Strictly Confidential (20 page)

LOL. This was too good. Was Shelley seriously going to lie in the bath and text me her wish list from the finalists so I could then seek him out for her at tonight’s event? This was like
Where’s Wally
does RSVP. And what would I do when I found him? Tell the lucky guy my friend fancied him? And that she was already at home naked, in case he was interested?

Sure, babe. Just send me a pic,
I replied, although I could already imagine her selection.

Turned out I didn’t need to wait long. Within seconds Shell had sent me through an image. Of herself. Lounging luxuriously in her bathtub and artfully clad in a bikini of bubbles.

Not of you!
I shot back
. A pic of the guy you want me to find!
What the hell am I supposed to do with pornographic images of my best friend?
I hit delete fast.

Back in the ballroom I accosted a waitress and grabbed myself a glass of champagne. And not just to recover from the picture I’d just seen. If I had to go back to my table – and down a few rungs in Dante’s Inferno – I was damned if I wasn’t doing it well lubricated. I was about to resume my quest for Kurt’s place card when across the room I spied something to make me choke on my Chandon. There, in the corner, was Diane talking earnestly to Allison Palmer.
My
designer, Allison Palmer. My soon-to-be-rising-star-of-Fashion-Week, Allison Palmer. My favourite client and Queen Bee’s sartorial saviour of last resort, Allison Palmer. Allison Palmer, who was going to save us from sinking into small business oblivion. Allison Palmer, who was going to guarantee us the success necessary to sail into the next twelve months still financially afloat. Kurt would have to fend for himself because this was more important than finding his place card.

Now, I’m a glass-half-full kinda girl. I like to always look on the bright side; I say ‘can’ when others say ‘can’t’; and I can find a silver lining in any cloud. But as I stood watching that she-devil charm Allison that night I knew it could mean only one thing: Diane was trying to poach my client. This was like Belle Single all over again. Only this time I was
determined
not to lose. Allison, to her credit, looked decidedly uncomfortable about the whole conversation, shifting awkwardly from one Manolo-clad foot to the other and glancing hopefully over Diane’s shoulder as if looking for an escape. And for a moment I toyed with the idea of offering one. I thought about waltzing over, barging into the conversation and shaming Diane for her duplicity. Only, you have to have a conscience in order for it to be shamed and there was the vital flaw in my plan. Diane was sadly lacking in that department. Instead, I stood and watched and vowed that the publicity campaign we delivered for Allison at BMW Australian Fashion Week would blow her sequinned socks off so she’d simply have no reason to switch publicists.

That
and
I grabbed another glass of champagne even though my first glass was still far from empty.

‘Thirsty?’ asked the suit standing beside me.

I smiled half-heartedly. I didn’t recognise this guy as press and I certainly wasn’t going to waste my energy being polite to anyone else. A swagger of
Coco
finalists wandered past, escaped from the green room and easily identified by their magazine rosettes.

The suit leaned in. ‘Those guys only have one look, for Christ’s sake! Blue Steel? Ferrari? Le Tigre? They’re all the same face.’

I laughed despite myself. ‘And who might you be? Not a finalist this evening, I take it?’

The suit stuck out his hand. ‘Michael Lloyd. Pleased to meet you.’

‘Michael Lloyd!’ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘We’re sitting at the same table!’ This was my knight in shining Armani. My saviour in Paul Smith. Michael Lloyd was the only person at my table I wouldn’t pay a hit man to take out.

‘Great,’ he enthused. ‘You must know my girlfriend, then?’

Warning lights flashed before my eyes.

‘Belle Single,’ he added, by way of explanation.

Belle. Bloody. Single.

‘Belle Single?’ I said weakly. He was Belle Single’s latest squeeze? That made him the reason my media conference fell flat, I thought, resolving to hate Michael Lloyd forevermore with immediate effect. I took a long swig of champagne.

Thank God Lulu chose this moment to interrupt us. Skittering across the ballroom floor, she skidded to a stop in front of me. ‘Er, Jasmine, can we borrow you for a minute backstage?’

I didn’t need to be asked twice. ‘Sorry, Michael. Duty calls and all that. I’ve got to run and – er, what do I need to run and do?’ I asked Lulu.

‘Our stylist won’t style and I don’t know what to do!’ she wailed.

I grimaced, embarrassed in front of Michael. ‘Uh, I’ll catch you at dinner,’ I said, grabbing Lulu by the arm and walking her away at speed. ‘What do you mean, the stylist won’t style?’ I hissed. ‘What’s he here for? The ambiance?’

Lulu just shrugged.

Backstage, I saw exactly what she meant. The stylist wouldn’t style.

In fact, not only would he not style
tonight
. Turned out our Vidal Sassoon didn’t style, full stop. Not ever. Didn’t get his manicured hands dirty with anything more demanding than ‘supervising’, apparently.

‘Bud, I don’t know who the hell you think you are,’ I screeched, ‘but I’ve got forty bachelors with flat hair here. So either you attach yourself to a blowdryer or I’ll do that for you!’

Heads everywhere snapped to look in our direction. None of them bloody styled, of course.

Our rebellious barber didn’t budge.

‘Look, big shot, let me explain how it works around here. You’re a stylist? You style. Do you think I’m too good to do PR? Do you think I just supervise my publicists? Hell, no. I put my issues in my pocket and get on with it. I call the press. I write the press releases. Heck, in my workplace, I even change the toilet paper rolls. Now,
style
!’

Just then Samantha Priest sauntered past, all Botox and boobs and blonde hair (and no sign of Doctor Fun), and interrupted my tirade. ‘Jesus, Jazzy, keep your shirt on or you’ll end up back in Emergency. The blokes are the only ones we want to see topless tonight, yeah?’

All class as usual. I swear, that girl gave bogans a bad name.

Just then I spied Leila Graham entering the green room. Tonight’s event was Leila’s baby and she was understandably very nervous.

‘You’re gunna be blown away by this evening, Leila!’ I reassured her. ‘The results will be
incred
, I promise you!’

Leila smiled tightly. Despite all our hard work on this campaign, I could tell that the disastrous media call at the Beresford was not far from her mind.

‘Have you seen the number of press out there?’ I indicated to the jam-packed ballroom. Leila nodded. Another grim smile. Nothing I could possibly say would help; I just had to make sure I delivered the goods. Promising to check in regularly throughout the night, I left Leila biting her nails and teetered back to my table, where I steeled myself for the worst.

Ever seen that
Absolutely Fabulous
episode where Patsy declares it the right season for funerals? Consoling the bereaved, she declares, ‘Well, Harvey Nicks have got some really tasty little black numbers at the moment. Black is like, in. You wouldn’t have to wear it only the once.’ I felt I should have dressed in black that evening like the rest of my Queen Bee team. Because what I endured throughout the
Coco
Man of the Year Awards certainly felt a lot like my funeral. Instead, however, I was clad head to toe in shiny, sparkling sequins. But tonight my Ellery ensemble left me feeling like a disco ball. A dazzling, glittering disco ball. A disco ball saying: ‘Kick me.’

MICHAEL: So who’s going to walk away with the prize tonight? Any bets?

AMANDA: What are we wagering?

BELLE SINGLE (as a particularly burly bunch of AFL players walk by): I’ll bet anything.

ME (incredulously): Did you say you’ll bed anything?

DIANE: What is it with you and sportsmen, Jasmine? Try to refrain while I’m eating. You know it puts me off my food.

ME: I didn’t realise you were eating again.

DIANE (looking me up and down): Yes, unlike some.

MICHAEL (gallantly intervening): So the Man of the Year, any picks?

BELLE SINGLE: Hmm, and we can only have one?

ME: (Insert tongue-biting here.)

MICHAEL: Yes, just one. That’s the idea.

AMANDA: Can I still bet if I know the winner?

ME: Sure, because everything you know is strictly confidential.

AMANDA:
Now
you tell me.

DIANE: My, that’s a tight ship you’re running, Jasmine.

ME (seething): I find I lose less people overboard that way.

DIANE: Oh, really? That’s not what I’ve heard. Word on the street is your favourite client is looking to jump ship . . .

MICHAEL (to the rescue yet again): How ’bout I top up your glass there, sailor?

ME: Please. You know you’d make a fine first mate?

MICHAEL (winking): Aye, aye, cap’n.

BELLE SINGLE (hissing so only I can hear): Flirt like that again, Jasmine Lewis, and I’ll sink you.

SOME POOR SCHMUCK UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO BE SEATED AT OUR TABLE: Can someone pass the bread please?

ME: Bread? There’s no bread here. Haven’t you been to a fashion function before?

BELLE SINGLE (incongruously): I’d like that dreamy Kurt Simmons to win.

DIANE (maliciously): Kurt Simmons? The dull-as-dishwater, squeaky-clean Kurt Simmons? Why, yes, I’d be interested to see Kurt win, too.

AMANDA: OMG, can you imagine! What a PR nightmare! I’d rather watch my Tuscan spray tan dry than read an interview with Kurt Simmons. I’ll die if he wins.

ME: Don’t you get anything right? Kurt Simmons does win, you imbecile!

Actually, that’s not quite true. What I
really
said was: ‘Oh, I don’t know, Amanda. I think it would be a great professional challenge to try and make Kurt Simmons newsworthy.’

Diane smirked. Amanda looked sceptical. Belle Single just looked confused.

By the time the winner’s announcement rolled around, the evening already felt endless. Years of my life had passed since my chauffeur dropped me off at the foot of the red carpet earlier this evening. I’d had relationships that had lasted less time. In fact, if Michael hadn’t been there that night, refilling my glass and removing the knives from my back, I would have retreated to the green room long ago. Who knew Belle Single could have such good taste in men? I guess she’d stuck enough in her mouth over the years to finally find the right flavour. Although she looked suspiciously like she was ready for a new taste right now, as we watched the bachelors traipse on stage. Seriously, the girl was in danger of drooling on her Proenza dress.

But Single’s slobber was the least of my worries when the
Coco
Man of the Year was announced that night.

The lights were dimmed, a spotlight was raised. A line-up of made-up metrosexuals held their breath. Then, slowly, painstakingly, Leila Graham stepped to the microphone and prised open
that
envelope.

‘The women of Australia have spoken,’ she declared.

The media in the room closed in.

‘The winner . . .’

Journalists were poised.

‘. . . of the
Coco
Man of the Year Award . . .’

Film crews strained forward.

‘. . . is . . .’

Snappers jostled for position.

‘. . . Kurt Simmons!’

Amanda gasped in surprise.

Kurt smiled graciously.

Diane smiled ungraciously.

And press everywhere sighed in dismay.

As thunderous applause echoed round the Ivy and the impeccable Kurt shook hands politely with his competitors, disappointed journalists began to pack up their news crews and head for the bar. ‘Kurt Simmons?’ said one disgusted hack near me. ‘How am I supposed to fill a column with Kurt Simmons?’ Their deflation was palpable.

All, that is, except for one audacious intern.

‘Kurt! Kurt, over here. Tara Robinson, Channel Six
Nightly News
. How does it feel to be named Man of the Year?’ She thrust a microphone into Kurt’s chiselled but bland face and watched as cardboard words tumbled out of his mouth. I had to hand it to her, she had chutzpah. Only, had no one told her this was a CCP event? A CCP event that was proudly sponsored, nay, wholly owned, by CCP’s good mates and Channel Six’s rival, Network Twelve? Tara Robinson wasn’t going to win friends and influence people by gazumping Network Twelve at their own event. Someone oughta tell this kid she wasn’t in Kansas any more.

Oblivious, she doggedly hunted down her scoop.

Suddenly, just like in Judy Garland’s glorious film, my world turned from technicolour to ominous black and white: the Head of Channel Twelve stood towering before me. Her face was grey with rage.

This could not be good.

‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked me. ‘Why the fuck is some hack from Six getting our Man of the Year exclusive? Didn’t I pay for this event? Isn’t it my name on your pay cheque?’

My jaw dropped in astonishment.