“I’ll need a copy of the script on USB so I can read off my tablet.”
That was better, back to business. “Of course.” She said that as though she had the USB in her pocket. She had no idea what script he was reading. She was the world’s most experienced work experience girl. She knew what she should be doing, but not how to do it at Avocado.
“Anything particular you need from me today?” he said.
“Ah.” Dork, dork, dork. She’d known the first day would be awkward, but did it have to be played out in front of The Voice.
“Damon Donovan, hey, hi there. I’m Trent.” Nick of time, baby. Nick of time. “So excited to meet you. Welcome to Avocado. Can’t believe you’re standing here. You’ve met Georgia. Did she tell you it’s her first day?”
She gave what she hoped was a calmly professional look Trent’s way as he shook Damon’s hand, then stepped back to leave him to it.
“No, she did not. I thought she owned the place,” Damon said, the humour in his tone warm like privilege and just as irritating. His eyes shifted over Trent’s head, looking for her.
Trent laughed. He was a big overweight man-boy, full of enthusiasm and devilment. He was loud, quick, hugely confident, he giggled and was a little scary in a possibly manic way. Or at least that’s what she’d learned about Avocado’s senior engineer in the last hour. And Captain Vox was all his.
“I’ll be in the control room,” she muttered, but Captain Vox was loud and clear.
“Nice to meet you, Georgia. Are you going to stick around and hold my hand, make me sound like a pro?”
Oh he was good, but he had to know she’d seen him with tattoo pixie groupie so why bother? And seriously, look at him, why would he flirt with her anyway? She had Totally Boring, Socially Awkward, Forgotten What Sex Is Like, Stay the F Away, written in an easy to read thought bubble over her head. And for good measure, Back Off marked on her forehead. She gave him a nod, turned to go and heard, “Have I just beaten my all time record for offending someone without knowing it?”
She turned back and both men were looking her way, Trent with a big grin. But Damon wasn’t meeting her eyes, as though he did think he’d offended her. Why couldn’t she simply spend the day getting familiar with the gear and the way the studio functioned? And what was she supposed to say to that anyway?
“Can I get you something?”
“No. Thank you, Georgia.”
Lucky. If he’d have asked for something, she’d have needed help to organise it. Being the new girl sucked methane. She left them and went to the control room to wait for Trent, watching through the window as he briefed Damon, provided the scripts, turned on the light above the standing lectern, adjusted it so that it was chest height for Damon, sorted out a headset and repositioned the mic.
When he came back in he was buzzing, made from twitchy facial expressions and bouncing knees. “That’s Damon freaking Donovan in there. Captain Vox. The Voice.” He lifted his arms and rattled his hands at his sides, eyes skyward. “Lord, take me now.”
It was so nerdy she had to laugh, but only after she’d done a quick nervous scan of the panel to make sure Damon couldn’t hear them.
Trent got busy setting levels. He turned the intercom on and asked Damon to read the script and in minutes they were ready to record.
They got the first sixty done in one take. Not unheard of. Then Damon read the second without fault. At the end he said, “How we doing?” and Trent flicked the intercom to say, “Great, great. I think we’ve got it.”
Damon gave them a thumbs up through the glass. Then he said, “Can I lay a variation on that last sixty, there was one hell of a clunking sentence in there.”
Trent said, “That’s the script we were given to record.”
“What client doesn’t like a free option?”
Trent shrugged. “Sure, why not. Can we get the new script on paper for you?”
“No need, I’ve got it.”
Damon laid an entirely new sixty-second spot without glancing at a note. Oh God. He could make his voice smile, make you feel happy and smile with him. He could make you salivate to hear the insider story on household insurance, the minutia of bird lice.
The man could narrate a parking ticket and it’d be a pleasure to listen to.
Trent did his jazz hands again, “Freaky Friday, he’s good.”
Damon wasn’t drunk, he wasn’t stoned, he was into public displays of affection and he was a flirt. But he knew what he was doing in the booth. Not that what they had him doing was difficult, but you could see what he was made of professionally.
The two ads done, they moved on to the narration for a government workers’ compensation scheme. At this rate, he’d be done today, there’d be no reason for him to come back tomorrow, which would make day two on the job easier to handle.
Trent handed her a second USB. “Get that up on his tablet. He likes weird huge print.”