Free Love and Chaos by Gemma Burgess Page B

all my favorite Manhattan-based designers yet again, just in case the last time I sent it last August, when I first got to New York, it was misplaced. I told them I loved creating clothes; I asked if they needed a junior designer, an assistant, a receptionist, a coffee flunky, shoe polisher, anything.
    Nothing.
    I called everyone nice who I met via my old boss The Bitch food photographer; I phoned Cornelia’s contacts that I used to call to pull samples when she was on her way to some gala. I Facebooked, I IM’d, I tweeted. I called back and back and back.
    Nothing.
    I asked about internships, but they’re booked up months or even years in advance, and the problem is that they don’t pay anything and I need money . I guess this means that every intern in New York either still lives with their parents, or has an enormous salary-type allowance that enables them to pay for a New York apartment and, you know, eat. Which means that only rich kids get fashion internships, and therefore, are first in line and the most qualified for the best jobs. Doesn’t that seem fucking stupid to you, by the way? Shouldn’t it be the hardest working and most talented people who get the best jobs? Sometimes it seems like being in your early twenties in New York is not survival of the fittest, it’s survival of the richest.
    So I applied for sales positions in my favorite designers’ stores. If you work in a Marc Jacobs store, you’ve got to meet him at some point, right? I spent all day yesterday going to all the best stores. I filled out forms and left my perfect Julia-approved résumé and smiled so much that my face ached.
    Nothing.
    Getting a job is the only thing I’ve thought about, the only thing I’ve focused on in the past week. When my thoughts slip back to Stef, and Hal, and the yacht, and everything else, I force them forward. Get a job. Get a life.
    But I’m not getting anywhere. I’m failing.
    New York City is rejecting me.
    Today it was cold and rainy, a typical March day, so I hid in my bedroom, reading romances and drawing and sewing little bits and pieces. Throwing out all my high-end clothes the other night also ripped a hole in my wardrobe, and obviously I can’t afford to go shopping right now, so I decided to take my cheap-ass basics and make them more interesting. For example, I ripped the sleeves off all my shirts and T-shirts. Yes, it’s still cold as hell outside. Yes, I should have thought it through a bit more.
    Anyway, when Julia found me moping in my room earlier (“Are you sick? I have never, ever seen you in the house on a Saturday night before”), she suggested I get the girls together to “brainstorm a solution.” Pia isn’t here, of course. She’s with Aidan.
    But that’s okay. I’m in the warm, cozy kitchen at Rookhaven, eating pizza from Bartolo’s and drinking wine while it rains outside.
    “What the hell is this? I asked for triple pepperoni, this is, like, double at the most,” says Julia, peering at her pizza.
    “I think there’s more than enough processed pig on there,” says Madeleine through a mouthful of spinach and ricotta.
    Julia sighs. “I guess.” She looks up at me. “Pepperoni, Angelface?”
    I grin at her and take a slice. There’s nowhere else in the world that I’d rather be right now than right here.
    “I don’t know when I started drinking wine, but I like it,” comments Julia. “It just tastes so fucking sophisticated.”
    “I started drinking wine about the time I got my first period,” I say.
    Julia cracks up. “You know, I would think you were joking, but I know you too well now. I was drinking Malibu and milk until I was, like—”
    “Twenty-two,” interrupts Madeleine. Julia flicks her the bird.
    “I was allowed watered-down wine at dinner,” I say. “Annabel thought it was the mature, European thing to do.”
    “Well, I’m glad that didn’t backfire on her,” Madeleine says snarkily. I’m not sure what she means by that, but I’m