Blaze (3 page)

Lorraine stiffened, flicked her hand from her forehead and twisted on the sofa to face Ali across the room. She slowly sat up and arranged her skirt and touched her hair in a tidying gesture. It gave her a few seconds to muster her composure. ‘Oh, Ali, you'll have to excuse me. I was just taking five on the horizontal to get the brain in gear for tackling the desktop,' she said with forced brightness. ‘But I don't remember having an appointment with you. I'm sorry, but Pat must have slipped up somehow.'

Ali walked over and sat in one of the lounge chairs. ‘No, she didn't slip up, Lorraine. There's no appointment. I just felt it was time we had a talk.' Ali had abandoned her planned agenda of talking about the future of the magazine in broad terms, hoping to discover a clue of just how much Lorraine knew, or suspected, about the executive changes that were being contemplated.

‘Oh, about what exactly?'

Ali eyed the bottle of vodka on the table near the glass. It was half empty. ‘That, for starters,' she said with a nod towards the bottle. ‘It's showing rather badly. Your long lunches are starting to look like something else altogether, Lorraine. Nobody does long lunches in this town any more. What's happening?'

Lorraine struggled to maintain control, but her hands were shaking and she felt nauseous. ‘It's the workload, I guess. The pressure's on, you know. Circulation time coming up again.' She rummaged in her handbag, took out a Christian Dior compact and looked briefly in the mirror. She was shocked at her image of bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara.

Ali wondered if Lorraine would admit to her whether she'd been informed that morning that she was being moved sideways to make room for a younger editor. ‘The lunches are being talked about in the corridors, Lorraine. And drinking in the office like this . . . How much, how often?'

‘Enough, Ali,' snapped Lorraine as she rose to her feet and angrily slammed the mirror shut. ‘This is not something that concerns you, nor would you have any comprehension of what it's about. You're not much older than my daughter and, like you, she can't understand either. She does a number on me and thinks it's no big deal.'

‘Your daughter? What's she done?'

‘Only announced she's leaving me.'

Ali had a hazy recollection of staff gossip about Lorraine's daughter. ‘She's grown up, isn't she? I mean, where's she going?'

‘Australia. For chrissake. Wants to find her long-lost father.'

Ali jerked in surprise. ‘Why there?'

‘Her father was Australian. He left us here in New York when she was a baby. God knows where he is now. He's never done anything for Miche. And now, right when I need her, she decides she's going to look for him in a godforsaken place where she knows no one, and has no relatives that I know of, and if they did exist they probably wouldn't care. I thought I'd cut Australia and her father out of our lives.' Lorraine looked teary. ‘Why would she do that, Ali? Especially now, when I need her with me? I've protected her. There's nothing in that place for her.'

Lorraine had no idea of the javelin she'd just thrown at Ali's composed demeanour. Ali's memories of the Australia she'd been sent away from at the age of ten were vastly different from the Australia Lorraine's daughter would be going to.

Lorraine explained to Alisson that Nina had tried to reassure her that every young woman needed to spread her wings.

Ali could only agree. ‘She'll find that out by going down there. There's not a lot you can do about it.'

‘So I've been told,' said Lorraine with a tinge of bitterness, her face draining of colour to a translucent grey.

Ali watched as the older woman pulled herself up from the sofa. Lorraine was trying to regain her composure, but her eyes held a new panic.

‘Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll go to the bathroom for a moment. You can leave.'

Ali stood up. ‘Pat has gone. Can I organise a cab for you?' She tried to sound sympathetic.

‘Don't bother, thanks. I'm going to do a bit of work, as I told you. See you tomorrow.' She walked a little shakily to the en suite and closed the door.

Ali hadn't mentioned Nina's party. Lorraine was in no shape to go anyway. Surely she wouldn't go in this condition? Moving over to the desk, Ali ran her hand along the edge of the ornate woodwork, a gesture that matched the possessive gleam in her eyes. Yes, she would be moving into this very office one day soon. Nina had virtually indicated that to her earlier in the day.

Ali stood deep in thought, her hand still resting on Lorraine's desktop, replaying her confrontation with Nina that morning.

*

Friday, 11 a.m.

Ali had picked her moment. With Nina celebrating her sixtieth birthday amid a retrospective of her years as founding editor of the world-famous
Blaze
, it seemed the ideal time for Ali to discuss her future and that of
Blaze
, forever linked as they were in Ali's mind.

‘If possible, I'd like to know what my chances for advancement are, Nina?' Ali had decided to put the question directly to the older woman. ‘In a realistic, immediate time frame, not a year or two down the track.'

Nina had studied Ali before answering. ‘I'm not in a position to give you a definite answer just at the moment, Ali. There are certain matters to be taken care of before I can let you know what, as you put it, your chances of advancement are.'

‘I think it only fair that I know where I stand when there are other opportunities out there,' said Ali, tempering the remark with a small smile.

‘Ali, you are talented and, I know, ambitious. Nothing wrong with that. But you're not thirty. You have enormous potential and I urge you not to rush into anything on a short-term basis when there could be a stepping stone to a much bigger career move.'

‘Can you give me a little more information?' probed Ali.

Nina drew a deep breath. ‘Let me just say that the Baron and I have watched your progress with a great deal of interest. And we may have a challenge and an opportunity for you in the very near future. As I said, I can't say anything more than that at this stage, and please keep this conversation between us for the present.'

Ali had left Nina's office buoyed and confident that, despite the vagueness of her remarks, Nina was saying she would be the new young editor to replace the ageing Lorraine Bannister.

Nina had always been protective of Lorraine, until faced by a series of younger staff representations, cleverly engineered by Ali, over replacing the old brigade. Nina had listened to the strenuous arguments from the younger staff about reflecting the issues and interests of their generation, that the look of the layouts was no longer appropriate, that
Blaze
wasn't adequately addressing the people and lifestyles of the big-spending twenty and thirtysomethings. Nina had finally agreed the magazine needed an injection of energy and attitude and had said she'd raise the matter with the board, bearing in mind the allegiance they owed their loyal staff.

‘. . . and buddies,' thought Ali. Lorraine and Nina had been close friends and Nina was godmother to Lorraine's daughter, Michelle. That was typical of Nina. Always the gracious and caring matriarch. Well, her old-style thinking was out of date as well. In this new millennium,
Blaze
deserved a fresh look. It was tired, stale, and getting old like Nina. Why couldn't she just admit she was past it, hand the baton over and move on? Ali had spent months developing ideas that could eclipse even the innovative Nina Jansous. How could a woman turning sixty, who had devoted so much of her life to just one institution, be on top of where young women were at today? Nina might have been raised as a ‘little Aussie battler', as she was constantly telling everyone, but Ali had decided she would be the one to win the new battles.

It was ironic that she and Nina shared an Australian background, each had been an only child, and each was self-taught without the advantages of a tertiary education. But whereas Nina had been hands-on and had promoted herself as a woman of style, Ali knew she had to be streetwise. She had vowed never to be deflected from her goal. She had put her own history of setbacks behind her and, if she could overcome a childhood she no longer allowed herself to think about, she could achieve any challenge she set herself.

Since she was sixteen, when she'd joined
Blaze
in New York as an editorial trainee, Ali had chosen to hide behind a carefully contrived facade. Her past was her past and would never be known to anyone. It had made her the person she was today – a survivor, a fighter, cynical and determined. Reaching executive heights and having the trappings that went with them was tangible. That counted. Nothing else mattered. Ali wasn't a giver. But she didn't think of herself as a taker either. She was a doer. And nothing would stand in her way. What she wanted, what she intended, was to be editor of
Blaze
in New York.

Friday, 5 p.m.

Ali walked to the big window of Lorraine's office, resenting the time the older woman was spending in the bathroom. Another five minutes and she'd have to check on her and God knows what mess the old drunk would be in. Ali knew she'd need to leave soon to dress for Nina's dinner. But she hadn't finished with her rival yet. She wanted Lorraine to confirm that she'd been sacked as editor of
Blaze.
Then she might be able to find out if Lorraine knew who her replacement would be.

Ali was looking at the sun setting over the Manhattan skyline, the rays highlighting the blanket of smog that most New Yorkers ignored, as Lorraine came out of the bathroom. She turned and saw a transformed woman walk firmly to her desk, ignoring the fact that Ali was still in her office after being so pointedly dismissed.

‘Now where were we?' Lorraine had said, sounding very sober and alert.

‘We were talking about your drinking . . . and other things,' said Ali.

‘Help yourself if you'd like one,' sallied Lorraine brusquely, waving a finger towards the little refrigerator set discretely in a wall of packed bookshelves.

‘No thanks, too early for me.'

Lorraine looked up from the papers scattered across the desk and caught the severe look that went with Ali's curt rejection of the offer. Their eyes locked, Lorraine's gleaming with bitterness, Ali's glistening with calculated coolness.

‘You have that disapproving look my daughter gives me,' said Lorraine with a sharp edge to her voice.

‘Sorry, but it's time you faced up to what's happening to you and took a grip on life.'

Lorraine exploded. ‘You too! Christ, that's what Miche said this morning. Among other goddamned bits of rubbish. Well, I have a damned firm grip on life around here, Ali, and you'd better believe it.' Her shouting contradicted her words, but she was unaware of her raised voice as she continued to stare down her rival.

And then, with a shock that had sent shivers down her spine, Ali realised that she was looking into the eyes of a drug addict. Lorraine Bannister was stoned. That was the real purpose of the trip to the bathroom. A quick hit. She broke eye contact and took a couple of steps to the door, then turned back and coldly fired the shot that denied her better judgement. ‘Well, now I understand better just what sort of grip you have, Lorraine. And it's not firm. It amounts to nothing. You're finished. It's over.'

‘Over? Over?' shouted Lorraine in uncontrolled anger. ‘Who the hell do you think you are to talk like that? What's over?'

‘Your job,' replied Ali in an icy tone.

‘You're crazy. Get out.'

‘Crazy. Hardly an appropriate word for you to invoke at this point,' said Ali, with irony that again hit the target and caused the fevered eyes to flash alarmingly. ‘Nina and the Baron have something big in store for me, Lorraine. I've been given the nod, if you take my meaning. Only a few hours ago. And when I'm in charge around here, there'll be no accommodation of junkies.'

‘Get out!' screamed Lorraine. ‘Get out.'

Ali had left without looking back, slamming the door with such force that the noise had echoed up the corridor and caused the last of the staff waiting for the elevator to look over their shoulders in surprise.

Friday, 8 p.m.

Nina still found it hard to grasp. The call had come from the building's head of security just over an hour ago.

Her hands started to shake as she dressed for the dinner that the Baron had insisted must go ahead, despite the tragic circumstances.

It was only now, when it was too late, and she was struggling to come to terms with the terrible events of that day that Nina realised she hadn't tried hard enough. She hadn't paid enough attention to Lorraine's hurt and personal pain. She had been too focused on her own life events and this evening's formal recognition of her sixtieth birthday.

Her mind went back to her breakfast meeting with Lorraine when she'd broken the news to her that she wasn't being reappointed editor of
Blaze
.

The possibility of losing her beloved job, and with it her place in New York society – for Lorraine had no doubts about the consequences – had been Lorraine's worst-case scenario for months now, a situation she had too often contemplated after a drink or three.

‘Lorraine, I'd give anything to change this, but I can't. You are not being reappointed as editor of
Blaze.
It's a board decision with the Baron, as chairman, in agreement. They want an editor with a different, fresh approach to attract a younger audience. You'll be taking over a new position as special projects editor. Your appointment will be announced with due ceremony and you'll be able to carve a niche for yourself there.'

‘Appointment! You mean, dis-appointment . . . dismissal is what I call it, being shoved aside is as good as being out,' Lorraine had said bitterly.

Try as she did, Nina had found it impossible to convince Lorraine that she was not obsolete, that there could be a role for her in the reorganisation of the staff. She could still hear her own attempt to rationalise the situation. ‘Lorraine, we are both in the same boat. A new generation of journalists want to take over the oars . . . and the helm. Remember what it was like to be young, impatient and ambitious. Remember how we came by our breaks.'