The Social Diary

by Ros Reines

  The outrageous antics of Laurence and Coco, along with the opening of his new salon, were a welcome distraction for me and my growing obsession over Daniel. He was the first thing I thought about each morning, especially now those roses he had sent me had not only wilted but were beginning to turn brown. I wondered when I would see him again or whether it had only been a very stylish one-night stand.

  I was happy that I had been invited along to cover Laurence’s opening for the social pages of The Sydney News, much to the chagrin of Erica Hopewell, who thought that Lavin and his clothes were an insult to women and also to the hard-working fashion industry. If someone as vulgar as Laurence could be given valuable media attention then what was the point of it all? It was her view that the paper shouldn’t be promoting him.

  ‘You can’t possibly attend that party,’ she said scornfully when she saw the glittering invitation on my desk the afternoon after the Gucci party. ‘That man is just a joke who has made a career out of mocking real women. We can’t condone that sort of behaviour.’

  ‘But I like his gowns,’ I protested. It was hard to resist their appeal as they were full-on fairytale fantasies in billowing silk satin with glistening jewelled bodices.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you would,’ she said bitterly.

  I shrugged, refusing to be hurt by her. ‘The party’s tonight, and I’ll be there with bugle beads on,’ I said with my sunniest smile, but the fashion editor just shuddered at my little play on words and stalked away.

  I believed that Erica was wrong; Laurence Lavin was a genius who could even give someone like Twiggy a fabulous cleavage. Much more creative than most mainstream Australian designers, he was the king of padding, but it was so subtle that some of his clients almost started to believe that they had been magically endowed.

  Following our discussion, which must have been the longest conversation we had ever engaged in, Erica later surreptitiously went to complain to the editor that we shouldn’t be featuring such a disreputable character in a family newspaper. Her backstabbing manoeuvre was foiled when Tim directed her to leave the door open so unfortunately for her most of those in the news room could hear every indignant word.

  ‘Laurence Lavin usually dresses men who mimic women—drag queens,’ she told Tim, barely able to get the words out, she was so furious. ‘A lot of my readers would be very offended by that. He doesn’t know anything about fashion at all, so why are we building up his career? And it’s clear that Savannah doesn’t know anything about style either, if she thinks it’s appropriate to feature him.’ Yeah, thanks a lot, Erica.

  Tim regarded her gravely through this tirade, nodding sympathetically.

  ‘I love it,’ he pronounced when she was finally done. ‘It sounds like this Laurence Lavin is really shaking things up in the staid old social world. I’m sorry, Erica, but you have to be adaptive and not reactive. This paper is all about dismantling the stuffy old guard and reflecting the new energy of this city. And if the new energy is encapsulated by a bloke who usually dresses drag queens putting the sex back into the social scene, then I’m all for it.’

  ‘But it’s not fashion,’ whimpered Erica, who had clearly been expecting him to back her up. She was, after all, a powerful force in the industry, he had said it himself.

  ‘Erica, I think you have a very narrow view of the definition of fashion,’ Tim told her sternly. ‘What I want to see in these pages is a sense of fun. We should be starting the conversation and not following along with it, okay? Now, if you will excuse me, I have a paper to put out.’

  My nemesis had jumped up from her seat as if she had just been sprung from fashion Siberia and headed for the door.

  Tim did not even bother looking up to see how he had upset her. ‘Close the door behind you,’ he said curtly.

  I was relieved that Tim hadn’t taken Erica’s side, especially since that morning I’d had to inform him that Lahar had offered me fifty thousand dollars for an invite to the Lovejoy wedding.

  The editor had stared down at his desk with furrowed brow for a few minutes while I had fidgeted in my chair. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything at all?

  ‘You were absolutely right to report this to me straight away,’ he said finally. ‘But this is what we do about it: we do absolutely nothing. No doubt he will come back at you again and either offer you something more or threaten you in some way, and that’s when we can expose him. In the meantime, you should make notes in the form of a diary entry with the date and time. I would also be very interested to know just why being at this wedding is worth so much to him.’

  I nodded obediently.

  ‘It can’t just be because he is looking for some validation that he is part of the social scene, can it? I think you’ll find that being included in this event will confer some extra status on his dodgy jewellery brand.’

  ‘That’s probably why he’s so desperate,’ I agreed. Actually I thought it was obvious.

  Tim softened. ‘Look, Savannah, you don’t have to string him along if it makes you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later he will make another move. In my experience a man like that just doesn’t give up.’

  ‘No, I’m fine with hanging in there,’ I replied. ‘I’m really interested in doing this story. Lahar Kapoor is certainly one of the most mysterious characters I’ve met in a while.’ Actually, I wanted to add, he had nothing on the enigmatic Daniel Acton, who had invaded my consciousness to such a degree that I had small shivers of pleasure whenever I thought of him, which was pretty much all the time. My editor certainly wouldn’t have had such a high opinion of me if he was privy to any of that, but it wasn’t as though I had agreed to a vow of celibacy when I had signed on to be a gossip columnist.

  Laurence Lavin’s opening was not only covered upfront by The Sydney News but given a big splash in the newspaper’s social pages, with the kind of space usually reserved for big charity events or fashionable race meetings. It was the editor’s way of telling the old social dinosaurs that their days were as numbered as those of the real prehistoric beasts. And because he was a stubborn man, he also wanted to show Erica, his fashion editor, that he wouldn’t be pushed around.

  The only downside to the evening was that it marked Queen Bea’s return to the social scene and this meant that to appease the lawyers we had to run a large photo of her and a gushy report of Entre Nous’s forthcoming events to make up for my cataclysmic piece about her party. According to Roger Coutts, this was the best way of saving face all round. Except for my face, of course, which had egg all over it.

  When we encountered each other at Laurence Lavin’s party, Queen Bea, who was wearing a brilliantly constructed Chantilly lace Lavin original to set off her deeply tanned skin, bared her teeth at me disturbingly. Perhaps she was smiling. I beamed cheesily back at her and directed Oliver, who was animated this evening because this was his kind of crowd, to take her picture. Duty done, I managed to avoid the supercilious socialite for the rest of the night; however, as I kept working the room, I could feel her cold eyes appraising me wherever I went as if she was Mona Lisa’s mother.

  But there was plenty of fun to be had with the other guests, including Gertie Lovejoy, Freya Rice and the ever-vivacious Lady V with her trademark laughter piercing the air. Aside from the frisson caused by Antonia Woodstock—a property developer’s wife who made her entrance in a sequined miniskirt and not much else (‘Is she even wearing knickers?’ one outraged guest remarked)—the standout of the night was the one and only Coco de Chine in scarlet chiffon and feathers. She swanned around the gathering like the lead showgirl at the Folies Bergère, but it was when she stopped to pose with a clearly delighted Queen Bea that we had the money shot which would go upfront in the paper. And while some people said snidely that Queen Bea had no idea that Coco was actually a bloke, by taking such an evocative photograph, Oliver Orlan had done himself proud.

  The next day, after a glowing report of the party had been published, Laurence sent me the most lurid basket of flowers I
had ever seen—a huge mass of bright purple, yellow and orange blooms, wrapped in throbbing purple with a large bow rushed to the office from Betsy’s Bulbs in Kings Cross. The sight of it landing on my desk had almost sent Erica into conniptions.

  ‘Please take that home with you as soon as possible—or, better still, throw it out now,’ she commanded. ‘It’s lowering the tone of the entire office.’

  But I loved the gaudy arrangement because it was so over the top and, of course, I took it home and placed it front and centre on the coffee table in the place once occupied by Daniel’s roses.

  Laurence Lavin almost broke down in tears on the phone when I called to thank him for the kind gesture.

  ‘Oh, Savannah, it was the least I could do,’ he said, his voice cracking slightly with emotion. ‘You have made Mum so proud. She couldn’t get to town for the party but she cut out the article from the paper and Oliver is sending some of the photos, so I can have them framed for her. I’m also keeping some for myself, so I can put them up on the wall of my atelier.’

  Atelier? Wasn’t that just a little too grand for his Woollahra studio? However Laurence added that if I ever needed something fabulous to wear to a party, I could always borrow a gown or he would make something up especially for me ‘at mate’s rates’.

  A week later I found myself in his powder-pink change room, lit with a soft, rosy-hued chandelier, trying on over-the-top dresses complete with the kind of dramatically plunging necklines and thigh-high splits that really did seem more suited to the cabaret stage than Sydney’s party scene.

  But I needed a proper gown. I could hardly attend the Lovejoy wedding in the little black number from London that I had managed to disguise and transform during so many of the events that I had to cover.

  Thankfully, after Tim had overheard me discussing my dilemma with Katrina, one of the news reporters, who had been inquiring what I would be wearing to the ‘wedding of the year’, he had offered me a one-off wardrobe allowance. It would hopefully cover Laurence’s ‘mate’s rates’ for a gown.

  ‘Oh, my dear, you’re just not sexy at all, are you?’ said a droll Coco de Chine as she watched me trying to position my minuscule breasts beneath a black tulle bodice that was not doing them any favours. Rather than enhancing them, the bodice seemed to flatten them even more. Coco had tactfully retreated when I was first trying on the gown, but now she had sashayed right into the change room without warning to give me her opinion.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ sighed Coco, clearly growing exasperated; this was the third outfit I had tried on, each more unflattering than the last. ‘I don’t even want to ask Laurence to come and take a look at you; it would only depress him. He needs to be surrounded by glamour, by a sense of style.’ She shook her head despairingly as she looked me up and down. It was clear I had lost out on both counts.

  I longed to tell Coco that if she thought she looked feminine, she’d been watching too many episodes of Prisoner, but I bit my tongue. I had a soft spot for Laurence and I didn’t want to insult his right-hand woman despite the scorn she was heaping on me. It wouldn’t seem right when I hoped that he would eventually trust me enough to give me a great story. And, besides, I was still floating on air from the message that had been waiting on my answering machine when I’d got home the night before: ‘Hi, Savannah, it’s Daniel—I’ve been thinking of you. I’m flying into town in the next couple of days. Hope we can catch up.’ Who cared if Coco thought I was sexy? Daniel wanted to see me . . . I smiled serenely at Coco as she said, ‘That looks horrible on you. Take it off, quickly, I’ve got another one for you to try.’

  Sighing, I stepped obediently into yet another gown, this one a billowing circle of midnight blue silk taffeta.

  ‘Would you lift that horse’s mane off your neck? I need to get at this zip,’ she instructed, recoiling from my skin as though I had some sort of infectious disease. Coco was also clearly not a fan of my long, flowing hair. I dutifully did as I had been told and surveyed myself in a gown of billowing silk taffeta.

  Suddenly another face appeared in the mirror. ‘Yes—that is absolutely your colour, Savannah,’ Laurence said as he joined us in the change room. (It was getting rather cosy in here.)

  ‘Please, Savannah, suck your stomach in,’ Coco ordered. ‘You’re making the fabric look dumpy.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ said Laurence airily. ‘The question is, do you like it? If you do, I can put in one of my magic elastic belts that will nip your waist right in and I guarantee you’ll never have a problem with the zipper.’

  He tilted his head to one side. ‘The style really suits you,’ he said decisively. As Coco went to answer the phone, she rolled her eyes theatrically leaving both of us in little doubt that she did not approve of me being let loose in one of Laurence’s precious gowns. But paying her absolutely no attention, he ushered me from the change room to stand in the centre of the salon. There he walked around me slowly, tweaking at the fabric and murmuring, ‘If we take a little of the volume out of here, maybe add some here . . . Yes!’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You are going to have yourself a dress fit for this marvellous wedding.’

  Coco returned with the telephone receiver in her hand, the cord trailing behind her. ‘I think you might want to take this,’ she hissed to Laurence. ‘It’s Jacqueline Evans and she’s calling from the private plane.’ Coco shot me a disdainful glance, the message was loud and clear: The real money is coming to town, so you can just crawl back into whatever hole you came out of and disappear.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Laurence said to me courteously. ‘I’d better see what Mrs Evans needs.’

  He took the phone and moved away from me but I could still hear the voice at the other end; clearly Jacqueline Evans was shouting over the noise of the plane.

  ‘Lazza, we’re landing in twenty minutes and I am going to have the driver bring me straight to you for a fitting. I’m going to need several new gowns—there’s so much going on.’

  ‘But of course, Jacqueline darling, whatever you want,’ the designer cooed. ‘I’m so looking forward to seeing you again.’

  Coco, who was also listening, sprang into action. Rushing to the dressing room, she emptied the rack of all the dresses I had just tried on, throwing them unceremoniously into a small back room—to be disinfected, no doubt. Clutching a huge atomiser of Joy, she sprayed a small path in front of her, including a couple of obvious squirts around me.

  ‘I’ll just pop out to get some fresh flowers and a bottle of decent champagne,’ she told the designer as he hung up the phone. ‘Maybe even some petit fours.’

  ‘Okay, whatever you think,’ he said with a sigh. ‘But I’m sure Mrs Evans isn’t under the impression that she is calling into the Ritz for afternoon tea.’

  Coco put out her suspiciously large palm. ‘I’ll need some cash,’ she demanded. ‘I think seventy bucks should do it.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Come on, Laurence, cough up. You know what you always say, “To make money you have to spend it first”.’

  Normally I would have been making mental notes of the special treatment afforded to VIP customers—these were the kinds of details my readers loved—but for once I was hardly taking it all in: Jacqueline Evans was flying into town on a private plane; Daniel had said that he was also arriving soon. If he really did work for Alex Evans, as Lahar had claimed, did that mean Daniel was also on the Evanses’ jet?

  Laurence was briskly finishing the pinning of my gown, which seemed to be taking shape beautifully. ‘By the time I’m finished with this, you’ll look more glamorous than even the bridesmaids,’ he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. ‘Now you can slip it off and make sure you return on Monday for another fitting, okay?’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ I responded, my stomach fluttering with anticipation. Would there be another message from Daniel waiting when I returned home? Unfortunately I wouldn’t be able to do much about it because I was working tonight—yet another Eastern Subu
rbs party—so even if he was home I wouldn’t be able to spend much time with him. Either way I couldn’t let this golden opportunity go by without trying to find out more information about the mysterious Evanses whom my boss was fixated on.

  Laurence eased the pinned dress down over my shoulders and I made my move. ‘What’s Jacqueline Evans like?’ I asked casually, as he gently gathered up the dress and headed for the workroom.

  ‘Fabulous!’ he threw over his shoulder without hesitation. ‘A wonderful woman.’

  ‘Do you think she’ll be attending the Lovejoy wedding?’ I called out as I wriggled back into my work clothes.

  ‘Of course. Now off you go; I’ll see you next week for a final fitting,’ he said. Any hopes I had of lingering in the salon long enough to meet Jacqueline Evans for myself were dashed as I was shooed away.

  Ten

  Sex, lies, power, money and corruption. Many believed this was what gave the energy to this city that had been basically founded by criminals. I was certainly becoming all too familiar with those deadly sins on my ‘beat’ at the pointy end of the city I had grown up in. We had lived in a middle-class suburb on the North Shore, where being social meant going around to the neighbours’ place for the evening and playing cards for pieces of chocolate, or going ten-pin bowling with a group of friends. Who knew that on the other side of the bridge a very different life was being lived among the sophisticates in the Eastern Suburbs? And as the full force of the eighties hit, the east was almost starting to feel as decadent as pre-revolutionary France.