Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  The phone rang. Glancing at her watch, she clicked the switch on the portable by the bed.

  ‘Ali, it’s Bud Stein. I have a piece of news. You sitting down?’ The editor of the Triton-owned tabloid, the New York Gazette, had a tense pitch to his voice.

  ‘What is it? I’m about to leave for the big bash for Nina.’

  ‘Yeah. I figured you’d be there. But you should know this. There will be an extra dimension to the announcement of the new editor’s appointment tomorrow.’

  ‘And what makes you think there’s an announcement tomorrow?’ Ali was querulous that her big news, yet to be confirmed by Nina, might be common knowledge.

  ‘There’s a rumour you might be next in line for the top job. Especially now.’ He paused and dropped the bombshell. ‘Your current editor has just offed herself.’

  ‘What! Lorraine Bannister? For God’s sake, how?’

  ‘She made very sure. Leapt off the terrace of the lovely Nina’s office. She’s very dead. Didn’t go quietly either. Tried to start a fire. Nina won’t be able to keep this one discreet.’

  ‘I was with Lorraine this afternoon!’ Ali was shocked and she couldn’t help the rush of guilt that washed over her. Had Lorraine known Ali was expecting to be named as the new editor? It was said the person to be replaced was always the last to know.

  ‘You there, Ali? What do you say to that? Any theories?’

  Ali thought quickly. ‘Strictly off the record, right? She’s been unstable for a while, drinking and using, er, addictive substances even more in the past month or so. Totally lost her grip a couple of times and I had to cover for her. She’d believed she was in line for promotion to editor-in-chief to take over from Nina.’

  ‘Nina going somewhere?’

  ‘Well, there’s a rumour . . .’

  ‘You wish,’ Stein thought. The newspaper editor was well aware that the new breed of hot women executives was tough, but this young woman was too much, certainly for the conservative attitude of this hardened newsman. He’d admired the thoughtful and balanced opinions of Nina and her loyal lieutenant, the now deceased Lorraine Bannister.

  ‘Anyway, Lorraine has been losing it. Was finding it hard to deal with life for a whole lot of reasons, one assumes. I know she was also upset about her daughter.’ Alisson was keeping the subject off Nina. ‘I think it was mainly because she couldn’t come to terms with my generation doing things differently. I frequently told her to get her head into third-millennium thinking but she seemed stuck in the twentieth century. I mean, she was really past her use-by date,’ she quickly added with an effort at trying to sound genuinely sad.

  That line irritated Bud Stein. He was due to retire in four years. Lorraine Bannister, at fifty-one, was his junior by ten years. This was scarcely an old dame in his book.

  He took a deep breath, trying to control his annoyance. ‘Well, I’ll be happy enough to keep my head where it is. Anyway, thought you’d like to know. We’ll need a comment from you as her 2IC, Ali, naturally. We’ve already got someone chasing Nina and the Baron over who will be the next editor.’ In the same media empire or not, news was news.

  ‘I’ll fax you a sentence or two. I’m shocked. I’ll have to think of the appropriate words. Thanks for the call, Bud.’

  As the Gazette editor hung up, Ali held on to her portable wondering how she should play her next moves. The news of Lorraine Bannister’s demise would dull the sparkle at Nina’s party. But Ali couldn’t repress a ripple of excitement that her dream of becoming editor of Blaze had, if tragically, moved forward. It was still difficult to come to terms with what had happened though. Ali closed her eyes, thinking back to the scene she’d had to endure with Lorraine that afternoon.

  Friday, 4.30 p.m.

  When Ali walked over to the editor’s office the door was shut and Lorraine’s editorial coordinator, Pat, had shook her head, running her hand across her throat in a slicing motion as if to say, ‘She’s cut herself off from the office for a while, forget it’.

  Pat had been Lorraine’s editorial coordinator for several years. A veteran of more than twenty years in publishing, Pat had started as a secretary and gladly adopted the more stylish title of editorial coordinator that secretaries in New York publishing wore these days. She knew the magazine business from boardroom to basement, understood the nuances of corporate power play, and held strongly to the belief that protection of her immediate boss was the prime requisite of her job.

  Over time, such dedication had made her very protective of Lorraine’s professional image. In recent months, this commitment had become far more complex. She was aware of the aggressive machinations of the ambitious young woman, Alisson, and knew it had badly shaken Lorraine. Pat had watched with alarm as Lorraine slipped into an often poorly concealed decline in the sanctuary of the editor’s office. Thanks to Pat’s support, Lorraine generally had been able to keep a bold and composed front when dealing with advertisers. However, her guard was slipping more and more and Pat wondered just how much the other staff members had noticed.

  There was something about the slight stiffening of Ali’s posture and the questioning twist of the head that immediately told her Ali had the picture in focus.

  ‘I’m sorry Ali, but Lorraine asked not to be disturbed for a while. She’s working on an important presentation. Not even taking phone calls.’ Pat had fussed with a bunch of papers beside her computer keyboard, giving Ali a half-smile as if inviting understanding and a decision to try again another time.

  ‘I can wait,’ said Ali aggressively. ‘Just let her know I’m waiting.’

  Pat sighed and flopped back in her chair, looking utterly exhausted. ‘She’s just told me to go home, that she would be working late . . .’ Pat didn’t complete her effort at subterfuge and, in capitulation, took Ali into her confidence. ‘She’s not well, Ali, I can feel it,’ she whispered. ‘She’s sick.’

  Ali leaned across the desk towards Pat and answered gently in return, as if she were sharing a huge secret and the responsibility that went with it. ‘I know . . . now why don’t you just take your bag and go home. I’ll have a little talk with her. She needs help. We both know that. Now, off you go.’ She straightened up and waited until Pat had gathered her bag and coat and was on her way to the elevator. Then she went to the office door and, after a single knock and without waiting for a reply, she swung it open and marched in.

  Lorraine was lying on the sofa, which was part of the lounge setting on one side of the spacious room, well removed from the huge executive desk littered with magazines and files, proofs and art work. One hand was over her closed eyes, the other resting on the coffee table and holding a near empty glass. She hadn’t moved at the sound of the door opening, hadn’t opened her eyes. ‘Pat, I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed,’ she said firmly, a tension in her voice as she struggled to maintain control. ‘Please don’t say a word, darling. Just make a lovely exit stage left.’ She let go of the glass to gesture weakly with a dismissive wave of the hand, which then dangled beside the sofa.

  ‘It’s not Pat,’ said Ali quietly.

  Lorraine stiffened, flicked her hand from her forehead and twisted on the sofa to face Ali across the room. She slowly sat up and arranged her skirt and touched her hair in a tidying gesture. It gave her a few seconds to muster her composure. ‘Oh, Ali, you’ll have to excuse me. I was just taking five on the horizontal to get the brain in gear for tackling the desktop,’ she said with forced brightness. ‘But I don’t remember having an appointment with you. I’m sorry, but Pat must have slipped up somehow.’

  Ali walked over and sat in one of the lounge chairs. ‘No, she didn’t slip up, Lorraine. There’s no appointment. I just felt it was time we had a talk.’ Ali had abandoned her planned agenda of talking about the future of the magazine in broad terms, hoping to discover a clue of just how much Lorraine knew, or suspected, about the executive changes that were being contemplated.

  ‘Oh, about what exactly?’

  Ali eyed the
bottle of vodka on the table near the glass. It was half empty. ‘That, for starters,’ she said with a nod towards the bottle. ‘It’s showing rather badly. Your long lunches are starting to look like something else altogether, Lorraine. Nobody does long lunches in this town any more. What’s happening?’

  Lorraine struggled to maintain control, but her hands were shaking and she felt nauseous. ‘It’s the workload, I guess. The pressure’s on, you know. Circulation time coming up again.’ She rummaged in her handbag, took out a Christian Dior compact and looked briefly in the mirror. She was shocked at her image of bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara.

  Ali wondered if Lorraine would admit to her whether she’d been informed that morning that she was being moved sideways to make room for a younger editor. ‘The lunches are being talked about in the corridors, Lorraine. And drinking in the office like this . . . How much, how often?’

  ‘Enough, Ali,’ snapped Lorraine as she rose to her feet and angrily slammed the mirror shut. ‘This is not something that concerns you, nor would you have any comprehension of what it’s about. You’re not much older than my daughter and, like you, she can’t understand either. She does a number on me and thinks it’s no big deal.’

  ‘Your daughter? What’s she done?’

  ‘Only announced she’s leaving me.’

  Ali had a hazy recollection of staff gossip about Lorraine’s daughter. ‘She’s grown up, isn’t she? I mean, where’s she going?’

  ‘Australia. For chrissake. Wants to find her long-lost father.’

  Ali jerked in surprise. ‘Why there?’

  ‘Her father was Australian. He left us here in New York when she was a baby. God knows where he is now. He’s never done anything for Miche. And now, right when I need her, she decides she’s going to look for him in a godforsaken place where she knows no one, and has no relatives that I know of, and if they did exist they probably wouldn’t care. I thought I’d cut Australia and her father out of our lives.’ Lorraine looked teary. ‘Why would she do that, Ali? Especially now, when I need her with me? I’ve protected her. There’s nothing in that place for her.’

  Lorraine had no idea of the javelin she’d just thrown at Ali’s composed demeanour. Ali’s memories of the Australia she’d been sent away from at the age of ten were vastly different from the Australia Lorraine’s daughter would be going to.

  Lorraine explained to Alisson that Nina had tried to reassure her that every young woman needed to spread her wings.

  Ali could only agree. ‘She’ll find that out by going down there. There’s not a lot you can do about it.’

  ‘So I’ve been told,’ said Lorraine with a tinge of bitterness, her face draining of colour to a translucent grey.

  Ali watched as the older woman pulled herself up from the sofa. Lorraine was trying to regain her composure, but her eyes held a new panic.

  ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go to the bathroom for a moment. You can leave.’

  Ali stood up. ‘Pat has gone. Can I organise a cab for you?’ She tried to sound sympathetic.

  ‘Don’t bother, thanks. I’m going to do a bit of work, as I told you. See you tomorrow.’ She walked a little shakily to the en suite and closed the door.

  Ali hadn’t mentioned Nina’s party. Lorraine was in no shape to go anyway. Surely she wouldn’t go in this condition? Moving over to the desk, Ali ran her hand along the edge of the ornate woodwork, a gesture that matched the possessive gleam in her eyes. Yes, she would be moving into this very office one day soon. Nina had virtually indicated that to her earlier in the day.

  Ali stood deep in thought, her hand still resting on Lorraine’s desktop, replaying her confrontation with Nina that morning.

  *

  Friday, 11 a.m.

  Ali had picked her moment. With Nina celebrating her sixtieth birthday amid a retrospective of her years as founding editor of the world-famous Blaze, it seemed the ideal time for Ali to discuss her future and that of Blaze, forever linked as they were in Ali’s mind.

  ‘If possible, I’d like to know what my chances for advancement are, Nina?’ Ali had decided to put the question directly to the older woman. ‘In a realistic, immediate time frame, not a year or two down the track.’

  Nina had studied Ali before answering. ‘I’m not in a position to give you a definite answer just at the moment, Ali. There are certain matters to be taken care of before I can let you know what, as you put it, your chances of advancement are.’

  ‘I think it only fair that I know where I stand when there are other opportunities out there,’ said Ali, tempering the remark with a small smile.

  ‘Ali, you are talented and, I know, ambitious. Nothing wrong with that. But you’re not thirty. You have enormous potential and I urge you not to rush into anything on a short-term basis when there could be a stepping stone to a much bigger career move.’

  ‘Can you give me a little more information?’ probed Ali.

  Nina drew a deep breath. ‘Let me just say that the Baron and I have watched your progress with a great deal of interest. And we may have a challenge and an opportunity for you in the very near future. As I said, I can’t say anything more than that at this stage, and please keep this conversation between us for the present.’

  Ali had left Nina’s office buoyed and confident that, despite the vagueness of her remarks, Nina was saying she would be the new young editor to replace the ageing Lorraine Bannister.

  Nina had always been protective of Lorraine, until faced by a series of younger staff representations, cleverly engineered by Ali, over replacing the old brigade. Nina had listened to the strenuous arguments from the younger staff about reflecting the issues and interests of their generation, that the look of the layouts was no longer appropriate, that Blaze wasn’t adequately addressing the people and lifestyles of the big-spending twenty and thirtysomethings. Nina had finally agreed the magazine needed an injection of energy and attitude and had said she’d raise the matter with the board, bearing in mind the allegiance they owed their loyal staff.

  ‘. . . and buddies,’ thought Ali. Lorraine and Nina had been close friends and Nina was godmother to Lorraine’s daughter, Michelle. That was typical of Nina. Always the gracious and caring matriarch. Well, her old-style thinking was out of date as well. In this new millennium, Blaze deserved a fresh look. It was tired, stale, and getting old like Nina. Why couldn’t she just admit she was past it, hand the baton over and move on? Ali had spent months developing ideas that could eclipse even the innovative Nina Jansous. How could a woman turning sixty, who had devoted so much of her life to just one institution, be on top of where young women were at today? Nina might have been raised as a ‘little Aussie battler’, as she was constantly telling everyone, but Ali had decided she would be the one to win the new battles.

  It was ironic that she and Nina shared an Australian background, each had been an only child, and each was self-taught without the advantages of a tertiary education. But whereas Nina had been hands-on and had promoted herself as a woman of style, Ali knew she had to be streetwise. She had vowed never to be deflected from her goal. She had put her own history of setbacks behind her and, if she could overcome a childhood she no longer allowed herself to think about, she could achieve any challenge she set herself.

  Since she was sixteen, when she’d joined Blaze in New York as an editorial trainee, Ali had chosen to hide behind a carefully contrived facade. Her past was her past and would never be known to anyone. It had made her the person she was today – a survivor, a fighter, cynical and determined. Reaching executive heights and having the trappings that went with them was tangible. That counted. Nothing else mattered. Ali wasn’t a giver. But she didn’t think of herself as a taker either. She was a doer. And nothing would stand in her way. What she wanted, what she intended, was to be editor of Blaze in New York.

  Friday, 5 p.m.

  Ali walked to the big window of Lorraine’s office, resenting the time the older woman was spending in the bathroom. An
other five minutes and she’d have to check on her and God knows what mess the old drunk would be in. Ali knew she’d need to leave soon to dress for Nina’s dinner. But she hadn’t finished with her rival yet. She wanted Lorraine to confirm that she’d been sacked as editor of Blaze. Then she might be able to find out if Lorraine knew who her replacement would be.

  Ali was looking at the sun setting over the Manhattan skyline, the rays highlighting the blanket of smog that most New Yorkers ignored, as Lorraine came out of the bathroom. She turned and saw a transformed woman walk firmly to her desk, ignoring the fact that Ali was still in her office after being so pointedly dismissed.

  ‘Now where were we?’ Lorraine had said, sounding very sober and alert.

  ‘We were talking about your drinking . . . and other things,’ said Ali.

  ‘Help yourself if you’d like one,’ sallied Lorraine brusquely, waving a finger towards the little refrigerator set discretely in a wall of packed bookshelves.

  ‘No thanks, too early for me.’

  Lorraine looked up from the papers scattered across the desk and caught the severe look that went with Ali’s curt rejection of the offer. Their eyes locked, Lorraine’s gleaming with bitterness, Ali’s glistening with calculated coolness.

  ‘You have that disapproving look my daughter gives me,’ said Lorraine with a sharp edge to her voice.

  ‘Sorry, but it’s time you faced up to what’s happening to you and took a grip on life.’

  Lorraine exploded. ‘You too! Christ, that’s what Miche said this morning. Among other goddamned bits of rubbish. Well, I have a damned firm grip on life around here, Ali, and you’d better believe it.’ Her shouting contradicted her words, but she was unaware of her raised voice as she continued to stare down her rival.

  And then, with a shock that had sent shivers down her spine, Ali realised that she was looking into the eyes of a drug addict. Lorraine Bannister was stoned. That was the real purpose of the trip to the bathroom. A quick hit. She broke eye contact and took a couple of steps to the door, then turned back and coldly fired the shot that denied her better judgement. ‘Well, now I understand better just what sort of grip you have, Lorraine. And it’s not firm. It amounts to nothing. You’re finished. It’s over.’