by Foster, Zoe
As she waited, Abby felt a little envious of her friend. Chelsea always landed on her feet, or more accurately was caught by a suitor in Hermès and a poorly concealed past as a male model. Admittedly, she’d endured a torturous marriage, but she seemed to fall over a new man on the way to her driveway each morning. Abby hadn’t met one relationship-worthy man in over two years. Lately, Chelsea’s were all dashing and charming and successful! All of them! Not one starving poet or megalomaniacal TV producer among them. Of course, they might very well have been drug lords or clown performers at children’s parties underneath the shimmering veneer, but Chels never hung around long enough to find out.
Chelsea’s propensity to attract men aside, Abby was also jealous of Chelsea’s lifestyle. Not Chelsea, she soothed her conscience, her lifestyle. Different. Chelsea was terrifyingly intelligent underneath all her Kardashian-style tics. She’d worked her arse off at University and done her hard yards looking into disgusting mouths for years, and now she had it made – time and money.
Abby could hardly believe such a thing as ‘part-time’ existed. She had come from a textbook blue-collar family. Her mum was a primary school teacher; her father had been a town planner and the idea of working less than a fifty-hour work week was inconceivable.
Exactly why there was such valour in working yourself to death to earn your money, Abby wasn’t sure. It frustrated her that she worked so hard for hers, even though she loved her agency. She’d always done it with the vision of hiring a sterling 2IC she could leave in charge so she could flit about the world selfishly, but there was no way she was ready to leave the business in anyone else’s hands. Her clients would have a fit, not to mention the girls. And what if they messed up? They could ruin her reputation in one stupid move. Nope. Not going to happen, at least not in the near future. Abby realised she had created a business that literally could not run without her; at times it felt like a jail sentence.
Her older brother, Sean, was much more enlightened. After inhaling several thousand self-help books and listening to a bunch of ‘gurus’ spout dribble about taking ownership of you, he had created a fully automated, million-dollar business (of ‘almost’ organic hotel toiletries made in Taiwan and shipped all around the world) which he ran from his laptop wherever in the world he and his business-partner wife, Jamie, were at that time. Presently it was Buzios, Brazil. The photos he sent made Abby gasp with jealousy.
In her more self-aware moments Abby was able to see that her resentment for anyone living a fantastic lifestyle was entirely ridiculous, and was more founded on annoyance at her own path than on genuine bitterness.
When the lift finally arrived, one of her promo girls, Jen, was already in it, tapping away furiously on her iPhone.
Jen looked up, a huge smile etched on her face.
‘Ohmygod, did you hear about Katie and Tara?’
Jen was a petite Vietnamese girl, who looked like she was finally going to graduate high school this year. This was no accident, for despite being unusually beautiful and having one of the most incredible physiques, Jen loved wearing jeans, hoodies and caps. It added to her charm, Abby thought. As long as she dressed up for jobs, Abby didn’t give two burps about what Jen wore during the day.
Abby’s face dropped.
‘No. Talk.’
‘They worked that sailing boat last night? The one tha—’
‘Frederic Hamburg, the vitamin billionaire’s boat. Yes … Go on.’
‘And some guy tipped them each $1000 cash at the end of the night, just flat out cash! I effing hate that I get seasick. The boat jobs get the biggest tips.’
‘Uh, Jen? Remember how tips aren’t actually allowed because I pay you guys exorbitant rates? Remember that part?’
‘Yes, but, I mean, it’s not like you’re going to confiscate it from them or anything …’
The lift opened at reception, where a black ‘Allure’ sign sat elegantly above a minimalist desk manned by the six-foot, feline-eyed Angie.
When Abby had decided to start up her own promotional-girl agency, she’d realised just how few names there were that wouldn’t make it sound like a badly disguised escort agency. She still wasn’t sure she’d chosen the right one, which made her all the more militant about the chic styling of the office, website, the girls and their reputation. Promotional girls had a bad wrap – they were generally thought to be second-rate girls who couldn’t make it as real models, and who existed only for decoration or titillation, but Abby was working to alter that perception.
She had created an agency that embraced promotional work not as the poor man’s modelling, or a pathway to being an escort (as so many ruthlessly wrote it off as), but as a legitimate industry where attractive, charming women could learn outstanding socialising and networking skills, and where companies could employ chatty, fun women who looked terrific to endorse their brand or liven up their event. As far as Abby was concerned there was nothing sexist or anti-feminist about it; it was a delightful way to earn good money if you had the perfect cocktail of personality and looks. Her girls were attractive, but they had charisma and smarts too.
She talent-spotted wherever she went, and poached from other agencies with reckless disregard, knowing they’d do the same thing given an eighth of a chance. Only they never would, because Abby paid her girls three times as much, and never sent them on shitty jobs. Furthermore, she was vigilant about their safety and intensely protective.
In her time as a promotional girl (she had been at uni and spectacularly penniless), Abby’s grubby boss Geoff had hurled her into countless jobs and situations that were dangerous, disgusting and soul destroying. One – the final one – had almost ended in irreversible damage.
It had been a boozy Friday night job in the CBD and Mads and Abby, who’d met at uni in a ‘napper’ subject, were dressed as Uma Thurman (Pulp Fiction era). Some prick in a suit, who mistakenly assumed that his Italian loafers, expensive suit and six litres of beer made him invincible, had followed Abby, all black mini-dress, scarlet lips and ebony bob, to the pokies room, which was deserted, and started grabbing her arse. When she turned around he pushed her up against one of the stools and forced one hand up her skirt while the other groped her breasts. Her screams went unheard because of the music and noise of inebriated morons, but she finally escaped by belting him over the head with her tray of cigarettes and raced upstairs, panicked and crying.
She found Mads and told her what had happened. Mads shot downstairs to find him, but he’d vanished. When they finally found their boss/minder/security, he told Abby to calm down, that it was no big deal and that he’d speak to the manager of the bar. She watched him return five minutes later clutching cartons of cigarettes, the ones Abby had spilled while defending herself. Couldn’t find him, he’d said. You shouldn’t have left all that stock on the ground, he’d said.
Threats of litigation followed, wigs and slutty dresses were thrown, jobs were quit, letters to the head of the cigarette corporation were written, but nothing came from any of it. It was deflating and fatiguing and, like so many women who chose to make a stand, Abby gave up.
Now, thirteen years later, after a string of well-paid but tedious jobs in marketing and corporate event management, Abby owned her own promotional agency. If she’d been told this on that fateful Pulp Fiction night, she would’ve spat on the idea. But, at twenty-eight, with nothing more than an ABN, a laptop and a mobile phone, she withdrew all her savings and created Allure.
Five years later she had a chic office overlooking the harbour in the city, almost thirty models, and three office staff.
Smiling at Abby and Jen with gleaming white teeth and fuschia-pink lipstick, Angie answered a call as they walked past her. ‘Good morning, you’ve reached the Allure agency, this is Angie. How may I help you?’
‘One moment, I’ll see if she’s in yet.’ Angie put the caller on hold and looked at Abby with a wince.
‘It’s Georgie. She sounds panicked. Said she’s on the Visa job and one
of the standby girls is, um … wrong?’ Angie whispered the last word.
Fucking fucksticks. Whenever Abby was desperate and asked one of the girls to call in a friend for a last-minute fill-in job, they were undoubtedly atrocious: vulgar in personality, or two hair extensions away from the cover shoot of a men’s magazine. It was terrible for the Allure brand, and was the precise reason she had a two-warnings-and-you’re-fired for no-shows. To be fair, it was an early-start corporate golf day up on the Northern Beaches so the appeal for her regulars wasn’t huge, but still …
‘Give me a minute then put her through. Thanks, Angie.’
Abby walked into her glass encased corner office and placed her bag and coat on the lounge, before taking a seat at her desk and picking up the handset, a fake smile plastered across her face, a deep breath filling her lungs.
‘Georgie girl, what’s going on?’
4
‘Come on, sweettits. Out with it. We know you’re dying to tell us all about your date with Porsche guy.’
The three friends were sitting at the health-food shop under the pilates studio, having been served their dull but virtuous breakfasts. Chelsea always had a water-based berry and chia seed smoothie; she was ‘allergic’ to dairy, if by ‘allergic’ you meant ‘it made her bloat and feel fat so she avoided it’. Mads was hoeing into the bircher muesli, and Abby, who refused to spend twelve dollars for the same muesli she had at home, and whose preferred breakfast came in the shape of pancakes or eggs benedict, had opted for scrambled tofu. She was yet to find a decent substitute for her sugary, dairy-laden staples at this place, and this celery-soy-tofu mess was about as satisfying as nibbling on a chair leg.
Chels tugged her perfectly fine bun out and gathered her long, blow-dried hair up into exactly the same bun, patting it carefully into place. Her tanned skin was free of makeup and glowing unfairly given the time of day. Her brown, almond-shaped eyes were puff free and clear, and her teeth, the recipients of several rounds of high-strength bleach, were dazzling. If Abby and Mads didn’t know Chelsea, it’s fair to say they would be surreptitiously bitching her out in a most unbecomingly jealous fashion. But they did know her, and they adored her. Even if she made them feel 75 per cent less attractive, 100 per cent of the time.
‘How do I say this,’ Chelsea said, knowing exactly how to say it. ‘He’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. And his name, for the record, is Jeremy.
Abby snorted. ‘Of course he is. They all are to begin with. Am I in any danger of getting a fork, do we think?’ She looked around for the waitress who’d forgotten her silverware.
‘For the love of lychees, let her talk, woman!’ Mads reprimanded.
‘Thank you, Madeleine,’ Chels said. ‘Anyway. I think this could really be something … We had so much fun, and I was just … myself, you know? Like, I wasn’t trying to be this super smart or funny or perfect girl, dropping names or hobbies or labels or trendy music or films or whatever, I was just myself.’
‘Well. This is wonderful news,’ Mads said enthusiastically, ever the champion of love and romance. Mads was happily married to Perfect Dylan, a gorgeous, nerdy sweetheart of a man. The two were nauseatingly in love. Mads attributed this passion and romance to the fact that they had lived in different cities for the first two years of the relationship, then lived together, but with separate bedrooms and bathrooms for the next two (‘It keeps it sexy!’) before finally getting married and Buying A Home Together. Dylan travelled a lot for work and this afforded the couple a lot of time away from each other, which Mad’s said was the Golden Key to a happy, romantic relationship.
Abby noticed Mads had switched her crystal; the stone around her neck was now a beautiful golden amber colour, whereas for the last few months she’d worn a deep blue lapis lazuli heart. Mads was big into her crystals, they kept her grounded, she said, kept her protected and gave her strength. Chelsea, who preferred to adorn her neck with Cartier, found them to be an endless source of amusement, but Abby loved Mads’s attachment to her magic crystals. It kind of kept Abby grounded, too, in a funny way.
Chelsea went on, her eyes sparkling. ‘He’s funny and he’s smart – he owns a digital advertising agency and they have like Vodafone and Coke and American Express and all these big accounts, and he grew up in the country, which explains why he’s so genuine and humble—’
As Abby pinched a fork from the next table she couldn’t help herself. ‘Humbly driving his Porsche …’
Mads shot her A Look.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, go on.’
‘Anyway. He’s just a lovely, lovely man. He picked me up on time, and opened doors and all that stuff, we had a beautiful meal and he gave me a kiss on the cheek at the end and walked me to my door.’
‘I’m telling you,’ Mads said in a singsong voice, ‘the gentleman is back.’
‘And he has these green eyes … they’re insane. You know how you see those images of women in the Middle East with just their eyes on show through slits in their burkas, and they’re that icy green colour? They’re like that. I just, I kept staring at them all night. Could stare at them forever.’
‘When might you sleep with Green Eyes, do you think?’ Mads asked mid-slurp on her coffee. Being married, she was incredibly salacious and intrusive when it came to Abby and Chelsea’s sex lives. Although, with Chelsea a fastidious student of The Rules, and Abby being mostly dry save for the occasional one-nighter or one-nighter that turned into a month-long hook-up, Mads was definitely having the most sex of any of them, especially since she was desperately trying to have a baby. ‘Come now, Mads,’ Chels said, tsk-tsking. ‘You know I don’t sleep with a man for at least three months.’ Excluding oral sex, she failed to mention.
‘I’ve always thought your three-month thing is a trifle over the top, Chels …’ Abby prodded gently.
‘Just because YOU spent all weekend sexing some kid you just met, and Mads and Dylan shagged on the first night they met …’ Chelsea was indignant. She loved playing Lady Chastity; it was an exciting contrast to her micro-attire and Latino-esque heat, and she knew it drove men wild. She believed there was power in withholding sex, and any woman who didn’t harness it was a fool.
Abby was less convinced. ‘You’ll be giving him head in that Porsche by next weekend. Mark my words.’
‘Wait, hang on, who have you been sexing, Abs?’ Mads squinted at Abby.
Abby inhaled. ‘Just this boy I met at the hospital gala. He’s not that young – twenty-two—’
Mads burst into laughter. ‘Oh, I’d say that’s pretty young, Abs …’
‘Well he’s legal, put it that way. And gorgeous … Blemish-free and self-assured and oh God, Mads, the skills …’
‘Abby Vaughn, you are blushing like a fool. Look at her, Chels! Who would’ve thought the fussy lady would finally find some butter to adorn her toast.’
Even when she was ridiculing her, Abby loved Mads’s way with words. She was a terrific writer, as her popular food blog attested. The blog was mostly an escape from the intensity and madness that was her full-time job, teaching a Special Ed class at the local Catholic school. Every day, gorgeous Mads trotted off to work with her wild curls and crystal necklaces and taught kids with Autism, Down’s Syndrome and Cerebral Palsy. Sometimes she came home with bites or scratches, or just a new trail of exciting swearwords from poor Luke, who had severe Tourette’s and the vocabulary of the criminally insane, but mostly she just came home happy she’d stopped Katie from biting her arm till it bled, or helped Brendan stop counting all the letters in a book so he could actually enjoy the book as a narrative. Abby was constantly in awe of Mads’s hard work and selflessness working with these children. Chelsea thought she should quit and get a job on a food magazine.
‘I don’t care enough to defend myself, because yes, it was amazing, and he was amazing, but I’ll never see him again, so have your fun.’
‘WHY will you never see him ag—’
‘Fiancé.’
Ma
ds slapped her hand to her forehead. ‘Abby! What did we say about that? No more! It’s a ghastly thing to do!’
‘It’s a form of self-sabotage,’ Chelsea said significantly, ‘so even if she likes a guy, she can’t pursue it.’
‘Dazzling psychoanalysis aside, why would I want to see a TWENTY-TWO-YEAR-OLD again? He’s younger than half the girls on my books! Not sabotage. A smart and entirely conscious move.’
Mads and Chelsea looked at each other with a mixture of pity and disbelief. They loved playing Abby’s knowing, disapproving parents when it came to relationships and men.
‘Darling.’ Mads said, her married know-all voice on. ‘If the sex is good and the boy is hot, grab it with all you’ve got.’
‘Madeline, I must say I am very disappointed to hear that you, as one who is married, are encouraging me to cheat on my fictional fiancé.’
‘I adore you, darling, but you are nuttier than a pecan pie. And that fiancé line is so violently uncouth. See the boy again! Explain that it was a nervous reaction and have a big laugh about it together. And then have fantastic sex. Simple.’
Abby could only shake her head as her two friends winked at each other. There would be no seeing Marcus again. Even if they didn’t know it, she did.
5
‘Natasha is on line two.’
At eighteen, Angie was the youngest girl Abby had hired for reception, a job Abby took very seriously, since it was the first impression, physically and aurally of the agency. But with her sass and calming presence, her desire to learn and phenomenal efficiency, Angie’s age quickly became irrelevant.
Abby was good like that, forming strong opinions and convictions on an area – in this instance the relevance of age – but only adopting them as it suited her. If someone had asked her why it was that she didn’t want to see Marcus again, age would very quickly become extremely relevant.