Blaze (29 page)

Larissa had seen and heard her first kookaburra. ‘They really do sound like they're laughing,' she said.

‘Watch out if you picnic at a popular place,' said Sonia. ‘They fly down and grab the food off your plate.'

‘Buggers killed or flew off with the goldfish in my terrace pond,' added Julia.

‘They're kingfishers. That's what they're programmed to do,' said Phil the creative director. ‘All our behaviour patterns are programmed.'

This had started a good-natured debate over genetic and environmental influences governing behaviour and Phil had started talking about new IT developments that could also influence how humans interact.

Larissa had been fascinated. ‘Tell me more, how do you know this stuff?'

‘Agencies spend fortunes on market research. But my sister is doing her PhD at MIT in the States. We talk a lot. She's working on audio delivery by light source. There's a bright IT guy, Dan, that we use as well.'

Larissa wanted to know more and they trailed behind the others while Phil explained as best he could how this new technology worked.

‘Why are you so interested? I thought magazine people like you were just into image.'

‘We can't afford to limit ourselves like that. Everything is technology-based now. But content and the talent that creates it will always be a vital ingredient. Technology can't replace a creative and fertile mind.'

‘What makes
Blaze
different from the rest of the pack out there?' asked Phil. ‘A lot of the ads I create are for a generation that read screens rather than paper. They want movement, music, flashing lights, bells and whistles. Aren't magazines going the way of stone tablets?'

Larissa studied Phil, who looked every inch an ad man – hair buzz cut with a five, a discreet tattoo of a small frog on his arm, an earring, the latest gear, shades, shoes. But he wasn't cynical, slick, arrogant. He seemed a nice boy in his early twenties. Probably ten years younger than her, probably gay, yet Larissa felt a generation older.

‘As
Blaze
is a new magazine, Nina, our editor-in-chief, has been quite innovative in the presentation. It's not locked into a niche market or even just mass market. Yes, it's popular culture, but there are well-written, challenging articles, exciting images, disposable information and thought-provoking stuff. Ali, our editor, is trying to be as cutting edge as possible. She sees it as sonic information – boom!'

‘Ali Gruber? The Yank Tank? We know about her!' he laughed. ‘Hey, sorry, she's probably a close friend.'

‘We worked together with Nina in New York. She has made a bit of a name for herself here. She's sees it as part of her job to promote the magazine,' said Larissa noncommittally.

‘Yeah, you've arrived when you're carved up by April Showers.' His attention was suddenly diverted. ‘Hey, they've found something.' They hurried to where the others were clustered around a large rock.

Kevin pointed to the outline of a huge fish. ‘Aboriginal carving. There are plenty around here. Most of the Aborigines in Sydney were wiped out by smallpox soon after the First Fleet arrived.'

Larissa was fascinated and bent down and traced her fingers in the engraving etched into the sandstone. ‘How, why is this here?'

‘According to Jim Macken, our local expert, it could be a male initiation or a female birthing ceremony site. The elders drew the outline in charcoal or ochre, and then they took sharp flint stones to dig holes along the outline and joined them up to make the final engraving. It's called a pictograph. He can tell you fantastic stories of this area. We'll bring him along next trip.'

‘I'd love to know more about the Aboriginal history. I love the art,' said Larissa.

‘Don't get Kevin started,' said Phil. ‘He's quite a collector.'

Kevin took Larissa's arm and helped her to her feet. ‘You must come and see my Wandjinas and Papunyas.'

‘Well, now I'm curious without even knowing what or who they are,' she laughed.

Larissa had lunched with Kevin the following week to talk about some of his advertising clients taking ads in
Blaze
. But they'd talked about a lot of other matters and enjoyed each other's company. She was glad to see he was here at Belinda's lunch party.

Belinda drifted among the guests who were dotted in bright bursts about the shady garden. The mothering attitude she showed in the office continued in her role as hostess. She had a knack for putting people at ease, showing a genuine interest and concern in their wellbeing. She came to light at the table where Larissa and Tiki Henderson were talking.

‘Thanks for sending us a copy of your manuscript, Tiki,' said Larissa. ‘Congratulations. When's it due in the shops?'

‘Not sure. They tell me they're bringing it out earlier now because another book on their list fell through.'

‘Ooh, you'll be on the talk-show circuit. Tell me when you're going to be on TV. I'll tape it. Unless we can sneak a look in the office,' said Belinda.

‘Not in working hours. Ali will deduct half an hour from your pay,' said Tiki with a touch of irony. Although she had walked out of the job, her demotion by Ali still rankled. ‘Anyway the publisher's PR has warned me they'll have a hard time arranging any interviews. The media doesn't want to know about “sacked ex-journo writes romance novel”,' she sighed.

‘It's not a romance novel,' said Larissa. ‘It's romantic, but it has a strong message, gutsy, provocative characters, and touches on a number of sensitive issues. Boy, the mother and daughter stuff touched my heart.'

‘The publicist wants to push the angle that the book dishes the dirt on the Yank Tank. I hope they don't want to talk about just that and not the book.'

‘Don't worry, interviewers never read the books anyway,' said Larissa.

‘How can they ask the right questions then?' puzzled Belinda.

Larissa and Tiki burst out laughing. ‘They read up a bunch of newspaper or magazine cuttings – if you've been interviewed before – so they can repeat the same inaccuracies, and write it from that and the press release. They phone you up with a series of set pet questions . . . “Where do you find your ideas? Why did you write this book?, How long did it take you?, Are you writing another book? What's it about?”' chanted Tiki. ‘It's been so frustrating. And to top it off, that dreadful April Showers has had a go at me a couple of times.'

‘Ooh. That's bad when the only publicity you can get is in that column,' said Belinda looking at Larissa.

Tiki sighed. ‘The publishers don't think so. So long as the name of the book appears. And I've never spoken to April Showers. I don't know why I'm being called ex-hackette, or why it's being inferred I went through everyone's desks and took out every journo's half-finished manuscript and stirred them together.'

‘At least you weren't escorted from the building,' added Larissa. She'd been appalled at tales of the grand Aussie magazine tradition of firing a senior journalist or editor on the spot. There had been cases where the poor unfortunate was to clean out their desk while every move was watched by a security guard who then escorted them out of the building, making them leave their company ID and cars keys at the front desk.

Belinda poured herself a glass of wine. ‘I know why April Showers is having a go at you, Tiki.'

The other women's eyes swivelled to Belinda and wine glasses were refilled.

‘Do tell,' said Tiki. Belinda always seemed to find out the low-down, the behind the scenes, the ridgy-didge goss as she called it.

Belinda sipped her wine. ‘I have to preface my remarks by saying I have never met the dreaded April Showers. But a certain publisher told me he'd been given a manuscript by April Showers, who thought knocking off a light lady's romance would be a quick way to fortune and more fame. April wanted to buy a huge house and needed extra cash.'

‘What happened? Where's the book? Don't tell me it's about to come out at the same time as mine,' wailed Tiki.

‘The publisher knocked it back. Said he wouldn't give five bob for it,' said Belinda.

‘Everyone thinks they can write romance or mass-market fiction. That Mills and Boon is a piece of cake that mints you money. Dead wrong. Tell 'em to try it,' said Tiki. ‘So what happened, Belinda?'

‘The agent representing April Showers tried to sell a manuscript to your publisher and he knocked it back – too defamatory apparently. So they publish you and not her. Work that out for yourself,' finished Belinda.

Tiki sighed. ‘This media trip is such a pain, especially seeing it from the other side. The PR girl told me that being over forty – excuse me – I wouldn't generate much interest media-wise.'

‘Have your boobs done and pay through the nose for a face-lift,' suggested Larissa.

‘Sleep with someone famous,' giggled Belinda.

‘You can't sleep with everyone in the media, Belinda. You should know that. The men are either too pissed or the women figure they could've written your book better,' said Tiki, liberally splashing the wine into her glass.

‘Miaowww . . .' laughed Belinda.

Larissa leaned over and, in a stage whisper, warned, ‘Look out for any write-up by April Showers.'

‘These gossip columnists throw around inaccuracies and innuendo that can harm your book more than any publicity can help it.'

Tiki dropped her head in her hands. ‘God, between Showers and Ali I'll be crucified. I figured the one positive part of leaving
Blaze
was I'd have the time to write another book. I'll be lucky if this one sells a hundred copies.'

‘We'll all buy a few copies,' said Belinda squeezing Tiki's arm.

Kevin loomed over the table. ‘This looks like a wake. Come on, there's delicious food over yonder.' He gave Larissa a questioning look.

‘It's all right, Kevin. We're just figuring out how to disrobe Caesar's wife.'

He took Larissa's hand to lead her across the lawn. ‘So who is always above suspicion?'

‘My boss. Don't ever tangle with ambitious women in the workplace.'

‘That's why I've surrounded myself with gay and nice young men. Come on, think of something to look forward to. I hear it's your birthday in a week. Can I arrange a party for you?'

‘Oh. Goodness. I never celebrate birthdays.' A feeling of guilt swept over Larissa thinking how she'd initially forgotten Gerard's last birthday. At least she'd made up for it by organising the bash at Alain Ducasse at vast expense. Would Gerard remember her birthday without her around to drop hints? Their communication was relying more and more on email because phone calls were missed or mistimed.

‘We always celebrate birthdays in Oz. It will be a wonderful excuse for a party,' smiled Kevin.

‘Please, no cake, no candles, no silly song.'

‘What about rude balloons and vintage champagne?'

Larissa laughed. ‘Now you're talking. It sounds fun.' And she felt childishly pleased.

 

M
iche and Donald were following the red sports car driven by Sophie, the Piste representative appointed to watch over Sally. Bags of clothes, accessories, props and Pete, Donald's English assistant, were piled in the back. Everyone had finally agreed on the
Blaze
shoot for Sally's story. The young model's repeated litany to Miche – ‘none of this seems real' – had led to a fantasy theme.

They were driving to the Rhône Valley to shoot dream sequences at a vineyard attached to a chateau. It was once part of a grand estate and the family had almost died out. The unmarried and elderly heir, unable to maintain the grounds and buildings, had turned the family vineyard into a boutique winery.

Miche gasped as Donald drove through the arches in the old stone wall as she glimpsed the chateau and its gardens surrounded by terraced grapevines that produced a fine shiraz under the label Château Soleil. ‘Wow. It looks like a postcard. Or a scene from a French movie!'

‘Funny about that, eh?' said Donald. ‘It's a cool place. I've been here before. Did shots for a classy calendar. Naked girls romping among the grapes, the vats and the old rooms of the chateau. Pretty wild time was had by all.'

‘Is it going to be like that, this time?' asked Miche. She was finding the lifestyle in the modelling world less fun and more debauched and dangerous. She wondered how it was affecting Sally.

Donald reached over and casually patted her knee. ‘Maybe it's time for you to live a little, Miche. For a New Yorker, you're pretty stitched up.'

It was the first time Donald had made anything like an intimate remark to her and Miche bridled. His laid-back Aussie friendliness had put her at ease. Knowing they had three days together ahead of them, she retorted, ‘Remember, everything you say and do goes into my article.'

He laughed easily. ‘You're one of those writers, huh? Talks about everything but the subject – all the peripheral happenings and what who said to whom. Readers are interested only in Sally.'

‘Yes. But in her case, it's how others treat her, relate to her, what they think and say about her that adds to the picture. Let's face it, Sally isn't delivering a lot of heavyweight intellectual material here. Her youth, her fragility, the fact that she's awestruck and scared one minute, acting like a princess the next is intriguing. Someone who is learning how to use coke and still sleeps with a ratty teddy could be losing their grip on reality.'

‘Is that what you're writing?'

‘I'm not telling.' Miche saw a butler come down the wide steps, which were flanked by stone lions at the front entrance. ‘Who lives here? Is it just staff and guests?'

‘Old family retainers. The vineyard workers live on the other side, in the old cottages close to the new section built for the winemaking facilities. Occasionally the Count is here. If he isn't completely out of his tree.'