Strictly Confidential (22 page)

Leaving no stone unturned, I scrolled to Pamela’s name in my contacts list.

‘Pamela Stone! My
fave
gossip queen,’ I started.

‘Sorry, doll, unless you’re ringing me about bin Laden, I’m afraid there’s no space available today,’ said Pamela, preparing to hang up.

‘Wait! I am!’ I said desperately.

‘You
are
?’ Pamela didn’t even try to disguise her surprise.

‘Er, yeah, I am,’ I repeated. I thought if I said it enough times it might just be true.

‘I’m all ears.’

‘So, you know how Osama has died,’ I stalled.

‘I had heard,’ Pamela said dryly.

‘Well, er –’ I scanned the room for inspiration.

‘Yes?’

‘Well, you see –’ I started again when a volunteer appeared out of nowhere, brandishing my old Speedy handbag.

‘Jasmine Lewis! You left your bag in the makeup room!’ the vollie yelled.

I took the bag and slipped it over my arm for the second time that morning. This bag was like a bloody boomerang. I was destined never to be permanently parted from it. Or Raven’s red knickers, which were probably still floating around inside somewhere.

And then it hit me.

Raven’s knickers! Actually,
any
celebrity’s knickers. This was just what we needed. Knickers.
Famou
s knickers. And hats and shoes and frocks and toenail clippings, for all I cared. Anything, as long as its owner was famous. This idea was inspired. Raven’s red g-string might save my arse yet.

‘Well, Pamela, we’re hosting a celebrity auction at Allison Palmer’s catwalk show here at Fashion Week today. All proceeds are going to the families of the New York Fire Department. Because we don’t want those poor people to be forgotten now that the hunt for bin Laden is over.’

‘So you’re auctioning celebrity memorabilia?’ Pamela asked. ‘Like what?’

That was a good question. It was 9.23 am. The first model was due to walk at 11 am. And I had no celebrity memorabilia to speak of. Clearly, I would not be auctioning celebrity memorabilia that morning. Better think fast.

‘No, no, Pamela. We’re not auctioning celebrity
stuff
,’ I said. ‘No, nothing as crass as that. God, the
last
thing I want to do is make our celeb clientele feel like exhibits in a zoo. No, we’re hosting an auction for celebrities to
participate
in. Wave some paddles around. You know, bid, darling. All of the gorgeous gowns in Allison Palmer’s show will be going under the hammer immediately following the event. And all of our special front-row guests are invited to bid. Because nothing feels as good as owning a haute couture piece, does it?’

There was silence on the line. Then: ‘Doll, that is a simply
gorge
idea. I love it. What time do you kick off? I’ll have the car brought around now. And you
must
save me a seat in the front row! Ta ta.’

Boom! What a result! Sydney’s social pages sovereign was going to cover our event.

I just hoped like hell Allison would be okay with my plan. But I couldn’t see why not. The gowns she was showing were only samples, after all. And the publicity of having a celeb bid for your designs would be worth so much more than any frock itself. Plus, at least this way I was auctioning something I actually
had
. (Even if it wasn’t mine to sell.) A slightly better scenario than selling celebrity memorabilia I didn’t have, non?

So now all I had to do was organise and promote a charity auction. In a little less than two hours. I instinctively reached for my Nurofen, then I remembered.
Of course
. I’d been blacklisted. Ever since my local pharmacy had got wind of my Nurofen-induced stomach ulcer they’d chalked me up as a crack-whore-ice-addict, the kind of lowlife who probably tested her cosmetics on innocent bunnies each morning and who willing gives E-numbers to children. The result? Now my overzealous chemist would sell me nothing stronger than a herbal remedy. I grabbed the small floral-scented spritzer from my bag and poured its contents down my throat, swallowing a bouquet of bush herbs whole.

‘Not lipo
suction
. Celeb
auction
!’ I had to shout to be heard over the din of hairdryers. ‘Like, fundraising for the less fortunate and stuff!’

Only Shelley could think 10 am on a weekday morning – and a weekday morning during Fashion Week, no less – was a good time for a nip and tuck.

‘But I’m flattered you thought I was calling from your surgeon’s rooms,’ I added sarcastically, without pausing to ask what exactly she thought I was having done. That was one can of weight-loss leeches that didn’t need opening. Instead I said, ‘I need you to source some auction paddles for me, Shell.’

The clock was ticking and it was all hands on deck if we were ever going to get to smashing champagne over the bow of this auction. I already had Allison pricing her stock and the Bees designing a buyers’ guide to be handed to all A-list guests at the show. Myself, I was just shooting off a press release to every outlet and contact I knew when the camera crew from Network Six appeared backstage for their prearranged interview with Allison. This was one interview I’d managed to hang on to and simply by not being too proud to beg. The fact that I’d nearly come to blows with Channel Twelve – their main rival – at the
Coco
Awards hadn’t hurt my standing at Six either.

‘Welcome!’ I bellowed, stepping over sequin-sewing minions and extending a frantic arm. ‘Come on in, let me clear some room for you.’ I kicked the seamstresses out of the way.

The crew trudged on in.

‘And Kate McClelland!’ I cried, spotting the petite TV journalist behind them. ‘So great to see you!’

Kate offered a warm smile. I could have offered my firstborn in return. At last, some fucking media coverage.

‘Please meet our very talented designer, Allison Palmer.’ I thrust Allison forward.

Polite introductions all round.

‘Now, shall we jump straight in and run through the script?’ I suggested. If we could provide enough tasty sound bites, this interview might just eat into both the 4 pm and 6 pm bulletins.

Kate nodded compliantly.

Allison looked petrified.

As the crew set up their cameras, Kate and Allison rehearsed their script while I hovered over them. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to start by asking: “Why BMW Australian Fashion Week?”’ Kate said.

Allison turned to me questioningly.

‘Great!’ I replied. ‘And Allison’s answer is: “As a born and bred Sydneysider, there’s no runway I’d prefer a run at!”’

Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘We’re only broadcasting in the Sydney major metro area so there’s no requirement to pacify Melbourne viewers. Shall we film that?’

Allison looked like she might faint.

‘Let’s,’ I replied as the crew bunged on a spotlight behind us.

Kate switched on her on-air persona to match. ‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies, because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer. Now Allison, why have you chosen Australian Fashion Week for your very first catwalk show?’

The camera swung around to Allison, who looked impeccable in one of her own flawless creations.

‘Well . . .’ she started. And then she froze. ‘Um, what’s the answer again, Jazzy?’ she said nervously, still looking down the barrel of the camera. The cameraman sighed and swung the camera off his shoulder. Kate smiled graciously and we began over again from the top.

Lining up for a second take, Kate posed the question thoughtfully, as if it had only just popped into her mind: ‘Now Allison, why have you chosen Australian Fashion Week for your very first catwalk show?’

But just as Allison prepared to answer, a courier bumped into the room, wheeling a squeaky clothing rail behind him and shouting for a signatory for his delivery.

‘Gah!’ I screamed. ‘We’re filming here, people! Channel Six News! Very important!’

The cameraman puffed out his chest. The racket behind me carried on. This would never do.

‘Everybody shut up! Shut up!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t care who you are and I don’t care what you’re doing! We’re filming a TV interview here that will pay your fashionista wages. No one makes any further noise until I say.’

Silence fell across the room.

The cameraman whistled through his teeth. ‘Can we take you with us on all our shoots?’ he asked in hushed tones.

I grinned.

Kate started over, unperturbed. ‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies, because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer –’

‘No!’ I interrupted. ‘That won’t do. Allison, you were moving your arms.’

Kate looked bemused. ‘That’s fine. Arms are fine. They make her look human.’

‘She’s not allowed to be human,’ I explained. ‘She’s got me next to her.’

Allison swallowed nervously.

Behind me, at that very second, our seamstresses finished work on the showstopper of today’s event: a stunning silver ballgown, figure-hugging with a fishtail finish and covered with thousands of sparkling sequins.

‘Oh, wow!’ exclaimed Kate, spying the dress.

Allison smiled shyly. ‘Do you want to take a look? It weighs over eleven kilograms with all those sequins.’

I held the dress up for Kate to admire.

‘Wow!’ she said again. ‘Eleven kilograms? That must be half your weight, Jazzy,’ she joked.

I didn’t disagree. Stress, it turns out, is not a four-square meal.

Then, turning back to the camera, Kate began her spiel again as I hovered nearby, supervising. After all, if I wasn’t there to make sure Allison Palmer was ‘on brand’ for the Allison Palmer brand, who would? Thankfully Allison looked a little more comfortable now she’d had a chance to show off her work.

‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer . . .’

Out in the foyer, meawhile, where the Moët bubbled and the Gucci glittered, A-listers began to amass. They flittered about ethereally, their faces at once recognisable yet at the same time representing something tantalisingly out of reach. The paparazzi snapped at their well-shod heels. The glitterati were out in full force.

There was Samantha Priest, her long hair extensions glistening in the morning sunshine bouncing off the harbour. There was Pamela Stone, her regal presence filling the packed room while her eyes scanned for tomorrow’s headline. There was the blonde bombshell Belle Single, batting her lashes for the panting paps. And
oh!
beside her was the handsome Michael Lloyd, I couldn’t help but notice. There was racing royalty Sara Goldbridge, her long legs looking more elongated than ever, as if designed to mock her mother’s prized jockeys. There were ubiquitous reality TV stars. There were celebrated television chefs. There were famous radio hosts and there were infamous football stars. There were shoe doyennes and there were millinery masters. There were fashion muses and there were fashion slaves. Plus, there were fashion editors aplenty.

And there, in the thick of things, was Luke.

‘OMG, sweetie,’ he cried to the Botoxed beauty beside him who was embalmed in new-season Versace. ‘Did you hear Cate Blanchett will be here at Allison’s show? Word on the street is she’s going to bid on the final gown, so I’d put in an advance bid if I were you. But that’s strictly confidential, babe,’ he added, winking then swanning off to the next cluster of celebs.

I caught his eye and flashed him a winning smile. Mazel tov, my friend. Mazel tov.

Then, without warning, I felt a bump from behind, followed by the unmistakable fizz of champagne hitting my exposed skin. ‘Oops!’ cried a familiar voice. I spun around, spraying droplets of Moët on everyone in my vicinity, and found myself face to face with Belle bloody Single. ‘I tripped!’ she added, as if that explained the river of sparkling wine flowing down my back and into the waistline of my backless Oscar de la Renta number.