She Can Hear it Calling

She can hear it calling; feel its persuasive pull, feel it beckoning her from some higher place. A calling, so profound and so correct, she almost forgets how badly the interview went. But she can't forget and another wave of cloying embarrassment passes through her rigid body. She must remember to talk less about 'the committee' next interview. It always seems to elicit bad reactions. Still, why should that matter? She has tonnes of experience; doesn't that count for something? How much experience does she need? How many unpaid internships would it take before she is accepted and welcomed into the realms of paid labour? She knew fashion journalism was a much sort-after career but surely there are not many applicants with as many years experience that she has.

'So how many years' experience do you have?' She tried to ask the younger, eager-er entity as casually as she could so as not to sound too competitive. That spritely being seemed like a baby next to Laura's grand twenty-seven years. This young woman, a glossy redhead, had gaped at Laura, wide-eyed with stupid naivety.

'Do you think they'll ask for experience?'

Laura smiles to herself, remembering the lie that was her reply. At least they won't be hiring that idiot! Her spiteful reminiscing is interrupted as that strange sensation re-enters her consciousness, persisting as she walks back along the corridor. It is like someone has turned on a giant magnet that is pulling on her blood cells, dragging on the minute fibres of her body. It is beckoning, a non-verbal command to remain in the building, to explore and discover some simple truth.

As she reaches the end of the corridor, she becomes aware that the last offices on the floor are occupied by Glow magazine. Glow magazine! What she would do to work for them. The temptation to knock on the door and hand them her C.V. passes over her as strongly as the magnetic sensation still pulling on her. She stares at the office door, reading the listed names on the intercom, trying to figure out which one to press. She decides on 'Admin'. Her body quivers with her every heartbeat as she shakily reaches for the button. She feels like her blood is about to spring from her like an intermittent lawn sprinkler. She is about to press when the door opens and a gloopy-looking man pushes his body through the doorway. He is just as surprised as Laura and she feels her blood drain out of her body in an instant. Too spooked to proceed, she flees, hobbling off the corridor and shakily waiting for the lift to come.

'Hello?' Laura receives a call on her mobile device. It is the junior editor who interviewed her yesterday telling her in flat, official tones that she was unsuccessful. 'O.K. Thank you.' The conversation is desirably short for both parties with the junior editor hanging up first. Sitting in this park on this sunny morning with hundred of busy-looking people around her, going to work, looking busy, Laura feels more depressed than ever. The majesty of city life screams silently at her; of working in the city, being part of a interconnecting network of seemingly important people with seemingly important things to do; of lunching and dining with colleagues at medium-priced, newly-opened restaurants; of subtle alcoholism to assuage the pressures of a apparently stressful existence. Why is this being denied her? Hasn't she proven she is up to the task? Hasn't she proven she is talented enough?

The mistake of failing to hand her C.V. in to the Glow magazine office replays in her mind. Why did she miss that opportunity? Why? Because some fat man stuck his ugly head out the door? She should has punched him on the nose!

Determined to turn her fortunes around, she stands and decides to return to the office block. This time she will hand her C.V. in to Glow magazine.

Outside the office building Laura wonders how she will get past the security guard. She loiters in the way, feeling in the way, as suited men and women slip effortlessly in from the street. As she devises the excuse of having left her umbrella at the interview, a salutation is spoken to her from the left. Turning, she sees the red-headed woman from yesterday, smiling at her. Laura's initial thought is that the redhead too has come to hand her C.V. in to the Glow office, but noticing her distinctly proud demeanour, as well as the little I.D. badge on her ghastly jacket, Laura realises that is not the case.

'So you got the job?' She really tries to sound pleased. 'Yup! You were right. They didn't care about experience at all.' Feeling sick with jealousy, Laura nearly lets the redhead slip away. She grabs her arm.

'Can you get me in? … I forgot my umbrella.'

Laura takes the stairs only to avoid a tedious elevator ride with that bitch. She feels once more that strange ethereal pull, and feels its intensity increase with each upward step. Misremembering, she assumes the sensation is the draw of working for Glow, but as she finally, sweatily reaches the right floor, she is reminded the pull is coming from some other place, somewhere higher.

She shakily hands her C.V. to the receptionist who smiles warmly and offers her an interview instantly without looking at it. Laura is a mess, both visually and mentally, but she takes the opportunity and in her sweaty trance, is cordially led to a room in which the fat man is waiting. The receptionist opens the door to reveal the man scribbling idly on chewed up paper. He looks up alarmed as Laura is ushered to the seat opposite. He straightens himself and commences the interview.

The interview goes as badly as the one she had the day before. Laura finds herself again revealing in detail her dream to be on the 'New Trend Committee': the committee responsible for choosing the next high street trends; the next season's shapes, the next season's fabrics, the next season's colours; and as always her desire is met with a kind of condescending and pitying look, coupled with the assertion: 'There are no vacancies on that committee.

'Besides …' The fat man looks at her sternly now, almost threatening. '… only the very elite are allowed to make it to that committee. You could work for fifty years and never some close to selection. You should forget about that dream.'

Laura does not appreciate her dreams being crapped on. 'Well, who's on this committee anyway? I can't find any information on the members.' 'The committee are mysterious. Secretive.' The man's demeanour becomes colder, more threatening. 'It is not for you to know about their ways.' Laura decides the interview is over. There is really no point in continuing. There is no point in bothering to shake his hand or say goodbye even. She leaves.

In the corridor the feeling is more intense than ever. A pervasive drag is lifting her, tearing her away from the carpeted floor. In a kind of stupor she sees a restricted section. She knows it is lurking there; she knows she is destined to enter.

The door opens to a darkened staircase, damp, dingy, reaching upward. Laura ascends it trance-like, in a kind of daze, before reaching a dingy, cave-like corridor. She knows where it is taking her. She passes numerous doors to numerous rooms, but she ignores them all, following the corridor to its end. Eventually she reaches the final room. The words on the door say clearly: 'New Trend Committee'. She turns the handle and pushes the door open. She enters the darkened room.

A great festering machine mangled with flesh stands at the far end of the room, oozing and undulating, its body bloated and swollen, looking fit to burst. A hatch at the side fires a vomit-like substance into a bucket as the structure screams and groans with torment. Pipes around the machine hiss nastily with escaping gas. The plug in the plug socket fizzes with overloading electricity.

Like a one-armed-bandit the machine has cylinders with pictures on them – hundreds of them – which line up in rows across its front, each visible through a small glass window. Laura does not need to look hard to see each picture corresponds to every one of the current fashion trends. Initially puzzling, a gaping trauma slowly ruptures inside of Laura's mind as she realises this disgusting machine is the committee! It is enough to make her question the fabric of her own existence. Is fashion just a lie? Are we being lied to? Perpetually lied to? Is fashion merely arbitrarily conjured by some hideous machine?

'… The Committee's just about to chose next season's trends.' Some people enter, all important looking, like editors and high-up people from all the fashion magazines. Seeing Laura they stop in their tracks, alarmed. The man who spoke speaks now: 'What are you doing here?' Laura tries to reply but the machine starts to hum and groan loudly. With a tortured screech some of the cylinders turn one notch and the machine hisses like it is about to explode. Terrified, Laura sees next season's fashion unfold: just like the current fashion, just slightly different. All the colours change, and all the clothing shapes change, but Laura can see, they are set to go back again next turn.

She doesn't realise how close she has got to the machine when hands seize her. She barely feels them drag her off, her mind and psyche locked onto the machine and its workings. Pulled away she is thrown from the building.