Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  ‘That’s right, Dame Frances. It will be the shimmering, glittering, piratey affair that you need it to be and people will talk about it for years to come.’

  Isabel walked over to them, beaming. ‘I got the gold and black chair covers. I’m just having them sent now.’

  ‘Good,’ the Dame said. ‘Tell me, Isabel, how many black and gold striped tablecloths have we got?’

  Isabel consulted her notes and, looking pleased she’d found the answer, said, ‘Forty.’

  ‘Oh, dear God, give me strength.’ The Dame flung one hand out in frustration and looked up to the cobwebby chandelier that swayed directly above her head.

  The bare warehouse-style space of The Shed was being transformed into a hot and sexy mega nightclub.

  Hundreds of metres of bronze-coloured hessian fell from the ceiling to break up the room into large salons. Golden sheers, hiding the industrial aluminium frames, unfurled across the two-storey-high windows in order to lightly flutter in the river breeze wafting from the long verandah.

  Muscular workers were installing the ebony podiums that would provide stages for the naked chocolate life- sized statues throughout the main room. As a last-minute flash of creative genius Gemma had doubled the number of podiums and had booked statue mimes, covered in chocolate-coloured body paint, to stand on every second one, and to move slightly throughout the evening. It would provide a dramatic theatrical flair.

  Gemma stood and stared at the room as the army of workers pulled it together. Something’s missing, she thought. What is it? Her PR sixth sense whirred into overdrive. Something’s not here.

  ‘Chantelle,’ she called out. Chantelle’s new extra, extra bright blonde head poked out of the back room; she was supervising a team as they filled the thousands of goody bags.

  ‘I’m here, Gemma.’ She teetered over in her very high silver stiletto sandals.

  ‘Chantelle, what’s missing?’

  ‘Lip gloss,’ she said immediately.

  Gemma smiled. ‘It’s always lip gloss with you.’

  ‘Well, you always need lip gloss. Here, have mine.’ She reached into her gold Chook Leaf postman’s satchel.

  Gemma pushed away the offering. ‘Not me . . . the room. What’s missing?’

  Chantelle scanned the venue.

  ‘We have to make it be like tomorrow night, get the vibe going, then I’ll be able to tell,’ Chantelle said.

  Gemma spoke into her earpiece, ‘AV guy?’

  ‘Yes, Gemma?’

  ‘We’re doing a run-through, kill the house lights, please, and bring up the party lights.’ Within seconds the house lights dimmed and the party lights came up.

  ‘DJ?’

  ‘Yes, Gemma?’

  ‘Chuck on a track, will you, please?’

  ‘With scratching?’ the crackly voice asked.

  ‘Oh, whatever, no, just a song.’ Lady Gaga soon filled the room.

  ‘What is it?’ Gemma tapped her toe and shouted over the high decibels. ‘What isn’t here that’s supposed to be here?’

  They stared at the ghost party, imagining dancers, shoulder to shoulder, gyrating to the beat and others milling about the bar, glowing teeth and dark tans under the UV light spots.

  ‘Got it!’ Chantelle clicked her fingers and spun around to Gemma. ‘The giant disco ball is missing. There’re no little fairy speckles.’

  ‘Oh, fuck!’ Gemma stamped her foot. ‘Where is it? AV guy?’

  ‘Yes, Gemma?’

  ‘Were you doing giant disco ball?’

  ‘No, not my department. Try Brad.’

  ‘Brad?’ Brad Wilks was the event manager of The Shed.

  ‘Yes, Gemma?’ Brad’s voice floated through her earpiece.

  ‘Giant disco ball? You got any info on that?’

  ‘Sorry, Gemma. First time I’ve heard of it. No clue.’

  Chantelle was flicking through her notes. ‘Oh, Gem?’ she said. ‘I’ve found it; it was Mercedes’s job.’

  ‘Bugger, you’re right,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ve let something fall through the Mercedes crack. Dash it all, how stupid of me.’

  ‘Not your fault, Gemma,’ Chantelle said. ‘Mercedes was an enormous crack, after all.’

  ‘Oh, you’re not wrong there,’ Gemma said and scowled up above at the empty space where the disco ball should have been.

  ‘Shall I get on the phone and organise one to be delivered?’ Chantelle asked.

  Gemma imagined incompetent installers on extension ladders as her guests arrived tomorrow evening.

  ‘No, no time, we’ll just have to go without.’

  Damn it. Gemma absolutely hated it when a fine detail like this was missed. But this was no time for pessimism. ‘Never mind,’ she smiled at Chantelle who was flicking at her iPhone, ‘if that’s the worst thing that happens, we’re sweet.’

  Chantelle looked up at Gemma, her tan face decidedly grey. ‘Oh, fucking hell, luv, we’ve got problems.’

  ‘. . . and that was Queen with “We Are the Champions”. It’s twenty minutes past the hour and a sultry twenty-eight degrees. Coming up, we talk to Australian Idol contestant Emeline but first, this just in, scandal at the Mal-Teaser camp.

  ‘Twitter’s number-one trend for the last fifteen minutes is the gossip that Gemma Bristol and her team are skimming forty per cent of the income from the biggest event of the year to pay her so-called charity committee, and no doubt, supplementing Ms Bristol’s enormous salary. The tweets aren’t letting up; sponsors and paid-up guests are outraged that their well-intended donations are lining the pockets of the fat cats in PR instead of going to UP-Kids, the charity that’s supposed to be benefiting from the event. Meanwhile the tweets are flying in with Facebook not far behind and nearly everyone is threatening to boycott the event and demanding refunds. We’re trying to get the head honcho, Gemma Bristol, on the phone.

  ‘More on the Twittastrophe, up next . . . but now to Emeline. Hey, babe, you look gorgeous . . .’

  Gemma snapped off the car radio and stared at Chantelle. ‘It’s gone viral,’ she said in a hoarse voice. The women opened their car doors and ran to the lift.

  Chantelle looked at Gemma as the lift rushed them up to IQPR’s third floor. ‘It’s not . . . we’re not . . . are we?’ Chantelle asked her nervously.

  ‘Oh, of course not, Chantelle. Every single cent, apart from basic costs, goes to the charity. How can you even ask?’

  ‘I dunno, luv, it’s just hard to know where this has come from, out of the blue and all.’

  ‘Think about it, Chantelle.’ Gemma looked at her, the lift doors opened and she left Chantelle standing in the lift while the penny dropped.

  ‘Ohhh!’ A look of relief flooded Chantelle’s face as she finally worked it out. ‘Mercedes,’ she said and scrunched her fists in a punch.

  The office exploded onto Gemma as all her colleagues spun on their heels and flooded towards her. Gemma patted the air. ‘I know, I know, it’s a disaster. But guess what we do best, team? Damage control. It’s Operation Bust Benz and we’re on high alert. Let’s get our systems in place. Felipe, I want interviews set up with every single one of Melbourne’s mainstream media. Patty, get tweeting the truth. Where’s Bethany?’

  ‘Here, Gemma,’ Bethany said from the back.

  ‘Bethany, we need something for YouTube, something funky and raunchy; use some of the footage we discarded for the original PR video clip, but this time I want the message to be “giving our all” and I want a group shot of the staff grooving while they work. I’ll write a line of copy for you. Okay?’

  ‘Sure, Gemma,’ Bethany said and ran off to her editing software.

  ‘Ruth?’

  ‘Yes, Gemma.’

  ‘Press release. And set up a press conference for five pm in our boardroom.’

  ‘Sure, Gemma,’ Ruth said and rushed away.

  ‘Romy, text everyone and tell them it’s complete crap – you should know ’cos of all the unpaid overtime you’ve been doing. And everyone
else,’ she looked at the remaining members of her team poised to fulfil their leader’s commands, ‘you do know it’s a vendetta from someone who is out to get me, don’t you?’ Eyes sidled from left to right. ‘Guys! Come on, you know one hundred per cent of the profits go to UP-Kids. You’ve all been working so hard at getting everything at cost, and don’t forget about the competition with Dame Frances. Why in the hell would I be skimming funds and therefore jeopardise beating the old Dame? You know I hate to lose.’

  The staff burst out laughing at this. Of course Gemma wouldn’t have diverted a cent of the funds – there was nobody more competitive than she.

  The IQPR team spent the next three hours tweeting, facebooking, press releasing and doing everything in their power to ensure the truth got out. As always the facts were less interesting than the rumours but the media had no choice but to report them. Gemma managed to put an enticing spin on the scandal, highlighting the danger of Twitter and how a kernel of a rumour can potentially bring a company down. It worked. The media ate up the opportunity to bring the tall poppy, Twitter, down a peg or two and emphasise the dangers of social networking.

  Gemma spoke to as many radio people on the phone that she could get that afternoon. By five pm, her story had been repeated so often it was slick. The press conference was well attended by the two main papers, the independents and all the nightly news crews. There were also half-a-dozen bloggers that showed. She was amazed at how big the story had gotten, but then again, when IQPR was behind something, it usually got attention.

  When Gemma’s head hit her pillow at around midnight, she thought about the thousands of last-minute jobs that hadn’t happened today that should have to ensure the function’s success the following night. Thanks to Mercedes’s little trick, they were well and truly behind the eight ball now.

  The Grand Royal Hotel’s valets were hopping as each vehicle pulled up at the red carpet.

  The stream of luxury vehicles caused havoc with the Spring Street traffic and honking cars and vans added to the cacophony of the arriving glitterati.

  The titled and privileged alighted from stretch limousines and European saloon cars.

  Two newspaper photographers were snapping each outfit as the guests paraded up the wide sandstone steps to the doormen awaiting on either side of the brass-framed glass double entry doors.

  Amber McIntyre, a short distance down the street from the event, tossed her locks and licked her lips. She brought the mic to her lips. ‘Ready when you are, Jim,’ she said to her cameraman. She was freelancing with E-Aus, the cable entertainment daily show that specialised in all things media related, and was crossing to the event throughout the evening.

  Jim listened to the studio as Mickey Trevalley, the E-Aus anchor, said to the audience, ‘And now over to Amber McIntyre.’ He held up three fingers and said, ‘We go live in three, two . . .’ He mimed the word ‘one’ and pointed at Amber.

  She took a deep breath and plastered a bright smile onto her made-up face. ‘Thank you, Mickey. Well, we’re here. The night of nights has finally arrived and Melbourne’s partygoers, from all walks of life, are frocked up and arriving at the two balls. This is the evening of the Charity Challenge, where it will be decided which Melbourne charity gal will walk away with the title of Queen. The night is still young and anything can happen.’

  The camera left Amber’s face and zoomed in on the cars as they pulled up to the red carpet. ‘We’re here at Dame Frances Davenport’s fundraiser, the Rum Ball with its pirate theme. The Grand Royal Hotel looks unusually festive this evening. As you can see, getting out of this limo is entrepreneur, Mitchell Greenberg, and his wife Astrid in a long red silk gown. They’re making their way up the carpet behind jazz musician, Elliot Pinder. And who will be in this minibus? Oh, it’s a group of pirates. Gay pirates, if the rainbow pantaloons mean anything. I see the head pirate is Julian Goodstead, Dame Frances’s assistant.’

  The camera followed Julian and his posse of pirates up the carpet to the steps. ‘And just inside the front door is Dame Frances herself, greeting her guests as they arrive. The Dame is looking resplendent in black ruched silk and a pearl and diamond necklace. Earlier this evening many other noted Melburnians made their way into this glittering affair,’ the camera went back to a close-up of Amber, ‘including such celebrities as football legend, Ron Barassi, and his wife; multimillionaire, Lindsay Fox with family members; opera star, Deborah Cheetham and many others. At this stage the Dame’s do is promising to be as star- studded and popular as promised. Back to you, Mickey.’

  Amber sank into darkness as the bright light affixed to the top of the camera dimmed to black.

  ‘How was that, Jim?’ she asked.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ Jim said and removed his IFB so he no longer had to listen to Mickey’s chatter back at the studio. He shoved a cigarette into his mouth.

  ‘This totally sucks. How am I supposed to report on this if no one really big turns up?’ Amber stamped her petite strap-encased foot. ‘My biggest name is bloody Barassi.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Jim didn’t give a shit. ‘Let’s go up closer, grab a few clips for editing in later and see if we can get an int,’ he mumbled and flicked his live ciggie into the gutter.

  ‘You can get fined for that, you know,’ Amber said as she stomped off ahead of him.

  ‘Mmm,’ Jim agreed and followed the ‘talent’ to her spot near the carpet.

  ‘Quick, get this car – it looks expensive,’ Amber ordered. The door opened. ‘O! M! F! G!’ Amber squealed in delight to her cameraman. ‘I didn’t know that the gorgeous Quentin was coming. Quick, let’s get over there.’ A flurry of flashes and a crush of paparazzi nearly blocked Amber, but her sharp heels and equally sharp elbows ensured her desired place at the front of the red carpet. Dame Frances’s team had leaked that a very special guest would be attending the event but to have secured the attendance of Governor-General Quentin Bryce was indeed a coup. ‘Roll, Jim. Now. Don’t miss a second of this,’ Amber demanded. ‘Governor-General Bryce, please, a word,’ the reporter begged. The Governor-General was regal in a rich purple silk gown that hugged her shoulders leaving a pale décolletage upon which enormous black pearls rested. A full skirt followed her and left Amber McIntyre in its wake. ‘Oh, fuck a fucking duck!’ Amber stamped again.

  ‘Shall I stop recording?’ Jim asked. Amber glared at him.

  Her disappointment in missing the interview with one of Australia’s most important women dissipated as another gleaming stretch limo pulled up. This was a Rolls Royce. Amber wasn’t going to miss this one.

  ‘Now, now, do this one, this is good.’ A bevy of beauties emerged from the limo and posed professionally every step of the way. The four women were familiar, the cameras went wild. ‘Australia’s Next Top Model,’ Jim said. ‘Never miss it.’

  ‘Girls!’ Amber called out, leaning against the red rope that stopped the press from tumbling onto the red carpet. ‘Oh, excuse me,’ the names of the women finally came to her mind, ‘Roxanne, Trixie, Leticia, Polly.’

  ‘Roxanne, hello, Amber McIntyre, E-Aus, you look stunning.’

  Roxanne glided over to Amber. The other three caught sight of their peer preening in front of a TV camera and, like iron filings to a magnet, they joined her at the side of the red carpet.

  ‘Hi, girls. Looking forward to tonight?’

  ‘Sure,’ Roxanne pouted. ‘I love a night out.’

  ‘Who are you wearing?’ Amber asked.

  Roxanne pivoted. ‘Alexander McQueen, rest in peace, he was an artist.’

  ‘And, ladies, who are you wearing?’

  ‘Calvin Klein,’ purred the Amazonian brunette, Polly. The camera panned up and down the shimmering bronze silk sheath.

  ‘And Trixie?’

  Trixie pirouetted. Her off-the-shoulder gown travelled a further metre from her feet to make a spectacular lace train reminiscent of a flamenco dancer. ‘Collette Dinnigan.’

  ‘And finally how about you, Leticia?’

&nb
sp; ‘Why Dior, of course.’ Leticia’s ebony skin toned into the chocolate silk lycra silhouette-hugging dress so at first glance she seemed naked.

  ‘And why Dame Frances’s ball and not the Mal-Teaser? Why are your loyalties here?’ Amber asked the models.

  ‘Oh, we’re not loyal. We’re going to Gemma’s too. It’s just that it’s too early to go there and be cool,’ Leticia explained and the four drifted off as a sudden flurry of camera flashes on the other side drew them over.

  ‘Brill!’ Amber said, pleased with the grab.

  Foxy Loxton jostled for pole position out the front of the Mal-Teaser event. A chocolate and gold fabric awning covered the hot-pink carpet that led from the parking lot into the warehouse.

  A flurry of media crowded behind the media rope on webcams, camcorders and video phones, capturing the glamoramas as they arrived. There were fashion journalists, entertainment news mags, e-mags, web-mags, vloggers and bloggers – every digital media outlet was represented.

  Foxy used her enormous afro to her advantage by forcing enough space for her cameraman in the front line. She leaned back against the rope ensuring the glitzy and glamorous could be seen behind her as they arrived.

  Her cameraman, Kevin, counted down and pointed as the red light came on and Foxy’s face lit up. ‘And we’re here at the night of nights. It’s so mega-hot, I can tell you, and I’m not just talking about the still balmy twenty-six degrees. The line-up of cars goes right down the block as the beautiful people flock into Gemma Bristol’s ball. Gemma’s running a contest with Dame Frances and from where I stand, she’s winning.’ Foxy moved to the side and the camera panned down the hot-pink carpet to the car doors being opened.

  ‘Home and Away stars, Jessica Tovey and Rebecca Breeds have just arrived. Rebecca looking stunning in a little black minidress. And those shoes! Love! Rebecca, Jessica, over here! Foxy Loxton, E-Aus.’