Name: Lucy SchmidtAge: 25Role:
Generic Assistant Responsible For Whatever Assigned, look, she's just a Lucy, okay?Bio:
Just turned 22 and with a freshly cured degree in French Literature from Mount Holyoke, a young woman sets out to enter the work force and chase her dream career of being a book reviewer and junior editor for a publishing house.
Too bad about that whole economic downturn thing, huh? Or a degree in French Literature from Mt. H? Seriously? She could have set a quarter of a million of Daddy's dollars on fire and at least gotten warm out of the deal. Daddy would probably be happier too. At least then he wouldn't have to worry about his unemployed daughter with no real job skills who also didn't have a MRS degree in the works. Preferably to another Daddy's son who could take over the cost of keeping Lucy. Not that she was expensive outside of what college and now her tiny apartment cost. Lucy was very practical, very low maintenance, my God she drove a three year old Ford. A Ford! It was a good thing she was too ugly for the pretty girl's clique and too cute for the ugly girl's clique and too standoffish for the popular one and too extroverted for the introverted ones. She was just Lucy. Two consonants and the two ugliest vowels.
But Lucy got things done. She always had. She was always the go to person when you had a task and didn't quite know what to do with it. It might not require any special skills or thought, but it had to be done. Reliably. Without supervision. "Oh, Lucy will do it."
And she did. Always.
Daddy knew a guy who used to sleep with a girl who also blew a photographer who owed someone a favor and got Lucy in the door at Victoria's Secret as an assistant. Sounds glamorous, right?
No, you're thinking Personal Assistant. Those almost brothers and sisters who work one on one with the models or the best photographers or the executives. Those people had perks and power and fiefdoms and drama and didn't take shit from anyone but the people they PA'd for. They were important.
Lucy was just an Assistant. She got things done. Some fifteen year old fitting model had her feelings hurt and binged on HoHos and Diet Lemonade and Xanax then bulimia vomited it all up in the bathroom and her hair and dress? While Corporate and Legal and Security were in the suite working how to spin it and contain it, someone had to go in and get the girl cleaned up. Yep, send for Lucy.
One of the almost good enough models was having a panic attack and incredibly no on, no one!, on the set had any Xanax? Lucy, go get some. And she would.
Lucy knew who everyone was but they didn't know her. She was just one of those girls. "You, yes with the ugly glasses. Run and get us 2 vanilla mocha chai lattes and a Whopper." Somehow she knew you preferred it dry but with extra tomatoes.
Important people didn't have time to loan their keys and passwords and access cards to a Lucy. "Just give her access," they'd say and all off a sudden Lucy had more access to everything at VS than anyone really realized. She had to. And what did it matter? She was just a Lucy.
And that oh so high school pink journal of hers? Why couldn't she get a tablet like everyone else to remember things and make lists and keep track of whatever it was Lucy's did. Really, it was as bad as her glasses. Or her hair. And had she ever even heard of exfoliation?
"Lucy. We need you to..."