‘No, Mum, there’s nothing to celebrate. Seriously, the internship’s no big deal.’
‘Oh quiet, love,’ she said. ‘How about beef stroganoff? You’ve always loved that.’
Mum trotted off in search of sour cream while I wondered whether I should remind her beef stroganoff was Dad’s favourite dish, not mine.
I turned to Kat. ‘Doesn’t Mum remember that’s Dad’s —’
‘Leave it,’ snapped Kat. ‘Just leave it.’
She plugged in her earphones and walked away.
What’s with her? I thought. Sure, Kat wasn’t exactly a dream to be around on her good days, but this was a whole other level of bitchy.
Mum reappeared holding a bottle of soft drink. ‘That should just about do us for today,’ she said.
‘The sour cream, Mum?’
‘I knew I forgot something,’ she said, pushing her boofy, unbrushed hair out of her eyes. ‘I’ll just run and get it.’
I didn’t think she realised she was humming her and Dad’s wedding song as she headed off again.
A minute later, she returned with enough sour cream to feed a team of famished footy players. ‘Half price, love! Isn’t that great? Someone’s looking down on me.’ She punched the price into the handheld calculator she’d started carrying around to track our ever-growing expenses.
‘Great, Mum. That’s great,’ I said.
‘Now, we can have beef stroganoff all week. I bet you’re dying with excitement.’
‘Yep, I’m dying,’ I muttered.
Part of me wished Dad would appear, sweep me over his shoulder like he used to and tell me everything was going to be okay. But he wouldn’t. He was kilometres, towns, maybe even oceans away.
So much time had passed since I’d seen him that I wondered what he looked like now. Maybe he’d grown a beard, lost his pot belly, donned a pair of thick-rimmed glasses? Waiting with Mum at the checkout, it was hard to believe we were ever a tight-knit family of four.
‘So I’m up in the helicopter, looking down at the clear blue ocean, and I think, this is the best day of my life. I could die happy. Glad I didn’t, but seriously, I could have.’
‘Totally, man. My day was wicked, too. I sat there watching the interview, thinking, this is it, I’ve practically made it. Living, breathing journalism, right before my eyes. I could smell the opposition leader’s fear. It was sensational.’
My uni classmates Tony and Jeff were practically organising a parade in honour of their first internship days. I couldn’t help but feel dejected. For the past five minutes Tony’d re-enacted how the pilot had let him steer the weather chopper. As for Jeff, political newshound in the making, he was still salivating over getting to sit in on an interview with one of the country’s most prestigious journalists. They almost choked on their enthusiasm as they one-upped each other’s stories.
Tony turned to me. ‘What about you, Josie? How was your day at the paper?’
‘Yeah, seen your by-line in print yet?’ Jeff asked.
‘I, ah, didn’t go to the paper. All out of positions.’
Tony tilted his head. ‘Oh, really? I heard Fiona McClay got a spot and she’s already researched a piece with the news editor.’
My jaw dropped.
‘So where’d you end up, then?’ asked Jeff. ‘The radio station? I always thought you’d be perfect for radio.’
‘Er, thanks, I think.’
‘C’mon, where are you?’
‘Sash,’ I muttered.
‘Where?’
‘Sash.’
Jeff shrugged. ‘Never heard of it. Is it one of those independent mags? What did you get up to? Interviews, research, editing?’
My mind flashed back to the pile of dirty bikinis and being hidden away in the fashion office for hours with no one to talk to. ‘Yeah, pretty much,’ I said. ‘That and, er, other stuff.’
Remember this moment, I told myself. This is what living a big fat lie feels like. Thankfully, Filly called me into his office just then. He’d asked us all to report back on our first internship day and I was only too happy to tell him exactly what I thought.
After I’d filled him in on the depressing details, Filly shook his bald, bulbous head. ‘I’m sorry, Josie, there’s nowhere else I can send you.’
‘Really? There has to be something — anything — I can do instead.’
He leaned back in his chair, linking his sausage-like fingers behind his head. Sweat stains the size of dinner plates clung to each armpit. ‘No, there’s nothing.’
‘Not even Cats Quarterly?’ My desperation was as obvious as a yapping puppy.
‘Not even that. Look, as far as I’m concerned, you have two options: finish the internship at Sash and make it work, whatever it takes — because that’s what professionals do. Or, stay here in my office complaining for the next hour, then join the list of wannabes who never made it because they gave up on their dreams. Well?’
Filly’s no-nonsense approach shocked me, but I managed to whisper, ‘I’ll do the internship.’ Giving up on my dream of becoming a journalist wasn’t an option.
Filly smiled, his face softening. ‘A fine choice. Josie, you’re a great student and a hard worker, but you’ve got to pull your finger out. Show those magazine girls how it’s done. You think washing a few bikinis was hard? Try doing that for a lifetime. This isn’t school, you aren’t going to be surrounded by friends all day. You can give up if you want, but that’s not going to earn you a high distinction. Besides, I hear there’s quite the bonus up for grabs at Sash.’
‘I know,’ I croaked out. ‘Thanks, Filly.’
I collected my books and turned to leave his office. When I reached the doorway, he spoke again.
‘Oh, and forget about Jeff’s and Tony’s bragging. Between you and me, Tony shrieked for his mummy for half the helicopter ride.’
I snorted with laughter.
Walking away from his office, I felt lighter and happier than I had for days. I was ready for my next visit to Sash HQ. I just had to bring my A-game. After all, there were five thousand big ones on the table. Five thousand big ones my family could put to great use.
6.
‘Stephanie, pass the box,’ ordered, Ava, who was standing a mere metre from it herself. ‘Yes, that mauve one. No, not the lilac one, the mauve one!’
Steph passed Ava the box without a word, then returned to sorting dog-eared back issues of the magazines, forming teetering piles on the shelf.
Ava had unofficially crowned herself the leader of the interns, barking orders at us like a glossy dictator. She didn’t complete tasks; she just pointed, waved and flicked her hands, no doubt conserving energy in her patent leather heels. Apparently a half-finished online interior design course gave her all the styling skills required, although Steph and I weren’t convinced.
Maybe Ava had sniffed too much hairspray before work and missed the memo that we were about as important to Sash as the mail boy. In fact, the mail boy was Sash royalty compared to us. We were the plebs, the scum, the bottom feeders. Exhibit A: we’d been sent to a musty room where air conditioning was a pipe dream to sort thousands of magazines. But somehow Ava thought we mattered. Or, more to the point, she mattered.
Not satisfied with Steph’s lacklustre response to her bossiness, Ava turned on me. ‘Have you worn that dress before, Josephine? It’s not that I want to make a big deal or anything, it just looks so familiar. Glad you managed to get the stain out, too.’
My face flushed red. I was wearing the same dress as last week. I’d run out of time for another shopping trip, so I’d borrowed a pair of Kat’s heels and mixed up my jewellery and hairstyle and hoped no one would notice. Normal people wouldn’t have noticed, or if they did, they wouldn’t have cared. But I wasn’t dealing with normal people, I was dealing with Ava, who apparently could sniff out a repeat-outfit offender faster than a police dog could sniff out a drug-crammed backpack.
‘Not sure, maybe,’ I said, returning to my sorting.
<
br /> She sniffed. ‘Well, you’d better be careful. I doubt Rae wants people showing up in the same clothes time and time again. You know, for the sake of Sash’s image. Just something to think about.’
Steph slammed down a magazine, causing us to jump. ‘Ava, what’s your problem?’
‘What’s my problem?’ Ava snapped. ‘Nothing. What’s yours? Why are you even here? You clearly don’t want this as much as me or Miss Grade As over there.’
‘What would you know?’ Steph turned her back on Ava to face me. ‘Hey, Jose, I’ve had it with this sorting. Want me to paint your nails?’ She held up a bottle of silver polish she’d pulled from the shelf.
I waved my hands at her — the nails were still a soft pink from last week.
Steph sank to the floor and wriggled over to me clutching the polish. ‘All good. I’ll do your toes.’
‘Okay …’ I replied, aware that Ava was shooting dirty looks at the back of Steph’s head. I prayed to whichever god or goddess was on duty that Steph wouldn’t notice my weird feet. ‘Clown’s feet,’ Kat called them, and shoe sales people always came out with a version of ‘Yikes, they’re awfully long.’ But Steph didn’t seem to care as she swiped the polish over my toe nails.
‘Well, if you two children are going to play sleepover games, I’m out of here,’ Ava spat out.
‘Wait, Ava —’ I started, but it was too late. Ava stalked out, slamming the door behind her.
‘Good riddance,’ said Steph.
It was the first time we’d been alone and I didn’t know what to say. Steph was so cool and confident; the complete opposite of me. She painted my nails like a pro, layering on the polish until my toes became gleaming silver buttons.
‘You bring your lunch today?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, just a sandwich and an apple,’ I replied, admiring my toes. ‘Boring, but it was all I could scrape together.’
‘I was going to see if you wanted to grab some Vietnamese with me. There’s a place across the road that does amazing rice paper rolls, like super-authentic. Man, you wouldn’t believe how good the food is in Vietnam — I lived on noodles. It was the best. I need to get back there as soon as Dad lets me off the leash for more than two seconds. I swear, that man believes taking me to over-priced restaurants and buying me new clothes will convince me to stay put. He thinks too much with his wallet. First-world problem, right?’
‘Ha, right.’ I laughed awkwardly.
‘If this is the real world — all rules, and jobs, and mean girls — then I don’t want it. Give me a hostel and a handful of strangers up for a laugh any day. So … want to do lunch?’
‘Oh, I thought you said … um … yeah, I’d love to,’ I stammered.
I liked the idea of spending more time with Steph, and I was curious about the food. Back home, the closest we had to Vietnamese rice paper rolls were greasy spring rolls at the local Chinese restaurant.
‘Will your sanger be okay though?’ She grinned.
I blushed. ‘It’ll keep.’
The door creaked open and Liani peered in. ‘Josie, got a minute?’
‘Sure.’ I’d just spent five minutes getting my toenails primped and pampered. I had all the time in the world.
‘How would you like to help out in the features department? They’re a writer down today. Keen?’
Lunch would have to wait. I nearly raced over to hug her, but managed to restrain myself. After all, I didn’t want to ruin my fresh pedicure. I beamed. Kat would have been proud of me.
‘Number thirty-four,’ I muttered while click-clacking on the computer keyboard. ‘He says he’ll call you tonight but he doesn’t, and then you catch him posting flirty comments online to that total babe from the coffee shop. Number thirty-five: you find a pair of undies that aren’t yours in his gym bag —’
‘Jordie!’ a shrill voice piped up behind me. ‘Can you drop that and come here, please? We need all hands on deck at the photo shoot.’
‘Josie, I think she means you,’ whispered the girl next to me, an olive-skinned features writer called Eloise.
I looked up from my typing to see a wide-eyed Carla standing at Sash’s office door and waving me over with a handful of coat hangers. Her left foot tapped over and over on the carpet, causing the hangers to jangle together.
‘Jordie? Jordie!’ she repeated, her voice getting louder.
Eloise nodded at me. ‘You’d better go. Carla hasn’t hit that decibel level for a while. Must be serious. Just leave that work until later … Jordie.’
We both giggled.
For the past two hours, I’d been writing a piece for Eloise entitled ‘101 Signs He’s Not Interested’ (for which, unsurprisingly, I had plenty of ideas). I was a little peeved to be plucked from the features department and thrown back into the world of fashion, but intern beggars couldn’t be choosers. I said goodbye to Eloise, saved my work and walked over to Carla, who by this stage was grinding her teeth with stress.
As we made our way to the photo shoot, Carla babbled through a list of the things she needed help with. I lost track after task nine and figured I’d have to wing it.
We arrived at a door with the words ‘Studio 7B’ printed in bold, black lettering. I opened it, excited and ready to experience my first magazine photo shoot. It was chaos. The room was full of people: dolled-up women pushing racks of men’s clothing, weaving between guys holding trays spilling with coffee. A photographer wearing a jaunty cap was head-to-head with Rae in a corner, his arms flailing and gesturing. Rae nodded, and occasionally shook her head, while he ranted.
Nearby, Liani was chatting to four hot twenty-something guys who were sprawled in black chairs. They had self-confidence down to a fine art, keeping one eye on themselves in the mirrors and the other on Liani as she made awkward small talk.
‘So you got here alright, then?’ I heard her say.
‘It would appear so,’ one of the guys cracked. The others tittered.
‘And, ah, you don’t feel like a coffee?’ she tried again.
‘Not since the last time you asked, about two minutes ago,’ one of the guys muttered.
‘Rightio,’ Liani said. ‘Good.’
A few metres away, a curvy-figured woman with big lips and even bigger hair was playing with her phone, glancing over occasionally to check what was happening with the self-assured quartet; a protective mother hen in fire-engine red lippie and a power suit. ‘You lads okay over there?’ she hollered in a thick English accent.
One of them — a cute guy with brown hair — grinned. ‘We’re sweet, Claire.’
‘Thanks, Billy, love.’ She nodded and returned to fiddling with her phone.
Carla put me to work steaming clothes and sorting belts for the photo shoot. Initially, I didn’t recognise the four guys — our ‘models for the day’ as Carla described them. But after about ten minutes of sorting belts (there were categories apparently: stylish, practical, statement and NFW — no freaking way) it hit me like a slap across the face. The arrogant foursome were Greed, the country’s latest music ‘it’ boys. No wonder they looked familiar: their faces were always in the papers, on the sides of buses, billboards and social media. Especially Billy, their resident bad boy, whose hobbies seemed to consist of partying and being a player. There’d even been whisperings he had got a girl pregnant.
Even though we were kilometres apart I felt Kat hating me right then. The Greed boys were famous, which took them straight to the top of her list of what was important. And I was standing a mere metre from them. I wished I had a camera, or that I could get their autographs for her, but Carla had warned me three times to ‘stay away from the talent’.
I was sent to a corner of the studio while the photography crew set up lights and hung white sheets. Adrenaline and energy buzzed around me. I watched Rae in another heated discussion, this time with Liani, whose arms were crossed over her chest. Claire hovered near the catering cart, shovelling mini quiches into her mouth.
Apparently ‘staying away fro
m the talent’ didn’t apply to Carla, who flirted with the foursome, tossing her hair and batting her lashes, before asking two of them — Chris and Jamie — to join her in wardrobe. The other two — Billy and Anthony — would be interviewed by the features department. Tough day at the office, right? ‘What did you do at work today?’ the writers’ friends must ask. ‘Oh, nothing much,’ the features girls must reply, shrugging and looking bored. ‘Wrote a bit, edited a bit, interviewed two famous dudes. You know. The usual.’ Jealousy didn’t even begin to describe it.
‘Hey, you,’ I heard someone call out nearby. I knew they didn’t mean me so I didn’t reply. The voice came again, louder this time. ‘Hey, you, can you pop over here for a minute?’
I glanced up to see the photographer waving at me. Along with his jaunty cap, he wore sneakers, skinny jeans and an Astro Boy T-shirt.
‘Sorry, am I in the way?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘No, no. Can I just get you to stand in front of the camera?’
This was it. My time to shine. If Kat could see me now.
‘Oh, I’m not a model,’ I replied, aiming for demure but professional.
‘Yeah, I figured that. I’m testing the lights before it’s time to shoot the boys. My assistant’s nipped off to make a call.’
‘Oh right, sorry,’ I stammered, thankful my little sister wasn’t there, after all. ‘Just ignore what I said before. Of course I’m not a model. You must think I’m insane.’
He grinned. ‘Just a wee bit. Don’t worry, a little insanity helps in this industry. Now just stand there, Queen of the Catwalk, I have to adjust this light …’
I stood, channelling my inner supermodel. Elbows jutted, lips pursed.
‘There you are, Josie,’ Liani said. ‘Jeremy, I’m sorry to break up the party, but there’s an emergency and we need Josie’s help.’
I’d wanted to write, I’d wanted to interview, I’d wanted to be a real journalist and my chance had arrived in a big pop-star-shaped box.
The entire features department had been called into an emergency editorial meeting with Rae and Liani over a last-minute request from one of Sash’s biggest advertisers, leaving Billy and Anthony from Greed without an interviewer. That was until Eloise, impressed by my writing earlier in the day, floated my name with Liani. They decided I’d be perfect to fire off a few questions and keep Greed’s manager, Claire — the walking power suit in heels — happy.
The Intern Page 5