“Fuck!” Avery Carlyle exclaimed as she stepped into a huge puddle outside the Dennen Publishing Enterprises building after school on Friday. It was the first day of her internship at Metropolitan, the legendary city-centric fashion magazine, and now her new naughty secretary–style black seamed Wolford stockings were soaked to the ankle, and her vintage Prada T-strap pumps squeaked with every step she took.
The Dennen Publishing Tower, opposite Grand Central, was a brand-new art deco–inspired architectural wonder that fit seamlessly into the New York landscape. Skinny women in towering Jimmy Choos and chunky Stella McCartney boots were clustered outside the row of revolving glass doors, sucking on Parliaments as they barked into their BlackBerries. Messengers hopped off bikes, their arms laden with heavy bags and packages, while a convoy of shiny black town cars waited patiently at the curb.
Avery took a deep breath and pushed nervously through a revolving door. Today was the first day of the rest of her new and improved life. She’d had a bit of a shaky start in the city: She’d immediately found herself the enemy of Jack Laurent, the bitchiest, vainest, most insecure girl in the junior class. Then Avery had won a highly coveted school leadership position only to discover it required weekly meetings with the Constance Billard board of overseers, who were really just a group of also bitchy, possibly alcoholic octogenarians.
But, Avery reminded herself as she patted the thick black and silver Marc Jacobs headband perched atop her wheat-blond hair, her luck seemed to be changing. Ticky Bensimmon-Heart—the world-famous editor in chief of Metropolitan—was on the Constance overseers’ board and had rescued Avery by offering her an internship at the prestigious magazine. Soon, all of the New York media world would love Avery, and Jack Laurent and her bitchy posse would wet their pants in jealousy.
She marched up to the marble-topped security desk in the corner. A bored, white-haired guy looked her up and down.
For security purposes only.
“Avery Carlyle. I’m here for Metropolitan,” she said in her most professional voice. The impressive lobby had waterfalls flanking the escalators and gorgeous white marble floors, and she suppressed the urge to twirl around, Funny Face style.
“ID?” the security guard asked in a bored voice, oblivious to the moment Avery was having. She fished for her Massachusetts driver’s license in the brand-new Hermès bag she’d bought in Soho this weekend as a starting-work present.
“Good luck.” The security guard winked as he handed her a dorky visitor’s pass sticker. “Floor thirty-five. Top of the heap. Make sure to wear the pass until we get you a permanent one.”
Avery slapped the sticker on her skirt, where she could camouflage it with her bag—no way was she going to wear it like a dorky name tag. She followed the herd of gazelle-like girls up the escalator and toward the elevator banks, pretending to know where she was going. On floor thirty-five, the elevator opened into an all-white reception area decorated with huge, blown-up photos of Metropolitan’s most famous covers. Avery stared at the images of Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, and Jackie Kennedy. She sucked in a deep breath. She was in.
“May I help you?” The girl sitting behind the desk didn’t bother to look up from her gleaming white iMac. She had straight black hair that landed halfway down her back and thick bangs that skimmed her eyes. She looked like Angelina Jolie in her goth, vial of blood–wearing years.
“I’m here to see Ticky Bensimmon-Heart,” Avery announced, pleased with how official that sounded. She was even more excited than she’d been on her first day at school.
And remember how well that day turned out?
“Who are you?” The Angelina look-alike looked up from her computer.
Avery smiled her best first-day-of-work smile and squared her shoulders. The photograph of Jackie seemed to be smiling at her. “Avery Carlyle?” She hated how it came out like a question. “Avery Carlyle,” she said again, emphasizing her last name. “I’m the intern,” she added.
“You’re an intern,” she repeated, the way she might have said, You’re a garbage truck driver, or You’re a proctologist. “You’re not seeing Ticky, trust me. I’ll call McKenna to fetch you. She’s the intern wrangler.”
Avery furrowed her eyebrows. Intern wrangler? What did they think she was, a farm animal?
Avery perched on the black leather couch and flipped through the latest issue of the magazine. A fashion spread featured models lying languorously on the Brooklyn Bridge, about to get hit by oncoming traffic. The headline screamed, The Danger of the Downtown Look, followed by text deriding the downtown boho style. Avery smirked, thinking of all the girls at Constance who tried to downgrade the simple elegance of their uniforms by pairing them with flip-flops, keffiyeh scarves, and ripped leggings. She was definitely going to like it here.
“This her?”
Avery glanced up. Standing at the glass door was a super-tall, super-skinny girl with a severe blond bob and whispery bangs framing her heart-shaped face. She was probably just out of college, and wore straight-leg jeans and a pink Thakoon blazer Avery had seen in this month’s Vogue.
“Avery, this is McKenna Clarke,” Goth Girl said as she turned back to her iMac.
“Avery Carlyle.” Avery stood up and stuck her hand out formally. “So good to meet you, McKenna.”
“Follow me.” McKenna turned crisply on her four-inch purple suede Christian Louboutin ankle boots. Avery had to practically run to keep up with her as they walked down a white hallway.
“So, how long have you worked here?” Avery chirped, struggling to match McKenna’s supermodel strut. Inside the office were rows and rows of cubicles. They passed a glass-walled conference room filled with willowy, pouty models. A harried-looking blond girl was frantically taking Polaroids of each of them.
McKenna sighed, not breaking her stride as she darted between racks of fur coats that had been set up, mazelike, in the hallway. “A year. And, listen, generally, interns are seen and not heard. That’s just the way things are at Metropolitan.”
Is it, now?
Finally, McKenna slowed down, in front of a glass-walled corner office. Avery could see Ticky, holding a rotary phone receiver in one hand and frantically typing on a typewriter with the other. Ticky’s bright red henna-highlighted hair was teased a full three inches above her heavily Botoxed forehead, and she wore a beaded gold Chanel jacket.
“I’m going to just say hi to Ticky—she’s expecting me,” Avery explained, moving toward the ’50s retro–style office.
“Shh!” McKenna hissed, wrapping her thin fingers around Avery’s wrist and yanking her down the hall. She opened an unmarked door, pulled Avery in, and shut it behind her.
The room was a windowless space with shelves and shelves of beauty products. The ground was covered with containers of even more products. Three girls were sitting at one long desk, their shoulders hunched over laptops, and a phone kept ringing in the corner.
“Um, I think I’m supposed to talk to Ticky to see what she wants me to do. But thanks for your help,” Avery said politely, moving again to the door.
McKenna shot Avery a death stare. “Listen, I’m in charge of all the interns, and I think it’s best if you stay in the closet for a few days, until you learn more about the culture of Metropolitan. Gemma?” A brown-haired girl sitting at one of the computers turned around and raised her eyebrow.
“Come here, Intern,” Gemma called impatiently, as she stood and walked toward a huge chest of plastic-laminate drawers. She pushed her black Prada frames further up on her ski-jump nose and looked Avery up and down.
Intern? She didn’t even get called by name?
“So, I guess what I’ll have you do is organize these drawers.” Gemma turned to face Avery. She had a zit threatening to pop from her angular chin, and her complexion was splotchy, but she wore a Dries Van Noten gray sweaterdress over black leggings with zippers up the calves that accentuated her height. She looked cool, and she knew it.
Avery tried to smile through her disappointment. She quickly opened the drawer and began pulling out lipsticks, scattering them on a white counter that lined one wall. Okay, so this wasn’t investigative reporting. Or photo-shoot styling. But it also wasn’t hanging out with odd-smelling old ladies, which was all she’d done after school for the past few weeks.
Avery was in the middle of creating a drawer of light pink lip stains when the door creaked open again. McKenna.
“What’s the burgundy doing here?” McKenna picked a MAC lip stain from the drawer of pale pinks and waved it accusingly in front of Avery’s face.
Avery took it back guiltily, feeling like she was a kindergartener getting yelled at for not putting away her crayons properly. “Sorry,” she muttered.
“You need to be more careful,” Gemma warned, squinting down at the drawer.
“Anyway, since this is too complicated, there’s a Stella sample sale down in the Meatpacking District. I wrote down a couple things. Would you mind fetching them for me? I’m a little smaller than you, so whatever’s too tight on you will probably work.” McKenna smiled angelically, passing Avery an AmEx.
Avery’s eyes narrowed. Did McKenna want her to run out and do her personal shopping?
“Hope they take credit cards! Oh, also, since you’re in the nabe, can you return these to Jeffrey? These shoes totally aren’t working for me. Or the magazine.” McKenna arched her eyebrow.
Just then, Avery’s cell phone rang loudly from her new Hermés purse: a Madonna-techno ringtone that Baby had set as her personal ring, just to be annoying.
“Is that a personal call?” McKenna was actually tapping her foot, as if she were a floor manager in a factory.
“Sorry.” Avery furiously pushed silent on the phone, and instantly a text from her sister flashed: Back from España! Great. Her sister went to Spain, and all she got to do was go to the Meat-packing District.
Avery grabbed the heavy handles of McKenna’s Jeffrey bag and turned crisply on her heel. She made her way out the of the office, marching past goth Angelina with her head held high. Her dream job might turn out to be a nightmare, but she wasn’t about to break down for all of Metropolitan to see.
That’s what the backseats of taxis are for.