The Intern

by Dillon Khan

  I slept for a few hours and woke up in time to go sightseeing with Angela. We drove around hitting as many spots as possible from Rodeo Drive to Venice Beach, picking up some cheesy gifts for the guys in the office along the way. We parted ways briefly only to reconvene at nine p.m. at the club, where she was dressed like a reveller in a sequined white top and tight white jeans.

  It was the early hours of the morning when I got my final soundbite from Usher, followed by the Assistant Director shouting out, ‘Thank you all from Usher Raymond, the king of R&B. This was “Pop Ya Collar” – put a fork in it, we’re done!’

  Everyone dispersed in different directions. Some went to find one of the few cabs that were around at that time of the morning, while others gathered around Usher’s trailer, hoping for a wrap party. Zoe air-kissed us goodbye and went straight to the airport for an early flight.

  Angela dragged me into a cab, saying, ‘There’s one last place you need to see before you go.’

  She leant forward and whispered into the driver’s ear and then covered my eyes with both her hands as we drove off. As we reached our destination, she removed her hands and it really was the best place to end the trip. I stepped out of the cab and marvelled at the view of the city below and the huge ‘Hollywood’ sign above us.

  We sat on a bench to see the sunrise as I received another text from Sophia, asking to talk. I showed it to Angela.

  ‘So, what are you going to say?’ she asked.

  I took in a deep breath and typed.

  Sophia. I’m not sure what’s left to discuss. I saw it all with my own eyes. You made your bed. Jay.

  I pressed ‘send’.

  I looked down at the phone, wiped its memory back to factory settings so my messages wouldn’t be on it for the next person who used it and then I shut it off.

  And the next thing I knew, I was watching Angela as she kissed my lips. At first it felt weird, but soon a buzzing sensation was running through me. When we finally stopped, I said, ‘So how was that?’

  She put her hand horizontally in front of her and wiggled it saying, ‘Nyaaa.’

  Once back at my hotel, we shared one last long kiss before she headed home to sleep. I’d get mine on the plane, which I was now within a whisker of missing.

  ‘Call me,’ she said, blowing me a kiss through the cab’s open window.

  Meeting Angela had come at just the right time. Seeing Sophia with Simon had knocked my confidence, but Angela had fully reinstated it. There were plenty more fish in the sea and, bizarrely, some of them wanted to be caught by me.

  I grabbed my gear and raced back out to a waiting cab. ‘Airport, please, mate. And quick as you can.’

  The traffic was awful and I felt myself getting tense as we crawled along the freeway towards the airport. I tried to distract myself with the newspaper and the inconclusive results of the presidential election, but it didn’t help. I rushed to the check-in desk and was met by a middle-aged Hispanic lady who confirmed the worst. ‘I’m sorry, sir, you’ve missed that flight.’

  ‘But I have to make it, it’s imperative that I do,’ I said with a tone of desperation. Imperative to my job, that is. The Minister will have my guts if he finds out I missed my flight. I’d already been gone for longer than expected and earlier in the week he’d set a deadline for my return ‘or I could stay out there permanently’.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing we can do,’ she said in a dismissive nasal tone that check-in staff seem to specialize in at times.

  ‘Listen, you have no idea how important it is,’ I pleaded, thinking of the huge sum I’d have to stump up for a new ticket.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I told you there’s nothing we can do.’ She raised her voice as others started to look over at us.

  I slumped on her desk, my passport, ticket, wallet, call sheet and the driver’s newspaper, that I’d taken by mistake, all strewn on the desk looking as haphazard as I felt. I wanted to fling something at the woman’s head when I suddenly felt something click in my own as I looked at the cover of the newspaper.

  ‘You have to help me …’ I said, peering down at her name badge, ‘Gabrielle. It’s vital I get to Washington ASAP.’ Leaning into her slightly, and in a calm voice, I said, ‘I have to interview the new President of the United States of America for The Beat in the UK.’ I pulled out my ID card and showed her. ‘If I don’t go, I’ll be fired,’ I said, sounding as posh as I could.

  ‘You’re going to interview the new President?’ she asked, looking like she didn’t believe a word.

  ‘Yes,’ I said with unwavering conviction.

  ‘Which one you interviewing?’ she asked with a poker face.

  ‘The winner, of course,’ I replied, unsure quite what to say. She looked sceptical so I continued with more gusto. ‘We reach a huge and influential young audience who love current affairs. I only have a limited window today in which to do the interview, and a very specific time-slot from the White House.’

  Within moments, my bag was heading down the conveyor belt and she had booked me on a different plane to Washington that would then allow me to make my connecting flight to London.

  ‘Bless you, bless America,’ I said as I gathered all my stuff. ‘LA truly is the City of Angels. It truly is.’ I hammed it up as much as possible.

  I hurriedly raced to the departure gate and as I finally made it to my seat on the plane, I checked my rucksack for all my important things. Passport, check. Wallet, check. Tapes from the shoot, check. But something was missing. I frantically looked through my bag. The horror inside me kept growing and growing. It dawned on me that I had left the newspaper at the check-in desk with my call sheet under it. The call sheet Angela had written her number on.

  41

  Gentleman

  A week back in London and I was feeling the LA blues. Tola and I walked into the office with bags of filming equipment over our shoulders, having interviewed Green Day at one of the pubs nearby. Communication between us was still at a bare minimum. As I looked around the Production department I realized there were lots of unfamiliar faces in the form of freelancers. Brought in to work on the Minister’s new shows, no doubt.

  There were people running back and forth from the gangway, near to where the heads of departments sat by the windows.

  ‘Mate, the Minister wants to see you at his desk,’ said James III, looking concerned as he came to deliver the message.

  What now? I thought as my stomach rumbled for food.

  I dropped my bags, quickly gobbled a half-eaten Twix from my drawer and went to see him. A small group were gathered around his office so I stood on the outside listening in.

  ‘If this gets reported to the watchdog, we’re in the crapper,’ said one voice.

  ‘I’ll try and minimize any other fallout,’ said another.

  I suddenly felt like Tupac as all eyes were on me and silence gripped the group. They parted like the Red Sea, leaving a direct path to the Minister, who sat at his desk looking up at me with rage in his eyes.

  ‘So you got my message then?’ he said.

  ‘I was at a shoot –’

  ‘Sit down.’ He pointed at the chair in front of his desk.

  I scanned my brain for all the possible things I could have done wrong. It felt like seeing a police car in a rear-view mirror. I immediately felt guilty and panicky, although I didn’t know why.

  ‘So I’d like to congratulate you on getting the company in the shit,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ I said, in total shock

  ‘You write the links and choose the videos for Defm8, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So it’s true then, this is our fault?’ he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Before I could say anything he began talking about a £100,000 fine and sending emails to HR. He sounded almost manic.

  ‘The defamatory show that you produced had
parents calling up to complain. You put a video in for Busta Rhymes called “Get Out!!”. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, I did. Is there something wrong with that?’ I asked, perplexed.

  He looked down at a piece of paper and said, ‘There is when it uses the words “motherfucker” twice, “fuck” seven times, “bitch” six times and “nigga” sixteen. I’ve had calls from parents wanting to know why their children have been watching this excuse for music.’

  ‘Well, that’s not the video I asked for. I asked for the clean one. I can prove it, I can send you my email instructions to the music programmers,’ I said, defending my corner.

  The Minister went quiet. ‘Why did you put this video in anyway?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s doing really well on radio and it’s been in the charts.’

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t have been in there. After that whole “U.G.L.Y.” song debacle you should know better. A proper producer would know this,’ he said, clearly on the back foot and not knowing what else to come back at me with.

  ‘Well, that’s the criteria Max told me to follow.’

  ‘You know what, I’m sure we can contain this,’ said a voice from the group of people behind me, who it appeared had hung around to watch the fireworks.

  ‘It’s not as bad as a few years ago when we accidentally played “Smack My Bitch Up” at four o’clock just as the kids were getting home for their tea!’ said another, laughing.

  The Minister maintained a straight face as the others saw the funnier side of it.

  ‘It’s clearly human error and I’m sure the two parents who called in will understand. I’ll send some flowers and tickets to a concert,’ said another voice.

  ‘But not to a Busta Rhymes gig.’ They all laughed.

  The Minister, who was still seething, said, ‘Consider this a warning, Jay. You can get out now.’ The others laughed even harder at his choice of words.

  As I got to my desk, I forwarded the Minister my email to the programmers in which I’d underlined the need to play the clean version. He didn’t reply and my blood boiled like the passenger who runs to catch the bus only for the driver to close the doors in his face at the bus stop and drive off.

  I’d spent the rest of the week at the edit house, cutting footage from the set of Usher’s video shoot while contending with a barrage of phone calls from Sophia. I hadn’t picked up at all since my return from LA as I didn’t want to hear her voice or any of her excuses but I couldn’t stop myself from reading some of the emails she’d sent imploring me to consider her side of things. Her words began to run around in my head, looking for a governor to sign a pardon. Doubt had led to the downfall of our relationship and was now playing the double agent, making me think I was making a mistake.

  At home The Beat played in the background as I packed a travel bag. The next day I was flying to our annual awards show in Amsterdam. The mundane task allowed my head to flood with voices. It was time to hear closing arguments.

  EMINEM: It’s done. Jay’s finished with her.

  DIDO: Are you sure? Things weren’t the best between them for most of this year and yes, they fought, but that’s passion.

  EMINEM: No, it wasn’t. She’s childish, immature and it’s all a waste of energy.

  DIDO: He was no better. The relationship wasn’t perfect but when push comes to shove, she’s his LV, his little Sophster.

  EMINEM: Yeah, yeah, yeah. She cheated.

  DIDO: Circumstantial. We don’t know that for sure …

  EMINEM: The text messages at the barbecue, lying about NYC and then the two of them cuddled up on the sofa at hers. What more do you want, a signed confession?

  DIDO: Jay’s not been immune to the temptation of other women, remember?

  EMINEM: Opportunity has come knocking but …

  DIDO: Alyssa’s party, The Beat parties …

  EMINEM: OK, so he’s guilty of flirting and enjoying the rush of getting attention. Is that a sin? Is it so bad to boost your confidence a little?

  DIDO: And Isabel?

  EMINEM: Look, we’re straying off the point.

  DIDO: Shall we point to his insane jealousy and paranoia?

  EMINEM: Sophia’s constant need for attention?

  DIDO: His selfishness?

  EMINEM: Her insecurities?

  DIDO: What about his insecurities?! Look, we could argue all day about who screwed things up first. But look at the part he’s played in this. Has he changed? Has he really been there for her? Surely he’s not blameless?

  Having finished packing, I grabbed a tennis ball and fell on to the bed. I lay on my back and began throwing it up to the ceiling and catching it until I totally misjudged it and it hit me right on the nose.

  EMINEM: Perhaps Sophia needs to be single and enjoy university life too. Maybe that’s why she continued to keep Simon in her life despite your concerns.

  DIDO: Just as he’d decided to keep working all the time and neglect her? It’s like R. Kelly warned about when a woman’s fed up …

  EMINEM: OK, so they both sabotaged the relationship. Clearly it’s something that they both want, then?

  DIDO: Is it?

  EMINEM: Maybe he needs to be alone and enjoy this point in his life. Enjoy The Beat the way Pritz was doing at the Voodoo Lounge.

  DIDO: That’s your reason to break up? To play the field?

  EMINEM: OK, what if there’s someone even better out there for him? His experience is pretty thin! He’s burnt right now, let it heal before stepping out.

  I got up and went into the kitchen, looking for another distraction. It was in a mess and causing quite a stench. Pritz and I kept leaving it for the other person to clean, so empty Pot Noodle containers and pizza boxes were building up. I stood by the sink and waited for the hot water to come through the tap.

  EMINEM: I won’t deny it’s going to be hard to let go of her, but in time it’ll be all right.

  DIDO: What if it won’t? What if he’s made a horrible mistake and the pain lasts much longer? Is he giving up someone truly special? Remember how he’d regularly sit and talk on the phone till the early hours of the morning?

  EMINEM: That was just in the early romantic stages. Don’t you remember how recently he’d been up until the early hours of the morning arguing?

  DIDO: You think he can get this connection with anyone else? She knows his heart’s thoughts before … before he knows himself. That’s why she’s his LV.

  The kitchen was spotless. There was just the bathroom to go. Pritz can do that, I thought. I went to the front room and began flicking through the TV channels for something interesting, watching X-Files briefly until I landed back home on The Beat.

  DIDO: OK, so explain why there’s a pain in his chest right now? Is it because he knows it’s a mistake?

  EMINEM: That’s understandable. This is someone he loves, not some squeeze. But he’ll have to forget her. Throw himself into work.

  DIDO: And thoughts of her won’t come into his head when he’s not working?

  EMINEM: He’ll just turn to music for help, like he’s always done.

  DIDO: That’s not going to work. It’s not working now. You don’t get it – he wouldn’t just be losing a girlfriend, Sophia’s his best friend.

  Was I scared to be alone? Was I just more concerned that she’d be with someone else after me? Simon? Someone she might love more? But surely fear wasn’t a reason to stay in a relationship? I had to have faith. In karma, in God, the universe, the tooth fairy – in anything.

  Coldplay’s ‘Trouble’ played in the background as I sat there listening. The lyrics repeated until the song came to an end and the screen went black momentarily. I sat in silence staring into the TV.

  42

  Stan

  We were in Amsterdam for The Beat Awards and, having checked into Hotel Okura the night before the ceremony, we’d already taken in the famous ‘coffee shops’ a
nd some small private parties PJ had been invited to. They were the perfect warm-up to the excitement of the main event, but no one wanted to peak too soon. However, today was the main event. The Beat’s chance to hold the biggest party saluting the best musical acts of the year and letting over a billion people worldwide share in it.

  For PJ it was a chance to complete a lifelong mission to meet ‘Her’. You could say he was a fan, bordering on a ‘Stan’. Of Her music? Maybe. Of Her multi-faceted abilities? Likely. Or was it the fact that She was the only megastar still on his list that he hadn’t interviewed? Definitely. He’d come close to meeting Her a few times in the UK but fate had always conspired against him. Now he had just twenty-four hours to complete his mission.

  ‘I’ve assembled the best in the game. OK, the best I could find … at short notice … from what was left,’ said PJ sarcastically.

  We all groaned as we stood in the hotel lobby desperate to go for breakfast.

  ‘Now I want us to stay focused. We all know what our M.O. is.’

  ‘M.O.?’ asked James III.

  ‘Modus operandi,’ said PJ, like it was obvious.

  James III leant into me and whispered, ‘I didn’t know PJ could speak French,’ with a genuine look of amazement. I shook my head.

  ‘We’re a well-oiled machine like U2. I’m gonna lead the front like Bono, Stuey you can be Edge, Jay and James III, you can be the other two,’ he said.

  Now just the two of us groaned. ‘We know our target, troops,’ he went on, pointing to the cover of a CD. ‘Our mission is to track down and rendezvous with Her. Now some of you might not make it, but it was an honour serving with you all,’ he finished dramatically.

  We all stood facing each other and saluted as James III whistled the tune from The Great Escape. It was the first time I’d heard him whistle something other than a Christmas tune.