by Foster, Zoe
‘Oh and also, um, the site is down again …’
‘Eff! Angie can you please find me five good, no great web companies I can review. We need a new site immediately, if not yesterday. This is ridiculous.’
‘Right away. And Natasha?’
‘Put her through.’
‘Hiiii Abby, I’m so sorry I couldn’t call you back yesterday … things got crazy. Hey, so I’m still okay for Friday night, right? When I saw your missed call I was all like, “Please don’t let Abby be calling to tell me I’m not needed Friday!”’
‘No, no, I still need you Friday. You were the first girl booked. Why everyone is so excited to be working at the Channel 8 ball, I have no idea.’
‘Because all the TV stars will be there! It’s sooo exciting!’
Natasha was obsessed with TV stars, radio stars, movie stars, shooting stars … any kind of star. It wasn’t because she wanted to sleep with them, or even be one of them, she just loved famous people. Was thrilled by them. Thought they were incredible, fascinating creatures and wanted to know every banal minutia of their days. Popular culture ran through her veins, and Hollywood gossip was intravenously inserted daily via trashy magazines, gossip websites, Twitter, E! News… the medium was irrelevant as long as the content was celebrity.
Incidentally, Natasha, an expensive looking six-foot brunette with a gentle nature that belied her Russian sex-bomb look, could easily have been a star herself, and the way she attracted attention, might become one yet. She was one of Abby’s busiest girls, alongside Marie-Claire, a golden-skinned, blonde, girl-next-door, Victoria’s Secret type, and Sabrina, a dark-haired, green-eyed pocket rocket who attracted at least four business cards a job from men instantly enchanted with her exotic look and frustratingly aloof nature.
‘Okay, well, good, I love enthusiasm. Now, Natasha, that’s not actually why I called you. I needed to talk to you … make sure you’re okay.’
‘I’m fine, why?’ Abby could hear Natasha’s smile vanishing.
‘Natasha, you know you don’t have to tell me what’s going on … It’s just some of the girls said you’ve been taking very long phone calls while on shift lately, after which you are terribly … visibly upset …’ Abby took an epic breath in. ‘And, well, a couple of them mentioned some pretty full-on bruising on your arms at the parade Monday night.’
‘Pete doesn’t hit me, if that’s what you’re hinting at.’ The bubbles in Natasha’s voice had burst. ‘They were just bumps I did myself. At the gym.’
An excruciating, awkward silence swept between the two women. Abby wasn’t sure where to go next. Every so often she had a girl (beautiful women attracted fuckwits like silk shirts soaked up olive oil) who was clearly in love with an abusive, be it physical or emotional, boyfriend, and Abby always felt compelled to make sure her girls were okay, and to offer some help. Help that was invariably rejected.
‘Natasha, I know it’s none of my business, but …’
‘Who has been saying stuff?’ The shock and betrayal was thick in her words. ‘And so what if we have fights every now and then? What couple doesn’t?’
Abby took in a deep breath and closed her eyes. She despised this part of her job.
‘Did Pete leave you stranded after that Palm Beach job two weeks ago?’
‘What Palm Beach job?’
‘Natasha … come on …’
‘He didn’t strand me, something came up and he couldn’t come get me after all. I got a cab eventually, it was no big deal.’
‘In the rain. At 3 a.m. Natasha, please know I’m not doing this to make you feel uncomfortable or under attack. I am very protective of my girls, and I just want you to feel you can talk to me if you’re ever unhappy or, you know, in trouble or anything. All that aside, your safety after a job is paramount.’
‘I’m fine. So he didn’t pick me up, so what? Why does everyone think it’s such a big deal?! Why is it even anyone’s business?’
‘You’re right. It’s not our business. And I’m sorry you feel I’m intruding. I won’t push it any further, but please know you can always call me …’
A sniff. Natasha was crying. Top job, Abby, nice going.
‘Natasha? Are you okay?’
Abby could hear Natasha draw in a deep, sharp breath, and clear her throat.
‘I’m fine. So, um, I just wear a little black dress Friday night, right? Not the silver one?’
Abby closed her eyes and leaned her elbow on the table, sinking her head onto the phone in defeat. Textbook stuff. She couldn’t count the times she’d been through this exact situation.
‘Yes. And hair out, please. Be there by 5.30, okay? They get pissed if you’re late when it’s being filmed live.’
‘Got it!’ Natasha’s overly-super-duper-I’m-fine chirpiness startled Abby.
‘’Kay, bye Natasha.’
‘Bye!’ More trilling.
Abby put the phone back in its receiver and put her head in her hand, rubbing her forehead. It wasn’t her issue, she told herself. She didn’t need to worry about it. Natasha would ask for help if she wanted it. And she had her mum, and her sisters and friends to go to if she wanted to talk to someone. Abby would be there on Friday night to ensure the girls were all present, on time and looking sharp, which meant she could subtly check if Natasha was okay, but she wasn’t gonna hang around for six hours till the ball ended to see if her boyfriend was there to pick her up, or make her cry on the phone during her break.
Abby used to stay the whole shift, back in the early days, but it was complete overkill, and time wasted besides. She learned a long time ago that the best (albeit riskiest) way to earn the girls’ respect was to trust them. Of course, if it was an evening job, or a men-only function, she always sent along one of her gentle giants, Uri or Julian, to keep an eye on the girls. There was no way on this earth she would allow what happened to her, happen to one of her girls. Not even a whisper of a hint of a sniff of it. Not a chance.
What she needed was that elusive 2IC, someone she could trust, someone the girls liked and who understood the complexities of the business, who could take some of the pressure off Abby’s physical presence at Allure. Escort the girls to the events and do check-ins to see if they were happy and doing a good job. She must get onto that, she told herself. Here it was, February, and she hadn’t even written the job description. On some level she was hoping one of her bookers, Charlotte or Siobhan, would demonstrate that they had magically, overnight, become incredibly reliable and impressive, as that would make the whole thing a lot easier. But while they were good at their jobs, Abby wouldn’t feel comfortable sending them out as the ‘face’ of the company in her place. Charlotte didn’t have a car, for one thing, and Siobhan was as reliable as a junkie with a fifty-dollar note.
Abby sighed and began attacking the twenty-five new bold names perched in her inbox.
6
Abby stepped quickly but carefully as she and Chelsea power-walked along the footpath in their uniform of three-quarter leggings and singlet. She had developed an irrational dislike of pavement cracks after learning a song about them as a six-year old and, like social smoking and applying toothpaste to pimples, it was a hard habit to kick. She liked to think of it less as pathetic, and more as a sign of a feverish brain, which was always searching for another pattern, another task. She’d heard a guy say that on TV once, and thought it sounded intelligent and admirable. Her last almost-boyfriend, Workout With Wade, an insufferable personal trainer, had immediately picked up on what she was doing and teased her about it mercilessly. He’d push her onto cracks and splits in the concrete, laughing that stupid barking laugh she’d hated at her reluctance to tread anywhere but ‘clean’ pavement. Chelsea, on the other hand, wouldn’t have noticed if Abby had been trailing breadcrumbs behind them as they walked; walks were for Intense Conversation and Buttock Tightening, not judgement of lingering childhood customs.
‘So it went well, then,’ Abby said, rhetorically. Chelsea had just spent the
last twenty-five minutes detailing every moment of her date with Porsche guy, how he’d taken her to Dolce, which no one could get a reservation at, how he’d asked her about her job and her life, and actually listened, and how they’d made out – ‘I’m talking made out, not kissed, made out’ – like grubby teenagers for forty-five minutes out the front of her house. When Abby had queried his knowledge of the three-month-no-sex rule, Chelsea had merely smiled knowingly. She wasn’t going to be able to hold out with him, Abby could tell. She must text Mads and place a bet on it asap.
‘It might just have been the best date in my whole life.’
‘And you can promise to me, over my father’s dead body, bless his soul, that this is not a swept-up-in-the-cash-and-flash thing?’ Abby hated referring to her beloved father like this, but he’d adored Chels, so she had reason to believe he wouldn’t mind.
Chelsea looked at Abby with reprimanding eyes. ‘Don’t take your father’s name in vain.’
‘Just answer the question,’ Abby said, too exhausted to go into battle about how she could utilise her father’s memory as she pleased.
‘Yes. It’s not about his money. Or looks. Both are fantastic bonuses, but I can honestly, honestly, say that it’s him that I like … Guys don’t usually care about what I do, or my life. I mean, they do superficially, enough to make them sound like nice, non-selfish guys, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a date ask me why I got into dentistry in the first place, and what satisfies me about the job, and then, you know, if money didn’t matter, what—’
‘The high price of being super hot …’ Abby interjected playfully.
‘—what I would do. As in, what would I wake up in the morning and choose to do? I’d never even thought of that. Would I even have a job? Would I be travelling? Raising a family? Volunteering somewhere?’
Abby snorted.
‘I don’t know, I just, it was nice to have a bit more of a cerebral dinner companion for once. And also someone who challenged me, you know? Who wasn’t pandering to me so that I would like them. I need to be challenged. Fuck, I would do anything for a boyfriend who forced me to think a bit more, and take some risks, and really dig deep into why I do things I think are arbitrary, but are actually the result of a long and often totally unconscious line of decisions and life turns.’
‘Wow. He has got the cogs whirring. I almost forgot you were such a nerd for a moment there.’
‘But isn’t that a good thing? That he has me thinking and speaking in a way that even I had forgotten I was capable of? I mean; I just used the word arbitrary. God it’s a turn on.’
‘A lady does need stimulation, after all. And not just via the gentle humming of a small, discrete device.’
Chelsea had quickened her pace in excitement. She was jittery with the idea of Jeremy, of what might become of the two of them, of what was possible.
‘I really like him, Abs.’
‘He sounds dreamy, Chels. He genuinely does. Oh hey, did Mads get her period, do you know? I forgot to write back to her email yesterday.’
Chelsea made that specific tsk-ing noise that generally preceded not-great news. ‘She did.’
‘Fuck. They’re starting to have an awful time with this, aren’t they? It’s been well over a year they’ve been trying now, right?’
‘Bet Mads regrets those terminations she had back in the Hugh days now.’
Abby fervently disagreed, on a million levels, but let it slide.
‘They’re both just so exhausted from it. I feel a bit sorry for Dylan, you know?’ Abby said. ‘He’s struggling a bit with the pressure, I think. I mean, I get Mads’s need to have a baby, but it’s not like they’ve reached the end of the road yet. Dylan has just turned thirty-eight. And she’s only thirty-five. It’s not as though she’s bloody Betty White.’
‘You realise we’re meant to be on Mads’s side, right?’
A small smile crept onto Abby’s lips. ‘I know … didn’t she strike out with two best friends in their early thirties who don’t want kids?’
‘Oh! Did I mention he has a place at Claw beach?’ And it was back to Jeremy talk.
‘So, when do I meet holy Jeremy?
‘Leave it with me … Shit, that’s actually the perfect next date! Group date!’ Chelsea fist-pumped the air and twirled around like a delighted schoolgirl after her first kiss. She spanked Abby playfully on the bottom and broke into a run.
‘Come on, old man. Let’s work it like we love it.’
7
‘Alicia?’
A gloss of shiny, brunette hair busy shoving red-pedicured toes into black patent heels peeked up at Abby, all big brown eyes and flushed cheeks.
‘You can’t wear those shoes. Tell me you have spares.’
A look of utter confusion crossed sweet young Alicia’s face. ‘But they’re closed-toe …’
‘Actually, that’s a peep-toe, as evidenced by the way your toes are peeping through the front there.’ Abby found it difficult not to sound patronising. This was an ongoing battle when it came to Alicia, a twenty-one year old from an exceptionally wealthy family, who, Abby was quite sure, was doing promotional work just to piss off her parents. It was amazing the number of girls who used the job as a way to get back at their family, boyfriend or ex-boyfriend. Alicia needed the money about as much as Bill Gates did and this was clearly the first job she’d ever had, as shown by her absolute cluelessness regarding things like uniforms, start and finish times and giving notice when you couldn’t do your shift because you were now going to be in Paris with your family.
‘Ohhhh! Well I guess that makes sense.’
‘Spares? Do you have them?’ She gave up on Alicia, who was holding one of her shoes in front of her with a newfound respect, and bellowed to the mess of hair, lipgloss and perfume around her. ‘DOES ANYONE HAVE SPARE SHOES? What size are you, Alicia?’
‘Thirty-eight.’
‘IN A THIRTY-EIGHT?’
‘I should do,’ piped up a long-haired brunette who was doing up her dress. Her face was attractive – black eyes and full lips on an alabaster canvas – and was glimmering with expertly applied eyeliner, bronzer and some might say, too much blush. Her age was hard to place, she had the body of a teenager and creaseless, glowing skin, but there was a hardness to her face, and her eyes lacked the brightness and naiveté of the younger girls. She’d been around, seen some things. Abby knew she was older than the twenty-nine years stated on her employee form, but Yvonne was such a reliable, hard worker, she didn’t care. Plus, she looked terrific in a little black dress. Those things counted. Gliding past thirty and perching alongside a Mercedes Benz at car shows as your full-time profession, did not.
‘Only thing is my car is parked, like, on the moon. Will I have time to go and get them?’
‘No. But Alicia will. Alicia, get the details from Yvonne and get your skates on.’
Alicia obediently put her thongs back on and shuffled over to Yvonne, who was rifling through her bag for her car keys. Alicia had that American Apparel campaign, fresh-faced, bedhead hair with an edge of cool, look that edgier clients liked. It would be annoying to have to fire her.
Abby’s ongoing challenge was to find delightful, gorgeous girls who looked like they were twenty-two, but behaved like they were thirty-five. That Alicia was so young – both biologically and mentally – was not ideal, and her Valley Girl slang and silliness was obviously frustrating for the other girls. Natasha was openly dismissive of her, Marie-Claire tried to be nice but gave up after Alicia spilled Red Bull all over her bag, and Yvonne treated her like a painful younger sister.
Abby checked her phone quickly to see if there was anything from Natasha. It was very unlike her to be late, especially when she was so excited about the gig. What if Pete had banned her from working? What if she was in trouble? Abby’s mind spiralled into a vortex of worry and imagination.
Natasha are you here? Ax
Texting alleviated a miniscule amount of tension. She’d wait five minutes
then call.
Suddenly, there was Natasha. She had poured herself into a Herve Leger–style dress (Abby disapproved, she preferred the girls to wear something a little less … obvious), and teamed it with chic, pointy-toe black heels. Her skin was tanned, her hair was salon-swishy, her eye makeup soft and sexy, and her lips shimmered with nude gloss. She looked like she should be hanging off P.Diddy’s arm, or advertising Revlon. In short: phenomenal. The event director would be thrilled. They always were when the Allure girls walked in, but there was an added bonus when the Natashas and Sabrinas of the world arrived.
Natasha spotted Abby and smiled and waved, as she kissed some of the other girls hello. Shrieks of, ‘Ohmygod where did you get that dress, it is TO DIE!’ and ‘Have you had your hair coloured? Did Francisco do it?’ bustled through the room as the girls put the finishing touches on their faces and welcomed the grand priestess of promotional models into the small back room.
Abby cleared her throat and backed herself against the door.
‘’Kay girls, stop your air-kissing for ten seconds and listen. You’ve all been given your jobs – Natasha, you’re on the door with Bree, she’ll explain what you’re doing – and you know how important it is that you do them well. Before any of you ask, yes, you may go to the after-party, but not until you have finished at 11 p.m., and not in your work clothes. So if you brought something to change into, then go for it.’ Abby watched as Natasha’s face dropped several storeys; she’d come with only a small handbag. ‘Any questions?’
‘If Jon Harper asks me to marry him, may I?’
Bree was grinning at Abby and elbowing Natasha gently in the ribs. Jon Harper was a devilishly attractive MTV presenter who had mastered looking homeless in a very fashionable way, and was forever seen around town, sucking on cigarettes (and face) with models, singers, actresses, anyone cute and in love with him, really.