Page 15 of Love, Just In

I step inside an open-plan newsroom that’s a quarter of the size of the one I’m used to in Sydney. I’m met by the backs of a handful of producers tapping away at computer stations while a laser printer spits out scripts beside me. There’s no indication of who buzzed me in—not even a cursory glance in my direction. Still, it feelsstrangely quiet in here compared with the ulcer-causing stress of the Sydney newsroom.

I approach the person nearest me, a girl with a neat blonde ponytail and a face that saysplease just fuck off.

After a gentle apology for bothering her, I ask where I might find the news director.

‘I’ll go and tell her you’re here,’ she huffs, rolling her chair back and leaving me feeling like the self-conscious new kid at school again. Except, this time, there’s no Zac Jameson to shyly ask to share my earphones.

Everyone tenses up—including me—as a woman bounds across the carpet like a Hollywood showrunner entering a writers’ room in which her entire team has been goofing off.

‘Josephine Larsen?’ she says to me. Her high-pitched voice is a comical contrast against her towering frame, expensive-facial skin and razor-sharp stare. I could do an epic impersonation of this woman.

‘I usually go by Josie.’ We shake hands, and I follow her down a short hallway and into a corner office. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a glistening ribbon of water unfurls across the industrial landscape, partially obscured by the new apartment building going up across the road.

Natasha flops into her plush leather chair and digs through a mound of papers on her desk. ‘So, you’ve had around two years in the Sydney newsroom, correct?’

‘That’s right. I started there as a junior reporter after four years at an internet news channel.’

‘What sort of reporting have you done at Channel One?’

‘General news … environmental, court rounds, some health, politics, a bit of entertainment … basically everything other than sport.’

She leans back in her chair, and I wonder if her lashes are fake or just spectacular. ‘Good. You’ll be a jack-of-all-trades up here, too, and with less hand-holding than you’re probably used to. We’ve already got politics well covered, and there’s not a great deal of entertainment up here, so I’ll keep you on general news, environmental and health. We recently picked up the John Hunter Hospital as a sponsor, and as a result, we’ve become quite heavy on health content lately. We’re in the middle of a series with the hospital’s new cancer centre, so please familiarise yourself with what we’ve done there so far.’

I nod and say all the right things, but my clammy fingers slide down my second-hand pencil skirt, gripping my thighs like a lifeline.

I am not going to mess up again.

I am going to walk through that cancer centre like a boss and uncover the compelling stories with truth and sensitivity, and I. Am. Not. Going. To. Screw. It. Up.

Natasha mutters something about a meeting and guides me into the office beside hers like she can’t get rid of me fast enough. I’m introduced to Isabella, the operations manager, who greets me warmly and escorts me around the newsroom on a road trip of introductions.While most of the reporters are out shooting stories, I meet a few of the producers and the chief of staff—a guy named Colin, with a man-bun, who looks about eighteen—before Isabella leads me to the attractive blonde I interrupted earlier.

My eyes catch on the sentence she’s just typed about a shark sighting at Bar Beach:‘The area is known to be popular with sharks.’

‘Popular with sharks’? It’s not a nightclub, I think meanly.

‘Hi, sweetheart. I wanted to introduce our new reporter, Josie Larsen,’ Isabella says to her.

A smile graces the girl’s lips, but her ice-blue eyes size me up as potential competition. I’m not sure why. She’s younger than me, blonder than me, and—I learn as she stands up—taller than me.

‘Hi, I’m Meghan.’

My lips part. ‘Meghan Mackay?’

She laughs musically. ‘You’re Zac’s friend.’

She says his name like she owns it, and a territorial feeling sweeps through me.

‘He’s the sweetest, honestly,’ she says, blushing. ‘I can’t fault him—you’ll have to tell me what he’s hiding.’ She glows at Isabella. ‘I don’t think I told you yet that I have a new boyfriend.’ They share a quiet squeal.

Isabella speeds up our tour, which we’re apparently now behind on, but I’m having trouble focusing on anything but Meghan calling Zac her boyfriend. After what happened with Tara, this feels like earth-shakinginformation. And why did he tell me just yesterday that he doesn’t have a girlfriend?

I trail Isabella into the studio, excitement firing in my chest at the sight of the news-presenting desk sitting empty behind four robotic cameras. I’m already aware that the main presenting duo here, Yvette Sinclair and Robert Knight, will need to be wheeled out in coffins before ever quitting their jobs. But the weekend newsreaders feel closer to my age and level—Genevieve Meleska and Richard Cross, who double as sports and weather reporters on weekdays.

I spend the rest of the day shadowing a friendly reporter named Lola, and we head to a courthouse in Belmont, where a guy accused of selling drugs on the dark web is attending a bail hearing. Lola is one of those approachable, bubbly people who I click with instantly, and after learning I’m new in town, she suggests we get together for drinks one evening after work. She’s also impressively patient with her cameraperson, Gus, who doesn’t appear to want to shoot anything. Instead, he huffs around, muttering, ‘We’ve got gobs of archival footage of that at the station,’ and ‘The editors will never use that shot,’ and ‘You’ve already got way more vision than you need.’ At first, I think he’s insecure about his abilities, but when he films Lola’s piece to camera like a seasoned pro, I cotton on that Gus is just lazy.

The bail hearing runs late, and when we get back to the station, poor Lola bolts to the voiceover boothbecause the deadline for her news package is looming. Still, compared with the panic-stricken Sydney newsroom, today’s atmosphere bordered on a Zen meditation session. Maybe Christina is right. There’s less competition up here, and if I knuckle down and avoid distractions, I could end up covering the region’s leading stories and prove to Oliver Novak that Christina’s unwavering belief in me is justified.

The rest of the week goes smoothly, and as I drive out of Honeysuckle on Friday evening in my gleaming new work car, I give my parents a call in Koh Samui.

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