Strictly Confidential

by Roxy Jacenko

  Marlita tapped her phone against her chin for a moment before agreeing. ‘Although I don’t want to bother Raven with an interview. Let’s work on it together, shall we?’ she said, an eyebrow raised.

  ‘Perfect,’ I replied just as Raven reappeared in a fluffy white robe. She snatched a bottle of Santa Vittoria water from Anya, who was hovering near the action, and I actually thought Anya might faint from the close encounter.

  For a day that had started so awfully (and so damned long ago), things were starting to look up. And then my phone vibrated. A text from Diane and the first contact I’d had with her since early this morning: My office. As soon as the shoot is finished. Do you understand?

  Oh, I understood . . .

  ‘OMG. Why on earth would you allow her to be seen in public with those disgusting sunglasses?’ Diane fumed, her own sunglasses still covering her eyes, the Dior insignia glistening in the early afternoon sun that streamed into her office.

  ‘Diane, it was actually –’

  ‘And why, why would you allow those photographers – four photographers, I’m told on good authority – to snap the talent and leave without so much as a pair of Vixenary knickers? Our client who has paid for our representation!’ Behind her sunnies her eyes flashed and I was reminded of a bull preparing to charge.

  ‘Diane, I’m sorry, I –’

  ‘Jasmine, don’t you understand,’ her voice rose in fury, ‘that I was on an interstate visit trying to consolidate a deal? A deal that will blow the roof off every other office in this building! Don’t you?’ She circled, enraged. If this was going to be a bullfight I was preparing to be gored.

  ‘I do, I just –’

  ‘And do you not realise that I have to go away on these trips, and I need to be able to trust my employees to take care of everything when I do?’

  ‘Completely. And I was doing that when –’

  ‘Then, Jasmine, why are there photos of Raven on the home page of every gossip site in the United States of America without so much as a mention of our client in the goddamn caption?’

  There was nothing for it but to wave the proverbial red rag. ‘It’s not Raven in the picture, it’s me!’ I blurted.

  Silence.

  God, someone pass me a sangria.

  Diane looked at me through her black tinted sunnies before slowly sitting down at her desk. Removing her glasses with painstaking care, she studied her computer screen for a moment. ‘Hmm,’ she conceded. ‘It is you. You do look remarkably like her. I never would have guessed. Quite a master of disguise, aren’t you?’ she added, staring at me intently.

  I shuffled uncomfortably under her gaze, not convinced she wasn’t coming back for round two. ‘Er, not really. I just did what I had to do. Raven was too wasted to run the pap gauntlet so I did it for her. When the paparazzi left, I doubled back and took Raven home to her hotel. That’s why I couldn’t talk to the photogs about the client. I am sorry about that,’ I said, feeling no remorse whatsoever at having disappointed Diane. And especially not given the way she was wiping the floor with me now. What I was sorry about was having missed an opportunity for publicity for my client. Something I never liked to do.

  ‘Well,’ she said dismissively, ‘it still doesn’t solve what I’m going to tell my client now, does it?’

  ‘But have you seen the Sun’s story about Raven this morning?’ I asked.

  On my way home from today’s shoot I’d had the foresight to call Luke Jefferson, gossip columnist for the Sun newspaper, and fill him in about what had happened last night in the Cross. By offering him more details than had been reported in the USA, including details of the labels ‘Raven’ was wearing, I’d managed to convince him to run the story with a plug for Vixenary included. Predictably, Diane had been out having a smoke on her balcony when I returned to the office, so I’d had about a three-second window to check the story was up online and to save my arse. It was and I had.

  ‘I see,’ was Diane’s only response after sighting the piece. She reached instinctively for a cigarette. ‘You’ll have to send the web link to the client.’

  ‘Done. Just now. They should have already seen it, in fact. I can let you know when they respond, if you like?’

  ‘Hmm. Please do. Back to it now.’

  And with that, cigarette in one hand and Diors in the other, Diane headed out to her balcony.

  Olé.

  Back at my desk, I started ploughing through my emails. Later that evening, of course, I had to work at Mrs Sippy in Paddington where Diane was hosting some product launch. Manning the door at Wilderstein PR events was required as part of my contract with Diane (and also by my rent-hungry real estate agent). PR might not pay so well but it expects a helluva lot, and standing around all night outside Mrs Sippy was considered just one more facet of my day job.

  But being a door bitch is not the only way PR sucks you dry. Like, I earn about thirty thousand dollars a year before tax yet I’m still supposed to be in possession of the finest quality products, products on par with the celebrities and clients I’m representing. Because no star, journo or agent is going to believe you know what you’re talking about in this industry if you turn up to a media call dressed in clothes from MINKPINK and with jewellery by Diva. No way.

  As I regrouped in front of my computer screen, Anya sauntered by my desk looking like the cat that had got the McQueen.

  ‘Why so chuffed, babe?’ I asked.

  ‘Boom!’ was Anya’s response, as she threw a small zip-lock bag onto my keyboard.

  The bag was stuffed with red silky material and was labelled in handwritten black marker: Vixenary, Sabotage collection, worn by Raven for Look on . . .

  ‘OMFG!’ I yelped. ‘Are you mad? Why the fuck do you have Raven’s dirty knickers?’

  Anya looked hurt. ‘Don’t you know anything about celebrity memorabilia, dude? I’m going to retire to the Bahamas on the money I make from that g-string one day. Just think what you could get for one of Madonna’s bras now.’

  Somehow I didn’t think Raven’s filthy laundry ranked up there with Madge’s iconic Gaultier brassiere, but I didn’t say that to Anya, who was clearly off the air on this one.

  ‘How did you even get this?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, easy,’ Anya said. ‘Raven just dumped every item she modelled this morning straight on the floor after she’d worn it. I could take my pick.’

  This was true, I’d seen her in action. The diva had unceremoniously dropped all of Vixenary’s new range on the floor, like a petulant teenager, as soon as each shot had been taken by the Look photog. The kid was not at all fazed by stripping off in front of a roomful of strangers.

  But the fact her knickers had only been worn for two minutes did not mean it wasn’t beyond revolting that they were now Glad-bag fresh and lying on my desk.

  ‘How do you even plan to –’ I began, when suddenly Diane materialised among the plebs and started heading for my desk. This could not be good. Diane never left the sanctuary of her lavish office for the sweatshop of our cubicles.

  Anya vanished, sans smalls. Having a minor heart attack, I flicked Raven’s g off my keyboard with a ruler and it landed in my gaping LV handbag lying under my desk. Diabolical! I’d have to deal with that later.

  ‘Jasmine!’ shrieked Diane. She hadn’t seen the knickers, had she? I couldn’t be sure I’d moved fast enough to escape her eagle eyes. ‘Where is my blue Issa dress?’ she demanded.

  Her blue Issa dress? Was this a trick question? That particular number was currently sitting in a pile of dirty laundry at the drycleaners where I’d dumped it this morning.

  ‘Er, it’s at the drycleaners just like you asked,’ I stammered.

  ‘Well, I want it for tonight’s launch at Icebergs,’ came the reply as she stalked off. No discussion to be entered into.

  Great
. How was I supposed to perform that small miracle? I wondered as I reached for my phone to dial the poor drycleaners, Raven’s knickers temporarily forgotten.

  Would this day never end?

  Coming home from work that evening, I made a long-overdue call to my boyfriend, Will. A long-overdue phone call to my long-past-his-used-by-date boyfriend, I should say. You see, Will and I had an enduring relationship, but only enduring because he hadn’t had the balls, or I the time away from work, for either of us to terminate it yet. Let me explain.

  Will Jamieson and I began our relationship at work. And things went downhill from there. As a one-time client of Wilderstein PR, Will used to swan into our offices for his weekly campaign meeting doused in so much aftershave you could smell him coming even before the lift doors had opened. The guy flirted with the receptionist and winked at the junior account managers, before plonking himself down on the nearest ergonomic chair and sliding around the office floor making a menace of himself and a headache for me. Will Jamieson spoke too slow and moved too fast; he was careless and cocky and work-shy and arrogant. But he was persistent. And so I fell for him eventually.

  Now, several years later, all the foibles that had initially bugged me about Will were still there. It was just that now he’d had time to discover a few of mine too. Like spending too much money on shoes and too little time in his company and, worst of all in his eyes, too much of my life in the office. Consequently, our relationship was a tempestuous one. Will and I fell out loudly and we fell out often, and then he would pack whatever of his worldly wares were lying around my flat into a garbage bag, sling it over his shoulder and swear that he would never return and that we were over. Of course, he always did and we never were. But it was only a matter of time.

  ‘Sorry, babe,’ I began my now-familiar spiel on the phone to Will. ‘I would have called sooner but you wouldn’t believe what an awful day this has been.’

  ‘That’s cool. Is everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah, it’s fine now,’ I assured him, glossing over my 3 am wake-up call, my impersonation of a Hollywood celebrity and my encounter with Diane in the office, not to mention my emergency dash to the drycleaners where, through a combination of sweet-talking and an even sweeter tip, I’d managed to rescue one royal-blue dress for Her Highness. ‘My day is one long story and I can’t afford the phone bill so I’ll fill you in when I see you next.’

  ‘You could tell me tonight when I take you to dinner. How about that?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I replied distractedly as I searched through my bag for the client briefing notes I’d brought with me as homework.

  ‘Dinner? Tonight? You and me?’ Will tried again.

  ‘Okay, so here’s another apology,’ I said. ‘I have to go see Shelley tonight before work at Mrs Sippy. I’m really sorry. I would have loved to catch up with you but I haven’t seen Shell in forever.’

  There was silence on the line for a moment.

  ‘And I’ve started to forget what my girlfriend looks like so I kinda wanted to see her.’

  I tried to keep my sigh inaudible as I began scanning the briefing notes while I talked. ‘Well, I’m about five foot six, blonde hair, hazel eyes and I miss you terribly.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. But Shelley’s wardrobe is more important than me, right?’

  ‘No,’ I assured him lamely. ‘Well, not unless she’s acquired a new lime Birkin since I was last there.’

  My attempt at humour fell flat.

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’

  Will hung up and I continued teetering down Oxford Street, parting post-work pedestrians and pretending to care about our aborted phone call. The Shelley I was heading for was Shelley Shapiro, my oldest friend and sartorial saviour. Shelley and I met when we attended the same private girls high school and she was bullying the other kids with her quick wit and fearless attitude. We clicked immediately. Sadly, Shelley’s dad wasn’t in the picture and her mum passed away just before her eighteenth birthday, leaving Shelley with an empty home but a very full trust fund. No matter how much money Shell burned through, she would never be anything but beyond comfortable. Now, financial, footloose and fancy free, she viewed herself as a full-time fashionista. Her raison d’être was shopping. And Shell was staunchly a ‘one-wear’ only girl, so her hand-me-downs were legendary. Well, this plus the fact Shelley suffered from an unfortunate case of body dysmorphia. A gorgeous and curvy size four, Shelley was convinced she was a size zero. Consequently, she spent a fortune on the latest designer clothes, in the smallest available sizes, only to then gift them to me.

  Turning into Shelley’s driveway in Woollahra was like visiting Gatsby’s humble abode. Her recycling bin stood sentry out the front, stuffed full of iconic black Net-a-Porter delivery boxes and the odd empty bottle of Moët. Her sleek grey Porsche sat in the drive, the keys dangling temptingly in the ignition.

  I waltzed through her open front door, my laptop bag banging against the intercom. ‘Shell?’ I bellowed down the marble hallway.

  ‘Sweetie!’ A figure clad in white emerged at the end of the hall, holding two glasses in front of her. ‘I was just about to call you! The wine is getting warm and we can’t have that!’

  Shelley tottered down the corridor then stopped dead. ‘Oh my god,’ she said, lowering the glasses to chest level. ‘You look like shit!’

  ‘Thanks, hon.’

  ‘Seriously, you do. What’s wrong? Is it Will?’

  ‘No, just work as ever.’ I grabbed the glass that wasn’t covered in lipstick. ‘And it’s not over yet. Tonight I have the very great pleasure of standing outside a club for five hours. FAB!’

  We clinked glasses and plonked ourselves down on her Missoni-covered bar stools.

  ‘Dah-ling, I don’t know why you are still carrying on as a bloody door bitch,’ Shelley said, swigging her sav blanc.

  ‘Shell, you know I have to. Girl’s gotta pay the rent, right?’

  ‘Oh babe, fair enough,’ she said sympathetically. ‘And, while it won’t pay the rent, I do have something that might make up for the fact you flog yourself senseless every day.’

  Running upstairs – no mean feat after her three glasses of vino to my three sips – Shelley was back down the impressive spiral in no time with a hessian bag promisingly labelled Balmain.

  ‘Here,’ she said, thrusting it at me. ‘I don’t want it any more. I think my initial love for it was merely a projection of knowing you would adore it, you know? I haven’t even worn it. Just not my style, really.’

  I looked at her like a kid scoring a bat mitzvah gift, then opened the bag and pulled out a magnificent wide-shouldered black jacket decorated with studs placed randomly down the collar.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ was all I could manage as I put it against my body.

  ‘Divine, right? It’s only just hit the stores.’ Shelley winked.

  Decadent tails sat tightly on the waistline, hugging the stomach, while the shoulder pads trapezed out ever so flatteringly beyond the arms.

  ‘Shell, I couldn’t possibly take this. The tag is still on! You could totally take it back.’

  ‘Oh babe, that’s never going to happen.’

  ‘Honestly, Shell, borrowing something like this is just as special as owning it.’

  ‘Dah-ling, you know I’d never let you hire out an item. I want you to bond with this Balmain. Develop a deep and meaningful relationship with this Balmain. Don’t wear it and return it like some desperado celebrity coat hanger, snapped once in lay-by couture in a vain attempt to resurrect their profile.’

  I laughed. ‘Like the wardrobe equivalent of Dancing with the Stars?’

  ‘Exactly! Or the sartorial substitute for a sex tape! Now,’ Shelley went on, ‘in return for the new addition to your wardrobe, I’ve got a teeny favour to ask: can you sort out mine?’ She gestured towards the dining room table, wh
ich was littered with shopping bags and clothes still on hangers.

  I shook my head in wonderment at what was coming.

  ‘Any chance you could pop these things onto eBay for me?’ Shelley asked. ‘They’re all so over, it’s just not funny.’

  ‘Sweetie, you know I will. Or I can show you how to do it yourself and you could make a small fortune without having to get up off the couch. It’s really easy.’ It wasn’t that I minded selling Shelley’s stuff online for her and then popping her profits into her bank account so she could spend them all over again, it was just that I couldn’t quite grasp the invisible but all-important line Shelley had drawn between selling her own clothes on eBay and having me do it for her.

  ‘Oh, never!’ Shelley said, mortified. ‘I could never stoop so low as to use that lazy woman’s approach to shopping. No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ I said, giving up yet again on her logic and going back to admiring the Balmain beauty.

  ‘The point of shopping is to actually go into a bloody shop!’ she continued. ‘Browsing, trying on the same thing in three different sizes, asking the staff for a discount. It’s a whole package, not just using a mouse and typing in your credit card details. That is just plain lazy.’

  ‘And yet you’re more than happy to have people buy your things online,’ I smirked. I couldn’t resist.

  ‘Ugh. I am merely manipulating the pathetic so-called “consumers” who can’t be bothered leaving their homes. Hopefully one day they will realise they have been ripped off and will actually enter a store every now and then.’

  ‘If it means my label lifeline runs out, I sincerely hope not!’

  ‘Stick with me, sweets. You’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re sure I can have this?’ I held up the Balmain jacket and checked one last time.

  ‘Dah-ling. Celebrities can borrow. My sister can borrow. Magazines can borrow. You deserve to own. And you need it! Good clothes are a PR staple!’