by Roxy Jacenko
As I was pummelled with hot stones, Fifi also had a massage. Although she’s far too ticklish for a full body, so she prefers to opt for a foot rub and pedicure. As I watched my daughter wriggling with happiness at the hands of the beauty therapist, I made a decision – I was no longer going to feel guilty or apologise for the lifestyle I had made for my daughter. So most two-year-olds don’t spend their days at business meetings and spa treatments, but does that mean it’s wrong? In a couple of years, Fifi would be at school and we wouldn’t be able to share these magical moments. I didn’t want to look back and regret holding out on her.
Okay, my daughter prefers mud masks to mud pies and conference calls to crayoning, but every kid is different. Her social media profile happened by accident and was never meant to be a commercial venture. I would shut down her Instagram account in an instant if it harmed her health or her happiness, but you can see from her smile that she’s in her element.
As we left Venustus after three hours of pampering, we both had a skip in our step and our cheeks were glowing (not just from the fake tan).
‘Guess what? We’re going to see Daddy,’ I told Fifi, who wiggled excitedly in her car seat.
Now, I was ready to face the world again. Now I was ready to face my husband.
19
Some boyfriends break up with girls via text message, others hide behind emails. I’ll never forget when Anya’s last boyfriend broke up with her with a meme of Hermione Granger with the flashing caption: ‘Want to see me do a magic trick? POOF! You’re single.’ We didn’t know whether to hate him or admire his creativity.
It was now exactly five weeks since Michael had been offered the job, which meant it was time to tell his prospective boss – and his wife – the decision. Was I about to become a ‘living-away partner’ or a ‘long-distance co-parent’? Forget digital correspondence and virtual animation, my husband gave me his answer using the medium of home decoration.
Even though I’d told Michael that Fifi and I would be home – for good – around dinnertime that night, I didn’t expect him to be there to greet us. My husband had warned me that he’d be stuck late at the office. Something to do with a bear in the market. I swear he just tosses around this jargon when he wants to confuse me.
So I wasn’t surprised when I pulled into our driveway and saw that Michael’s Mercedes was missing. I was, however, surprised by a new addition to our front porch. What the . . . ? Above the doorway hung a huge American flag, the stars and stripes blowing in the wind as if they were taunting me. That would be a yes then . . . he was definitely going.
I very nearly turned around and drove straight back out of there. I could deal with this situation in the same way I’d dealt with Savannah Jagger finding a second agent – pre-empt the dump by pretending to dump him first. It could work! I could pretend that I’d never even been back to the house and just text Michael a ‘Sorry, it’s not working out’ message. At least then I’d look like I was in control of the situation (although just thinking about it made my heart feel like it was being trampled by a mob of shoe addicts at a Louboutin sample sale).
The problem was I had nowhere to go. I didn’t even have Shelley’s apartment to flee to, as my BFF was still in London with her Glastonbury souvenir. She’d also stopped leaving a spare key under her doormat since her neighbour – a very judgemental and disgruntled vegan – had broken into her apartment and squirted her fox-fur coat with ketchup. I really, really didn’t want to go back to living in a hotel – the novelty had totally worn off.
I had no other option. It was time to face my new reality and move back into my matrimonial home . . . even if that was as a single mother. On the way through the front door, I ripped down the American flag and tossed it to the ground, resisting the urge to stomp on it. Immediately, Fifi picked it up, threw it over her head and ran around ‘whoooing’ like a ghost. It was fitting fancy dress, seeing as my relationship was dead and buried.
The house was, as Jackson had promised, an absolute masterpiece. If I hadn’t been suffering from the early symptoms of heartbreak, I’d have been skipping between each room right now screaming, ‘I DIE, I DIE.’
It was an oasis of cooling, calming monochrome balanced with bold and quirky statement pieces. That neon-green Perspex sculpture of a lizard would be way over the top if it wasn’t set against a solid grey backdrop. It was kind of like a metaphor for my relationship with Michael. I was the attention-seeking statement-maker, and he was the reliable, solid, stable neutral. That balance was why our relationship worked. Why hadn’t I appreciated that until it was too late?
As I walked around the house, leaving Fifi to get reacquainted with her toy collection, I tried not to become nostalgic for the happy memories. The kitchen, where Michael had helped me write The Talent Hive’s business plan. The bathroom, where he’d held my hair back during my morning sickness. The bedroom, where . . . well, we don’t need to go into those details.
And then there was Michael’s study. I noticed he’d left the door slightly open, which was unusual as he normally locked it for security reasons. But hang on a second, why could I see baby-blue wallpaper? I had specifically told Jackson to decorate the study in yellow, because I’d read an article in BRW magazine that claimed it increased productivity and concentration.
I hesitantly pushed open the door. OMG! There’d clearly been a huge mistake. Michael’s desk had been replaced with a brand-new oak baby’s crib, his filing cabinets had been swapped for a nappy-changing table, and the bookshelves where he usually filed his stock market reports in chronological order had been removed. Instead, the far wall was covered in a modern-art montage of Disney characters (I recognised graffiti artist Sid Tapia’s handiwork). All in all, it was a nursery fit for little Prince George . . . except we didn’t have a baby in our household.
As I tried to marshal my thoughts, I heard a cough behind me. I spun on my heel. ‘Michael! What the hell are you doing here? I’m so sorry about this room,’ I blathered. ‘I’m going to call Jackson right now and get it fixed. I don’t know how he could have got my instructions so wrong, but I’ll put it right . . .’
Halfway through my rambling apology, I remembered something. ‘Actually, it doesn’t matter, does it?’ I said cattily. ‘I saw the flag. Well, I was hardly going to miss it. I may as well leave the freaking study as it is . . . or I could turn it into a spare room, or a home gym or something. Maybe I could give Fifi her own study for her business empire. It’s not like you’re going to be needing it . . .’
Michael was looking at me with an odd expression. I couldn’t work out if he was amused or nervous. ‘Jasmine Lewis, will you please be quiet for one moment?’ he interrupted me, although his voice wasn’t unkind and he took my hand in his. ‘I was the one who told Jackson to do this,’ he continued. ‘I had an emergency meeting with him last week and he kindly agreed to make some last-minute changes. Jazzy Lou, I’m so, so sorry. I never should have even considered the job without consulting you first. You’re my world, you and Fifi, and you’ll always be my priority. You’re also not the only person who can chuck around ultimatums. Yesterday I told Chad Turner that I’d only take the job if I could do it remotely from Sydney. It’s a very hip way to work apparently, very Gen Y, very Google, and he actually loved the idea. I’ll still have to go to America for five days out of the month, but that just means you’ll get a constant supply of J.Crew and Hershey bars . . .’
It was the perfect reconciliation speech – an apology mixed with a compliment and a touch of bribery. My husband should go into PR himself. I always say a pitch should be as good as a selfie – clear, well lit, and reflecting the most flattering angle.
But what was with the freaking study? I gestured to our surroundings. ‘Michael, why have you built a nursery?’ My sentence was punctuated by the toot of a toy train, which was whirring around a track fixed to the wall above our heads. There’d been a similar train at Glastonbury delivering tequila shots. Groan! I was having a flashback!
Michael stood in the centre of the room like an artist presenting his masterpiece. ‘Well, I know you’re a fan of big, bold publicity stunts,’ he said, ‘so I thought I might be more likely to convince you if I put in some extra effort. Jazzy Lou, I suspect you believe that I think you’re a terrible mother. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. While you were in England I did some soul-searching. If I’m honest, sometimes I’m a bit jealous of the great job you do with Fifi. I could never compete, but that’s just something I need to come to terms with.’
He picked up a toy Action Man from the nappy-changing table and pulled the trigger of his gun. ‘Jasmine, you’re an amazing mother and the head of our amazing family . . . a family that I’d like to grow bigger. I was thinking . . . I was hoping . . . that we could try for another baby.’
One thing you should know about me – and publicists in general – is that when we set our minds to something we always deliver, whether that’s media coverage, a celebrity ambassador . . . or a baby.
As I lay on the sonographer’s table, Michael and I held our breath and waited for the doctor to distinguish limbs from genitals. I stared at the grey blob on the screen, thinking it looked more like an alien than a baby, and then the doctor uttered a sentence that made Michael’s eyes water: ‘Congratulations, you’re having a boy.’
We let Fifi break the news on our behalf by posting the sonogram shot to her Instagram page:
This is my baby brother. I am going to call him #Henry. Heck, I’m going to be busy managing Instagram for not just one but two Queen Bee offspring come April.
I’d made the mistake of telling her she could pick the name for her new brother. I was thinking Ralph (Lauren), Oscar (de la Renta) or Alexander (Wang), but no, she clearly wanted her brother to be more down to earth than that. Sadly, her favourite show is Horrible Henry. Oh well, I had six months to talk her out of it before he made an appearance.
That social media announcement was the first of Fifi’s Instagram posts that didn’t get a single negative comment. Perhaps our critics were coming around to the idea of a two-year-old Insta-star. Or maybe nobody is cruel enough to troll an unborn foetus. Either way, it was a milestone and one I chose to see as positive.
It was also the first Instagram post for as long as I could remember that Hayden Smith didn’t ‘like’ or comment on. Flirting with a married woman is one thing, but flirting with a mother-to-be would be a new moral low.
Then I noticed a comment under the photograph from a familiar face – Tessa Blow. She’d changed her profile photo, dyed her hair blonder and looked even more of a Vegas Showgirl than ever (sorry to be catty, I blame my hormones). For the past ten weeks since I’d come back from Glastonbury, my father had been pestering me with ‘We need to talk’ text messages that I’d been ignoring. He was texting me four or five times a day now. What could possibly be so freaking important?
When I read Tessa’s comment, the answer revealed itself. As my hands shook with astonishment, my Chanel charm bracelet jingled like an alarm bell. Was my future stepmother (eugh!) really saying what I thought she was saying?
Amazing news, Jazzy Lou! Your dad and I are over the moon. And what perfect timing! Our babies will be in the same class at school. Two new additions to the family. See you at prenatal yoga, darling!
OH MY GOD!!!
ALSO FROM ALLEN & UNWIN
STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL
ROXY JACENKO
Meet Jasmine Lewis, the smart young publicist trying to work her way up from the bottom in Sydney’s hottest PR company. She’s done the coffee runs, the dry-cleaning pickups, the 5 a.m. starts, the 11 p.m. finishes. But still her evil boss Diane Wilderstein is never happy. So when Jasmine finds herself being summoned to Diane’s office early one morning, she knows something’s got to give. Luckily for Jasmine, fate lends a hand and helps her escape from the evil Diane to launch a fabulous new career.
That should be a dream come true, right? Or is it the start of a whole new world of nightmares?
‘Ever wondered what really goes on behind the slick facade of the PR world? Strictly Confidential will knock your Manolos off!’ Gemma Crisp, former editor of CLEO
ISBN 978 1 74237 757 5
THE RUMOUR MILL
ROXY JACENKO
Jazzy Lou is back and busier than ever!
Queen Bee, her fabulous PR firm, is going from strength to strength with an ever-expanding roster of clients, including the hottest new International Designer.
At home, Jazzy has her hands full with her baby girl Fifi, as well as the planning of her upcoming wedding to Michael. But just as everything seems to be falling into place, Jazzy discovers that her old boss, the evil Diane Wilderstein, has resurfaced and has her heart set on poaching Jazzy’s Queen Bee clients. Meanwhile, someone is trying to bring her down by circulating a poisonous voicemail to ALL of Sydney’s media!
Will they succeed in destroying everything Jazzy has worked so hard for? Or will Jazzy find a way to save herself and Queen Bee? Sit back and enjoy this fast-paced peek inside the glamorous world of Sydney’s hottest PR agency.
‘All the gossip you’d expect from Sydney’s PR Queen.’ Bronwyn McCahon, editor of Cosmopolitan
ISBN 978 1 76011 137 3