Most of them wouldn’t talk to me at first but some were friendly. They didn’t make me feel stupid for not understanding HTML or JavaScript (which, sadly, has nothing to do with coffee) and they could have easily put me in a corner sharpening pencils (I made a joke about this at the time, they don’t have pencils) but they didn’t. Instead they gave me things to write about like iPods and music download services and, unsurprisingly, I managed to write about my favourite thing: bands. To make a very long story very short, at the end of my time there ET was so impressed, and so happy that almost all of the office had at least spoken to a member of the opposite sex, that he offered me a job, starting as soon as I’d finished my degree. I didn’t think he meant it, but as soon as I graduated I gave him a call on the off-chance and, just like he said he would, he set me up with my own little department. Two rooms of their huge office were assigned to my project – a main office for my team and a little private office for me. The ByteBanter guys would build and maintain an online magazine for me, but I was in charge of everything else.
If the ByteBanter office was futuristic, the rooms they gave me to use were practically prehistoric. The decor reminded me of a film noir detective office – old wooden desks, proper filing cabinets, frosted glass on the doors and even a coat stand. Anything that wasn’t actually made of wood was a similar colour.
I managed to poach Jake – my favourite member of the ByteBanter team – to come and do the day-to-day techy stuff for me and recruited my best friend from uni, Emily, to help me with the writing and there you have it, that’s how I became editor of Starstruck, an online magazine.
The Devil, The Succubus and The Rockstar
Pushing my way arse first through the ByteBanter double doors, I dodge my way through the desks to where my office is, saying my good mornings to the nerdy guys as I pass through – although I think that ship has sailed now.
I have a go at opening the Starstruck door with my forehead, with no luck, but thankfully someone at a nearby desk notices and helps me out.
‘I’m here, I’m here,’ I chant victoriously as I arrive with the new coffees intact.
‘Well, look what the cat dragged in!’ Emily teases.
‘I’m late, I know, but you wouldn’t believe what happened on the way over here,’ I begin to explain, handing out the drinks.
‘What could have possibly happened that would make the ten-minute walk from your flat to here take two hours? And is this a skinny latte?’ Vicky asks rather rudely, and yes, I am technically her boss.
I ignore her question about my lateness, but as for the latte – what is the right answer? I’m so not in the mood today. It took me two attempts to get her that damn coffee and if she doesn’t drink it she will end up wearing it.
‘No?’ I reply, although it sounds more like a question than an answer.
‘Excellent!’ She snatches it from me without the same thank-you that I received from Emily and Jake.
‘You know what they say, Nicole,’ Vicky persists, ‘the early bird catches the worm.’
‘Ah, but the second mouse gets the cheese,’ I reply.
‘Yeah, but it’s covered in dead mouse,’ she says, looking and sounding thoroughly disgusted that I’d suggest such a thing.
Vicky Mason is the newest member of the Starstruck team. She is an aspiring journalist with a BTEC in Photography, desperate to break into the world of music journalism. Emily met her at a gig she was reviewing and I guess Vicky just latched on to her. She didn’t have a job, and we didn’t have a proper photographer, so after a lot of persuasion from Em I agreed to take Vicky on. Oh, how I have come to regret that decision now; the girl is impossible to get along with. She’s bossy, she’s rude and she is so argumentative.
Emily gets on with her and Jake gets on with anyone, but Vicky and I just clash in every way imaginable.
She’s an averagely talented photographer – much better now that I’m constantly splashing out on new kit for her to use. Personally, I think she would be much more at home trying to trick drunk celebrities into flashing their underwear outside nightclubs so that she can snap some photos and sell them to the tabloids for a big chunk of cash.
I have lovingly dubbed her Succubus (a name I only use behind her back, obviously) because the first time she went to a gig with me and Emily, we ended up back at the hotel with the band and Vicky got in bed with the bassist while he was sleeping.
I tell them the story about my encounter with Tom, hoping they might think my fall had more to do with me being late than my hangover.
‘He gave you his business card?’ Jake chuckles. ‘Did you say his name was Patrick Bateman? You know, he liked blondes.’
‘Very funny,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Now hadn’t you better get back to playing The Sims or updating your MySpace profile or whatever it is you do on there when you’re pretending to work.’
I have a great friendship with Jake. He teases me about being a groupie, I tease him about a nerd. We are about as opposite as two people can be, but we get on like a house on fire.
‘Nic, can I see you in your office, please?’ Emily asks. She sounds serious, but her face isn’t giving anything away.
My first reaction is to panic – on the inside though, I’m not going to let Vicky enjoy my potential misery. I grab my caramel macchiato – I can’t hear bad news without caffeine in me – and make my way into my little office. I close the door behind us, just as Jake starts singing the chorus of Carly Rae Jepsen’s ‘Call Me Maybe’ in an attempt to tease me. He’s spending way too much time around me if he’s learning the lyrics to songs like that, I almost feel sorry for him.
‘Right, hit me with it, get it over with,’ I babble. I’ve never been great at receiving bad news.
A smile spreads across my friend’s face.
‘It’s good news. I was going through the emails...’ Emily pauses for dramatic effect.
‘Spit it out, woman!’ I demand, unable to wait a second longer.
‘We’ve had an email from Plastic Rap’s manager, you’re interviewing them tonight!’ she tells me with an extra-loud squeal.
‘No way! We managed to blag an interview? How? I thought they were all booked up.’
‘They had some journo drop out at the last minute, there’s a slot going free. It’s after the show though, so late. Do I confirm?’
‘Erm, yeah! You’re coming with me, right?’
‘Can’t. It’s my mum’s birthday party tonight,’ she reminds me and I can see how disappointed she is. ‘He said in the email that he could supply us with photos, so you don’t even have to take Vicky if you don’t want to.’
‘I don’t want to,’ I whisper with a cheeky smile on my face.
‘I am so jealous. You never know, one of the Plastic Rap boys might fall madly in love with you. You could get married and your groupie days would be over. Then you wouldn’t have to worry about getting up for work on a morning – I told you that you’d be late today,’ she teases.
‘Oi, who are you calling a groupie? And when did you tell me that I’d be late today?’
‘Last night...’ she prompts, and I cast my mind back. Em and I went to a gig last night and then partied with the bands until the early hours – let’s just say things got messy. She’s right though, I remember the taxi dropping me off,