I poured myself a glass of pineapple juice and sipped it while leaning against the bench.
‘Hey, can I grab one of those, cuz?’
I turned to see Tim behind me, yawning with his mouth stretched wide and wrestling himself into a stained grey T-shirt.
‘Sure.’ I reached for another glass. Once filled, I handed it over.
‘Thanks.’ He gulped it down. ‘Actually, can you pass me the carton?’
As I watched him chug from it, I reminded myself to avoid drinking his juice from now on.
After he’d emptied the carton, he looked me up and down. ‘You got eyeliner on? Big day ahead?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Are you meeting Oprah? Interviewing the prime minister?’
‘Not quite.’
He let out a deep sigh. ‘Ahhh, what am I going to do with you?’
I tilted my head to the side. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.’
My mind raced. He’s read me like a book. He knows everything. He knows about my feelings for James and the imaginary voodoo doll of his girlfriend that I’ve been sticking pins in. He knows.
‘Tim, I have no idea what’s going on,’ I managed.
‘J-Brown, you’re turning eighteen in, like, a day or something and you haven’t even organised a party. Your mum told my mum you’re “keeping a low profile”, whatever that means.’
I breathed a sigh of relief. Of course Tim didn’t know. He couldn’t read me like a book. In fact, I’d never seen him pick up a book, despite supposedly being at uni.
‘Oh yeah, the big one-eight. I’m thinking maybe a small dinner with the family next week.’
His jaw dropped. ‘That’s it, we’re officially not related because that is the lamest thing I’ve ever heard. Stuff that, I vote you party in the city with me next week. You’ll be eighteen then, right?’
I would. In fact, I’d be eighteen in a few days, but things were so strained at home I wasn’t going to make a fuss. Mum had enough going on. ‘I don’t know … it sounds a little —’
‘Awesome? Rad? Potentially the best night of your life? C’mon, what did you do for your birthday last year?’
I didn’t dare tell him. Our whole family had been recovering from a nasty flu so we’d kept things simple with baked-bean-and-cheese toasties and a game — well, half a game — of Monopoly. From memory, the night ended with me flipping the board over in anger (I tend to get a little competitive with games) and Kat slapping me on the arm with the fake paper money for ‘ruining the night’.
‘Fine, count me in,’ I said.
‘Yes! I’ll round up my mates.’
‘Okay. Wait, what mates?’
‘Just a few guys who like a laugh. You’ll love them.’
I instantly felt 10,031 times more nervous about turning eighteen.
‘You can crash here, but you have to bring some people, too,’ Tim went on. ‘I vote “hot girls”. Yep, you’ve definitely got to bring some friends.’
‘Is that so?’
I could bring Angel, for sure, this was something she’d want to be a part of. But who else could I ask? Kat was hardly an option, even if she did look older than me.
Tim wasn’t finished. ‘Oh, and whatever you do, don’t tell —’
‘Mum or Aunt Julie. I know.’
Tim yawned. ‘Okay, bedtime. Better crash.’
‘Didn’t you just wake up? It’s morning!’
‘I only got home a few hours ago. A nap calls.’
Tim dawdled back to his bedroom, while I carried my gear into the bathroom to get ready for another day at Sash. I slid into a new green dress (thank you, designer factory outlet sale); the silk breezed over my thighs and made me feel glamorous. Smoothing out my hair was the final touch. I looked in the mirror and tried to convince myself I looked older, sophisticated, worthy of interviewing a celebrity.
I spun on my heel to admire the back of the dress and saw a strip of Polaroid photos lying on the floor. I picked it up for a closer look: James and Summer, laughing together like a toothpaste commercial. In the first one, Summer was pulling James’s ears out like a monkey. In the second, she was showing off hot-pink lips in an exaggerated pout. The third was a blur of her hair being whipped around. It was the fourth that made me want to stick my head in the toilet bowl. They were sharing a passionate kiss, her hand pressing his face into hers. I shuddered and put the photos back on the ground, avoiding the urge to toss them in the bin.
Tim pounded on the door. ‘Cuz, you nearly finished in there? That juice ran right through me.’
I straightened up and stared in the mirror. ‘I’m done.’
And I was.
I was done with liking a guy who clearly had other things on his mind, like seeing how far his tongue could reach down someone else’s throat (which, based on the evidence I’d just seen, was quite far). Summer seemed psychotic and awful, but James still looked happy.
I wished it was a week from now so I could legally drown my sorrows with Tim and his mates and forget all about James. But I couldn’t. I had an interview to do. An interview that could put me exactly where I wanted to be: in the top spot for winning five thousand dollars.
The wall had thirty-seven scratches on it, two paintings, one broken clock and a calendar that was three months behind. I noticed all this as I sat in the meeting room’s high-backed business chair and waited for Billy and his entourage to arrive.
No longer content with counting things to soothe my nerves, I resorted to tapping my right index finger on the table. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
I re-read my pages of questions (this time I was prepared), triple-checked the battery in my dictaphone and clicked my pen to see if it still worked. It did. Of course it did. I scrawled on the top of my notepad, signing my name, scribbling hearts and stars. Bored, I switched back to clicking my pen.
‘Well, that’s annoying,’ a voice drawled behind me.
I spun around, almost falling off the oversized leather chair, to see Billy in the doorway. He was scruffy, in a black jacket and tight jeans. He looked fantastic and, by the smirk on his face, he knew it.
I leaped to my feet, almost tripping over my heels, and shook his hand.
He laughed. ‘What, no kiss? After everything we’ve been through.’
‘Oh.’ I leaned in and we attempted to peck each other’s cheek, but mistimed it. ‘Ah, hey, how are you?’
‘Great, fantastic, brilliant … dying for a ciggie.’ He laughed again. ‘And how about you, Miss I Broke A Big Story About A Sleazy Muso And Got A Pay Rise? How are things?’
‘Ah, pretty good,’ I said. ‘But no pay rise.’ No pay, I added in my head.
‘Sucks to be you, then. You picked the wrong industry.’
‘Maybe.’ I said. ‘Not all of us can be rock gods.’
Billy laughed again, then took off his jacket and swung it over the chair. ‘You know, I never got the chance to thank you.’
I wasn’t sure if I’d heard him right. ‘Thank me? For what?’
‘Let’s just say that article you wrote forced me to confess to a few things, and … well, thanks, I guess.’
I swallowed. ‘Any time.’
‘If it weren’t for you, I don’t know where I’d be … Probably off my head and up to no good. Instead, I’ve finally got myself together and Kara and I are going to give this parenting thing a real go.’
‘That’s great.’
‘So if there’s anything I can ever do for you, just ask. I mean that.’
I smiled. ‘Okay, I’ll remember that. Well, shall we do this, then?’
Billy nodded. ‘You bet. The fans have been begging for this, apparently. My Twitter’s gone off so hard, my publicist can’t keep up.’
‘Let’s begin.’ I gestured to a chair, sat back down, flicked my dictaphone to ‘record’ and, without a single stutter or hint of nerves, asked the first question.
I’d done it. Two hours of interviewing Billy without stammering or sweating (or worse, sending him fleeing from the building). And it had been magnificent. Even though I was a newbie features writer, this time I felt the part. I’d controlled my nerves — they hadn’t controlled me.
I’d probed and prodded into his personal life and he’d been great: offering polished, entertaining anecdotes; tears in the right places; laughter when it called for it. His publicist had clearly spent more time rehearsing lines with him than with an Academy Award winner, but it had worked. He’d spoken about becoming a father — his fears, his dreams, his excitement. He’d admitted he’d fallen for the baby’s mother, Kara, and they were working together to build love and trust. He’d confessed about the latest rehab stint — the toughest week of his life, but worth every struggle, as he was doing it for his unborn child and girlfriend.
When the interview was over, Billy pulled me in for a hug and kissed me on the cheek. His embrace went for longer than I expected so, unsure of journo-and-celebrity-post-interview-cuddling protocol, I pulled away first.
‘Damn, Josie, you turn me into such a motormouth, it’s like you’ve slipped me a truth serum or something,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘I guess that’s what they pay you for, right?’
I wish, I thought, thinking of the five-thousand prize at stake.
‘Anyway, good luck with the article,’ he continued. ‘Make me sound good, yeah?’
‘Of course. Bye Billy, thanks again.’
It wasn’t until he left that I realised I was busting to go to the toilet. I shouldn’t have been surprised: we’d gone through a pot of tea, two jugs of sparkling mineral water and a fresh juice each. If anything, I was lucky my bladder hadn’t burst during the interview. I rushed to the ladies’ bathroom and, without a second to spare, entered the closest stall.
Just as I sat down, I heard someone come in and go into a cubicle to my right. A few seconds later, I heard the choking, gasping hideousness of someone being sick.
I’ve always been a sympathy spewer. I hear someone throwing up and two seconds later I need a bucket myself. This was no different. In fact, this was worse than the time I chucked up my scrambled eggs on a business-class flight. (Mum had won tickets in a raffle.) Waaaay worse. Back then I was child, so I could get away with it. But this time I was at work. This time I had to hide it.
I tried to block out the noise with rapid toilet-paper-unravelling and peeing louder, but nothing worked. I gagged once, then twice, and thought, here we go, but then the sick noises stopped. And the sobbing started. Long, deep, painful sobs.
I sat there in my cubicle, listening to the mystery girl crying, holding my breath so she wouldn’t know I was listening. Finally, I couldn’t handle it any more.
‘Are you okay in there?’ I asked, and immediately wanted to hit myself. Of course she wasn’t okay. No one hid in a bathroom vomiting and crying if they were okay.
No response, other than more sobbing.
I tried again. ‘Do you want me to call someone for you?’
Silence. Not even a sob.
‘Um, I’ll go and find Liani. Maybe she can send you home and —’
‘No, don’t. Please, just go away.’
The girl’s voice grated through me. It sounded familiar.
‘Do you want me to get you some water?’ I asked.
‘Josie, just go away, would you?’
And then it hit me. The harsh tone. The dislike.
‘Ava? Is that you in there?’
The silence told me everything I needed to know.
‘What’s wrong? Have you got a migraine again?’
‘Go away. Please.’
‘Is it something you ate? Once I had this huge bowl of soup and then I —’
‘Just go.’
‘But you’re sick. I can’t leave you.’
The toilet flushed and I heard the clip, clop of Ava’s heels as she climbed to her feet, no doubt pausing to smooth down her hair before she came out. Following her lead, I flushed, too, and opened the cubicle door. Ava’s eyes were red and she was dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a paper towel.
‘Josie, I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Please stop worrying. I wasn’t feeling crash hot and I got sick, okay? You’re right — it was something I ate.’
‘Was it pork? I’ve heard dodgy things about pork.’
‘Look, I feel much better now, I promise,’ she replied, ignoring my question. ‘Let’s just leave it.’
I noticed her gleaming diamond band wasn’t threaded onto her finger. ‘Ava, you’re not wearing your ring. It didn’t fall down the toilet, did it?’
‘No, I’m …’ She faltered. ‘It’s at the jewellers, actually. They’re giving it a polish for me.’
‘Do they do that?’ I said. ‘Nice.’ But I still couldn’t shake the idea that something strange was up. ‘So you’re okay then? You’re looking a bit pale and —’
‘How dare you comment on how I look,’ she snapped. ‘Who do you think you are? Maybe you should learn to mind your own business.’
‘I’m sorry, I was worried. I didn’t mean anything —’
‘You’re right,’ Ava interjected, her tone softening. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all.’
‘It’s fine.’
We both stood in silence, staring at the floor. I was ready to fire off another awkward question (tossing up between ‘So, have you ever had a Brazilian wax?’ and ‘How tall are you?’) when Ava beat me to it.
‘So, got any plans on the weekend?’
It was the first time I’d heard her attempt small talk with a lesser being like me.
I wished I had something interesting to share, like, I’m learning trapeze, or going on a picnic with a hot guy, or travelling to an expensive beach house with a group of babes to bake brownies and ride retro bikes, but I didn’t. My calendar was bare. Boring and bare. ‘Not really. What about you?’
‘Nothing too exciting.’
‘Oh, cool.’ It wasn’t really, but I didn’t know what else to say.
‘Probably working on some ideas to show Rae, you know, for the internship.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, for sure.’
Oh boo, I thought. Steph may not give a rat’s about the internship prize money or by-line, but Ava’s claws were hooked in deep. I didn’t stand a chance.
Ava yanked the bathroom door open. ‘Anyway, thanks for the chat. Let’s keep this embarrassing pork incident between us, okay?’
‘You promise you’re well enough to work? And I mean that in the nicest possible way,’ I stammered, backtracking.
‘I’m fine. I’ll see you back in there.’
Ava stalked out before I could reply, leaving me alone at the basin.
The blank screen glared at me and I willed it to fill itself. It didn’t. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and sighed, wriggling my nose at the rich smell of coffee overpowering the office. The cursor flickered, menacing me with its slim, black line. Flash, flash, flash. My words had fled the building, probably to escape from my run-in with Ava, and I wanted to follow them. Instead, I was frozen in Esmeralda’s chair while she was at a launch for compression pants or something equally bizarre. I couldn’t get Ava throwing up out of my mind. Something felt wrong with the whole situation — I just didn’t know what yet.
‘How’s it going? Nearly done?’ Liani appeared at my shoulder. A glance at the computer showed her I wasn’t nearly finished. Not even close. I hadn’t even started except for the working title at the top: ‘Josie and Billy interview’.
‘Um … not quite.’ I could barely make eye contact with Liani, not when she’d convinced Rae I was up to the task of interviewing Billy for the magazine.
‘Not quite? Please tell me that blank page isn’t the story?’
‘Ahhhh …’
Liani crouched down next to me. ‘What’s going on? You’re normally so quick.’
She was right. I was usually set to lightning speed whenever
anything to do with writing was asked of me. I’d persevere until I got the job done, fuelled by nothing but passion (and sometimes an energy drink). But this time, I was deflated. I couldn’t see past the cursor, let alone to the potential five thousand dollars and column by-line teasing me from the finish line.
Ever the mentor, Liani tried again. ‘Josie, what’s the matter?’
‘I, ah, I don’t know.’ I stared at the computer. ‘Sorry, I was just distracted. It’s all good, I promise.’
‘Tired after a long night up with your baby? Oh wait, that was me.’ Liani smiled, then pulled up a chair next to me and sat down. ‘Let’s start it together, shall we?’
I pulled myself together. ‘Thanks.’
For the next few minutes, Liani helped me to nut out the article’s heading, introduction and first sentence. It seemed so easy with her by my side. She rallied the words together and ordered them into line. And when she rallied and ordered, they followed without a fuss.
‘Great, Josie. You keep churning away, and pass it over as soon as you can.’
I kept writing after Liani left and, before I knew it, the feature was complete. A few re-reads and it was clean, tight and ready to show her.
I walked to Liani’s office, knocked on the door and entered. She was reading a story on a website called indi (I established that from the bold red headline). I waited for her to notice me hovering, but she didn’t, so I cleared my throat. Her head snapped up and she minimised the screen.
‘Oh, Josie, hi.’ She collected her thoughts. ‘How’d you go? Need another hand?’
‘Nope, all done.’
‘Even better. Alright, hand it over.’
I passed it to her. Liani had a quick scan and beamed.
‘Oh hon, the detail is fabulous — did he really say that about buying blue and pink baby booties, just in case?’
‘Yep, they’re not finding out the sex. They want it to be a surprise.’
‘Brilliant. Rae will love it.’
Praise was addictive. I wanted more and I wanted it now.
The Intern Page 11
