Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  She didn’t waste time with niceties. ‘Tracey, what’s this about the Reality TV show wanting to interview me?’

  ‘Ali! I thought you were on your way to New York.’

  ‘I’m at the airport. That god-awful Heather Race person accosted me, literally, outside the salon as I was getting in the car. Why did she lie in wait for me, why didn’t she speak to you?’

  ‘She did, Ali, and I told her most emphatically you wouldn’t be interested in doing a personal interview. I’m sorry, I had no idea she’d bail you up.’ Tracey was holding her head, she could lose her job over this. Damn that TV bitch.

  ‘What sort of story? Why me?’

  ‘You fascinate people, Ali. She said you were a super dynamo that no one knew anything about. You know how they do those probing personal profiles on successful people.’

  ‘You bet I know. They come on like you’re the hero of the month and then they pull out enemies and long-forgotten relatives to bag you. Programs like that only dish dirt. She even said it was no This Is Your Life ego stroker.’

  ‘That’s why I refused, Ali. I’ll ring her producer. It’s outrageous she door-stopped you . . .’

  ‘Never mind. Let it rest. Less said the better. But pull out everything you can on her. Email it to me. Now put me through to Larissa.’

  And have a good trip, thanks very much, Tracey muttered to herself. Ali was a difficult client for a publicist. On one hand she wanted maximum exposure – seen at the A-list functions, wearing borrowed designer clothes – yet she shunned any serious publicity that could reveal anything about her. Ali was an enigma.

  Larissa listened calmly as Ali shouted over her mobile about the incident with Heather Race. ‘It’s odd this has happened,’ said Larissa when Ali paused to take a breath. ‘Jonathan Gibb wants to do a profile on her.’

  ‘Hmmm. That’s an interesting thought. We reverse the tables,’ said Ali slowly. ‘I gather no one has ever been able to take her on. Being a face on a top-rating show with a powerful network gives a lot of protection. What sort of angle will he follow? Apart from showing what a bitch she really is.’

  ‘Pretty faces who push themselves in front of a camera and never have any formal training, no ethics, no scruples, no care or responsibility.’

  ‘Take Jonathan off the story.’

  Larissa was surprised – it seemed the kind of story Ali would go for. ‘Defamation problems?’

  ‘Not if we’re careful. No, put April onto it. She’s been pushing to do something more than her column. She’d be perfect.’

  ‘Controversial. Putting April and Heather in the same ring could result in a field day for lawyers. And what about Jonathan – it was his idea? He has the in with Heather Race.’

  ‘Then he won’t reach paydirt. Tell April to do it and ask Bob to find something else for Jonathan.’

  Larissa gave it one more try for the senior writer’s sake. ‘Jonathan’s been looking for something meaty to do for a while.’

  ‘Tell him to keep looking. They’re calling my plane. G’bye.’

  TAKE EIGHTEEN . . .

  Bob called April to his office. ‘You’ve made noises about wanting to do more than your column,’ he said without any preamble.

  April did a double take, glancing over her shoulder, from side to side, then asked, ‘Me? You are speaking to me, I take it?’ She gave him a disdainful look, thinking to herself, what a wimp. ‘That’s right. I can write more than two paragraphs at a stretch. I have a lot of ideas. Naturally personality-focused. Call me Set ’em Up Joe. I can make people tell me stuff they’ve never told a soul.’ Bob winced imperceptibly. He was scared she’d write something too controversial. April flung out her arms. ‘Sure, I know where you’re coming from and, hell, we all have to answer to Ali, right? What say I do a sample piece. On a big name.’

  He fiddled with a pencil sharpener in a model steam engine to cover the discomfort he experienced whenever he had to deal with this unpredictable woman. She was so self-confident, so sure of herself. Why was he intimidated by a short, stocky blonde broad, a fraction of his weight? Because he felt she could bowl him over with a small fist or a sharp tongue, that’s why. ‘Well, it’s an interesting idea. If you can land the big names – social, business, political, not just showbiz and sports – to open up, then we could build you as the ultimate interviewer. The surgeon of zing. We certainly don’t need the same chewed-over popular stuff from old files and PR people.’

  April looked unconcerned. ‘I’ll hit the big names like you’ve never seen or heard them before. Trust me, Bob.’

  The last thing Bob would ever do was to trust April Showers. But he was still a newsman with a nose for the sensational. ‘Let me give you a name – Heather Race.’

  April caught her breath. This was too good to be true. She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘She may not agree.’

  ‘I’ve fixed it,’ said Bob pleased to one-up her. ‘Call her personal publicist at the station.’

  Ali felt a different person being back in New York. On one hand there was anonymity, on the other a sense of being where the power and action was. And she was back with a raised sense of her own power. Australia might be on the periphery of New Yorkers’ sensibilities, but her position as editor of Blaze Australia gave her entrée to the top levels of New York publishing, media and society. Thanks especially to Baron Triton.

  She felt at home here and cruised Fifth Avenue, delighted by the second looks she received and shop assistants in Bendel’s and Saks asking where she’d bought her ‘darling shoes and such a fabulous outfit’. Ali was travelling with complimentary clothes from her favourite Australian designers, Brave, Saba, Scanlan & Theodore. Tracey Ford had set up a permanent personal shopper for Ali and she delivered a selection of clothes, accessories and jewellery to Ali each month. They were borrowed from the designers only too happy to have their clothes seen on a top editor and photographed at smart functions. Now Ali was looking forward to shopping in Manhattan’s NoLIta district, to trawl through treasures in the funky and gorgeous one-off shops. These outfits, and especially the shoes and bags, would stand out in Sydney.

  Ali had already had her first meeting with the Baron at Triton headquarters. Nina’s name had not come up, so Ali didn’t raise it. She’d also joined the Baron at a board meeting to report on what was happening with Blaze in Australia. This evening she had been invited to dine with him at a small private party at his penthouse.

  When Ali arrived, no other guests were present, though the table was set for ten. The Baron kissed Ali on both cheeks and ushered her into his study. The butler brought them champagne.

  ‘So, Ali, are you enjoying being back in New York? Or has your old country claimed your heart?’

  ‘I am doing time in Sydney purely for professional reasons. I think of New York as home.’

  The Baron gave her a slight smile. ‘No gentleman in your life, here or there?’

  ‘Not in a romantic sense. I find men in my age group a bit boring. I have enough men in my life at Blaze. One in particular.’ She wrinkled her nose and gave a mock wince of pain.

  ‘Ah, let me guess. Would it be someone senior on your staff?’ The Baron could imagine Ali locking horns with male management. ‘I hope it’s not my son,’ he added as an afterthought.

  ‘Jacques and I have our differences on occasion,’ said Ali frankly. ‘But he leaves the running of the magazine to me. No, I have more of a problem with the advertising manager. I have been bringing in clients with large accounts myself, which he seems to resent. A power and ego trip, I guess. My concern is the bottom line. The more dollars we rake in, the more I can do with, and for, Blaze.’

  ‘That’s very enterprising of you to attract clients.’ The Baron gently steered the conversation away from business to the current theatre scene in New York.

  Ali expressed her own enthusiasm and how she had missed the Broadway and off-Broadway plays. She had made her point about Reg Craven. Small pebbles in a pond would cause a bigger ripple t
o hit its banks eventually.

  The Baron took up her hint about the theatre. ‘Perhaps you would like to join me for the opening night of Ambrosia tomorrow evening?’

  Ali accepted graciously, in the same friendly manner the invitation was extended by the courtly Baron.

  Over dinner Ali was the centre of attention. She was the youngest by far at the table and was surprised there was no one else there from Triton. The sophisticated group of the Baron’s friends asked questions about Australia, which was considered the hot new destination for tourists and corporate investors. Ali was informed and entertaining. She’d had Tracey email her each morning an updated digest of each day’s Australian news – financial, political, sport and entertainment, latest polls and comment – to keep her abreast of events for occasions such as this. She knew she was impressing the businessmen at the table, while the wives wondered about the relationship between Ali and the Baron. It had always been Nina seated at the Baron’s right.

  To Ali’s right was one of New York’s favourite sons, Winston Hauser, an author of several controversial books – one on an undercover agent who’d worked with the Mafia and had turned state’s evidence at a drug-boss trial and, despite sinking into the witness protection program, had been outed and murdered. Many believed Winston’s book had been the man’s death warrant. Another of his works was about a gay longshoreman leader. It had made startling revelations about the waterfront workers and had provoked a mayoral inquiry. Winston had moved to the West Coast at the suggestion of the police commissioner, but he didn’t soak up the sun and keep silent as advised. Instead, he cast his caustic eye on Hollywood and wrote a searing, satirical novel where thinly disguised celebrities were pilloried on the tip of his lethal pen.

  Ali found the older man supercilious, cynical, rapier-tongued and arrogant. She liked him instantly. ‘I don’t suppose a visit to Australia has ever loomed on your horizon?’ she asked.

  ‘God, what for?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Mind you, dear heart, I’ll do anything for money. What are you offering?’

  Ali thought swiftly. ‘Come over, give us your eye on Oz.’

  He chuckled. ‘Oz . . . is that what you call Australia? Hmmm, Winston, The Wizard of Oz . . . that could be me. But what would I write about? I’m tired and bored with serious stories. Hollywood was a buzz, but I’ve done that. Who are your celebs, darling?’

  ‘The nouveau riche,’ said Ali quickly. ‘Money – newly acquired by fair and foul means. The old money hates to be in the press, which always makes them more desirable.’

  Winston clapped his hands to his head. ‘None of them are desirable. I am SOOO bored with that scene. I want to run away and live in an igloo for a while. But, a social scribe would add a cachet to your magazine, darling. A society scribe, not a gossip-monger.’

  Ali jumped in. ‘The whole world loves gossip. We have a gossip columnist. I believe you could easily outdo Suzy’s column in W . . . being outrageous and quite vile in your witty indomitable style.’

  ‘Wouldn’t the socialites in Sydney hate to be portrayed that way?’ asked a woman at the far end of the table. ‘That’s not Suzy’s style.’

  ‘You have to find a vile bitch,’ said Winston cheerfully. ‘The ruder she is about them, the more they’ll want to read the magazine, despite their professed indignation.’

  ‘Could boost sales,’ mused Ali. ‘Everybody will be talking about who’s been savaged . . . and whose party’s hailed . . . or failed!’ She glanced at the Baron. ‘What do you think, Oscar?’ It was the first time she’d used his Christian name and he didn’t appear to notice. Everyone at the table noted the familiarity.

  ‘It’s your call.’ Then, as if not to appear unsupportive, he asked, ‘What is the social scene in Australia these days?’

  ‘Parochial,’ answered Ali. ‘It took itself very seriously in the old days, Lady this and Sir that. All very toffy and British. Then Australia brought in refugees from Europe and suddenly there was a new breed of self-made wealthy. Money bought status but not necessarily class. Unlike the US, there isn’t much philanthropy.’ She turned to Winston. ‘A society writer wouldn’t cover as many museum and art collections as here – more football and TV big-time events, like LA. Imagine a full-back from the leading league, switching teams and posing nude for a calendar then marrying a soapie star who admits to a boob job and a mental breakdown and you have the best known couple in town. As I said, the true socialites are rarely seen at public functions.’

  Winston rubbed his hands together in glee. ‘Sounds like rich pickings for someone with a cruel sense of humour. I’m tempted, but I’m sure you’ll find the right nasty bitch.’

  April Showers’ face flashed into Ali’s mind and she suddenly knew that’s what she’d do. Ask April to write a second column that was a society page with photos – a cross between the pages in W and Hello! magazine, with added spice. Ali could see the line in the sand between the gossip and the society writer with a penchant for clever and sophisticated wit. It may stop April wanting to do feature pieces and upsetting the other writers. She’d see what April turned in on Heather Race. If she gave her a second column there’d be a skirmish or three with April over money and assistants that would cause headaches with the staff, but no doubt the double column would attract more readers. She’d talk to Oscar about an increase in the budget. She had only a few full-time staff writers and occasionally guest contributors who wrote for free in return for the exposure to plug their new book or show. She still had a well to dip into, but if Oscar could see the value in attracting more up-market readers who’d follow society’s doings, she’d push for extra money.

  Ali was the last to leave. The Baron was tired, or maybe it was an over-indulgence in his fine wines. Ali decided to casually raise the idea of the extra column as they shared a last nightcap.

  ‘I’m glad I met Winston. I think the society column will work brilliantly. I found Winston fascinating. Of course, I was glad it wasn’t me he was ripping into.’

  ‘Hmmm. He’s far too old for you to find attractive.’ The Baron eyed Ali.

  ‘I like older men. I told you I’ve outgrown my peers. I’m ready for someone more worldly. Not that I’d see Winston as a potential lover,’ she laughed. ‘I suspect he might be gay.’

  ‘I trust you keep your personal and professional relationships apart. Never become involved with your staff, dear girl.’

  Ali stood and gathered her wrap. ‘I never would.’ She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Nor, I suppose, would you.’

  He couldn’t help smiling at her cheek that was part repartee and part dare. There was something dangerous and risky about this smart young woman. ‘I have been known to break the rules on occasion.’

  Ali patted his arm. ‘That’s okay, when you make the rules. Goodnight. I’m looking forward to our night at the theatre.’

  She saw him for a budget meeting the day of the play, followed by a leisurely lunch which developed into something more intimate. Oscar Triton found himself telling an attentive Ali about his childhood, how his grandfather had started their empire and how he’d expanded it into a media conglomerate. The mention of his wealth didn’t appear to impress her and she asked personal questions about how he must have felt and what had been his dreams and aspirations as a young man, as well as pertinent business questions. Ali had done thorough research on Baron Triton and knew his family background and had read every quote he’d ever made in the press.

  At one point the Baron leaned back and studied her. ‘You know, Ali, you and I are very similar. We tend to think along the same lines. I am looking forward to finding out more about you. If I may.’

  ‘Personally or professionally?’ asked Ali lightly.

  ‘I believe that in your case there isn’t a great ocean between the two,’ said the Baron sagely.

  During intermission at the theatre, Ali linked her arm through the Baron’s. As the play came to an end, he took her hand and together they left the the
atre in his limousine. Nothing was said, but an understanding had been reached. In the private elevator sliding towards his penthouse, Ali leaned over and kissed him recklessly, plunging her tongue into his mouth and pressing her body against his.

  John O’Donnell had been a challenge, the Baron turned out to be a pushover. They both understood it was power sex. Her youthful, taut body in return for his position and influence. No strings attached. But favours to be returned.

  It didn’t take long for the gossip to filter back to Sydney. Tony Cox broke the news to Reg Craven with nefarious pleasure. ‘Ali is screwing the Baron. By the time she returns, she might be the new Baroness. Been known to happen.’

  Reg seethed, but brushed it aside. ‘Old man Triton has more class than that. What’s a quick lay with an ambitious bitch? He probably hasn’t had any since Nina moved out.’

  ‘Ali wouldn’t stack up against Nina Jansous – even with a thirty-year age gap. But I believe the grass roots talk – that the Baron and Nina really are just good friends. Ali may not win a ring on her finger, but she’ll have his ear and that’s more dangerous for us.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Reg gloomily. ‘Does Jacques know what’s going on? If not, you’ll no doubt tell him. I thought the old boy belonged to Nina. I didn’t figure Ali would make a play for him.’

  ‘Come on, Reg, you know Ali. She goes for the top . . . and for the jugular . . . every time.’

  Ali called Belinda from New York. ‘I’m leaving here tomorrow. Any contact from Nina?’

  ‘No. Were you expecting a call?’ asked Belinda.

  ‘Hmmm. Possibly.’ She sounded vague. ‘So are there any major problems?’

  ‘Nothing that can’t wait till you return.’ Belinda didn’t want to say how calm the office had been with Ali away.

  Ali hung up and doodled on the Peninsula Hotel stationery on the desk in her suite. She was due to meet the Baron in the office before leaving. She’d said nothing about Lucien Artiem’s strange phone call about Nina. Before she’d left Sydney, she’d had one try at ringing the hotel number Lucien had given her, but she’d never got past the switchboard, the language difference proving impossible. Nina must have turned up, she told herself. Otherwise she’d have heard from Lucien Artiem again.