Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  ‘Why would they do it, though? I don’t understand.’ Gemma was at her wits’ end. The coffee machine beckoned, offering false relief, but she turned away, determined not to weaken again.

  Tyler had been such a great kid through primary school. The perfect student. And such an angel. She’d hurried home from work every day to see him. She greedily guarded bathtime and bedtime as her domain. And his smile. She thought back to that infectious grin. Complete strangers would comment on it. Tyler was a happy, well-adjusted boy, a source of genuine pride.

  Then he hit fourteen and it was as if he’d been abducted by a grumpy, offensive-smelling stranger who only came out of his room for meals and to use the bathroom – though apparently not for washing.

  Now, at sixteen, he rarely spoke, except to make the occasional guttural sound under his breath.

  Gemma missed the little boy whose bright voice was once the soundtrack of their lives. Puberty seemed to have stolen his personality, and now, according to his last few reports, his school marks were dropping and he had become a troublemaker in the classroom. It was frightening.

  ‘I have no idea what they were thinking,’ Laura said. She sounded terse, almost rude, but Gemma knew to read sheer exasperation into it. She knew how she felt. Laura sighed heavily. ‘Look, I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m overwrought and sick of this whole thing. I don’t know what Matty’s problem is; it’s not like he talks to me.’

  ‘Oh, I know what you mean,’ Gemma said. ‘I can’t remember the last time Tyler uttered a whole sentence . . . unless reciting the lyrics to My Chemical Romance songs counts?’

  Laura laughed. ‘Ah, you too. It’s truly music to slash your wrists by,’ she quipped.

  Gemma smiled in spite of herself and plugged the kettle in to make a cup of tea.

  ‘It helps to laugh, but to be honest I’m struggling,’ Laura admitted. ‘This was the last straw for Matty and he knew it, but I don’t even know what that means. If I ground him, he just ignores me and goes out. What can I do? He’s bigger than I am.’

  ‘What about his dad?’ Gemma asked.

  Laura’s voice tightened. ‘No dad, just me.’

  ‘Oh, okay,’ Gemma tried to cover the awkward moment. ‘But I know what you mean about them being so big all of a sudden. Tyler is almost 185 centimetres and walks around like his world’s about to end.’

  ‘Yeah, Matty too. The last time I saw him happy was when . . .’ Laura paused, ‘well, probably at Christmas three years ago.’

  ‘You know, we should probably meet and talk this through properly,’ Gemma suggested, moving to the front hallway to continue her conversation as Stephen came into the kitchen looking for a snack.

  ‘Yeah, sure, might help. Can’t hurt. I thought I’d have a handle on life by the time I was older and wiser but I feel like I’m more of a dozey twenty-year-old than ever.’

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Gemma responded with a chuckle. ‘I have your email from the class list. Let’s set up something for next week.’

  The women hung up and Gemma stared out of the window. Laura Gillespie sounded like a solid, down-to-earth woman, with quite a dry sense of humour; joining forces with her was definitely a step in the right direction.

  Mercedes clicked down Toorak Road to the outdoor mall where her salon sat. As usual she assessed it as she arrived. The early-morning sun flooded the front window. It might be time to update the logo. She loved the name, of course, ‘Coiffure by Mercedes’ would never change, but the lower-case sans serif font was so early-this-century. It needed to take on a Parisian elaborate look. She’d ring her graphic designer.

  She walked in. Gabby, her receptionist, should have been greeting her at the front desk. She must be in the back office doing the books. Mercedes tsked. She had a very important client first-up, the host of the new morning talk show, and Mercedes needed to make sure the client was greeted properly by the staff on arrival.

  Mercedes had been desperate to provide the salon-to-the-stars ever since her father had bought her the underachieving place ten years ago. Thanks to Gemma’s arrival at the salon, her dream had come true.

  The salon decor suited Mercedes’s personality; it was luxe and Versace-esque, all in black, white and grey. Elaborate black acrylic chandeliers hung from the ceiling, white flokati cushions dotted the grey leather waiting-area couch, the client chairs were black leatherette with shaped backs and rolled arms. The black-and-white-checked granite floor added to the high-end appeal of the place. Her clients loved it here. They knew she was important and it made them feel right at home.

  Mercedes had achieved her goal. A successful business, respect in her industry and a great income. But she still wanted more.

  She picked up her mobile. Was it too early to text Gemma to see what functions were coming up later that week? Gemma made her crazy. She had everything and she took it all for granted.

  Mercedes had once aspired to a high-flying PR career, but as with everything else in her life, she’d wanted it all with minimal work. She’d dropped out of her Marketing degree in her first year to marry wealthy financier, Michael Di Marta. He had promised to set her up in her own PR firm. But the engagement had fallen through when he’d caught her in his office giving a BJ to one of his rather attractive junior executives.

  With her new, glittering life ripped out from under her, Mercedes had been forced to return to her Italian family, distraught. Of course she didn’t divulge the details of the break-up to her ever-indulgent papa. After wiping her tears, he insisted she work with her cousin, Carmel, the family’s greatest success story to date, to get her hairdressing apprenticeship. Carmel had successfully opened salon after salon in Melbourne’s outlying Eastern Suburbs and as good a stylist as she was, she was an even better businesswoman.

  Mercedes had no choice but to work in Carmel’s latest salon as an apprentice. When she’d finally succeeded at hairdressing (even discovering that she quite liked the trade, even though it was beneath her), her dad bought her a small, failing salon in Toorak. Mercedes’s father, Tony, like many of the Italian immigrants to Australia in the 1950s, had worked very hard since arriving. And although not what Mercedes would deem wealthy, he and his wife Francie, with their five children, had scrimped, saved and bought properties in Melbourne’s outlying suburbs very wisely. He may have been a hardworking plumber but he was also a smart property investor and he’d always had enough money to pamper his only daughter.

  Cleverly Tony put Mercedes into partnership with his brother’s business-savvy daughter, Carmel, who helped turn the business around and kept the salon in the black. Mercedes aimed high in attracting top-end clients who were prepared to pay big money for the illusion of a more prestigious service. Together the women quickly grew the salon into a million-dollar business and expanded into the retail space next door.

  But Mercedes was ruthless in her ambition. She wanted to be a part of the social scene, not just on the fringe. She wanted what Gemma had: crisp, brightly coloured invitations to the best events delivered by hand, begging her attendance. She wanted Gemma’s popularity and reputation. Sometimes she was so envious of Gemma’s life, she could taste it in the back of her throat.

  That night, back in her two-bedroom Anderson Street apartment, Mercedes stared at the full-length mirror. Little Donatella, the white ball of fluff, rolled playfully at her feet. Mercedes ignored her and glared at the figure glaring back at her. What to wear?

  She was glad she had texted Gemma who did in fact have a function on that night. A restaurant opening, Wild, in South Melbourne. Mercedes loved these occasions. Her poisonous thoughts from earlier were replaced with visions of canapés, champagne cocktails and potential suitors.

  She hadn’t been friends with Gemma for long. They’d only met three years ago when Gemma had rushed into Mercedes’s hair salon for an emergency style-ectomy. She’d had a red-carpet do on that night and her regular hairdresser had poodled her normally sleek brunette Pob (Posh Beckham bob). The poor thing had looked
ridiculous, and Mercedes was thrilled that hers had been the salon that celebrity Gemma Bristol had chosen. She’d felt she’d won the lottery. In the same way designers need movie stars to wear their gowns for the resulting cachet, Coiffure by Mercedes’s reputation would stratosphere once the word got out who her new client was.

  She flicked through her formal wardrobe. Mercedes loved the European designer sales; she figured most of Melbourne wouldn’t know she was wearing last season. Black Versace top with gold trim and black jeans? Nope, not formal enough for the restaurant’s opening. Black leggings, strappy sandals, silver mesh Comme des Garçons off-the-shoulder top? She preferred pants to skirts as she was very proud of her long, lean legs and tight, gym-toned butt.

  But Gemma wasn’t going to be wearing pants. She only wore pants to the office. She wore skirts and dresses whenever she went out and always seemed so very elegant and well groomed. Mercedes often felt a bit slutty-looking next to her, even though she knew that Tramp was the new chic.

  Mercedes had always been a determined social climber. Embarrassed as she was by her modest Coburg Italian upbringing, she’d fought to enter the WASP world of high society as soon as she’d moved out of Casa Italia and into her hip IKEA-decked South Yarra flat.

  Mercedes’s childhood had been less than acceptable to her high aspirations. Her family was the only one with fruit trees and vegetables in the backyard. And her dad’s pride and joy, Galileo and da Vinci, the two white lions that flanked their front door, almost made her weep with shame. ‘You’re such a wog, Dad,’ she’d whine during her sensitive teen years while squeezing lemon juice into her hair to make it blonder and begging her mum to buy her coloured contact lenses to change her chocolate-brown eyes to a more private-school blue.

  So to be mingling with Melbourne’s upper echelon was a dream come true. Of course, her salon had gone absolute gang busters as soon as Gemma had started patronising it and then many of Melbourne’s socialities had followed her like the lemmings that they were.

  Mercedes pulled out a Willow dove-grey dress. Wriggling into it, her thoughts went to Chantelle. She’s such a common little upstart, she thought. Chantelle made Mercedes nervous because, although she was so painfully, obviously stupid, Gemma listened to her instead of taking Mercedes’s advice.

  Take last week for example, at the Bubble Bar. It was a brilliant idea to pitch for the Breast Cancer Society’s account and a much more viable use of billable hours – and think of all the functions that Mercedes would get to attend. But bloody Chantelle and her bleeding heart distracted Gemma from Mercedes’s great plan.

  She reached back and pulled up the zipper. She’d never worn this dress before. She’d only bought it because it reminded her of Gemma. It was a figure-flattering chiffon that flared out at the hip. The neck was high and showed no cleavage at all. This was not a Mercedes look. She pulled on the strappy silver sandals and shook her head. Not good enough. She changed them for pewter court shoes. Frump pumps, she called them. God, she couldn’t even remember the last time she wore a court shoe. To complete the look of simple elegance, she fastened a string of faux chunky pearls around her neck. She looked at the result. She had to admit it wasn’t as dowdy as she’d expected. She cocked her head to one side. No, it wasn’t working. Her hair and make-up were all wrong. She still had the head of a Bratz doll.

  Five minutes in the mirror toned down the glittery chocolate eye shadow, but her hair was still an enormous backcombed, tousled tangle of long curls. The simple elegance of her new look only highlighted the Effie-ness of her coiffure. Which was probably why she had so many wealthy European clients.

  She got out the straightening iron and analysed her forehead while she waited for it to heat up. A fringe, like Gemma’s, was much more grown-up than this young-girl mess, she thought. She combed it forward and cut herself a sleek, straight fringe level with her eyebrows. Much nicer, much more sophisticated. After twenty minutes with the straightener her overall look was now far less Donatella Versace and much more Gwyneth Paltrow. Or even Gemma Bristol for that matter.

  ‘I’m late, I’m late, I’m late.’

  Julian gripped the steering wheel and glared at the static line of cars snaking down Punt Road as if by sheer will he could make them all disappear.

  ‘You sound like the White Rabbit in Alice in Wonderland.’ Oscar’s deep chuckle demonstrated little concern for Julian’s situation. ‘Telling yourself over and over is only going to make it feel worse.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Pop Psychologist.’ Julian turned to glare at his partner. ‘I wouldn’t be in this position if you hadn’t taken so long in the shower this morning.’

  ‘Oh settle, petal. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Oscar said, flipping through his iPhone to look at the day’s appointments. ‘Excellent, my first client’s not till ten. I am sooo cruisy!’ He flashed a grin at Julian while he reclined his seat and watched the passing pedestrians. ‘God, this car’s small. Why don’t you get a bigger one?’ Julian’s Mazda MX-5 was the asset he was second most proud of – his abs were the first – he liked to call the car by its American name, Miata, because it sounded more sophisticated.

  ‘It’s hardly my fault you’re a man mountain,’ Julian replied in a snoot as he looked over and took in Oscar’s almost two-metre frame folded into the compact space that was the front seat of the convertible.

  ‘Oh and it’s mine, is it?’ Oscar said.

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry I’m in a pip this morning,’ Julian said. He drummed his fingers on the wheel. ‘I’ve got a decision to make as soon as I get to work and I can’t decide what to do.’

  ‘Share,’ Oscar said, looking at Julian’s profile.

  ‘You know Gemma Bristol?’

  ‘Celebrity gal about town? PR consultant to the stars? We love Gemma.’

  ‘Yes,’ Julian agreed, ‘we do love Gemma, even though she’s a wee bit scary. Well, one of our generous supporters is an English girl called Chantelle Portsmouth, who’s really quite nice but honestly you should see what she wears. Last time, the python-skin stilettos . . .’

  ‘Focus, sweetheart,’ Oscar grumbled.

  ‘Oh, yes, sorry, where was I? Gemma.’ Julian tooted the car ahead of him whose driver had missed the light turning green because she was applying lip gloss in her rear-vision mirror.

  ‘So anyhoo, Chantelle rings me up yesterday morning and tells me that Gemma Bristol wants to give back, do good, make a difference, blah blah, you know how it goes with these mega-rich dames with too much time on their hands.’

  ‘Do I what? I deal with that sort every day.’ Oscar was a solicitor specialising in family law at a prestigious law firm and, as a handsome gay man, had predominantly female clientele.

  ‘Yes, so you know the type, always looking to help out and desperately wanting to be on our committee which, and I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, is a hand-picked group of well-connected women with very strong ties to the Melbourne establishment. And you know how important those contacts are to the Dame’s cause.’

  ‘Absolutely. So what’s the problem?’

  Julian glanced over and saw that Oscar was checking Facebook on his iPhone. He clucked in annoyance at not having his partner’s one hundred per cent attention.

  ‘Well, almost every week someone from Melbourne’s social set asks to join us, to spruce up their social résumé by riding on our coat tails, and we just can’t have it. Whenever we let someone new in, they just end up causing drama.’

  The traffic was finally moving smoothly and Julian indicated to turn left at the Toorak Road lights.

  ‘How so?’ Oscar asked and then burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ Julian asked, looking enquiringly at his partner’s handsome face.

  ‘Oh my God, Ian and Liam have adopted a gorgeous puppy, and . . . they’ve named him Oscar. The hide of those boys!’

  ‘Will you listen to me, you Facebook tart?’ Julian demanded.

  ‘Sorry, sorry.’ Oscar touc
hed his partner’s elbow gently and put his phone in his pocket.

  ‘Well, where was I?’ Julian huffed. ‘Oh, that’s right, the committee crawlers.’ He scratched his smooth pate. ‘We often get the type who just want the prestige of being on the Dame’s committee and don’t actually have anything worthwhile to offer. Plus many of these women have never done a day’s work in their life, so they’re not much use to us.’

  ‘Well, that’s not Gemma,’ countered Oscar. ‘She’s fairly high up in the PR firm where she works. I saw her on the TV the other day representing some idiot footballer who’d been sprung with two underagers. She’d have great skills.’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I’m in a quandary,’ Julian replied. ‘Do I risk introducing new blood to the committee in the hope that her contacts and skills could help us? But what if she just wants another feather in her cap so she can boast to her friends what a bleeding heart she is?’ Julian began to nibble at his nails as he turned the issue over in his mind.

  Oscar gently pulled his partner’s hand away from his mouth. ‘Why not ask the Dame? Surely it’s her call in the end, sweetie.’

  ‘Well, this is more my area. You know I only take ideas to her that I agree with. After all, I’m the one who has to deal with the fallout. Should I suggest Gemma Bristol? It could be absolutely brilliant. Or a disaster.’ He slammed his foot on the brake as a cyclist shot out of a side street.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ he cried, shaking his fist at the lycra-clad rider.

  ‘Sweetheart, calm down,’ Oscar soothed. ‘Why don’t you meet with Gemma first and find out what her motives are?’ Oscar suggested, then grabbed his satchel as Julian pulled the car over to the side of St Kilda Road.

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Julian agreed as Oscar unfolded his massive frame onto the footpath. ‘That’s probably the only solution. I’ll do that. Thanks, sweetheart.’

  Oscar blew a kiss in farewell.