Since starting my second year of University I had contemplated what working as an intern in London would be like.
When I was a little girl, I dreamt of being a model, a dancer, a nurse, or even an artist.
I could have been any one of those things, but instead I chose to progress onto higher education and continue studying fashion.
Whilst interning, you hear horror stories of no payment, underfed students and talent exploitation.
Alas opportunities to learn, figure out your desired job in life and gain a possible employment position at the end.
My experience was nothing of that sort.
About three times a week I lounge in a coffee shop opposite Harrods, documenting in a Biba journal my everyday life as an unpaid intern, surrounded by snobby citizens whilst they relax before work and consume their overpriced beverages.
I will now share with you my side of the story, behind the scenes of a not so glamorous industry…
I arrive in Belgravia, London and find myself standing outside a long black door, centred between Louise Kennedy and Pierre Pierre Paris.
A young girl answered the door and introduced herself as Keta’s assistant.
When I stepped gingerly into the hallway, first thing requested of me was that I take off my shoes.
Feeling slightly embarrassed as I did whilst placing my Topshop ankle boots beside a long row of Chanel footwear, I followed the instruction nonetheless.
I paced down the outstretched corridor, as I was lead upstairs into the showroom.
This area was beyond my wildest imagination, my family house is clean however this was almost beyond indescribable.
I perched on a spotless chesterfield sofa in the spacious, arched room fitted with cream carpets and white furnishings.
Chandeliers dangled from every ceiling and old fashioned French doors lead out onto fancy terraces.
In the corner I notice a stack of books variating from Couture designer: Chanel to one of my most looked up to photographers: Tim Walker.
Dotted around this space were mannequins draped in elegant couture ensembles.
My personal favourite was a duck egg coloured dress, with detachable organza at the sides and Swarovski crystal details scattered over the bodice.
Large framed mirrors hung on every wall, I kept catching a glimpse of myself every so often to check my hair and make up was still in place.
Feeling self conscious and stuck out of this luxury in my black, slender, polyester dress from EBay, fishnet tights and a corset belt.
These clothes were all the rage on the high street due to grunge, 90s trends making a comeback, however in this environment I felt less cool and more shabby.
Black clothes, red lipstick and dark features tends to be my trademark, I feel that’s what makes me different and owning this aesthetic allows me to achieve a unique concept.
Keta’s assistant and I waited in the showroom for a couple of hours and endured small talk before Keta eventually showed her face.
She was an attractive woman, dressed in Dior who spoke with a lyrical Bulgarian accent.
The first feature I noticed was her hair, a rhubarb complextion, filled with every colour you could imagine.
My role during this work placement was to be PR and I spent the best part of it viewing various fashion designers’ blogs on social media and updating Keta’s accounts for her.
The other half of my job was greeting clients and tidying up after them when they left.
This was the worst part due to delicate, expensive, laced fabrics being strewn carelessly across the floor along with these beautiful, Couture garments.
What I can remember most is the visit of a Bulgarian family, whose youngest member was set to be married.
They were of course purchasing from Keta and I had to reside in a corner of the showroom on my hands and knees, ensuring the area remained clean and tidy.
I watched intriguingly and wondered what it must be like to own High-End attire and have all this money.
The girl looked younger than me and even though she was to be wed in the arms of a wealthy gentleman and I was on the floor like a maid, not even earning a penny for my work…it was the little bride I felt sorry for.
She would never indulge a life of freedom only regret, unlike me as I am gratefully able to come and go when I please.
Keta’s pettiness was tiring and I was fed up of her taking pity upon herself because she had lacked a rich husband throughout her life.
The woman who owned too many designer clothes/shoes/handbags to count, owned a tall, white townhouse around the corner from Harrods and spent her weekends being transported to Italy in a private jet made out she had nothing.
What I learnt from this is that fashion is no walk in the park and you need to have a thick skin to survive it.
After many shopping trips, biting my tongue at racist comments, ignoring her anorexia accusations towards me and completing all the fetching and carrying for her I finally left, gladly returning to my part time marketing job in Surrey.
Jenny Graham 