by Roxy Jacenko
I hope this story gets out so people can see the true mark of the man!
Do what you like with these emails, just please don’t mention that they came from me.
Sincerely,
Hattie Peterson
I couldn’t believe it! It seemed that I’d got off lightly compared to some of the other women in Adam’s life. For a moment I considered telling Luke to run the story. However, I’m all too aware there are always two sides to every relationship breakdown (if you listened to Belle Single I was a Jezebel for stealing Michael from her), so even though he was itching to run it, I told Luke to let this one go. I had to bribe him by promising to get gossip on Leonardo DiCaprio, who had just moved into the Four Seasons’ penthouse suite. I’d overheard the cleaners discussing some very interesting items they’d found in his bathroom . . .
I really didn’t want to be a pawn in a divorce – especially when it sounded sooo messy. Suddenly I felt very thankful for my own relationship. We may feel like we live on different planets sometimes, but at least Michael came to my rescue when I needed him.
6
‘Jazzy Lou, I have Foxy on line one,’ called Lulu from the reception desk. ‘She wants to know if you can decorate her whole apartment – gratis!’
It was a good thing Lulu had put the Australian model on hold so that she didn’t hear my cry of despair. Seriously! Why do my clients think I’m some freaking fairy godmother?
It had been six months since I launched The Talent Hive, and the rollover had been slightly more stressful than I anticipated. This was partly because I hadn’t culled my other clients as quickly as I planned, so I was basically still running my old business alongside my new business. It was cray-cray!
Why hadn’t I dumped the clients on my hit list? Well, a lot of them – when they got a sniff of rejection – just got sooo needy. They were sending flowers and cupcakes and, more importantly, suddenly upping their rates. (‘You’re worth it, Jasmine. We don’t want you to feel underappreciated.’) I was being corporately courted and actually quite enjoying it. Call me a sucker – or call me a savvy businesswoman – but I planned to string them along for a little bit longer. That did mean, however, that the Bees and I were doing double the workload to manage our old clients plus the new blogging dynasty. Working 9 to 5? I now worked 24/7.
It didn’t help that some of the bloggers were proving to be . . . difficult. When I’d decided to focus on creatives, I thought it would be a doddle compared to handling the diva fashion designers and corporate honchos with huge egos, but I was finding that managing bloggers could be even more of a challenge.
This latest phone call from Foxy was a case in point. She wasn’t even a bona fide blogger really, but fell into the category of ‘social media personality’ because she has 130,000 Instagram followers and a further 180,000 on Facebook. The model had been an unknown on the circuit for years, shooting ad campaigns for toothpaste and cystitis remedies. Then, during last year’s Sydney Fashion Week, she got her lucky break. Not on the runway (no designer at that point knew her name) but at an after-party. She had somehow blagged her way into the Bizarre magazine party at the QT Hotel and found herself sharing a disabled toilet with Cara Delevingne, who’d been flown over by Topshop for their catwalk show. The paparazzi caught them leaving the nightclub arm in drunken arm, and started a ‘who’s that girl?’ hunt. Suddenly, everyone wanted a piece of Foxy. And didn’t she just revel in it . . .
On Instagram she was a cute girl-next-door, posting photos of her leopard-print bed socks, her favourite coffee mug and the flowers she’d bought for her mother. Every girl on the street wanted to be her. Unfortunately, she didn’t come with a personality filter in the real world. She was a spoilt brat and a prolific name dropper. At our first meeting she also scolded me for ordering a coffee (‘Think of your adrenal glands, Jasmine’), before taking her green smoothie outside so she could light up a Marlboro Menthol.
Yet there were many benefits in managing Foxy. It was very easy to get her work, as she was currently the flavour of the fashion world. Even Victoria’s Secret were interested in Foxy wearing their famous diamond bra at their next show. So it was worth me playing nice and putting up with her diva-isms (although some mornings it was easier than others). As I picked up the phone, to one of my most profitable clients, I braced myself for today’s outlandish request.
‘Jazzy Lou! Foxy here,’ my client cried down the line at her usual hundred decibels. ‘I’ve got some reaaaally exciting news! You might have read in The Sun that I’ve just bought a new apartment. It’s a cute little place on the hill above Icebergs. In the same block as the pad where Belle Single used to film her reality show . . . although my apartment is double the size of that cow’s.’
I tried not to laugh down the phone – it was no secret that Foxy and Belle were arch enemies on the modelling circuit ever since they’d competed for the same Playboy cover (neither of them got it). Foxy’s hatred of Michael’s ex-girlfriend may have been another reason I was happy to represent her (I know, unprofessional, but I’m only human and every now and again my emotions get the better of me).
‘I did read about your new pad. It sounds beyond,’ I told Foxy. ‘I saw the at-home photo shoot you did for Bizarre magazine too. That carpet, those paintings! You did an incredible job on the home decorating. Who’s your interior designer?’
Foxy let out a laugh. ‘Oh, that? All of that was borrowed for the photo shoot – the magazine styled it for me and then took it all away when they were done. My new pad is just a big white box right now. I don’t own anything. In fact, that’s why I’m calling . . . I’m lacking a few teeny tiny bits and pieces to make it homely. Okay, I’m missing a shitload. And I know you’re a bit of an interiors expert . . .’
Suddenly I knew exactly where this conversation was going. When I’d last bumped into Foxy, at the unveiling of the new Chanel store in Sydney, I had mentioned that I was currently in the midst of an interiors overhaul and that I’d found the perfect dressing table on a super-cute website called Home Economics, which was owned by a girl I went to high school with. I was just making small talk and didn’t even think Foxy was listening, but I’d clearly underestimated the strength of her shopping addiction.
‘So, Jazz, I’ve been looking on that website you were telling me about,’ trilled Foxy. ‘There are sooo many awesome things on there. I’m having a Desperate Housewives moment! Could I possibly send you a list of the items I’d just lurrrve for my new place? I remember you said you’re friends with the owner and I know how persuasive you are . . .’
Why is it that the more money people make the less they want to pay for? It must be an affliction that occurs when your income hits six figures.
‘I’m delighted you like the range so much,’ I schmoozed Foxy, trying to buy time while I thought of a polite way to refuse. ‘The thing is, my friend has only just launched the company so I don’t know if she’s in a position to give anything away. It depends on the “essentials” you’re looking for, I suppose. What’s on your wish list?’
‘Do you mean in an ideal world?’ asked Foxy. ‘I’d like 10,000 sets of 10,000-count Egyptian-cotton sheets, and a new latex pillow for every night. I’d also like to never wash a pot or pan again, so a daily supply would be awesome . . . only joking . . . well, kind of. Hahahahahahahahahahahaha.’
The model laughed for far longer than felt natural or comfortable. Oh Foxy, you’re so funny . . . not. I bet she’d carefully practised that joke before calling me so that when she made her ‘real’ demands (which were probably only fractionally less excessive), they would seem modest in comparison. It was the oldest trick in the book.
‘Why don’t you email me links to one or two products you’d like?’ I told her with careful emphasis. ‘Although I have to warn you, I know they’re short on stock at the moment so they might not have much available. I know they’d LOVE to help you if only they had more stock in their warehouse.’
This was another trick I’d lear
ned early in my career as a publicist: if in doubt, pull the ‘out of stock’ excuse. It wasn’t worth the possible fallout if you told a celebrity that a brand hadn’t heard of them – or didn’t care about them enough to cough up some free stuff.
As expected, when Foxy sent over her wish list, it would have made Kim Kardashian’s gift registry look modest: a Smeg fridge in peppermint green, a limited-edition Shepard Fairey print, and a $6000 gold and marble Versace coffee table. I realised I shouldn’t have told Foxy to email the list over, as I bet if she’d had to read it out to me over the phone – or tell me face to face – she’d have been too embarrassed to ask for so much.
As I read Foxy’s email I thought about life before social media, when celebrities had less to bargain with. Back then, for a celeb to be given a free product they would have to guarantee they’d be snapped by a newspaper wearing it, but now, thanks to the selfie, everyone was their own pap.
‘I really appreciate this, Jazzy Lou,’ wrote Foxy. ‘If you need any photos of me lounging on my new sofa for Home Economics’ Insta feed then just let me know. I’m happy to oblige! You’re a total lifesaver organising all of this. You’ll have to come over for dinner once my new things arrive.’
A lifesaver? I wasn’t convinced that Foxy’s life would be at risk if she couldn’t sit her perfectly pert bottom on a Missoni cashmere sofa cushion. But maybe she had an unusual terminal illness I’d never heard of that could only be cured by high-end upholstery.
What really grated was the fact that she could easily have afforded to buy the goodies herself. As was the case with many fashion bloggers, Foxy’s parents were loaded. Even before her modelling career took off, she was the smug owner of a Hermès Birkin bag. So what? Well, only twenty-four of these bags were ever created – each one was crafted from material taken from crocodile skin and cost $45,000 a pop. So, yes, Foxy could probably afford to furnish her own flat. And not just from Ikea. Yet she was far from the first high-profiler to think that paying for home decor was beneath her.
Before launching The Talent Hive, I had heard rumours about certain bloggers and how their newfound fame was inflating their egos. I had hoped the stories were exaggerated and that the people spreading them were just jealous of their success. Could a bunch of amateur writers really be divas? After only a few weeks working with them, I could say a resounding yes.
I blame BryanBoy, the most famous fashion blogger on the circuit, and a judge on America’s Next Top Model. Back in 2010, BryanBoy (real name Bryan Grey Yambao) boasted that he made $100,000 a year from blogging, and his salary can only have skyrocketed since then. He’d even had a Marc Jacobs handbag named after him (the ultimate honour). ‘I love your passion for fashion,’ said Jacobs. ‘Where would designers be without enthusiasm like yours?’
How do bloggers make their moolah? Well, selling advertising space on their website is the most obvious means, but bloggers with big profiles also have additional revenue streams. The numbers may shock you: for between $5000 and $20,000 a brand can hire a blogger to host an event (they also need to cover the cost of travel, hotel and food, naturally); and then there’s Fashion Week, where designers are reported to pay bloggers up to $10,000 to sit front row at their shows, pushing the celebrities and fashion editors to the cheap seats at the back.
These superstar bloggers would argue that it’s their full-time job and therefore they should be paid handsomely. I’d recently read an interview with BryanBoy in which he moaned: ‘Fashion Month is a huge business expense for me.’ You know, what with all the outfits to buy, the champagne to swig, the first-class flights to take. During Fashion Weeks, BryanBoy rents three-bedroom apartments in Milan and Paris, and splits the cost with fellow blogger Rumi Neely from Fashion Toast. ‘This way we have tons of space, a living area, fast internet and room for our assistant.’
If I sound bitter, it’s only because I wasn’t given anything for free when I was clawing my way up the ranks. I attended my first London Fashion Week when I was twenty-three years old, working as a dogsbody at Wilderstein PR, my first publicity job.
I was only allowed to go at all because my boss from hell, Diane Wilderstein, had fired her assistant a few days before and needed someone to carry her handbag. I was out-of-my-mind excited, especially as I knew Diane always stayed at the very exclusive Landmark Hotel in Piccadilly. I was only told when I arrived in Heathrow that she’d actually booked me a bunk bed in a dormitory in a hostel in Camden (I flew back to Sydney with a suitcase full of Topshop and a severe case of bed bugs).
This incident was proof that bosses should be careful how they treat their minions, as once they’ve matured you may need them – or at least not want them as your enemy. When I first launched Queen Bee, many of Wilderstein PR’s clients had defected to me, kickstarting a lengthy, bitter rivalry, which I didn’t exactly discourage.
When I was pregnant with Fifi I had briefly considered selling Queen Bee PR to a Russian investor called Ivan Shavalik – until I discovered that his business practices weren’t exactly kosher. It turned out the cashed-up businessman was being investigated by immigration officials for entering Australia illegally, and some of his other business deals were more ‘backstreet’ than boardroom.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t fair of me to palm Ivan off onto Diane, but really it was her fault for putting her jealousy before her business sense. When Diane heard I’d torn up my contract with the Russians, she saw it as an opportunity to one-up me and approached Ivan to invest in her company instead. Did it end well? What do you think? The last I heard, Ivan was in jail for fraud and Diane was in a rehabilitation facility in Far North Queensland having suffered a nervous breakdown. She may have been my business rival, but even I wished her well.
My career had certainly not been all plain sailing; however, it was all part of my induction into PR and I could now proudly look back and say I’d survived the struggles. This wasn’t the case for many bloggers, who seemed to have skipped the ‘growing pains’ period and jumped straight from unknowns to somebodies.
In fact, one of my newest sign-ups, a fashion blogger by the name of Savannah Jagger (blog name Dare to Ware), has three assistants (yes, three!) who follow her absolutely everywhere. ‘I need one to carry my camera, one to carry my suitcase of gear and the other to handle my admin,’ she told me. ‘I also need all three to sort through the free gifts that I’m sent. You have no idea, Jazzy Lou – it was getting so stressful unpacking everything myself.’
Remember when I said earlier how fashion editors are being starved of free gifts? I blamed the recession for the fact that brands apparently no longer have money to chuck around presents. However, it seems I was wrong – the freebies have just been reallocated. If the fashion editors of Bizarre and Eve Pascal want to know why last year Gucci gave them a free handbag for Christmas and this year they were given a key ring, just look on the arm of Nicole Warne from Gary Pepper or Jessica Stein from Tuula. That’s where your freebies have gone!
Just for the record, this isn’t true for all bloggers. For every blogger who’s sitting on a gold mine, there are a hundred working for rocks (and I don’t mean the shiny ten-carat kind). The majority of the bloggers overloading the web are making absolute nada from their online style diaries: no advertising, no freebies, no invitations to Fashion Week.
The real internet superstars apparently have the opposite problem. What is the etiquette when you’re sent more free clothes than you have time to wear, let alone blog about?
‘It’s sooo tough,’ moaned Savannah during our first meeting. ‘I don’t know how all these fashion houses and PR companies get my address, but they won’t stop sending me clothes, shoes, handbags, everything! Then they expect me to use my profile to get them attention. I’m going insane here, Jazzy Lou, trying to decide what to write about and what not to.’
The fashion blogger had arrived at the Queen Bee offices trailed by her assistants, who were wearing matching uniforms of black Acne Studios trousers and plain white J.Crew t-shirts.
Their clothes were a stark contrast to Savannah’s racy outfit – a leopard-print maxi skirt with a split up to her knicker line and a white blazer fastened with one button. I can only assume she didn’t want to risk being outshone, so ordered her assistants to dress in sensible monochrome.
‘Hmm, all those free gifts do sound stressful,’ I said, struggling to look sympathetic. ‘If you want I could send out a press release to everyone in the fashion industry stating that you no longer want to receive freebies of any kind as it’s damaging to your artistic integrity.’
I had been half joking, but in fact this was a pretty neat idea. Recently bloggers were getting a lot of criticism for being paid to write positive reviews about products. This could be a great publicity stunt and a unique selling point for Savannah: The blogger who can’t be bought; the stylista who isn’t a sellout. It could be the new version of ‘models who don’t wear makeup’. I bet Style magazine would be up for an interview on the topic. In my head, I already had a five-point plan for the concept, but then I noticed that Savannah’s face looked like thunder.
‘Will you shut the fuck up, Jasmine?’ she hissed, as if the fashion industry had bugged my office. ‘I didn’t say I don’t want freebies. I just said I only wanted the good gifts. How do you think I can afford to look this stylish if I don’t get my clothes for free? I’m not made of money, you know. I have seven credit cards. SEVEN! My daddy will only give me a $2000 a month clothing allowance. I NEED free gifts. I’ve EARNED free gifts . . . I just need you to act as a gatekeeper so that I’m not sent tat from last season. It BORES me.’