by Cate Kendall
‘Yes! I’m starving,’ Stephen said.
She ignored the fact that he could have zapped his own dinner when he’d wanted it and put two cling-wrap-covered cacciatore dishes into the microwave.
‘I got sacked from the UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee.’
‘Oh, well that’s good,’ Stephen said.
‘Good? How’s being sacked good?’ Gemma asked with hands on hips.
‘It was bullshit, you running around giving your time to that bunch of tossers. It ate too much into family time. I’m glad. Now you can concentrate on home for a change.’
‘Stephen, I’ll have you know I’m taking on my own Chocolate Ball in competition with Dame Frances. She challenged me to a duel.’ It sounded quite immature when she said it out loud.
‘You versing the great Dame? You don’t have a hope in hell. She’s a legend at fundraising. Why do you even think you could compete with her?’ Stephen chuckled into his glass.
‘Because it’s what I do. I’m a function manager – I organise high-end events. It’s my job.’
‘Oh, big deal. It’s more than holding a function, you know; it’s fundraising. That’s different. You don’t have the Dame’s iron-clad network of loaded philanthropists desperate to throw money at you in exchange for social standing.’
‘It’s so much more than that. What would you know anyway? You couldn’t organise a root in a brothel.’
‘Yeah, well, I beg to differ.’ He gave an infuriating, insinuating wink. ‘Give it up, Gemma, before you fail.’
‘I’m not going to fail!’ she yelled at him. Her fatigue was killing any attempts at creating a peaceful home environment.
His smarmy smile was his only comeback.
‘You’re such an arsehole,’ she hissed.
Tyler shoved himself off the couch, pushed his phone into his pocket and, picking up his jacket from the back of the dining chair, headed down the hall. ‘This is so fucked,’ were the last words the couple heard before the slam of the front door.
Gemma turned back and glared at Stephen.
‘Hey, it’s not my fault,’ he said.
Charity Challenge
By Priscilla Simcoe
Priscilla’s Socials, The Age
In what could only be described as a do-gooder duel, charity queens Dame Frances Davenport and Ms Gemma Bristol have declared war. Priscilla Simcoe has the scoop.
It hasn’t been smooth sailing, as readers of this column will already know, after the recent appointment of PR guru Gemma Bristol to the UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee.
Ms Bristol and Dame Frances have been at it hammer and tongs as neither will concede the other is conducting the important business of fundraising correctly.
A recent fracas left the committee weak at the knees with Dame Frances stating it was her way or the highway, while Ms Bristol declared her tech-savvy to be crucial to the success of the cause.
However, in a new development, tempers flared and name-calling replaced name-dropping, and the committee split at the seams when Ms Bristol was declared unfit to continue as a member of the elite squad. Dame Frances challenged the young gal about town, Gemma Bristol, to a duel. The famous Chocolate Ball, traditionally held in early December, will go ahead with the Dame at the helm but with a twist. Gemma Bristol is also to hold a Chocolate Ball in direct competition with Melbourne’s grande dame and on the very same night. The spoils of war will go to the philanthropist who earns the richest purse at the end of the night.
May the best Lady Bountiful be victorious.
The sky outside Gemma’s office window was deceptive in its blueness. She knew it was camouflaging what was actually a bitter, cold Melbourne day.
Gemma used to be so in control of her life and now look at it. It was a shambles. Everywhere she turned each once well-ordered pigeonhole was a catastrophe. Work was difficult while she was heading up the office, but if she could only focus she’d be able to get stuck in and quite enjoy it. But distractions left, right and centre were threatening to unravel what had once been the most solid part of her life.
Her marriage was a sham. What she’d originally taken for confidence and charm in Stephen had evolved into insecurities and bullishness. Or maybe for the first time she was just seeing him for what he had always been. Her friends liked him – he could be so charming around others – but she’d seen him treat his staff with such rudeness. She knew she wasn’t taking him for granted, as Mercedes so often suggested. Stephen had a cruel streak and it worried her. Was there really any point in continuing with the relationship?
And then there was Tyler. Just when she thought she’d gotten through to him, something would set him off and he’d put up the wall of indifference again. She would give anything to turn back the clock to when he was ten.
The thought of putting on a huge function and challenging Dame Frances gave her the absolute willies. She was never nervous about an event but this was different. Going publicly head-to-head with such a highly revered woman was just ludicrous. And, as much as Gemma wanted to win, she certainly didn’t want to do it at the Dame’s expense. She didn’t want to embarrass herself or Dame Frances.
It wasn’t about beating the Dame or making her look foolish; it was about proving a point that the times had changed and there was no future for anyone who didn’t move with them. Deep down she also wanted a little bit of revenge for being sacked from the committee for doing nothing more than what she was paid a generous salary to do on a daily basis: to be at the cutting edge of the modern age and generate interest in a product in the most effective way possible. And she got fired for that. How dare the Dame fire her?
A new-found surge of enthusiasm for the project welled. She’d show them how it’s done. And, besides, raising hundreds of thousands for such a good cause was a perfect way to feel in control again. To give something back and really make a difference. She was determined to pull her life back on track and this event was going to be the catalyst.
Gemma spun her chair from the window back to her desk and looked at the clock. She pulled her hairbrush out of her bottom drawer and gave her bob a few quick strokes. Then she checked her face in a mirror and reached for her Prada make-up purse. She applied a sprinkle of bronzer and then swiped her lips with her Rouge Dior Blossom lipstick. As she applied the fresh coat, she chastised herself for going to an effort to groom herself before what was a standard Skype call, but with communications so visual nowadays, one needed to look one’s best. Besides, it was Peter Blakely she was calling.
She walked over to her office door, closed it, adjusted the scoop neck of her silk Moschino top and sat at her desk. She looked behind her at the background the camera was about to witness. The flowers were looking a bit sad, she decided, shoving them out of the sightline of the webcam and replacing them with an empty Kosta Boda vase and her copy of Strunk and White.
She clicked on the Skype icon and waited for the video to appear with an expectant half-smile on her face.
‘Gemma,’ Peter’s voice came through before the video hooked up, ‘you look great.’
‘Hi, Peter. I can’t see you yet – oh, there you are.’ Her half-smile broadened into a full one. He’s the one who looks great, she thought.
‘It’s good to see you,’ Peter said and leaned forward into the webcam.
‘You too, Peter. How goes it?’ she asked.
‘Oh, you know, same ol’ same ol’. You?’
‘Frantic. You got any news on the Melbourne CEO?’
‘Well, yes, I do have a bit more on that front. But I’ll fill you in later this week. Actually, I need you in New York again very soon.’
She sighed inwardly. It was once a thrill to sit on a plane for twenty-two hours each way for a face-to-face meeting in the world’s most glamorous city, but she was beginning to find the travel a little bit tedious. Especially as it ate into so many other priorities in her life.
‘So, what did you want to speak to me about?’ Peter asked.
&nb
sp; ‘I’ve been presented with an opportunity,’ Gemma began.
‘Oh, yes,’ he grinned. She grinned in return. They were both PR masters. Gemma had what a layman would call a problem, and ‘opportunity’ was the spin the PR industry usually placed on it.
She continued, ‘And I thought it would be a great chance to share.’
‘Oh, really, so it’s a case of “an opportunity shared is an opportunity halved”?’
‘Yes, something like that,’ she laughed. ‘In Melbourne, we recently gave up our pro bono client, because we discovered it had links to people smuggling.’
‘Oh, jeez, ya gotta hate that,’ he said.
‘Yeah, it’s hard to find good charitable institutions these days,’ she said. ‘So I’ve stumbled across this great charity, a local mob raising money for street kids. It’s been around for decades, has an excellent reputation and one hundred per cent of profits go to the cause, so I can vouch for the authenticity . . . Anyway, our intent is to hold a big function to raise money for them.’
‘Well, it’s your call, Gemma: you’re the acting head.’
‘Yes, I guess you’re right. I just wanted to get your advice, really. Do I need to run it by Dirk Ciepielewski at HQ?’
‘You know IQPR procedure when it comes to our charitable budget; you get one per cent of the company’s net profit to spend. And if you can pull it off, and I’m sure you can, it will look pretty damn good at the next management meeting in January.’
She leaned back in her chair. ‘God, I hope you guys have found a CEO by then. I sure hope I’m not acting head by January.’
‘Oh, they’re working on it, don’t you worry about that. Have you crunched the numbers?’
‘Of course, presuming we get a lot of the cost base donated by sponsors, then conservatively I’m looking at $300,000 profit. But up to $500,000.’
‘Wow,’ he said, ‘that’s fairly impressive. How did this all come about anyway?’ He cocked his head to one side and loosened his tie.
She took in a deep breath and told him the whole story about the grande dame of the fundraising scene and the embarrassing conclusion of her brief stint on the committee with the ridiculous duel being set.
Peter Blakely laughed out loud. He could hardly contain his mirth. ‘You’re kidding; you’re in a high-profile charity face-off?’
‘Yes, I know, it’s completely mad.’
‘It’s brilliant. Imagine the publicity that will come from it. Oh, trust you, this isn’t just a function; it’s media fodder gold!’ He laughed again, slapping his thigh.
‘Yes, it’s hilarious,’ she said drily. ‘I can’t believe I’m in this situation, but I’m determined to pull it off and bring some serious money to this wonderful cause. Honestly, how I get myself into these things, I’m such a doofus.’
‘You’re not; you’re perfect. And listen, I want to help you out however I can, too. You just let me know. Have you got a good team?’
‘Yes, I will be putting in a lot of voluntary overtime and I have a pretty good committee.’ She grimaced on the inside as she thought of Mercedes and Chantelle.
‘Well, I’m here for you whenever you want an ear.’
‘Thanks so much, Peter. That means a lot to me.’ She smiled. It felt good to be supported.
‘No problem whatsoever – or as you Aussies would say, no worries, mate. Listen, I’ve got a meeting. Talk soon, ’kay?’
‘Thanks, Peter. Bye.’ They signed off. She was still smiling as she thought back over the conversation. Peter Blakely thought she was perfect.
The limo coasted up the gravel driveway. It was a blowy spring day but the rain was holding off. Dame Frances was feeling quite pleased with her new aubergine Escada suit and the fact that she continued to maintain her size-fourteen figure.
She’d been through the running list en route with Julian and all seemed to be in place for the Fashion Luncheon at William Robertson’s family compound. The white two-storey mansion was gleaming. Pillars stretched from the generous front verandah to the slate roof.
The car pulled over to wait for a white Lexus to disembark. Dame Frances craned to see who it was. Oh, thank the powers that be. It’s Lillian Frank. She smiled in relief. It was now officially a success before it had even started.
‘It’s a shame Miranda Winkle couldn’t make it,’ she said to Julian. ‘I almost thought that was her.’
‘Yes, she’s busy, I believe,’ Julian replied.
‘She hasn’t come to many functions lately, has she?’ Dame Frances said.
‘I guess not.’
‘Did we end up selling all the tickets?’ she asked, although she knew the answer.
‘Not quite, but we do have 140 guests, so that’s good.’
One-forty. ‘Sixty short,’ she murmured. ‘Julian, that function I was invited to – the new fragrance at David Jones – have you replied?’
‘I was about to send your “no, thank you” this afternoon.’
‘I’ll go,’ she said.
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it beneath you? You don’t usually go to small product launches. Don’t you want to retain your high standing?’
‘I haven’t been invited to many things lately. I have to keep my face out there, Julian, I have to keep my profile up. Besides, there will be cameras at the function, won’t there?’
‘Yes, Dame Frances,’ Julian started packing up his notes and slipping them into his satchel as their limo pulled up to the door. ‘Their PR has just updated me. There will be cameras.’
‘Well, that’s all right then.’
Enormous urns of greenery flanked the large timber stained-glass door. A red-coated valet leaped to open the rear door so Dame Frances could alight. Her silver dragon-headed cane emerged first followed by her two black leather low-heeled pumps simultaneously. Just how a lady should exit a vehicle.
Julian rushed around from his side in order to escort her. ‘Well, Julian, we’re on,’ she announced.
Twin staircases encircled the vast marble foyer that was milling with well-dressed women of a certain age. A huge Ming vase was in the centre of the space bursting with foliage and long stems of Asian flowers thrust forwards, reaching for the eighty-globe crystal chandelier that draped from the ceiling two storeys above.
The pre-luncheon reception was being held in the circular space. The hubbub of female voices was high-pitched with laughter and gossip. Bobbi Robertson-Black, as the hostess of the venue, stood sentry at the entrance and immediately greeted Dame Frances.
‘Dame Frances, you look amazing,’ she exclaimed and kissed the air a few millimetres from Dame Frances’s proffered powdered cheek.
‘Thank you,’ Dame Frances replied. ‘Is everyone here?’
‘Yes, I believe so, we’re about to move into the ballroom.’
‘Where’s The Age? That upstart Priscilla Simcoe isn’t here, is she? I want a word with her, the little minx. Where is she getting her information from?’
‘I honestly don’t know, Dame Frances. It’s quite disturbing. And no, she’s not here. Priscilla was originally invited, of course, but Julian informed her that she wasn’t to come, didn’t you, Julian?’ Bobbi said, her voice high with nerves.
‘I most certainly did,’ Julian assured the women. ‘I just hope this slight doesn’t cause further malice in the social pages.’
‘She can’t write about something she’s not at,’ Dame Frances said. ‘So, what media is here?’ She looked around the room for the telltale flash of cameras.
‘Well, without Priscilla there’s not much social media left,’ Julian explained. ‘It’s not really newsworthy enough for the regular media to be interested.’
‘Not newsworthy enough,’ the Dame turned her Medusa stare onto Julian. ‘Not newsworthy enough? How can you say that? We are announcing the Chocolate Charity Challenge today. How can that not be news? Did you send the box of chocolates and my handwritten note to the editor of The Australian?’
‘Yes, Dame Frances, of co
urse. They just don’t go in for this sort of thing.’
Dame Frances snorted her distaste of a newspaper that didn’t understand her importance.
The ballroom was to their right. At that moment the enormous concertina doors were pulled back by the waiting staff to reveal a resplendent room awash with spring blooms (Gemma hadn’t been churlish enough to pull her donation after her sacking), the tablecloths a soft beige.
‘Excellent decision on the tablecloth colour,’ Dame Frances said, taking in the scene. The gilt, carved-back chairs matched the gold-etched presentation plates. Randomly placed multicoloured table napkins in fuchsia, yellow, jade and cyan enhanced the brightness of the spring blossoms.
As the crowd flowed through into the ballroom, many women stopped to greet the Dame.
‘You look fabulous,’ ‘Great room,’ ‘Lovely work,’ ‘You’ve done it again’ – the soothing accolades were like balm on Dame Frances’s tender nerves. This was what she lived for. To see her guests enjoying themselves, admiring months of hard work and spending their prolific bucks on the charity made her feel at peace.
Dame Frances, as usual, had personally selected the luncheon menu: prawn cocktail for entree, followed by beef Wellington, then finally crème caramel. She considered each dish as it was presented to her. Was it old-fashioned, perhaps? The dishes weren’t on the menu when she’d had the meeting with the caterer. But they’d been happy to comply with her wishes. They had actually recommended salmon but every time she had salmon nowadays it was barely cooked and she had to send it back. Imagine the kitchen here having 140 salmon dishes sent back. And they’d wanted to serve an Asian soup. First of all it would be too spicy, and soup is never hot enough, especially at a large function like this, so she’d nixed that as well.
Besides, she had to admit she didn’t quite understand the rest of the menus she’d perused: ceviche, san choi bao, grissini . . . When did everything become so ethnic? When Monty was alive, she’d baked on the nights they would stay in – she had always been able to hold her own in the kitchen, knew her way around a lamb shank or a cauliflower cheese – but since he passed twenty years ago, she only made herself a simple meal of an evening and it would seem the culinary world had passed her by. She wondered what Gemma would have said if she’d been at the menu meeting. She probably would have argued and they’d be sitting here faced with a cold grilled baby octopus. She shuddered.