by Dillon Khan
‘Where was your phone?’ asked Shirley.
‘I left it in the front office as I rushed out,’ she said. ‘It was an emergency; there wasn’t time to get it. He could have died!’
‘So no one got shot?’ the dancer asked.
‘No,’ she replied, like it was a ridiculous suggestion. ‘If they had, don’t you think the police would be in here asking you all questions?’
Shirley let out a sigh of relief and sat down in a chair, looking equally exhausted. Calm suddenly prevailed in the room as everyone went over to Alison to find out more.
Tola and I stood in a corner putting the kit away as Cara sat with a shaken-up Sonya.
‘Jesus! Makes you wonder if these parties are worth it,’ said Tola.
‘We have to have them, it’s what’s expected,’ I said, amazed she was talking to me again.
‘What’s the point? Look at tonight. It’s lucky nothing serious happened. Imagine if it did?’ said Tola.
I stopped packing and turned to her. ‘Are you serious? We can’t stop doing these parties.’
‘All the goodwill be forgotten if one bad thing happens,’ said Tola.
‘Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,’ I said, and she nodded in agreement.
This was the longest conversation we’d had in weeks. With the communication channel clear, was this the time to apologize to her? I wanted to. Desperately. But my pride lodged in my throat, rendering my vocal cords useless. It had done it to my finger too, stopping me from pressing the call button when I’d wanted to speak to Sophia so many times over the last couple of weeks. It seemed like pride had got in the way a lot lately. For now, the most I could muster was a brief hug, but Tola seemed to appreciate it.
We left Shirley in the club to carry out the full post mortem with Alison and the manager. The mood in the taxi taking us back to the hotel was sombre. Michael Jackson’s ‘You Are Not Alone’ played on Galaxy Radio as heads leant against windows, preparing for pillows. I sat in a trance staring out of the window, watching milk floats go by as Sonya’s head rested on my shoulder. My phone beeped with a new text message.
Oh no, not the Minister. Not now, I thought. I wasn’t in the mood to have my balls busted. I looked down and read it.
Heard the police were at The Beat party. Are you OK? Sophia
48
Are you Gonna Go My Way
The enormous fir tree fell over several times in the Greenhouse before it was finally hoisted into place. One of the workmen putting it up had to go to the hospital with a broken nose as he bore the brunt of one fall. When it eventually went up and stayed up it looked a treat and signalled that Christmas had officially arrived.
The end-of-year party was always held in the first week of December to ensure everyone from the Europe offices could make it before people left for their extended vacations. Departments were a hive of activity as they sought to tie up loose ends. Meanwhile, James III was in his whistling element, Christmas carols on loop from his pursed lips.
Our fate as interns was going to be announced by the Minister today but no meeting request had arrived yet. Our extended contracts were up on Friday, which was just a few days away. To celebrate the end of the year, we took in a quick visit to the pub before returning to hear the senior management’s speeches. We were all taking bets on who’d get the permanent position with everyone nominating each other, yet deep down inside feeling it had to be them.
We returned in time to see Darth Vader turn on the Christmas tree lights to an ironic cheer from the drunken crowd. Once again the place was packed as he and the Doc gave glowing end-of-year reports, ending with another fast-cut The Beat reel.
With the Doc’s bit done, he called on a few members of senior management to speak. One by one the suits spoke about their major plans for next year and then fielded questions. Finally the Minister took to the stage and read like a robot from a printout, making Darth Vader look like an orator of the highest calibre. Once he had finished, to bored applause, he waited briefly for questions. Just as he was about to go to his seat, someone shouted out.
‘I’ve got a question.’
He scanned the crowd to see where it had come from, as did everyone else. I suddenly saw everyone looking in my direction, including the Minister. Had I somehow blurted something out without realizing? No, the voice had come from over my right shoulder and the breath was distinctly laced with alcohol.
‘Why aren’t there equal opportunities for women in Production?’ asked Cara, slurring slightly.
Oh God, I thought. What is she doing?
‘Why is there a tinge of macho homophobia? In fact, why aren’t there more people of colour working here apart from in Security?’ she added, like an investigative journalist, nudging forward to stand beside me. The needle had fallen off the record.
A handful of people awkwardly applauded in different parts of the audience. The rest of the crowd froze as the entire Greenhouse lost its drunken buzz. The Minister stood still, not sure how to respond. The answers didn’t lie on his printout no matter how many times he looked down at it. The silence seemed to last for ages. Soon he dispatched a freestyle ramble and quickly went back to his seat, afraid of a follow-up question. He’d sidestepped answering the question like he was walking down a path full of dog shit. The Doc leant into the mic and bravely asked, ‘Any more questions?’
There was a long silence as everyone braced themselves.
‘Yeah, I’ve got one,’ said another voice, this time from over my left shoulder.
Oh no, it was James III. Was he going to ask if he could whistle ‘Jingle Bells’ for everyone? Going to the pub early was looking like a mistake.
‘Out of the two BMWs in the forecourt, in a race, whose would be faster, yours or your boss’s?’ he said in a serious tone.
The Greenhouse burst into laughter and the buzz returned. James III had placed the needle back on the record and it was time for mistletoe and wine once again.
It wasn’t long till we were all on the party bus singing Christmas carols, led by James III, on our way to Ministry of Sound in Elephant and Castle.
Inside, the venue was more Christmassy than the jolly fat man in red himself. The waiters were dressed up as elves and the waitresses, well, sexier versions of elves in short skirts. Those taking time out from the dancing could keep themselves entertained on the bouncy castle, the stripper’s pole and the karaoke booth.
It was funny seeing heads of departments being coy as they asked younger employees for drugs. I still marvelled at how commonplace drugs were in The Beat’s world. I almost forgot they were illegal sometimes. The laser light show in the main room would look spectacular for those soon to be off their tits. Mistletoe was hung everywhere for those who felt shy – and to give some of the Technology Support guys a bit of a fighting chance.
‘So, who’s pulled who so far then?’ I asked as I communed with Cara, Sonya and Tola for a gossip session. We were stood by the bar, watching the presenters make a circle in the middle of the dance floor, enticing everyone to drunkenly breakdance.
‘Well, I heard the pretty woman from Legal was with the tall guy from Scheduling,’ said Tola.
‘But they’re both married,’ I said.
‘Yeah, well I also heard she’s filing for divorce. Walked in on her husband … with two other men.’
‘What? But they’ve just had a kid,’ said Sonya.
‘Post-natal blues … for her husband, maybe?’ suggested Tola.
‘I heard two guys who work in the studios had a fight in the pub over one of the make-up girls a few weeks back,’ said Cara.
‘That’s nothing, I heard one of the last interns here, a nineteen-year-old, had an affair with a married woman in the On-Air department and she left her husband for him,’ said Sonya.
As the revelations came thick and fast, I looked around and noticed the people I’d worked with in a new light. They
were paired off laughing, talking, dancing and kissing in the corners. The office was rife with rumours of who was doing who: it seemed almost inevitable that people hooked up with someone else from The Beat. There’d be no surprises over the lifestyle, I figured.
We all had more in common than simply the love of music: empathy for the hard slog. I realized that, thanks to The Beat, I had made some really good friends. We’d shared long stressful hours and had spent more time with each other than our family, friends or partners. There was a price to pay for being in Neverland. There should have been a skull and crossbones sign on top of the entrance: WARNING: MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO RELATIONSHIPS.
All of a sudden James III joined us, trying to catch his breath. The Minister had told him to round us up in the chill-out room. As questionable as the timing and location were for this meeting, we knew the time had come for us all.
We walked in to see the Minister sitting in a circle of beanbags, sipping a cocktail. Once we were seated he began.
‘Thank you all for joining me. I wanted to do this in the office but time ran out. Firstly, I want to commend you for your hard work and efforts this year.’ He sounded slightly drunk, which explained his good mood. He went through the group praising everyone and passing on all the good feedback he’d received.
As everyone was praised they sent out nervous signals like a contestant waiting for the answer to the last question on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? The Minister ended on me as my foot tapped anxiously. ‘Jay, you gave us a ratings peak during The Beat awards, making the sponsors sign a big deal for next year,’ he said and I mentally punched the air.
We were fixated on him like he had a bogey at the end of his nose. He continued to speak for the next five minutes about his plans for next year, keeping us squirming on the edge of our seats. He eventually stood up, raised his glass and said, ‘Thank you for your efforts. Enjoy the party and good luck in your future endeavours.’
He turned and left the room, taking all the air out with him. The man lacked IQ as well as EQ. Everyone sat there in silence.
But not for long. Cara reacted first, accompanied by a look of disgust. ‘Fucker! Took my show ideas and I won’t be here to make them?’
James III’s usual cockiness had also disappeared. ‘So was this permanent job even real or just a ruse to make us work harder?’
Sonya hugged Tola. ‘Well, it would have been hard for them to choose one person among us all, ay,’ she said. ‘We’ve all been pretty awesome.’
‘I thought this was all Jay’s. That’s why I got Talent to help me get a job with Universal Records,’ said James III. ‘It’s true what they say that your network determines your net worth.’
I looked at him in shock.
‘Good for you. Stuey helped me get a job at a production company called Endemol,’ added Cara.
My head spun round to her on my right.
‘Well, seeing as we’re all sharing, I got a job at the Prince’s Trust,’ admitted Tola.
‘I’m going to go back to my old job but as an edit assistant. No more making cups of tea!’ said Sonya, smiling.
With my head swinging back and forth like I was a spectator at the Wimbledon finals, it was ‘Game, set and match’ from the voice keeping score in my mind.
‘What about you, Jay?’ asked Cara.
Me? I’ve royally screwed it up, I thought. ‘I’ve got a couple of offers I’m weighing up,’ I said. If there was one thing I’d learnt from the Minister, it was how to conceal your true thoughts and keep smiling. On the inside I felt like my bones were all broken and my body wanted to collapse in on itself.
‘Here’s to the future, it’s bright like Orange,’ said James III, raising his bottle of beer for us all to clink.
Everyone sat laughing and joking about the year gone by while I felt sick to my stomach. I was the only intern to have not seen this coming. Had I refused to see it? Had my own ego convinced me I was a dead cert? I felt embarrassed and humiliated inside. A smart-alec voice in my mind that I hadn’t heard in a while kept saying, ‘I knew this would happen’ repeatedly and making me feel even worse. I felt depressed at leaving the job I loved doing and the realization that the prince was turning back into a frog.
The longer I stayed, the more I suffered. Finally, when I couldn’t stand it any more, I said my goodbyes to the others. Luckily they knew I still had the end-of-year show to write back at the office so I had an alibi to leave. I embraced them all long and hard, camouflaging the hugs under the guise of a drunken goodbye when really I needed the human contact for other reasons. As I walked down the stairs to a waiting Uncle Lee, I suddenly felt lonelier and lonelier with each step. No girlfriend, no job and no hope.
49
Unfinished Sympathy
The nostalgia about our experiences as interns was exactly what I needed to write the sentimental end-of-year special for Total BEATS. The best moments of the show were invariably my best moments here. Knowing I was leaving the job that had been my life for most of the year helped me write PJ’s final link to the viewers for 2000.
During my final record in the studio the next day, the Doc came to watch from the gallery. Luckily his attendance didn’t stop the swearing and banter. As the final shot dipped to black, everyone stayed behind for some champagne in the gallery courtesy of the studio manager. Even PJ, who normally had to rush off for something else, stayed around for a drink or two.
Just before the Doc left he took me to the empty studio floor and had a quiet word. I knew he’d done this with the other intern’s last records and was saying goodbye the way he’d said hello: with real class.
‘Jay, before I shoot off I just want to say thank you for your efforts. I hope you learnt as much from the experience as you gave us,’ he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.
‘Yes, I did. Thank you for the chance,’ I said.
‘It’s sad we can’t keep your talents here but I’m sure our loss will be someone else’s huge gain.’ He paused and then leant in. ‘Us oldies have a secret. We can’t do it without you youngsters. Neither revolution nor evolution can happen without you. You bring the energy that keeps us all inspired, young and fighting to keep up. We feed off that energy and drive. So, on a personal note, thank you.’
I nodded. I wanted to say, Well, give me a job then. But he’d already gone, leaving me standing in the empty studio.
Back at my desk, I grabbed my tapes for the edit and went for the stairs, but was cut off by Gwyneth. She lead me into the Eighties room and said, ‘It’s about your expenses –’
‘It’s OK, I’ve written them off,’ I said, cutting her off before I had to hear her deliver the bad news.
‘Well, you’ll be pleased to know the money will be in your account before Christmas.’
‘What? How?’ I exclaimed.
‘My boss accidentally signed them off thinking they were mine,’ she said with a poker face.
I wanted to jump on her and hug her to me like a bearskin jacket. ‘Gwyneth, thank you so much. I can’t thank you enough. I really appreciate …’ I was rambling.
She laughed. ‘Jay, it’s fine. I know they were genuine and, frankly, it makes me feel good to know that the right thing has been done.’
As I left the meeting room the good news gave me a small spring in my step as I headed for the final edit. Although I was upset not to be staying, I wanted to make sure I left on a good note.
The Christmas spirit was getting hold of everyone as PJ joined me. He never attended edits as they lasted ages but this time he hung out for eight hours, eating, drinking and looking back at another year of service to music completed.
‘You know, I don’t know when this merry-go-round is going to end. They could cut it off tomorrow,’ he said as we stood on the roof of the building, smoking one of the editor’s spliffs.
‘Well, the ride’s over for me and I’m not quite sure what to do now,’ I said. ‘But i
t was fun while it lasted. Thanks, PJ,’ I finished, with genuine appreciation. He’d put his neck on the line for me, and I could probably never repay him for that trust.
‘You gotta find another ride,’ he said slowly, exhaling smoke from his lungs.
‘I honestly thought this was it,’ I said, staring down at the people walking on the streets below. Why did I think I was going to get a full-time job? All the hours I’d put in? The sacrifices I’d made? The ill-placed bravado, thinking that I was the best intern? I was slowly starting to realize I’d worked hard, but not smart. I’d become addicted to the job and lost sight of the endgame. Robert Johns had warned me that this was just a stepping stone.
‘You thought this was going to last forever?’ said PJ in shock.
‘Not forever, but I thought this was just the beginning,’ I admitted. I coughed up a lung and sat down on the chair next to him, passing back the spliff. I put my head in my hands and rested my elbows on my thighs. Everything was spinning.
We sat in silence on the garden furniture for a moment, enjoying the buzz.
‘You got a taste for it, didn’t you?’ he said, commiserating with me. ‘You poor bastard.’
I didn’t come back to the office for the next two days as the edit took time to complete after the computer crashed several times. It took so long I even ended up missing out on my own leaving drinks with the other interns. It was probably a good thing as it would have been as emotional as the last episode of your favourite sitcom. I didn’t make it to the office until one thirty a.m., when I handed the tapes to the guys in Transmission and went upstairs to clear my desk away.
As I got to the intern area, I was met by empty bottles of champagne, plastic cups, Quality Street wrappers, popped party poppers and paper plates with the crumbed remains of chocolate cake from Patisserie Valerie. Suddenly I was sad I’d missed the big farewell. What a moron I was, I hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye to anyone. I sat at my desk and saw a small, unopened bottle of Moët by my computer screen with a Post-it note signed ‘With Love’ from the others. It stood on top of a David LaChapelle signed copy of Hot House that contained his photographs of celebs and artists from Rolling Stone magazine shoots.
