notice two things: first, that I am the only man here, and second, that I’m the only person over twenty-five. All the Teen Scene staff, from editorial to production, art and picture research, are dressed as if they’re part of some impossibly trendy twentysomething secret army: hair up, hair down, big thick black ‘media’ specs, sunglasses on head, numerous hybrids of army trousers, designer jeans, denim skirts, T-shirts emblazoned with logos and slogans and top-brand sports footwear.
Feeling distinctly out of place, I approach a girl sitting at the desk closest to the door, staring intently at her computer screen. Like the others, she’s in her early twenties but she seems young in a way I can only just about remember being. She’s wearing a T-shirt with the American hip-hop label Rawkus Records’ logo across it, a long denim skirt and blue and white Adidas trainers. I can just make out a small indentation on the left side of her nose where she must have had a piercing in her student days and then thought the better of it. She’s pretty in a delicate way – the sort of girl that a younger version of me would definitely have found attractive. As it is, her small stature and air of fragility stir up in me feelings towards her that are more brotherly than sexual.
‘I’m Dave, the music bloke,’ I say to her, by way of introduction. ‘Jenny the editor’s expecting me.’
She turns and stares at me. ‘Hello, Dave the music bloke,’ she says. ‘I’m Fran Mitchell, the junior writer. Jenny the editor . . .’ her eyes flit to the back of the office ‘. . . is in meetings all morning.’
Her manner makes me smile. Sarcasm with strangers. I like her style.
‘I’ll just wait for her, then, shall I?’ I ask.
She pulls a Post-it note from the screen of the computer next to her desk, reads it then hands it to me.
‘It says I should make myself at home,’ I announce.
‘I thought that’s what it said.’ She points to the desk next to her. ‘This is where freelancers live when they’re in the office. Pull up a chair and I’ll show you the ropes.’ Her phone rings. ‘Hello?’ She nods, listens, then covers the mouthpiece. ‘I’m going to have to take this call. Do you mind? I won’t be long.’
‘No problem.’ I sit down at my desk, switch on the computer in front of me out of habit rather than a desire to do any actual work and look around me. The Teen Scene office is more modern than I’ve been accustomed to at Louder . All the editorial staff are working on brand new colourful i-Macs, the pale grey desks are ungraffitied and the carpet isn’t coffee-stained. The office seems brighter too: a line of huge windows runs along one side of the room flooding the space with natural light; along the other there are huge shelves filled with books, magazines and folders. All in all, this seems like a nice place to work.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Fran, putting down the phone. ‘It’s a reader’s real-life story I’ve been chasing for the last three weeks. Basically it’s this fourteen-year-old girl is so obsessed with a certain soap star that she’s spent weeks camped outside his house. Anyway, about a month ago, by means that I’m still not sure are legal, she managed to get a pair of his underpants from his washing line. It’s such a great story.’
‘It is?’
‘Our readers love that kind of stuff. It reassures them that they’re not completely alone in the world. You know – that they’re not utter basket cases. Because the thing you have to remember about teenage girls is that, at the end of the day, they’re all only a few steps away from basket-casedom. I should know. I used to be one.’
‘Teenage girls,’ I repeat, scribbling down the words on the back of my Post-it note message, ‘total basket cases.’ I underline the last two words.
‘You think I’m joking, don’t you?’ says Fran, smirking.
‘No,’ I deadpan. ‘And do you know what? That’s what
Feeling distinctly out of place, I approach a girl sitting at the desk closest to the door, staring intently at her computer screen. Like the others, she’s in her early twenties but she seems young in a way I can only just about remember being. She’s wearing a T-shirt with the American hip-hop label Rawkus Records’ logo across it, a long denim skirt and blue and white Adidas trainers. I can just make out a small indentation on the left side of her nose where she must have had a piercing in her student days and then thought the better of it. She’s pretty in a delicate way – the sort of girl that a younger version of me would definitely have found attractive. As it is, her small stature and air of fragility stir up in me feelings towards her that are more brotherly than sexual.
‘I’m Dave, the music bloke,’ I say to her, by way of introduction. ‘Jenny the editor’s expecting me.’
She turns and stares at me. ‘Hello, Dave the music bloke,’ she says. ‘I’m Fran Mitchell, the junior writer. Jenny the editor . . .’ her eyes flit to the back of the office ‘. . . is in meetings all morning.’
Her manner makes me smile. Sarcasm with strangers. I like her style.
‘I’ll just wait for her, then, shall I?’ I ask.
She pulls a Post-it note from the screen of the computer next to her desk, reads it then hands it to me.
‘It says I should make myself at home,’ I announce.
‘I thought that’s what it said.’ She points to the desk next to her. ‘This is where freelancers live when they’re in the office. Pull up a chair and I’ll show you the ropes.’ Her phone rings. ‘Hello?’ She nods, listens, then covers the mouthpiece. ‘I’m going to have to take this call. Do you mind? I won’t be long.’
‘No problem.’ I sit down at my desk, switch on the computer in front of me out of habit rather than a desire to do any actual work and look around me. The Teen Scene office is more modern than I’ve been accustomed to at Louder . All the editorial staff are working on brand new colourful i-Macs, the pale grey desks are ungraffitied and the carpet isn’t coffee-stained. The office seems brighter too: a line of huge windows runs along one side of the room flooding the space with natural light; along the other there are huge shelves filled with books, magazines and folders. All in all, this seems like a nice place to work.
‘Sorry about that,’ says Fran, putting down the phone. ‘It’s a reader’s real-life story I’ve been chasing for the last three weeks. Basically it’s this fourteen-year-old girl is so obsessed with a certain soap star that she’s spent weeks camped outside his house. Anyway, about a month ago, by means that I’m still not sure are legal, she managed to get a pair of his underpants from his washing line. It’s such a great story.’
‘It is?’
‘Our readers love that kind of stuff. It reassures them that they’re not completely alone in the world. You know – that they’re not utter basket cases. Because the thing you have to remember about teenage girls is that, at the end of the day, they’re all only a few steps away from basket-casedom. I should know. I used to be one.’
‘Teenage girls,’ I repeat, scribbling down the words on the back of my Post-it note message, ‘total basket cases.’ I underline the last two words.
‘You think I’m joking, don’t you?’ says Fran, smirking.
‘No,’ I deadpan. ‘And do you know what? That’s what
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