The Intern

by Gabrielle Tozer

  ‘He,’ I said. ‘James.’

  Rae’s tone softened. ‘Is he worth all this? Staying back late? Feeling sad?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Josie.’ Rae reactivated her I-wasn’t-born-yesterday tone. ‘Well, is he worth it?’

  ‘Um, I don’t know.’

  But I did know. He was worth it. The way he told jokes about the weirdos at his work made me snort with laughter. His passion for music impressed me, I couldn’t drag my eyes away when he tucked his shaggy mop behind one ear, and the way he teased me made me feel tingly and giggly, like I’d had champagne for breakfast.

  ‘Maybe you should call it a night?’ said Rae. ‘Sounds like you’ve got someone to see.’

  I couldn’t look at her; my eyes had misted over. The speed with which she’d switched focus from her meltdown to mine was brilliant. She was three steps ahead every time, even when she was caught off guard. I wanted — no, needed — to be around her, to learn from her.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t need a hand?’ I asked. ‘I mean, if something’s wrong, I could —’

  ‘It’s home time, Josie. I’ll see you next week, bright, early and unburdened.’

  I wanted her to clutch me to her bosom and tell me everything would be okay, despite it feeling so wrong. But, as Rae possessed the maternal qualities of a broken fridge, she didn’t do that. Of course she didn’t. I wondered whether I’d imagined her sobbing in the office. Maybe I’d experienced a mirage. But then I remembered those wails and knew Rae was repressing something of her own. Something she wasn’t going to tell a lousy intern.

  ‘Oh, and Josie?’ she added.

  I turned back to face her. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Before I forget, Billy’s back from rehab next week. I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but he’s requested another interview. And he wants you to do it.’

  I swallowed. ‘How is that possible? Wouldn’t Esmeralda prefer to do it?’

  ‘Yes, she would,’ Rae said. ‘But he only wants you. I’m not convinced, but Liani’s backing you a hundred per cent.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Are you up for it?’

  ‘Um, sure, of course,’ I stammered.

  ‘Great. Prepare some questions and we’ll lock it in. Josie, this could be a game-changer for you, for me and for the magazine. Don’t screw it up.’

  11.

  Muffled yells rang out from the bedroom: James’s voice rising up and down; Summer’s remaining at a constant higher pitch. I couldn’t hear the words, but that wasn’t for lack of trying. I wanted to press my ear against the bedroom door, but I knew that would make me a freak. And possibly a stalker. Instead, I wrapped myself in a blanket and snuggled into the couch. I pushed my fingers into my ears and pressed my eyes closed, but sleep wouldn’t come. Not even counting one hundred fluffy white sheep helped. Summer’s voice grew louder and louder, until, finally, I could make out what had fired her up.

  ‘What is it about her, huh?’

  Either James didn’t answer or he muttered, because I couldn’t hear a reply.

  ‘Why are you looking at me weird, James? Do you hate me? Fine! I hate you too.’

  There was silence. I held my breath for James’s response, but still couldn’t hear him. Only her. The backpedalling began.

  ‘Baby, I’m sorry. I don’t hate you, I love you. Do you love me? Do you? I’m sorry, I’m so overwhelmed and then … What? Fine, shut up, then. Stuff you!’

  I heard the bedroom door open, followed by footsteps thumping down the hallway … toward the lounge room … where I was curled on the couch.

  Summer and I caught each other’s eye at the same time. Her hair was matted, mascara was smeared all over her face and she wore lacy pink lingerie. That was a surprise for both of us. She screamed and clutched at herself and raced back down the hallway to the bedroom. Cue: round two.

  ‘Does she still have to be here?’ she yelled. ‘I mean, what’s really going on?’

  ‘Nothing. Just leave it,’ I heard James say. His voice sounded stronger this time.

  ‘Damn right, it’s nothing. You even look at her again, I’ll lose it. I don’t care how many scooter rides she’s begging for.’

  ‘Geez, Sum, I did her a favour. One favour. Calm down, come back to bed and —’

  ‘I’ve seen the way she stares at you!’

  Gradually, the fighting stopped and, thanks to the rhythmic tick, tock, tick, tock of the clock in the living room, I eventually faded into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, somewhere around 5.30 am, I slipped a ‘Thank you’ post-it note under Tim’s bedroom door and snuck out into the darkness of the city. My train wasn’t due for a while, so I sat on the platform in silence staring at my hands. A strong sense of homesickness tapped me on the shoulder. Rubbing my temples, I turned my attention to the people arriving at the station: city workers in suits, checking their phones; a young backpacking couple arguing over the best train to catch; a twenty-something guy in sneakers talking into his phone about planning a party for the weekend. My eyes rested on a girl with sad eyes and brown hair. She wasn’t doing much, just sitting and staring into nothingness. And then I recognised her mouth, her eyes, her pointy chin.

  It was me, reflected in the glass opposite.

  ‘Angela’s on the phone for you,’ whispered Mum, gesturing to the landline in the kitchen. ‘Apparently she’s been trying your mobile for a week and hasn’t heard back.’

  I sighed. ‘Tell her I’m busy. I’m in the shower, in the bathroom, watching paint dry, I don’t care.’

  ‘Oh, love, I don’t like lying to your friends.’

  ‘Tell her the truth then — that she stuffed up and I don’t want to talk to her.’ The snarky words came out before I could stop them.

  Mum ignored them. ‘Fine, I’ll tell her you’re mowing the lawn.’

  ‘Are you crazy? She’ll never believe that.’

  ‘The shower. I’ll tell her you’re in the shower.’

  I heard her force out the words; Mum was a terrible liar. Her voice shook and she rushed through the sentences, eager to get off the phone. She came back into the room, the deed done.

  ‘You can’t ignore the girl forever, Josephine.’

  ‘Mum, don’t full-name me.’

  ‘Love, she’s your best friend.’

  I hadn’t felt like talking to Angel since the Pete Jordan incident, which still gave me horrible flashbacks. Angel knew my lack of experience with guys — she shouldn’t have set me up like that.

  Mum hugged me. ‘I’m going to pick some herbs from the back garden to go with dinner.’

  ‘Need a hand?’ I asked, feeling bad for getting her to lie for me.

  ‘No thanks, love. You can set the table, though. We’re having pasta.’ Mum picked up a cane basket and headed out the back door.

  Despite the difficult circumstances, I knew Mum was doing her best to make things normal for Kat and me. This was my chance to do something for her. I walked into the kitchen and pulled the fancy cutlery set down from the top of the cupboard. I was fairly sure the set had been a gift from a great-aunt on Mum’s side. As far as I could remember, it had only been used twice — once at a Christmas when long-lost relatives came to visit and then again at my sweet sixteenth birthday dinner. It was time to give it another run.

  The box was heavier than I expected and it caught me off balance. It slipped out of my hands and the cutlery crashed onto the kitchen floor.

  ‘Oops,’ I muttered, dropping to my hands and knees. One by one, I placed knives, forks and spoons back into place in the navy velvet-lined box.

  About halfway through, Kat strolled into the kitchen and watched me scrabbling around on the floor.

  ‘You idiot,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Why’d you get that out? You know Mum hates it.’

  ‘Hates it?’ That was news to me. I’d always thought she just couldn’t be bothered getting it down from the top of the cupboard.

  ‘
Yeah, it’s their wedding cutlery, remember?’ she hissed, crouching to collect a couple of spoons that had escaped across the room.

  ‘I thought it was a gift from Mum’s great-aunt — you know, the sweet one with all the purple soaps and creepy frilly dolls?’

  Obviously I wouldn’t be winning any awards for paying attention to Extremely Sensitive Family Topics anytime soon.

  ‘It was from her. For their wedding.’

  ‘I can’t believe I stuffed that up.’

  ‘And can you call Angel back already?’ Kat went on. ‘She’s stalking me on Facebook to try to get hold of you. I don’t want to block her on there, but seriously, Jose …’

  ‘I’ll call her when I’m ready.’

  ‘Is this about Pete Jordan?’

  ‘Shut up, Kat.’

  ‘’Cos I heard Mum talking to Aunt Julie about it, and it sounded awwwwkward —’

  ‘I said, shut up.’

  ‘Josephine and Katherine Browning, why isn’t the table set?’

  We froze, then turned to see Mum standing in the kitchen doorway, her basket overflowing with basil. Her lips trembled at the sight of us surrounded by teaspoons and cake forks.

  ‘Girls, what are you doing with that?’ she asked, pointing at the cutlery set.

  I swallowed. ‘We can explain.’

  But Mum didn’t wait to hear it: she spun on her heel and bolted down the hallway to her bedroom. The sound of her door slamming echoed through the house.

  ‘I saw tears, yep, definitely saw tears,’ said Kat. ‘Far out, you know what that means?’

  I didn’t, and felt bad that I didn’t. ‘Well, obviously she’s upset and —’

  ‘Obviously, but what it means is she won’t be coming out of her room tonight. Fine, I’m going to eat in my room too.’

  ‘No, let’s get her and eat together. We can fix this.’

  Kat rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever. I’m eating in my room.’

  She heaped an enormous serving of pasta into a bowl, covered it in parmesan cheese and walked off without uttering another word. Kat may have given up but I hadn’t, so I filled another dish and carried it to Mum’s bedroom.

  Knock, knock.

  ‘Dinner, Mum.’

  Nothing.

  Knock, knock. Knock, knock.

  ‘Mum? The pasta’s ready,’ I tried again. ‘It’ll taste great with that basil.’

  Still nothing.

  ‘You need to eat, so I’ll leave it outside your door, okay? Just in case you get hungry later.’

  Defeated, I returned to the kitchen to eat pasta sauce straight from the pot. But later that night, on the way to bed, I snuck a peek at Mum’s door and was thrilled to see my plan had worked: the bowl was no longer there.

  ‘The marks for last week’s essay are available online, so you can view them at your leisure,’ announced Filly to a roomful of sleepy students. ‘A special congratulations to Lisa Hantz, who scored the highest mark in the class. Great work.’

  She did? I’d given up sleep and sanity to finish the essay and had been confident I’d smashed it. Too confident, it would seem.

  Lisa blushed and slid down further in her chair, embarrassed. As a fellow over-achiever, I was at the other end of the spectrum: I wanted the glory; to receive the crown, certificate, trophy or praise. Not that I’d ever received a crown. I was still working on that one.

  ‘Okay, that’s it for today, folks,’ Filly continued. ‘I’ve got a fishing trip to get to.’

  Everyone cheered at the early mark, collected their bags and shuffled toward the door. Filly claimed to thrive on a work–life balance, although he favoured life over work nine times out of ten.

  I heard him call my name. ‘Josie, can I grab you for a minute?’

  I waited until the last student had straggled out the door, then asked, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just one sec, it won’t take long,’ Filly said, gesturing to a brown chair on my right.

  ‘Okay …’ I said, taking a seat. It expelled a long creak that made me giggle.

  Filly rubbed his head with his palms. ‘So, I couldn’t help noticing your essay was handed in a couple of days late …’

  ‘No, I handed it in on Friday,’ I said. My jaw tingled, signalling that my body was seconds away from being swamped by anxiety.

  ‘I know that,’ said Filly, ‘but it was due last Wednesday.’

  ‘I’m sure that can’t be right, I wrote it down and everything,’ I muttered, pulling scarves, pencils, lolly wrappers and mints out of my bag in search of my diary. ‘I’m positive you said Friday.’

  I found my diary and swiftly turned the pages. And there it was, among the other scribbled notes, reminders and due dates for uni, life and Sash, written in bright red marker: Journalism essay due. And, like Filly had reminded me, it was due last Wednesday.

  ‘But I don’t make mistakes like this,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Josie, you seem to be carrying a heavy load at the moment — and I don’t just mean your handbag,’ Filly said. ‘Is there anything you need to talk about?’

  Did a soap-opera-style family crisis count? Or what about unrequited feelings for someone else’s boyfriend? Surely being terrified by a magazine editor would score me sympathy votes?

  But for once I kept my mouth shut on the details. ‘I’ll be okay … Wait, does this mean I fail the assignment for handing it in late?’

  He smiled. ‘No. You’ve never broken the rules before, have you? But I had to deduct ten per cent from your overall mark — five per cent for each day it was late. If you’d handed it in on time you would have beaten Lisa by two marks.’

  ‘Oh man.’ Oh man!

  ‘Think of this as a lesson,’ he said. ‘Keep writing, work hard, remember the correct due dates and you’ll top this course.’

  ‘So I haven’t failed? Oh, thank you,’ I sighed. ‘I kind of want to hug you right now.’

  ‘Probably best not to,’ he deadpanned. ‘Oh, and don’t think I haven’t noticed your work on the Sash website — Liani’s flicked me the links. I’m glad to see things have picked up on that front. Now, I’m off. Those fish aren’t going to catch themselves.’

  The bitter smell of coffee wafting from my cup made my nostrils ache. I glanced around the uni cafeteria and saw students of all ages enjoying large mugs of the stuff. A few even had enormous thermoses. I sniffed my cup again, hesitating, then took a sip.

  ‘You really have changed. I thought you didn’t drink coffee?’ a voice piped up behind me, causing me to splutter over the table.

  I wiped my mouth with a serviette and turned around to see Angel, alone as usual. She flicked me a small, awkward wave. Her dyed hair was fading and she looked pale, as though she’d been hiding in her room (which wouldn’t have surprised me).

  ‘Ah yeah, just testing it out again.’ I leaned in for another sip. ‘Urgh! It really is awful. It tastes worse than Mum’s chicken casserole.’

  Angel let a small laugh escape, then pointed to the empty seat next to me. ‘May I?’

  I shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  ‘So … what have you been up to?’

  I played with the coffee cup, circling the rim with my finger. ‘Oh, this and that.’

  Somehow, our friendship had arrived in a scary land where small talk was the order of the day. May I? This and that? Who were we? Despite being a bit frustrating, Angel was my best friend. Love her or loathe her, I’d never gone this long without talking to her. It had to stop.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ we yelped at the same time, then laughed.

  Angel got in first. ‘JB, I’ve got to give credit where it’s due. There’s been no call, no text, no Facebook, no tweets, no love. Seriously, you take out first prize in the Ignoring Your Best Friend Olympics. Your certificate’s being laminated as we speak.’

  I smirked. ‘Good to know.’

  ‘So … about the Brazilian and Pete Jordan thing …’ Angel forged on, blunt as always. ‘I was an idiot, desperate and stupid and trying
too hard and —’

  ‘Yeah, you were. All of those things and more. Major friend fail.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Look, we’re all good, okay? Forgiven.’

  ‘And forgotten.’ Angel hugged me.

  ‘For you, maybe.’ Nothing could scrub the memory of Pete’s awful kissing technique from my brain.

  ‘So, you better give me a life update. What have I missed?’

  I took a deep breath and told Angel everything. We talked ’til late in the afternoon, ignoring the cafeteria staff packing away chairs. We talked ’til they flashed the ‘Closed’ sign and stood moaning by the register, waiting for us to clear out. We talked on the way to the bus stop. We talked on the way home, in Angel’s driveway, at her front door while she fumbled around for her keys. We talked as her brother stumbled to the door to let her in because, as usual, she’d forgotten to bring her keys.

  We talked, we talked, we talked.

  We were back.

  12.

  I wheeled my suitcase into the guys’ front hallway and took a deep breath. After Summer’s outburst, I’d considered not coming back, but I couldn’t afford a hotel so I’d skipped out on staying the previous night and caught the early morning train from home instead. The less I had to be around Summer and James, the better.

  I looked around the silent apartment. Sunshine beamed through the window, casting bright, light shapes on the lounge-room floor. I counted to three in my head and waited for something, anything, to happen: attack dogs to be set on me; a trapdoor to open beneath my feet; a net to drop from the ceiling and capture me. Nothing happened. I was safe, for now.

  ‘Tim? James? Anyone here?’ I called.

  ‘Just me,’ Tim yelled out from his bedroom. ‘James crashed at Summer’s.’

  ‘Hey, no probs,’ I said, wheeling my suitcase over to the couch and pretending Summer and James were the furthest thing from my mind. They weren’t. In addition to our family’s financial and emotional woes, they’d been the only thing clogging up my brain lately. Well, other than the fact I’d be face to face with Billy from Greed again in a few hours.