Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  ‘No problem, pet – good luck. I’ll see you at home tonight.’

  ‘Thanks for listening. Bye.’ Julian drove off, no longer panicked about being ten minutes late for work.

  Gemma strode into the Melbourne Wine Room at the grand, artfully dishevelled George Hotel in St Kilda and surveyed the room. She ignored the suits who all glanced at her entry, checked her out then went back to their European beers having assessed, rated and imagined, for a brief moment, coitus with her.

  A job interview? How ridiculous, Gemma thought as she went up to the bar. She scanned the extensive wine list.

  ‘A glass of the Stumpy Gully chardonnay, please,’ she asked the bartender and looked once more around the room while she waited for Julian. The decor was a celebration of the roaring twenties watering hole, honouring history yet modernising it to make it retro hip. The brass sloped handles on the original timber double glass doors were gleaming. Two wine barrels loomed above the entrance’s portico. Original white tiles evoked images of the six o’clock swill of old but the opposite wall in its luxe chocolate hinted at a greater sophistication. Gemma loved the place.

  You’d think they’d jump at my offer to work with them, Gemma thought. It’s voluntary after all. I should be interviewing them. I could think of half-a-dozen causes that would leap at having me on their fundraising team.

  When Julian had called her this morning to ask her for a meeting, she’d been quite mystified. And why wasn’t she meeting with Dame Frances? Surely she was the one who made the decisions, not some lackey. If they insisted on a second interview with Dame Frances herself, Gemma had decided she’d just ditch them. She was too busy for such nonsense.

  She glanced at her watch. He wasn’t late, yet, but give it fifteen seconds.

  ‘Hello, Gemma,’ a soft voice said. She looked up. ‘I’m Julian Goodstead.’ His hand was outstretched. It was a small hand and very smooth. But a firm grip. She assessed. She approved. Julian was very tanned and bald. He wore a beautiful black sports coat teamed with khaki trousers, white shirt and an excellent striped tie using all three colours. She smiled and sat down, indicating the empty chair opposite for him to follow suit. She saw that he had the most magnificent dark brown eyes; they were enormous and fringed with ridiculously long black eyelashes. She found it hard to take her own eyes off them.

  ‘I’ll have the Gewürztraminer, please,’ Julian said in answer to the waiter’s enquiry.

  ‘Sooo,’ Julian said, ‘the great Gemma Bristol!’ He flapped his open palms in mock adoration. ‘Such an honour to finally meet you in person. I love your work.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say,’ Gemma said and thawed considerably. He was quite sweet. ‘I must say, I’m a great fan of your work. You and Dame Frances are unbelievable.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ Julian said in an aw-shucks kind of way. ‘I can’t tell you how embarrassed I am at having to have this meeting with you. It’s just mortifying – fancy asking the likes of Gemma Bristol to come and meet with little old me. But it’s the Dame’s wish; she’s pretty inflexible, very set in her ways. And all I can do is say yes, Dame; no, Dame; three bags full, Dame.’

  ‘Think nothing of it. I completely understand, Julian.’

  ‘Oh, that’s so lovely of you.’ He picked up the glass the waiter placed at his elbow. ‘So tell me, Gemma. What is it that you’re so generously offering us?’

  ‘First of all I want to impress upon you that I’m not one of those society girls who just wants to join so they can brag they’re on your committee.’

  ‘Ohhh, nooo,’ Julian squealed. ‘Perish the thought. That would have never occurred to me.’

  ‘I really feel a strong urge to give back, to help, and I know that you guys do it in such a major way. What are your figures nowadays? Did I read somewhere you’re up to $100,000 per year?’

  ‘$227,456 last year,’ Julian said, a smug smile teasing his lips. He crossed his legs and clasped his left knee with both hands.

  ‘You see, that’s remarkable. That kind of funding actually makes a difference to those underprivileged children. You can really do something. You genuinely help and that’s what I’m interested in.’ Gemma put down her glass and gave Julian a serious look.

  ‘Well, that is most admirable.’ Julian nodded, sipping his wine thoughtfully. ‘But as you can understand, there is quite some competition to join our committee. And the dynamic is important as well. Though of course we are so flattered that you would even consider us.’ He put down his glass.

  ‘So what can you bring to us? What is it you can help us with? One of the biggest assets for any such committee is an exhaustive list of rock-solid Melbourne establishment. Do you have that?’ Julian sat back to appraise Gemma.

  ‘Well, no,’ Gemma smoothed down her bob as she sat forward, ‘I don’t really mix with the Lady Ellingsworths, the Lord Heatheringtons and the Beillor families, but I do have an extensive network of the younger set, the money more than the prestige. And I have an enormous database of the everybodies. I can break it down demographically too, offer you mailing lists in income streams, by location or even marital status, which is quite handy to enable you to target your specific market.’

  ‘Hmmm, I don’t know that Dame Frances places much value on what she calls “corp talk”.’ Julian frowned. ‘But I do like your network of the next generation of the monied class and I’m sure the Dame will too. Anything else?’

  ‘Well, I am also giving you my time,’ Gemma said, ‘I can dedicate several hours a week. Oh, and I do have tremendous IT resources at my availability through my PR firm.’ She motioned to the waiter for a second drink.

  Julian drained his glass and nodded to the waiter. ‘I guess that would be helpful. We desperately need to update our technology. I’ve been trying to convince the Dame that we need a website.’ He rubbed his hands together with satisfaction. ‘Yes, I think this could work out very well indeed. I shall highly recommend to the Dame that you come on board.’

  ‘Oh, that’s great news!’ Gemma said and smiled broadly at him. Presuming Dame Frances accepted Julian’s recommendation – and Gemma suspected he could be very convincing – she was in. She knew her excitement was a bit over the top, but she couldn’t help herself. Dame Frances was a legend. A living legend. To be knighted by the Queen in 1993 had been a well-deserved honour and the woman had presided over Melbourne ever since. It would be a huge learning curve to work with her.

  Julian let himself into the flat. Binky jumped from a high shelf into his arms. He flicked on a couple of lights, put the cat on the floor after receiving her welcome-home hug and went into the kitchen. A bottle of merlot sat on the bench begging to be opened. Who was he to say no? After all, it was Friday night. He poured a generous splash into one of his favourite stemless ‘O’ Series Riedel glasses.

  Gemma Bristol ticked all the boxes. She brought excellent skills and a modern take on charity fundraising. She had a will of steel, he thought, which begged the question, did he really need to be working with two alpha females?

  Logically it seemed that it was going to work out really well and he had decided that he would recommend her to Dame Frances. He hoped his instincts would prove to be correct.

  The three women stormed through the leaf litter ignoring the rusty, angry cyclones whipping at their trackpants. The headwind made the steep hill leg of their powerwalk around ‘The Tan’ – Melbourne’s nickname for the Royal Botanic Gardens – even more challenging.

  The work-out location was Mercedes’s choice. She lived in a gorgeous two-storey apartment decorated in pure Art Deco, positioned near the Yarra River, so this was a very convenient place for her to meet her friends. Her only company at the apartment was her Maltese terrier Donatella and the occasional semipermanent boyfriend who came then went when Mercedes’s demands reached unreasonable levels.

  ‘So, I’m in,’ Gemma announced, ‘finally. Thanks again, Chantelle, for the contact. Julian Goodstead’s a real sweetie.’

  ‘What
are you like?’ Chantelle asked and grinned. ‘Don’t be daft. It was just a phone call.’

  Mercedes dabbed at her forehead with her armband. She was looking quite flushed. ‘I think you’re mad. What a waste of time. I hope it doesn’t cut into your social life too much.’

  ‘Nahhh, she’s wonderful, Mercedes,’ Chantelle said. ‘I think it’s just great what you’re doing, helping the kiddies and all.’

  ‘I had to have a job interview with Julian. Can you believe it?’ Gemma said, adjusting her stride to match her friends’.

  ‘Yah, I guess I can, really,’ Chantelle said. ‘They’ve got to be careful. You can just imagine some of the people that must try to get onto their committee. It’s got such respect in the community.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right. I tell you what, though: I really will have my work cut out for me. They don’t even have a website.’

  Gemma jumped over a eucalyptus bough that had come down in the winds.

  ‘Jeezus,’ Mercedes said, ‘how Dark Ages. Even my dog-walker has a website. And she’s twelve.’

  ‘Yes, it will be great improving on their systems, helping them change their ways, bringing them into the twenty-first century, to improve their fundraising efforts. And I just had another idea: Dame Frances’s auctions are legendary, and she could raise even more money for UP-Kids by doing them on eBay. The potential of this committee is limitless.’

  They reached the top of the hill and turned right. Now that they were on the flat their pace picked up a bit.

  ‘Yeah, sounds great, luv,’ Chantelle said, ‘but remember, Dame Frances is a real stickler for tradition. I don’t think you should go too hard at first. Softly, softly is what she’s used to, you know?’

  ‘Oh, that’s so conservative, Chantelle,’ Mercedes said. ‘You’re right, Gemma: you should go for it hammer and tongs.’

  ‘Do you really think so, Mercedes?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Chah! Of course, she’ll love all your ideas. They’re so good – how could she not?’

  Gemma wondered if Mercedes was just sucking up, but she quickly discarded the bitchy thought.

  ‘Well, I do have loads of ideas and I can’t wait to share them all with her. We meet tomorrow.’

  ‘Gem,’ Chantelle said, ‘trust me on this one, my love. She’s not one for change. It’s her way or the highway, if you know what I mean. She’s not going to like it.’

  ‘Ye of little faith,’ Gemma said and patted her friend on her very tanned arm. ‘I’ll have Dame Frances lapping out of my palm before the end of the month.’

  Gemma smoothed down her grey Armani pants as she stood up from the car. She picked up her new dove-grey Michael Kors handbag and swung it from the crook of her elbow. First appearances were important so she kept her charcoal cropped Max Azria suit jacket on and buttoned up even though it was an unseasonal twenty-four degrees for the autumn day.

  She’d scored a park right out the front of Dame Frances’s apartment building and was in the elevator zipping up to the penthouse floor within minutes. Today was her first committee meeting and she was a little apprehensive. Although she’d worked with highly respected, well-connected pillars of society before, she also knew there was a lot riding on this meeting. This was the first time she was to meet Dame Frances, apart from one brief phone conversation. She’d laughed at Dame Frances’s wit when she’d told her that she didn’t have an email address.

  To have the most influential women of Melbourne society in one room at the same time was a fairly intimidating prospect. Particularly Dame Frances Davenport herself. To be knighted by the Queen for her charitable works was mind-blowing. Gemma was nervous.

  The elevator opened directly into the Dame’s foyer. Julian walked in from the living room to greet her. He wore a pink-and-white-checked shirt with floral collar and cuffs teamed with chinos and riding boots. A navy blazer dressed up the whole country-boy-does-Mardi-Gras look he had going on.

  ‘Darling, fabulous to see you,’ he gushed and kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘Thanks, Julian. Am I late? Is the Dame waiting for me?’

  ‘Not at all. It’s fab you’re actually a few minutes ahead of schedule; it’ll give you a chance to meet her before the other darlings arrive.’ His voice dropped to a stage whisper. ‘But whatever you do, do not call her the Dame.’ His face was deadly serious so Gemma just nodded with wide eyes.

  Gemma followed Julian into the living room. She suppressed a smile. It was precisely as she’d imagined. Although the building itself was a fairly modern structure with enormous plate glass and aluminium window frames, the Dame’s interior designer had managed to channel Louis XIV’s own decorator. Swathes of gold-fringed fabric draped over the pelmets, framed the windows and spilled onto the floor. Richly coloured Persian carpets covered every inch of mahogany floorboard. Buttercup silk damask-covered timber Carver chairs sat around the dining table. A gold-and-white Regency striped claw-footed settee faced the ornate white-marble fireplace on the far wall and raspberry-coloured velvet cushions provided a bright folly against the neutral backdrop. Red roses in numerous positions around the room also popped out from the sunny hues.

  Gemma realised Julian had gone ahead and was now waiting for her at the Dame’s side. She scuttled over. Dame Frances ignored her while she continued penning an elaborate thankyou note on embossed heavy white linen stationery. Gemma felt a twinge of guilt that she only SMSed her thanks nowadays. In fact, she wondered if she still possessed the skill of handwriting; it had been so long since she’d needed to do it. The Dame folded the note, placed it in the envelope, addressed the envelope then, finally, looked up.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Bristol,’ she said and stretched out her right hand in greeting.

  ‘Please call me Gemma. It’s an honour to meet you, Dame Frances,’ Gemma replied, shaking the older woman’s hand and resisting the sudden urge to curtsey.

  ‘Sit, please.’ Dame Frances shuffled through her papers while Gemma did as she was bid.

  ‘Julian, coffee, and try to make it taste a little less like dishwater this time,’ she said. As Julian scurried to the kitchen, she turned her attention to Gemma. She glared over her half-rimmed spectacles. The Dame’s black and merlot suit jacket was buttoned up firmly underneath her bust while a burgundy and gold Hermès scarf spilled from the neckline, and Gemma suddenly felt as though she hadn’t dressed smartly enough or wasn’t qualified enough to be here.

  ‘The rest of the committee should be here any moment,’ she said. ‘They are hardworking, well-connected, very wealthy women. I do hope that your joining us will work out.’ She didn’t look convinced that it would even come close to being a success.

  Gemma wondered at what point anyone might thank her for donating her time and expertise to the committee but then chastised herself and remembered that she was here to help, not to be a hero.

  The elevator door sounded with a shoosh followed by a clatter of heels on the marble foyer floor.

  Gemma recognised the pair instantly as they entered the room. Lady Patricia Ellingsworth was an institution. Her father was Lord Ellingsworth and had, until his death three years ago, served at the House of Lords in England. Lady Patricia had moved to Australia in the early 1960s when she’d married menswear retail giant Joseph Brighton. She’d declined to take her husband’s surname, creating a flurry of controversy in 1964. Lady Patricia had declared herself a feminist and had hosted a grand function in 1972 with Germaine Greer as guest speaker when she was promoting her controversial book The Female Eunuch. The event had caused great consternation and had split the community apart, with the conservative royalists up in arms about her flouting convention and the new-money liberals supporting her cause.

  Gemma had always admired Lady Patricia’s intestinal fortitude standing up to the upper classes in which she resided and had met her at a function once last year where she was guest speaker. Lady Patricia was tall, thin and coolly detached. She wore a Camilla butterfly short silk caftan over black wide-leg pants.
Her pewter-grey hair hung on either side of her face in dead-straight sheets.

  She entered with another woman Gemma recognised but had never met. Bobbi Robertson-Black was a direct descendant of the Robertson dynasty, which in Australian terms was ancient, but really only extended back to the gold rush. In 1852 her great-grandfather had started selling bottles of beer and bread loaves to the diggers on the goldfields, a business that eventually expanded to become what was today Australia’s largest catering company supplying every sporting venue, high school and public event. Bobbi was a round little thing, her plump face belying her almost-seventy years. She was wearing a fuchsia silk shirt with collar turned up that hung out over charcoal trousers, while multiple strands of pearls draped around her multiple chins.

  The Robertson compound in the heart of Toorak was famous for its sheer ever-expanding magnitude as Bobbi’s father, William, at an indomitable ninety years old, continued to nibble away at the block by buying up every neighbouring three-to-five-million-dollar property as it went on the market. Bobbi’s husband, Oliver, worked for her father in the family conglomeration.

  Julian met the ladies at the doorway and the three of them walked to the table with Julian making introductions and Dame Frances making no attempt to seem interested.

  ‘Sit. The other three have two minutes precisely to get here or we lock the elevator keypad,’ the Dame finally said.

  Gemma tittered at the gag and then, noticing the blank looks on the faces of the other two women, realised the Dame was serious.

  Lady Patricia and Bobbi seemed accustomed to Dame Frances’s abrupt ways and murmured quietly to one another. Julian poured coffee. The lift doors opened again.

  The three women who walked in together were so glitzy Gemma could barely make out their faces with the morning sunlight streaming in and bouncing off their jewellery and highlights.

  Julian again rushed to introduce the women.

  ‘Gemma, this is Rachel Wiseman, Rebekah David and Olympia Varlemos.’