The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  ‘Didn’t I mention I’ve got some presenters coming down today to audition as roving reporter for The Beat parties?’

  ‘Er, no,’ I said, looking at my diary for confirmation.

  ‘Well, I’m mentioning it now,’ he snapped, trying to hide the fact he’d forgotten. ‘Pamela in Reception will call you to collect them and bring them up.’

  ‘OK. When?’

  ‘Now. The first one is waiting for you downstairs. Giddy up!’ he said with a sense of urgency as if it were me who’d cocked up.

  I ran around the department looking for equipment, rummaging through cupboards and under people’s desks. Once I’d managed to set up, I went downstairs to get the first presenter for the audition. Pamela the receptionist pointed to a girl standing by the mirror checking out her make-up. It couldn’t be right. I looked back at her and she confirmed with a nod. I walked up behind the girl and said, ‘Regina?’

  ‘Hey, Jay,’ she chirped back.

  ‘Are you here for the audition?’ I asked as if there had been a mistake.

  ‘Yeah. It is now, isn’t it? Have I come too early?’ she said, looking at her watch.

  ‘No, not at all. Come with me.’ I continued with the small talk as we walked up the stairs. ‘So have you done any presenting before?’

  ‘No, but Max said I was a natural for it and I thought why not?’ she giggled.

  I bet he did, I thought to myself, holding back from smirking.

  Once at the top of the staircase I could see all the men in the surrounding departments standing up like they were meerkats on the lookout. To the untrained eye it would seem like they were all going about their daily business, conversing by the water cooler, speaking on the phone, playing with radio-controlled cars, but I knew what they were up to, as did the women in the building. They’d seen it many times: the communal hot-girl radar was on. It was as though a silent alarm had been tripped, alerting all the men. They were like hunting dogs that had caught the sniff of a fox.

  Regina took a seat in the Sixties room as I went to get Max. As I closed the door I saw him coming towards me flanked by the other two Marx brothers, Hugh and Oli.

  ‘It’s Regina,’ I said, still not sure it was right.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Einstein. You can carry on researching those news stories now,’ Max said, like I was a pesky little brother who’d served his purpose.

  ‘Don’t you want me to film?’ I asked, like I was missing out on all the fun, even though I didn’t know what the ‘fun’ was.

  ‘No, I think we’ve got it from here.’ All three smiled at each other as though they were invisibly high-fiving, walked in and shut the door behind them. As I turned to leave, Max came back out. I thought he’d had a change of heart. Instead he put up an A4 sign on the door:

  DO NOT DISTURB – AUDITIONS

  The rest of the day was taken up flying between researching the shows and acting as centurion on the lookout for more girls at reception. The auditionees had come from far and wide and were all shapes and sizes. From modelling agencies, presenter agencies, friends of friends, girls the boys had met out in clubs and, on a handful of occasions, people who had sent in presenter showreels.

  The Beat got dozens of VHS tapes every day, letters pleading for a chance attached, and they’d be put in a box by the Pillar of Fame/Infamy. Some sent knickers (unwashed), some sent money in foreign currency and one sent a spliff with a Post-it note that read: ‘Sit back, relax, roll up a phat one and let me blow you away.’ When one of the producers needed a laugh after a long, hard day in the office they’d watch the reels with a nice cup of tea and some biscuits. In fact, there was a Fox’s biscuit tin especially stored in the showreel box.

  The production of some of the tapes was so poor you could barely see the wannabe presenters’ faces. It was as if they’d got their arthritic grandmother to hold the camera as unsteadily as possible. Some were so nervous they would stumble on saying their own name. Others would be connected to someone famous in the music industry and would interview them thinking it would help them look like a real presenter. And age didn’t matter even though The Beat was for kids. Some forty-year-olds tried to get away with being a cool older brother but failed instantly, most looking like an uncool uncle, some unfortunates seeming like sex offenders instead.

  If getting a ‘normal’ job at The Beat was hard, it was a doddle compared to becoming a presenter. This was the Holy Grail and was as good as … no, it was better than finding the cup of Christ. It was a VIP pass to everything exclusive in life – meeting the stars, flying first class, a good wage, going to all the exclusive parties and concerts and getting complimentary alcohol and drugs, screwing the stars (if you knew what you were doing), invitations to exclusive holiday resorts, being ‘cool famous’ not ‘D-list famous’, rubbing shoulders with the rich and powerful, getting bags of free stuff from clothes to gadgets. It was like getting the keys to a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park in New York when you’d been living in a Third World village in which you shared a tiny room with twelve others. Only Forbes could calculate the true value of this experience and lifestyle.

  The number of girls coming through that afternoon could easily have filled a class register. With my research for both shows done, Pamela called me to collect the next contestant, Isabel Ripolli.

  She looked confident and was miles more charming than any of the others. The look in her eye was quite mesmerizing, how I imagined Helen of Troy. We spoke briefly in Reception and I prepped her with as much generic information as I could: ‘Look straight down the camera … Be yourself … Have fun … Smile …’

  I led her to the Sixties room where the Marx Brothers sat smugly. As I went to leave, I heard her ask, ‘Oh, isn’t Jay staying?’ She was looking at Max with big puppy-dog eyes.

  I was shocked enough, but Max was completely on the back foot and his mouth spoke before he could think clearly, ‘Er … yes, he can stay if you want him to.’

  She smiled at me. ‘If you’re not busy?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ve just finished all my research actually.’ The look on my face as I peered over at Max could have been accompanied by a Nelson-Muntz laugh. Isabel’s timing was better than Michael Schumacher’s at a corner in Monaco. I quickly joined Oli behind the camera before Max could change his mind.

  By the time I returned from showing her back down to Reception, the judges were in the middle of their deliberations.

  ‘I liked her,’ said Hugh as I stood over his shoulder and peeked at his notes. Next to all the names of the girls he had doodled, drawn pornographic pictures, written some remarks like ‘Can’t present’ and marked them out of ten. So far no one had scored over six. Next to Isabel’s name he had written ‘wheelbarrow – good potential – eight.’

  ‘What are the pluses?’ asked Max.

  ‘A – she knows her stuff and B – she gave me a rise in my Levi’s,’ said Oli cheekily.

  ‘She’s never presented before, so it would be good to uncover a new gem,’ said Hugh.

  ‘She doesn’t have an agent which means she can’t be a diva …’ Oli went on with his wet lisp.

  ‘… which means, we all have an even chance of nailing her,’ finished Hugh.

  ‘Not all of us,’ said Max.

  ‘Oh yeah, I forgot Jay’s in here,’ said Hugh, and they all laughed.

  Yeah, hilarious, I thought.

  The banter continued as I nipped out to deliver the next sacrificial lamb to the slaughter. Some of the girls were straight twelve out of tens and full of confidence, but as soon as the little light on the camera started flashing red in front of them, they just froze. They became too self-conscious, didn’t know where to look and acted unnaturally. Result? The camera didn’t like them.

  At the end of the day Max offered Isabel the unpaid job, which required her to be The Beat party reporter, as the main presenters were sick and tired of talking to drunk kid
s. However, if she did well and the producers liked her, it would be a foot through the pearly gates. I was pleased that she’d made it. She was hot, but she had real talent too. Even Max knew that a bad presenter would make his show look amateur, no matter how big her cleavage was.

  After I had de-rigged the equipment, I returned to my desk to see the building was empty. It was eight p.m. Max, Hugh and Oli had already split like Bros. Even my fellow interns had all scampered, leaving a Post-it note that said ‘Gone to Notting Hill Arts Club to see a new band’. As I looked across the empty office all I could see were computer monitors with screensavers of The Beat’s infinity logo bouncing around, and TVs on mute. There was an envelope on my keyboard with my name on it. Inside was a pair of tickets to Wembley Arena to see Puff Daddy & the Family that weekend from the girls in T.A.D. My inbox was full of unread mail, but it would have to wait till next week. For now I texted Sophia to come and meet me and the intern crew for a drink and a bitching session about our first week.

  As I walked down the stairs and out of the building, one thing was sure: I’d been thrown in. The deep end was exactly that but I had managed to keep my head above water, even if I was now paddling furiously to stay afloat. The scary question at the back of my mind was, Would I sink or swim?

  11

  Alphabet St.

  Sophia woke me up the next morning in the middle of a dream. I was scoring a goal for England thanks to an assist from David Beckham and then kissing Posh in the changing rooms afterwards. It was a weird dream but better that way round, as I knew Posh didn’t have the ability to play a thirty-yard ball over the defence perfectly into my stride for me to volley into the top corner.

  Having seen Football Focus and eaten breakfast (four Weetabix with lots of sugar), Sophia finally persuaded me to get out of bed. She suggested a Saturday afternoon hang-out session in Camden Market to bond after my chaotic first week. Despite plenty of phone sex, a long-distance relationship was testing. We only saw each other every other weekend, alternating the trip on the M1 between us. Although she’d finished university for Easter break, she was off skiing next week with her folks so I needed a dose of her before she left. Even if it involved bustling through the throng of backpacker tourists in search of trinkets and second-hand designer gear.

  Time flew by and soon we parted ways with a long embrace. Sophia had to get back for dinner with her parents and I had to go to Soho for a mate from uni’s birthday.

  ‘You sure you can’t come tonight?’

  ‘I’d love to but I better head back or Mum’s going to hit the roof that I’m missing dinner for a third night.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ I said, trying to tempt her again.

  She laughed at my efforts. ‘Maybe we can meet tomorrow if I get my packing done early,’ she said as we separated. ‘Say hi to Sara D at the party and apologize that I can’t make it.’

  Sara D had sat next to me in lectures and we’d occasionally enjoyed throwing paper aeroplanes from the top of the auditorium and watching them glide a distance then crash against the board, narrowly missing the lecturer. Those of us who lived in London had lost touch as everyone started working and no one’s schedules matched. So this was a good chance to catch up after several months. After that I’d promised the other interns I’d see them at Monica and Alyssa’s party, the girls from The Beat Italy.

  I arrived at Alphabet Bar and opened the door, where a blast of heat, smoke and noise hit me in the face. My head moved round like a surveillance camera till it landed on a drunken-looking face. It was Sara D. She came over and greeted me with a ‘Whassup?’ as her tongue extended out fully and flailed about for a bit. I didn’t want to be the one to tell her she couldn’t pull it off, especially as it was her birthday. I wondered how long it would be till the phrase from the new Budweiser advert got annoying. Judging by the reaction in the bar, it was still pretty new to them all.

  Cue lots of hugging and back-patting as everyone from uni shared news of conquering our respective fields. I found myself centre of attention in a small group as the others listened on fully absorbed. I suddenly felt quite proud that one week as an intern had been worth the praise of my peers. But it was short-lived – they soon turned me into a low-grade tout to get them concert tickets. I broke off and headed for the bar and started speaking to one of the girls in the group I didn’t know, who seemed bored on her own.

  ‘Hi, I’m Jay,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Hi,’ she replied without much warmth.

  ‘So, what’s your name?’ I continued.

  ‘Vicky.’

  She was pleasant but hard work. OK, I’m lying; she was just plain hard work. She clearly had the socializing skills of a hermit with the plague.

  ‘So how do you know Sara D?’

  ‘I went to school with her.’

  ‘Cool. Remind me, which one was that?’

  ‘City of London, and it wasn’t.’

  I wasn’t quite sure what else to say to her. OK, I’m not Brad Pitt to look at, but make an effort, I thought. Maybe she just didn’t like me. But I had been friendly. I wasn’t trying it on. Oh God, she doesn’t think I’m trying it on, does she? Did I need to start talking to her about my girlfriend to put her at ease? I looked around to see if there was someone else we could drag into this house-on-fire dynamic, but there wasn’t. I conveniently put my lips to my beer bottle and kept them there. The ball was now in her part of the court and she had no option but to smack it back.

  ‘So, where are you from?’ she asked while exhaling, clearly uninterested in the response.

  ‘North-west London and a regular attendee and friend to the organizers of the Mark and Bert balls.’

  She carried on looking over my shoulder so I looked over hers towards the possibility of ending this conversation by going to play on one of the Space Invader arcade tables that had become free.

  ‘I work for Thames Water in the sewage department,’ I said. I waited for a reaction. The look I got back said, I thought as much. It felt like her head was tilting back further by the minute as she looked down her nose at me. OK, now she was pissing me off. Don’t get snooty with me, girlfriend, I thought with a RuPaul finger snap. Blood began to rush to my head and before I knew it I was talking, from the wrong hole.

  ‘I was joking, I work at The Beat,’ I said in as smug a way as possible.

  The reaction was almost instantaneous. Her head started to tilt forward, she began to look me in the eyes and her body twisted towards me.

  ‘Really?’ she said, not sure whether to believe me.

  ‘Yes, really,’ I replied, feeling cocky now.

  ‘What do you do there?’

  ‘I’m a producer,’ I lied.

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘Cool, for which show?’

  ‘Total BEATS, and it is,’ I said smugly. Without another word, I put my empty bottle on the table in front of us and walked off to the toilets. Even I thought I was a quant now. Either I pulled it off like John Wayne or I looked a right Charlie Chaplin.

  To complete my campaign I returned via the bar with a bottle of champagne for Sara D. Could I afford it? Of course not, but bizarrely my ego had to show Vicky I was a ‘baller’. Her transformation was remarkable as she listened to every word I said and even laughed at my jokes.

  My charm was working to full effect as I got her number and an invite to go round to her place in Chelsea for a drink later that week. But it was most satisfying seeing the look on her face when I asked her what time Sophia and I should come over. I left her wondering if I was joking or suggesting a threesome.

  I spent some more time catching up with the others before kissing Sara on the forehead and leaving. As I walked up the stairs to the exit, I wasn’t sure when I’d next see them all. For now though, I was looking forward to going to meet my new buddies. My Beat buddies.

  As I sat on the bus I checked my phone, which had been vibrating for the last
thirty minutes with text messages from the other interns who were heading to the party. Sonya sent me one with directions to the address near Old Street, while the one from James III read:

  Alright fella. Bring something to get us off our tits.

  Arriving at the flat, the beers from the bar had started to kick in and I was in party mode. The lift chugged its way up to the apartment and as I got closer to the fifth floor, the music got louder and louder till finally the lift jerked to a halt. The doors opened into a small corridor, at the end of which was a sign reading ‘PARTAY’. I didn’t immediately recognize the tune in the lift, but now the streaks of red I could see coming from M-Beat and General Levy’s ‘Incredible’ were bouncing off the walls and towards me in rapid motion.

  The flat was dark and I couldn’t make out any faces as I walked in. There were candles everywhere for mood lighting and the smell of a spliff was in the air. I felt someone pinch my arse but my excitement turned to disappointment when I saw James III grinning behind me.

  ‘What did you bring, lad?’ he asked, eyeing up the carrier bag in my hand.

  ‘Not much …’

  ‘Let’s have a butcher’s then, lad,’ he said as he snatched it and dumped it on a coffee table, whistling ‘Deck the Halls’. He stuck his hand in and rummaged around like it was a lucky dip. ‘Right, a bottle of … cheap plonk … bread … peanuts … cheese … Pringles – and some Nutella.’ He paused, then opened both containers and philosophized in a thick Yorkshire accent, ‘I wonder what that tastes like?’

  ‘So how is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s tricky but it tastes OK,’ he replied through a mouthful of hazelnut-smeared crisps.

  ‘No, I meant the party.’

  ‘Oh, it’s a fair crack. There’s some fine-looking lasses here. It’s like being at a Woolworth’s pick and mix counter.’

  ‘So who’s here?’ I asked, checking the place out.

  ‘Not sure. There’s some hippidy-hoppidy girl called Estelle. Dunno who she is but I got an aunt called Estelle, so I can’t go there. Know her?’