The Spotlight

by Roxy Jacenko

  The next step of Fifi’s career had happened organically. Since her Instagram account took off, people had been going crazy for the decorated headbands my daughter loves to wear. She has a collection of artistic headwear to rival Lady Gaga’s; some of the headbands have bows as big as her head, while others have flowers and pom-poms.

  Her current favourite was a woolly beanie with a black veil that hung over her face (‘If Rihanna can do it, so can I,’ I wrote on Instagram). She also loved the hairband that had a giant plastic lobster attached to the top, and another with an enormous cherry the size of her head. They were very Anna Dello Russo.

  A lot of Fifi’s headwear was one of a kind – gifts from designer friends such as Mary and Christopher Kane, who made them especially for my munchkin. Others I ordered on the internet from Japanese websites usually favoured by Harajuku girls.

  Every time I put one of the headbands in Fifi’s hair, Michael would say, ‘Don’t make her wear that ridiculous thing.’ But my daughter loved them, and so did her Insta-followers. In launching the range, I was only giving her fans what they wanted. And it wasn’t just a range for children – I constantly had adults asking where and how they could buy Fifi’s headbands. That’s why I’d ordered the designs in kiddie and grown-up sizes.

  I’d found a factory in China that could manufacture Fifi’s Fascinators on the cheap for me. The first batch was already being shipped and would arrive in time for the launch of Fifi’s website in May.

  We were planning a launch party at the QT Hotel in Sydney, and I was currently trying to convince Philip Treacy to fly in from London to host it (we’d met at the Melbourne Cup and hit it off after I ordered a Guinness and blackberry).

  I’d even had business cards printed with the Fifi’s Fascinators logo, a cartoon of a little girl with a bow in her hair. I’d given Fifi a batch of the business cards to keep in her clutch bag, so she could give them out to her little friends at playgroup (hopefully they’d hand-deliver them to their mothers, who would be our first customers).

  The first design meeting for Fifi’s Fascinators had been a hilarious and surreal experience. How many meetings are chaired by a two-year-old? I wasn’t just putting Fifi’s name on the product – I wanted my daughter to be involved in the entire creative process, designing everything from the bows themselves to the packaging, which was equally important (just ask Tiffany). I’d asked Anya to sit in and also invited Shelley, as well as Tara from Doncha Wanna Be Us, as she was a fierce fashion critic.

  I was getting the sense that Shelley might be jealous of my burgeoning friendship with Tara. For one, she referred to the blogger as ‘the stick insect’. Then, when I’d invited her to an event to celebrate a Doncha Wanna Be Us collaboration with David Jones, Shelley said she was too busy to come. My best friend never misses a social opportunity; I’ve known her to attend three weddings in one day. I hoped that inviting both of my closest girlfriends to Queen Bee HQ together would help them to bond. I’ve never been the type to crave a gaggle of girlfriends, but as I got older I had begun to appreciate the value of having genuine female friends, and not just frenemies (there’s a lot of faux fellowship in PR and you never know who might stab you in the back).

  Tara arrived first to our business meeting, which didn’t surprise me as Shelley is notoriously terrible at early rising (our meeting was at 9 am – to her that’s the middle of the night). I had to laugh when Tara bustled into my office. ‘What are you wearing?’ I cried. ‘I LOVE it, but where on earth did you get it?’

  Tara touched the top of her head, where she wore a huge bow à la Fifi. Except this wasn’t any old bow – the fabric was printed with a montage of images from Fifi’s Instagram page. There was my little girl feeding the ducks, window-shopping at Chanel, and of course #thelipsthelips.

  ‘Well, I thought this momentous occasion deserved something a little special,’ laughed Tara, giving a twirl. ‘I have a friend who’s a print maker and she made it for me.’

  At this point, Fifi, who had been ‘helping’ Lulu sort through post at reception (translation: playing with bubble wrap), sprinted into the office, then skidded to a halt in her new Minnetonka moccasin shoes, which I’d teamed with Ralph Lauren jeans and a Cotton On smock top.

  ‘Look, Fifi. Can you see what Tara has on her head?’ The best thing about the bow was that it wasn’t just a novelty item. Somehow Tara managed to make it look cool, teamed with her usual signature cut-off denim shorts and a loose white vest top.

  She crouched down to be eye-to-eye with my daughter. ‘Guess what, Fifi? I have a surprise for you too!’ Her Mulberry tote bag lay next to her and from it she pulled a cream box the size of an orange. As Fifi looked on in wonderment, Tara cracked it open to reveal an identical bow to the one she wore – in a miniature size for the miniature head of my offspring. Seriously, this blogger was a doll!

  Fifi and I oohed and ahhed in unison, and then I heard a cough behind me. Shelley was standing in the doorway, wearing a very flattering Dion Lee jersey dress . . . and a frown.

  ‘Shells!’ I spun around and hugged her, holding her for a second longer than normal, as I had a feeling she needed reassurance. ‘You look gorgeous. Is that a new dress? I’m going to have to get one. Do you mind if we’re matchy-matchy?’

  Tara, who was busy securing Fifi’s new bow in her hair, looked up. ‘That’s Dion, right? I was going to buy it, but I think all the small sizes sold out fast. Jazzy, you might have trouble finding one.’

  I flinched and Shelley’s frown deepened. I could see her brain ticking over. Is she calling me chubby? It was time to change the subject – pronto!

  ‘I’m sooo glad you could all make it,’ I cried over-enthusiastically. ‘There’s no one whose opinion I value more than you guys. Shall we get down to it?’

  The five of us sat down with a bundle of sources of inspiration, from glossy magazines and old millinery catalogues to books on the history of fashion. We ripped out pages and pages of ideas and fashioned them into a mood board. Then I gave Fifi a marker pen and let her loose on the mood board, drawing hearts and circles around her favourites.

  ‘I think you should keep the first run as simple as possible,’ said Tara. ‘Just while we road-test the product.’ We decided to initially stick with bows but offer a range of five colours and three different sizes (not everyone wants a bow on their head the size of a dinner plate).

  I thought Fifi would soon get bored, but she seemed transfixed by all the colours and patterns. If she hadn’t wanted to be involved, I wouldn’t have made her. I wasn’t going to force her, but it seemed she had inherited her mother’s work ethic. Her cheeks were flushed and she giggled excitedly as she tossed around the sketchbook pages

  And boy did she have a strong opinion. She was not into the brown at all. ‘Yucky, yucky. No, Mummy,’ she cried when I showed her the sample. Her favourite was the white bow that looked like it was covered in paint splatters, inspired by a Jackson Pollock painting. I might have to get her a matching dress made too. And maybe shoes. Too much? Hmm.

  I was proud of my daughter for sitting still through the entire ninety-minute meeting, especially when she’d had a late night the day before because I’d taken her to the MET Bar, where the bouncer kindly overlooked the fact that she was underage . . . by over a decade.

  ‘Good girl, Fifi,’ I told her. ‘See how satisfying it is putting in a hard day’s work. Now you can watch Dora the Explorer safe in the knowledge that you’ve really earned your down time. Isn’t it satisfying knowing that while your friends were having nap time, you’ve created something special?’

  The boardroom bonding also seemed to have served its purpose with Shelley and Tara, who had connected over a mutual dislike of the word ‘pleather’ and a mutual amusement when Fifi had raided Tara’s handbag and smeared her new YSL lipstick across her mouth. Soon they were laughing like old friends.

  Usually, after the first meeting with a new client, we’d celebrate the milestone with a glass of champagne or a
sneaky midday whiskey, depending on the gender of those involved. I can honestly say I’ve never before celebrated the birth of a brand with glasses of chocolate milk and Oreo cookies. But then it’s not every day you start a fashion empire with a two-year-old. And I had a feeling this was only the beginning.

  14

  If there’s one personality trait I just can’t stand in my staff it’s a superiority complex. Girls who think they’re above certain tasks and, worse, that they’re above each other. Nobody is invincible in the PR world, and in the Queen Bee offices we’re all on the same level. Well, I’m the top dog, obviously, but beneath me it’s a land of equality. And, remember, you’re only as good as your last press release.

  The problem is that the PR industry seems to either attract or create girls with great big egos. We then teach them how to command a room and be the centre of attention. It’s a dangerous skill to instil in a twenty-something-year-old.

  These girls arrive on their first day a little shy and apprehensive – and then the transformation starts to occur. I can spot it happening a mile off. Suddenly they’re too important to restock the fridge with water, or lug a pile of garment bags up onto the stage after the courier decides he can’t be bothered making the fifth trip back from the car. Suddenly, instead of idolising me, you can see in their eyes they’ve started to resent me. Sadly, I suspect they think they’re better than me, and that I should be eternally grateful to have them working for me.

  When this personality shift occurs, it’s the beginning of the end for our working relationship. Inevitably, things will come to a head in one way or another. I know my staff call me ‘the terminator’ behind my back because I sack more employees than on a season of The Apprentice. However, all my hirings and firings are for very good reasons. I don’t actually enjoy showing a staff member the door – especially when I thought they were one of the good guys.

  When I hired Rosa I really thought she’d be in it for the long haul; she seemed so down to earth and grateful, especially when I gave her the Queen Bee blog to manage. Maybe it was my fault for promoting my social media guru too quickly. She was now Anya’s right-hand woman in The Talent Hive and I’d given her some of our top creatives to manage, including a trio of fashion illustrators we’d just signed up.

  But it seemed my faith was misplaced. Oh, Rosa’s work continued to be flawless (the publicity stunt where she projected the illustrators’ work onto the Sydney Opera House was a stroke of genius). It was her attitude that started to grate on me. ‘I really need a new Apple Mac laptop, Jazzy Lou. How can you expect me to work on a model that is six months old?’ and ‘Do I really have to teach the other girls how to upload content to the blog, Jasmine? I mean, can’t they just buy Blogging for Dummies and learn that way? I have better things to do with my time.’

  On a number of occasions I had to ask Rosa to watch her tone. In the Queen Bee office we’re not overly formal. When a staff member is good to me, I genuinely think of them as family, and I often sign off emails to Lulu and Anya with I love you xox. But that didn’t mean Rosa could speak to me like a stroppy teenager. You’re twenty-seven years old, so save your angst for your own time.

  As I watched Rosa morph from sweetness to sourpuss, I discreetly started looking for her replacement. I didn’t go as far as advertising the position, but did ask my trusted friends in the industry if they knew anyone who might be interested.

  When it comes to hiring and firing, I ‘make like a monkey’. You know the metaphor – I prefer to let go of one branch only when I have another right in front of me to grab onto. In an ideal world, I won’t sack a Bee until I have another girl ready to step into her shoes straight away. It might sound harsh, but in a business as busy as mine, we couldn’t afford to be a soldier down.

  Fortunately, I had already found a possible replacement for Rosa when she stalked into my office and committed career suicide.

  It was Thursday morning, which is the absolute worst time in the PR world to cause a scene, because Thursday is the night most of our press parties are held. The office was utter bedlam: I had Bees blowing up giant helium balloons in the shape of handbags, another group was stuffing goody bags with makeup, and Anya was struggling with a ski simulator machine that was going to an event to launch Nike’s new ski goggles. I was praying the snow machine wouldn’t go off accidentally. And then Rosa stomped into my office and demanded a word.

  ‘Can it wait?’ I asked. ‘This really isn’t a good time. I have producers from Channel Twelve arriving in ten minutes.’ The TV station wanted to discuss filming a reality show in the Queen Bee offices. I’d told them no on more than one occasion (who did they think I was, Belle Single?) but they kept upping the ideas – and the money.

  ‘Soz, Jazz, but it really can’t wait another moment,’ said Rosa. ‘I need to talk to you before I fly out to London tomorrow.’

  Maybe I’m far too generous for my own good but, despite Rosa’s recent attitude change, I’d still given her a special mission. She was flying to the UK the next day to accompany Savannah Jagger from Dare to Wear to a photo shoot at Glastonbury. The fashion blogger had been hired by the Australian high street clothing brand Stitched to do a festival-themed photo shoot.

  In spite of Savannah’s reputation for being difficult to handle, all of the Bees had been desperate to take on the assignment. I’d overheard them one morning in the kitchen, animatedly guessing who I might pick to go. ‘It’s Glastonbury, man! Can you imagine how awesome that’ll be? Apparently Jay-Z and Beyoncé are going to do a duet this year. AND there’s going to be a performance from an Amy Winehouse hologram. Epic!’

  On top of the thrill of the five-day festival, I’d also decided to extend the trip to a week and send the Bee in question to meet a few select British magazine editors. Many of our fashion bloggers have a global reach, which means they need global media coverage. All in all, it was a trip of a lifetime for a Bee, and one that would seriously boost her CV.

  When I’d told Rosa that she’d won the golden ticket, she was delighted. Although the first thing she exclaimed was, ‘That’s ah-mazzzing. I’m so excited I get to see my boyfriend!’

  I know long-distance relationships take their toll, but I would have preferred her first thought to be business over pleasure. Still, I genuinely thought she was the best Bee for the job. There was a clause in Savannah’s contract with Stitched that stated she had to post photos of her trip on social media to ‘cause a buzz’ about their latest collection. This was Rosa’s area of expertise. I knew (I thought!) she could be trusted, but here she was, less than twenty-four hours before her flight to Blighty, with what seemed to be an emergency.

  ‘Fine, fine,’ I said impatiently. ‘You’ve got two minutes. What do you need to talk to me about so urgently?’

  She gestured to my computer. ‘I’ve just sent you an email, Jazz. It’s about my contract. Before I fly to England I wanted us to . . . review it.’

  I smelled trouble. The fact that she’d emailed me, even though she also intended to come into my office meant that it was a matter she wanted in writing. The fact that she’d brought this matter up the day before an important work trip was also no coincidence. She thought she had me over a barrel; if I said no to whatever demand she was going to make, she knew it was too late to send another Bee to England. No junior employee could prep for this shoot, not to mention the meetings with the editors, in less than twenty-four hours. I needed Rosa . . . and she knew it.

  I clicked open my inbox. Rosa’s email was right on the top of my virtual pile, which meant she’d hit ‘send’ seconds before stalking into my office.

  Dear Jasmine,

  As you know, I adore working for Queen Bee. I think you’re a boss in a million and believe that I have proved myself as a reliable, loyal and dedicated employee and a crucial and intrinsic member of the team.

  I am however concerned that I am not being paid adequately for the extra hours I put in at the office. My contract states that I am expected to work ei
ght hours a day, six days a week, but this does not take into account the lunch breaks I work through, the after-work events I attend and the Saturdays when I pop in to access the blogging database.

  As such, I would like to be remunerated in fifteen-minute increments instead of a day rate. All the extra fifteen minutes that I work quickly add up and I believe that by calculating my wage this way, I will be paid more accurately and not be undervalued.

  I thank you for your cooperation in this matter.

  Warm regards,

  Rosa

  It took me a few moments to digest what I was reading. She wanted to be paid in what? Fifteen-minute increments? Had the radiation from her iPhone addiction addled her brain?

  Everyone knows that the hours laid out in your contract are underestimated. You don’t pursue a job in PR if you want to clock off at 5 pm. As for lunch breaks, you might not get a dedicated window to eat a sandwich, but this time is made up in kind. The Bees might think I’m an idiot, but I know that not all the ‘business meetings’ they leave the office for are legit. When a Bee goes out to meet a client and comes back with different-coloured nail polish and a blow-dry it’s not hard to guess she told a little white lie. However, I’m a fair boss and I overlook it, as long as they don’t take the mickey. Yet here was Rosa doing just that.

  ‘My love, I am not going to pay you in fifteen-minute increments,’ I told her. ‘It’s just out of the question and I’m insulted you even ask me. Do you know what the other Sydney PR companies pay their rookies? A whole lot less than I pay you, I assure you.’

  Rosa shuffled her feet, clad in the latest Miu Miu sneakers, which had been a gift from me when the Queen Bee Instagram feed cracked 70,000 followers. ‘I’ve read up about my legal rights, Jasmine,’ she said, sounding less and less sure of herself. ‘If I really wanted to I could sue you for the additional hours I’ve worked up till now and the stress caused by the depletion of my free time. I could sue you for breaching my human rights.’