The Intern

by Lisa Rapley

She sat writing, practically shaking with anger as she remembered the day’s events...

Dear Diary,

I fucking hate that bitch. I don't know how much of her privileged demands I can take. She doesn't even realise how commanding she is, she just expects everything.

Of course it is my job to do some of the things she requests,  but honestly, others are downright insane. They are not part of my job description. She doesn't even pay me, oh is the life of an intern.

I could find something else. Maybe. But you can’t be picky in this industry. When you get a break like this you stick with it, no matter what they make you do. If I did find something else the only difference would probably be the screeching. She LOVES screeching at me, like nails on a chalkboard all day long. Even then… I could end up with another screecher.

You really won't believe what she had me do today. I thought the incident with the grapes last week was bad, but no, today was truly horrible. She really needs to be brought down a notch, or twelve.

So I get to the set this morning. Early. And she yells at me for being late. I told her straight that I was in fact early, but she was adamant I was supposed to start at 8.30 and not 9. That she had told me the day before I needed to be there early because she was having a facial on set first thing, so I had to be there to meet the woman and lead her past security. I know she was lying because one, I would have had it in her calendar, which is shared with mine and two, I called security and they had nothing about anyone coming to set for her. She's absolutely mental.

After she had finished lambasting me about that, she started berating me about her breakfast - where was it, blah, blah, blah. I tried to explain that if she hadn't been yelling at me I would have had it for her already. She actually replied, "Yelling? Me?"

The gall of her!

I finally got her breakfast. She has the same everyday - freshly squeezed orange juice, plenty of pulp and an egg white omelet. I took it into her, already wondering what other heinous torture could befall me today. And once again she was off, shrieking she hated pulp in her juice and I had never made it that way before. She proceeded to pour it on me. Yes, she literally took the glass and poured it on my head, the sticky, pulpy juice dribbling down my cheeks. Then she queried where her yolk was. HER FUCKING YOLK. I'll give her a fucking yolk.

And she used these exact words, "I abhor egg white omelets. Bring me a real one." At that she jutted out her chin.

I could have bloody choked her.

Luckily she was needed in front of the camera, so I had time to calm my anger and get a change of clothes from wardrobe. Plus if I had choked her the director would have been really pissed and he's actually cool. I have no idea why he wants to work with her.

At lunch she came back to her trailer. But there seemed to be something off, she was acting really peculiar. Maybe she had an aneurysm. I pleaded that she had had an aneurysm. She was not her usual privileged persona. She sidled up to me, acting nice - her nice?! When pigs fucking fly. And she said to me, "Hey Claire, you're poor, you must live in the bad part of town, you must know some drug dealers. Can you get me some coke?"

Ok, so I paraphrased that last bit, but she did assume because I was not wealthy that I must therefore know drug dealers and be able to get her some coke. Naturally.

I am not your fucking servant, even though you treat me like one, I had thought.

When I told her no, contrary to how you think I live I do not know drug dealers and cannot get you any substances. Turns out her dealer had cut her off due to not paying him. Fairly typical of her, actually.

And so, she took it out on me. Her reaction to my refusal was apocalyptic. She went nato. Steam could clearly be seen coming out of her ears - ok, no, but I can pretend she's a teapot, right?

If I wasn't so scared of her, I would have laughed, she was like a cartoon.

And then it all became clear, all the things she alleged I had got wrong today (and all previous days) were an act. An attempt to fire me. And that she did. She released me from my servitude. She spat it out - I actually felt saliva hit my face - and I could tell she had a touch of glee in her voice. She had been through seven assistants in just the few months of filming. This really should have been my first warning.

But everything is actually going to work out. The director heard the whole sorry thing and after she was finished with me and left the trailer (strutting off in her highest heels with her nose in the air) he came up to me and offered me a job! Now I'm going to be telling her what to do! Oh how quickly the roles have reversed! I'm going to have so much fun with this!

I shouldn't be so gleeful, but she deserves her comeuppance, whatever it will be.

Claire.

She lay back, closing her diary. Yes, tomorrow was a new day and there would be no more spittle on her face, or orange juice in her hair. Unless of course she put it there herself - it had actually given her locks an unusual shine. She was going to go to a job where she got paid. It had, in fact, been the best day ever. Claire slowly drifted off to sleep, propped up on her pillows, her mind ticking through all the possible ways she could bring the actress down.