Strictly Confidential (21 page)

‘Well?’ she screamed.

The room fell silent. My dress sparkled loudly.

‘Why the hell isn’t that us?’ She pointed to the stage, where Tara was chatting blithely to Kurt while her film crew diligently got a close-up of his award. ‘Well?’ she shrieked again.

I twinkled in reply.

Journalists flocked from all corners of the room, Kurt Simmons’ stud status quickly overshadowed by our brawl. The light from dozens of digital cameras bouncing off my sequins was blinding.

‘What the hell is Six doing there?’

‘Channel Six is just showing some initiative,’ I answered boldly. ‘While I made sure there was a Network Twelve crew here tonight, I can’t dictate what they film. It seems your crew simply wasn’t up to speed.’

Crickets chirped loudly. Someone at a nearby table cleared their throat. The cameras rolled jubilantly on.

‘Wasn’t. Up. To. Speed?’ the network head echoed, her voice barely audible. I swear the Wicked Witch of the West had nothing on this woman.

‘That’s right,’ I said, confidently. ‘What do you expect me to do? Jump on stage and accost Tara Robinson? Crash-tackle her off the podium? Your crew had every opportunity to get up there and interview Kurt for themselves. Like I said, I guess they simply weren’t fast enough.’

And with that, she lunged at me.

‘Gah!’ I yelped as I jumped out of her way, sending a nearby waitress sprawling.

Snappers went berserk and I sparkled like a disco ball in their midst.

‘How dare you –’ my assailant yelled and I braced myself for round two.

As I jostled around in the media scrum, security muscled in and attempted to drag the network chief out.

‘Get your hands off me!’ she shrieked. ‘I own this event!’ The beefy bouncers stopped in their tracks.

‘Look,’ I declared, ‘when I was hired to get publicity, you never specified with which network.’ I ducked behind the bouncers. ‘And anyway,’ I added, safely on the right side of security, ‘I think you just earned us tomorrow’s headlines.’

Just because you call a show
Australia’s Got Talent
doesn’t mean we do. Much like
Keeping Up with the Kardashians
doesn’t require much mental exertion. And
The Hills
doesn’t feature much landscape. But in naming my company Queen Bee PR, I could honestly promise clients exactly what it said on the tin. Because the media coverage we scored for the
Coco
Man of the Year Awards really was fit for a queen. It was royally huge. We’re talking truly majestic stuff.

Following my altercation with the head of Network Twelve, the
Coco
event enjoyed a significant slot on the late-night news, my sparkly Ellery number bumping even a football scandal from top billing. Surely my finest career moment to date. This coverage was closely followed by the front page of the
Sun
the next day, under the banner heading
CATFIGHT DOGS BACHELOR PARTY
. Not to mention a decent-sized column in the
Advertiser
, replete with colour images of our brawl. By eight in the morning we were the number one trending topic on Twitter, and by nine we were the talk of talkback radio. Ten saw us score two morning TV mentions and by lunchtime the office phone was ringing off the hook. By 2 pm
Coco
’s
bumper bachelor edition was walking off the shelves, but it was only when I heard from Leila at 3 pm that I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

As the media clippings piled up on my desk, Lulu struggled into my office weighed down by an enormous bunch of flowers. I whipped off the card and slit open the envelope. The message inside?
Jazzy Lou, With you, all publicity really is good publicity. Thanks for the ink, Leila
.

‘We did it!’ I shouted to the Bees, who came buzzing from all corners of the office when they heard my excited screeching. ‘
Coco
love us! We did it!’ Now all we had to do was back it up with BMW Australian Fashion Week. Simple, right?

With that my phone buzzed with a call from Allison Palmer. ‘I’m so sorry, love,’ she gushed apologetically without giving me a chance to get a word in. ‘I know you saw me talking to Diane last night. The thing is,’ she rushed on, ‘my sales agent is on my case about growing the business and if I don’t wow them at Fashion Week she wants me to think seriously about changing publicity companies. It’s nothing personal. And you know if it was just me I’d never leave you. But I’ve got my employees to consider . . .’ Allison trailed off.

Nothing personal? My favourite client was considering dumping me for the devil incarnate and I was not meant to take it personally?

I paused before responding. I knew this wasn’t Allison’s doing. I knew she was under pressure from her agent (and that the conniving Diane would have played no small part in adding to that pressure). But I couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

‘Look, babe,’ I answered finally. ‘I know how important this Fashion Week is to you. I know it really is make or break for you at this point in your career. But let’s not even talk about switching teams until you’ve seen what the Bees can deliver for you because I promise you won’t be disappointed.’

‘Oh, Jazzy Lou, I believe in you!’ she said and I knew she really meant it.

For the sake of Queen Bee PR, I just hoped that I did too.

Osama bin Laden was dead. This was the worst news I’d received since the World Health Organization linked mobile phone usage to brain cancer. Not that I didn’t want the man six feet under, but the timing of his demise couldn’t have been worse.

You see, bin Laden bid farewell on the eve of Allison Palmer’s show at BMW Australian Fashion Week.

And while to even put the two in the same sentence might sound flippant, consider this: Allison Palmer’s show cost close to forty thousand dollars to produce and would inject many times that much into the local economy. An economy still recovering from the GFC. It was employing countless people, from models to musicians, from stylists to sound technicians. Plus, this really was the show to launch Allison’s much-deserved career. Not to mention make or break mine.

If only I could convince the press to cover it.

But on the day of Allison’s catwalk show the
Sun
newspaper – the front page of which was supposed to be sporting the new face of fashion – was now plastered with the old guard of al-Qaeda.

‘OMG! I can’t believe bin Laden is dead,’ said Lulu, holding up a complimentary copy of the
Sun
from where it lay on a front-row seat ahead of Allison’s catwalk show. ‘
What
an ugly photo to have on the front page for Fashion Week!’

I couldn’t help but think President Obama would disagree. Still, the US President was about the only person who
wasn’t
at BMW Fashion Week. As if to prove my point, a certain makeup king minced past in his crocodile-skin shoes and Gucci sunglasses, a gaggle of adoring fans in his wake.

It was not even 7 am at the Sydney Harbour Overseas Passenger Terminal, the style centre of Sydney for the next week, but the Bees and I had already been hard at it for hours. The catwalk for Allison’s collection had been laid last night, after the previous show had finished. So now we traipsed up and down the plastic-covered runway toting gift bags that weighed more than your average catwalk model.

‘Remember, no stilettos allowed on the runway,’ I yelled at no one in particular. ‘So either walk down the gutter or take your shoes off altogether.’ There was no need to mention the third, impossible option: wear flats. This was Fashion Week, baby, and heels were de rigueur. At the end of the catwalk a svelte violinist in six-inch heels tuned up her electric violin as she prepared to accompany this morning’s models down the runway. As her fingers moved like quicksilver down the neck of her instrument, the dramatic melodies of Vivaldi were born with heart-breaking purity. Momentarily, at least.

‘Stop!’ I shouted, her amplified strings no match for my voice box. ‘Someone Blixz her fingernails now! Are Blixz today’s sponsors or what?’ Seriously. What was wrong with everyone here?

Stalking to the back of the show space, I began to inspect the scaffolding set up for the press photographers. Three tiers of viewing platforms stood before me with laminated plastic signs gaffer-taped to the floor, staking out all the prime positions. AVP newswire, Hallsdorf, Leah McSeen Photography, Style TV, Vicktor Hugo Press, Channel Twelve, the
Sun
, Channel Six. Anyone who was anyone was represented. I just hoped they’d show.

A parade of pouty Fashion Week volunteers skulked past me. These girls were young enough to make Justin Bieber look like a paedophile but their Taylor Momsen makeup belied their age. ‘Right, all vollies over here,’ someone official addressed them. ‘You lot will be dressing and you lot will be ushers. If you’re dressing, get backstage now.’

The girls assigned to dressing the models in their outfits for the show swaggered backstage. The ushers were ushered to the foyer, where they hung around awaiting further direction and enviously eyed the promo girls dressed as old-school cinema usherettes giving away alcopops at the door. Such is the hierarchy of minions.

As the lights were dimmed for a full dress rehearsal, and the cleaners brought in for a final scrub of the show space, I headed out to the car park to the hair and makeup marquee to check our models were behaving. It was still too early for me to hit the phones to the press and try to recover some of the media coverage that had been annihilated overnight, so I had to settle for double-triple-checking that every other detail was perfect for this morning’s show.

‘Make sure all handles are on the
outside
of the gift bags,’ I hollered to the Bees as I left the show area. An instruction they’d each received a thousand times before. I was debating whether to head back in and check the girls were doing it right when I bumped into Anya in the foyer.

‘Jazzy Lou, you’ll never guess what I have for you!’ she exclaimed. We were standing in the grand entrance to Fashion Week, surrounded by giant TV screens blaring urgent Facebook updates while rolling tweets ran along the bottom of the screen.

‘What?’ Unless it was a front-page headline featuring Allison Palmer’s name, I was going to be disappointed.

Anya smiled mysteriously.

And then she did the last thing in the entire world I expected. She produced a battered old Louis Vuitton Speedy handbag.
My
battered old Louis Vuitton Speedy handbag. The same handbag that had been stolen from my car all that time ago.

‘I found it in Oxford Street Vinnies!’ she announced triumphantly.

I was mortified. ‘Gah! Are you for real? What the hell were you doing in Vinnies?’ I exclaimed. St Vincent de Paul’s? Op-shopping? That’s so not kosher.

Anya rolled her eyes. ‘Aren’t you pleased to have it back?’

I paused. Here I was in the midst of Australian Fashion Week, preparing for a forty-thousand-dollar catwalk show and perhaps my biggest event to date. Sure, the media might be in meltdown and press coverage was going to be scarcer than real breasts in the Eastern Suburbs, but nothing had actually gone wrong
yet
. Hell, we might even make it a Queen Bee success. And you know what? I
 was
pleased to have my Speedy back. If only because it reminded me of how very far I’d come. Working at Wilderstein PR felt like a distant memory when I held that Speedy in my hands.

‘Thanks, love. It’s
amaze
,’ I said genuinely to Anya. ‘But how on earth do you even know it’s the same Speedy I lost?’

Anya laughed. ‘Recognise these?’ She tipped the bag upside down and pointed to smeary blood-red marks staining the leather on the bottom of the bag.

‘OMG! It
is
my Speedy! Do you remember that day Diane threw an open bottle of OPI nail polish at my head?’ I shuddered as the memory came flooding back.

‘Monsooner or Later,’ Anya grimaced, recalling the exact shade. ‘Thank God you had your Speedy handy or you might still be removing Monsooner from your pores.’

‘I wonder if the bag’s still got Raven’s red knickers stashed inside,’ I joked and went to peer into the Speedy when two skinny, pale models wandered by, looking like albino giraffes. Wait a minute. Pale models? Not at my show.

‘Are you two walking for Allison Palmer?’ I snapped.

The giraffes nodded.

‘Then where’s your spray tan?’ I exploded. ‘Get backstage and get tanned now!’

The giraffes scampered.

‘I’ve got to run and sort this,’ I apologised to Anya. ‘This is diabolical.’ Thanking her again for finding my handbag, I slipped it onto my arm and headed out to the hair and makeup marquee.

The scene that greeted me resembled a zoo.

Even though it was not yet 8 am, the small synthetic hothouse of the makeup marquee was pumping. Condensation trickled down the clear plastic walls, and when I prised open the door to the tent, a wave of hairspray hit me. This was followed by a wall of noise. Inside was a barrage of stylists, hairdressers, makeup artists and models, all talking over the top of one another, while music blared in the background and mounted TV screens screamed to be heard. There were feathers, fur, leather and sequins. And, of course, mirrors on every available surface.

Poking my head into the madness, I breathed deeply and then let rip: ‘If you’re on my catwalk today,’ I bellowed, ‘then you’d better be looking orange. And if you’re not, get backstage and get yourself a spray tan now!’ I slammed the door for added emphasis. The plastic reverberated in my hand.

Turning on my heels, I stalked towards backstage to start the first of my media calls for the day; this was when the real animal taming would begin.

If the makeup room was a zoo then backstage was a circus.

Rows of clothing rails stood at the entry, welcoming guests to the three rings inside. I pulled back the theatrical red velvet curtain to reveal the madness within. Waiflike models lounged around in their lingerie, bones protruding and eyes staring vacantly, their IQs apparently only slightly higher than their BMIs. A waiter wafted past bearing a tray of miniature food. Mini yoghurts, mini muffins, mini croissants, mini Danishes. Never mind supersize, no one in fashion even eats normal-sized. In the corner, one vollie stood steaming garments – a post she never left all day. Alice lay sprawled on the floor, her iPad in one hand, her BlackBerry in the other, uploading images onto the Queen Bee blog. Next to her, like a scene from a hundred years earlier, two women sat sewing sequins by hand onto a spectacular Allison Palmer frock.

It was now only a few short hours till showtime and, like any good ringmaster, I cracked a mean whip.

‘Right, there should be three garments on each clothing rail outside,’ I yelled. ‘Can someone tell me why some rails only have two?’

Someone, somewhere, started to answer.

‘Wait – don’t tell me,’ I interrupted. ‘Just fix it.’

‘And you vollies.’ I pointed. ‘I need you to start checking all the garments. Work from left to right along each rail and make sure everything is in order. There’ll be no time once the show has started to search for accessories between each look. Unzip all zips now. Check all cuffs. You need to be ready before the first girl hits the runway.’

Eyeliner-wearing tweens scattered in all directions.

‘And don’t forget there’s over one million dollars worth of Jan Logan jewellery back here. Don’t. Lose. Anything!’ I screamed, before turning my attention to Alice. ‘Alice, where’s Allison? Have we seen her yet this morning?’ Alice shook her head. ‘Find out where she is and get her whatever she wants,’ I replied before turning my attention to my BlackBerry. It was time to muster some media.

Scrolling through my inbox was diabolically dull. It should have been overflowing with media enquiries but instead I’d had no new emails in nearly half an hour. This was unheard of. It was
such
a bad day to be chasing press.

I hit Luke’s number on speed dial.

‘Babe?’ he answered groggily.

‘I need your help,’ I said without preamble. There was no time for niceties, it was nearly 9 am. ‘Actually, I need your column inches. I can’t get traction anywhere today. There are Seals on the front page of every paper in the country and I’ve got a circus here with everything but.’

‘Huh? Seals? At Fashion Week?’ Luke was confused. Clearly, he hadn’t heard about Obama’s crack team. ‘But isn’t fur in this season, Jazzy Lou? Surely you can work with that?’

‘You don’t understand,’ I said bluntly. ‘I’m here in sequin central for Allison Palmer’s show and it’s a media moratorium. You’ve got to come cover the show for me.’

Luke sighed. And made a noise that sounded suspiciously like someone rolling over in bed. ‘What time do you need me?’ he said finally.

Thank God. ‘Be here by 10 am. I owe you big time,’ I replied.

‘Yes, you do, Jazzy Lou,’ Luke signed off. ‘Yes you do.’

I knew I could rely on him.

Next I tried the
Chronicle,
the
Courier,
the
Spectator
and the
Star.
I called the
Advertiser,
the
Observer,
the
Leader
and
the
Times.
I argued with the
Argus
and I bullied the
Bulletin
.
And all without result. I was beginning to wonder whether Diane had personally arranged for bin Laden to get the bullet, such was the catastrophe it had caused me. God knows, nothing would surprise me about that woman’s power to maim or kill.