by Roxy Jacenko
‘Cleo, my love, I’ve gotta go,’ I declared, air-kissing her hot cheeks. ‘It’s been a joy to see you, beautiful. We should catch up for brunch in the morning or something.’ I had absolutely no intention of keeping this arrangement but I was confident Cleo wouldn’t remember our conversation anyway.
I thought she might try to stop me leaving, but she didn’t protest – she did however decide to bid me farewell with a present. ‘Well, at least take some with you,’ she exclaimed and grabbed the handle of my satchel. The next thing I knew, she’d unclipped the clasp, cocked her teapot and poured the remainder of its contents into my bag. My new Mulberry satchel! In a mark of the handiwork it didn’t spill a drop. My lip gloss floated to the surface like a goldfish in a fairground bag.
Seriously, what was it with people tipping liquid over me? I thought the water incident was bad, but at least that wasn’t an illegal substance. Call me paranoid, but all I could imagine was a scene of myself walking through the arrivals gate at Sydney airport and being pounced on by a sniffer dog. How would I explain to the customs officials why my bag stunk of hallucinogenic drugs? I’d be one of those jailbirds you read about in the paper who claim they’re innocent but nobody believes them.
Suddenly I just wanted to be back in my suburban life with my husband and our daughter, arguing over the fact that he uses my shampoo and leaves his trainers in the hallway. I didn’t care that we disagreed on Fifi’s bedtime or whether she should be home-schooled. I craved our domestic doldrums. Right then I’d have given anything to be sitting in bed with a takeaway and reading my emails. I wanted my married life back, I wanted to be a wife again . . . but was it too late?
18
The final three days of Glastonbury were far quieter affairs than the first. I spent my days shooting street style with Bryony, and my nights in the chillout tent, where meditation sessions were held and the most raucous activity was a silent disco. I also switched back to my old style of dressing. My alter ego ‘Moonshine’ was taking early retirement.
Another reason my Glastonbury experience got a whole lot quieter was because I lost Shelley to ‘Liam Gallagher’ (who was actually a graphic designer called Marcus, but would always be Liam to me). The duo had been inseparable since they locked lips on our first evening. Shelley had even moved into his ‘pod pad’. When she opted to sleep in a drafty wooden Wendy house rather than our canvas castle I knew it must be true love. This wasn’t just a holiday romance.
This theory was proven on the fourth, and final, day of Glasto when my best friend sent me a text:
Babes, I’m pushing my flight back. I’m going to stay in Blighty for a while. Don’t call me crazy! Can’t talk yet, don’t wanna jinx it. Will call soon. I love you. Shells xoxo.
My flight home to Sydney seemed to take twice as long without a travelling companion. I was desperate to get back and see Michael, who hadn’t returned my calls since the drunken text I’d sent him. For the last few days I’d felt like a teenage girl, anxiously checking my phone for news from him, cursing the Somerset fields for having such bad reception.
I tried to pass the flight as best I could. I ate the four-course meal out of boredom, watched seven episodes of How I Met Your Mother and made small talk with Sir Alan Sugar, who was seated in the flatbed next to me. I was bored, bored, bored. So I whiled away the hours imagining a romantic reunion with my husband; he would sweep me into his arms and tell me how much he missed me.
I grabbed the arm of the flight attendant as she brushed past with a tray of buck’s fizz. ‘Excuse me, could you tell me what date it is?’
‘It’s the twenty-seventh,’ she answered. ‘Although you’ll land in Sydney the morning of the twenty-eighth because of the time difference.’
My heart sank. FUCK! The deadline for Michael’s job decision was the day after tomorrow. In my Glastonbury vortex, time had got away from me. My husband is not the type of person to leave things to the last minute, so he was sure to have made his decision. Nice one, Jazzy Lou. You chose the worst weekend to explore your inner raver. Michael was probably packing for New York right now, while window-shopping Match.com for a more suitable plus one. Maybe a shy and retiring WAG who was more fitting for Park Avenue.
I was exhausted and grumpy by the time we landed in Sydney, despite managing to log a solid few hours’ sleep after scoring a sleeping pill from Lord Alan. While waiting for my luggage to appear on the carousel, I turned my iPhone off flight mode and it sprung into life with an impatient beep: 2364 emails and five text messages. READ ME! My technology isn’t used to being left waiting.
I read the text from Michael first. See, husband, you are my priority!
Hope you had a safe flight. Fifi is with the nanny at the hotel. I’m swamped at work. See you sometime soon.
Oh, where was Shelley when I needed a girlfriend to help me analyse this message? I knew Michael had probably punched it out while waiting in line for an elevator, but I still pulled each word apart for hidden meanings. He was concerned for my safety – that was a good thing. But he had said ‘sometime soon’ – what did that mean? Soon as in ‘today’, or soon as in ‘five years’ time’? Be clearer, buddy! I couldn’t get away with sending a press release that vague.
There was an equally elusive text from my father – the first communication from him since he’d asked me to stash Tessa’s diamonds.
Jazzy Lou, can we meet? I need to speak to you about something. It’s urgent. Where are you?
I had to sit on my hands to stop myself from snapping back a reply. I needed to think about my options before deciding if I wanted my dad in my life . . . now or ever again.
I temporarily dragged myself away from my iPhone to manhandle the four huge suitcases of Stitched clothing through customs. I held my breath as I passed by the sniffer dogs with their uniformed handlers, but – thank god – the bottle of Diptyque perfume I’d liberally sprayed into my satchel seemed to have covered the stench of Cleo’s tea.
When going through security in Heathrow, I had also purposefully latched onto the back of a group of grubby-looking backpackers with marijuana leaves stamped on their backpacks. If the dogs were looking for troublemakers I hoped the boys in front would distract them. Now, as I strolled through customs, trying to look nonchalant, I put my iPhone to my ear and had a fake conversation. ‘Hi, darling. Yes, I’ll be home for dinner. Meat and two veg would be lovely.’ See, officer, I’m just a working mother, not a drugs mule . . .
I had been holding out hope that Michael might be waiting for me at the airport, as I’d texted him my flight details. But as I scanned the faces of the eager relatives at the arrival gate waving ‘welcome home’ banners, they were all strangers. This never usually bothered me – I’m a practised solo traveller – until today.
Once I was settled in the back of a taxi, I delved into my inbox.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Savannah – retouching
Hi Jasmine,
Well, the fun doesn’t stop. I just had an email from Savannah’s management (isn’t this you? Has she sacked you?). Looks like the retouch from the Stitched shoot isn’t trim enough for her. Hmm, what do you think? I’m nervous she’s about to have a major spat. Might be better to look like we’re accommodating in the short term. I’ll retouch even thinner and send you the new pics to look at pronto. It’s a fine line between fashion thin and third-world thin, as you and I both know.
Bx
I replied immediately:
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Savannah – retouching
Hi love,
Whatever you do, DO NOT GO ANY THINNER! I’ve seen the before and after photos and you’ve already been more than generous. She won’t be satisfied until you can drive a double-decker bus through her thigh gap. We’ve pandered to her enough. This chick is out of control!
P.S. Can you forward me the email from her ‘manage
ment’? I was planning to ditch her anyway. I don’t care if she has 500,000 fans . . . I am not one of them.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Professional courtesy
Hi Savannah,
I’ll be candid. I am quite annoyed by the fact that I had to learn from a third party that you had signed up to a second creative management company.
I have invested a lot of time and money in you and Dare to Wear. You are my friend, but to think you can work with two agencies is totally unrealistic – not to mention insulting and unprofessional. I have worked tirelessly on PR and deals for you – and taken a mere 20%.
The events of the past week were, quite frankly, enough for me to halt our relationship immediately and take you off our client list.
I run a professional operation. I am not in a position where I need to be used for bits and pieces of work that suit you. If I worked like that, believe me, The Talent Hive wouldn’t have grown to what it has become in the past six months.
Savannah, we will honour the deals arranged and in progress – Stitched being the main contract – however, beyond that we won’t be able to assist.
I am all about loyalty. I have people banging down our door to take them on. I don’t need to feel undervalued, unappreciated and mistreated.
Good luck,
Jasmine
I didn’t know or care at that point who Savannah’s new management was, but I later discovered it was one of her rich girlfriends, who’d just returned from three years spent ‘posh packing’ around Europe and now wanted to use daddy’s money to become a publicist. Never mind the fact that she had zero experience. Too many girls think they can do my job just because they like to party. Just because you like shopping doesn’t make you a fashion designer, my love.
Anyway, Savannah did me a favour, as I now had a legitimate reason to shelve her. I’d have looked petty if I sacked her just because she showered me with saliva. This way I sounded professional and could take the high ground. I hoped for Stitched’s sake the Glastonbury shoot turned out well, but Savannah could end up on the professional scrapheap for all I cared. I secretly suspected she’d been buying fans on Instagram anyway (on the social media black market you can buy 50,000 fans for just $500). Once Savannah was officially off my books, I might have to give Luke at The Sun a nudge. But right now I had 2363 more emails still to get through.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Your Palace Awaits
The project is over: Leonardo da Vinci has completed the Sistine Chapel, David Beckham has scored the final goal, Shane Warne has hit the final wicket . . . and any other metaphors that you can think of. In case you haven’t got the gist, I AM FINITO! Your palace awaits you, my darling. It’s time for you to move back into your newly decorated abode. My pleasure!
Smooches,
Jackson
P.S. The invoice is in the post in an unmarked envelope. I know you don’t want that husband of yours seeing the final figure (uncultured philistine!).
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Subject: Introduction – via Hayden Smith
Hi Jasmine,
We haven’t met before, but my name is Geoffrey Chalmers and I am the CEO of the energy drink brand Red Buzz. We have just collaborated with the cricketer Hayden Smith on a range of new flavours, including ‘baggy green apple’ and ‘perfect pitch papaya’.
We are planning to launch this new range as a key press event in Melbourne. On the recommendation of several people we would like to speak to you about handling the publicity campaign and press party. In fact, Hayden specifically asked that Queen Bee be the chosen PR firm. He would like you to personally manage the account if possible, although I appreciate that your schedule is probably extremely full.
If this is of interest, please let me know and I’ll organise a conference call between you, myself and Hayden. I have to say that usually with celeb collaborations they are silent partners, but Hayden has been refreshingly hands-on.
Cheers for now,
Geoff
After Smithy had sent me the scantily clad photograph of himself, I had made the executive decision not to reply to him – and I certainly wasn’t going to take him shopping as he’d originally suggested. But it seemed Smithy was more wily than I’d first suspected. He hadn’t been able to capture my emotional attention so was now trying to spark my business interest. It would be a good alignment and a coup for Queen Bee PR. Red Buzz was a major sponsor of the Cricket World Cup, and although sporting events weren’t usually my forte, I’d heard they had a $6 million budget to blow. I could become a sports fan with that kind of incentive. But was it safe to work with Hayden Smith? I wasn’t so sure I could trust him . . . or myself.
I filed the email, along with the text from my father, in my ‘deal with later’ folder. My taxi was pulling up outside the Four Seasons anyway. On the way to my room I stopped off at reception and broke the news that they were going to be losing a long-termer. The receptionist, who was new, had to ask my name and then misspelt it as she was searching for my details on the computer. So much for feeling like one of the Four Seasons family: I was just another guest who was only as valuable as her mini-bar bill.
Thankfully, one person was happy to see me. When I unlocked the door of my hotel room, Fifi flung herself at my legs, wiping mushed banana from her mouth onto my Scanlan & Theodore leather leggings. She was delighted with the gifts I’d brought her from London: a stuffed Paddington bear from Hamleys, some toffee bonbons from Selfridges food hall and a pair of glittery pink angel wings from Glastonbury. As her mother’s daughter, she immediately started playing, eating and wearing the gifts in unison.
I also had some other good news for my toddler. ‘Guess what, Fifi? The first shipment of your fascinators has arrived!’ While I was away, Anya had texted me a photograph of the boxes upon boxes of hair bows, and a sample of the range, which looked even cuter than I’d hoped. I’d already tweeted the photograph to Fifi’s fans as a teaser:
Aaaah, my #fifisfascinators have landed. So excited to share them with my friends.
I’d had requests from Bizarre magazine, Grazia and the Daily Mail asking for interviews with my teeny entrepreneur (obviously Minky Barton at the Daily Mail had forgiven me for the Savannah incident). And we’d already had emails from Fifi fans across the world asking if we shipped internationally, even though the range hadn’t officially launched yet, as we were still smoothing out some wrinkles on the website. I gave Fifi a high-five, which turned into a game of Pat-a-Cake. I was so proud of her (well, proud of us) for seeing a business opportunity and seizing it.
‘Grab your clutch bag, Fifi my darling,’ I told her. ‘We’re going for a well-earned pampering session!’ I had already organised for a hotel porter to pack up our wardrobe and courier my suitcases and boxes back to my house that evening; I might as well make the most of having someone at my beck and call. As it was only mid-afternoon, I had a few hours to kill and knew the perfect place to do it – Venustus Beauty and Body Lab, my favourite spa in Paddington.
On the drive there I called ahead to book an appointment: a hot rock massage for me and then a St Tropez spray tan. The latter was all-important. I am usually regimental with my Sunday spray tans and weekly blow-dries, but that had all gone out the window as I regressed into a Glastonbury grub. I usually travel everywhere with ModelCo ‘Tan in a Can’. A quick spritz and you look like you’ve just returned from Barbados, even if you haven’t left your desk in twelve months. But it had mysteriously gone missing from my handbag during the Savannah photo shoot (I’m not pointing the finger!). After a week of British weather, despite a few days of welcome sunshine, I looked like an extra from Twilight. There is nothing worse, in my opinion, than seeing your natural skin colour. Call me superficial, but I feel happier, more confident and even more energetic when my skin is closer
to mahogany than neutral. It’s not vanity, it’s evolution. Who wants to be a plain Jane when they can be a blonde juggernaut?
You know how you associate certain smells with your childhood? For me it was my mother baking fresh bread and my father smoking cigars out his bedroom window. Well, I’m sure that when Fifi is older the smell of spray tan will give her a warm fuzzy feeling, reminding her of me and the precious moments we shared.
It’s no secret this Queen Bee likes to be bronzed, but Fifi is also a tanning booth veteran. From the first time she watched me having a spray tan, standing like a starfish in a paper g-string, she’s been utterly transfixed by the process. Well, wouldn’t you be if you were a toddler? I still think it’s magical that I can change colour like a chameleon.
My favourite beautician, a curvaceous Italian called Mona, knows the drill by now and is very accommodating. When Fifi and I arrived at Venustus, she led us through to the changing room, handed us both a fluffy robe and also two plastic shower caps. Like a pro, Fifi unwrapped the cap and pulled it over her head, making sure that all her red ringlets were safely tucked away.
My two-year-old then led the way to the tanning booth and took up her position. She even knows the pose to get the best all-over tan: wide legs, arms out to the side, face scrunched up so it wouldn’t get in her eyes. As Mona aimed the spray gun at her, Fifi rotated on the spot so that her front and back were covered. Before you report me for child abuse, what my little girl doesn’t realise that is it’s only air coming out of the spray gun. We only turn on the tanner when it’s my go. What, did you really think I’m that bad a mother? I don’t plan to let Fifi have a real fake tan until she’s at least twelve years old . . . or maybe ten. I’m not like one of those stage mums from Toddlers and Tiaras.