by Cate Kendall
‘Really?’ he said. Now he sounded impressed.
‘Uh-huh, he’s great. I didn’t see it live but I saw it on the telly in my room. Also, New York has good music.’
‘Yeah, some really good musicians come out of New York. And Seattle,’ he said.
‘I saw Sting there in real life last time. He was in the same restaurant as me,’ Gemma offered.
‘Who’s Sting?’ Tyler looked at her.
‘He was in The Police, you know, “Roxanne”? “Don’t Stand So Close to Me”?’
‘Oh, right.’
‘And also I was shopping in a department store when Jon Bon Jovi walked in.’
‘That’s pretty cool,’ Tyler said. A few minutes crept by. Then Tyler said, ‘I saw Hamish and Andy in Bourke Street Mall last week.’
‘Did you? That’s great. I love them. I love Hamish, he’s hilarious.’
‘Yeah, Hamish is cool.’
They didn’t speak again for the remainder of the journey but Gemma felt warm and reassured in the comfortable and easy silence.
Other walkers and joggers were also taking advantage of the unusually warm evening. They decided to stroll along the sand towards the fish and chip shop.
‘God, people are pigs,’ Tyler said as he noticed a few cans and a plastic bag lying on the sand. He walked over and scooped the cans into the bag.
Gemma saw a beer bottle a little way up and jogged over to collect it. She dropped it into Tyler’s bag. ‘It’s disgusting, isn’t it? Such a beautiful beach and they don’t even care.’
They wandered on admiring the millpond stillness of the bay. They passed a man as he threw a ball into the water. A wet and excited labrador leaped after it, swimming into the depths to retrieve his prize.
Tyler scooped up another bit of rubbish. The wind had dropped and, apart from the occasional childish shout from a distance in the other direction and the hum of the Beach Road traffic, it was quiet.
‘You know Gavin? From school?’
‘Yep, his dad’s a doctor,’ Gemma said.
‘Yeah, that’s the one,’ Tyler said. ‘He was going out with this girl from St Catherine’s, Amy.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Gemma said.
‘Well, he two-timed her.’
‘Oh, that’s no good,’ Gemma said.
‘Yeah, I was hanging at the shops with Mathew the other week and saw her crying with her friends around her.’
‘Is this a girl you fancy?’
‘Amy?’ he scoffed. ‘Nah, she’s got fake nails.’
She let the conversation fritter to its natural halt. They walked on further, collecting rubbish as they went. The lights of the fish and chip shop on The Esplanade in the distance spilled onto the twilight sand.
‘I felt kinda sorry for her, but,’ he eventually said. ‘It must have really hurt her.’
‘I guess so,’ Gemma said. ‘It wasn’t very nice of Gavin.’
‘Gavin’s a prick.’
After they’d dropped the rubbish in the bin and shared hot battered fish and plump salty chips they headed back home. They spoke little as they ate dinner. Just about school and Mathew’s mum’s new friend, Gino. Tyler liked Gino but was a bit put out he didn’t see Mathew as much.
During the car ride home the gentle silence wove its magic again.
‘There’s this girl, Rosa,’ Tyler started.
‘Oh yes,’ Gemma said, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘I wasn’t going out with her or anything, this is last year, right?’
‘Right.’
‘But we were kind of friends, kind of hanging out, you know, then she started going out with Jamie.’
‘How did that make you feel?’ Gemma asked.
‘It hurt. I liked her.’
Gemma felt like someone had sliced her open. Her little boy’s first broken heart.
‘It’s no biggie or anything. It’s just that the Gavin and Amy thing reminded me of it.’
Tyler didn’t say anything more on the subject and Gemma sat quietly as the Audi purred along the busy Melbourne streets.
They pulled into their street when Tyler spoke again. ‘I feel sorry for Amy.’
Gemma turned off the living room lights, checked the doors were all locked and they made their way up the stairs to their rooms. At her bedroom door she turned to her son and gave him a big hug.
‘Thanks for tonight, my sweetie. That was great.’
‘Yeah, thanks for dinner.’ He turned to walk down the hallway to his room then stopped and looked back. ‘Mum,’ his voice was gruff.
She turned back towards him. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m going to miss you, when you go to New York.’
She smiled, tears prickling. ‘I’m going to miss you too.’
Gemma groaned as she walked through the arrivals hall. She scanned the scraps of paper that were being brandished by the many drivers in various livery and size. Her name wasn’t there. Damn, she should have confirmed with IQPR’s receptionist that the car had been ordered. Looks like she was cabbing it.
Exhausted by her twenty-two-hour flight, she wheeled her case down the ramp and towards the exit. Why was it always so hot inside in the US? She stripped off her autumn coat and unbuttoned her suit jacket. ‘Well, hey there, Aussie,’ a familiar voice said.
‘Peter, what in the hell are you doing here?’ God, he was just so tall and lovely. She had to restrain herself when they cheek-kissed hello for fear that she would just leap into those muscular arms. She felt he was restraining himself too as he held her shoulder longer than was necessary after their greeting had reached its natural conclusion.
‘I’ve come to collect you . . . because of the fact that you’re not here long and we can get some work done in the car en route. Yeah, that’s it.’
‘Oh,’ she replied in an innocent voice, ‘so it’s a work-related reason.’
‘Yeah, sure, good use of time and whatnot.’ Peter handed her a bottle of water then picked up her bag.
‘Thanks. I’m parched,’ she said. She couldn’t believe he was so thoughtful.
‘There’s the car.’
He pointed to a black-suited driver standing at an open boot. Peter handed the bag over and they slid into the expansive back seat.
‘So The Algonquin again?’ he asked. Gemma’s heartbeat accelerated somewhat as she remembered the potent sexual energy that had sparked between them last time. She smiled. ‘Yes, I really like it there.’
‘I thought as much. Are you up for dinner later? Or are you too tired?’
There was no way Gemma was going to miss out on dinner with Peter. She only had two nights here so every minute counted. Of course, she scolded herself, it was strictly business.
‘That would be fantastic,’ she said.
‘I’ll take you to Caviar Russe. Have you been there before?’ he asked.
‘No, I haven’t heard of it.’
‘It’s over on Madison Avenue. Right near the office, actually. It’s very good for business dinners. Loads of moving and shaking going on. It’s quite amazing who you see. Donald Trump is often there. It’s just a few blocks south of Trump Tower.’
‘Wow, I can’t wait. I love caviar.’
‘I thought you might.’ He grinned then pulled a sheaf of documents from his satchel. ‘Now, can I run these figures past you? I need your advice.’
Sitting side by side, thighs touching, they bowed their heads over the papers and talked shop for the rest of the trip.
The royal-blue doorway of Caviar Russe sat on Madison Avenue flanked by a bank on its north side and a clothing store on its south. The unassuming navy awning stated the restaurant’s name in an elegant gold script. Entering the century-old building’s small foyer, Peter and Gemma climbed the tight stairway, adding their own minute impression onto the bowed marble steps where hundreds of thousands of feet had passed before them.
Gemma ran her hand along the worn timber banister as she followed Peter’s long legs to the first floor. The banister was
curvaceous and warm to the touch.
The stairway led them to the entrance where a smiling, suited man appeared to have been awaiting their arrival. ‘Mr Blakely, how lovely to see you again.’ The maître d’ made a slight deferential bow with his head.
‘Armando, it’s great to be back.’
‘I have your regular table ready, sir. Please, this way.’ Armando led them to a table that perched on a window overlooking the galaxy of lights that was Madison Avenue.
‘What a great view,’ Gemma said and slid into her seat. As Peter perused the wine list, Gemma gazed around the restaurant taking in the resplendent decor. Murano glass spheres dangled as modern chandeliers from royal-blue-painted ceiling panels that were in turn framed by ornate plaster mouldings. Murals depicting Russian fables took up the main wall while mirrors coated the other walls. The staff silently approached other tables with elaborate offerings featuring sushi, sashimi and, of course, caviar.
Gemma looked at the menu and gasped. ‘I could actually order a meal that costs US$2900,’ she whispered. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
Peter grinned. ‘Yes, well, don’t. IQPR’s doing well but not that well. Do you want me to order for you?’
‘You’d better. This is overwhelming,’ she said, scanning the list of caviars.
Armando came back to the table and Peter ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon, after checking that Gemma felt like champagne, and a tasting menu of several different types of sushi, with a caviar appetiser. ‘But no cilantro in the salad, please,’ Peter said to the handsome young server. ‘My friend hates it.’
‘You remembered I don’t like coriander,’ she accused him after Armando had taken their order and vanished like a will-o’-the-wisp.
‘Of course I remembered, because it’s completely idiotic.’
Once again she marvelled at his thoughtfulness. She thought of the many coriander-infused Vietnamese meals she’d had to endure because Stephen never remembered each time he brought home takeaway.
‘Have you ever wondered why the Yanks call their main meals “entrees”?’ Gemma said. ‘After all, “entrée” is French for entry, and it doesn’t make sense, really.’
Armando appeared with the chilled champagne and expertly poured it then left.
‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I guess you’re right,’ Peter said. ‘Cheers, to us.’ He raised his flute. ‘IQPR us, I mean.’
‘Of course, cheers, to IQPR’s continued world domination.’ Gemma clinked her flute against his.
‘So, how’s life on the home front?’ Peter asked, leaning on his elbows into the table.
‘Oh, it’s getting there. Tyler and I had a lovely night out together the day before I left. I really think things are turning around. He’s very worried about something, though. It sounded like girl troubles, but I don’t think it’s that exactly, it’s something related. It’s hard. I wish he knew he could open up and talk to me about anything, that I wouldn’t judge him.’
‘Yes, I understand completely,’ Peter said. ‘Emily was like that. It was as if I spoke a different language to her and she just couldn’t be bothered. I am sure he’ll come through it soon.’
‘I hope so,’ Gemma sighed, ‘I really do. He’s such a great kid. He’s just so riddled with insecurities. If only they could see what we see, if only they knew how great they are. But teenagers are always comparing themselves with and looking up to some dickhead at school whose biggest claim to fame is being able to squirt milk from their tear ducts.’
‘Oh, how true that is,’ Peter hooted with laughter. ‘And how goes it with your husband?’
‘Not good, I’m afraid. I’m completely torn in two. I just don’t know what would be the best for Tyler: to keep wrestling with the relationship for the sake of maintaining the appearance of a united family, or to split, which would obviously be difficult initially but would certainly make for happier homes in the long run.’
‘It’s interesting you say that,’ Peter said, his chin in his hand as he listened to her.
‘Say what?’
‘Well, you said, “what’s best for Tyler”. Sure it’s his family, but it’s your marriage. Why don’t you consider what you really want? It would be best for your son if his mom just lived her own truth.’
‘Hmmm, you’re right, of course. I have been so wound up about Tyler that I hadn’t even considered that.’
Armando returned with two long plates featuring a central bowl on ice containing twenty-five grams of sevruga caviar. A mother-of-pearl spoon lay at its side. Tiny bowls filled with capers and chopped egg sat on a plate of blini, slices of boiled potato and toast points.
While Armando fussed over the presentation of the offering, Gemma thought about Peter’s comment. It was true. What did she really want? Her eyes flashed up at Peter’s face as he joked with the server. She admired the way his hair flicked out over his collar, how thick it was and barely salted in the black at the temples. He had a very strong jaw and full lips that sprung into a smile at a moment’s notice.
Well, that might be the case, she might just want Peter Blakely, very badly in fact, but she would never be able to live with the guilt. She needed to have a talk with Stephen; she needed to find out what he wanted out of their relationship.
The cab pulled up out the front of The Algonquin just after midnight. The doorman in a forest-green coat and hat held the door open for her and thanked Peter for the tip he slipped into the handshake.
‘I’ll be right back,’ Peter said to the cab driver and walked Gemma into her lobby. They stood in silence as they waited for the elevator to arrive. The doors opened. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ Gemma said as she stepped inside the elevator and turned to face him, ‘the flowers in my room are wonderful. That’s a tremendous policy of yours, to greet your senior management with an arrangement.’ She pushed button number four.
‘You know, I don’t really send flowers to all the visiting CEOs,’ he said as the lift door closed. He grinned as he could just make out her words as the lift took off: ‘I know.’
Julian and Oscar nestled side by side, a bowl of cheesy popcorn balanced on Oscar’s broad lap.
‘OMG,’ Julian said, ‘I’m so nervous.’
‘You might not even be in it, you know,’ Oscar said. ‘They edit the hell out of these things.’
The plasma screen was muted during the commercials but as soon as the announcer’s pleasant countenance appeared, Julian pointed the remote at the TV and turned on the sound.
A split image behind the announcer showed a glamorous photo of Gemma on one side and a picture of the Dame in evening dress on the other.
‘This is it, this is it. I can’t believe it. I feel sick.’ Julian flapped his hands.
‘Shhh,’ Oscar calmed him, ‘you’ll miss it.’
The announcer started reading from her autocue.
‘In an unprecedented battle of the elite, socialites Dame Frances Davenport and Gemma Bristol will be duelling to the social death this weekend in the Charity Challenge of all time. Amber McIntyre has the story.’
Julian squealed and pulled his feet up under his knees as Amber’s disembodied voice floated over a general shot of a glittering affair.
‘It’s the world of the rich and famous, the privileged, the elite.’
The shot switched to another do with blonde, diamond-clad women in the foreground air-kissing and holding flutes of champagne. ‘It’s the world of the charity event where upper-class do-gooders spend their time hosting star-studded affairs that can cost up to two, three, even $500 per ticket.’
The next shot showed Amber in a black leather coat walking towards the camera in an affluent part of town. Well-dressed women in the background were dining at a patio restaurant. Three seconds of ABBA’s ‘Money, Money, Money’ played then faded out. As Amber walked, she punctuated every other sentence with a hand gesture. ‘These ladies-who-lunch raise big money for big causes – sick children, AIDS awareness, orphaned whales – and they do their tireless work in
committees. Socialites working in teams – happily, amiably, cheerfully . . .’ Amber stopped her ambling and looked down the lens and said in her serious voice, ‘until now, that is.’
The next scene was a long shot from across a busy street of Gemma in a business suit leaving her office. A large Armani handbag was draped in the crook of her arm and she was talking on her mobile phone. Her keys dangled from her fingers. She was unaware of the camera.
‘Meet Gemma Bristol. Renowned PR spin doctor, function manager and girl about town. Gemma was, until recently, a member of well-known charity committee UP-Kids Special Fundraising Committee.’
The scene changed to old footage of the Dame chatting on a TV set with Ray Martin, the interview sound muted.
‘This committee is run by Dame Frances Davenport, illustrious Melbourne charity matriarch. The Dame, as she’s known by many, has been the figurehead of this committee for decades.
‘Gemma Bristol was working with the Dame and members of the Dame’s team on the annual Chocolate Ball, an iconic event that raises tens of thousands of dollars every year for underprivileged children. Then controversy struck.’
The scene froze on Dame Frances’s face, split it with a close-up of a less-than-attractive shot of Gemma, zoomed in and went monochrome.
‘In a heated exchange, the two women attacked one another during a committee meeting. Gemma was subsequently sacked from the committee. The alliance was over.’ The photo of the two women tore down the middle.
A long shot of a battleground with bombs going off briefly appeared and faded away. Amber’s voice-over said, ‘And the war was just beginning. The Dame challenged Gemma to a duel, a charity face-off if you will.’
Julian squealed, sounding a little like a stressed-out guinea pig, as the large plasma screen filled with his face. On the television, he was wearing a pink-and-white-pinstriped shirt and pink tie.
‘Shhh,’ Oscar said as Amber’s voice-over continued. ‘I spoke with Dame Frances’s personal assistant, Julian Goodstead.’ The titling key appeared under Julian stating his name and position.
