by Unknown
‘THE WAR OF THE POSEURS’ was the headline. As Gabby promised, it made fabulous reading. The agony aunt, the soapie star and the actress made excellent leading players and the character roles taken by the ex wives were likewise perfectly cast. One was a mother addicted to painkillers with three kids at primary school and the other was a minor celebrity spokesmodel now known for her herbal skincare range. There were so many angles to this saga that it was a diamond-faceted opportunity.
The radio talkback shows went ballistic. There was no end to the number of aggrieved wives and lovelorn mistresses who were put on hold that day, all patiently waiting for their chance to be heard and understood.
There were plenty of talking heads willing to wade into the debate. Opportunistic politicians: ‘This is the tip of the iceberg. What we are looking at here is the erosion of family values. If more of our young people married within the church, then they would find that the sanctity of their union would be respected by others. In fact the statistics on the break-up of de-facto relationships are startling! They clearly demonstrate . . .’
Fame-seeking psychologists: ‘Of course rage is just another facet of passion, and in some cases it can have dire consequences. If anyone, be they male, female, married, single or de-facto, feels they are the target of undue attention in these circumstances, there are any number of professional people who are trained to deal with . . .’
Even the odd policeman: ‘Look, emotion aside, at the end of the day what everyone should be focusing on here is the wilful damage to private property. A serious crime often begins with petty vandalism, but of course, in many respects we have our hands tied. I think we would all agree that if the courts started to take seriously . . .’
Actual husbands, boyfriends and fathers seemed to be rather thin on the ground. But, as everyone knows, when the elephants go to war, the ants get trampled.
For her part Francie was appalled to read the coverage, which was surprising since she’d been working at a tabloid newspaper for some years. Factually the story was correct, but what was missing was the nuance. After all, Francie had written that she regretted what she’d done. Hadn’t she?
She was listening to her car radio on the way to work and heard herself labelled a ‘moral heroine’ (as Gabby had predicted), a ‘crusader on behalf of decent women everywhere’ (it had a certain ring to it), a ‘criminal’ (which was technically true), and a ‘publicity-seeking mediocrity who was probably bad in bed’ (ow, that hurt!).
Poppy fared much worse. A ‘serial man-eater’; an ‘over-the-hill actress with no family of her own’, a ‘trollop’. ‘Really awful in that Chekhov thing, but I loved her in Twelfth Night’ was the best she got. Even Francie had to admit she was copping an absolute belting.
Nick was barely mentioned, being, apparently, just a bit player. Third spear carrier from the left.
This time when Francie walked through the Daily Press office at midday she noticed quite a change in attitude from her colleagues. There were a couple of nods in her direction, a couple of ‘nice one, Francie’ comments and even a high five from the editor of the gossip column. Although Francie did reflect that admiration from the denizens of Pssst! was a sign that things were not at all well.
Sitting on her desk was a large pair of scissors tied with a pink ribbon and a bottle of French champagne—a ‘thank you’ from Gabby. Within minutes the woman herself had landed on her usual perch on Francie’s desk.
‘You’ve done it!’ she announced with a triumphant toss of her tawny locks. ‘An absolute Houdini. You’ve taken a totally fucked situation and turned it around to your advantage. Poppy Sommerville-Smith will be lucky to get a carpet-cleaning ad after this. How does it feel?’
It was too much to take in. But Francie did know that she felt better than she had twenty-four hours ago. Her brain was still on cruise control, but at least she was starting to regain some feeling in the ends of her fingers and toes. Gabby waved a sheet of paper in Francie’s face. You’re always doing that. What am I? Blind?
‘I’ve got a million media requests here—magazines, radio, television—but I’ve turned them all down on your behalf. What we have to do is build on this and make this week’s edition a killer!’
Francie dropped her head into her hands and groaned. ‘No, no. Can’t it just finish here? Can’t this be the end?’
Gabby threw her head back. Francie was eyeing a well-toned set of stomach muscles heaving with laughter.
‘Francie, Francie, Francie! Here you are, you’ve endured six months of pain and heartache and now, just days away from the payoff, you wanna bail. You really are a classic, you know that?’
‘What payoff? What do you mean?’
‘I mean, Dear One, the payoff when the Powers-That-Be see next week’s circulation go through the roof. I mean, who knows what’s in it for us exactly, but you’ve got to say that every man in this building is sitting up and paying us a lot more attention than he was last week!’
Francie was about to say that she’d had enough attention to last her a lifetime when Gabby reached over and clamped her hand over her mouth. Francie winced as a heavy gold and aquamarine dress ring banged her front tooth.
‘Now, shoosh up! I have two things to tell you. First, we have tons of emails here for you to deal with. Pick the most brilliant ones for next Sunday’s column. Christ knows we’ve got some real nutters in there! Take as much room as you need.
‘And second, I’m taking you for lunch at Jacques Reymond. It’s on the company so I’ve already rung through and told them to put the French on ice.
‘By the way, I’ve arranged make-up and hair in my office, cos we’re going to need a couple of shots. So shift yourself and I’ll see you downstairs in an hour, OK? Byeee.’
Francie was really starting to hate that ‘Byeee’. Instead of ‘shifting herself’, she decided on a small act of insurrection, and opened up her computer. The in-box was full. She picked up her phone. The voicemail was jammed. On second thoughts, having her hair done and going to lunch seemed like an excellent idea.
Francie was sitting in the perfumed sanctuary of Gabby’s office with a head full of hot rollers and Gemma the make-up artist flitting about her face like a damsel fly. She could sense that Gemma—spiky blonde hair, pierced lip, maybe in her late twenties—wanted to talk. She hesitated a couple of times and then, while plucking a few stray hairs from Francie’s eyebrows, couldn’t hold her tongue a minute longer.
‘I just wanna say that I thought what you wrote was cool. I mean, the thing is, we’ve all had those revenge fantasies when some slut nicks your boyfriend, but you actually did it. And then you owned up to it, which is even more cool. I would never have had the guts.
‘I hope your bastard ex boyfriend is sorry for what he did and I hope he never forgets it. I wanted to smash in my sister’s car window with a brick when she slept with my fiancé. But I . . . I dunno . . . I just couldn’t. Anyway, I just had to say it, that’s all. I hope you don’t mind.’
Why should Francie mind? Apparently the entire population was now sitting in judgement on her actions. Why should the make-up girl be any different?
‘Your sister slept with your fiancé?’ asked Francie. Not that she really cared. The question was more a polite reflex action.
‘Yeah. How about that? But you know, I got over it. Never look back, just go forwards. That’s my motto. In the end she did me a favour. I’m married now and four months pregnant.’
‘Congratulations,’ Francie croaked.
Gemma’s story was starting to push all sorts of buttons Francie didn’t want pushed. She looked at this girl who had just been an anonymous person a couple of minutes ago but had now come into focus as being everything Francie wasn’t. How Francie wished she had never looked back, just gone forwards. How she wished there was a button marked ‘eject’ in front of her right now. There was one question that needed to be asked and Francie didn’t want to know the answer. Gemma filled in the blank space.
�
��And if you’re wondering whether they stayed together? Yeah, five years now. Just goes to show, huh?’
Francie was sitting in the back seat of a company car next to Gabby. Two very fashionable women off to enjoy a chichi lunch. Only Francie would rather have been heading right out of town to lose herself in the Great Sandy Desert. She had nothing to say for herself and looked out at the sky, which was appropriately overcast.
Gabby was relentlessly primping in a hand mirror. She must have checked her lip gloss fifteen times on the short drive from the city to Windsor. What was the point? She always looked perfect. And not only was she doing her lips, but she was checking her teeth, fluffing her hair, adjusting her jewellery. If Francie didn’t know better she would have sworn Gabby was expecting a red carpet on the footpath.
When the car pulled up outside Jacques Reymond, Gabby sprang out the door and held it open. This was odd because normally she did not move a muscle until her driver did the honours. Francie clambered out and was suddenly aware of people running at her from all directions. Flashes of bright light turned the grey day brilliant. Calls of ‘here, Francie, over here’ and ‘this way, Francie’ should have been a clue that she was the star attraction, but even so she looked around wildly hoping Cate Blanchett was getting out of the car behind. No such luck.
Francie at least knew enough to compose her features in a calm mask and smile for the cameras. The last thing she needed was footage of her bolting down the street and hiding in a bush. However, in a minute the lights were turned off, the scrum dissipated as fast as it had gathered, and the street resumed its grey overcoat.
Gabby grabbed Francie’s hand and led her inside the restaurant. ‘Well done,’ she muttered. ‘You looked gorgeous.’
The door was opened and one last lone paparazzi jumped out for a quick shot before sprinting away.
Francie turned on Gabby: ‘What the hell was that? You knew—’
‘Shhh!’ Gabby commanded through gritted teeth. ‘Smiling, smiling . . . Let’s just get to our table.’
As they walked through the room all eyes were on them. There had obviously been some public and unpleasant exchange between the waiter and the photographer because the waiter was apologising profusely.
‘I’m so sorry, Mademoiselle Di Martino. I asked if he would wait outside mais . . .’
‘It’s all fine, fine,’ said Gabby airily. ‘Divine table. We’ll have champagne straight away. Merci.’ The waiter was dismissed and they sat down.
‘I cannot believe you did that! You told them I was going to be here!’ Francie hissed.
Gabby checked her lip gloss again, as if the twenty-five paces from the car to the table had somehow weathered her careful facade. She smiled radiantly at the other diners, who then resumed their meals assuming (incorrectly) that calm had been restored.
‘Relax! You should be grateful. It took me absolutely hours to set that up. They all wanted to send reporters, but I told them to fuck off. I said they could get their shots, but there would be no actual interviews—take it or leave it.
‘So . . . the current affairs shows will have their little rehashes of the story on television tonight. The papers and mags will have a go. But they won’t have you. I don’t want you talking to anyone until P.S. comes out on Sunday. You have got to be exclusive to us.’
Two glasses of champagne were poured at the table and the bottle of Moët et Chandon 1995 Brut Impérial was slipped back into its ice bucket. Francie almost inhaled the contents of her glass and immediately wanted a refill.
‘Gabby,’ she said with all the measured determination she could muster, ‘you are NOT my agent. I am NOT a celebrity. I am a hack on a crummy liftout in a Sunday paper. We are not working on Hello magazine, in case you hadn’t noticed. This whole . . . circus . . . has got to stop!’
Gabby took a sip of champagne and eyed Francie steadily. ‘You can’t just make it stop. You know that. You can’t get off the merry-go-round until it stops and lets you off. But I will make you a promise. We just need one more column with all the emails. One final wrap-up on how you’ve been overwhelmed by the support . . . blah-blah-blah . . . and then it will be over.’
Francie shook her head. ‘No.’
Gabby sighed. You’ll hardly feel it. Here we go. Just a little sting.
‘Francie, it’s like this. The column is going to happen with or without you. Now, you can do your readers the courtesy of answering their emails—God knows they seem to love you, even if you are a hack on a crummy liftout—or you can refuse and I will put together the column myself and use your by-line. It’s your choice.’
Francie was sure Gabby would do exactly that. It would be outright fraud, but who was Francie going to complain to? She was considering her options when a familiar shape loomed over the table. It was the managing director, Mr Kevin Jenkins, landlord of the vast mahogany desk Francie sometimes found herself at the wrong end of. She clutched her champagne flute tightly and would have liked to slide to the floor.
‘Well well, ladies, good afternoon. You certainly seem to be enjoying some celebrity today, Miss McKenzie,’ he said with amusement.
Francie grimaced and ducked her head. She could see him from the waist down. Too-big belt buckle, shiny black trousers, nasty shoes.
‘Kevin, helloooo! Yes there was an exciting little media scrum out there,’ Gabby simpered. ‘You know, now that I think of it, what we have here is a classic Princess Di versus Camilla Parker Bowles scenario. And we all know where the public support went on that one!’
Kevin chuckled appreciatively and replied, ‘Mmm, but I could always see the sense in Charlie and Camilla. They look like they belong together. And we all know how Di met her end—hounded down in a tunnel by paparazzi.’
‘Well, that’s true, of course,’ Gabby immediately agreed.
‘Well, enjoy your lunch. I assume the champagne is on us. You’ve earned it and I imagine you’ve got the next thrilling instalment for us in P.S. on Sunday. Good stuff!’ He gave Francie a hearty pat on the back.
‘Would you like to join us for a glass of champagne?’ Gabby cooed.
‘Ah, love to, but I’ve got a table of clients over there who have me hostage this afternoon.’
‘Oh, what a pity.’ Gabby stuck out her bottom lip, which just looked ludicrous at her age.
‘Perhaps for a coffee later, at the office. And if you’re driving back to the city, don’t go down any tunnels, Princess,’ he boomed, amused by his own wit, and headed back to his table.
It wasn’t until Francie estimated that Kevin Jenkins was out of sight that she raised her head. Come to think of it, she did feel a bit like Princess Diana ducking under her blonde fringe. She reached down and collected her handbag.
‘I don’t want lunch. I will do the column. Not for you, not for him, but for the readers and then that’s the end of it—the column, everything. And I won’t be in for the rest of the week. I’ll see you on Friday.’
Gabby reached out to grab her sleeve and missed.
‘Francie!’
She would have liked to have run from the restaurant, but instead affected a casual stroll from the room with her chin held high. Even so, she did notice that at least a couple of diners recognised her and almost gagged on their asperges au beurre blanc. She didn’t turn back to look at Gabby. Francie stood on the kerb and hailed a taxi. Inside, Gabby had already hailed another table.
She wished she was Princess Di so she could go home and throw herself down a monumental staircase. She also recalled that Princess Diana had tried to top herself by taking to her wrists with a lemon slicer. As if she could somehow peel herself to death. There was a lemon slicer in the kitchen drawer at Elysium. She decided to go home and see if she could make a better job of it than Di had ever managed.
Nineteen
As Francie reluctantly walked up the stairs to Amanda’s flat that same Monday night she could hear the sound of the television coming through the French doors which opened onto the balcony.
She guessed at once what Amanda and Olga would be watching—what Gabby had called a rehash of her pathetic story on the nightly current affairs shows. She hesitated before rapping on the glass door. She would rather have climbed back into her car and driven away. But she was expected for dinner and with new resolve had decided to go forwards—her new direction after the conversation with Gemma the make-up artist. She pushed the brass button by the front door and heard the chime inside the hallway followed by a flurry of activity in which the television was switched off. Amanda opened the door with a flourish.
‘Hi, hi, come in. We were just—’
‘So how did I look?’ asked Francie, attempting to be a facsimile of herself at her cheerful best.
‘Oh . . . good, good, good. Fabulous hair. It was all . . .’ Amanda faltered.
‘Hideous,’ piped up Olga from behind her.
‘Thanks, Olga,’ said Francie tartly, and pushed past them into the lounge room.
‘What I meant was, that it’s just tabloid crap! Why that was on a current affairs show, I don’t know. They should stick to chasing dodgy electricians down the street. Not my friends.’ Olga was trying to put things right but should really just shut the fuck up.
Francie turned to face her. ‘Nick was on there too?’
‘It was just a bit of old stuff from Talkfest. They didn’t have anything new. I mean, there isn’t anything new, is there?’ Olga asked nervously.
Francie wondered whether she would be disappointed to learn there wasn’t.
‘No,’ Francie sighed. ‘Just the same old disaster.’
‘Oh God, you poor thing.’ Amanda gave her a hug. ‘You must be a wreck. Come on, I’ll get you a drink.’
Francie felt that at last she had found some sort of sanctuary. About an hour after she arrived, the events of the past few days had been laid out in chronological order. The second bottle of white wine was opened. Francie realised she’d drunk most of the first bottle by herself. Amanda was sitting on the couch nursing a glass of orange juice and rubbing her stomach, although Francie couldn’t see any sign of a bulge under her loose white linen shirt.