Strictly Confidential (12 page)

At the mere mention of industry connections, gossip queen Pamela Stone appeared by my side, as if somehow summoned by Diane’s cryptic comment and the promise of a juicy story behind it. I swear that woman could
smell
gossip. I only hoped her sixth sense would be put off tonight by the sickly smell of artificial additives filling the air. That way, she wouldn’t detect my deepening suspicions about why Diane was here. A scandal of that type at my anniversary party was one gossip column I didn’t care to see in print.

‘Gals!’ Pamela addressed us collectively, despite the good twenty years separating me from Diane and Lillian. ‘Have you tasted this divine fairy floss? It looks like the
naughtiest
thing, dolls, but the inside? Just air!’

I smiled at Pamela, grateful for the distraction. Much as I tried to remind myself tonight was a celebration, I couldn’t help stewing on Diane’s undoubtedly evil plans. I only had to
consider
for a fleeting moment the possibility that Belle Single’s lucrative account might be slipping through my fingers and I felt sick to my stomach.

‘Now, dolls,’ Pamela said to Diane and me between multicoloured mouthfuls, ‘what do you make of Belle Single being sans spin doctor?
Such
an opportunity, isn’t it? Will either of you be stepping up to the publicity plate to represent her?’

I groaned inwardly as Pamela outed the elephant in the room. In one fell swoop this boss of goss had ruined any plans I had for a quiet takeover of Belle’s account by discussing it in front of the very last person in the world I wanted her to: Diane.

For the millionth time tonight I wished the ground would open up and swallow Diane Wilderstein, taking her far, far away from my party and my plans for
Kitchen Divas
world domination.

Turned out I was not the only one. As Pamela’s question hung unanswered in the air and I turned expectantly to face Diane, I caught sight of the very last thing in the world I had ever expected to see: Diane blushing. She was actually blushing. And while it was hardly a shade to rival the popping-pink of Pamela’s fairy floss, the colour of embarrassment was undeniably spreading across Diane’s face.

Sprung.

Pamela, not one to miss a story, saw it too. ‘OMG, Diane,’ she exclaimed triumphantly, ‘don’t tell me you’ve already snapped up the beautiful Belle Single? Can I confirm that? What about a quote from you? And let’s line up a pic of you with Belle, shall we?’

As Pamela raved and I reeled, Diane looked on, any signs of embarrassment replaced by smug delight. In fact, if Pamela and Lillian hadn’t been there to witness the fleeting blush, I’m not sure I would really have believed Diane had expressed such a human emotion.

‘Well, Diane, you’ve really blown me away with this scoop,’ continued Pamela as she scrounged through her handbag for a notepad and pen.

Yeah, you and the competition
, I thought desperately.

Fuck.

No wonder Belle Single had struggled to keep a straight face when I’d pitched my heart out to her earlier. She was already in bed with Diane and the two of them were having a good old laugh at my attempts at a
ménage à trois
.

Fuck.

Belle and Diane must have been planning this for weeks. All that time I’d been killing myself coming up Queen Bee’s publicity campaign for her career, she’d probably been feeding my proposals straight to Diane.

Fuck.

And tonight – my first-year anniversary of all nights – was when they planned to reveal their alliance. Why else would Belle agree to come if she had no intention of signing with Queen Bee? And what other excuse could Diane have for crashing our birthday bash? None. She just wanted to maximise my suffering.

Fuck.

Belle Single was to be the biggest signing of Queen Bee’s short existence. Without her, our future looked far less rosy. Sure, we still had plenty of other clients, enough to keep the debtors from the door for the next few months at least. But signing Belle Single at her
Kitchen Divas
zenith was a recipe for a whole new level of PR success. Success we might never taste now.

The rest of the evening passed in a sickly-sweet blur. Celebs floated by, drunk on vodka and E-numbers, as I struggled to keep one eye fixed firmly on Diane and her accomplice. I was standing beside a flock of fashionistas who were posing by giant-sized lollipops that probably weighed more than they did, when Emma approached, schedule in hand.

‘Jazzy Lou, it’s nearly time to cut the cake,’ she read from the running order I’d put together for this evening, which divided the event into seven-minute increments.

‘Already?’ I replied distractedly, even though I’d checked the schedule myself only moments earlier. I scanned the rooftop again for signs of sabotage from Diane.

‘Totes,’ Em confirmed. ‘Speech then cake then directions for gift-bag pick-up for guests. All in the next twenty-three and a half minutes, according to your timeline.’

I sighed and gave up on Diane for a moment. ‘Twenty-three and a half minutes?’ I echoed. ‘We’d better get cracking then.’ I snapped into the work mode. ‘Is the cake on a platter and ready to go? I’ll assemble the photogs now if you get the cake to the terrace. And tell Lulu and Alice to do a final check of the gift bags, while Anya should start rounding up the crowd for the cake. Got it?’

Em nodded, then buzzed off to find the other Bees, her clipboard still firmly in hand.

Twelve and a half minutes later, in accordance with the schedule, I signalled for the DJ to kill the music and took my place centre stage in front of the brightest and most beautiful Sydney’s fashion and PR industries had to offer. A giant first-anniversary cake by my side. Standing all around me were the faces of those I loved (or, at least, loved to work with). Luke and Shelley, Pamela and Lillian, the Bees, clients, media and industry types. Then there was Diane, standing in front of Hansel and Gretel’s gingerbread house like the wicked witch. I instinctively reached for the cake knife.

The DJ hit mute and the candles on the cake were lit. Emma, who was standing directly in my line of sight as a prompt in case I needed it, subtly raised her clipboard and tapped one manicured fingernail against the running order tacked on there;
9.17 pm: Speech from Queen Bee
, her fingernail indicated. I nodded and willed myself to look at the assembled crowd and not to be distracted by Diane.

‘Family and friends of Queen Bee PR,’ I began, ‘we’re buzzed you could join us for an evening of decadence, debauchery and, quite possibly, diabetes as we celebrate our first anniversary.’ The assembled throng laughed. Easy crowd. I pressed on. ‘Of course, each and every one of you here tonight has helped us enormously over the past twelve months, whether that be through media coverage or engaging our services or . . .’

I spied Diane leaving her gingerbread post.

‘. . . offering us some bitter lessons in business etiquette,’ I continued through clenched teeth.

The mass in front of me tittered nervously and Samantha Priest heckled from the back row, ‘Play nice, Jazzy Lou!’ but I was too distracted by Diane’s skeletal frame gliding through the crowd like a wraith.

‘So the Bees and I want to thank you all . . .’

Diane paused by Belle Single near the ice luge, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.

‘. . . very, very much,’ I went on.

Em’s finger slid down the running order to the next point of business: gift bags.

I nodded to show this was where I was headed. ‘We want to thank you,’ I repeated, ‘for your friendship.’

Having spoken to Belle, Diane continued slicing through the crowd.

‘And for your support.’

Belle trailed in Diane’s wake.

‘And for sticking by us!’ I practically shouted this last point into the microphone as I was forced to stand and watch Diane and Belle Single, by now arm in arm, separate from the pack of revellers on the rooftop and disappear into the bathroom together. No doubt to snort coke through the rolled-up contract they’d just signed.

I could feel all my confidence, all my excitement, all my jubilation from earlier in the evening trickling through my fingers like sand.

In front of me, the crowd of partygoers stood expectantly.

‘And so,’ I pushed on desperately, ‘as a gesture of our appreciation and as a celebration of Queen Bee’s success so far,’ my Bees appeared at various points around the room bearing gift bags, ‘we’d like to leave you each with a very special gift.’

The crowd hummed excitedly. The Bees began dishing out gift bags. And Diane and Belle emerged triumphantly from the ladies room, a rolled-up bundle of papers tucked neatly under Diane’s arm: her contract with Belle Single.

I plunged the knife into the Queen Bee anniversary cake and the fondant icing cracked under the pressure of the blade; soon the words
Queen Bee 1st Anniversary, The taste of sweet success
had been cut up into a hundred edible squares. As I wiped bright pink icing from the blade, I contemplated Queen Bee’s own situation on the razor-sharp knife edge between success and failure. That was what this industry was like, I thought bitterly: everyone wanted a piece of you. And if you weren’t careful, they’d simply eat you alive.

Traipsing up and down the stairs from the terrace that night, the Bees and I lugged the candy-hued remnants of the evening’s revelry back to the reality of the office below as the last of our guests dispersed. Blissfully unaware of our near-won but then crushingly lost account with Belle Single, the Bees were as high as the helium balloons they ferried downstairs. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but deflated.

As I emerged at the top of the narrow stairwell to fetch yet another armful of oversized, sugar-inspired statues, I bumped into a stunning blonde coming the other way.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I excused myself. Attractive blondes might be a dime a dozen in Sydney, but you never knew who you might be bumping into. ‘I hope you’ve had a fab evening at Queen Bee?’ I flashed her a winning smile.

The blonde grinned back. ‘Sure have, thanks. Always happy to raise a glass to anyone who’s making it in PR in this town. Especially if their name’s not Diane Wilderstein.’

I stopped in my tracks.

Especially if their name’s
not
Diane Wilderstein? This was a girl after my own heart.

‘Mazel tov to that, my friend,’ I replied enthusiastically. ‘Have we met?’

The blonde thrust out her hand. ‘Holly. Nice to meet you.’

‘Likewise. Anyone not on Team Wilderstein is a friend of mine.’

Holly laughed. ‘I was though. On Team Wilderstein. In fact I sat at your desk after you . . .
departed
.’ She chose this last word carefully.

‘Oh, so you’re one of Diane’s protégées?’ I asked, my eyes narrowing.

‘
Was
,’ she corrected. ‘I was a junior publicist for Diane until she sacked me last week.’

I tried to keep the smirk off my face. ‘And what was your offence? Getting in Diane’s way before her first coffee of the day?’

Holly laughed again. ‘Something like that.’

When she laughed Holly looked strangely familiar, as though her face had appeared on more than a Wilderstein mugshot.

‘But you didn’t start at Wilderstein till after I’d left?’ I checked. Holly nodded. ‘Are you sure we’ve never met before?’

Holly smiled bashfully. ‘No, no, we’ve never met. But you might have seen my face before because my boyfriend is Craig Patricks . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed.

‘Oh, of course!’ I slapped my forehead. ‘You’re Holly
Oliver
.’ No wonder I recognised her face. Holly Oliver was the fiancée of one of Australia’s most celebrated track athletes and was forever being photographed on the red carpet at Olympic fundraising events, her long blonde hair as glossy as the mags that lapped up her picture-perfect relationship. Holly smiled again sheepishly and I made a split-second decision. A split-second decision I would later come to regret. ‘Say, where are you working now, Holly Oliver? Given you and Diane Wilderstein have parted ways, that is?’

Holly raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Um, nowhere actually. I’ve only been looking for a few days, though.’