Strictly Confidential

by Roxy Jacenko

  All class as usual. I swear, that girl gave bogans a bad name.

  Just then I spied Leila Graham entering the green room. Tonight’s event was Leila’s baby and she was understandably very nervous.

  ‘You’re gunna be blown away by this evening, Leila!’ I reassured her. ‘The results will be incred, I promise you!’

  Leila smiled tightly. Despite all our hard work on this campaign, I could tell that the disastrous media call at the Beresford was not far from her mind.

  ‘Have you seen the number of press out there?’ I indicated to the jam-packed ballroom. Leila nodded. Another grim smile. Nothing I could possibly say would help; I just had to make sure I delivered the goods. Promising to check in regularly throughout the night, I left Leila biting her nails and teetered back to my table, where I steeled myself for the worst.

  Ever seen that Absolutely Fabulous episode where Patsy declares it the right season for funerals? Consoling the bereaved, she declares, ‘Well, Harvey Nicks have got some really tasty little black numbers at the moment. Black is like, in. You wouldn’t have to wear it only the once.’ I felt I should have dressed in black that evening like the rest of my Queen Bee team. Because what I endured throughout the Coco Man of the Year Awards certainly felt a lot like my funeral. Instead, however, I was clad head to toe in shiny, sparkling sequins. But tonight my Ellery ensemble left me feeling like a disco ball. A dazzling, glittering disco ball. A disco ball saying: ‘Kick me.’

  MICHAEL: So who’s going to walk away with the prize tonight? Any bets?

  AMANDA: What are we wagering?

  BELLE SINGLE (as a particularly burly bunch of AFL players walk by): I’ll bet anything.

  ME (incredulously): Did you say you’ll bed anything?

  DIANE: What is it with you and sportsmen, Jasmine? Try to refrain while I’m eating. You know it puts me off my food.

  ME: I didn’t realise you were eating again.

  DIANE (looking me up and down): Yes, unlike some.

  MICHAEL (gallantly intervening): So the Man of the Year, any picks?

  BELLE SINGLE: Hmm, and we can only have one?

  ME: (Insert tongue-biting here.)

  MICHAEL: Yes, just one. That’s the idea.

  AMANDA: Can I still bet if I know the winner?

  ME: Sure, because everything you know is strictly confidential.

  AMANDA: Now you tell me.

  DIANE: My, that’s a tight ship you’re running, Jasmine.

  ME (seething): I find I lose less people overboard that way.

  DIANE: Oh, really? That’s not what I’ve heard. Word on the street is your favourite client is looking to jump ship . . .

  MICHAEL (to the rescue yet again): How ’bout I top up your glass there, sailor?

  ME: Please. You know you’d make a fine first mate?

  MICHAEL (winking): Aye, aye, cap’n.

  BELLE SINGLE (hissing so only I can hear): Flirt like that again, Jasmine Lewis, and I’ll sink you.

  SOME POOR SCHMUCK UNLUCKY ENOUGH TO BE SEATED AT OUR TABLE: Can someone pass the bread please?

  ME: Bread? There’s no bread here. Haven’t you been to a fashion function before?

  BELLE SINGLE (incongruously): I’d like that dreamy Kurt Simmons to win.

  DIANE (maliciously): Kurt Simmons? The dull-as-dishwater, squeaky-clean Kurt Simmons? Why, yes, I’d be interested to see Kurt win, too.

  AMANDA: OMG, can you imagine! What a PR nightmare! I’d rather watch my Tuscan spray tan dry than read an interview with Kurt Simmons. I’ll die if he wins.

  ME: Don’t you get anything right? Kurt Simmons does win, you imbecile!

  Actually, that’s not quite true. What I really said was: ‘Oh, I don’t know, Amanda. I think it would be a great professional challenge to try and make Kurt Simmons newsworthy.’

  Diane smirked. Amanda looked sceptical. Belle Single just looked confused.

  By the time the winner’s announcement rolled around, the evening already felt endless. Years of my life had passed since my chauffeur dropped me off at the foot of the red carpet earlier this evening. I’d had relationships that had lasted less time. In fact, if Michael hadn’t been there that night, refilling my glass and removing the knives from my back, I would have retreated to the green room long ago. Who knew Belle Single could have such good taste in men? I guess she’d stuck enough in her mouth over the years to finally find the right flavour. Although she looked suspiciously like she was ready for a new taste right now, as we watched the bachelors traipse on stage. Seriously, the girl was in danger of drooling on her Proenza dress.

  But Single’s slobber was the least of my worries when the Coco Man of the Year was announced that night.

  The lights were dimmed, a spotlight was raised. A line-up of made-up metrosexuals held their breath. Then, slowly, painstakingly, Leila Graham stepped to the microphone and prised open that envelope.

  ‘The women of Australia have spoken,’ she declared.

  The media in the room closed in.

  ‘The winner . . .’

  Journalists were poised.

  ‘. . . of the Coco Man of the Year Award . . .’

  Film crews strained forward.

  ‘. . . is . . .’

  Snappers jostled for position.

  ‘. . . Kurt Simmons!’

  Amanda gasped in surprise.

  Kurt smiled graciously.

  Diane smiled ungraciously.

  And press everywhere sighed in dismay.

  As thunderous applause echoed round the Ivy and the impeccable Kurt shook hands politely with his competitors, disappointed journalists began to pack up their news crews and head for the bar. ‘Kurt Simmons?’ said one disgusted hack near me. ‘How am I supposed to fill a column with Kurt Simmons?’ Their deflation was palpable.

  All, that is, except for one audacious intern.

  ‘Kurt! Kurt, over here. Tara Robinson, Channel Six Nightly News. How does it feel to be named Man of the Year?’ She thrust a microphone into Kurt’s chiselled but bland face and watched as cardboard words tumbled out of his mouth. I had to hand it to her, she had chutzpah. Only, had no one told her this was a CCP event? A CCP event that was proudly sponsored, nay, wholly owned, by CCP’s good mates and Channel Six’s rival, Network Twelve? Tara Robinson wasn’t going to win friends and influence people by gazumping Network Twelve at their own event. Someone oughta tell this kid she wasn’t in Kansas any more.

  Oblivious, she doggedly hunted down her scoop.

  Suddenly, just like in Judy Garland’s glorious film, my world turned from technicolour to ominous black and white: the Head of Channel Twelve stood towering before me. Her face was grey with rage.

  This could not be good.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ she asked me. ‘Why the fuck is some hack from Six getting our Man of the Year exclusive? Didn’t I pay for this event? Isn’t it my name on your pay cheque?’

  My jaw dropped in astonishment.

  ‘Well?’ she screamed.

  The room fell silent. My dress sparkled loudly.

  ‘Why the hell isn’t that us?’ She pointed to the stage, where Tara was chatting blithely to Kurt while her film crew diligently got a close-up of his award. ‘Well?’ she shrieked again.

  I twinkled in reply.

  Journalists flocked from all corners of the room, Kurt Simmons’ stud status quickly overshadowed by our brawl. The light from dozens of digital cameras bouncing off my sequins was blinding.

  ‘What the hell is Six doing there?’

  ‘Channel Six is just showing some initiative,’ I answered boldly. ‘While I made sure there was a Network Twelve crew here tonight, I can’t dictate what they film. It seems your crew simply wasn’t up to speed.’

  Crickets chirped l
oudly. Someone at a nearby table cleared their throat. The cameras rolled jubilantly on.

  ‘Wasn’t. Up. To. Speed?’ the network head echoed, her voice barely audible. I swear the Wicked Witch of the West had nothing on this woman.

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, confidently. ‘What do you expect me to do? Jump on stage and accost Tara Robinson? Crash-tackle her off the podium? Your crew had every opportunity to get up there and interview Kurt for themselves. Like I said, I guess they simply weren’t fast enough.’

  And with that, she lunged at me.

  ‘Gah!’ I yelped as I jumped out of her way, sending a nearby waitress sprawling.

  Snappers went berserk and I sparkled like a disco ball in their midst.

  ‘How dare you –’ my assailant yelled and I braced myself for round two.

  As I jostled around in the media scrum, security muscled in and attempted to drag the network chief out.

  ‘Get your hands off me!’ she shrieked. ‘I own this event!’ The beefy bouncers stopped in their tracks.

  ‘Look,’ I declared, ‘when I was hired to get publicity, you never specified with which network.’ I ducked behind the bouncers. ‘And anyway,’ I added, safely on the right side of security, ‘I think you just earned us tomorrow’s headlines.’

  Just because you call a show Australia’s Got Talent doesn’t mean we do. Much like Keeping Up with the Kardashians doesn’t require much mental exertion. And The Hills doesn’t feature much landscape. But in naming my company Queen Bee PR, I could honestly promise clients exactly what it said on the tin. Because the media coverage we scored for the Coco Man of the Year Awards really was fit for a queen. It was royally huge. We’re talking truly majestic stuff.

  Following my altercation with the head of Network Twelve, the Coco event enjoyed a significant slot on the late-night news, my sparkly Ellery number bumping even a football scandal from top billing. Surely my finest career moment to date. This coverage was closely followed by the front page of the Sun the next day, under the banner heading CATFIGHT DOGS BACHELOR PARTY. Not to mention a decent-sized column in the Advertiser, replete with colour images of our brawl. By eight in the morning we were the number one trending topic on Twitter, and by nine we were the talk of talkback radio. Ten saw us score two morning TV mentions and by lunchtime the office phone was ringing off the hook. By 2 pm Coco’s bumper bachelor edition was walking off the shelves, but it was only when I heard from Leila at 3 pm that I finally breathed a sigh of relief.

  As the media clippings piled up on my desk, Lulu struggled into my office weighed down by an enormous bunch of flowers. I whipped off the card and slit open the envelope. The message inside? Jazzy Lou, With you, all publicity really is good publicity. Thanks for the ink, Leila.

  ‘We did it!’ I shouted to the Bees, who came buzzing from all corners of the office when they heard my excited screeching. ‘Coco love us! We did it!’ Now all we had to do was back it up with BMW Australian Fashion Week. Simple, right?

  With that my phone buzzed with a call from Allison Palmer. ‘I’m so sorry, love,’ she gushed apologetically without giving me a chance to get a word in. ‘I know you saw me talking to Diane last night. The thing is,’ she rushed on, ‘my sales agent is on my case about growing the business and if I don’t wow them at Fashion Week she wants me to think seriously about changing publicity companies. It’s nothing personal. And you know if it was just me I’d never leave you. But I’ve got my employees to consider . . .’ Allison trailed off.

  Nothing personal? My favourite client was considering dumping me for the devil incarnate and I was not meant to take it personally?

  I paused before responding. I knew this wasn’t Allison’s doing. I knew she was under pressure from her agent (and that the conniving Diane would have played no small part in adding to that pressure). But I couldn’t pretend it didn’t hurt.

  ‘Look, babe,’ I answered finally. ‘I know how important this Fashion Week is to you. I know it really is make or break for you at this point in your career. But let’s not even talk about switching teams until you’ve seen what the Bees can deliver for you because I promise you won’t be disappointed.’

  ‘Oh, Jazzy Lou, I believe in you!’ she said and I knew she really meant it.

  For the sake of Queen Bee PR, I just hoped that I did too.

  Osama bin Laden was dead. This was the worst news I’d received since the World Health Organization linked mobile phone usage to brain cancer. Not that I didn’t want the man six feet under, but the timing of his demise couldn’t have been worse.

  You see, bin Laden bid farewell on the eve of Allison Palmer’s show at BMW Australian Fashion Week.

  And while to even put the two in the same sentence might sound flippant, consider this: Allison Palmer’s show cost close to forty thousand dollars to produce and would inject many times that much into the local economy. An economy still recovering from the GFC. It was employing countless people, from models to musicians, from stylists to sound technicians. Plus, this really was the show to launch Allison’s much-deserved career. Not to mention make or break mine.

  If only I could convince the press to cover it.

  But on the day of Allison’s catwalk show the Sun newspaper – the front page of which was supposed to be sporting the new face of fashion – was now plastered with the old guard of al-Qaeda.

  ‘OMG! I can’t believe bin Laden is dead,’ said Lulu, holding up a complimentary copy of the Sun from where it lay on a front-row seat ahead of Allison’s catwalk show. ‘What an ugly photo to have on the front page for Fashion Week!’

  I couldn’t help but think President Obama would disagree. Still, the US President was about the only person who wasn’t at BMW Fashion Week. As if to prove my point, a certain makeup king minced past in his crocodile-skin shoes and Gucci sunglasses, a gaggle of adoring fans in his wake.

  It was not even 7 am at the Sydney Harbour Overseas Passenger Terminal, the style centre of Sydney for the next week, but the Bees and I had already been hard at it for hours. The catwalk for Allison’s collection had been laid last night, after the previous show had finished. So now we traipsed up and down the plastic-covered runway toting gift bags that weighed more than your average catwalk model.

  ‘Remember, no stilettos allowed on the runway,’ I yelled at no one in particular. ‘So either walk down the gutter or take your shoes off altogether.’ There was no need to mention the third, impossible option: wear flats. This was Fashion Week, baby, and heels were de rigueur. At the end of the catwalk a svelte violinist in six-inch heels tuned up her electric violin as she prepared to accompany this morning’s models down the runway. As her fingers moved like quicksilver down the neck of her instrument, the dramatic melodies of Vivaldi were born with heart-breaking purity. Momentarily, at least.

  ‘Stop!’ I shouted, her amplified strings no match for my voice box. ‘Someone Blixz her fingernails now! Are Blixz today’s sponsors or what?’ Seriously. What was wrong with everyone here?

  Stalking to the back of the show space, I began to inspect the scaffolding set up for the press photographers. Three tiers of viewing platforms stood before me with laminated plastic signs gaffer-taped to the floor, staking out all the prime positions. AVP newswire, Hallsdorf, Leah McSeen Photography, Style TV, Vicktor Hugo Press, Channel Twelve, the Sun, Channel Six. Anyone who was anyone was represented. I just hoped they’d show.

  A parade of pouty Fashion Week volunteers skulked past me. These girls were young enough to make Justin Bieber look like a paedophile but their Taylor Momsen makeup belied their age. ‘Right, all vollies over here,’ someone official addressed them. ‘You lot will be dressing and you lot will be ushers. If you’re dressing, get backstage now.’

  The girls assigned to dressing the models in their outfits for the show swaggered backstage. The ushers were ushered to the foyer, where they hung around awaiting fur
ther direction and enviously eyed the promo girls dressed as old-school cinema usherettes giving away alcopops at the door. Such is the hierarchy of minions.

  As the lights were dimmed for a full dress rehearsal, and the cleaners brought in for a final scrub of the show space, I headed out to the car park to the hair and makeup marquee to check our models were behaving. It was still too early for me to hit the phones to the press and try to recover some of the media coverage that had been annihilated overnight, so I had to settle for double-triple-checking that every other detail was perfect for this morning’s show.

  ‘Make sure all handles are on the outside of the gift bags,’ I hollered to the Bees as I left the show area. An instruction they’d each received a thousand times before. I was debating whether to head back in and check the girls were doing it right when I bumped into Anya in the foyer.

  ‘Jazzy Lou, you’ll never guess what I have for you!’ she exclaimed. We were standing in the grand entrance to Fashion Week, surrounded by giant TV screens blaring urgent Facebook updates while rolling tweets ran along the bottom of the screen.

  ‘What?’ Unless it was a front-page headline featuring Allison Palmer’s name, I was going to be disappointed.

  Anya smiled mysteriously.

  And then she did the last thing in the entire world I expected. She produced a battered old Louis Vuitton Speedy handbag. My battered old Louis Vuitton Speedy handbag. The same handbag that had been stolen from my car all that time ago.

  ‘I found it in Oxford Street Vinnies!’ she announced triumphantly.

  I was mortified. ‘Gah! Are you for real? What the hell were you doing in Vinnies?’ I exclaimed. St Vincent de Paul’s? Op-shopping? That’s so not kosher.

  Anya rolled her eyes. ‘Aren’t you pleased to have it back?’

  I paused. Here I was in the midst of Australian Fashion Week, preparing for a forty-thousand-dollar catwalk show and perhaps my biggest event to date. Sure, the media might be in meltdown and press coverage was going to be scarcer than real breasts in the Eastern Suburbs, but nothing had actually gone wrong yet. Hell, we might even make it a Queen Bee success. And you know what? I was pleased to have my Speedy back. If only because it reminded me of how very far I’d come. Working at Wilderstein PR felt like a distant memory when I held that Speedy in my hands.