by Roxy Jacenko
Those early-morning runs where I pounded the leafy and reliably safe streets of Bellevue Hill not only toned up my body but cleared my head as well. I now knew precisely how to proceed with all the different ‘challenges’ in my life.
Of all the areas that the Queen Bee agency has to be concerned about during a launch party, schlepping our signature goodie bags to the event should not be one of them. It was up to the production company we’d hired to manage the areas that required brute strength. And it was a production company, not dial a male model, so it shouldn’t be beneath them to sort out the show bags which weighed a ton. (The male model call-in would come later when we needed to hire some handsome men to escort Chelsea into the event. Nothing like an out-of-work male model to pull that off. We’d been thinking of asking the reality cast of Bondi Rescue to accompany her but that would be way too Baywatch cheesy. Chelsea was a little more classy than that, as befits the star of The Bel Air Life.)
For her CD launch we were giving all guests Byron Bay Cookies, Ice-Watch timepieces, Spanx Skinny Britches, copies of Eve Pascal and Eve Pascal Home, bottles of Belvedere vodka and shot glasses, plus an invitation to take the latest Peugeot RCZ for a weekend. On top of that there were chocolates, coconut water, Curtis Collection makeup, a selection of ModelCo tanning products and Slim Secrets Fibre Bars. All up, each bag weighed ten kilos, and there were three hundred and sixty of them. We couldn’t expect the Bees – average weight fifty kilos or under – to carry them in to the event.
Unfortunately, Jason – the event manager from the production company – wanted all the bags unloaded a couple of floors below the event, which meant the Bees would not only have to carry them up but also to hand them out as guests departed. Yeah, cheers, Jason – we love putting our whole team onto something that your blokes could easily sort out. The goodie bags needed to be left where the Bees could easily access them and then handed over to each guest. No can do, he insisted.
Well, then we will have to employ another company, I bluffed. I hoped he wouldn’t twig that it was far too late for that.
It took another twenty minutes of back and forth before Jason grudgingly agreed to send some of his staff to assist the Bees with the bags.
The other ‘debate’ was with Chelsea’s management, who wanted her to wear an American label to the event even though under the Queen Bee contract she was required to wear an Australian designer because she was launching the label on Australian soil. Finally we came to a compromise: she would wear a glittering Allison Palmer gown for her arrival and then change into Christopher Kane to belt out one of the singles from the CD during the second half of proceedings. The American number was chic and elegant, but I was hoping that once Chelsea saw how good she looked in the Allison Palmer she wouldn’t want to take it off.
All the rest of the details of the night were working well. There was even more of a buzz about Chelsea now that the leaked photos we had of her leaving LAX had made nearly all the top gossip sites and featured in Luke’s column in The Sun, netting us a handy fee. Australian chef Michael Moore, who often tours in the States thanks to his top-selling cookbook Blood Sugar (suitable for diabetics), had created a cute cocktail menu of Bel Air blinis, Haute hot dogs, popcorn chicken and, to finish, some red velvet cupcakes with stars and stripes icing. We also had Bel Air martinis, champagne and Budweiser.
Anya, Alice and Lulu were in charge of greeting the guests downstairs, while I went upstairs in search of our mysterious hostess, Juliet. Tripping warily between the couches and coffee tables which had been delivered, I finally saw her standing at the end of the terrace looking out towards the Opera House. At first I didn’t notice what she was wearing, but when she turned around in the Christian Dior overskirt with sequined hot pants underneath, I was stunned.
‘Oh my God, Juliet, I saw that in the window of the boutique a few weeks ago and wondered who would wear it,’ I gushed. Actually when I had seen the ensemble in the window what I had really thought was that it was only good for the runway, forgetting that a true eccentric like Juliet could pull off anything.
‘Really,’ she responded, looking slightly unfocused, her long blonde hair blowing almost on end as if she had suffered an electric shock. She seemed distracted, as if she weren’t completely present. Was it the glass of champagne in her hand?
For a split second, I worried that she might be using our event to stage a spectacular suicide attempt. After all, the railing behind her didn’t look like it would present much of an obstacle if someone was intent on jumping. Should I dispatch a security guard to shadow Juliet, just in case? After all, she was known for her attention-seeking behaviour, including the time she organised camels to stand outside Chiswick Gardens for her husband’s Moroccan-themed sixty-fifth birthday party. Juliet had one camel saddled up for her and trotted around as the guests arrived, not really believing what they were seeing. The bill for the pooper-scooper alone that night had cost more than the birthday cake for a hundred guests from Sweet Art.
‘I bought this gown on my last trip to Paris,’ she said suddenly.
‘Oh, of course. Well, it’s so good of you to allow us to hold a launch party here,’ I said. ‘Please let me know if there’s anything you would like us to do to keep everyone happy.’
She smiled wickedly. ‘To tell you the truth, the more noise and commotion the better.’
‘Well, bump-out is at nine pm,’ I reminded her, ‘so hopefully it won’t disturb the other residents too much.’
‘That’s okay. Most of them are away at the moment anyway,’ she said, lying through her teeth.
I could have stayed chatting to Juliet all night – she was the supreme reservoir of Sydney’s old-school social secrets – but I had to tear myself away to get changed. Tonight I was actually making an exception to my usual working gear of jeans and trainers and was slipping into a Roland Mouret with a pair of Christian Louboutin heels which I wouldn’t keep on a minute after I had to. This extra effort was for the benefit of the Americans, who were more conservative than us Aussies and expected me to look high powered and glamorous – a fashion authority.
‘Jazzy, is it okay for us to send a car to collect Sean Harris, the designer from Lally Is A Star label, his publicist wants to know?’ said Lulu over the walkie-talkie, sounding apologetic.
She was kidding, right? ‘Oh puhleese, what’s his problem, hasn’t he got enough money to call a cab? No way will we send a car. Who does Sean think he is, Carla Zampatti? And let me tell you something else, Carla would never ask if one wasn’t offered.’
‘Copy!’ replied Lulu, who thought she was Madonna in those headphones we used with the two-way radio.
Dear oh dear, what was going on with guests wanting to be feted from the moment they left their doorsteps? That kind of treatment was only reserved for true social lions like Carla, the grande dame of fashion. After all, it wasn’t as though Lally Is A Star was a major player in Australian fashion – it was very niche. And the only reason Sean was on the list at all was that he and his co-designer were colourful. They were like the clown prince and queen of Australian fashion.
‘But wait, there’s more.’ Lulu was back on the two-way again. ‘He wants to bring an entourage with him, including his boyfriend, Ross, and two underground filmmakers who are making a fashion documentary.’ She started to giggle. ‘They’ve also stipulated that it has to be a stretch limo.’
‘Um, that would be a no. He can only bring Ross, and they can catch a bus for all I care. Or walk, it would probably do them both good,’ I said, heading into the small room we had put aside where I could get changed. Sean probably had only a few more seasons left in him before everyone decided they didn’t want to look as though they were modelling for their fashion design friend’s graduating parade. And then he’d probably have to take a crash course in tailoring and finding ways to enhance the feminine shape.
It wouldn’t take long for Chelsea to travel to the event, since she was staying in celeb bolthole the InterContinenta
l, just a few hundred metres up the road. Chelsea’s minders, including Eric Lacey, who had been able to come with her at the eleventh hour, had tried to book the Australia suite for her with its dining table and epic views but, since this event was already way over budget and the hotel did not offer a reduction, she settled on a perfectly acceptable executive suite a few floors below. Her rider – the list of refreshment requirements that all big stars have when they step out – was something else again and very California hipster. It included Vichy water, coconut water, goji berries, acai gelato in the freezer, and a small field of wheat grass with a presser. We also decided to leave a platter of Violet Crumble bars, Tim Tams, lamingtons and Anzac cookies in the suite and were surprised when the request came through to have this replenished after just a few hours. All the other requested snacks and drinks would remain untried for the duration of her stay. But more about that later.
Chelsea would not be leaving the InterCon until most of the guests had turned up at the launch. For now, many celebs seemed to be hogging the red carpet. Some celebs just will not move off the photo wall until every angle has been exhausted.
When I saw stylist Justin Lee in his rust-coloured velveteen jacket, cheesy bow tie, 2009 Calibre shirt with the black trim around the collar, shiny black trousers and fake Gucci loafers, I wanted to call the fashion police. He had definitely committed a crime against sartorial style. Never mind that Lee, who worked as a stylist for a chain of suburban fashion malls and had his own radio spot on a western Sydney station, was preening himself on the red carpet as if he was Tom Ford. Maybe he thought everyone loved him for his retro fashion moment, but he just looked as if he hadn’t been able to borrow anything decent. How he got past Susie Solomon, I don’t know. Maybe it was because he was one of the first to arrive. Only a couple of photographers (one who worked for Froth – a suburban newspaper with a small readership – and the other a ring-in from a photo agency) were obediently snapping him. Both of them probably shouldn’t have been in the camera area anyway but we’d wanted a big mob of photographers so Chelsea would feel more at home. Behind Justin I could see a queue of real celebrities forming for their moment on the photo wall, and I heard Susie’s familiar voice urging the lesser-known people to walk on through.
‘Just go right into the party and get yourselves a drink, guys,’ she said to the fabulous nobodies. ‘And have a great night.’ Susie always tried to sound upbeat and friendly, because you never knew when the nobodies might become the faces du jour.
I couldn’t help myself: I marched right up to Justin, almost knocking him over in mid-preen. He would never become the next face du jour – more likely just another pain in the rear. ‘Please, Justin,’ I said firmly, ‘we have to keep it moving.’
Justin glared at me for a moment before quickly composing himself. He probably realised that if he carried on the way he was going, his invitations to Queen Bee launches would dry up faster than Warwick Capper’s acting roles.
‘Sorry, Jazz. What can I tell you, they just wouldn’t let me walk on,’ he said, winking at the lensmen, who had now well and truly put down their cameras and were chatting between themselves. (This is what snappers do when they want to make a pointed statement to someone they can’t stand or whom they find boring. And if they really detest a celebrity – usually because the celeb has committed the number one sin of refusing to be photographed with a new partner or when there is a fresh news angle – then as well as putting down their cameras they will perform the ultimate snub of turning their backs.)
Before Justin disappeared to the furthest reaches of the rooftop, he tried valiantly to be cool. ‘Oh my goodness, Jazzy, don’t you look stunning tonight,’ he said, giving me a wet kiss on the cheek. ‘I couldn’t really see you before with all those lights in my face.’ Yeah, right, he wished he had been dazzled by flashguns. ‘What’s that you’re wearing? No, wait, let me guess. Camilla and Marc?’
‘Almost,’ I replied, smiling grimly. ‘It’s Roland Mouret.’ (What’s a few thousand dollars price difference between friends?)
‘That was my next guess,’ he said, moving away as fast as his fake Gucci loafers would take him and almost lunging at a model waiter carrying a tray of martinis. ‘Thanks for inviting me, Jazzy. It certainly has all the hallmarks of one of your best events,’ he said over his shoulder as he bolted.
I made a mental note to consign Justin to the social wilderness known as the D List for a few weeks. He was getting off easily. Anyone who dressed as badly as he did and carried on as grandly deserved to be banished.
‘Jazzy, Jazzy, can I take your picture?’ called out Marco, our favourite paparazzo, armed with his Canon and the ability to sell photos around the world in nanoseconds, often in partnership with Queen Bee.
‘Hi, Marco,’ I said smiling broadly at him. ‘Only when the guest of honour is here.’
In one corner of the rooftop, Cleo Jones – the gorgeous gay model turned DJ who famously only dated actresses or supermodels – was setting up in the booth she had insisted we construct for her in case someone should try to stalk her. Jones had her own celebrity manager and a list of requirements that would probably make even Jay-Z blush. She needed her own lighting guys, some imported designer threads which she reserved the right to keep, bottles of Patrón tequila with lemons, limes and fresh mango juice, some freshly peeled lychees and vegan snacks from Misschu. Despite all that, some of our clients just couldn’t get enough of her, so they gladly met all of her demands, including her exorbitant fee. It was probably those shots of Cleo with her tongue down the throat of an American fashion star at the Coachella music festival in Palm Springs which had them so titillated they just had to be around her. They also wanted to boast that they had met her.
I flirtatiously blew Cleo a kiss and shimmied (my dancing is lousy) over to her as if I was already grooving to her sounds. She wiggled her hips back at me sexily.
‘Wow, you look so hot tonight, Cleo,’ I panted, as if exhausted by the effort. ‘Is that a Balmain leather jacket?’
She nodded her platinum-blonde mohawk, looking pleased that it had been noted she was wearing six thousand dollars on her back which she was not paying for. ‘I couldn’t resist it when I saw it on the stylist’s rack,’ she said, giving me a hug. ‘Hey, I really hope you like the sounds tonight. I’ve put together something special for our guest of honour, cut with some of her music.’
‘Do you know each other?’ I asked casually but feeling dread in the pit of my stomach. A lesbian love affair ‘down under’ was perhaps not an ideal headline for the star of The Bel Air Life, but then you never can tell. Really it all should be about the CD and then the reality show.
‘No, I just met her once at a party at the Chateau Marmont for Naomi Watts,’ Cleo said with a sigh. ‘She seems like a really cool chick though.’
‘Oh, she really is, Cleo, and once the formalities are finished I am going to bring her right over to hang out with you for a bit.’ Which, roughly translated, meant: I am going to do the upmost to ensure that you two never cross paths.
‘Perfect,’ she said, slipping on her headphones again. Conversation concluded, I had just been dismissed. With Cleo it was always about scoring points.
A familiar-looking couple had just arrived and were being led inside by a nervous-looking Anya. I must have missed the signal from Lulu on the walkie-talkie to pre-warn me about the arrival of Raelene Bax and Josh Sweetwood.
Raelene’s ‘manager’, Sharon, had won the battle about the couple not posing for snaps on the red carpet, and they would be photographed exclusively by Harper’s Bazaar. A small private booth had been assembled with an ultra-exclusive photo wall and a security guard to deter other guests from trying to crash the booth. But I had my plan B: Marco’s brief was all about getting as many candid shots of the couple – preferably with Chelsea – as they could. Of course, it wasn’t Raelene that was important, it was Josh.
Evie, a journalist from Harper’s, was also on site to do a mini interview w
ith the couple, and I couldn’t resist going over to see how it was going.
Despite her painful attitude, I had to admit that Raelene totally looked the goods in a fire-engine-red J’Aton gown which showed off her minute waist, while Josh was in a black shirt, black tuxedo jacket and black jeans.
‘Thank you for joining us,’ I greeted them warmly and kissed them both on the cheek.
‘Pleasure, thanks for asking us,’ Josh responded. ‘What time is Chelsea arriving?’
‘Soon,’ I responded. ‘Probably ten minutes away.’ After all, most of the major players were here now, so Lulu could give Chelsea’s management the signal to leave the hotel.
Then I noticed Raelene was scowling at me, which made her face look a little bit comical because her Botox meant that the only negative expression she could manage was her lips turning down and a puckering around the side of her nose. Raelene was years away from needing Botox but she claimed it was a preventative measure. I refused to acknowledge her negative attitude and smiled warmly at her in return. ‘Sorry, Jasmine,’ she said stiffly, ‘but we are just being interviewed by Emily and you’re interrupting.’ I could see Josh blanch at her tone.
‘Actually, it’s Evie, not Emily,’ I said sweetly. ‘And I just wanted you to know that in the absence of Sharon I am happy to help out.’
‘Sharon?’ Josh mouthed at Raelene. Hmm, maybe they hadn’t met? He turned back to me. ‘Look, we really appreciate your help, thank you so much,’ he said.
I stepped back politely so that Evie could continue with her interview, and smiled encouragingly at her.
‘So, do you expect to spend more of your time together on location for Josh’s new movie in LA?’ asked Evie, all angelic blue eyes and soft, fluffy blonde hair. If I wasn’t mistaken, that fitted black and cream lace dress she was wearing was by Collette Dinnigan. No wonder Raelene’s lips were so tightly pursed. Evie was only around twenty-two years old, and Josh seemed quite taken by her cherubic looks.