"You haven't plucked your eyebrows," Damian hissed as he fumbled through his bag for a pair of tweezers.
          "So sorry, I thought interviewing the Justice Minister was slightly more important than a bit of eyebrow stubble," Adele sarced, wincing as Damian began plucking barely noticeable eyebrow hairs at a rapid rate.
          "People will notice the tiniest flaws on television.”
          "And what? You think I care?”
          "It’s part of your job.”
          "Oh and I thought my job was to interpret the news for the viewers, not to look like the latest bimbette on Star Trek," Adele declared as she pulled off the protective cape and checked herself in the mirror.
          "You're not finished," Damian grumbled, trying to coax her back into the seat. "I'm late already, I'm sure the three layers of foundation should stop my face from scaring children," Adele declared, grabbing her bag and marching out of the make-up room.
          She headed toward the exit and paused outside of Studio 22 as she heard raucous laughter.
          Studio 22 was where "Every Night with Eastman" was filmed, a kind of "try hard" version of a tonight show. Adele had taken to watching Harry Eastman back when he was just a struggling stand-up, then he'd been given his own show and his popularity had sky rocketed, or perhaps it was just the big name guests he would get on from the States. Either way, the whole thing looked a hell of a lot more fun than trying to talk to some ego-protecting politician about something you didn't give a damn about. That in itself was Adele's problem, she simply didn't care.
          It had been fine in the beginning, when she was fresh out of her journalism studies and prepared to take on the world. The world however was not quite so prepared to take on Adele Brodie and after more than two years of regular trips to Centrelink, Adele moved interstate, from sunny Adelaide to melancholy Melbourne and got her first job. Well, if you could call it a job; she made lots of coffee, held open doors and got called "girl" a lot by the aging production staff. It wasn't glamorous television, it was voluntary slavery, mixed with ritual confidence crushing by some pencil thin on-camera talent.
          Adele lasted a month before she approached the news director and asked for a chance to use the skills she'd studied so hard for. He informed her in the nicest way possible that she wasn't "quite what they were looking for." In other words she wasn't pretty enough to carry a story about murdered children with conviction. Had she been a weaker woman Adele might have walked out and never come back, but instead she started dating the director's son and within a week was being projected around Australia seven nights a week.
          It'd been five years since then and five years since Adele had lost any passion she'd had for journalism. It was just a day job; she got up, went to work, pretended to care and went home again. She hated everything about it: the make-up, the power suits, the fake sympathy, empathy and emotion and the way the stories were manipulated to influence the public. This was where Adele's other problem came into things: she couldn't take anything seriously. She made jokes about everything and found the humour in the most horrific of circumstances. She couldn't remember where this interesting habit had arisen from, but even before she became lost in her journalism studies, she knew her real passion lay in writing comedy.
          Her obsession with comedy, any comedy, was prevalent, the minute she got home the television was switched on and "thecomedychannel" was watched ritualistically until she fell asleep. She's read books, watch videos and read articles on all her favourite comedians as often as she could. If she could laugh, then she knew she could forget the dissatisfaction of her life, for a few hours a least.
          "Brodie, come on," Doug, the cameraman who was glaring at her with tripod in hand, brought her back to reality. She shook her head and looked over at him.
          "Sorry, I got distracted.”
          "By Eastman?" Doug chided. "The guy's a prick.”
          "A prick he may be, but it's got to be better than this.”
          "Well ‘this’ happens to help me feed my family, so come on," Doug demanded.
          "Yeah, yeah," Adele grumbled as she straightened her jacket and tried to pretend that it wasn't uncomfortable.
          She took two steps forward as the doors to Studio 22 flew open and Harry Eastman appeared. He was dressed down in jeans and an "Eastman" jumper. He looked tired, and withdrawn, if not slightly seedy.
          "You can't ask those questions," scowled a man waving a clipboard; Adele assumed he was the director.
          "Why not? It's what people want to know," Eastman declared.
          "You can't piss off hot Hollywood talent," snapped the director.
          "Fucking hell Barry, if we can't joke about the only interesting thing about the boring little fuckwit, what else can we do to keep the viewers interested?”
          "Talk about his movie more.”
          "It’s big budget Hollywood bullshit. It'll be lucky to rate at the box office.”
          "Harry," the director begged.
          "Look Barry, if you can find something else to keep the audience watching, then I'll go with it. If you can't I'm going with his affair with the kid," Eastman said, his arms crossed.
          The director's phone rang and the James Bond theme echoed around the corridor. "We'll talk about this later.”
          Eastman looked unconvinced, looked straight past Adele and made his way toward his dressing room. Without thinking Adele turned and called out to him.
          "Mr Eastman.”
          He stopped and turned back around, looking at her curiously, "Yes.”
          "Can I make a suggestion?" she asked and edged her way toward him.
          "About what?" Eastman replied curtly.
          "Well, I overheard you talking and…"
          "Typical bloody journalist, can't just stay out of it," Eastman cussed, cutting her off.
          "At least I know how to interview someone without getting sued," Adele retorted,hHer tongue taking over and the fact that she was talking to a major Australian celebrity paled into insignificance.
          "So, doesn't mean you can make it entertaining and humorous. You just prod stuffy politicians about tax and reforms," Eastman sneered.
          "Better than looking like a dick when some big name celebrity doesn't get the feeble joke you crack," Adele scowled.
          Eastman narrowed his eyes, surprised this journalist dared to take him on. "And you could do better I suppose?”
          "Well for a start, if you really want to broach the subject of the kid. Make sure you do it light heatedly, like, ‘So, what's this we hear about you and a younger woman?’ Keep it fluffy, if he doesn't respond, he doesn't respond. He'll be professional, laugh it off and you'll save your precious ego from a thrashing in the morning paper.”
          Eastman eased slightly, "What if he clams up?”
          "Stroke his ego, tell him they make a nice couple, do they have any future plans - laugh about it," Adele mused.
          "BRODIE!" Doug yelled from the end of the corridor.
          "Shit," Adele breathed.
          "Sounds like you're wanted," Eastman mused.
          Adele glared at him as she turned and hurried down the corridor. She felt an overwhelming rush of adrenaline. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined meeting Harry Eastman, nor would she have thought she'd be telling him how to do his job.