by Cate Kendall
‘Why not?’ Gemma asked. ‘It’s 200 names, bam, ready to go.’
The Dame began thrusting a gnarled finger at the screen. ‘Uta Manning – divorced amid scandal. We don’t need her and her table of trampy divorcees. Sam and Sally Marks – boring, middle-class accountant types . . .’
‘They’re not, they’re lovely, and they’re my friends.’
‘I haven’t finished,’ the Dame snapped.
‘Her – too young. Him – too flashy. Those two – bad reputation: swingers, I believe. And as for the rest of your clever electronic list, I haven’t even heard of any of them. I’m not having a bunch of nobodies, no matter how electronically zipped up, at my Rum Ball.’
‘But, Dame, it’s the twenty-first century. It’s not about a who’s who of Melbourne. It’s the almighty dollar that makes the world go around. And time. And if we don’t start saving some of both, this charity is going down the toilet.’
‘How dare you? How very dare you!’ The Dame sat up straight, her bosom thrust out like an opera singer’s. ‘This committee has relied for years on a very specific group of hand-picked elite people. We only include new people from friends of friends and with very careful vetting. We’re not just sending out the invitations willy-nilly.’
‘But, Dame, you could have further reach if you did it my way,’ Gemma begged.
‘I don’t want “reach”,’ she trilled. ‘I want the old days back when my parties were the toast of the town, the most talked-about, the most exclusive events, impossible to get into. What you’re suggesting will result in our functions becoming about as exclusive as the opening of a McDonald’s.’ Her voice dropped several octaves. She held her throat to recover her composure. Eventually she looked back at her notes. Then she added in a chilly tone, ‘And don’t call me “Dame”.’
‘Hello?’ A voice called from the lobby. Dame Frances glared at Julian. ‘Did you buzz someone up?’
‘Er, no, Dame Frances, but I did give the journalist the key code so she could come up.’
Dame Frances tsked. ‘I despair of you sometimes, Julian, I really do. Now you’re going to have to reset the code. Come in.’ She directed the last comment to the unseen visitor.
A young bleached-blonde woman entered the room. The Dame’s disapproval of her casual disco attire of glittery flared Guess jeans and a sequined T-shirt featuring an unclad woman was clear as she looked the woman up and down and sighed.
‘Hellooo,’ the young woman said, ‘I’m Priscilla Simcoe. I’m here to do the piece on your committee. I guess you’re “the Dame”.’ She said this with air quotes.
‘Nobody calls me that,’ the Dame said. ‘Come, sit. Julian, coffee.’
‘Oh, no thanks, I’m right,’ the young woman said.
‘It’s not for you; it’s for me. Let’s begin, shall we. As they say, charity begins at home. Fifty years ago I saw there was a need for fundraising . . .’
Gemma tuned out. She couldn’t believe that the Dame was holding this interview here, right now, wasting, yet again, everyone’s time with her inefficiency. She brought her iPad to life, ignoring Dame Frances’s glare, and got stuck into some work emails. At least she could use the time productively.
‘Whoa,’ Chantelle almost overbalanced into the gutter as she scrabbled out of the car with her massive Givenchy handbag, towering cork wedge platforms and a tiny, tight miniskirt that forced her thighs together.
She wobbled unsteadily as her date, Walter, took her arm to steady her slight frame.
Chantelle was so hampered by her fashion Walter could almost have justified using the disabled car space.
‘My hero,’ she squeaked as she hung off his forearm while she scaled the kerb.
Chantelle adjusted her fluffy mohair shrug, re-positioned her handbag strap, pulled down her miniskirt, flicked her extensions out of her eyes, placed her tiny hand back around Walter’s large forearm, shined her lips with a cat’s tongue flicker of spit and was finally ready to enter the restaurant.
Vue de Monde was one of Melbourne’s most famous restaurants. The imaginative and delicate modern French cuisine was the brainchild of famous chef, Shannon Bennett. Bookings were necessary weeks in advance. Naturally Walter had connections with the owner – he had connections with everyone. He was so in touch. Chantelle did admire that in a man. And shiny shoes.
The maître d’ led them to their seats. The best in the house, they were positioned right along the kitchen’s low wall so that they could witness firsthand the theatre of Shannon Bennett’s food production.
These chefs flourished where others might merely plate up; theirs was a world of alchemy and sorcery where another kitchen might be mere jus and stock.
Of course, the majesty of such fine dining may have been a tad lost on Chantelle who couldn’t help but exclaim ‘yummy’ at every one of the five courses.
‘So tell me about yourself,’ Walter asked her after they completed the ironic deconstructed take on the old-school Waldorf salad.
‘Oh, not much to tell, really. I live in Toorak on St Georges Road, but you know that ’cos you were at the wake. How did you know Ed again? I forget.’
‘I’m his cousin.’
‘Oh, duh.’ She slapped her head. ‘Of course you are. Anyway. You know where I live. I work sometimes for IQPR just to help out my friend, Gemma Bristol. She’s great, she is. Too busy, though. She’s going to burst a gasket if she doesn’t slow down, you know what I mean?’
‘Yes, there’s a lot to be said for early retirement,’ Walter said. ‘If one has the means, I highly recommend it.’
‘Well, I did a fantastic job a few months ago with Gemma. We did a Porsche launch. It was just brilliant. Gem’s a marvel. I worked my little tush off, let me tell you. I was in charge of getting all the uniforms for the waiting staff. They looked just great. They went for a goth theme so they looked the same – yeah? – but different.’
‘Well done, that’s just tremendous,’ Walter said.
‘Aw, thank you. Look, I’ve got some pictures of my work. Here, have a look.’ Chantelle flicked through her phone photo library and showed off her last job.
‘That’s excellent, good work,’ Walter repeated his sentiment and patted her on the back of the hand.
‘Thanks. I’m glad you like it.’ Chantelle glowed in the praise she was receiving from the older man.
Just then another patron wandered over to greet Walter. ‘How are you, you old bugger,’ the newcomer boomed, ‘and how is the life of Riley treating you?’
Chantelle used the opportunity to duck out. She stood. ‘I’m just going to pop next door to Vue Shop. I have to buy some choccies for my friend who’s a bit flat – you know, Gemma, the one I was telling you about. And really that one kind they have there is so yummy.’
‘I gather you mean the Amedei I Cru?’ Walter said and dipped into his deep front trouser pocket and withdrew a money-clipped wad of cash. ‘You have fine taste, my dear. Here’s some money, darling. Oh, and buy a little something for yourself.’
‘Thanks, pet,’ she purred, pecked him on the cheek and teetered out of the restaurant.
Couture Catfight
By Priscilla Simcoe
Priscilla’s Socials, The Age
At a well-heeled coffee morning socialite squabbles broke out. Priscilla Simcoe was there.
Charity queen, Dame Frances Davenport, is struggling to maintain control of her do-gooder committee since PR guru Gemma Bristol came on board.
At last week’s meeting the alpha gals lashed out at each other in a verbal brawl most unbecoming of ladies of a certain standing. Apparently Ms Bristol is too tech- aggressive for the traditional values of the group, while Dame Frances’s methods are positively prehistoric, according to the thoroughly modern Gemma.
Earlier this year the UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee celebrated fifty years of service to Melbourne’s most loved charity, UP-Kids. And in recent times their contributions have been upwards of sixty per cent of the charit
y’s annual income – and that includes any government subsidy.
So the old gals have been stoically raising funds in spite of, as Gemma Bristol seems to think, their antiquated methods.
Yet ticket sales have seemingly been flailing for the grande dame of charity with places still available for purchase on the day of the last five years’ Chocolate Balls. So perhaps Gemma has a point and it’s time to move with the times, Dame.
Or maybe Dame Frances’s methods, tried and true, should remain in force.
The end result of the committee meeting was talons bared, tempers flared and manners spared. It was a catfight of the highest pedigree. Whichever way it goes, play nice, ladies.
Julian stepped out of the elevator into the Dame’s small foyer. He’d just been to the post office box for the daily clear-out. The Fashion Luncheon RSVPs were trickling in. They’d only sold four tables at this stage. The Dame wouldn’t be happy.
He dumped the mail onto the dining table and went into the kitchen to put the coffee on.
‘Dame Frances, I’m here,’ he sang out.
Dame Frances came out of her study, leaning upon her silver dragon-topped cane. She was wearing her long zip-up, leopard-print house dress – usually an indicator that she wasn’t feeling one hundred per cent. Julian knew by now this was a sign to tread warily.
‘Let’s begin, shall we?’ she said by way of greeting.
She slumped into her chair at the head of the table. The fragrance of freshly brewed coffee crept through the plantation shutters from the kitchen.
‘How many RSVPs today?’ she asked, and Julian flicked through the pile.
‘Seven, Dame Frances,’ Julian said and ripped them open, placing them in a pile in the centre of the table to update his guest list later.
‘Anybody good?’ she asked.
‘Just the regulars,’ he said, leaning forward and flicking through. ‘They seem to be all of Bobbi’s friends.’
‘She’s a good woman; she’s been on the phone rallying numbers. Bums on seats, my boy, but as long as they’re good bums.’
‘Yes, Dame Frances,’ Julian said, well familiar with his boss’s adage.
‘Next.’
Julian started ripping through the remaining mail. ‘It’s just general advertising: no invitations of note, a thankyou card from the Brights – they enjoyed the last function they attended, oh, and a nice thankyou letter from AIDS Awareness for your generous donation.’
‘No invitations to anything? I haven’t been anywhere in weeks. What’s going on? And don’t tell me it’s the financial climate.’
‘Well, there are a couple, but you wouldn’t be interested.’ Julian revisited the few invitations she’d received.
‘I’ll be the judge of that. And where’s the coffee?’ Julian rushed into the kitchen and prepared the tray. He returned and placed it by her side. While the Dame busied herself with stirring sweetener into her black coffee he read out the first invitation.
‘This one is from Bella Christi. They’re launching a new fragrance at David Jones’s city store. It doesn’t sound like it will attract much media.’
Rather than dismiss it, Dame Frances pursed her lips in a ‘maybe’ kind of way. ‘What else is there?’
‘Oh, nothing anywhere near as interesting. There’s a bar opening in Collingwood, not your scene at all, and there’s a Save the Whales demonstration at which they’d like your support, but there certainly won’t be goody bags at that.’
‘Put the Bella Christi one on the “maybe” pile. If nothing comes up, we might have to consider it.’
This was a turn-up; the Dame never went to small-fry functions.
‘Is that it?’
‘Yes, just the papers.’ Julian unrolled The Age and offered it to his boss.
Dame Frances took the paper from Julian. With a sixth sense developed from years of practice Dame Frances flipped through the pages and opened the broadsheet at Priscilla’s Socials.
A quick glance at the double pages proved fruitful. ‘Aha!’ she said with glee. ‘It’s in.’
Julian stood to look over her shoulder. A large photograph of the committee with a smaller portrait shot of Dame Frances headed page two of the section.
‘What the heck?’ the Dame cried out. Julian cringed as he saw the headline: ‘Couture Catfight’.
‘Oh dear,’ he said and scanned the copy.
Dame Frances roared with anger. She scrunched up the page and threw it as far as she could. It landed, limp, a short distance away, mocking her as it unravelled on the floor.
‘How the heck did that upstart journalist find out about the incident last week? It was hardly a fight; we just had words. My God, it’s been so much worse at other times when I’ve had to pull one of them in line. And how dare she say ticket sales have been flailing? How did she know about the disagreement between Gemma and me?’ The old woman glared at Julian awaiting his answer.
‘I guess she must have been standing in the foyer while you and Gemma were, um, engaged in that discussion.’
‘You!’ she bellowed, pointing her gnarled index finger at Julian. ‘If you had not given that woman the key code, we would have buzzed her up instead and she wouldn’t have been eavesdropping.’
Oh, cripes, Julian thought. She was right. He shouldn’t have done that. What had he been thinking?
‘Oh, Dame Frances, I’m so sorry.’
‘No, no.’ She calmed down as quickly as she’d flared up and took in a deep breath. ‘It’s not your fault. We knew she was coming up at any moment; I should have taken care with decorum. It’s just that Gemma Bristol truly gets under my skin.’
Julian also felt responsible for that too as, had it not been for him, she never would have been on the committee in the first place.
‘She means well, Dame Frances; she’s just young and gung-ho.’
‘My dear boy, she might be young but she should know better than to question my every move. Really, she makes my blood boil, coming in here thinking she’s an expert.’
Julian stood and topped up the Dame’s coffee then sat back down. He felt the need to play devil’s advocate here, if only to justify his own position.
‘Dame Frances, if you’ll excuse me for saying this, she actually is an expert and we did offer her the position on the committee hoping for fresh ideas.’
‘Ideas, Julian, not anarchy!’ the Dame fumed. ‘Damn that journalist. She was supposed to sing the praises of the committee; instead, she’s made us out to be a pack of whiny socialites.’
‘It does mention what good work you’re doing, though, and how much you raise,’ Julian countered.
‘Balderdash. It says I’m past my prime and should hang up my boots!’
‘Oh, look, it doesn’t. It even says here that your methods are tried and true. It sounds to me like the journalist is actually on your side.’ He leaned down and plucked up the page in question. ‘Perhaps we should be happy that we got half a page. That’s a huge amount of space. And besides, it’s a great photo of you.’
The matriarch sniffed and took another look at the paper. ‘Yes, I suppose the photo is adequate,’ she conceded. ‘But that Gemma Bristol had better watch her step, because mark my words, young Julian, her days are numbered. As are yours, my boy – don’t think I’ve forgotten who recommended she join my very exclusive committee.’
Laura locked her camera bag in the boot and stood, looking around the busy Inkerman Street to get her bearings. She figured Mr Wolf, the bar where she was meeting Gemma, was closer to the intersection of Fitzroy Street. Throwing her bag strap over her head to drape the satchel around her body, she set off in that direction. Her hiking boots and khaki canvas pants made light work of the slushy puddles dotted along the footpath.
Laura was hesitant about meeting Gemma’s friends. She liked Gemma quite a lot. They’d been sharing amusing emails and had had a couple of really deep phone calls where they analysed the trouble with their teens and even touched further on their own personal l
ives. She felt badly for Gemma being stuck in such a suffocating relationship. Her husband, Stephen, sounded like a right tool. Of course Gemma hadn’t opened up too much, although Laura could certainly read between the lines. She knew a toxic relationship when she saw one.
But seeing her the other day in the committee meeting with Dame Frances and all those Melbourne notables really hammered it home that Gemma was in another league altogether to Laura. She didn’t mind being mates with the great Gemma Bristol, who was actually way more down to earth and fun than Laura had first imagined. But she didn’t really need to be entrenched in her social life. She could just imagine what her friends were like.
When Gemma had suggested a drink after work to blow off steam from what had been a crazy week for both of them, Laura had agreed. Then she got the text just an hour ago that other people were coming. She could have, should have, pulled the pin. But she didn’t like to let people down at the last minute.
Mr Wolf, pizzeria to the fashionista, glowed in the gloomy night and was a welcome haven from the slashing rain. Laura made it into the bar without getting too wet. She flicked out her damp hair and removed her oversized down coat.
A flurry of girly giggles from across the room made her cringe. Hearing other females laugh always reminded her of high school, and paranoia that she was the subject of the laughter crept back. Her logic tried to prevail that high school was long gone and that grown-ups didn’t do that but her insecurities kicked her logic in the guts and, as usual, came out on top.
She looked in the direction of the merriment and, sure enough, Gemma was sitting with the most ridiculous- looking pair of women she’d ever slapped eyes on. Of all the French-manicured, plastic-coated brides she’d photographed, these two took the cake. Obscured by the metal screen in the middle of the restaurant, Laura made her way down to the rear of the bar to the coat hooks, while keeping one eye on the table. The brunette was like a sharper version of Gemma. Where Gemma’s bob was soft and demure, this woman’s bob was harsh and short, the fringe high above precisely drawn-on eyebrows. Her lips were scarlet and her hair was backcombed in a B-52s kind of way. She wore black on black, including a frilly bra that was framing the pushed-up cleavage.