‘Serious?’
‘Nup. Probably more are scratched.’ He winked.
‘You really love your music, don’t you?’
James paused. ‘Yeah.’
‘That’s cool. I’ve heard you fooling around in your bedroom, you know?’
‘What?’ James blurted.
‘I mean with music! Fooling around in your bedroom with music and equipment and … You know what I mean.’
James grinned and shook his head. ‘Aren’t you meant to be asking questions?’
Yes. Yes, I was.
‘Okay, question … So if you’re so into music, why are you studying IT? I mean … IT. I’ve never seen you at a computer. Do you own one?’
‘Yes,’ he laughed, pointing to a closed laptop under a pile of newspapers on the counter. ‘Um, IT … well, it’s Dad’s dream, I guess. Safe bet and all that. Everything’s online these days.’
‘Yeah … that’s what my dad said too,’ I muttered.
‘Really?’
‘Yeah, among other things. Not that he’d buy me a laptop, even though I’d have loved one for my writing … But this is about you, remember,’ I said, quickly steering us back on track. Despite sharing everything else with James, I wasn’t ready to go into the details of Dad’s disappearing act just yet. Luckily, James was too swept up in his own dad drama to notice.
‘I mean, what are my chances of becoming a successful music producer, anyway? Like, honestly. One per cent or something?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I want it, but … I don’t know. Dad planted a toxic seed in my head and I can’t shake it. I figure I’ll work at the music store, do this stupid degree, then join the rat race like everyone else.’
‘I just can’t see you as an IT geek spouting one-liners like “Have you tried restarting your computer, ma’am?”’ I teased him.
‘“Are you sure it’s plugged in properly?” is another favourite,’ he added. ‘High-tech stuff, I know.’
I laughed. ‘So, James,’ I put on an over-the-top American accent, ‘I think it’s time we got down to business.’
‘Okay,’ he grinned. ‘Bring it.’
‘What would you say is your deepest, darkest secret? Any secret marriages or love children we should know about?’
James paused and, for a second, I swear my heart stopped. ‘No, nothing like that. But now that you mention it, I do have a secret.’
‘Oh? Care to share it?’ I said, gesturing to our imaginary TV studio audience.
‘It’s pretty controversial.’
The possibilities pelted through my brain: he’s into pottery; his favourite colour is dusky pink; he’s a born-again virgin.
I swallowed. ‘Well? What is it?’
‘Here.’ James stood up and held out his hand. ‘I’ll show you.’ He pulled me up from the couch and spun me around, wriggling his hips.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, trying to keep up, but with no idea which foot should go where. The touch of his hands grazing my body almost made me forget my head was hurting, my throat was drier than the Australian outback and my toes were blistered. Almost. ‘Seriously, what are you doing?’
‘Dancing, birthday girl. You wanted a juicy secret — well, my mum’s a salsa teacher and, ah, I’ve picked up a few moves.’
There was no music, just the soft breathing of us keeping up with each other and the tick, tick of the clock. And then James began to hum a beat and slowly, surely, I caught up with him, meeting him in the moment. We danced around the lounge room, and even though I tripped over fallen cushions, and stray shoes and, once or twice, James’s feet, I didn’t care. All that mattered was the humming, the dancing and James.
‘You’re pretty good,’ I said.
I was so comfortable by now that I was resting my head on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch, push me away or tell me to rack off. I don’t know whether it was the excitement of feeling James’s heart pounding through his chest against mine or my natural bad timing kicking in, but I ruined the moment by saying, ‘So, does Summer like dancing with you, too?
I felt James’s hands and body stiffen. ‘Ah, no, not really,’ he said, his voice trailing off. ‘It’s not her thing.’ He dropped my hand and took a step back. ‘Um, you know, I’m pretty tired … I should probably get to bed.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘Sorry to pike, but you know … big night and everything.’
‘All good. I was counting down until sleep, anyway.’ Liar.
‘Yeah, you’ve had a long day — night — what with the dancing, that famous dude —’
‘No, that was nothing. It meant nothing.’
I wanted to shake him until he believed me. More than anything, I wanted to press rewind on tonight and start over.
‘Happy birthday, Jose.’ He pecked me on the cheek. ‘Sweet dreams.’
‘Okay … thanks for everything and, ah, say hey to Summer,’ I said weakly, but James had already disappeared into his bedroom, leaving me alone again.
So far, eighteen wasn’t feeling too different from seventeen: my clothes were a little more stained, boy dramas were a little more complicated and my mind was just that little bit fuzzier.
I managed to sleep until the sun pushed its way through the blinds and beat down on me. I had no idea what time it was, so I fumbled for my phone to find out. It wasn’t next to the couch, hiding under the coffee table or tucked away on the kitchen bench.
I’d better not have lost it, I thought, but it was a possibility. A big possibility. I only hoped I hadn’t dropped it into the nightclub’s loo. Or left it on the train after the seedy ride home. Or on the table in Billy’s VIP section. I didn’t know which would be worse.
I couldn’t even borrow someone’s phone and call the club to see if I’d left it there, because I’d flaked on its name. It was the Lemon Tree. Or the Lemon Treehouse. Or Lemon Treacle? It definitely had ‘lemon’ in the title, I knew that much.
Despite the buzz of the city outside (not to mention the buzzing inside my head), the apartment felt still. The only exception was Tim’s snoring rattling from his bedroom. I wondered if the girls were asleep in there, and if they were, how? He sounded like a rusty lawnmower trying to rev up on a summer’s day.
Yawning, I turned on the television and flicked through the channels. I clicked past the Greek news, Italian news and Chinese news and landed on Channel 3, which was halfway through its morning news and lifestyle program, First. You know the type: attractive female host, cheesy male host. I nestled into the couch for some mindless viewing with a dash of napping thrown in.
The hosts, Cynthia and Arch, bantered with each other and every now and then a phrase or a giggle would stir me awake. I drifted in and out, until a deeper voice said ‘Next up, our new favourite segment, “A Woman’s World”. Let’s welcome to the studio the lovely Rae Swanson, editor-in-chief of Sash magazine and guru on all things celebrity, relationships and fashion.’
Rae Swanson? Sash magazine? My eyes snapped open to see Rae on the screen, colour-blocking the hell out of a burnt orange blouse and deep purple pencil skirt. She looked outstanding.
‘Pleasure to be here, Arch,’ she said, pouting. She’d flicked her personality to charm-the-pinstriped-socks-off-the-TV-host mode today.
‘Now, Rae,’ chimed in Cynthia, ‘we want to gauge your thoughts on something that hits the media time and time again: celebrity relationships and marriages. Can they ever work? Chelsea Mancini from Melbourne has written in saying yes, while Georgi Craft from Kalgoorlie says a big fat no. What do you think?’
I watched in awe as Rae nailed her answer. She said there were many high-profile people in loving, happy relationships but they worked hard to stay strong and took nothing for granted. She gave examples of celeb couples who’d survived through tough times, even adding that it took real commitment to stay together under such nonstop media scrutiny.
‘But it’s not all roses and happy days, is it?’ butted in Cynthia. ‘Many experts say infide
lity appears to be on the rise. In fact, based on the photos taken of Billy from Greed last night, we’d have to agree.’
‘Photos?’ asked Rae, sitting up higher in her seat.
Oh no, I thought, my heart pounding. I could already tell this was not good.
‘Billy was caught on camera last night with his tongue down a young brunette’s throat at Limestone nightclub,’ chimed in Arch, while Cynthia tutted loudly. ‘Meanwhile, as we all know, he has a pregnant girlfriend at home.’
Limestone nightclub? So much for Lemon Tree. Although limes and lemon were both in the citrus fruit family.
‘In fact,’ continued Arch, ‘here are the photos now. This is a First exclusive.’
Please don’t be me, I willed on repeat in my head. Please tell me Billy made out with some other poor sucker after I left, even though that would make him an even bigger ass-hat.
A slideshow of pictures flashed across the screen: Billy with his arms wrapped around the ‘mystery brunette’. His lips were pressed against hers, so her face wasn’t clear; in fact, all I could see was a hint of nose and flushed cheek. Her hair was thick and wavy with a fishtail braid and her dress was bright yellow, tight at the waist and covered in what appeared to be splashes of something. Probably water. Or wine. Or shots.
Arch and Cynthia had no idea who the mystery girl was, but I knew for sure, absolutely, without a doubt in my mind, that it was me.
Rae had done a double-take when she saw the photos. I waited, barely breathing, for her to reply.
‘Well,’ Rae said, ‘you’ve caught me off guard with this. I’m shocked. I can truly say I thought Billy was a changed man.’
‘So did we,’ said Cynthia. ‘After that last exclusive interview in your magazine he had the nation fooled. But this shows, once a cheater always a cheater. My heart breaks for the mother of his future child.’
‘So, Rae, what do you think this means for Billy’s ongoing appeal in Australia?’ asked Arch. ‘And any thoughts on the identity of the mystery girl?’
Rae pursed her lips. ‘I don’t think it matters who the girl is, Arch. What I think matters is that Billy has done this again, after claiming that he’d turned over a new leaf.’
‘Absolutely,’ agreed Cynthia.
‘It’s going to be a tough day for everyone in the Greed camp,’ continued Rae. ‘This is bad, bad news for his image … and for the girl if the media find out who she is. Hopefully she’s smart enough to stay out of the limelight and not repeat her mistakes.’
I couldn’t help wondering if she was speaking directly to me. But maybe that was just the overwhelming guilt screaming in my ears.
Suddenly, I heard my phone ringing. Brilliant, I hadn’t left it at the club. The ringtone sounded muffled, like the phone was trapped under something. I hopped off the couch and hunted for it. I followed the noise across the carpet, into the kitchen, opened the fridge and there it was: buzzing and beeping on a block of cheese. What happened here last night? I didn’t want to know.
Kat’s name was flashing on the screen. I answered.
‘You little tart,’ she said.
‘Hello to you, too,’ I spluttered.
‘You made out with Billy and you didn’t even tell me?’ she hissed in a loud whisper. I took that as a good sign; at least she wasn’t shouting down the house and neighbourhood. Although, if I knew Kat, that would probably come later.
‘I, ah … what?’ I mumbled.
I was a terrible liar, just like Mum. If only I’d taken those acting classes she’d bought me when I was eleven to improve my confidence. I’d bailed at the last minute; ironically, I hadn’t felt confident enough to go.
‘Dude, don’t lie to me,’ whispered Kat. ‘I saw you on First — they had a photo and everything.’
‘Oh, that?’ I said, my voice squeaking into borderline rodent territory. ‘I saw that too. It was so … blurry. I wonder who it was. I’m thinking the girl who hosts that afternoon kids’ cartoon show, or maybe —’
‘Josephine Browning, I’d recognise that yellow dress anywhere. Cinched waist, low back, smoking neckline … and currently missing from my wardrobe.’
‘I can explain,’ I said, although I wasn’t quite sure how.
‘You better start talking, Jose. You better start talking right now.’
16.
I’ve seen some awful things in my time. There was the Saturday afternoon when the neighbours’ puppy, Twinkles, darted, skipped and squealed through oncoming traffic and only just made it safely to the other side of the road. The night when Kat and I — by mistake — busted in on Uncle Reg reading the paper on the loo (I’ve knocked every time since). And let’s not forget the scarring experience of seeing Mr Stevens, my Year Nine geography teacher, scratching his junk with a ruler under the desk when he thought no one was looking. But nothing could have prepared me for what I found when I went online after my phone conversation with Kat.
I borrowed James’s dusty laptop and opened Google. In the short time since First had broken the story about Billy cheating with a ‘mystery girl’, the internet appeared to have exploded with hate toward me. There were blog posts, tweets and comments, each more passionate, brutal and angry than the next. Most of the news websites’ entertainment sections carried a cobbled-together story accompanied by a blown-up photo of Billy kissing me. I read every article I could find and realised that eighty per cent of them were filled with flat-out lies. According to one report, ‘a source close to Billy said it was a huge misunderstanding — the girl threw herself at him and he was caught off guard by her passionate kiss’. Um, no. In another, ‘the girl reportedly propositioned Billy, who has a child on the way, for a one-night stand at a nearby hotel’. What?!
Kat had warned me against going online, and now I could see why. I — or rather, ‘mystery girl’ — was denounced as a skanky tart who’d tried to steal the vulnerable pop star away from his pregnant girlfriend.
Everyone had an opinion. People who didn’t know the real me. People who didn’t know I was just a nerd who placed way too much emphasis on getting good grades. People who didn’t know my little sister had to dress me for my first big-city interview. People who didn’t know I never got invited to parties, had never had a boyfriend for longer than five days and had the scheming seductress abilities of a drunk slug.
The online trolls called me everything from an ‘ugly moll — he deserves better’, to a ‘stupid scrag with a body like a ten-year-old boy’. I tried to laugh at the ones with typos (‘Your a dikhead’); however, the grammatically incorrect death threats made that harder. A few people jumped to my defence (‘I’d pash him too’), but overall society seemed to have banded together and decided that I, Josie, aka ‘mystery girl’, was a terrible human being with a surfboard chest. (More posts than I care to remember mentioned my lack of boobs.)
The truth was, part of me had always wanted to be famous. I’d imagined a book launch with crowds of loving fans showering me with flowers and chocolates and begging for my autograph. And now here I was: infamous.
I just wondered who else knew it was me in the photo.
Angel took charge the moment I busted into Tim’s room to confess what was going on. She woke up Steph, who had been drooling next to her in the bed, and dragged both of us into the lounge room to debrief. Tim remained comatose on a pile of clothes on the bedroom floor, oblivious to the unfolding drama. James was still in his room — he hadn’t come out since our embarrassing/ amazing/awkward encounter the previous night.
‘So this could be worse,’ started Angel.
Steph yawned. ‘Agreed.’
Mascara was smeared over both of their faces. I was sure mine was no different.
Angel pointed at the photo on the website. ‘You can barely tell it’s you. I mean, we know it’s you, obviously. But that’s it.’
‘And Kat,’ I reminded them.
‘Do you really think Rae could recognise you from this photo?’ asked Angel. ‘I don’t think so.’
&nbs
p; ‘Although,’ muttered Steph, ‘I’m trying to remember if I told Rae where we were going out for your birthday.’
I sighed. ‘If she knows it was me then I’m screwed.’
‘Calm down.’ Angel patted my back. ‘Look, is there any food here? I’ll fix us something for breakfast. Maybe that’ll help.’
Bless her — she knew that food was always the answer for me. She walked into the kitchen to explore the cupboards, fridge and freezer.
‘I’m sure I didn’t tell Rae,’ said Steph. ‘You’re safe, I promise. Anyway, what’s the worst that can happen if she does find out?’
‘If the Sash editor-in-chief finds out that I hooked up with my interviewee, who happens to have a girlfriend and a baby on the way?’ I said, my jaw aching with tension. ‘I don’t know … what do you think? Give me an “F” for the uni subject? Fire me? Blacklist me from every publication in Australia? Judge me for being a terrible person?’
‘Well, when you put it like that …’ said Steph sheepishly.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap,’ I said. Being tired wasn’t doing me any favours.
Angel popped up from behind the kitchen counter holding a loaf of bread. ‘Maybe it’s not that bad, Jose. I mean, maybe —’
‘It’s on all the gossip websites,’ I blurted out. ‘They’ve shamed me as the “mystery tart from Down Under”. Their followers are chiming in with awful comments too. One troll called me “Slutty the bush skankaroo”.’
Steph sniggered. ‘That doesn’t even make sense.’
‘Okay, so that’s not ideal,’ agreed Angel, trying not to laugh. ‘But it’s still anonymous. And heaps of people are laying into Billy too — don’t forget that. He’s the cheater. No one knows it was you. Not Rae, not the media, not anyone. You’re safe.’
‘But what do I do at Sash tomorrow?’ I bleated. ‘Should I confess?’
‘No,’ said Steph. ‘Absolutely not. Deny, deny, deny, baby. You’ve done nothing wrong, so keep those pretty lips shut.’
James’s bedroom door creaked open and he stumbled out, dressed in nothing but boxer shorts. He pulled on a crumpled blue T-shirt, but not quickly enough to stop me from catching a glimpse of the light dusting of hair on his chest.
The Intern Page 14
