Strictly Confidential (23 page)

I raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘You tripped? And lost the entire contents of your champagne flute on my Ciao Bella spray tan?’ Diabolical! If this hadn’t been my own event I would have caused one hell of a scene right now. I wasn’t even sure I wouldn’t. What the hell had I done to deserve this? Other than flirting outrageously with her boyfriend all night at the
Coco
Man of the Year Awards, that is.

Belle smirked, her artificially white teeth the purest thing about her.

Two could play this game.

‘Oh, Michael!’ I called, spotting Belle’s beau engrossed in conversation a few steps behind her. ‘Could I borrow you for a minute? Sadly your girlfriend seems to have lost her drink. No, she doesn’t need another. But I could use a hand mopping it up, please?’ I turned my naked and now dripping-wet back to Michael.

His jaw dropped. Belle scowled. And I smiled as Michael very graciously helped me dry off.

I was just beginning to enjoy myself when I spied Diane across the room, her giant Dior sunglasses shielding innocent bystanders from the laser beams of hate she shot in my direction. I smiled sweetly in response. Much as having Belle Single’s boyfriend wipe down my naked back was fun, nothing would give me greater pleasure today than to wipe the floor with Diane.

Then the doors to the show space swung open and the dance of the beautiful people began in earnest. A-list celebrities glided graciously to the front row, obliging the snappers who pursued them on the way. There was Ruby Rose and Christine Centenera and Jodhi Meares and Dannii Minogue. Erin McNaught was there and John Ibrahim too. Russell Crowe wandered by, Danielle Spencer on his arm, as Laura Dundovic and Sophie Monk hunted for their seats. There was Justin Hemmes, Tom Williams, Nat Bassingthwaighte and Joel Christie. There was small screen queen Kerri-Anne Kennerley, plus Lisa Wilkinson, Melissa Doyle, Kylie Gillies, Yumi Stynes and Carrie Bickmore. Even Jessica Mauboy made an appearance, as did Kyle and Jackie O.

Next the B-listers burst in, all pursed lips and hands on hips, posing for the waiting press. Then came our C-list clientele, shipped in to fill the remaining seats. (One of them immediately fell drunkenly from the back row of tiered seating, clearly unused to free alcohol.
And that’s why you’re in the back row, sweetie
, I thought, exasperated.
Well, that and the fact you’re a little on the tubby side.
) As I raced backstage, the tiers of press photographers filled up too. As did the press section. We just might pull this off, I thought as the pink-haired fashion editor of
Muse
slipped in, looking cool as fuck. Then, hot on her heels, came Shelley decked out in Derek Lam and brandishing bidding paddles. Spotting my head poking out from backstage, she waved the paddles wildly, sending the old queens next to her into an early bidding frenzy.

‘Jazzy Lou!’ she shouted, struggling to be heard over the pumping pre-show music.

‘You are
beyond
!’ I replied, racing forward to retrieve the paddles. ‘But where on earth did you get these?’

Shelley grinned. ‘It’s amazing what you can buy on eBay these days.’ She winked as she returned to her seat.

I didn’t know what was more incredible: Shelley buying bidding paddles on eBay in only a couple of hours, or Shelley buying bidding paddles on eBay full stop.

Schlepping back behind the scenes, I had just enough time to join Allison for a last-minute check of our models before the house lights were dimmed. Emma, who was standing nearby, held up her crossed fingers for me and Allison to see. Through gritted teeth I whispered nervously, ‘If we pull this off, I’ll eat my hat.’ Em smiled encouragingly. Silence descended. And our first model, as they say, stepped forward to break a leg.

Only she didn’t.

Break a leg, that is. Oh, no. Instead, our first leggy model stepped onto the catwalk to the strains of Vivaldi and to spontaneous, wondrous applause. Rapturous applause. Thunderous applause. Arse-saving, career-making applause. Applause that caused Em to turn and point to an invisible hat on her head and wink. Applause that I would
happily
eat my hat for. Hell, for applause like this I would have willingly eaten carbs again.

As the first model strode down the runway, shoulders thrown back and hipbones thrust forward, her sequins sparkled, her pout pouted and the audience lapped it up.

‘This is
beyond
!’ squealed Allison.

And it really, truly was. I’d never before seen a response like this to a debut catwalk show. Allison had done an amazing job, and the two of us clutched each other in disbelief as a second then a third model joined the first down the runway. The paparazzi papped, fashion editors looked rapt, and beneath her Botoxed veneer, Diane’s supercilious smile collapsed. I grinned like a madwoman.

When Lady Gaga received a text from Anna Wintour to say she’d won the Fashion Icon Award at the CFDA Fashion Awards, Gaga thought the message was from a different Anna in her contacts list. Her reply?
Yes, bitch, we did it.
While I, unlike Gaga, stopped short of sending a shout-out to Nuclear Wintour that day, when Allison joined her models on the catwalk for a well-deserved lap of honour I couldn’t help but think,
Yes, bitch, we did it.
We really did it. All the hard work, all the sleepless nights, all the obstacles in our way, and the Bees and I had still delivered a successful show, to rapturous applause, in front of a full house of influencers and photographers. This was one for the haters.

Now, if only we could say the same for our last-ditch charity pitch.

Again the house lights dimmed and the spotlight snapped on as a lone skinny model stepped cautiously onto the runway as if stepping out onto a high wire.

The room was silent. The model swayed.

Her sky-blue gown glistened and she took another tentative step forward before halting, balanced in the limelight.

And then? Nothing.

Not a sound.

My career hung in the balance.

You know, it’s strange. Very strange. When we’ve talked about that auction in the years since, reliving every agonising moment, Shelley, Luke and I have never been able to agree on what happened next.

Shelley maintains she was first on her feet, with a wild wave of her paddle and a bold opening bid: ‘Five thousand, dah-ling! Six if the dress bloody fits me!’ Of course, Shelley walked away that day with enough sequins to clad a small disco-loving third-world nation so she may well have been the one who got the bidding started.

But I beg to differ. From where I stood peering nervously out from backstage, I 
know
I saw Michael Lloyd look squarely in my direction, shake off Belle Single’s restraining arm and make an audacious bid. I’m absolutely sure of it. Why else would Belle have looked like all her prospects for social-climbing success had just gone down the toilet?

As for Luke, well, he swears I’m biased. And that as early as that fateful auction day I’ve only had eyes for Michael Lloyd. Which is a shame, really. As apparently I missed seeing Diane throw up her hands in disgust and storm from the auction room (unwittingly purchasing the item under the hammer at the time). In hindsight, it seems only fair that Diane should donate to my cause. After all, I as good as worked for charity for her all those years.

From there, of course, none of us can argue about what happened next. After all, who could forget the bidding bedlam that ensued? Arms flew in the air as, jewellery jangling, Sydney’s glamorous glitterati threw itself behind our cause.

‘Boom!’ I shrieked to Allison as an ivory micro-dress sold for a macro price.

‘OMG!’ she screamed at me when a full-length jumpsuit caused a jump in bidding.

‘Yes, bitch, we did it!’ we squealed in unison as bidding on her amazing silver showstopper stopped the hearts of accountants the city over.

Bitch, we really did it.

When the headlines hit the next day, Allison Palmer was hotter news than Pippa Middleton’s arse.
FROCK AUCTION STEALS SHOW
, screamed the
Sun
.
FASHIONISTA FUNDRAISER RAISES MORE THAN JUST HEM LINES
,
shouted the
Advertiser.
And my personal favourite?
JAZZY’S CHARITY’S THE BEES’ KNEES!

Our fundraiser, it seemed, satisfied the ‘good news’ criteria of a world-weary Sydney press. And so our feel-good Fashion Week fundraiser filled the closing minutes of the television news on every Sydney station. And as press clippings continued to land in my inbox that day, my phone lit up with Luke’s name.

‘Luke Jefferson, my favourite hack. What can I do for you, babe?’

Luke laughed. ‘Is your life such a whirlwind, Jazzy Lou, that you’ve forgotten yesterday already, sweetie?’ he joked. ‘You owe me so much I don’t even know where to start.’ He laughed even harder at the prospect.

‘Sure, shoot,’ I said.

‘Lunch,’ was his reply. ‘Some slippery orange fish and a passionfruit caprioska, please.’

‘No can do, I’m afraid,’ I apologised, even though he must have known it was coming.

‘Lemme guess, even after yesterday’s coup, you’re working through lunch today?’

I sighed. ‘You know me too well, Jefferson. I’ve got a preliminary meeting about an Allison Palmer plaque on The Intersection’s Designers Walk of Style in Paddington.’

‘That’s
incred
, babe,’ Luke said genuinely. ‘Walk of fame material already? Sheesh, you don’t muck around.’

‘When you’re hot, you’re hot.’

‘Defs.’

‘But I’ll tell you what,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you an inside tip for dinner, to make up for missing lunch. If you can get a paparazzo along to Marque restaurant tonight, I promise it will be your lead story tomorrow.’

‘Totes?’ he asked.

‘Totes.’

‘And who might be dining at Marque that’s so newsworthy?’

I paused. ‘Word on the street is Belle Single’s boyfriend, Michael Lloyd, is taking another woman out to dinner.’

‘No!’ Luke cried. ‘Who?’

I braced myself for Luke’s squeal. ‘
Moi
,’ I said.

Sure enough, he screeched down the line, ‘Jazzy Lou! You’ve got a date with Belle Single’s beau?
Amaze!
’

I grinned.

‘God, no one buries your press conference and gets away with it, do they?’ Then he added urgently, ‘OMG, what are you going to
wear
?’

I laughed. And then I turned to the Net-a-Porter bag on my desk where inside, so new it still bore its tag, lay one red Vixenary g-string.

This book would not have been possible without Felicity McLean – thank you so much for the support and advice during the writing process. To my team of Bettys (aka the Bees) – you make every day possible and without you we would have no stories, no one to pull me into line when I lose my cool and no one to laugh and cry with – daily. I consider you all my sisters, not staff, even when I shout! Thank you to Joel; you are a dear friend and totally inspiring – not to mention a funny bugger. Your support has been endless and I am so grateful. MS . . . thank YOU for the little and not so little tips on where and when Hollywood’s hottest celebs hit the tarmac – you have, without question, enabled us to hit the crème de la crème with our brands when our clients thought it would not be humanly possible to get their brands and products on the world’s biggest superstars. A huge thank you to Claire, my gorgeous (lipstick-phobic) publisher: I will never forget the day I received your email about doing a book together – and to think where we are now – BEYOND! The hardworking team of sales and marketing gurus who have worked tirelessly on getting
Strictly Confidential
on the shelves of the best bookstores around the country. To Mum and Dad – it’s been a journey and a half and you have provided me with opportunities and guidance that have taken me to where I am today both personally and professionally. When at twenty-four I embarked on the task of starting Sweaty Betty PR you supported me one hundred percent even though you didn’t know what PR even was – thank you. To Oli and Little Pixie-Rose . . . I know I am annoying (sometimes), but thank you for putting up with me and my manic work life, odd hours, third arm (BlackBerry) and obsessive compulsive ways – I love you. xRJ