The Intern

by Gabrielle Tozer

  One day that’ll be me, I told myself.

  ‘Josie, I’ll take you to the fashion office,’ said Liani, snapping me back to the present. ‘Ava and Steph, someone from your departments will come to collect you.’

  I followed Liani past brightly dressed, beautifully made-up women to a closed door plastered with fashion spreads. I heard giggling and talking from inside. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it was my chance to transform from fashion flop to fashion forward.

  The fashion office was a disaster zone. Dresses were turned inside out, shoes were scattered across the carpet and jewellery spilled out of bags and boxes. The room was stuffy, cluttered and windowless; very different from the glamorous office of my imagination.

  Liani introduced me to Sash’s fresh-faced fashion editor, Carla, who shrugged off the mess, clearly used to it.

  ‘It’s easy, really, just hang the up the clothes, sort the shoes into pairs and detangle the jewellery,’ she explained. ‘I mean, it can take a while to match up the pairs, but you’ll get there. Eventually. Oh, and if you need anything, just yell out “Carla” and I’ll come and help. But I have to sort out a model casting first.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ I forced a smile, wondering how tidying up was going to get me through university and into a successful journalism career.

  ‘Thanks … Jodie, was it?’

  ‘Er, it’s Jos—’

  ‘Cool, you’re the best. Oh, and if you get a sec, could you polish the boots in the other room? If you run out of stuff to do, Marg needs help with the steamer, Gen has something going on with bikinis, and Tina could use a hand calling in products. But, you know, see how you go, Jodie. Bye.’

  Carla raced out the door, her boots clomping on the floor. I heard her squawking on the phone as she waited for the lift.

  Left alone in the fashion office, I had a moment to think about Rae’s announcement. Five thousand dollars; five freaking thousand dollars. Mum had tried to keep it from Kat and me, but I knew she was struggling financially since Dad had left. I’d overheard her on the phone to Aunt Julie, stressing about how she was going to pay the bills. Mum worked casually at the local library and also pocketed a small amount of money doing odd jobs — baking cakes, weeding gardens, walking dogs — but her bank balance was far from overflowing. With five thousand dollars, she wouldn’t have to fret for a while. Ava and Steph were tough competitors — their groomed hair and clothes almost eliminated me on sight — but I could tell I wanted that by-line and five grand more than they did.

  I turned to the mountain of clothes, ready to get to work. I didn’t know where to begin, so I just grabbed the first top I saw, a bright-red tunic, and swung it onto a hanger. Easy enough. After that, I hung, polished, scrubbed, detangled, wiped, sorted and repeated for three hours. At lunchtime, I scoffed my sandwich and apple in the fashion office because no one came to tell me otherwise. Afterwards, I sorted some more.

  I had a dramatic coughing fit after dragging down a box of shoes from the top shelf of the cupboard and releasing a cloud of dust. I saw a mouse scuttle away under the door and screamed like a banshee. I found jewellery, lost jewellery, broke jewellery and fixed jewellery. I realised how strange most clothes look off the hanger. I tried on a fabulous pair of boots, only to realise they cost more than Mum’s monthly wages.

  Finally, with everything put away or hung on clothing racks, I dragged out the internship rules. They were typed on a clean white page and read:

  SASH INTERNSHIP GUIDELINES

  1. The internship takes place one day a week for twelve weeks (unless alternative arrangements are organised with a senior staff member).

  2. Arrival time is 9.30 am, no exceptions.

  3. Departure time is to be organised with a senior staff member.

  4. Interns must use their best efforts to promote the interests of Sash.

  5. Appropriate dress code must be adhered to. No thongs or gym gear. Interns will be sent home if dressed inappropriately.

  6. The winner of the $5000 prize will be determined by Rae Swanson, editor-in-chief.

  7. The prize money may be spent however the winner chooses.

  8. Failure to meet these guidelines will result in immediate dismissal and cancellation of the internship, no notice required.

  The rules seemed fair enough, although I was surprised by number five. As fashionably challenged as I was, even I knew kicking around at Sash in trainers and trackies was a no-go. For now, I had other things on my mind: like how much longer I’d be confined to the fashion office.

  I poked my head out of the room to look around. A twenty-something with a brown pixie cut and bright-red lips stood next to a buzzing photocopier, sucking on a lollipop and tagging magazine pages. She looked up and caught me snooping.

  ‘Oh! Hey, you must be one of the newbies.’

  ‘Yep, that’s me. Er, Josie. Hi.’

  ‘I’m Gen. Hey, do you have a sec?’

  ‘Sure. Carla mentioned something about bikinis?’

  ‘Yep, come with me.’

  ‘Did you need a hand choosing some nice styles?’ I asked as I followed her into a small, dark room. ‘Or maybe I could get you a coffee?’

  Gen found the light switch and my voice trailed off at the sight of two tiny sinks, a tall cane basket overflowing with bikini tops and bottoms and two shelves cluttered with cleaning products.

  ‘It would be amazing if you could wash these bikinis for me,’ Gen said. ‘They’re too delicate to go to the laundromat.’

  I looked at the massive basket. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Is that okay? It’s just that I’m flat out with photocopying and PR meetings today, so you’d be an absolute lifesaver. I’ll pop in later to help, I promise. Well, if I have time.’

  I swallowed. ‘Yeah, okay, sure.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you!’ Gen raced out of the room, leaving me alone with the overflowing basket.

  As I filled the first sink with soapy water and the second one with clear, for rinsing, my mind flashed back to Kat’s and Rae’s speeches about the glamorous side of the industry. I stopped counting bikinis at about eighty-nine.

  4.

  I fumbled the key into the lock of Tim’s front door, opened it and waited for the blackness to melt into focus. It didn’t. I took a step forward and my hip rammed into something smooth and sharp, causing me to yelp. I rubbed at my hip, trying to ignore the sting, and I ran my palm over the grainy walls until I found the light switch. Jackpot. I flicked it on and bright yellow light flooded the apartment hallway. I took a moment to soak up my new surroundings. Stacks of books, DVDs, vinyl records and CDs cluttered the limited floor space, forming teetering towers that flirted with the possibility of crashing at any moment.

  I turned around to see what had struck my hip near the doorway and screamed at the sight of a human-size figure, before realising it was a mannequin. I shook my head in disbelief, laughing at the pink lei wrapped around its neck. Tim had failed to mention the mannequin in the scribbled note I’d found poking from under the doormat. All he’d said was to take his spare key from the rosebush at the main entrance (a prickly adventure in itself), use the fresh towel on the couch if I wanted a shower and to make myself at home while he was at a music gig.

  I walked past the dummy into the living room, which had a pile of dust-coated boxes stacked in one corner. Posters lined the walls, some swinging off blobs of Blu-Tack. The couch and television looked new, not quite matching the shabby styling. The couch was my bed for the evening, so I was pleased it was clean. Based on what I’d seen so far, I was half-expecting to be greeted by a family of singing mice. I left my bag to be unpacked later and explored the rest of the place. The smell of musky aftershave tainted the air and got even stronger as I approached the bathroom. Fingers pinched over my nostrils, I peeked my head in for a look. Unsurprisingly, it was small. Very small. A broom closet would’ve felt spacious compared to this bathroom. But, surprisingly, it was clean, almost as clean as our bathroom at home.
There was a neat stack of toilet rolls, toilet freshener poised on top of the loo, and a teeny-tiny corner shower and tub combo.

  Less than one minute later, the water was running, bubble bath was bubbling, music was blaring from my phone and my clothes littered the bathroom floor. Tim was out, so I had all night to belt out bad pop songs in a bubble-bath fantasy land where the horror of my first day at Sash was a foggy memory. I sang along to the music, splashing the water with my toes to test the temperature. It was ready, so I lowered myself into the white, foamy bath.

  Three short, sharp knocks on the bathroom door suddenly snapped me out of my karaoke party for one. I slammed off the volume on my phone and plunged beneath the water’s surface, splashing bubbles the size of golf balls onto the floor.

  An uncomfortable silence followed, until someone with a deep voice cleared his throat.

  I resurfaced and called out a tentative, ‘Tim? Is that you?’

  Nothing.

  Crap, I thought, dragging a washcloth up over my chest. I drew my knees toward me, rounding my body into a ball like a nervous hedgehog. But there wasn’t anywhere to hide. I was trapped. And I couldn’t remember if I’d locked the bathroom door. Or if the door even had a lock. Not that it mattered because a serious burglar could break through a rickety door like that in seconds.

  ‘Tim?’ I whispered.

  I closed my eyes, waiting for a man wearing a balaclava to burst through the door, shouting orders at his crew of burglars, each burlier than the next. My mind flashed with Mum’s warning about the city’s weirdos. Why was that woman always right?

  Once again, I heard a guy clear his throat. But this time, he spoke. ‘Ah, excuse me, but who are you and why are you in my bathroom?’

  It didn’t sound like Tim. My cousin’s voice was flaky and scattered, as though he was always daydreaming. This voice was deeper. Friendly, but self-assured.

  ‘Your bathroom?’ I said. ‘Where’s Tim?’

  ‘Tim’s my roommate.’

  ‘Tim never mentioned he had a roommate.’

  ‘Oh really? Well, he didn’t mention I’d get home to find a stranger yodelling in the —’

  ‘Yodelling? That was … Oh, never mind.’

  ‘Great. Well, that’s sorted then.’

  I looked around for a weapon just in case, Mum’s know-it-all words ringing in my bubble-soaked ears. Everything I could see was soft, fluffy or cuddly. What was I supposed to do? Towel the guy into a coma? Shampoo him to death?

  ‘How do I know you’re not trying to lure me out?’ I said. ‘I’ve seen crime shows. I know how it works.’

  The guy laughed. ‘Okay. Test me, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ask me three questions about what’s in the bathroom. If I don’t get all three right, call the police. You do have your phone in there, don’t you?’

  My phone glinted on the washbasin, reminding me help was only a call away. And I’d always been a sucker for guessing games.

  ‘Fine. Three chances.’

  ‘Brilliant.’

  His voice sounded closer. The door moved slightly and I imagined him leaning against it, waiting for my questions. I looked around the bathroom for something to test him on.

  ‘Okay, here we go. First question: what colour is the washer hanging off the shower tap?’

  He chuckled. ‘Easy one. Green.’

  I studied the washer. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s green, definitely green.’

  Now it was my turn to laugh. ‘The answer I was looking for was lime green, actually. Hideous lime green to be exact, but I’ll give it to you.’

  My eyes moved to the scungy burgundy bath mat on the floor. ‘Your bath mat’s worse.’

  He chuckled again. ‘Hey! That’s below the belt — and it’s Tim’s anyway. Come on, next question.’

  ‘Fine. Second question: what’s the brand of candles on the windowsill?’

  Pause.

  Here we go, I thought, I’ve got him. ‘Well?’

  ‘Trick question: we don’t have candles on the windowsill. You’re not even trying.’

  Burglar or not, this guy wasn’t messing around. ‘Okay, lucky last question. Get this right and I’ll believe you’re not here to murder me and this may, in fact, be your bathroom. What scent is your handwash?’

  ‘That’s seriously the question? You know your life depends on it.’

  ‘I do. And yes, that’s the question.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy. Lavender — floral, flowery, take your pick.’

  I grinned. ‘I hope you look good in handcuffs, mister. I’m calling the cops.’

  ‘But that’s the right answer! I bought it myself!’

  ‘The answer I was looking for was vanilla. That’s V-A-N-I —’

  ‘I should have known — Tim’s swapped them. He said the lavender one smelled too girly. Come on, one more question.’

  I pushed myself up out of the bath and wrapped my towel around me. ‘The deal was three. You said it yourself, three out of three.’

  ‘Look, I’m starving. Call the cops if you want, but I’m going to eat my pizza.’

  ‘Pizza?’

  ‘Yeah. Hawaiian.’

  Hawaiian was my favourite. I’d been so swept up in the moment that I hadn’t noticed the scent of juicy pineapple, melted cheese and ham teasing me through the door. Until now.

  ‘You, ah, want some?’

  My stomach growled, reminding me it hadn’t been fed since lunchtime.

  ‘No, thanks,’ I forced out, almost drooling. ‘I don’t accept pizza from potential criminals. Besides, I have a phone call to make.’

  ‘Just remember to tell the cops I’m charming and good-looking.’

  I heard him pad away. My phone beeped and I leaned over to see Tim’s name flash across the screen. His message read: Sorry cuz, forgot to say my roomie will be home tonight. He’s cool. Back later.

  ‘Bloody Tim,’ I muttered.

  I was in a strange apartment, wrapped in a strange towel with a strange guy down the hall eating pizza. I calculated I was only one more embarrassing incident away from morphing into a rom-com character.

  I opened the bathroom door, peeked out to check the hallway was clear, then raced into Tim’s room. Safe at last. But a quick glance around proved I’d planted myself in the wrong room. Based on the evidence — this guy cave didn’t reek of dirty socks; it had wobbling stacks of vinyls and books on the floor; a bass guitar resting on the bed; and an ironed pinstripe shirt hanging from the doorknob — there was almost a 99.9 per cent chance that this was my new friend’s room. And I was in it. In a towel. Without my clothes, which I’d forgotten to pick up from the bathroom floor. Seriously, world: are you kidding me?

  A knock rattled the door and the roommate’s voice piped up from the other side. ‘Here’s your bag, I’ll leave it outside the door. Oh, and when you’re ready, I’ve saved you a few slices.’

  I bit my lip. ‘Thanks. By the way, we’re probably well past introductions, but I’m Tim’s cousin Josie.’

  Pause. ‘I know. He told me you were coming.’

  I erupted into laughter. ‘Well, there you go.’

  ‘Oh, and while you’re snooping around in there, check out my music collection. It’s pretty sick.’

  ‘I’m not snoo — yeah, okay, I’ll check it out.’

  ‘I’m James, by the way. Pizza’s getting cold …’

  I heard him walk away, then opened the door and pulled my bag inside. As I dragged on shorts and a T-shirt it hit me how far away I was from life back home with Mum and Kat.

  I forced myself to join James in the lounge room for a slice of (by then, cold) pizza. When I shuffled in, red-faced, he laughed and brushed his shaggy brown hair out of his eyes. He was cute — hot, even — with an olive complexion, warm blue eyes and an athletic body.

  ‘Want a beer?’ he asked, gesturing for me to sit down.

  I flinched, which must have cost me at least ten cool points.

 
; James didn’t seem fazed. ‘Tea it is,’ he said, then popped on the kettle.

  Alcohol and I hadn’t been friends since Suzy Heywood’s eighteenth birthday party at the bowling alley. After a few glasses of champagne, I ended up sobbing in the toilets after missing out on a strike by one pin. I took it hard. Really hard, apparently. The time before that, too many drinks resulted in me wearing a chicken suit to a high-school dance. Nothing else needs to be said about that situation.

  After James had fixed a pot of tea, he plonked himself on the couch next to me. My nerves simmered, but then something wonderful happened. He broke the silence and for the next few hours we talked until my throat was scratchy, my cheeks were aching and we’d powered through two pots of tea.

  James told me about his IT degree, which he sounded as thrilled about as a kick in the crotch. He also shared lots of cool stories about his job at a nearby music shop: his boss who looked like a giant lizard; the fact that he watched movies on the sly on his laptop when no one needed help; and the customer who’d hooked up with at least three of the male staff (not him) and one of the female staff. My eyes widened at that, my innocence beaming from every pore of my body. He even revealed his biggest secret — that he hated IT and wanted to become a music producer, but his father didn’t believe he could make a career out of it.

  When James’s blue eyes locked onto mine and he asked me about my plans, I stuttered and stammered that I dreamed of becoming a world-famous journalist.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ he said, pouring me another cup of tea. ‘Let me interview you, test my journalistic skills. Then you can interview me and show me how it’s really done.’

  I repositioned myself on the couch. ‘You’re serious? An interview between you and me?’

  ‘Yeah! Think of me as Oprah, Ellen or Doctor Phil.’ He laughed at his own lameness and I couldn’t help but join in.