‘Don’t call me JB,’ I murmured, taking the bait. ‘And my breathing patterns were fine.’
‘Oh love, what happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Where’s Angel?’
‘I don’t know.’
Mum perched next to me on the bed, rubbing my back while I snuggled deeper into my pillow.
‘Talk to me, Josie,’ she said. ‘I feel like you don’t talk to me any more. What’s going on?’
‘Let’s go to sleep, Mum, save it for another time. I’m so tired.’
But Mum wasn’t giving up. ‘Tell me. I want to know everything.’
And so I did. The ups and downs of the internship at Sash, the amazing James and his surprise girlfriend, the hideous kiss with Pete, how I’d been a bad friend to Angel, and the fact I didn’t know what to think about anything any more. What I didn’t tell her was that Sash was offering one intern five thousand dollars and I was on a mission to win it for our family. We needed that money and I was going to do whatever it took to get it. I just needed to work out how to beat Ava and Steph.
I fell asleep with Mum’s arms wrapped around me. When I woke in the morning I was alone, tucked in tightly, with an extra blanket over my legs.
10.
Steph shook the iron from side to side, then pressed its red and green buttons. ‘Is this thing even on?’
‘Maybe you have to wait for it to heat up,’ I began.
Steam whooshed from the iron.
‘Oh yeah, here we go.’ She pressed another button, then held up a rumpled white shirt. ‘This can be my first victim. Man, we’re so not going to win Domestic Goddess of the Year awards, are we?’
‘Guess not.’
‘Keep an eye out for the fashion girls — I’m scared I’m going to burn down this whole place. I can’t believe Ava got to “help Rae” today and we got stuck with the ironing!’
I didn’t dare tell Steph that I’d never used an iron before in my life. Or a washing machine. Or a dishwasher. Mum ruled the domestic roost at home; my duties only extended to making my bed and packing a lunch box. When Mum didn’t do it first.
‘So, Rae told me you broke a crazy story about Billy from Greed knocking up some poor girl?’ Steph said. ‘Is it true?’
My jaw fell open. ‘Rae said that?’
Steph smirked. ‘Well, not those exact words. But you broke a story! That’s brilliant.’
‘It was nothing.’
‘Trust me, it’s something. Still, Rae did tell me I looked nice today … for a girl with tattoos. I’ve taken it as a win. Oh, and did you see Billy’s checked himself back into rehab for a week?’
‘Uh, what? He has?’
‘Yeah, his manager says he’s cleaning up his act and preparing to be a dad. Maybe you helped him take a long hard look at himself.’
‘Wow.’ Stunned didn’t begin to describe my reaction.
‘From what I’ve heard, the mag really needed this,’ Steph went on. ‘No wonder Rae is losing her mind over you. Man, seriously, if I had your skills.’
I blushed. ‘Is being a geek a skill?’
‘Geek? You’re seventeen and —’
‘Nearly eighteen.’
‘Nearly eighteen, then,’ she smiled, ‘and the whole world’s waiting for you. Believe me, you’re going to nail it.’
I blushed again. ‘You’re not that much older than me and you can do whatever you want.’
‘Jose, all that’s waiting for me is failure. My papa dearest is a man on a mission — to get his little girl a fancy job before she’s shacked up with someone she met in an ashram in India or on an elephant farm in Thailand. You know, that ol’ chestnut.’
I didn’t, but I was fascinated and waited for Steph to continue. She ran the iron over the shirt, adding more creases than she took out. I didn’t say anything; I couldn’t have done any better.
Steph sighed. ‘You want the goss on how I know so much about Rae? Well, it’s no secret that she knows my dad, right? Well, let’s just say in the past few weeks she’s really got to know him.’ Steph gave me a pointed look and raised an eyebrow.
‘Ohhh,’ I said as it clicked.
‘Oh, indeed.’ Steph shrugged.
‘But your mum … how does she feel?’
‘Mum’s doing the landscape architect.’
This time, my jaw nearly smacked the ironing board. ‘What?’
‘I know. She’s a walking cliché.’
My reply tumbled out before I could stop myself. ‘The gardener would’ve been more of a cliché.’
Steph snorted with laughter. ‘Totally! Or the pool guy! Or her tennis coach.’
‘And you know he’d be waving his big, bad racquet around.’
‘Dude!’ She laughed, then sighed. ‘I really can’t win, you know? Dad hooks up with Rae, complains to her about me having no direction, so Rae lets me come here and I still have no direction, Dad loses his mind, they hook up again and the joyous cycle continues.’
I still couldn’t get my head around it. ‘So Rae knows you know? About them?’
‘In the past few weeks, she’s been at our place every couple of nights. Mum and her probably get plastered together and talk about how Dad’s a massive pain in the neck.’
Steph caught the confused look on my face. ‘I know, it’s weird. Somehow, I think it works, though. For them, anyway.’ She held up the shirt, which was now stained brown and black in the pattern of the iron. ‘I think I’ve stuffed this up. This is why I only buy clothes that don’t need ironing. Bags not doing the next one. You’re up.’
Unsure what to do but not wanting to admit it, I took over the iron.
‘Okay, enough about my family,’ said Steph. ‘Have you decided how you’ll spend your five grand yet?’
I blushed. ‘No! Sure, it would be awesome, but I won’t win.’
Steph rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, please. The way Rae was rambling on the other day, it’s yours.’
‘But your dad and her —’
‘Dude, if I won it, Dad would force Rae to put it in a trust fund or something. Nah, he’s sent me here to keep me out of trouble. Rae wants to push me toward design, but I’d rather hang around and bludge.’ Steph leaned over my shoulder. ‘Jose, you are rocking this ironing biz.’
I held up the finished shirt. ‘Done! Well, if you’re not up for the prize, Ava will win it. Like you said, she’s “helping Rae” — they’re totally BFFs.’
‘Ahhh, Queen Ava.’ Steph rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t get her. I mean, she thinks she’s this big-shot actress and model, but if that’s true why work for free as an intern? No way, Jose, the prize is yours.’
I shook my head at Steph, but deep down I prayed she was right. I needed that five thousand for my family. Mum assured me and Kat we’d be alright, but for some reason, I struggled to trust in that. Perhaps it was because my innocent outlook on the world had disappeared the moment I saw Dad storming to the car and driving off last year. Mum wasn’t coping. I’d overhead her frantic phone conversations with Aunt Julie too many times when she thought Kat and I were asleep. Five thousand dollars would kick some bills in the butt.
Steph snapped me out of my daydream. ‘For argument’s sake, what would you buy? A car? Holiday? Clothes? Throw a party that I can come to and forget about how much my life sucks right now?’
I paused, unsure whether to tell her the truth. ‘I’d give it to my family. Lame, right? Mum’s pretty stressed.’
Steph stopped polishing a pair of knee-high platform boots. ‘Sorry, I had no idea … So, what’s your family like then? Perfect children, picket fences and all that? Or a cesspit of “coveting thy neighbour’s wife” like my tribe?’
I laughed. ‘No, we’re not perfect. Not even close. But we used to be.’
Before Dad left, we had been a bit stereotypical: a classic suburban family, right down to the big backyard (just enough space for a pool that would never be built), washing line and friendly streets where kids played cricket until the sun se
t. Now, thanks to a runaway father, I felt like I was stuck in a soap opera and didn’t know how to escape.
The door suddenly creaked open to reveal Ava holding her handbag. She was hunched over slightly, her hand grazing her stomach.
‘Finished your secret women’s business with Rae?’ asked Steph.
Ava didn’t flinch at the question. ‘I’m heading off for the day. I’ve got a migraine.’ Her hand moved to her head, but her hunched stance said otherwise.
‘But you’ll miss the beauty sale this afternoon!’ I said. ‘Want me to grab you anything? Sia said there’s heaps of great stuff going for less than two bucks — and perfumes are only ten bucks!’
‘Two-dollar beauty products? I’ll be fine,’ she said, rubbing her middle again. ‘Josephine, didn’t your mother teach you to iron? That looks awful.’ With that, she closed the door behind her.
‘She’s clearly not sick enough to quit the bitch act,’ said Steph. ‘You’re too nice to her.’
‘Did you see her holding her stomach?’ I asked. ‘I don’t think it’s a migraine.’
Steph’s eyes widened. ‘Maybe she’s pregnant. With a demon baby.’
‘Or she could have food poisoning.’
‘That would require digesting food. The girl barely eats.’
Steph was right: Ava nibbled on her lunch like a baby bird eating for the first time.
I pulled out another crumpled item from the cane clothes basket on the floor — a polka-dot dress. I laid it out on the ironing board, oblivious to everything but Steph’s chatter about what she was going to buy at the sale and the soft fizz of the iron.
Liani and Sia stood in front of the meeting-room door, blocking everyone from entering the beauty sale a second before starting time. The corridor buzzed with chatter, and for a minute I forgot we were at a workplace. Right then, other people were chopping wood, fixing cars, changing bedpans or filing paperwork. We were lined up with our purses poised and game faces on, all in the name of nabbing a cheap brow brush. Forget surviving the daily grind of nine-to-five to make a crust; that afternoon felt like the mid-year sales, where everyone has seventy-five per cent markdowns on their mind — we’d been granted VIP access to the front of the queue. From what Sia had hinted, I’d need to toughen up if I wanted to score any designer-brand bargains. I wasn’t blind: any moron could have spotted the other girls’ eyes glinting with competition.
‘If anyone sees volume-boosting mascara, can you grab it for me?’ said Eloise to no one in particular, pacing on the spot.
‘For sure. I’m dying for a replacement red lippie so keep your eyes peeled for that too,’ chimed in one of the art-department girls, hoisting a giant tote bag over her shoulder.
Gen — another red-lipstick wearer — rolled her eyes, clearly coveting the same product. These girls meant business.
‘It’s almost time,’ Steph said, nudging me in the side and pointing to the clock on the wall.
She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed. The corridor’s chatter reduced to a dull hum as everyone repositioned themselves like fired-up athletes taking their marks. Looking around at the determined grimaces, I wished I’d worn protective gear. Carla looked ready to snatch hair-treatment products from anyone who got in her way, and even Liani was clutching her wallet with a steeliness I’d never seen before. I wondered what products she was after; she didn’t seem to wear much make-up. Rae was nowhere to be seen, but I imagined Sia had already put aside the best of the best for her. Let’s be honest: wrestling her staff for reduced-price hand creams wouldn’t be at the top of Rae’s priority list, not with a magazine to run and editorial minions to terrify.
Sia whistled and waved her hand in the air. She wanted our attention and she got it.
‘Okay, team, you have ten minutes in there before everyone — and I do mean everyone — from the rest of the company swoops in. All money raised goes to our beautiful sponsor child and our end-of-year party, so let’s make it a good one! No IOUs, no bartering, and if you have correct change, I may just kiss you.’
Everyone laughed.
‘Ready?’ Sia asked. ‘Happy shopping, beauties!’
She opened the doors and we spilled into the meeting room — a wave of perfume-pursuing, lip-gloss-liking, hair-product-hunting women with one mission only: to get our hands on the best beauty bargains before everyone else.
The first thing I noticed was the colour: the rosy hues of the blushes and lipsticks in one corner, the purple and blue of the eye shadows in another; a rainbow array of bottle after bottle of nail polish. The tables were lined with products, all squashed up against each other and divided into categories according to price and size.
Within seconds, I fell to the back of the crowd as the Sash team surged forward, throwing nail polishes and eye pencils, bronzers and tanners, hairsprays and serums into their bags. I’d never seen so many perfectly painted nails moving so fast before, snatching, shoving and grabbing. The girls muttered to themselves, weighing up their decisions quickly. There was no sympathy for slow thinkers — you needed gut instinct, fast reflexes and an eye for quality if you didn’t want to get left with the goods that everyone else was smart enough to leave untouched.
Straining to reach the tables, avoiding swinging elbows and flicking hair, I yanked up supersized bottles of shampoo and conditioner and added them to my bag. I didn’t care what brand they were — I was tired of my hair smelling like body wash, which was the only type of product left in Tim and James’s bathroom.
Steph slithered into a small crack between Carla and Gen, who were rummaging through products faster than you could say ‘shopaholics’. We caught each other’s eye and shared a moment of excitement, although I was still a little dazed by the intense ferocity of the sale.
‘Organic body butter,’ mouthed Steph, waving an orange tub at me. ‘It smells so good.’
‘Nice,’ I mouthed back, picking up a night cream and a waxing set for Mum, followed by a tinted moisturiser and lip gloss for Kat.
It was a fun afternoon, I couldn’t lie, but the best bit? Thanks to all the hairspray, perfume and scented moisturiser being squirted and spritzed around the room, my brain cells had temporarily shut down so I didn’t have the mental capacity to think about James and Summer and get upset all over again. I mean, sure, James was hot (and nice and funny, all wrapped in a neat, dude-sized package of awesome), and sure, I was ready to write a letter to the government asking that the season ‘summer’ be called something less beautiful and life-ruining, but seriously, it meant nothing.
I’m fine, I told myself, adding a metallic nail polish to my bag. Just fine.
Once the sale had wrapped up, Sia trotted out to attend a launch for new mascara. Or body lotion. Or toothpaste. I’d lost track of her endless stream of events. Half her days were spent ‘fixing her face’ at her desk before running out for the next appointment.
The art team packed up their handbags at 5.35 pm, heading off for drinks at a nearby bar. Not long after, laughter pealed from the fashion department, where Carla and Gen were telling dirty jokes in Scottish accents. They all strutted down the hall to the lifts, a tight unit glued together by matching heels and complementary hairstyles.
The editorial team — the ones who wrote and edited the features — were the last to leave at 6.22 pm, their reddened eyes and early-evening switch from heels to flats setting them apart from their more glamorous colleagues.
As the clock ticked toward 6.24 pm, I realised it was just me in the office, amid the buzz of sleeping computers and racks of shiny magazines. Heading home to Tim’s apartment again wasn’t an attractive prospect. It was dirty, gross and I had to sleep on the couch.
Except they weren’t the real reasons I didn’t want to go back there.
Apparently — surprise, surprise — I wasn’t fine with the whole James-having-a-girlfriend scenario after all. I couldn’t bear the thought of going to the apartment because James would be there, probably with Summer in tow — and no amount of cheap
beauty goodies could distract me from that any more. In my mind, I saw them cuddling on the couch, feeding each other at the dinner table and splashing each other in the tiny bathtub.
I couldn’t face them until it was closer to bedtime and I could feign tiredness and crash out straight away on the sofa. And so, instead of facing the dream couple head-on, I took advantage of being alone and pretended I was one of the lucky few paid to strut around the Sash office. It was fun, cleared my head and relaxed me.
But as it turned out, I wasn’t alone after all.
I heard the sniffling first. Short, sharp sniffs coming from down the hallway, that exploded into sobs that echoed through the foyer. I edged toward the noise, almost frightened to see who — or what — could be emitting such painful wails.
And then I saw her. Alone in the office, her perfect bob now scruffy, her made-up face stained with tears.
Rae saw me, too. Our eyes locked, hers growing wider. She spun away from me in her chair (no doubt muttering ‘That damn intern!’), grabbed a tissue, wiped under her eyes, then spun back around.
‘You’re still here?’ she said in a stern voice, patting her bob into place.
‘Ah, hi,’ I said weakly. ‘How’s it going?’
Rae’s face now showed no signs of blubbering. The woman was incredible; my eyes stayed red and sore for days after a cry-fest.
‘You should have gone home hours ago, Josie.’
‘I know, I know,’ I rambled. ‘I’m just happy to help out.’
There was something thrilling about being alone in the office with her. It felt illegal. Maybe it was.
‘Well, isn’t that nice,’ said Rae. ‘And if I believed you for one second, then I’d say thank you. But, Josie, this isn’t my first day in magazines. I’ve seen enough girls hanging around the office and dropping excuses about late-night photocopying or internet trawling to know when something’s up.’
‘Oh?’
‘Oh, indeed. And it’s always for the same reason. So, tell me … who is he? Or is he a she?’
I opened my mouth, ready to deny everything. These days, I’d got used to repressing things, pushing them so far down toward my toes I sometimes wondered if my feet would bleed. They were aching now, but that was probably from cramming them into heels all day. Then James’s face lurched into my mind and I couldn’t bear to push him away again.
The Intern Page 9