow-dry. The spray tan from the secret salon the Marie Claude beauty team had booked her into looked flawless, the golden colour contrasting with the black leather peplum top she had teamed with a black sequinned pencil skirt. She’d bought both pieces the day before with the Harvey Nichols vouchers the Marie Claude girls had given her as a leaving present, alongside a classic Tiffany & Co. silver heart necklace. She couldn’t believe their generosity until Kitty, the commissioning editor, had let slip that Charlotte had donated an extremely large amount to her leaving-present fund. As a joke, they’d also gifted her the custom-designed Versace t-shirt that Nina had flown especially to Milan to pick up from Versace’s head office for the Chantelle Sainsbury photo shoot, so they could photograph her wearing it for a huge charity initiative in an upcoming issue. She smiled as she remembered Saffy asking offhandedly, ‘Nina, is your passport up to date? The couriers are on strike in Italy, so we need you to go to Milan tomorrow to pick up the sample of the charity t-shirt for the Chantelle shoot, otherwise it won’t arrive in time.’ Johan was still paying her out about her ‘little day trip to Milano to hang out at Versace’, as he put it. And being the chosen one hadn’t exactly thawed her relationship with Lizzie, but by then Nina had sussed out that the features assistant was a classic power tripper, who was insanely jealous of any junior who got more attention from the senior staff than she did – especially Charlotte, who didn’t seem to have any idea who Lizzie was. Of course, the Versace t-shirt sample was miniscule – Nina doubted it would fit a Cabbage Patch Kid – but it was a nice memento of her time at Marie Claude.