Sports Calendar

I was doing returns in the fashion closet one afternoon when one of Anna Wintour’s assistants raced in panic-stricken: “She’s coming in here in five minutes for a fitting — tidy up and get out!” We dropped everything, throwing discarded accessories into cupboards while wheeling out rails of clothes to make room. In the middle of this rampage, in walked Ms Wintour. Like rabbits caught in the headlights, we stopped and stared at the legendary creature and then remembered that we weren’t supposed to be making eye contact. None of us knew what to do until she said very calmly: “Guys, I need the closet for a while, thanks.” We trooped out silently, eyes to the floor.

In the office next day, one of the assistants came to me, looking worried. “I need you to take these dresses back to Dior immediately. They cost $20,000 each and are already very late. Dior is very concerned.” The dresses were stunning; off-white with hand-sewn intricate beadwork, they looked as if they would break if you touched them and they weighed an absolute ton. Suddenly, another assistant approached us like a tiger. They ignored me and began a full-blown row about the dresses. “I need those dresses, you can’t send them back.” “I have to send them back. DIOR IS CONCERNED.” “No you can’t, I NEED THEM.” It went on and on until the whole office had stopped. In the end, the assistant threw the dresses on the floor and stomped off shouting. I was left to haul them down into a car by myself. Fortunately nothing had been damaged.

After two months of what seemed like initiation, I was allowed to help out on a shoot. Stephen Meisel, the legendary fashion photographer who shot Madonna’s 1992 book, Sex, was the photographer and Tonne Goodman, Vogue’s fashion director, the editor. I was briefed about how to behave in front of Meisel. I was told not to look him in the eye and in no circumstances to talk to him. He was deemed a bit of a diva with a rep for being “difficult” . Who isn’t difficult, I thought as I headed to Chelsea Piers where the shoot was taking place. Once inside, I caught a glimpse of the great man; long dark hair and biker boots, he was a dead ringer for Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow. He looked very, very cool and I was terrified that he would notice me staring and throw a camera in my direction. In reality, all he did was settle in front of a computer and direct his assistants, who were taking the pictures. I observed the action while hanging up couture bikinis that the models literally flung at me. Everything was covered in fake tan and I wondered if the designers minded that their beloved collections came back ruined. I managed to eat my own body weight in canapés from a table that seemed to be replenished every 30 minutes and I left for the day at a very respectable six in the evening.

The magazine that thinks nothing of ferrying around poultry by-products didn’t give me a penny towards my costs — although I did know this before I started. The lunches have not so far been reimbursed and neither have the phone bills — high, thanks to assistants phoning constantly, plus in America you have to pay to receive calls.

My 11-hour first day without breaks turned out to be a typical day. The interns were often made to stay late, even if everything was done, because the editors were still working. The freebies weren’t bad, however, and I furnished my friends with all sorts of goodies.

On my last day they gave me champagne and a fabulous cashmere cardigan from Juicy Couture. I looked at the label, “press sample,” it said “please return”. I smiled and felt the incredible weight of a million girls who would kill to work at Vogue.