by Cate Kendall
Television Julian spoke, ‘UP-Kids has benefited from Dame Frances’s generosity for fifty years.’ The camera cut to a shot of Amber in a wood-panelled library, nodding with a serious look on her face then went back to Julian. ‘She’s a wonderful patron of the charity.’
The camera cut back to Amber. ‘What do you think of the battle of the charity queens? Is this damaging to the cause?’ she said.
TV Julian came back onto the screen. ‘Oh, not at all. Dame Frances has her methods that have worked for half a century and the two ladies have just chosen not to work together. Gemma has a different vision. It’s hardly a battle.’
A photo of a black-tie function taken from overhead spun up and landed on the screen, then went to monochrome. A list of bulleted titles landed on the picture while Amber read what they said. ‘The Dame’s event, the Rum Ball, will be held at the Grand Ballroom at the Grand Royal Hotel, it will feature the Bradley Myers Orchestra and the raffle grand prize is a new car.’
The words disappeared, the photo flipped away and was replaced with a different-looking function with young people in evening dress on a dance floor. ‘Meanwhile Gemma Bristol’s do, the Mal-Teaser, is at The Shed at Docklands. It will feature a DJ and celebrities from Dancing with the Stars and is themed sex and chocolate. The question remains; which socialite has what it takes to win the contest?’
The next scene was a series of quick cuts of affluent types walking along the Paris end of Collins Street. There were intermittent shots of shop windows, high-end shopping bags and expensive-looking shoes while Amber’s voice-over continued. ‘The Charity Challenge is on everyone’s lips in the more exclusive parts of town.’
A blonde woman, about fifty, with diamond earrings, who had obviously been stopped randomly on the street, flashed onto the screen. ‘Oh, it’s all for a good cause, isn’t it? I do think Gemma’s being a bit pushy, though.’
Then a second woman, standing next to a handsome well-to-do gentleman, said, ‘The Dame has my vote. She’s a marvel.’
A younger, funkier-looking woman in a leather jacket was next. ‘I think it’s all a bit ridiculous, really. Don’t these people have something better to do?’
Amber appeared in a head-and-shoulder shot taken in a five-star restaurant to summarise the piece. A lunchtime function was taking place in the background. ‘The charity battle-stage has been set; the date, Saturday night. Who will take the crown? The Dame, representing Melbourne establishment, or technology queen, Gemma Bristol?’
The camera panned away from Amber and zoomed into the floral bouquet on the table immediately behind her. ‘It remains to be seen which diva will emerge smelling like roses. Amber McIntyre for Melbourne Today.’
The next shot was of the announcer in the studio seemingly watching the report. She looked up into the lens at her audience. ‘Mmm, duelling do-gooders, a fascinating report. Thank you, Amber.’
Julian pointed the remote at the TV and muted the sound. He was beaming. ‘OMG,’ he squealed, ‘I looked fabulous.’
Oscar laughed. ‘You sure did, you TV star, but you’ve no time to rest on your laurels; the party’s on Saturday night.’
Julian blanched. ‘Oh, you’re so right. Where’s my list? I’ve got a gazillion things to do.’ And he bustled out of the room.
The wind whipped down Madison Avenue. Gemma bowed her head and pulled her autumn coat tighter around her body. She cursed the fact she’d forgotten to pack gloves but she hadn’t expected the winter chill to hit the city so early. She wrapped her cashmere scarf around her head and tucked it into the upturned wool lapels. Shoving her hands in her pockets, she continued her struggle up the wind tunnel.
Eventually she entered the sanctity of IQPR’s building. She signed in at the security desk and took the lift to the fourteenth floor.
Gemma exited the lift and yet another buxom model-slash-actress type greeted her with a smile. ‘Peter Blakely, please,’ Gemma asked.
‘Aussie!’ The call came from halfway down the corridor.
‘Morning, Peter,’ she smiled and they greeted each other with a chaste kiss on the cheek. His aftershave was spicy and subtle.
‘Come with me. We’re meeting Dirk up on the twentieth. He’s expecting us.’
They returned to the elevators. The door opened and a group of executives spilled onto the floor, dispersing with similar intent looks on their faces: places to go, people to see.
The doors closed and Peter stabbed twenty.
‘Well, you were most evasive last night. Why won’t you tell me what this meeting’s about?’ Gemma said, turning to him.
‘I was dying to, believe me, but it’s not my place to tell. I’m in the role of facilitator only in this negotiation. It has to come from Dirk.’
Gemma shrugged. ‘Don’t care anyway,’ she said.
He grinned. ‘You do.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said, hoping she looked sufficiently haughty.
‘Yes, you do. You so do.’ The lift opened and the pair walked down the plush carpeted corridor continuing their childish banter.
‘So don’t, infinity.’
‘So do care, double infinity.’ They were both chuckling and whispering the juvenile argument back and forth as they reached the door of the big boss.
Dirk Ciepielewski had been at the helm of IQPR for twenty years. He wasn’t tall in stature but was a very big personality who commanded intense respect from his team. He had an enormous gold watch on his left wrist and a chunky gold chain on his right. Dirk propelled his barrel body from his large leather desk chair at their entry.
‘Gemma Bristol, damn girl, it’s good to see you. Come on in, sit yourself down. Blakely, get us a drink.’
Peter walked over to the bar fridge that was integrated in the black lacquered panelling that covered the far wall. ‘Perrier, Gemma? Or juice?’
‘Perrier is fine, thanks, Peter.’
‘I’ll have the same,’ Dirk said. ‘Come on over. Let’s get nice and cosy.’ He walked towards the lounge area that sprawled to the right of his desk.
Gemma and Peter sat down together on the couch while Dirk took the big square leather club chair.
‘So, how’s tricks Down Unda?’ he said in an attempt at an Australian accent.
‘Great, Dirk, really great. Never been better.’
‘Blakely tells me about a big charity shindig you got going on down there. Sounds like a blast. Great press, Gemma, well done. I’ve been keeping an eye on the internet postings. You sure don’t miss an op to get IQPR mentioned.’
‘Well, it’s for a good cause: we’re raising money for underprivileged children.’
‘Of course, of course.’ Dirk patted the air as if he had the kids foremost in his mind the entire time and not the publicity of his company. ‘For sure, Gemma.’
‘And the PR for the firm, and for the foundation too, just flowed on. It’s been an organic process with one thing feeding off another.’
‘And how are the clients faring? They’ve not been neglected at all during this massive undertaking?’ Dirk asked.
‘No, on the contrary, Dirk, every single client has come on board in one capacity or another. They’re all eager to help. Even our smallest client, The Printing Press, is donating the menus and programs.’
‘On recycled paper?’ Dirk asked.
‘Absolutely,’ Gemma smiled. He really was the best at keeping the mass market happy.
‘Now, Gemma, I believe you met with the board last time you were in New York.’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was quite an extensive meeting, actually – I was surprised.’
‘And they asked you how you saw the future of IQPR Melbourne?’
‘Yes, they did, Dirk. I’ve had some ideas, just toying around with some systems, nothing concrete yet, of course.’
‘Well, I have a proposal for you. What say you take over as the bigwig of the Australian operation?’
Gemma stared at Dirk open-mouthed. She’d hoped for this to happen. It wa
s everything she’d worked so hard for.
‘Really? Wow, Dirk. God, I don’t know what to say.’
Gemma turned to Peter. He gave her a knowing smile in encouragement.
‘I know you’ve been doing a stand-up job in the role for the last ten months and the board was damn impressed with you when they met you. But we’re expanding in the Australasian region, Gemma. We want to be in Auckland and Sydney by 2015, and you’re to head it up. The job’s a lot bigger than it was when Wally was at the helm.’
‘I must admit, I’ve been thinking about that position for some time now but assumed,’ she glanced at Peter, ‘that I wasn’t what you were looking for. I expected you would hire someone more experienced. I’m very honoured, Dirk, thank you.’
‘Oh, pshaw, girl!’ Dirk flicked his slab of a hand in her direction. ‘We don’t want to make the mistake of passing over true talent just for the sake of hiring whoever’s been waiting in the wings the longest. Now I confess, the board hadn’t even thought of you – maybe it is to do with your age – but when they met with you in June they were blown away with you, darlin’, blown away. And I must say they’re right. You’ve got the goods; you’re exactly what we need. So whatta you say?’
‘Dirk, that’s a huge offer, thank you, but I’m going to have to think about it.’
‘Don’t think too long, and don’t forget about the impressive pay rise you’ll be getting. Company car, first-class travel, top-shelf health and dental. It’s the golden package, Gemma – don’t let it slip by.’
‘Well, that sounds very tempting, indeed. I will discuss it with my husband.’ Was it her imagination or did she sense Peter flinch at the mention of her spouse?
‘Okay, how about you get home and call me next Monday –’ he checked his iPhone, ‘no, that’s no good – I’m in Barbados at a conference. It’ll have to wait till the following Monday. We’ll skype.’
Gemma and Peter stood. Gemma shook Dirk’s hand then the two left the office. Gemma closed the door behind them.
They walked to the elevator in silence. Peter struggled to contain his excitement. Gemma pushed the down button and finally looked at him. He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Well? Isn’t that great? I’ve been bursting to tell you. Aren’t you totally thrilled?’
She looked at him, took in a deep breath and said, ‘You know, I’ve been desperate to get this job but I have so much going on at the moment.’ She sighed. ‘I just don’t know, Peter. I’ve got a lot to think about.’
Gemma stared out of her window at The Algonquin onto West 44th Street. It was cold outside and she huddled on the armchair in a soft terry robe. The heavy sky threatened snow. She’d just hung up the phone from Stephen. It was eleven am Tuesday, Melbourne time. He should have been at work but he’d decided to play golf instead and had hung up because he was about to tee off. She sat with the dead phone in her hand, staring into space and feeling numb. Slowly the sounds of the city, still clogged with traffic, broke into her reverie. In the narrow street below her window taxi drivers were bickering loudly, leaning out of their windows with fists punching the air while other impatient drivers beeped their horns.
Gemma took it all in silently, pulling her robe tightly around her as a slight chill prickled her skin. The determination, drive and passion of this city thrilled her and provided a stark contrast to the malaise in her personal life. Malaise that had just been reinforced by her abrupt conversation with Stephen.
Desperate to know what direction to take she had asked him point-blank: ‘Do you want to stay married, Stephen?’
It was a huge moment for her and she’d held her breath as she waited for his answer, but he’d simply acted as if she had asked what he wanted for dinner. ‘Dunno, babe, your call,’ he’d answered, obviously more interested in his golf game. ‘Do what you like. Gotta go, Dave’s here.’
So that was what they had come to? She finally put down the phone she’d been holding aloft and looked again at the city below her.
It was such a passionate city, such a driven place. Everyone was on the go, determined to get to where they were going, to be there first, to be the best. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for it anymore. Was she really this type of person? Was Stephen right all along? Had she been too driven and focused on her career and ignored her family? Had she just left them by the wayside as she’d surged forward New York-style? Was it such a bad thing to have concentrated on her career? She’d concentrated on her son too; she knew deep down she wasn’t a negligent mother. She’d been there for Tyler, perhaps not every night after school in the past few years, but who was? People had to work. And perhaps she could have sacrificed more to save her marriage. But it was hard work when it felt as if she were the only one putting in any effort. She’d tried date nights and long talks. They’d had counselling and attempted romantic getaways, but nothing had helped.
She knew Stephen really didn’t care anymore and as she sat there she felt something shift within her and realised that neither did she. She was worn out from pretending the marriage was healthy, worn out from the effort of trying to keep the family together. She had so badly wanted to have a whole, unified family that she’d traded happiness and contentment for the image of a cohesive family unit. Well, she managed to smile weakly to herself, she was done. No more pretending. Her marriage had been over years ago and from now on she was going to live as honestly as she could for her own sake, and for Tyler’s.
She looked up at a soft tap at the door. Holding the robe together at the neck, she opened the door, and smiled to see Peter standing there. ‘Hey, Aussie,’ he said. He had a frosty bottle of Veuve Clicquot in his hand. ‘I thought we’d celebrate your job offer.’
‘Come in,’ she said and stepped back to let him enter the room.
He walked over to the table and placed the bottle down. He turned back to her. ‘So? Made any decisions yet?’
She walked over to Peter and looked up into his eyes as he smiled at her. ‘Yes, I have reached a long overdue decision,’ she said and undid her robe and let the white cloth fall into a towelling puddle about her ankles. ‘But it’s not work-related.’ She put her arms around his neck and his warm firm lips rested fully upon hers at long last.
Julian entered the opulent foyer of the Dame’s penthouse and tsked when he saw that the floral arrangement on the hall table was drooping. He dropped his satchel onto the kitchen bench and returned to deal with the stale floral art. That was very unlike him; he would never normally let flowers get to the wilting stage. But it was understandable. He hadn’t even had time to exfoliate lately, let alone maintain his usually high bouquet standards.
His hands shook slightly as he dropped the dead blooms into the garbage. The duel between the ladies was taking its toll on his boss and he was sick with worry.
Dame Frances had very nearly burst blood vessels with rage last month when, after an AIDS Awareness function at the Park Hyatt that both women had frostily attended, Gemma Bristol had hopped in the hotel’s limousine ahead of him and the Dame. Admittedly, Gemma had been talking on her phone and hadn’t noticed the older woman’s approach. But of course the Dame had taken the slight as personal and had ranted and raved like a tantruming two-year-old, much to the glee of the loitering paparazzi. It had made social pages headlines the following day. She’d only had to wait a mere two minutes for the next limo to pull around the circular driveway but it hadn’t been the point. It had apparently been the principle of the thing.
Julian tsked again as he noticed the yellow stamen powder sprinkling the top of the stainless-steel rubbish bin lid. He dampened a piece of paper towel and wiped it clean.
Of course, always being one to hold a grudge, the Dame had plotted and schemed her revenge. The following week had been Cosmopolitan magazine’s annual Women of Influence luncheon. The editor of the magazine was a huge fan of the Dame and was thrilled to be invited as guest of honour to the Chocolate Ball. And of course she wouldn’t mind ensuring that Dame Frances would be on table one at her
Women of Influence luncheon. She couldn’t, however, guarantee that Gemma Bristol could be placed on, as the Dame indelicately put it, ‘table last’, but she’d ensure the younger woman would be well away from Dame Frances’s line of sight.
Julian didn’t think Gemma had even noticed or cared about the Dame’s superior seating arrangement. But it had made the Dame happy, and a happy Dame made for a happy day.
‘Julian!’ the Dame called out from the living room. He put the vase on the draining board and walked around the corner into the sunlit room.
‘Good morning, Dame Frances. Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ She was in her leopard-print house dress again.
‘That’s rot, Julian, and you know it, unless you’re telling me that floppy weather-worn sack you call a briefcase is bursting with RSVPs.’
‘Well, I actually call it a satchel . . .’
‘Enough about your feeble accessories. How many replies are there?’ She stamped her cane.
Julian retrieved his satchel from the kitchen, opened it and spilled the envelopes onto the table. ‘About fifty, I think, Dame Frances.’
The Dame stood in the middle of her living room, leaning on her silver dragon-topped stick. She said nothing.
Julian started to feel a bit nervous. She just had such very high standards. Why didn’t she see that this was good news? The event was four days away and they were only short about sixty guests. And what with the enormous donation from the Polinski family, they were sure to be miles ahead of Gemma.
‘This is a disaster,’ the Dame said quietly and limped over to sit on her chair at the head of the table.
‘There’s still time, Dame Frances,’ Julian said. ‘You know there’s always a rush at the last moment. You’ll sell out – why wouldn’t you?’
She glared at him. ‘You know very well why – three words: Gemma Blinking Bristol. The list, Julian, get me the list.’ The Dame’s hand stretched out in Julian’s direction.
He scrabbled through the zipped-up section of his bag. ‘Here you are, Dame Frances, the guest list. Alphabetised.’
