11. Nell
11
NELL
‘So . . .’ I say. ‘What should we do first?’
My camera team – Mike, the boom operator (tall, wiry, like a boom), and Dev, the camera guy (short, stocky, like a camera) – just stare back at me.
‘You’re the boss, Nell,’ Mike shrugs. ‘We’re just following your lead.’
We’re standing outside the office, just beyond the human fence of security guards still in place to keep the Lina fangirls and tabloid photographers out. I look at the sea of people criss-crossing the courtyard in front of us. They mostly seem like businesspeople, marching purposefully to the other offices that surround ours. I exhale slowly through my mouth, wondering how I will ever have the guts to approach any of them, let alone somehow cajole them into singing on camera.
I feel a sudden stab of resentment about this whole thing. Like, how is this in any way an appropriate task for an aspiring comedy writer? What does it even have to do with writing? One of the main reasons I like writing is that I don’t have to interact with any members of the public while doing it! Comedy writers are supposed to be socially awkward nerds, aren’t they? Not super-confident extroverts able to coerce randoms into ridiculous stunts. Was Talia really asked to do something like this during her internship? I should ask her later – but I’m willing to bet the answer is ‘obviously not’.
The resentment pulses a little harder when I think about Charlie Fucking Francombe. Bishi hasn’t explicitly said as much, but clearly we are in competition with this collecting-clips thing. I mean, we have to be. Whoever gets the biggest – or the best – selection of these singing vox pops will obviously go straight into the writing team’s good books. And if there really does end up being a job at the end of all this, then impressing the writing team is all that matters.
My stomach swoops at the thought of it. Charlie has barely even seen the show. If he ends up getting a job here over me . . .
And the worst thing is that this is exactly the kind of assignment Charlie Francombe will probably be amazing at. With his stupid dimple grin and his chirpy, outgoing, hey-hold-the-lift-doors-for-me personality, he’ll clean up when it comes to approaching random strangers. That kind of bulletproof confidence must be ingrained in you when you live a life of total privilege. I mean, look at Boris Johnson. Charlie Francombe is so clearly in that camp: one of those people who sees the whole world as his playground – a space for him to just scurry about doing exactly what he wants. Pure main-character energy. Everyone else is just a supporting role in a film all about him. I can just picture him bounding around like a golden retriever, charming everybody in his path and notching up hilarious clip after hilarious clip. It makes me so bloody –
‘Er . . . Nell?’ Mike the boom guy interrupts my seething internal monologue with a wave of his hand.
‘Sorry, yes! I was miles away.’
‘Cool. Just Bishi said we’ve only got till about three to get this stuff in the bag, so maybe we should . . .’ He raises his eyebrows and taps his Apple watch.
‘Yeah, you’re right.’ I take a deep breath and try to channel some of Chloe’s unshakeable optimism. I’m hardly going to be able to convince the general public to embarrass themselves on camera if I spend the whole day in a massive huff.
‘What’s the plan then, Nell?’ Dev asks.
As it turns out, the only plan I can come up with is me, standing like a lemon in the middle of the courtyard and unsuccessfully attempting to stop people as they march past.
‘Excuse me? Sir? Madam? Have you got one second for –’
Literally no one even looks at me. They all just act as if I’m not there. It’s not a good feeling. I make a mental note never to pass one of those charity muggers again without at least acknowledging their existence.
Dev and Mike are watching me sheepishly from a few feet away. I can tell they feel bad for me. I can tell they’re also thinking, This is going to be a looooong day . . .
‘What about if we jump on the Tube?’ Mike suggests finally. ‘It’s all offices round here, so no one’s in a very good mood. If we went down to Covent Garden, or somewhere, I bet we’d find some tourists who were up for this.’
I don’t have any better ideas, so I nod. ‘Yep, Covent Garden works.’
Covent Garden does not work.
In fairness to Mike, it’s a good idea in theory. It’s a gloriously sunny day, so the piazza is swarming with happy tourists, some of whom I’m sure would be more than up for making fools of themselves on camera. If only I could summon the nerve to ask them.
I spend another hour and a half doing my Shy Charity Mugger bit – essentially just standing in one spot, meekly repeating the phrase ‘Hey, do you have one second?’ without ever making eye contact with anyone. On the rare occasion someone does actually stop and hear me out, I usually get to the ‘would you be up for singing on camera?’ bit before they smile apologetically and mutter something about being in a hurry.
By lunchtime, I still haven’t got a single person on camera. Mike and Dev slope off to buy us sandwiches, and I sit on a bench in the middle of the piazza, thinking about what an utter washout I am. In less than forty-eight hours, this internship has nosedived from being the Greatest Thing That’s Ever Happened to the Biggest Disappointment of My Life to Date.
‘Here you go, Nell.’
I look up to see Dev handing me a Subway sandwich while Mike plonks down on the bench next to me. ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘No worries.’ Dev sits down beside him and adds, ‘What do you think then? Shall we call it a day?’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Well, you gave it a good old go, Nell,’ Mike says, through a mouthful of salami. ‘But these particular Londoners are just clearly not in a very sing-song mood today.’
I groan and slump down on the bench. ‘I can’t go back without a single clip, guys. Bishi will kill me.’
Dev swats my comment away as he unwraps his sub. ‘Oh, don’t worry. Marek just texted me – he’s the boom guy on the other camera team. Apparently, they’ve got tons of decent clips in the bag already. Bishi will have loads of choice.’
And just like that, something inside me flips. It’s weird: yes, I assumed Charlie would be smashing this task, but actually hearing it confirmed out loud does something to me.
I sit bolt upright on the bench. I picture him at this very instant, probably already back at the office with a 10GB zip file of side-splitting clips. Bishi didn’t say this was a contest. But it so is. And I refuse to let Charlie I’ve-seen-the-show-a-couple-of-times-it’s-funny-I-guess Francombe win. I just refuse. All that matters is impressing the writing team. Showing them how much I care, how far I am willing to go for this internship. Even if it means sacrificing my own dignity in the process.
‘Guys?’ I lay my sandwich down and stand up slowly. ‘Can we start filming? I’ve got an idea.’
Mike rips open his pack of crisps and frowns. ‘Can’t it wait till we’ve eaten, Nell? I’m starving.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m really sorry, I’m not sure it can.
I don’t think my nerve will hold for much longer.’
He and Dev look at each other. ‘OK,’ he says cautiously. ‘What have you got in mind?’