The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  ‘Hello?’ I said, irritated. I looked at my watch. It was eight a.m.

  ‘Jay? Hello, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks,’ said the male voice.

  ‘Well, you’ve got me. Who is this?’

  ‘A mutual friend said you could help and gave me your number.’

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘He said you’re the man now and could spin a video for me.’

  It was just another person trying to get a video on to the show. I gave him one more chance before I put the phone down.

  ‘What friend?’ I said as my patience began to wear thin.

  ‘Max.’

  I paused. OK, I’m listening, I thought, not wanting to be rude just in case this guy really was Max’s friend.

  Flattering me at every turn, he introduced himself as Will Sturge and I immediately recognized his name from the numerous messages he’d left me in recent weeks. He explained about his unsigned new girl group, who he said were attracting attention from the major labels.

  ‘Will, the thing is we only play signed artists,’ I said.

  ‘C’mon, you’re Mr Beat. Sure you can bend the rules this once.’

  ‘No, the company chooses what –’

  ‘What will it cost?’ he asked, interrupting me.

  ‘Cost?’ I repeated.

  ‘I know someone’s palm has to be blessed with some spice. I don’t mind, I know it happens there all the time.’

  ‘Look, I can’t –’

  ‘I’ve had this arrangement with Max before.’

  What? I thought. No way. He’s bluffing. ‘Max has never played unsigned videos,’ I said confidently.

  ‘Sure he did, but maybe it was before your time. The video will make it on to The Beat soon. It just needs a gentle push. You get £2,000 and I get just one spin. More than enough exposure for me.’

  I stayed quiet. Was this test? The Minister?

  ‘It’s a sweet deal and no one will ever find out. You’d be mad to turn it down.’

  I was about to speak when he said, ‘Think it over. The package is with your security people.’ He put the phone down.

  I went to Security and signed for the brown envelope he’d left for me. I took it upstairs and opened it under my desk, away from view. Sure enough, there was the tape and what looked like enough £50 notes to be £2,000.

  My mind was buzzing with questions. Did Max really take money? Was this the done thing? But seeing so many lobster-pink bank notes was blocking out the questions and increasing my temptation by the minute. The money would help pay off my overdraft and then some. I watched the video on a viewing machine nearby and then quickly put it, with the money, into my drawer. It was so full of other junk that I had to keep violently banging it until it finally shut so I could lock it.

  Just as it did, I felt a tap on my shoulder that made me jump. Stood behind me was the head of our website, Marianne Stevens, part of senior management. She was different from the other suits and not just because she wore Dolce & Gabbana. Unlike them, she didn’t look like she worked for a law firm. I heard she had moved over from the New York offices a year earlier to be with her English husband.

  She introduced herself. ‘I’ve been trying to call but your phone was engaged.’

  ‘Oh, sorry, it’s studio time today and I’m just finishing off,’ I said.

  ‘Wow, you guys have all the fun,’ she said playfully.

  ‘Yeah, but none of the money,’ I said, raising my eyebrows at her designer shoes.

  Thankfully she laughed. ‘Touché. Have you got a minute to talk?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure.’

  I followed her to the Seventies room, wondering what on earth she could want. After massaging my ego with how she’d heard so much about me, like a smooth-talking Dolly Parton, she suddenly said, ‘I’ll cut to the chase. I’m not sure what you know about our plans but we’re moving all our TV content online.’

  ‘What, everything?’ I said, thinking how arduous a task it would be.

  ‘Eventually, yes. First I have to get kids coming to the website to make it viable in the long run. So I want to produce some exclusive content using A-list stars that will only be available on the website. It’s called “Project Pied Piper” internally. We’ll bring them to a virtual youth club that has chatrooms letting them watch programmes at the same time as other Beat viewers across the world while messaging each other.’ With gesticulating hands she continued to describe her vision about providing huge discounts at top stores as an incentive, finishing by describing it as a global communication network for youth culture that would be bigger than the Scouts and Girl Guides.

  ‘I see,’ I said, thinking about my scripts while she painted her online fantasy.

  ‘We’ve been given a worldwide exclusive to film at Usher’s video shoot for his upcoming single “Pop Ya Collar”. We want to do a behind-the-scenes show called Lights, Camera, Action!’

  ‘Wow, that’s great,’ I said, looking at her like, And?

  ‘The only problem is my team don’t know how to film so I spoke to your boss, Terry, and he said you’d be free to do it.’

  My shoulders sank. The Minister really was trying to break me.

  Seeing my reaction, she added, ‘Terry said you were one of the best in his team. Besides, I think you’ll find this project is high up on the list of priorities for the company, especially at HQ.’

  I suddenly sat up in my chair. ‘So when is it?’ I asked enthusiastically.

  ‘Halloween,’ she replied.

  ‘But I’ve never made a show like this before,’ I said, suddenly worried.

  She grinned. ‘But that’s the opportunity! There’s no elevator to success, just stairs. But sometimes you can take the escalator. I’ll get a US producer to call and help you,’ she said reassuringly. She reached out her hand. ‘So do we have a deal?’

  ‘Sure,’ I said, shaking it with excitement. I should have stopped to consider it more but the euphoria of hearing ‘HQ’, ‘Terry said’ and ‘one of the best in his team’ got the better of me.

  Soon I was back at my desk and finishing off my last link. Screw Tola. My hard work had been noticed. Screw Sophia. I was right to put everything in to work like I had been doing. As I sat there for a moment, I felt a trickle of doubt trying to worm its way into me but it was immediately swallowed up by a tsunami of excitement. As I basked in the warmth that radiated from my chest, the phone rang. It was Will Sturge again.

  ‘Did you get the package?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I replied.

  ‘Good. So we have a deal?’ he said with confidence.

  As tempting as all that money was, it wasn’t worth risking all I’d worked for and could now almost touch. It didn’t matter any more if the offer was real or a trap.

  ‘Like I said before, we don’t play unsigned acts,’ I said.

  He let out a sigh, frustrated. ‘But this is win-win for you.’

  ‘Please come and collect your package from Security,’ I said, unmoved.

  ‘It’s OK, I want you to keep the spice,’ he said, changing tack.

  For a moment I contemplated the value of £2,000. ‘No way,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Look, all I want is one spin,’ he said with increased desperation.

  ‘I’m sorry, Will, I’ve got to go. I’m recording in the studio soon.’

  ‘Just one measly spin.’

  ‘Listen, Will,’ I said, finally getting annoyed. ‘I wouldn’t play that pile of shit if you paid me double. The video is awful. The song is tacky. And the group is bugly. Your package will be at Security for you to collect.’

  The phone went silent for a moment before Will’s voice changed. ‘Who the fuck do you think you are? You don’t even know who I am to be talking to me –’

  I slammed the phone down. I was sick of people trying to tell me what I could or couldn’t do
.

  38

  Could You Be Loved

  For the first time in ages I could enjoy the relative respite the coming weekend offered, as there were no interviews lined up or shoots abroad. I had been producing the show on my own for the past month, making me realize what Max had been going through for years. I considered going up to Manchester to sort stuff out with Sophia but my ego didn’t feel like I should be the one who was making the effort, considering I hadn’t done anything wrong. If she wanted to talk she should come to London.

  My decision was made all the easier when I received a card at work on Friday, delivered by courier.

  Dear Plonker,

  Like Rama, I want you to come back from the wilderness and join me for an evening of belated Diwali festivities. Saturday we’ll party like it’s 2099. I propose a club crawl from the boujis to the grimey. Don’t tell me about any edits or filming crap. That excuse might wash with Sophia, but it won’t with me. Bring your crew along! I need back-ups just in case I don’t chirps. Also I have a game to try out on you losers.

  Your gay lover

  I hadn’t seen Pritz that much lately, so it was the perfect plan.

  The next evening, in the Met Bar on Park Lane, with Daft Punk’s ‘One More Time’ playing overhead, Pritz lined up three beers and three shots and gathered me and James III into a huddle.

  ‘All right, boys, time to make the night a bit more fun.’

  James III and I stood looking at him, wondering what crazy idea he had in store.

  ‘Time to introduce you to “The Blind Trader”,’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘OK. What are we trading, though?’ asked James III, intrigued.

  Pritz rolled his eyes. ‘Women, of course!’

  ‘What? That’s sexist, misogynistic and rude. I’m in,’ said James III, all perked up.

  ‘We basically buy and sell girls, blind. Walking down the street, on pub or club crawls, restaurants, anywhere we find them. Blind, as in poker, means you haven’t seen their faces. So I see a girl from behind, if I think she’ll be hot I “buy” her. If I think she won’t be, I “sell” her. If I buy her and we all agree she’s hot, that was a good trade so I get a point. If she’s not, that’s a bad trade and I lose a point. And it works in reverse too, so if I sell her and she turns out to be hot, I lose a point. If she turns out to be as ugly as Jay’s first girl–’

  ‘Hey!’ I interjected.

  ‘… then I get a point. Get it?’ he said, looking back and forth at both of our faces.

  I looked at James III and he was looking at Pritz just like I was. He didn’t get it either.

  ‘Now my clients and I settle a bad trade using money or alcohol. But alcohol’s more fun as a bad trade means you down a shot. Also, by the end of the night when you can’t see straight, anything looks hot,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘So it’s basically a guessing game,’ I said.

  ‘Yep. End of the night the most points wins and that person is crowned the Blind Trader and gets the losers to do a forfeit.’ He swigged from his drink.

  ‘Job’s a good ’un,’ said James III in agreement.

  ‘OK, you see that tall leggy blonde with her back to us?’ Pritz said, pointing at the far end of the bar. James and I nodded attentively. ‘I think she’s gonna be a looker when she turns round. So I’m buying her.’

  ‘Er, OK, I’ll buy that too,’ James III said, like he’d put real money on it.

  ‘I’m selling, her fat arse tells me she’ll be ugly,’ I said, craning my neck.

  We drank our beers and waited patiently for her to turn round.

  Seconds later Pritz was running round us with one arm in the air, á la Alan Shearer’s goal celebration, a gesture he normally reserved for when he’d scored with a girl in bed. Instead this time he was high-fiving James III.

  She was a stunner so I had to down a shot that burnt the back of my throat.

  ‘We can go bigger too. Before I get somewhere, I can bet on the entire place. If I think it’s going to be full of bugly girls then I sell it for ten points,’ Pritz went on.

  ‘High risk, high return,’ said James III, rubbing his hands with excitement. ‘I like it.’

  Armed with a new drinking game and with London’s bars and clubs at our disposal, we left the Met Bar having lost a trade each. We walked behind a group of girls going clubbing on Oxford Street, trying to trade them. The famous ‘Don’t be a sinner, be a winner’ preacher extolled the virtues of godliness with his megaphone to all the clubbers as we walked past the Tube station.

  My phone went off in my pocket as James III and Pritz eyed up the next set of females to trade. I looked down to see a text from Sophia.

  I’m in London for Reading Week and my parents have gone to Paris. I’ve got the place to myself. Can we please talk? X

  I was satisfied that she had made the first move, but I wasn’t going to reply immediately.

  My Beat staff pass worked wonders in getting us straight into the VIP hotspots. The bar at MöMö had high-end tottie and we all ended even. Emporium didn’t fare so well, surprisingly filled with buglies wall to wall. James III guessed wrong multiple times and took a pasting. After a drink, some handshakes with the manager and a ‘promise’ to throw a Beat party at the celeb-friendly 57 Jermyn Street, we left to meet up with Tola, Sonya, Cara and Sam at the Voodoo Lounge.

  We stood at the bar and downed our first round of shots.

  ‘So c’mon then, show us your moves, boys. I want to watch you crash and burn,’ said Cara.

  ‘Moves, I don’t need moves, I just need my lucky shirt,’ said Pritz, showing off the small badge on his chest which read ‘21 today’ even though it wasn’t actually his birthday.

  James III explained the trading game we’d been playing all evening and was met with a collective ‘You pigs!’ from the girls.

  ‘What? You can play it too!’ he said, unsure what was so wrong.

  ‘Well, we’re not buying any of your stock,’ said Tola, pointing at us.

  ‘You wish you could buy our stock,’ I said, trying to be funny and break the ice. Tola and I still hadn’t cleared the air since our altercation and had barely spoken in the office.

  She turned to speak to Sam without cracking a smile.

  Fine, I thought. If she was going to be stubborn, then so was I.

  Pritz was on fire, his lucky shirt working in tandem with his chat-up lines. He’d bump into a girl with a drink and say, ‘So sorry. Hi, I’m Pritz. Red, Thai chicken, JD and Coke, Mr Burns, Manchester United and did I mention I’m a producer/camera man/head of talent … at The Beat?’ It was cheesy but it started a conversation with every girl, particularly reeling in a very hot girl in a trucker’s cap. To seal the deal with her, he cheekily gave his number on a fifty-pound note. I realized he was living life better than me at the moment. Was this a sign that I was meant to be single?

  The girls joined in with the game at the Spoilt for Choice night at Rainforest Café. Pritz happily kept us all watered and pushed aside any offers from anyone else. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not paying either. I’ll claim these as expenses for taking “clients” out.’

  A set from DJ Matt White later and we were on our way to Camden Palace for some garage and jungle courtesy of DJ EZ at Love Injection. Deep Blue’s ‘Helicopter’ had us in a circle swaying. But the place truly went nuts when he mixed in Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’ and then, moments later, started scratching in the words ‘Oh No’ from So Solid Crew.

  Everyone was enjoying the extra hour we had as the clocks were about to go back to signal the end of British Summer Time. I stood for a moment looking down at my phone and Sophia’s text, weighing up what I should do. Suddenly I felt a pinch on my waist.

  ‘I need a break,’ said Sam, puffing air up on to her face from her upturned lips. ‘As a proud Scot it pains me to say this but I defy anyone to find a city that has a more div
erse sound on the radio, TV, clubs or in record stores than London.’

  ‘Wow, if it’s coming from you it must be true,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘You know what else is true? You need to sort things out with Tola,’ she said, jumping right in with her thoughts. ‘She might look hard on the outside, but she’s not happy.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have been so rude and confrontational, then,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe you both were, huh, Jay?’

  I shrugged my shoulders then changed the subject immediately before she killed my buzz. ‘So how are things with you?’

  She paused for a while. ‘I quit!’

  ‘What?’ I said, suddenly standing up straight.

  ‘Yeah, it’s too much. I can’t keep up. I’m giving far too much and I don’t think it’s going to be worth it at the end.’

  ‘Course it is, you just have to stick with it. Don’t quit now, we’re so close.’

  ‘Jay, there’s one job between the six of us and I don’t think I’m going to get it.’

  ‘You don’t know, they might make some extra roles for us. They haven’t replaced the departures yet,’ I said, trying to throw something that would stick.

  ‘The execs barely know who I am and my show isn’t high profile. On top of it all, I think our budget’s about to be pulled by the Minister.’

  ‘Bastard!’ I said.

  She smiled and nodded. ‘It’s not just that. I’m missing my friends and family. I don’t get to see anyone,’ she said, slightly welling up. ‘I didn’t get to see my grandmother before she died because I was on a shoot, and I nearly missed the funeral a few weeks back because I was waiting for tapes to arrive to send to an edit. To a bloody edit!’ she exclaimed.

  I stayed quiet, not sure what to say. ‘This isn’t to do with what happened in Ibiza, is it?’ Neither of us had mentioned it since, but I could understand if it had affected her. ‘Because if it is, I didn’t tell any–’

  ‘No, it’s not that.’ She sighed. ‘Or maybe it is. I just don’t feel like myself any more. I’ve become someone else. Haven’t you?’ she asked.