I wake up the sound of someone softly humming a Billie Eilish song. At first, I think I’m dreaming—there’s an angelic light lingering over Leila’s living room and a breeze wafting in from the window hanging over the kitchen. Am I still asleep? Does the quiet voice I hear drizzling in from the bathroom belong to someone who works at Shifter & Pearce Publishing? Could it be an imaginary Cal who’s come to kiss me awake from my slumber? Or worse, Loretta?
A fabulous, fat, half-naked femme walks into my boudoir (read: Leila’s living room) and disrupts my daydream. She’s got tiny freckles that crescendo down her chest and a septum ring nestled into her nose. Her bod’s clad in only a tank top and boxer briefs.
I let out a sigh. It’s just Leila’s latest hookup. Last week, it was a handsome but mysterious albino man who spoke little to no English and wore nothing but a tiger-print silk robe. The week before that it was an off-duty mime. She usually sneaks them into the apartment when I’m already asleep, but I always catch them on their way out the door. I know I can’t complain—after all, she’s the one letting me crash on her pull-out couch. Plus, her one-night stands are usually quite polite. We casually drink coffee together and read the New York Times daily newsletter. Nine times out of ten, they’ll bring up Burning Man.
“Where’s Leila?” I ask today’s flavor of the week—white chocolate raspberry truffle, if I’m not mistaken. Before she can answer, I overhear the muffled sounds of someone screaming into the phone. The noise is coming from behind Leila’s locked bedroom door. I look up, startled.
“Is everything okay?”
“I think so,” she says, opening the door to the fridge and helping herself to a carton of milk. “Leila said she had a missed call from work and that she needed to take care of something? From what I gathered, one of the influencers she works with is unhappy with the overall arrangement of her account or something? Or maybe she said engagement? Something about the algorithm changing? I’m not sure—sounds serious, though.”
She takes a long swig straight from the carton. Ew. I grimace then glance up at the antique clock hanging above the stove.
Shit.
“Okay, well I have to run,” I announce to the stranger. “But will you tell Leila to call me if she needs anything?”
I run over to the rack against the couch that houses all my clothes and start pulling out options then throwing them carelessly around the room.
“Sure,” she says, now rummaging around the kitchen cabinets for a bowl, holding an unopened box of Lucky Charms. “Wait, who are you again?”
This chick is seriously not it.
“Someone who needed to be out the door five minutes ago,” I snap.
Sorry, Leila, I have no patience or time to make small talk with your latest “friend” this morning. It’s fashion season in New York.
Last month felt like a never-ending episode of Russian Doll. I kept going through all the motions of being Loretta James’s assistant without ever feeling like Loretta James’s assistant, partially because I never have a second to stop and catch my breath.
I woke up this morning the way I always do, to an 8:00 a.m. text from Loretta informing me she’s going to be in late (shocker) and that I need to push back all her appointments. I email every single guest from the privacy of Leila’s bathroom—one day, I swear I’ll be able to afford a place of my own—then throw on the outfit I concocted in my sleep and rush out the door.
Actually, I make time to guzzle caffeine like a maniac, hovering over the sink. Then I rush out the door.
August in New York is still summer, but sad summer. Everything is excessive and overbearing. The subway is too slow, the concrete too hot, the air quality too dry. The city is swimming with pedestrians who can be divided into two camps: those who mourn for midsummer, and those who pinch their noses and count the minutes till fall. I land somewhere in the middle, taking tastes of both air-conditioned paradise and soggy, polluted walks through Sara D. Roosevelt Park. I like watching the late-summer soccer games. The red, flushed cheeks and scuffed varsity socks. The dissolved sweat turning to salt and melting into the grass.
I’m in the SPP Tower by 9:00 a.m. I’ve learned to give a subtle head nod to Superman, whose real name is actually Ned. I’m often the only one in the lobby, save for a few other assistants. One thing I’ve learned rather quickly: Media is nocturnal. This industry likes to sleep in.
I enjoy walking through the thirty-second floor when it’s empty—it offers me a rare moment of Zen. Once I get to my desk, organize Loretta’s day, formulate my to-do lists, and answer unread emails. Most importantly, I take out my brand-new watering can and deliver the elixir of life to Loretta’s plant babies, whom I’ve affectionally nicknamed Thelma and Louise. I make sure not to touch anything else. I learned my lesson the first time.
Around 10:30 a.m., the Digital team and a few stragglers from Print make their way in, gripping cold brew. I peer over my cubicle wall to count how many people surround me then wave to Beth, who can see me through the glass door of her office. She smiles and waves back. I appreciate that. In fact, I appreciate her.
Saffron has made a habit of stopping by my desk to debrief right after they get in. Today, they ask about Loretta, and I have an absurd story to tell them. Last night, Loretta literally asked me to fight sixty Uber cancellation fees. She has a two-star rating and insists a broken app is to blame, but I think it’s because she makes every driver wait half an hour. Then Saffron tells me about what they’re working on. Last week, it was an STI glossary. Today, it’s a photo spread reclaiming birthmarks and blemishes. They’re also really stoked about this new Beauty Politics column they’re launching soon. Apparently, they’ve hired some big-shot freelancer for the job. They practically beam while describing their back-and-forth email exchange.
Around noon, I head to the beauty closet to reapply my Fenty highlighter before heading to the SPP cafeteria on the off chance I’ll run into Cal at lunch. Nine times out of ten, it’s a pipe dream, but today, I’m waiting in line at the salad bar when I see him strut through the back door, chatting to a coworker, a hoodie carelessly thrown over one shoulder. Our eyes meet, and he gives me that dimpled smile that always makes me swoon. I consider going up to talk to him but don’t want to lose my spot in line (these Shifter Pearce bitches take their salad so seriously, I call them Shifter Fierce. I’m genuinely afraid of them). But by the time I’m ready to cash out, he’s gone. I’ve once again missed my opportunity. We pass each other like ships in the night. Or like Staten Island ferries.
The idea of accidentally on purpose crossing paths with Cal gives me, at the very least, one thing to look forward to each day. I haven’t needed him for a tech emergency since late July’s server fiasco, when he had calmly explained to Loretta what the problem was and somehow convinced her to move all of her information to the cloud. (“I hate flying,” she had complained. We both died laughing.) Don’t get me wrong, there have been many snafus since then—the Uber cancellation fee mishap, to start—but nothing warranting contacting the IT department. Honestly, I’ve considered making something up just so we can make small talk and I can stare longingly at the nape of his neck.
Anyway, the latter part of my day consists of scheduling external meetings and internal tête-à-têtes. This might sound relatively simple, but Loretta is so frantic, she borders on batshit. She’s constantly adding in her own personal appointments—lunch with her wife, an hour-long brainstorm with her therapist—without giving me notice. Then, if I can’t reconfigure the schedule to fit, she’ll start crying and ask me to prepare résumés for my replacement “just in case.” I usually do, although she never gets around to actually looking at them.
I can never schedule anything during the recurring blackout period reserved for her top-secret meeting that I still know nothing about. I’ve attempted to press Saffron for details, but turns out, they’re in the dark as well. Very sus.
I have other responsibilities too. Although I don’t attend prod, I’m responsible for exporting the Print staff’s pieces from the content management system (or CMS) so Loretta can give her notes. She refuses to do any of this on a computer because she claims it makes no sense and gives her a migraine. When she’s done, she hands her edits back to me and I input them into the CMS then reroute the workflow back to the appropriate editor. It’s all very, very confusing.
In the evening, as the rest of Vinyl Print and Digital filter out of the office, I get started on Loretta’s expenses, which are composed of everything from five-hundred-dollar dinners at Cipriani (she claims they’re “networking dinners”), facials from Rescue Spa (they keep her looking on brand!), and a new flat-screen sent straight to her Park Slope town house (so she can “keep up” with the competition). I go through her receipts folder, driving myself mad trying to match charges to each tiny, fraying piece of paper. I also sift through her email, printing Uber, Lyft, Juno, Via—you name it!—receipts. The entire process takes a week, on top of my daily responsibilities. I can’t remember the last time I left the office before 9:00 p.m. I keep telling myself that everyone starts at the bottom, that I’m lucky to be here. That one day, it will all be worth it. But Leila’s not so sure. She has started calling me her rooh. That’s Farsi for ghost.
But my number one priority is managing Loretta’s Fashion Week schedule. When she first told me about this specific assignment, it sounded like a literal dream. I’d be RSVP’ing to fashion shows, calling in samples for street-style looks, arranging car pickups to and from the venues. It’s basically the next best thing to attending New York Fashion Week myself. (That’s right—you hear that, middle school bullies? This awkward, hairy Middle Eastern gal is officially Fashion Week adjacent.)
Two weeks into the task, however, I’ve learned that New York Fashion Week is about more than fangirling after Anna Wintour and salivating over whatever Jacquemus puts on the runway. Just like everything Vinyl related, Loretta’s attendance is purely political. With the rise of social media and Instagram capital, Fashion Week has become more of a visually stimulating publicity stunt than a haute-couture circus. The actual logistics, the physical event, no longer matter—it’s all about what’s left online in the aftermath. Sure, a sunset may be spectacular in the moment. But if it doesn’t photograph well, does anyone even care?
Loretta called me on Sunday night, screaming unintelligibly into the phone. It took me a while to gather what she was so upset about: she’s been invited to sit second row at Sandy Liang this year. According to Loretta, this is a fate worth than death. Her words verbatim were, “I’d rather be bombed at Times Square.”
So this week I’ve been tasked with working nonstop to get Sandy Liang’s team to offer us an explanation and a chance to amend this mistake. I keep pressing Leila to tap every last contact she has, in hopes someone can connect me with someone else who can explain to me why in the hell Vinyl’s editor in chief wasn’t given the honor of being invited to sit front row at their fall preview. There are whispers that this year’s show will take place on the Hive, the newest Hudson Yards architectural development. I’ve even heard there might be holograms involved. Holograms. Is that not the most Black Mirror shit you’ve ever heard? I’m telling you, the Twitterverse is losing its mind.
After sifting through Loretta’s inbox with a fine-tooth comb, reaching out to every single person on staff and grilling them about their relationship to Sandy Liang (awkward as fuck), and fiddling with every search phrase imaginable, I’ve run out of options. Apparently, there is no one on staff at Liang HQ who can provide me with a straight answer.
Of course, Loretta gaslights me for this mishap. “Honey, if I wanted a secretary, I would have hired Elisabeth fucking Moss,” she keeps telling me. “Now, I don’t want to blame you. But I thought you were my assistant. Why aren’t you assisting?!”
Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell her. I have no idea why this is happening. Someone working this show or within the design house must have a vendetta against Loretta.