Water lapped against the side of the yacht, while the sun blazed in a sky littered with crisp white clouds. Media girls were on parade, each more polished and groomed than the next — and then there was me, clomping around in a pair of one-size-too-big designer heels, like a little girl playing dress-ups in her mum’s closet.
Each girl had a signature feature — thick and symmetrical eyebrows, a cheekbone-highlighting topknot, pouty red lips — but together they blurred into a mix of oversized clutches, fake tans and body-con dresses that stopped halfway between the hip and knee. An invisible cloud of perfume enveloped us, and the cocktail of fruity, flowery and woody smells made my head spin. I breathed through my mouth as soft jazz music played in the background.
Five waiters in matching white shirts and black bowties ducked and weaved between the guests, holding trays of cocktails and platters of grape-sized canapés. One waiter raised his eyebrow when I loaded three canapés — a sushi roll, a mini quiche and a spring roll — onto my serviette. It was like he’d never seen someone eat at a function.
The media pack had quickly broken up into smaller groups, who were whispering and sniggering like schoolyard bullies. No one cared about the awkward-looking girl with half-straightened, half-wavy hair whose too-big heels were slipping up and down against the back of her ankles, burning monster blisters into her skin.
Needing a hit of courage, I devoured the sushi roll and smiled across the deck at a girl with a bright-red twenties-style bob who had separated from the pack and was standing by herself at the bar. She smiled back — a real, honest, let’s-be-friends smile. It was so wide and welcoming, I almost ran straight into her arms, ready to spill over with compliments about her hair, pretty navy dress and emerald necklace. But I reined it in. The new me wasn’t needy or in-your-face. The new me was cool, collected and mysterious. I was no longer Josephine ‘Brown Pants’ Browning, a nickname bestowed on me in primary school after an ill-fated overdose of liquorice allsorts. No, I was Josie Browning, acting features writer at indi, a new online magazine doing amazing things for young women.
Liani’s pep talk ran through my mind: You can do this, I know you can.
I sauntered towards Red Bob to introduce myself. She strutted past me, her mouth stretched into a clown-like grin, and swapped air kisses with two other girls before joining their exclusive huddle.
I looked around, hoping no one had noticed Red Bob snubbing me. They hadn’t. No one was even peeping in my direction, not even the waiters. I was surrounded by people, but I’d never felt more invisible.
Unsure what else to do, I hurried towards the women’s bathrooms to seek refuge. The little cartoon lady on the door was inviting me in, offering me a shoulder to cry on. I wobbled towards her with one shaky foot in front of the other. Head lowered, I rummaged through my handbag for my mobile, in part so I could make an SOS call to James, but mostly to look occupied. But, in all my efforts to seem busy, I was distracted. That’s when I crashed into something — or someone — with one of the snarkiest tones I’d ever heard.
‘Ow! That was my foot,’ the voice snapped. ‘This isn’t a Topshop sale, sweetie. No need to rush.’
Three girls stood before me: all looking like they’d strutted off a fashion runway, all wearing high heels, all smirking. The girl who’d spoken had the biggest smirk of all, as well as long, jet-black hair that could only have achieved its gloss through brushing one hundred times each night (and forking out for expensive hair treatments and blow-dries). To her right stood Red Bob; to her left was a girl with a blonde shaggy mop who seemed more interested in the pot plant next to us.
‘Ah, hey there,’ I stammered. ‘I’m so sorry, are you alright?’
They didn’t fill the silence. This wasn’t schmoozing and I was dangerously close to reclaiming my ‘Brown Pants’ status.
‘So, um … what do you guys do in the media?’ I asked.
Big Smirk pursed her lips even more. ‘I’m a features editor, but I also do a bit with fashion, health and beauty … everything really,’ she said, eyeing me up and down. ‘This is my features writer and my beauty assistant.’
Red Bob gave a little wave, but Shaggy Mop wasn’t even listening. The pot plant was no longer proving interesting, so she’d moved on to texting.
‘Features editor? That’s amazing!’ I said. ‘I bet you love it.’
‘Well, I work fourteen-hour days with endless deadlines for a tough editor, but someone’s got to do it, right?’ She sniffed. ‘I kid … of course I love it.’
I didn’t know how to reply. If my previous attempts to mingle with the cool kids were anything to go by, I should have slapped gaffer tape over my mouth and marched myself off a plank there and then to avoid any further embarrassment. But despite what I’d jokingly texted James, this wasn’t a pirate ship. It was far more terrifying.
‘By the way, I like your heels, they’re really something,’ Big Smirk said. ‘Aren’t they something, girls?’
Her little pets nodded, and I shuffled in my shoes, trying to disguise the fact they were a size too big.
‘Thanks … they’re newish. So … this launch is brilliant, huh?’ I said. ‘Not a bad way to spend a work day.’
‘It’s pretty gorgeous,’ Red Bob agreed, and for that I wanted to high-five her. Finally, the boat was off to Schmoozeville.
‘Yeah, the view’s nice, but the lipsticks they’re promoting are cheap and tacky, and those canapés look horrible,’ Big Smirk whispered, pointing at a waiter circling with a platter of the mini quiches.
He caught us staring and came over. ‘Food, ladies?’
I cleared my throat to hide the fact my stomach was growling.
‘Oh, no, thank you — I couldn’t possibly eat another thing,’ Big Smirk said. ‘But they look delicious — please give my compliments to the chef.’ Once he was out of earshot, she added, ‘The canapés were so much better at that other launch last month. You know, the ones with the goat’s cheese? Oh, and what about that junket three years ago when they gave us truffles with flecks of gold in them? Now, that was spectacular.’ She sighed. ‘Don’t you think the service here is pathetic too? Like, if he hadn’t heard me whispering, he wouldn’t have even come over. I’ve had better service at a drive-through.’
It took me a moment to realise she was waiting for me to answer. ‘Yeah, it’s … rubbish,’ I said, eager to fit in. ‘So, where do you all work anyway? A website, newspaper, blog, magazine or …?’
‘Marilyn,’ they replied in unison.
I couldn’t believe it. Marilyn was the fashion mag in the country. Everyone who worked there fitted a certain mould — polished, glamorous, stuck-up — and these girls were no exception. I’d heard the perks included trips to international fashion weeks and free couture outfits. But, most of all, it was Marilyn’s editor who came to mind. Her name was Rae Swanson and she was a powerhouse in the industry. From her sleek bob to her piercing glare, she had a reputation for style, perfectionism and fierce, ballsy decision-making. I should know — she’d fired me last year when I stuffed up during my internship at Sash. It wasn’t surprising that thinking of her got my stomach churning away like a washing machine on spin cycle. But I couldn’t let these girls know that.
‘I love Marilyn — it’s a great read,’ I trilled. A great read? Activate brain filter, then speak, Josie.
The trio didn’t bother replying. They didn’t need some junior nobody telling them Marilyn was a big deal. They knew it, I knew it, the freshly shucked oysters being passed around knew it.
‘And what about you?’ Red Bob asked. ‘Where do you work?’
‘Um, at indi,’ I said. ‘It’s a newish magazine — well, a website really — and we’ve just gone live with new content and a fresh look and —’
‘That’s with Sia, right?’ Big Smirk interrupted. ‘Where is she? I haven’t seen her all week.’
‘Ahhh … yeah. It’s a long story, but I’m filling in for her today.’
Big Smirk raised an eyebrow. I could almost see her invisible gossip detector switch on.
‘Yep, so indi’s fab,’ I babbled, not that they’d asked. ‘The editor’s Liani, who used to work at Sash with Rae actually. Small world and all that.’
‘Freakishly so,’ Big Smirk replied. ‘Rae doesn’t dwell on her Sash days, though. Anyway, how terribly rude of me — I’m Edwina.’
The other two didn’t introduce themselves, and Edwina didn’t bother on their behalves either.
‘Well, I’m Josie, Josie Browning,’ I said, my voice cracking with nerves.
‘Browning?’ Edwina cocked her head to the side, her eyes narrowing into slits. Her eyelashes, which were so long they had to be extensions, fluttered. ‘Like the colour?’
‘I guess.’
Why couldn’t my father’s legacy have been something exotic or glamorous, like Onassis, Taipan or Séduisant (which meant ‘glamorous’ in French)? Even Mum’s maiden name, Smith, would have been better. It was plain, but at least it didn’t have ‘brown’ in it, which was the ugliest colour in the world, only one-upped by poo brown and baby-poo brown.
‘So … Josie Browning, you say?’ Edwina stared at me. ‘Have we bumped into each other at one of these before?’
I doubted that, considering this was the first one I’d ever been to. ‘Maybe,’ I said.
‘Girls, doesn’t Josie’s name sound awfully familiar?’ Edwina continued, turning to the others.
‘I’m not sure. I know, like, eight Josies,’ Red Bob said. ‘Anyway, it was nice meeting you. I need another drink.’
She walked away and Shaggy Mop scurried after her.
‘Those two are about as useful as an appendix,’ Edwina said. ‘Oh my … Josie, I think I’ve worked out where I know you from!’
‘You have?’ I replied, confused.
‘My best friend, Susie, is a hairstylist and she does all this work for a photographer called Kevin, although everyone calls him Vin, I think the “Ke” is silent. Anyway, his assistant is cousins with a girl in PR called Trish, or Mandy, or Mindy … whatever … and she forwarded on this email she received earlier this week. It was hilarious.’
Uh-oh.
‘Yeah, it was about a girl thinking about losing her virginity to a guy called Jeremy or Joshua or one of those clichéd J-names,’ Edwina continued. ‘It was kind of sweet in a made-for-TV-movie way, but so cringe-worthy. It had clearly been sent by mistake.’
‘What a loser,’ I muttered.
Edwina raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, the girl who wrote it was called Josie and I’m sure her last name started with B. Thinking about it, maybe it was even Browning …’
‘Sounds like a crazy coincidence,’ I said.
‘It’s pretty embarrassing stuff,’ Edwina went on, her smirk back again. ‘If it were me, I’d throw myself off this yacht and let the sharks put me out of my misery. Anyway, it was so nice chatting, and indi sounds amazing. I’m sure I’ll see you at a hundred more of these time-wasters, but I’d better keep circulating. You know how it is at these things — all work, work, work.’
Edwina strutted off towards a group of women. She whispered something to them and suddenly shrieks of laughter rocketed around the yacht. One girl peeked at me while the others shushed her, scolding her amid muffled giggles. I was trapped on a luxury yacht with mega bitches and no hope of dry land for another hour. Escaping on a life raft had never sounded so appealing.
If only Edwina hadn’t mentioned the sharks.