Armani Angels

by Cate Kendall

  The other one, the one doing all the shrieking, had long streaky blonde hair that spilled all over the place. One tendril was even draped across her glass, for Chrissake. She had white nails so long Laura dreaded the impending handshake.

  Nope, not going to happen. She picked up her coat as soon as she’d hung it on the hook. Ah, the beauty of the mobile phone. She could text from the door and no one would know she wasn’t stuck in traffic on the other side of town.

  ‘There she is. Hey, Laura, over here!’ Gemma called out.

  Shit. Sprung.

  ‘Hi, you!’ Laura turned and smiled as best she could and made her way past groovy Cosmopolitan drinkers to the other side of the restaurant cum bar where the trio was sitting. Although she was facing Gemma, Laura was aware of the once-over she was getting from the nasty-looking sort in the corner. She saw her assess her plain brown shoulder-length damp hair, her make-up-free face and recoil at her Busted Tees shirt that said ‘Jesus loves you which is good ’cos everyone else thinks you’re a prick’. They hadn’t exchanged a word and already Laura wanted to smack her. But, then again, she was PMSy so maybe that was why.

  Gemma stood to embrace Laura then turned back to introduce her to the others. ‘Chantelle and Mercedes, this is Laura.’

  The pleasantries complete, Laura walked over to the bar and got herself a Corona. When she returned, Mercedes inclined her head towards Laura’s drink. ‘Beer?’ The derision was clear.

  Laura looked at the bottle in her hand then smiled and spoke as if Mercedes was thick. ‘That’s right, very good. Beeer.’

  Chantelle and Gemma exploded into their glasses with mirth at Mercedes’s sucked-on-a-lemon countenance.

  ‘So, I was just saying to the girls that it’s getting a bit tricky on the committee,’ Gemma said.

  ‘How so?’ Laura asked.

  ‘That meeting you came to the other day ended quite badly,’ Gemma said. ‘And I feel awful about it. I so desperately want to help. I think they’re doing a great job, but it drives me crazy how they’re stuck in the olden days with their methods.’

  ‘Can’t you just tell them how it’s done?’ Laura asked. ‘I would.’

  ‘God, you sound like him, but nicer,’ Gemma said.

  ‘Him? Stephen? Do you mean your husband?’ Laura asked.

  Mercedes jumped in. ‘Yes, and he’s divine. Gemma’s so spoilt, she’s always nitpicking holes in the poor guy. You should see him, though – he looks like Russell Crowe. If he says to put the Dame straight, you should take his advice. He runs a radio station sales department; he knows how to manage a team.’ Mercedes sat back and took a sip from her glass of shiraz.

  Gemma rushed in, ‘It’s not that easy. I have to be so diplomatic. Dame Frances is an institution, as you know, and it’s so difficult not to tread on her toes. And besides, Mercedes, Stephen’s never even met her so he really can’t pass on any kind of advice. The Dame has to be treated with respect. She’s quite the enigma.’

  ‘Yeah, you got that right. She frightened the living daylights out of me,’ Laura said.

  ‘Really? You didn’t show it,’ Gemma said. ‘It’s quite tricky. I want to help them out of their rut, but they, or at least Dame Frances, seem determined to stick with the old-school way of doing things.’

  ‘Told you that you should have gone with breast cancer,’ Mercedes said. ‘It’s so much more fashionable.’

  ‘Yeah, breast cancer, so fashionable. I’m getting a double mastectomy next season to go with my new handbag,’ Laura said.

  Chantelle launched in to defuse the tense moment. ‘So Gemma tells us you’re a photographer,’ she said.

  Mercedes began tapping away on her phone to display her complete disregard of Laura.

  ‘Yes, I am actually,’ Laura said.

  ‘What do you take photos of?’ Chantelle asked.

  ‘Whatever the paper wants me to, but I seem to have become the official Social Scene snapper, which is just great.’ Her sarcasm wasn’t lost on Chantelle who grinned with Gemma. ‘And I follow little Miss Prissy Priscilla around to cover her column, Priscilla’s Socials.’

  ‘You’re the Social Scene photographer for The Age?’ Mercedes looked up from her texting.

  ‘Yep,’ Laura said and took a deep swig of her beer.

  ‘OMG! Why didn’t you say that? I love Social Scene – I never miss it. I was in it once.’

  ‘It must have been a couple of years back. I don’t remember shooting you and I would have remembered it, ’cos I probably would have liked to shoot you,’ Laura said.

  Mercedes shot Laura a sharp look then continued.

  ‘Yes, it was; it was at Madeline Carter’s wedding. Oh, I love that column. I love Priscilla.’

  ‘Do you?’ Laura said. ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘No, I mean I love her work,’ said Mercedes. ‘So you’re a pretty handy friend for Gemma to have, what with the media coverage she needs for her work and all.’

  ‘Eh?’ Laura said, and looked at Gemma.

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Mercedes,’ Gemma snapped. ‘Laura’s a school mum, not a work colleague, and it’s pretty rude to insinuate I’m using her.’

  ‘What?’ Mercedes asked, feigning innocence.

  Chantelle stepped in once more to smooth the way. ‘So I guess you’re not thrilled with your job then, Laura?’ she said.

  ‘No, not really, I find the whole scene unbearably fake and so wasteful, self-indulgent, bitchy . . .’ Laura stopped herself, realising she was potentially treading on the toes of present company.

  ‘Well, watchya want to do instead?’ Chantelle asked. ‘What’s your dream?’

  ‘I really enjoy portraiture,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, like that pic of Dame Frances? That was a brilliant shot,’ Gemma said.

  ‘I saw that article,’ Mercedes interjected, excited that there was potentially another hornet’s nest to prod. ‘The Dame must have been furious.’

  ‘Oh, nonsense. I am sure that she’s fine with it,’ Gemma said crossly. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity. Surely even Dame Frances knows that. Anyway, it was a great shot, Laura. You must have been proud of it.’

  ‘Well, yes and no. That kind of thing is always ruined by the portrait subject insisting that I should somehow magically make them look younger and more attractive than they are. I had to keep retaking the pic as the Dame lifted her chin, fussed with her hair, moved into the light, changed frocks. I’m more interested in keeping it real, you know?’

  ‘Ooh, yeah,’ Chantelle said. ‘Like what, though? Like Annie Leibovitz?’

  ‘No, forget about the famous people. I mean really bringing it down to the grassroots. Keeping it raw. I prefer shooting everyday people. They’re just so unaffected, so genuine. Every line, mark and shadow on their faces tells a thousand tales. It’s wonderful stuff. In fact, I’m currently working on an exhibition.’

  ‘Are you?’ Gemma exclaimed. ‘That’s wonderful. Where are you showing?’

  ‘Easy, tiger, I haven’t got that far. I’m just at the stage of putting it together. It’s actually the street kids I’m doing at the moment. I might do the oldies next time. But in the faces of those kids there’s sometimes an inner glow of hope, beneath the layers of despair – the kids who still believe that their life will turn out okay. And you wouldn’t believe what a kick they get out of posing for me too. It’s worth doing it just for that. They don’t try to pretend to be better than they are; what you see is what you get. Some are shy, or don’t think they’re worth photographing. But it’s great to see how they can come to life for those few minutes under the attention of the lens. It’s so sad; I guess it’s the only positive attention some of them get.’

  The table grew quiet, each person introspective, thinking their own thoughts.

  ‘That’s amazing, Laura,’ Gemma eventually said. ‘You’re so inspiring.’

  ‘Wow,’ Chantelle said, ‘I wish I had that talent.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ Mercedes finally said, lo
oking down at her feet, ‘I really need new boots.’

  Again the same meeting, talking about the same nonsense, wasting the same valuable time.

  Gemma stared out the window at the treetops bending in the gale that was blowing through the park. Bobbi Robertson-Black was going on and on about every tiny detail of the Fashion Luncheon. Gemma couldn’t work out why Bobbi felt it necessary to waste their time outlining each waiter’s responsibilities, every catering morsel. Earlier, she’d had to talk through her floral art contribution with the same minutiae.

  The Dame was scratching away in her notebook, looking most uninterested.

  ‘And that’s about it,’ Bobbi concluded. Finished at last.

  ‘Third prize?’ the Dame asked, without looking up.

  ‘Pardon?’ Bobbi said.

  ‘You’ve mentioned only nine of the ten prizes. I believe it was third you skipped. Didn’t we have something for third?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Bobbi looked through her list. ‘I don’t think that’s been organised.’

  ‘It has. Julian, what’s third prize? It’s a handbag, I think.’ Dame Frances flicked a finger at Julian who flipped through his notes.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘here it is. Therese is getting us a wee Louis wristlet.’

  ‘Louis Vuitton, get it on the program,’ Dame Frances said.

  Gemma shook her head in amazement. The woman indeed had a mind like a steel trap.

  ‘Now, this Saturday is the Fashion Luncheon hand-addressing working bee. Please bring your fountain pens. Julian will have the invitations from the printer and my special gilt-lined envelopes at the ready. It should only take a few hours. I expect you all to be in attendance.’

  ‘Oh, Dame Frances, I can’t possibly attend. I have to spend time with my family – I’ve hardly seen them all week,’ Gemma protested.

  ‘Is that so? Well, it doesn’t take long for water to find its own level. Hmmm?’ Dame Frances said. ‘What happened to that pretty speech you gave me during our initial phone conversation about wanting to make a difference, about how no matter how much work it took you’d be willing to pitch in?’

  ‘But, Dame Frances, this is such a waste of time and money.’

  Dame Frances snorted.

  ‘Gemma, first of all, it’s the done thing to send a handwritten invitation. I would never attend a function if the invitation were to arrive in the mail as a factory-machined missive. It’s what this calibre of people expect and it’s a small price to pay given how much money they invest in us every year.’

  ‘But, Dame Frances, you can use a font to look identical to calligraphy. Here, look.’ Gemma pushed over one of the gilt envelopes with a generic address in blue antique writing she’d prepared on her Mac the night before.

  ‘Oh, well, this is quite good, isn’t it?’ Dame Frances looked at it briefly. ‘But still, it’s not our way.’ She thrust the envelope back.

  Gemma’s temper flared. The old bag was just being difficult for the sake of it. She’d liked her envelope immediately. And now she was rejecting it? Gemma tried again.

  ‘But it saves time and money. There are so many ways where you can make this system run more efficiently, Dame Frances. It’s completely mad, the way you sit here and command these women to do your bidding when they surely know this system of yours is outdated too.’ The rest of the committee busied themselves in their handbags to avoid the firing line.

  Gemma felt trapped in her chair. She felt the familiar tightness in her chest. She stood to make her point. ‘Look, Dame Frances, I run these kinds of events all the time. I wish I could just show you the process and how easy it is. I see that it puts you under pressure. I see that you are finding each event harder and harder as you’re getting on in years. I genuinely do want to help. I want to make life easier for you. Please let me. I could do this kind of function with my hands tied behind my back.’

  Gemma had mentioned Dame Frances’s ageing. The room temperature dropped several degrees. Dame Frances took her glasses off and clenched and unclenched her fists. She glared at Gemma. All of a sudden, Gemma felt like she’d crossed an unseen line.

  Dame Frances took in a deep breath; the exhalation was jagged. ‘How dare you, Gemma Bristol? You come in here all bravado and pushy, you barge in trying to change our ways. If you want to help, you can – by getting out of here. Do your own function if you’re such an expert. Go ahead. You will not have a hope. Nobody has ever held a function, of any importance, on the same night as me and not been humiliated.’ The Dame was standing as well now; her voice was reaching shrill, vibrato levels.

  Gemma laughed. ‘Oh, Dame Frances, of course I could hold a function on the same night as you. It’s a big city and I’m very skilled at my job.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I do believe you underestimate me, which has been our problem the whole time. I could do it.’

  ‘You think you can beat me, my gal? Well, I’d like to see you try. You want to give back? I challenge you to a duel. I will prove who is the undisputed leader of the charity world. I will prove to you that traditional systems far outweigh your impersonal modern rubbish. I challenge you to hold a Chocolate Ball on the same night!’

  Gemma, pushing the chair backwards, had had enough of this bullshit. ‘Oh, you’re on, Dame Frances. I will show you and your committee that you’ve got to move with the times to stay ahead.’

  Gemma picked up her coat and umbrella and left the room.

  It was awkward standing in the foyer for the brief minute while she waited for the elevator but she soon stepped in, her heart hammering as the doors closed on the ridiculous embarrassing scene.

  Stupid old bat. She had had respect for the old broad until that stupid childish carry-on. A charity challenge? The more she thought about what had just happened upstairs, the angrier she got. A challenge. A goddamn fucking challenge! Nobody tells Gemma Bristol they will beat her. Ever since her schooldays Gemma’s Achilles heel had always been a dare, a challenge, a bet. Should anybody, be it a teacher or schoolfriend, or later in her working life, a colleague, dare utter the words, ‘I challenge you,’ Gemma’s inner beast would uncoil ready for a fight.

  A therapist once suggested to her that this personality trait stemmed from having a father who, in his well-intentioned way, would constantly tell her she couldn’t do things for herself. Instead of letting her learn to tie her shoelaces, her dad would do it for her, telling her she was too slow. At primary school Gemma would attempt a school project and he’d muscle her aside, taking over the intricacies of the volcano’s papier-mâché mechanics. Even when she was a young adult, he would chuckle at her efforts at getting a job and say that she’d need his help. Sure enough it was his middle-management boys’ club that secured her the interview at IQPR. Yet no matter how often she’d tell him she got the job on her own merit, he’d remind her of his role.

  He was very controlling, and even though he lived two states away in Broadbeach, it was not far away enough for her liking. But those demons unleashed her inner fury now. That woman! That awful, rude, ungrateful woman, with no management style to speak of, no idea how to handle people or systems, had challenged her. She dared to say that Gemma Bristol couldn’t host a piddly little function. Well, she was about to be shown a thing or two.

  Gemma screeched out of her car space and tore off down St Kilda Road, her mind racing.

  When Gemma arrived home that night she was still shaking with the enormity of what had taken place at Dame Frances’s penthouse that morning. Sacked from the UP- Kids Special Fundraising Committee. Challenged! Publicly! How embarrassing!

  She sat in the garage trying to still her breathing. What was happening? Everything was spinning out of control. She had so much going on. It was no wonder her personal life had deconstructed edges. It was no wonder Tyler was lost and confused.

  She was later home than usual because she’d had so much to catch up on in the office, thanks to wasting her time with socialites who couldn’t choose between taupe or white tablecloths. What had she
been thinking, joining them? But now she could at least do the event her way. It would be bigger than Sydney’s Cointreau Ball, bigger than anything Melbourne had ever seen. She would show the Dame how fundraising was done.

  She barely made it in the door, she was so exhausted. She kicked off her pumps, put her satchel next to them and limped into the kitchen. Tyler was slumped on the couch texting vigorously on his phone.

  ‘Hello, my darling boy. How are you?’ She brightened up at the sight of him. So tall and lean and lanky. He was such a praying mantis. Surely it must hurt his bones as they stretched out in such rapid growth.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Tyler said, but didn’t put down his phone.

  ‘It’s eight o’clock. Have you eaten?’ Gemma asked. She went to the fridge to find the chicken cacciatore she made last night for tonight’s dinner had been left untouched.

  ‘Yeah, a bit. Last night’s pizza.’

  ‘Do you want some chicken?’ she asked, getting out bowls to dish up.

  ‘Nah.’

  Stephen walked in the room. ‘Oh, you’re home,’ he said with little enthusiasm.

  ‘Yep.’ She wasn’t in the mood for faux niceties, but she sucked it up and tried anyway. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Shit. We lost the Wacky Wally account to 3GB.’

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Gemma said, ‘that was quite a big one.’

  ‘Sure was, and it wasn’t my fault, either,’ Stephen said as he poured himself a large glass of merlot. ‘The new chick didn’t know how to handle the client. She might look hot in a business suit but she has no fucking idea.’

  ‘Stephen!’ She indicated their son on the couch in earshot.

  ‘He fucking swears – don’t you, mate, eh, eh?’ He jollied his son along as though they were pals. Naturally Tyler rolled his eyes and shifted his position so his back was towards his father.

  ‘Well, I had a horrible day too.’ Gemma picked up the bottle and poured herself a somewhat smaller glass of wine. ‘Do you want chicken?’