Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Editors run the magazine, editors-in-chief keep out of their way and read the circulation figures and balance sheets. If Ali stumbles, Nina will put someone over her and Ali will lose her power and resign,’ explained Tony.

  ‘Seems to me there have been a lot of editors resign these past few years in Sydney. A precarious profession, from what the gossip columns say,’ said Bass with a smile at the two girls.

  ‘Who would you put in if Ms Gruber stumbles?’ Tallulah asked Jacques, smoothing her shoulder-length blonde hair.

  He gave her a frankly flirtatious look. ‘Maybe me. I’m starting to like this town.’

  ‘So what do you do?’ asked Tony. ‘And I don’t believe Tallulah is your real name.’

  ‘It’s not. And that’s for me to keep a secret.’ She pulled a tiny red mobile phone from her handbag. ‘I’m calling it a night.’

  ‘We’ll come with you,’ said Patti. ‘Is the car still there, Dad?’

  ‘Yes. Can we drop you lads anywhere?’

  ‘I have a hire car on call,’ said Jacques smoothly. He kissed the mysterious blonde’s hand. ‘I hope we meet again.’

  ‘We may well do that.’

  ‘Congratulations on your graduation, business, label . . .’ said Tony to Patti.

  ‘Thanks. It’s called Patti Cakes. Put in a positive word with your editor.’

  John Bass shook hands with both men and the trio left.

  Jacques shook his head. ‘Tallulah wasn’t giving much away. Très formidable. So, do we call up the agency and ask for a couple of girls? The last ones were fun, eh?’

  ‘I think I’ll head home, Jacques. I have to face Ali tomorrow. I’m still trying to sell a story on Guyana to her.’

  ‘For travel? Who’d want to go there?’ Jacques signalled the waiter.

  ‘The intrepid traveller. Why do the same old places that everyone else does?’

  ‘That’s a point. What’s her objection?’

  ‘Cost. Triton doesn’t allow contra deals. Oh, we have a pact not to talk shop. Forget it.’

  But Jacques wasn’t listening. He put a few twenty dollar notes on the counter and the waiter stood on a chair and pulled down one of the large colourful parrots.

  ‘What are you going to do with that?’ asked Tony as they headed for the exit.

  ‘Teach it Simon and Garfunkel songs,’ said Jacques, grinning.

  ‘What! How are you going to send it to her? You don’t even know her name?’ Tony stared at the suave Belgian.

  ‘Bass. Vortex Bank. One phone call tomorrow should do it.’

  Belinda’s Balmain home had been a rundown cottage with a terraced rambling garden and a tiny jetty. Laurie, her husband, had extended the house, added a boatshed that doubled as a workshop, and transformed the garden. The place was now worth a fortune.

  Laurie was big on barbecues. He kept a crab trap hanging from the front of his jetty and threw a line in just about every day to catch a fish, whether it fed them or the cats. But when they entertained, he went to the fish markets where an Italian fishmonger friend kept aside the fattest tiger prawns, the juiciest mussels and the sweetest Sydney rock oysters. These he threw onto his roaring hotplate and doused them in wine, garlic and a squeeze of lime. Laurie didn’t believe in marinating when he had the freshest ingredients.

  Larissa had been overwhelmed. ‘Belinda, you must pay a fortune for food like this. And the setting . . .’ She flung out an arm to embrace the nearby sprawl of the harbour. ‘Not to mention the company.’

  Belinda gave her a happy nudge. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve made a few friends.’ She turned her attention to the newly arrived guests, allowing Larissa to recover her composure, absolving her of making any comment. In the past three weeks Larissa had enjoyed careful and discreet attention from the owner of an advertising agency – Kevin McCarthy, divorced, rich and very amusing.

  ‘You haven’t lived till you’ve been cruising on Sydney’s waterways,’ Kevin had said at their first meeting. ‘Come out next Saturday. A few buddies and I are taking the boat up to Palm Beach. We’ll pull in somewhere along the Hawkesbury for a picnic.’

  Knowing it was a group outing, Larissa had finally agreed and had enjoyed the best time she’d had since arriving in Australia. The Fjord cruiser was sleek and comfortable, the company convivial with other ad men from his agency, including the brilliant young creative director and two women clients – Julia, from a financial institution, and Sonia, a product specialist from a pharmaceutical company.

  Larissa had never experienced anything so exhilarating as sailing out through Sydney Heads. They turned north to run along the coastline and eventually round Barrenjoey headland into Broken Bay. The bushland hills of Ku-ring-gai National Park rose above small sandy coves, larger bays filled with picnickers and campers, sweeping back to the residential and holiday cottages off Church Point.

  Kevin anchored in Refuge Bay, a small deserted cove. They rowed ashore with iron barbecue plate and steaks, an Esky – nicknamed ‘The Richard’ after the 60 Minutes reporter who travelled with an Esky of lavish food and wine supplies to Third World hot spots so he would not be without the comforts of home. Belinda had filled this cooler with bowls of salad and fresh bread. They’d swum and lazed on the tiny strip of sand then, after lunch, Kevin had taken them hiking up the hill, following a footprint-wide track made by wallabies.

  Larissa had seen and heard her first kookaburra. ‘They really do sound like they’re laughing,’ she said.

  ‘Watch out if you picnic at a popular place,’ said Sonia. ‘They fly down and grab the food off your plate.’

  ‘Buggers killed or flew off with the goldfish in my terrace pond,’ added Julia.

  ‘They’re kingfishers. That’s what they’re programmed to do,’ said Phil the creative director. ‘All our behaviour patterns are programmed.’

  This had started a good-natured debate over genetic and environmental influences governing behaviour and Phil had started talking about new IT developments that could also influence how humans interact.

  Larissa had been fascinated. ‘Tell me more, how do you know this stuff?’

  ‘Agencies spend fortunes on market research. But my sister is doing her PhD at MIT in the States. We talk a lot. She’s working on audio delivery by light source. There’s a bright IT guy, Dan, that we use as well.’

  Larissa wanted to know more and they trailed behind the others while Phil explained as best he could how this new technology worked.

  ‘Why are you so interested? I thought magazine people like you were just into image.’

  ‘We can’t afford to limit ourselves like that. Everything is technology-based now. But content and the talent that creates it will always be a vital ingredient. Technology can’t replace a creative and fertile mind.’

  ‘What makes Blaze different from the rest of the pack out there?’ asked Phil. ‘A lot of the ads I create are for a generation that read screens rather than paper. They want movement, music, flashing lights, bells and whistles. Aren’t magazines going the way of stone tablets?’

  Larissa studied Phil, who looked every inch an ad man – hair buzz cut with a five, a discreet tattoo of a small frog on his arm, an earring, the latest gear, shades, shoes. But he wasn’t cynical, slick, arrogant. He seemed a nice boy in his early twenties. Probably ten years younger than her, probably gay, yet Larissa felt a generation older.

  ‘As Blaze is a new magazine, Nina, our editor-in-chief, has been quite innovative in the presentation. It’s not locked into a niche market or even just mass market. Yes, it’s popular culture, but there are well-written, challenging articles, exciting images, disposable information and thought-provoking stuff. Ali, our editor, is trying to be as cutting edge as possible. She sees it as sonic information – boom!’

  ‘Ali Gruber? The Yank Tank? We know about her!’ he laughed. ‘Hey, sorry, she’s probably a close friend.’

  ‘We worked together with Nina in New York. She has made a bit of a name for herself h
ere. She’s sees it as part of her job to promote the magazine,’ said Larissa noncommittally.

  ‘Yeah, you’ve arrived when you’re carved up by April Showers.’ His attention was suddenly diverted. ‘Hey, they’ve found something.’ They hurried to where the others were clustered around a large rock.

  Kevin pointed to the outline of a huge fish. ‘Aboriginal carving. There are plenty around here. Most of the Aborigines in Sydney were wiped out by smallpox soon after the First Fleet arrived.’

  Larissa was fascinated and bent down and traced her fingers in the engraving etched into the sandstone. ‘How, why is this here?’

  ‘According to Jim Macken, our local expert, it could be a male initiation or a female birthing ceremony site. The elders drew the outline in charcoal or ochre, and then they took sharp flint stones to dig holes along the outline and joined them up to make the final engraving. It’s called a pictograph. He can tell you fantastic stories of this area. We’ll bring him along next trip.’

  ‘I’d love to know more about the Aboriginal history. I love the art,’ said Larissa.

  ‘Don’t get Kevin started,’ said Phil. ‘He’s quite a collector.’

  Kevin took Larissa’s arm and helped her to her feet. ‘You must come and see my Wandjinas and Papunyas.’

  ‘Well, now I’m curious without even knowing what or who they are,’ she laughed.

  Larissa had lunched with Kevin the following week to talk about some of his advertising clients taking ads in Blaze. But they’d talked about a lot of other matters and enjoyed each other’s company. She was glad to see he was here at Belinda’s lunch party.

  Belinda drifted among the guests who were dotted in bright bursts about the shady garden. The mothering attitude she showed in the office continued in her role as hostess. She had a knack for putting people at ease, showing a genuine interest and concern in their wellbeing. She came to light at the table where Larissa and Tiki Henderson were talking.

  ‘Thanks for sending us a copy of your manuscript, Tiki,’ said Larissa. ‘Congratulations. When’s it due in the shops?’

  ‘Not sure. They tell me they’re bringing it out earlier now because another book on their list fell through.’

  ‘Ooh, you’ll be on the talk-show circuit. Tell me when you’re going to be on TV. I’ll tape it. Unless we can sneak a look in the office,’ said Belinda.

  ‘Not in working hours. Ali will deduct half an hour from your pay,’ said Tiki with a touch of irony. Although she had walked out of the job, her demotion by Ali still rankled. ‘Anyway the publisher’s PR has warned me they’ll have a hard time arranging any interviews. The media doesn’t want to know about “sacked ex-journo writes romance novel”,’ she sighed.

  ‘It’s not a romance novel,’ said Larissa. ‘It’s romantic, but it has a strong message, gutsy, provocative characters, and touches on a number of sensitive issues. Boy, the mother and daughter stuff touched my heart.’

  ‘The publicist wants to push the angle that the book dishes the dirt on the Yank Tank. I hope they don’t want to talk about just that and not the book.’

  ‘Don’t worry, interviewers never read the books anyway,’ said Larissa.

  ‘How can they ask the right questions then?’ puzzled Belinda.

  Larissa and Tiki burst out laughing. ‘They read up a bunch of newspaper or magazine cuttings – if you’ve been interviewed before – so they can repeat the same inaccuracies, and write it from that and the press release. They phone you up with a series of set pet questions . . . “Where do you find your ideas? Why did you write this book?, How long did it take you?, Are you writing another book? What’s it about?”’ chanted Tiki. ‘It’s been so frustrating. And to top it off, that dreadful April Showers has had a go at me a couple of times.’

  ‘Ooh. That’s bad when the only publicity you can get is in that column,’ said Belinda looking at Larissa.

  Tiki sighed. ‘The publishers don’t think so. So long as the name of the book appears. And I’ve never spoken to April Showers. I don’t know why I’m being called ex-hackette, or why it’s being inferred I went through everyone’s desks and took out every journo’s half-finished manuscript and stirred them together.’

  ‘At least you weren’t escorted from the building,’ added Larissa. She’d been appalled at tales of the grand Aussie magazine tradition of firing a senior journalist or editor on the spot. There had been cases where the poor unfortunate was to clean out their desk while every move was watched by a security guard who then escorted them out of the building, making them leave their company ID and cars keys at the front desk.

  Belinda poured herself a glass of wine. ‘I know why April Showers is having a go at you, Tiki.’

  The other women’s eyes swivelled to Belinda and wine glasses were refilled.

  ‘Do tell,’ said Tiki. Belinda always seemed to find out the low-down, the behind the scenes, the ridgy-didge goss as she called it.

  Belinda sipped her wine. ‘I have to preface my remarks by saying I have never met the dreaded April Showers. But a certain publisher told me he’d been given a manuscript by April Showers, who thought knocking off a light lady’s romance would be a quick way to fortune and more fame. April wanted to buy a huge house and needed extra cash.’

  ‘What happened? Where’s the book? Don’t tell me it’s about to come out at the same time as mine,’ wailed Tiki.

  ‘The publisher knocked it back. Said he wouldn’t give five bob for it,’ said Belinda.

  ‘Everyone thinks they can write romance or mass-market fiction. That Mills and Boon is a piece of cake that mints you money. Dead wrong. Tell ’em to try it,’ said Tiki. ‘So what happened, Belinda?’

  ‘The agent representing April Showers tried to sell a manuscript to your publisher and he knocked it back – too defamatory apparently. So they publish you and not her. Work that out for yourself,’ finished Belinda.

  Tiki sighed. ‘This media trip is such a pain, especially seeing it from the other side. The PR girl told me that being over forty – excuse me – I wouldn’t generate much interest media-wise.’

  ‘Have your boobs done and pay through the nose for a face-lift,’ suggested Larissa.

  ‘Sleep with someone famous,’ giggled Belinda.

  ‘You can’t sleep with everyone in the media, Belinda. You should know that. The men are either too pissed or the women figure they could’ve written your book better,’ said Tiki, liberally splashing the wine into her glass.

  ‘Miaowww . . .’ laughed Belinda.

  Larissa leaned over and, in a stage whisper, warned, ‘Look out for any write-up by April Showers.’

  ‘These gossip columnists throw around inaccuracies and innuendo that can harm your book more than any publicity can help it.’

  Tiki dropped her head in her hands. ‘God, between Showers and Ali I’ll be crucified. I figured the one positive part of leaving Blaze was I’d have the time to write another book. I’ll be lucky if this one sells a hundred copies.’

  ‘We’ll all buy a few copies,’ said Belinda squeezing Tiki’s arm.

  Kevin loomed over the table. ‘This looks like a wake. Come on, there’s delicious food over yonder.’ He gave Larissa a questioning look.

  ‘It’s all right, Kevin. We’re just figuring out how to disrobe Caesar’s wife.’

  He took Larissa’s hand to lead her across the lawn. ‘So who is always above suspicion?’

  ‘My boss. Don’t ever tangle with ambitious women in the workplace.’

  ‘That’s why I’ve surrounded myself with gay and nice young men. Come on, think of something to look forward to. I hear it’s your birthday in a week. Can I arrange a party for you?’

  ‘Oh. Goodness. I never celebrate birthdays.’ A feeling of guilt swept over Larissa thinking how she’d initially forgotten Gerard’s last birthday. At least she’d made up for it by organising the bash at Alain Ducasse at vast expense. Would Gerard remember her birthday without her around to drop hints? Their communication w
as relying more and more on email because phone calls were missed or mistimed.

  ‘We always celebrate birthdays in Oz. It will be a wonderful excuse for a party,’ smiled Kevin.

  ‘Please, no cake, no candles, no silly song.’

  ‘What about rude balloons and vintage champagne?’

  Larissa laughed. ‘Now you’re talking. It sounds fun.’ And she felt childishly pleased.

  TAKE TEN . . .

  Miche and Donald were following the red sports car driven by Sophie, the Piste representative appointed to watch over Sally. Bags of clothes, accessories, props and Pete, Donald’s English assistant, were piled in the back. Everyone had finally agreed on the Blaze shoot for Sally’s story. The young model’s repeated litany to Miche – ‘none of this seems real’ – had led to a fantasy theme.

  They were driving to the Rhône Valley to shoot dream sequences at a vineyard attached to a chateau. It was once part of a grand estate and the family had almost died out. The unmarried and elderly heir, unable to maintain the grounds and buildings, had turned the family vineyard into a boutique winery.

  Miche gasped as Donald drove through the arches in the old stone wall as she glimpsed the chateau and its gardens surrounded by terraced grapevines that produced a fine shiraz under the label Château Soleil. ‘Wow. It looks like a postcard. Or a scene from a French movie!’

  ‘Funny about that, eh?’ said Donald. ‘It’s a cool place. I’ve been here before. Did shots for a classy calendar. Naked girls romping among the grapes, the vats and the old rooms of the chateau. Pretty wild time was had by all.’

  ‘Is it going to be like that, this time?’ asked Miche. She was finding the lifestyle in the modelling world less fun and more debauched and dangerous. She wondered how it was affecting Sally.

  Donald reached over and casually patted her knee. ‘Maybe it’s time for you to live a little, Miche. For a New Yorker, you’re pretty stitched up.’

  It was the first time Donald had made anything like an intimate remark to her and Miche bridled. His laid-back Aussie friendliness had put her at ease. Knowing they had three days together ahead of them, she retorted, ‘Remember, everything you say and do goes into my article.’