Who, what, where?

image by Aga Baranska

Was completely bitched slapped by a perfectly season-appropriate-603 Charivari-polished hand. Not literally but I might as well been. Everyone in the office gathered around the newest shipment of leather goods to discuss the showroom presentation happening later that evening. Naturally intrigued, I pretended to shuffle through RTW fabrics enclosed in plastic folders. After asking what time I should be there, the assistant manager shot me a cold glare over her full frame Bottega glasses. 'Interns aren't invited.' The words pierced me like a knife. Knocked me back down to earth and out of my Devil Wears Prada haze. I was just an intern. Simply a coffee-runner with amplified social media skills. When they had all gone, the EIC herself grabbed my arm and took me out to get some cheap wine. Clearly buzzed off Blanc and freshly in love with some independent movie buff, I knew it was time to prod. Whenever said editor is asked about what she's wearing, the conventional answer is 'something-something couture-or gifted' After her fifth glass, I leaned closer. 'So, where is that amazing tweed jacket from?' I waited for Vionnet. I waited for Jay Ahr. I waited for Krakoff. I was aghast when she shrugged, 'It's from Topshop.' OH!

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