Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  It sounds like luck is the least of what the Dame needs at this point. Ms Bristol’s methods involve saturating the market. Just google ‘Chocolate Ball’ and five pages of results appear. The first site is of course Bristol’s website for the event now officially known as the Mal-Teaser. The professional site is slick and sensual with links to some very seductive places too hot to tell you about here.

  Ms Bristol’s presence on the internet is so prolific that she’s gone viral. She’s even produced a YouTube video with male and female dancers performing provocatively to an old Hot Chocolate song, appropriately ‘I Believe in Miracles’ – a hedonistic routine involving both chocolate and seduction and smacking of sex appeal, making the famous sexy-food scene from Nine and a Half Weeks seem as mild as a summer-camp food fight.

  The trend string on Twitter is enormous as thousands of Twittees have jumped on board with clever, seductive chocolate titles, such as Mmm&Mmm’s, Cherry Ripe and Butterfingers.

  Ms Bristol promises a unique event like no other with live music, performances from Dancing with the Stars, pole dancers as decoration and loads of freebies. There are also to be special guests, one of whom is rumoured to be sexiest man alive, Tom Jones. And of course the entire event is to be complemented with lashings of chocolate.

  Gemma Bristol’s sex and chocolate party. Who wouldn’t want to be there? There just remains one question to be asked: Dame who?

  Gemma was first to arrive at the restaurant. La Brioche was a quiet out-of-the-way little place in one of the side streets off Toorak Village. It wasn’t particularly busy or trendy but it suited her needs for tonight’s committee meeting about the Mal-Teaser event.

  But first she was having a bite to eat with her girlfriends because they hadn’t caught up for weeks. Then the other members of the committee would join them.

  She had really missed spending time with her friends in the past few weeks and could feel tension between them all, so she hoped dinner together might smooth things over again.

  The maître d’ directed Gemma to the large table in the private dining room and left her to her thoughts while he asked the sommelier to fetch the wine she ordered.

  Gemma got out her iPad and checked Twitter, MySpace, Facebook and YouTube to see how the online campaign was faring. She was very pleased with the results. So far the event was generating a lot of interest. However, searches on Google and Yahoo! were less than pleasing. There was far too much hype about the ‘Charity Challenge’ and her perceived beef with Dame Frances. Even though she was keen on any publicity, she was still unhappy that it looked like she was duelling with the Dame.

  She didn’t hold a grudge against Dame Frances. Well, not a very big one anyway. It wasn’t as though she was setting out to make a fool of her. After all, it had been the matriarch’s crazy idea in the first place. Gemma was just going along for the ride. She sighed as she read a post from someone called jinglebells ranting that the social elite needed to be brought down, that the events were a waste of money and that there were bigger issues in life.

  But Gemma did know that were it not for the Charity Challenge, she wouldn’t be getting anywhere near the media attention.

  On the positive side, however, at least the Dame as a digital dinosaur would be none the wiser and therefore wouldn’t have her feelings hurt by the electronic news-storm around the events.

  She put her iPad to sleep and thought about the last few days. She’d been making a real effort at home. She’d been at family meals every night. Well, except last night when she’d had to stay until midnight at the office for a conference call with Dallas. They’d gone out to dinner, and she’d even cooked a good old-fashioned roast. It had been a struggle enduring Stephen’s constant digs. And Tyler had wilted at every word that had been spoken at the table.

  Later that night, after Tyler had excused himself from the table claiming he had a headache, she’d gone up to his room to have a chat.

  It hadn’t gone well. She just couldn’t break through no matter how diplomatic she was. She’d really tried, even showing him some hilarious YouTube clips that were rating highly. She’d noticed when she was on his Mac that his latest view had been the Hot Chocolate video that she’d made to support the event. She didn’t mention it, but she’d have liked to have known what he thought about it, though.

  She’d tried getting some insight from Tyler’s Facebook page. She got nothing. She was deleted. He chose to allow only his ‘friends’ to see his page. She sent him an invitation to be her ‘friend’ but knew he’d reject her request. She felt like his whole life was password protected at the moment, that when she spoke with him she was just fruitlessly typing in all the passwords that had worked for her in the past yet none of them unlocked him anymore.

  He was making an effort with his schoolwork at least. The geography assignment had finally been completed and handed in. She had looked at it one night when he was asleep. It wasn’t bad. It definitely smacked of minimal effort, but he had answered all the questions and completed it by the deadline.

  It was a worrying time. As soon as this Mal-Teaser event was over, she was going to concentrate on Tyler. Tomorrow night she was going to take him for a walk down to Albert Park to see if the familiar environment might shake some communication from him. They’d shared lots of family picnics, New Year celebrations and birthdays there, so maybe Tyler would feel comfortable enough to confide in her.

  Mercedes and Chantelle made an impressive entrance to the restaurant, shaking Gemma from her thoughts as she enjoyed the maître d’s clear admiration of the pair. Chantelle was in a micro mini with painful-looking high-heeled boots that finished above the knee and an off-the-shoulder skin-tight cashmere sweater in baby pink that left no doubt that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  Mercedes, equally as stunning, was more subdued in her outfit. Her brunette bob highlighted her enormous brown eyes that she’d accented in heavy kohl and dark shadow. She was wearing a knee-length sweater dress in charcoal. She was also in knee-high boots, but hers were flat. Mercedes’s new nose seemed teeny tiny in the middle of her overly made-up face.

  ‘Girls,’ Gemma trilled and stood to greet them. ‘You both look fabulous.’

  ‘Mwah, mwah,’ Mercedes said with no attempt to mime the kiss that went with the sound effect.

  Chantelle gave Gemma a big squeeze.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ Mercedes asked as she hooked her handbag to the table on her jewelled bag hook and sat down. ‘Is it a social occasion or a meeting? It’s a bugger to know what to wear when you’re so evasive.’

  ‘It’s both, actually. I’m frantic at the moment and wanted to catch up with you before my trip to New York on Sunday but we also really need to touch base on the Chocolate Ball before I go.’

  ‘When are you back?’ Chantelle asked, nibbling on a grissini stick.

  ‘Thursday morning. That’s the real pain about this flight. It’s a Monday meeting in the Big Apple and I fly out Tuesday but of course completely miss Wednesday when I go over the International Date Line and don’t land until Thursday.’

  ‘But you make up a day going over?’ Mercedes asked.

  ‘Yes, but that’s Sunday. Sundays are expendable. Who needs two Sundays?’

  ‘The Pope’s into Sundays in, like, a big way,’ Chantelle offered.

  ‘It was rhetorical, Chantelle,’ Mercedes said.

  ‘So, the social bit of the evening starts now. How are you?’ Gemma asked with a big smile on her face, hoping that they could just relax and have a lovely time.

  ‘Is that item number one on the agenda then?’ Mercedes asked drily. ‘“How are you?”’

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Gemma refused to be defeated by Mercedes’s attitude. ‘How was your date with Frank, Chantelle?’

  ‘Oh, it was okay.’ Chantelle took a long sip of the pinot noir the waiter had just poured into her glass. ‘I don’t know, he’s just not right for me, you know?’

  ‘How could he be right for you?’ Mercedes said
. ‘He’s ancient.’

  ‘He’s fifty-five – that’s not so old. My dad was fifty-five when he left my mum for a younger woman.’

  Gemma suddenly felt that this might be a very important breakthrough. ‘Was he?’ she asked. ‘Tell me about your dad.’

  ‘Oh, he was just wonderful,’ Chantelle beamed.

  ‘Yeah, sounds it, leaving your mum like that,’ Mercedes said.

  Chantelle ignored her and went on. ‘He was a real lark, he was. Always goofing about, with magic tricks and the like. He’d always have a little something in his pocket for us girls, a sweetie or a trinket.’

  ‘And after he left, did he ever make contact again?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘No, that was it. He probably got real busy with his new family. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘But you don’t think that you’re justifying his actions by going out with men the same age as your dad when you last saw him, do you? Do you think you’re trying to seek his approval by getting the approval from older men?’ Gemma asked, aware that she was playing armchair psychiatrist.

  Chantelle thought for a moment then looked up and grinned. ‘What are you like? As if I’m that mad. No, don’t be daft.’

  ‘Sounds like a classic case of daddy’s girl, if you ask me,’ Mercedes said. ‘You gotta let it go, darling. There’s no way you’ll ever be a little girl at Daddy’s knee again no matter how old the dude you’re boffing is.’

  Chantelle looked at Mercedes. ‘You’re a crass bitch, you know.’

  Mercedes grinned back. ‘Some people call it forthright.’

  ‘So how did the date with Frank go?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Well, it was okay. He brought me this gorgeous bangle.’ She twisted her wrist.

  ‘On a first date?’ Mercedes said then looked at Gemma. ‘Maybe she’s onto something. Not a bad system. I never get gifts. Can I have Frank’s number?’

  Both Gemma and Chantelle shot Mercedes withering glances. ‘Then we had a nice dinner, I heard all about his latest golfing retreat weekend with the guys. That was kind of interesting. Except that he explained every shot of the weekend blow by blow. Actually it was a bit boring. Then he stayed the night at my place and left in the morning. He sent me lovely flowers the following day. He must have liked me. I hope he liked me. I am sure this one will stay and not leave us . . . I mean me.’ She caught herself and looked up at her friends like a rabbit in a trap.

  ‘Never mind,’ Gemma said, not wanting to push the topic any further, ‘it will work out. Not all young guys are losers. Give them another shot. I’ve got a stunner of a guy at the office who’s your age. You haven’t met him yet; he’s just started.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Chantelle murmured, deep in thought.

  ‘Well, I’ve had three dates this week. Two were hell,’ Mercedes started. ‘Egomaniacal wankers.’

  ‘Really?’ Gemma asked. ‘Do tell us.’

  ‘First of all, this nuffer, David, took me out to a frightening dive in Chinatown, in a basement. When I’d told him I liked Chinese I meant The Flower Drum, not some hideous opium den. The place reeked. So I flicked him.’

  ‘That’s no good. How was the food?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Oh, the food was very good, actually, but I was in a Herve Leger dress, for heaven’s sake, and who knows what was on the seats? Candidate number two was so unimaginative, I couldn’t believe it. He took me for drinks downstairs at Stokehouse, then upstairs for dinner.’

  ‘Well, that sounds fab,’ Gemma said. ‘Stokehouse is excellent.’

  ‘In the nineties, Gemma! Move with the times. And he was so jittery and nervous all night. I just glared at him, I couldn’t be bothered. If he can’t be a bit creative with a date when we’ve got so many hip restaurants in this town, well, I’ve got no time to be making an effort. Then, before dessert arrived, he skipped out on me; he never came back from the toilet. I was mortified.’

  ‘I’ll say. Did he stick you with the bill?’ Chantelle asked, wide-eyed.

  ‘No, he paid on his way out. But it was still so embarrassing.’

  ‘And what about the third suitor?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘Oh, that was last night. He was lovely. A bit too married but quite the package.’

  ‘Married! Why are you dating a married man?’ Gemma asked.

  ‘His wife doesn’t understand him – oh, and he’s loaded,’ Mercedes said. ‘Anyway, how about you? How’s the paradise that is your marriage?’

  ‘More like purgatory, I’m afraid,’ Gemma said. A little lubricated by her second glass of pinot, Gemma uncharacteristically blurted out all her worries about how horrid Stephen was being and how nasty the situation was at home.

  ‘You’re a piece of work, honestly, Gemma,’ Mercedes said. ‘He is absolutely the best bloke. He is so good-looking and so charming. The last time we were at your place for a party he couldn’t do enough to host his guests. Always filling up the glasses, engaging in conversation. I can’t believe how you take him for granted.’

  Gemma considered Mercedes’s words. She remembered that party. But the Stephen Mercedes was talking about was not the Stephen she remembered from that night. It was Stephen’s thirty-eighth birthday and he had high demands for the event. It was starting to cost a ridiculous amount. He’d questioned her every decision as the big night approached and then he’d gotten drunk and flirted with every woman in the place. They’d had a massive fight later that night when everyone had gone. However, couples fight, marriages survive and Mercedes was probably right. Maybe it was just a matter of familiarity breeding contempt. Maybe she needed to just step back and really see him for the person he was, for the person she fell in love with in the first place.

  ‘Besides,’ Mercedes continued, ‘everyone’s hot for him. I saw your school mums at that party tittering and looking up to him, drinking in his every word. So you might want to be careful. He’s a catch.’

  A catch? Gemma thought. Stephen? Well, he wouldn’t cheat. At least she had faith in him. He did value the sanctity of marriage and would end the relationship before being low enough to start up another one. Wouldn’t he?

  A blast of wind whipped through the restaurant and in the open door of the private dining room. The three looked up to see Laura entering the restaurant and looking about for them.

  ‘What’s she doing here?’ Mercedes said in a whiny voice.

  ‘You know she’s on the committee,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Yes, but I thought we were having a social dinner first, before the meeting.’

  Gemma glared at Mercedes. ‘We are,’ she said.

  Gemma stood to call Laura over. She heard Mercedes hiss to Chantelle, ‘What in the hell is she wearing?’

  ‘I dunno, I think it’s kind of a cool look,’ Chantelle whispered back.

  Laura was in wide-leg beige linen palazzo pants topped with denim jacket and tie-dyed tee and accessorised with a cotton Union Jack bag and lime Converse sneakers.

  ‘Yeah, cool . . . for Nimbin.’

  ‘Hey, girls. Sorry I’m late. How’s tricks?’

  ‘Super.’ Mercedes’s smile didn’t reveal her teeth. Gemma could almost smell the sarcasm emanating from her pores. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea having her on the committee, but it would have been disloyal not to have asked her.

  Laura sat down. ‘So, have you been following Priscilla’s column? Great publicity.’

  ‘Yes, I guess so,’ Gemma said. ‘I feel bad for the Dame, though. Priscilla isn’t very kind to her in her articles.’

  ‘You know why though, don’t you?’ Laura asked. ‘Prissy got uninvited to the Fashion Luncheon at the Robertson mansion.’

  ‘Nooo!’ the three other women exclaimed.

  ‘Yep,’ Laura chuckled, ‘and Prissy never gets uninvited to anything and takes it lying down. I was in at the paper on the day she got the letter informing her of the committee’s decision. Oh, man, was she livid.’

  ‘How stupid,’ Gemma said, shaking her head at such a PR stuff-up. ‘Why on earth
would the Dame cross such an important member of the media?’

  ‘Well, apparently she was pissed off with an article that Priscilla wrote. Which, by the way, was nowhere near as bad as what she’s written lately.’

  ‘Gawd, I wonder what the Dame’s saying about all this?’ Chantelle said. ‘Priscilla’s being pretty hurtful but she’s really ramped up your brilliant work, Gemma.’

  After the women had enjoyed a light meal of bruschetta, antipasto and chatter the other members of the committee arrived. They were Gemma’s young office staff who had offered to volunteer their time.

  They were a great team. Patty, IQPR’s voluptuous receptionist, had a Facebook friend base of 1500. Bethany, a tiny elfin-looking thing with a penchant for ponchos, was the social network manager at the office and, thanks to her rigorous tweeting, had managed to secure 32,400 Twitter followers in the past few years. Each of her tweets was retweeted around the world in seconds, and many times she’d actually been responsible for starting a Twitter trend. Gemma was thrilled this had happened with her event.

  Then there was Romy. She was a socialite with contacts in every community in Melbourne, could text at one hundred words a minute and had an address book with almost 2000 names in it. One SMS from her and most of social Melbourne would respond. These kinds of networks were crucial to the success of the event.

  Finally, and most importantly, Ruth Browning arrived. Ruth was the acting client services manager. She was shouldering the main part of Gemma’s old job while Gemma was temporary CEO of the firm.

  ‘So, it’s eight pm, we begin; thank you all for being so punctual. The invitations, Romy?’

  ‘All done. Here’s the final jpeg we sent out.’ Romy flipped open her laptop and passed it over to Gemma. It was an animated invitation with links to the YouTube, Twitter, MySpace and Facebook pages. It was humorous, sensual, delightful. The web designer had done an immaculate job.

  ‘Excellent. Bethany, is everything fine with the venue?’

  ‘Certainly is, Gemma. I spoke to the conference manager at The Shed down at Docklands just an hour ago.’