by Di Morrissey
In their black ballet tights and soft ballet slippers, each wearing a big black artist smock with a distinguishing coloured bow at the throat, the men moved silently between the clients. In contrast was the young girl trainee, who did the shampooing and carried the breakfast orders. They called her Tottie – after Dorothy’s dog, Toto, in The Wizard of Oz.
Ali and Dane had hit it off straight away. As part of her contract, Ali had access to a car to travel to and from Blaze and to appointments. Her personal assistant, Belinda, had set up an account for her with Sydney’s main taxi company, which Ali instantly changed to a limousine service. Tom, the chauffeur, collected her at seven each morning and took her to the Yellow Brick Road for hair and make-up. Despite a full early clientele, Dane had quietly discouraged one of his lesser clients and moved Ali in, smelling publicity for himself in Blaze. He would also trade subtly on the fact they ‘did’ the new editor. Not that he would ever dream of passing on this news publicly. He had his own pet news leaks who would spread the word.
Ali had instructed Dane to keep her informed of the latest looks. He had executed a perfect pirouette and dropped his hands on her shoulders as she sat in a lemon suede chair before the silver and gold mirror.
‘Mademoiselle Ali . . . it’s not just about having the latest, but much more about how it comes together,’ he ventured politely but firmly.
‘Then put me together,’ growled Ali, opening the Financial Review.
‘Grouchy, grouchy. Where’s our little ray of sunshine? Tottie, bring Missy Ali her morning coffee. Very strong. Very black. Very thick. Like we like our men!’ He roared and signalled to Rex to start her make-up.
Rex tilted her head onto the headrest. ‘So who’s starring on the first cover?’
‘I haven’t actually decided yet,’ Ali lied. Rex was not to know that the cover of the magazine, which was already being printed, had been a major decision discussed by all members of the editorial board. It was a decision that could have taken days. Instead, including Nina, they had unanimously applauded Ali’s idea for the first cover of Blaze Australia, and Ali had received a personally written note from the Baron in New York complimenting her choice.
Ali hoped Rex wasn’t going to keep questioning her, or she’d have to speak to Dane about it, or choose another salon. She had never agreed with Nina’s policy that one never knew where the next good idea was coming from. Ali’s policy was to rely on herself, with a strong staff back-up, and to always give the impression everything was her own idea. Nina had always listened to what others had to say. If a copygirl or secretary had an idea, they were encouraged to present it to their immediate superior. That was the Blaze way, Nina would say.
A young journalist had once ventured a suggestion while working for Ali, who’d been a senior editorial assistant in New York at the time. Ali had seized the idea, put it up to Lorraine Bannister and earned brownie points all round. The cadet had made one stab at telling the features editor it had been her idea, and had been quickly warned off.
‘Too late, kiddo. Even if it was your idea, don’t take on Alisson Gruber and make her look bad. She’ll have you transferred to the midnight shift on the Sunday rag in this organisation before you can say hello. Then it’s goodbye. A tip – the first lesson in magazine publishing is to try to figure out who’s the most dangerous and who’s the least. Deciding you can’t trust anyone is the safest. If you want to move up the ladder, be as treacherous as they are.’
The girl had resigned and gone to university to do her MA in gender studies – ‘Male and female strategies for survival in the workplace’.
Ali never asked why she’d left. If she’d even noticed. Ali had learned to keep moving forward and not become sidetracked by other people. They were in your path to help or hinder and you dealt with them accordingly.
‘I have an idea,’ said Rex bringing her back from her reverie as he plucked a stray hair from the thin arc of her brows.
‘Umm. What’s that?’
‘You! Put yourself on the cover. You’d look outstanding in that new Hugo gear.’
Ali was only momentarily entranced with the idea, then put him down. ‘It’s not Lear magazine.’ Even Nina had never gone on the cover of Blaze.
‘People love reading about the people who set the trends and move with the jet set. And what’s Lear anyway?’
‘Mag from the dark ages,’ said Ali. ‘Came out in the eighties. A leader for its genre, but it was too early. A woman called Francis Lear started it in New York “for the woman who wasn’t born yesterday”. The forty-, fifty-plus set. Good idea for a while. Copied in other countries, but disappeared. Hard to keep it going when it identified so much with one woman. And one who was growing older all the time.’
‘Who wants to read about old ladies? You should put more music people and friends of Dorothy’s in your magazine.’
‘Pretty boys, and wild music, eh?’ mused Ali.
The cloaked wizard stepped in quickly. ‘Rex, it’s not your job to criticise, sweetie.’
‘Just trying to be helpful.’ He began packing away his make-up box.
‘Don’t be sulky, sexy Rexy.’ Dane leaned closer and inspected Ali’s make-up. ‘Russet. Super choice for the lippie.’
Rex held up Ali’s hand. ‘Nice on the nails too.’
Once Rex had moved away, Dane set to work with lots of flourishes and twirling of scissors. Ali’s short hair was swiftly styled into a smooth, sharply angled crop.
‘Maybe a change of colour next week, Ms Ali? A bit of plum in this would make it so much richer, darling heart.’
He cocked his head and studied her. Despite his flamboyance, Dane was a shrewd character who analysed his clients carefully. While this style wasn’t what a lot of his lady customers wanted, the look suited Ali – slick, contemporary, androgynous. The opposite to Nina Jansous, whose look he’d been following for years. As he continued to look at Ali’s reflection in the mirror, he decided that Nina would look as stylish as hell with such a hairdo. But then Nina was one of those chameleon women who would look fabulous no matter how she was styled. The inner woman always shone through. But this Ali was harder to read. She was a collection of mirrored surfaces. She gave nothing away. She was strong. And tough. Armour-plated. Dane wondered what secrets were buried beneath her steely exterior.
Dane knew about temperament – his tantrums were legendary – but they were always over swiftly. His staff went with the flow. He doubted the Blaze staff would flow along with the same nonchalance when Ali was in full flood. She was not a woman to be crossed. He gave a professional smile. ‘So, until tomorrow, eh? Tottie, bring the little red shoes. Good luck with your day.’ He waved an imaginary wand over her.
Ali signed the red book – the account would be sent to the office. She didn’t feel the need for luck. She put down the pen, picked up her Prada bag and strode out of the Yellow Brick Road to her car, which was pulling into the kerb. She never left tips. She’d arrange for copies of Blaze to be sent to the salon to entertain its clientele, which included more than one potential advertiser.
Walking into the Blaze offices that morning, her first day as editor since Nina had left, Ali wondered whether she’d keep Belinda, the personal assistant to former editor Dorothy Power. Belinda had looked after Nina until Ali took over and wasn’t looking forward to working for Ali after the gracious and competent editor-in-chief. Belinda had instantly recognised the hunger in Ali. An appetite for power, success and recognition.
Neither was Ali thrilled with the idea of inheriting Belinda. She wanted someone more stylish to arrange her personal affairs, to be answerable just to her. Someone she could rely on, yet hold in check. And unlike Belinda, it would have to be someone who understood punctuality.
In Ali’s opinion, Nina had been too accommodating and easygoing with the staff as they’d made the transition into Blaze. It was all right for Nina, as she had been there only a short time before making her quiet exit on extended leave to Europe. Ali believed it wa
s now up to her as editor to mould the staff into a slick machine that operated under her instructions. Everything was in place from an administrative point of view. Nina had handed over the business and creative reins to Ali. And Ali intended to exercise this power.
Ali nodded at the front office receptionist and walked down the hallway to her suite, remembering the morning not so long ago when she’d arrived at work for the first time as editor of her own magazine. Nina had taken Ali on a tour of the Blaze offices and introduced her to the staff at an informal gathering in the boardroom the evening before Ali had started work as editor of Blaze Australia.
On that first day as editor, Ali had sent herself a huge bouquet of flowers and two smaller ones with cards from corporate high-flyers she figured would never know the difference. Ali had always been an assiduous reader of the business section of the New York newspapers. Now she looked forward to Australia’s Financial Review and Business Review Weekly so she could tap into the manoeuvres of the corporate leaders and top entrepreneurs. She knew Belinda would read the cards on the flowers and word would filter out to the staff.
Now Nina had left for Europe, it was time for change. To Ali’s annoyance, Belinda had not arrived. Ali glanced at her watch, it was twenty to nine. Not good enough. She’d been late on Ali’s first day in the office and after a clumsy excuse about family problems, to which Nina had clucked-clucked in sympathy, she’d been making a habit of it. That would stop today.
Ali walked slowly round the office deciding what had to go from the newly decorated editor’s suite, and what style she would prefer in its place. Nina’s democratic idea of using a round table instead of a desk had always irritated her. That would be the first piece of furniture to go. Ali started making a list of what she wanted, including what she expected of Belinda – to arrive early, to turn Ali’s computer on, to make a note of all emails, and to have her espresso coffee ready to pour. Flower arrangements were to be replaced twice a week.
Belinda appeared at her door, pulling off her coat as she described the traffic chaos that had delayed her. Ali cut her off mid-sentence.
‘Belinda, I’m sure it won’t happen again, as I’d like you in here early. I’ve left a list of tasks on your desk that I expect to be done before I arrive.’
Belinda paused, clutching her jacket. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Alisson. I’m normally very punctual. Just tell me what you want and . . .’
‘My name is Ms Gruber. And please keep the door between my office and your area closed unless I choose to leave it open.’ Ali made her displeasure known despite Belinda’s stuttering explanation that she’d had a problem taking her two young children to school.
Belinda’s lips tightened. ‘I apologise. Buzz me when you need anything.’ She closed the door behind her. Dorothy had never kept it shut.
With Nina safely in Europe, Ali had scheduled her first editorial meeting to start at 9 a.m. The editor checked her papers at 8.55 a.m. She had spent the weekend clarifying the changes and strategies she intended to implement. No sense in sliding into position and creeping in her new regime. She wanted to be regarded as incisive and authoritative from the beginning.
Ali and Larissa had lunched and talked about the magazine only in general terms. Ali believed in not telling anyone anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. Simply good tactics.
Larissa knew this, so didn’t probe too deeply into her plans as Ali repeated several times, ‘I’ll go over everything in detail at the first editorial meeting.’
Ali wanted to make a stand right off, so everyone would understand she was now in control, and she was prepared to make unpopular decisions if she considered them necessary. She would show them her authority was not to be questioned. Nina was gone. Ali had the baton in her hand and was ready to run.
Ali kept busy until she heard the murmur of voices outside. Peering through the glass panel in one wall, she could see most of the senior editorial staff clustered around Belinda’s desk.
Smoothing her hair, she ran her tongue over her lip gloss, picked up a folder and opened the door. ‘Good morning. Shall we?’
Ignoring the round table in her suite, where the first edition of Blaze had been planned with Nina, Ali headed for the boardroom, and added, without glancing at Belinda, ‘Tea, coffee and mineral water please, Belinda. No food.’
Tiki Henderson, the fashion editor, and Barbara Jamieson, the beauty editor, exchanged a glance and mouthed at each other, ‘No food?’
‘No biscuits?’
‘No donuts?’
The weekly editorial meeting had always been a time of bagels, Danish and croissants. Following Ali’s bony body through the door, the two older women who wouldn’t see a size twelve again, sighed.
‘Shall we boo?’ whispered Tiki.
‘You mean as in boohoo or hiss and . . . ?’
‘No. Bring Our Own.’
‘I don’t like your chances.’
The staff who would make the decisions about the content and direction of each issue of Blaze settled themselves along one side of the boardroom table where neat folders of documents had been placed, each named to mark where the men and women on the senior staff should sit. The new boardroom table was glass and steel. Nina had agreed that Ali replace the old teak veneer, but the staff were instantly uncomfortable as they seated themselves at the apparent floating sheet of glass.
‘Can’t pass notes or scratch your balls under this table,’ commented Bob Monroe, the features editor, to contributions editor and senior writer, Jonathan Gibb.
Ali surprised them by taking the single chair opposite, putting the long table between them and herself. Dorothy had always sat amongst them, flanked by Fran, the promotions director, and Tiki. Their editorial meetings had always had the feeling of an intimate tea party where conversation, ideas and differing opinions were exchanged.
The atmosphere was chilly. Even the new decor ordered by Ali seemed intimidating – cool beige, icy white, gleaming metal, lots of glass and sleek, clean lines. No trims, no falderals. Ali had removed Nina’s touches – flowers, pot plants, paintings and comfortable, elegant chairs. The room was now coldly businesslike, avant-garde steel chairs drawn around the bare table. Stylish contemporary slatted blinds had been installed to screen the stunning – and potentially distracting – harbour view.
Larissa caught the tense mood in the room and thought back to how Nina had conducted these meetings at her egalitarian round table in New York. There was always an agenda but under Nina’s gentle guidance everyone felt free to voice their opinions, even if they conflicted with other views. If there was a visitor included in the conference – perhaps the art director or advertising director or a specialist in a field who’d been invited to address the section editors and then leave them to business matters after the coffee break – that person would sit at Nina’s right. If they were contemplating covering a sensitive or difficult topic, a specialist in that area would come in to address them and answer questions.
Ali had no intention of continuing this pattern. Instead, she would privately seek out such people and produce their advice, statistics or knowledge as a fait accompli. She did not intend to run meetings like a girl guides’ show-and-tell. She’d already, she reminded herself, had to carry most of them to make the right decisions for the first edition. They really had no idea what quality was about.
To the men and women seated opposite her along the table, it seemed as though electricity crackled around Ali, a threatening energy. They each felt it and each was on guard, defensive and apprehensive. While Ali had been editor since the start of Blaze Australia, Nina’s quiet presence had kept her in check. The staff knew this. But there had been enough prickly one-on-one confrontations with Ali that had sent a clear message to the staff – Ali was tough and uncompromising and they wondered what she’d unleash the minute Nina was out the door. For once the editorial team felt united. Them against Her. Bickering and competitiveness between the staff were commonplace. They worked in a supercharged atmo
sphere of pressure and creative energy that each person handled in their own way. Occasional frictions were inevitable. But here they sat silently waiting, wondering who would first feel the sting of Ali’s tongue.
Ali moved straight to business. ‘Before we start on long-term strategies, there are more immediate matters I’d like to address. First off, as you know, Larissa Kelly is my deputy editor. We have a working relationship from Blaze in New York, which means we understand the Blaze ethos. However,’ Ali threw a polite smile at Larissa, ‘this magazine will act completely independently of the New York edition. Blaze Australia will have its own identity. It is up to us to make Blaze a success.’
Larissa nodded, but Ali had no intention of allowing Larissa to say anything and moved quickly on to her agenda. ‘Housekeeping first. I intend to make a number of significant changes. I realise they will not all be welcome, but they are in the best interests of the magazine. I have been given a charter for a fresh start. Before I explain what that is, however, would anyone like to say anything?’ Ali sat back expecting a little speech of welcome, at the very least an expression of goodwill. There was stony silence.
