by Di Morrissey
Australia had been good to them. Clara had been taught sewing and millinery under a migrant training scheme and, remembering the beautiful gowns owned by her mother, she had started altering clothes for dress shops and friends. After being asked to restyle one lady’s hat, Clara saw an opening and concentrated on making hats. She soon had a thriving millinery business in Sydney. She had saved every penny to send Nina to a private girls’ school near their home, but she worried how she could manage the extra cost of putting Nina through university. Taking money from her parents back in Croatia was impossible.
‘Don’t worry, Mama. I will make my own way in the world. I can’t sew like you, but one day I will work with beautiful clothes too and buy you a Paris-designed dress.’
‘Where do you get your big dreams from, girl?’ Clara wondered what had given Nina such ambitions and she fretted they would never be fulfilled.
Nina handed Mrs Morgan a cup and passed the milk jug.
‘Sugar?’ She watched Mrs Morgan add the milk and cubes to the strong brew. How could she remind Mrs Morgan of the promise she had made on her last visit? Had it just been idle chatter? Nina burned inside. What could she say to jog her memory yet not appear pushy or rude?
‘I love the way you’ve wrapped that scarf on the skirt, Nina, very nice touch.’
‘I love clothes and fashion ideas – and, of course, hats,’ said Nina, adding with a smile, ‘How could I not? I live in the middle of it all.’
‘Your mother is an inspiration,’ declared Mrs Morgan. ‘Coming here after all that sadness in your homeland, making a new life for herself when she had never worked. If I fell on hard times – heaven forbid! – I don’t know what I could turn my hand to doing.’ She sipped her tea.
Nina leapt in. ‘I would love to go to university, but Mama can’t afford that. And I do know what I’d like to do,’ she said quite firmly. ‘Writing and working with clothes is what I love. If there was a way I could combine them . . .’ she looked at Mrs Morgan with a slight questioning air.
‘My goodness, Nina. I nearly forgot! After our last talk and the folder you gave me with your ideas and articles – I passed them on to the editor of In Home and Garden. It’s one of my husband’s little magazines. There is an opening there for a young girl willing to start at the bottom. Write little bits, help the staff ladies, that sort of thing. It would be a start if you’re interested. I’m afraid In Home and Garden isn’t where we look for fabulous fashion ideas – have to go abroad for that – but they’re lovely ladies and they do nice homey stories in the magazine.’
‘I’d love it! Just to work in that world! I’ll do anything, Mrs Morgan,’ said Nina, her excitement tinged with relief. ‘Who do I see?’
Nina lifted her eyes. She saw the main course before her and picked at it, forcing herself to make small talk with the Baron and other guests at the table.
‘You’re not entirely with us, my dear,’ he whispered eventually and touched her hand softly.
She nodded and smiled. The dessert was served. Nina’s choice of birthday cake, a pièce montée, had been wheeled out, the chef igniting a trickle of brandy at its peak, lifting a single flaming profiterole onto the scoop of sorbet on Nina’s plate. The guests applauded as she gently blew the brandy flame out. A delicious botrytis dessert wine was poured and the guests settled into their chairs, eyes fixed on Nina as if a curtain were about to rise and a diva to perform.
The Baron stood, lifted his glass towards Nina and said, ‘Nina, we wish you happiness and joy on this special occasion. If you could share a few of your thoughts it would bring us much pleasure.’
He saluted her with his glass as Nina placed her napkin on the Wedgwood plate, slowly smoothed her skirt then rose to her feet. She looked around the tables at the candlelit faces, every eye on her beautiful, serene face. A master of timing, she paused enough for each guest to feel she had looked directly at them, and them alone, with an intimate, private message.
‘My dear, dear friends and colleagues.’ A warm smile, a slight embracing gesture of her hand. ‘How can I thank you for sharing this special evening with me, and especially . . .’ and here a brilliant smile at the Baron ‘. . . mon cher ami, Baron Triton, for making it possible.’
There was a swift acknowledgement between them and Nina lowered her eyes, took a small breath and continued. ‘What I have to say may surprise a number of you. As I approached this tidemark, I began to think more deeply about my life and the future these past weeks, particularly outside the world of Blaze. I have been thinking back to the start of my journey to create this magazine. How I started working in magazines in Australia and was bold enough – and naive enough – to think that I could create a magazine of my own. One that I would like to read and so, hopefully, would others. And so Blaze was born and grew to become Blaze USA, which has now expanded to include many international editions.
‘But rather than sitting back and basking in Blaze’s wonderful success – due to so many of you – I have become nostalgic, a little sad that perhaps my usefulness here is limited.’
She gave a slight smile at the ripple of disagreement in the atmosphere of the room. ‘And I feel a little angry – well, frustrated – that I have crossed a kind of mythical border in society’s mind. I find myself assessing my reactions and actions. As a result, questions present themselves to me. Have I performed well as a human being? Have I properly used my gifts and talents? Have I fulfilled my responsibilities and obligations? Are there still contributions that I can make?’
Her gaze swept the still and silent room. ‘Yes, perhaps these are the expected reflections of a woman passing yet another milestone, but I realise I have asked myself these questions before this, and rarely answered them satisfactorily. It seems that when one enters one’s seventh decade, one should bow out gracefully and settle into a luxurious retreat and enjoy life. My friends, let me tell you what I enjoy.’ She paused for effect, noting every face was riveted to hers. ‘I enjoy a challenge, the cut and thrust of daily jousting, internally and in the wide world that comes with running a magazine. In this age of electronic, digital and satellite communications, I still believe the printed word and images on paper will never become obsolete.’
There was a hearty outbreak of applause. Nina’s voice was steady as she continued, ‘There is still a huge need for independent publications to be read and digested at leisure, publications that can provide pleasure, entertainment, in-depth analysis and varying points of view. The magazine market has changed somewhat since I began my career as a seventeen-year-old on a small magazine called In Home and Garden in Sydney.’ She smiled in acknowledgement of the understatement and the mood she had created among her audience.
Nina continued, ‘Today, women from their forties to their nineties have much to offer. And, as such women come into their power, they should embrace it, and use it.’ Her voice rose on the emphasis. ‘We are the role models to adolescents, to younger women in and out of the workforce, to other older women. I don’t like to pigeonhole anyone as old. I prefer to think of reaching a specific point in one’s trajectory through life. Each point should be considered an opportunity to learn, to grow, to enjoy life. I don’t want to be an adolescent again. Life was challenging enough then, but how much harder it is for them today. And how they see themselves is a result of how they see us.’
She looked down briefly, thinking of Lorraine, then continued, ‘Therefore it is our responsibility as mature women, or as wise women elders, to show our young people that life is rich and that we can each bring about changes in the world. We must take control of our lives for everyone’s benefit.’ She paused and there was a ripple of polite applause, with most of the audience of older men and younger women wondering where Nina was heading with this speech, while the women of fifty and over clapped the loudest. Nina gave a broad smile, ‘So . . . I am not retiring.’
Here Ali’s head jerked up and she glanced around, seeing others were also surprised.
Nina lifted her
glass of champagne as if to salute them. ‘Yes, I intend to take an extended break to enjoy myself. I know I leave Blaze in very competent hands.’
Ali lifted her head expectantly, waiting for Nina to announce who would be taking over as editor. Instead Nina dropped her bombshell.
‘I am moving back to Australia. We at Triton Communications,’ and here she beamed a smile down at the Baron, ‘have decided to launch Blaze Australia, to resurrect the original magazine that I started all those years ago, perhaps a little too ahead of its time, before merging with Triton and moving it to New York. Sydney is ready now to become the latest international city of style and taste, to join New York, London, Paris, Rome, Tokyo . . . to have its own edition of Blaze. Yes, I’m going to do it all again!’
There was a united gasp, a tinkle of laughter and wild applause as the audience rose to its feet, muffling Nina’s final, ‘Thank you for coming.’ She raised her champagne glass in a salute.
‘Dear God, she’s amazing!’
‘She’s mad! Who’d want the headache of starting from scratch at her age?’
‘She loves the power.’
‘Australia’s too small. They’ll blow their money in two years.’
The reactions buzzed around the candlelit tables as the Baron leaned over, kissed Nina on the cheek and clinked champagne glasses with her.
‘As always, my dear, you stun, stimulate and cause a sensation. You never give up, do you?’ he said. Then added softly, ‘And nor will I, until you agree to marry me.’
Roberto Iano raised an eyebrow to Manny Golan beside him. ‘Australia? That sounds like going backwards to me. Even if she grew up there, why on earth . . . ?’
‘Australia produces and sells more magazines per capita than just about any other Western country,’ said Ian Marcello, Nina’s Australian lawyer who looked after her international affairs and had timed one of his frequent trips from Sydney to celebrate Nina’s birthday. ‘It’s very competitive. Don’t forget Rupert Murdoch cut his teeth there and he’s moved production of some of the Fox movies down there. I hear more than a few actors are buying up real estate in Sydney.’
‘It’s supposed to be a combination of New York and LA, pretty sophisticated yet laid-back,’ said Larissa. ‘Ali, you’d know, you come from there too. How is it really?’
The others at the table stared at Ali in surprise. She looked and sounded like a total New Yorker. Only those at Blaze, or within the small world of publishing, knew of her Australian roots. While many successful Australians in New York trumpeted their origins, Ali didn’t broadcast the fact.
‘How would I know . . . really?’ she said, looking slightly put out. ‘I’ve been here eighteen years without any contact with Australia. I have no relatives there to speak of. I don’t keep up with anything Australian. Ask me about Milan, London, Cannes.’
No one took up the offer.
Larissa changed the subject. ‘Nina is very hands-on. I wonder how long a break she’s taking.’
‘She’s earned a long one. I can’t recall her ever taking much time off,’ said Manny.
‘With her money I’d gladly rest on my laurels and live it up in Europe,’ declared Roberto. ‘Trust Nina not to retire quietly with a large share portfolio and drift into the sunset,’ he added, concealing his irritation at not knowing of this intriguing development before now.
‘Days of the big golden parachute will soon be gone, Roberto,’ Manny reminded him. A job for life was becoming a forgotten concept, even for pampered executives.
‘Nina has guided Blaze for so long, that she and the magazine seem inseparable,’ commented Roberto, glancing at Ian Marcello, hoping for a bit of inside information.
The dark-haired, twinkle-eyed lawyer merely smiled. Nina was more than another client on his impressive list. They were friends who trusted, liked and respected each other. If she ever had a doubt about a decision, she dined with Ian who loved fine food and wine. At the end of an enjoyable meal, Nina came away satisfied in every sense. Ian’s advice, questioning and analysis, sandwiched between courses, always proved invaluable.
Larissa looked at Ali and wondered what was going through her mind. With Lorraine sadly out of the picture, the path was clear for Ali to intensify her campaign for the editorship, a position Larissa suspected Ali had been quietly lobbying for in recent months. Larissa didn’t have the ruthless dedication to a career that drove Ali. Probably because she had a stable personal life with a man she loved, whereas Ali – as far as anyone knew – was very single. And very single-minded. Ali was thinking rapidly. If Nina stayed out of New York long enough, she could entrench herself with senior management and implement her ideas. Already Ali was assuming her appointment as the next editor of Blaze USA.
She glanced at Manny and the three other vice-presidents of the Triton company who were sitting at the same table. That was where the power was concentrated. She hadn’t worked her butt off as deputy editor to impress Lorraine Bannister or Nina Jansous. Ali had slaved hard and made sure she’d been noticed by the male hierarchy . . . Even if it sometimes meant resorting to sexual innuendo and low-cut tops that showed her braless, small, pointed breasts. They controlled the money. And whoever controlled the money had the power. They ran the company. While Nina had powerful input, it was always the dollar that underscored the big decisions.
Nina was certainly no figurehead, but since Triton had recently gone public, and although she held substantial A-list shares, she had less say in running the corporate flagship. Now the company had to answer to shareholders, meet the responsibilities and obligations of a public company, be even more disciplined over profit margins, and watch out for possible takeovers.
Manny reached into his pocket for a cigar, but it was then he remembered his wife had removed the temptation as the invitation had politely requested they refrain from smoking. He picked up his brandy and spun the goblet between his pudgy hands. ‘So what do you make of this, Roberto? She’s not doing it for money. In fact, they could blow a helluva pile. The Baron must have agreed to the idea. Is he indulging Nina or does he want to make money? If Triton is backing this, he must think she can pull it off.’
Roberto agreed. ‘Though why would a woman at her stage in life, with so much achieved, want to start over again? A helluva risk. People remember the failures, not the successes. Why is she bothering?’
‘The challenge,’ chimed in Larissa. ‘It’s fantastic to think that when you turn sixty you could be starting a whole new life.’ She gave the two executives a wide-eyed look. ‘What are you both going to do when you turn sixty?’
Neither man wanted to answer. Manny changed the subject. ‘There’s always politics, eh Roberto? In fact, I wondered whether Nina may be considering running for something, or working on someone’s campaign in the near future.’
‘Nina has always been a political animal,’ agreed Roberto. ‘Though she’s never let her views interfere with her job as far as I can tell. Tempting when she wields so much power.’
‘Yeah, it always amazes me that a magazine has such political influence. I mean Blaze isn’t the Washington Post.’
‘Do you read it?’ asked Roberto with a grin.
‘Blaze? Yeah. But then it’s part of the job,’ confessed Manny. He quickly turned to Ali and Larissa, ‘Not that I don’t enjoy it, of course.’
The girls rolled their eyes.
‘I bet you don’t read everything Triton publishes,’ said Roberto.
‘You mean other than the financial reports?’ Manny downed his brandy. ‘Yeah, I find the mag interesting. Gives me a few controversies to debate with my sons who think they know everything now they’re costing me private college fees. Mind you, I don’t need to know about women’s circumcision in Eritrea.’
Larissa was about to argue the point, but Ali kicked her under the table indicating there was no need to antagonise the executives.
TAKE THREE . . .
The call Ali was waiting for came two days later.
Sh
e smoothed her hair, added another coat of lip gloss, waved the atomiser of Georgio around her head and went to the bathroom.
Then she walked calmly down the hall to Nina’s office.
Nina was relaxed, cool and somewhat preoccupied with a field of paper, which unnerved Ali. Nina waved at the sofa and Ali sat down feeling slightly nervous, but she managed to rearrange her face into what she hoped was an expression of studied nonchalance.
Nina closed the folder then moved to the sofa opposite Ali. She gave a half-smile. ‘You might remember our last conversation.’ Ali nodded slightly. ‘We were not to know the tragic events that would unfold. Fate has a strange way of stepping in at times. However, that is not changing any of my plans.’
Ali said nothing, but her stomach began twisting. Surely, without Lorraine, she had to be appointed the new editor.
‘I have been reassessing my life and, as I said at the dinner, I have been thinking about how I want to spend the next few years,’ began Nina.
It sounded so calm, so reasoned, belying Nina’s sleepless nights, the anguish of losing her mother, her fear of being alone in old age. In the few months since Clara had peacefully died, Nina had begun to seriously rethink her life. No ripple showed on the outside to indicate her inner turmoil. Most people would have been shocked to think that the celebrated, exquisite Nina Jansous was suffering insecurities, confusion and melancholy. She had decided to plunge ahead with the resurrecting of the Australian edition of Blaze. And to try to bring a level of coherence to the mental flashbacks that plagued her. She knew they were linked to her growing up in Croatia. Secretly she had made a tentative plan. But first she needed time in Australia, not just to settle in the staff and infrastructure for the first edition, but also to be clear in her mind why she was feeling the way she was. Ali was tempted to fidget, but kept motionless. What had Nina’s life plan to do with her, here, now? Get on with it, Nina, she urged silently.