by Cate Kendall
Charity Challenge Voters Say Bristol Emerges Queen
By Priscilla Simcoe
Priscilla’s Socials, The Age
The charity gals’ fight of nights is over and a victor emerges from the fairy dust. Priscilla Simcoe has more.
Last night’s Charity Challenge had most of Melbourne’s partygoers frocked up, made-up and perked up as they trotted their way to either one of the two events that have had the town talking for months. Which event to attend? Dame Frances’s Rum Ball or Gemma Bristol’s Mal-Teaser event?
It wasn’t such a decision after all; the blue-rinse monied class had chauffeur James tootle the Bentley over to visit the ageing Dame at the equally ageing Grand Royal Hotel’s Grand Ballroom.
The upper classes paid through their cosmetically enhanced noses for their five-hundred-dollar tickets and then a further fifty dollars a ticket at the raffle.
Although this reporter wasn’t invited, one guest, who chose to remain nameless, said it was a staid evening of cheap theatrics, shoddy decoration and a tired rendition of Opera Australia’s Pirates of Penzance musical numbers.
The swing band had the oldies tapping their toes but the only ones able to trip the light fantastic on the dance floor seemed to be the athletic Mr Ron Barassi and his wife.
The sole item of note from the pirate function is that Dame Frances announced that she was jumping ship. She was resigning from UP-Kids effectively immediately. This news shocked the room but it’s not surprising, as the old duck really has had her day and needs to be decommissioned.
Meanwhile a very different party was in full swing at the funky Docklands party venue, The Shed. Gemma Bristol, thanks to a powerful digital media campaign, sold all of her 3000 tickets. The hordes of glamour gals and guys arrived, eagerly skipping up the hot-pink carpet under the flashes of masses of media.
The event was Ustreamed with appearances from the legendary Ms Bristol herself. Vloggers and bloggers kept the huge membership fan base up to speed on the night’s activities as they occurred. With modern-day technology the event was all over the world as it happened.
Dancing with the Stars stars, Peta Fitzgerald and Damien Cameron, wowed the audience in skimpy gold costumes and the sexy number they performed with backup from the Danceramas kept the temperature turned well up.
The goody bags were overflowing with exciting treats including a love-heart necklace, fragrance, naughty bits and, of course, choccies. The food and cocktails were delicious, although perhaps this reporter indulged in a few too many of the latter.
The numbers aren’t in yet, but considering both events were sold out it would appear that it’s even stevens. However, purely based on fun factor, the vote has got to go to Gemma Bristol’s Mal-Teaser. Melbourne has never been to such a wild party. Three thousand of Melbourne’s PYTs might be nursing hangovers this morning but they were nursing Orgasms all night last night as they shook their booties to the wee hours. Cool beats stale, Dame Frances; put that in your Skype and blog it.
Gemma entered the elegant foyer of The Hotel Windsor. She smiled as she took in the refinement of yesteryear. The large wide circular timber table in the centre of the lobby proudly boasted an enormous English-style floral arrangement. Hydrangeas, carnations, chrysanthemums, arum lilies and gladioli burst in celebration of summer. The red and gold bow around the vase was the one concession to the Christmas season.
It was always a shame that the traditional flora of blue spruce, Douglas fir and birch looked so out of place in Australia at Christmas time and Gemma felt a shiver of excitement that she and Tyler were going to be spending their Christmas in Toronto with Peter and his family. It was just like a gingerbread village, he promised her. Colourful fairy lights reflecting from the season’s first dusting of snow; wreaths, carolling, all the festivities from the movies.
Gemma had called Dame Frances as soon as she’d seen the awful article that Priscilla Simcoe had written about the two functions. She’d wanted to touch base and offer an olive branch. The Dame had agreed to meet here for high tea today.
The Dame had sounded dreadful on the phone. Her voice had quavered, she’d sounded as if she wasn’t concentrating and Gemma had to repeat herself. It was as if the excitement of the final function had drained her completely of her energy.
Their high-tea date had arrived and when Gemma entered the elegant drawing room she took in the ornate detail that flooded the space. A pastel rainbow of armchairs and couches in chintz, toile and Regency stripes dotted the room, surrounding delicate claw-legged tables. Wedgwood china proudly served the finest range of Indian teas, while multi-tiered tea trays bowed under the delicacies of asparagus spears, mini crème brûlées, foie gras and a variety of other melt-in-your-mouth delights.
Dame Frances, dressed in navy pants, white shirt and a knee-length navy knit vest, sat staring out the window, fiddling with her long string of pearls.
‘Hello, Dame Frances,’ Gemma said as she approached and put out her right hand.
‘Don’t be so formal, dear,’ the Dame said and offered her right cheek. Gemma kissed it lightly.
‘Tea?’ she asked and flicked a finger for the waiter to come over.
‘Of course,’ Gemma replied.
‘High tea for two,’ the Dame ordered then turned back. ‘It was good of you to come,’ she said.
‘I had to; I wanted you to know I was never out to hurt you. I got swept up in the excitement of the event and it became a whirlwind I just couldn’t get out of.’
‘Well, you were right, all along, that must be a nice feeling. You were right about the technological age being the way of the future. I must have been blind; I’d always thought the internet was just a fad, a passing phase. But reading all the media on your event, well, it’s just mind-blowing, all this blogging, skyping, webcam business and what in God’s name is vlogging?’
‘It’s a video blog,’ Gemma said.
‘And what is a blog? No, don’t answer, I honestly really don’t care.’ She smiled at Gemma; her eyes looked tired. The waiter brought their tea over and set the table. He eventually ceased his fussing.
‘So how much money did you make?’ Dame Frances grinned. Gemma grinned back. The sly old fox could not be held back.
‘Four hundred and sixty thousand. How about you?’ Gemma said.
Dame Frances screwed her hands into fists and did a double airpump. ‘Four hundred and eighty.’ She threw her head back and laughed.
‘Congratulations, Dame Frances, you win.’ Gemma smiled and shook her hand.
The Dame recovered from her spontaneous hooting. ‘I have never in my life raised anywhere near as much money at one event. Dear Lord, it very nearly killed me.’
‘You know, there were a lot of reviews about your function online,’ Gemma said. ‘It wasn’t just Priscilla’s article. And they were all good. I printed them out for you. You actually got a number of rave reviews. The Top Model girls didn’t end up coming to my function until yours was over at midnight. They couldn’t stop talking about it; they said it was so much fun. I think they all met a millionaire each.’
‘Really?’ Dame Frances said, reaching out for the sheaf of papers. ‘I got good reviews?’
‘Yes, Dame Frances, wonderful reviews, loads of tremendous press. Especially given that you announced your retirement – that sparked a great deal of interest.’ She sat back and stared at the older woman. ‘Are you really going?’
The Dame was flicking through the dozens of pages Gemma had brought. ‘Hmmm? Oh, yes, I am. Today’s my last day in Melbourne. I’m flying to Maroochydore tomorrow morning. My daughter and grandchildren are driving up and will meet me at the airport. I’m quite excited to see them. I haven’t seen them in months.’
‘But, Dame Frances, you can’t just disappear like this. What about a big farewell party acknowledging all your efforts over the years? Your friends will want to say goodbye. You simply must have a send-off.’
‘What do you think this is?’ Dame Frances said, pe
ering over her glasses. ‘Besides, after that dreadful article from Priscilla, all of my so-called friends have gone to ground, not wanting to be associated with such a failure. And there’s the fact I’m leaving town. I’m no good to anyone in sunny Queensland, am I?’
‘So you’re all packed then?’ Gemma couldn’t believe it. Melbourne town without Dame Frances Davenport at the social helm?
‘Oh, that’s Julian’s last job. Poor little mite, he can’t see the packing tape for all the tears. I shall miss him.’
‘What on earth will Julian do? He’ll be lost without you. Has he a job to go to?’
‘No, not yet. I’ve given him glowing references, of course. He’ll be fine.’
The high tea was served and Gemma listened and snickered at Dame Frances’s satirical commentary about some of the other guests in the room.
Eventually Gemma looked at her watch. She had to get to Tyler’s taekwondo grading.
‘Dame Frances, I’m sorry, but I have to be somewhere,’ Gemma stood and picked up her small Miu Miu bag and slung it over her body.
‘Why do you girls wear your handbags like that? You look like a tram conductor.’
Gemma smiled; dear old Dame Frances still had a bit of spice and colour in her yet.
Gemma leaned over and embraced the Dame who hugged her strongly back. ‘Can I come and visit?’ Gemma asked.
‘Of course, I’d be delighted to have you.’
Gemma walked to the door overwhelmed with melancholy at being witness to the demise of such an institution. She turned at the doorway to wave goodbye and saw Dame Frances reading the printouts. A broad smile shifted the wrinkled skin upwards and years fell from the Dame’s visage. She got to a part that must have particularly amused her and laughed out loud.
As Gemma watched a woman from a nearby table stand and approach the Dame, words were exchanged and obviously a compliment given because the Dame smiled her thanks and shook the woman’s hand. Gemma left feeling a little less troubled. The Dame was always going to do okay.
On the way back to the car she texted Peter.
Julian packed up the last box and looked around the empty apartment. He had a pocket full of soggy Kleenex. He couldn’t believe it was the end of an era. His darling Dame Frances was leaving Melbourne, leaving society, and leaving him to fend for himself. He didn’t know whom he felt more sorry for: the Dame, himself or his cat, who was now going to have an unemployed mummy. He shut the door and walked to the lift.
Leaning against the wall, Julian could feel his misery welling up again deep inside. No, he would be strong. He stopped at the Dame’s letterbox and, as per her instructions, he dropped the key to her penthouse inside. It landed with a metallic chink. He didn’t get to work in a penthouse anymore, it wasn’t fair. Tears were threatening to develop into a full-blown flood any second. Luckily his mobile phone rang at that moment to save him from the embarrassment of sobbing uncontrollably in the lobby of a luxury apartment building.
‘Hello,’ he sniffed and rubbed his eyes.
‘Is this Julian Goodstead?’ the voice at the other end of the line asked in a strong North American accent.
‘Yes, it is,’ Julian said, quelling the quaver in his throat.
‘Julian, this is Peter Blakely. I’m a friend of Gemma Bristol’s. I’ve just started work here in Melbourne and I’m looking for an assistant.’
Three months later
Gemma climbed the stairs to the tight six-roomed office. Jolene, a large-boned woman, took up most of the space behind the front desk. She’d been working at the UP-Kids office for thirty-odd years and ruled the office. ‘You’re late,’ she grumbled at Gemma’s entrance.
‘Yes, that might be so, but I brought you a coffee,’ Gemma smiled and presented her with a paper cup.
‘You’ll keep,’ Jolene’s raspy smoker’s voice replied in thanks.
Gemma had been offered the position of official fundraising manager at UP-Kids shortly after the success of the Mal-Teaser Ball. Jeremy, the general manager, had been apologetic about the offer. He’d said that he knew it was a huge pay cut but they really needed a dedicated fundraiser now that the Dame had retired and moved to Noosa.
Gemma had barely had to think about it. It just felt right, especially now that her direct boss at IQPR was her boyfriend. But more importantly, it allowed her to get in touch with the charity at the grassroots level, something she’d never had a chance to do before with so much on her plate.
At her desk, Gemma flicked through the paper to see what press their UP-Kids weekend fun run had received. Her eye, out of habit, scanned the social pages. Priscilla Simcoe had seemingly never recovered from her social snub at the Dame’s Fashion Luncheon the year prior and had included a small snippet at the bottom of her column. ‘And has-been Dame Frances Davenport was spotted lately in Hastings Street, Noosa, looking less than groomed in headscarf and trackpants. How the mighty fall.’
Gemma smacked the paper. How dare she? What a vindictive bitch. What’s the point of doing that? The Dame had quietly retired. She hadn’t even thrown herself a send-off. Gemma had felt badly as she’d wanted to do something but the Dame had insisted on bowing out gracefully without, as she termed it, a hullabaloo.
Gemma ripped the piece out and threw it into the rubbish. Stupid cow. That was it. Priscilla Simcoe was off her media list. Even though it was potentially damaging to exclude such an influential voice, Gemma had her standards. You didn’t diss one of Gemma Bristol’s friends and get away with it.
Gemma tied up all the post-event loose ends, sent out thankyous to the media who’d covered the fun run and looked at her watch. Goodness, she was going to be late. She had a quick minute to call Peter before she left for her lunch with the girls.
‘Hello, Aussie,’ came his reply after one ring.
‘Hello, Aussie, yourself.’ She grinned. She loved his voice. It was so deep and gravelly, like a boulder. He sounded like a large rock. A large, hard rock. That got her thinking about their evening in bed together last night. She shuddered. How was she going to wait all day until they met up at his place tonight?
‘Just calling to say I love you,’ she said.
‘Isn’t that a song?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it is. Stevie Wonder, I think. So, what time at your place tonight?’
‘There’s an IQPR management meeting; we’re introducing the new Sydney team to the Melbourne team.’
‘How’s the Sydney office coming along?’ she asked.
‘Still an infant, but we’re getting there, which reminds me, I have to go up there next week for a few days.’
‘Oh, no.’ Gemma felt like something was trying to separate her arm from her body. ‘That’s terrible. How will I cope without you?’
‘You could come with me on the Friday night. We could make love overlooking the Opera House. Would that help you cope?’
‘Oh, God, yes, that would be brilliant,’ Gemma whispered.
‘See you soon,’ he whispered back. She hung the phone up and sat in a lover’s trance, the ghost of his voice wrapping itself around her body.
‘Hey, lover-girl, line two,’ Jolene’s rough voice from the outer office cut through her daydreaming.
She jumped. ‘Oh, right.’ She dealt with the call then hightailed it to her girls’ lunch.
Gemma raced into the hip-and-happening Monroes on Fitzroy Street. She looked around to find her friends. The pumpkin and hot pink of the interior lifted her spirits even further. It was such a happy place with its raspberry upholstered white plastic retro chairs and striped bulkheads. And the food was to die for.
She spotted the girls sitting on the leather banquette against the far wall.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said after the round of embraces.
‘That’s okay,’ Chantelle said. ‘So how is it going at UP-Kids?’
‘Fantastic,’ Gemma said with a deep smile that showed how satisfied she was. ‘The team of volunteers are so dedicated. They’ve really opened my eyes
to how it is possible to make a difference.’
‘Are you doing much volunteer work, on top of your job?’ Laura asked.
‘Oh, God yes,’ Gemma said, ‘you have to, you don’t have a choice. I mean, of course I have a choice. But on a personal level I don’t have any option. On the many occasions that they’re short-staffed I join them when they visit the families in need. It’s so satisfying to know that you can really help change people’s lives, even just a small amount. And I’m also pleased to be able to get their fundraising up to where it was before Dame Frances left. Of course we don’t have the same types of functions but IQPR is being wonderful about their ongoing support so I can continue to access all my old resources.’
‘You must be totally in with someone at the top,’ Chantelle said, and they laughed.
‘So how is your “septic tank” going anyway?’ Laura asked.
‘He’s not a Yank, he’s Canadian,’ Gemma said.
‘Same diff. How’s your maple-swilling lumberjack mountie going then?’
‘Mountie? Are Canadians like, you know, famous for mounting?’ Chantelle asked wide-eyed. ‘I’ve never heard of that.’
Laura and Gemma burst out laughing. ‘No, you goose. The mounted police. It’s a Canadian thing,’ Gemma said. ‘And, in answer to your question, he’s great.’ The dopey grin of only one truly in love crept across her face, and her eyes drooped.
‘Oh, God, she’s gone,’ Laura said. ‘Snap out of it. You’ll get Hallmark on your shirt if you keep drooling like that. Tell me, how’s Tyler coping with life?’
‘Amazingly. He has totally got stuck into his final-year studies. And did you hear he’s joined Gino’s martial arts class with Mathew and they’re really enjoying it?
‘The blokes all heading out together doing bloke stuff, it’s fantastic. And he’s actually quite keen about the weekends he spends with his dad. Stephen makes sure that Mercedes is never there – it doesn’t sound like they’re getting on – and Tyler and his dad just hang out. They’re going to the Grand Prix in Queensland next year.’
