Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  Belinda watched Ali leave, waited ten minutes and then rang the garage security attendant. ‘Has she gone?’

  ‘Yup. The car’s halfway down the block.’

  ‘Thanks, Steve.’

  Belinda had set up the Ali coastwatch. Several times Ali had left the office and then caught the elevator back upstairs to surprise anyone standing around chatting or otherwise slacking off. She unnerved staff by descending unannounced into cubicles and offices, demanding to see what they were working on. Once, on finding a small group sharing a birthday cake for one of the art department boys, she had issued an edict that personal celebrations should be observed out of office hours. Two people poring over personal photographs would jump apart feeling guilty if Ali came into view.

  More and more, staff members kept to themselves, busying themselves with their individual tasks until meetings and collaborative decisions had to be made.

  Ali liked it that way. Blaze was a business and she ran it according to her rules. If someone needed to see her they could make an appointment. Occasionally she would step out of her office and ask a particular staff member if he or she had any problems. This was her compromise to executive–staff relations. She found she quite liked to prowl the halls checking all was humming along, without a lot of time-wasting and noisy chatter. Aware of Ali’s expectations, the staff sat before silent computer screens and emailed each other rather than stroll around the corner with a cup of coffee in hand to chat over an idea or problem.

  Nina’s innovative ideas to make the work environment a comfortable, relaxing and productive place now seemed as far away as Nina herself. The floor below the Blaze offices was a private club, available to the Blaze staff as well as other tenants in the building. It had a gym and pool, a relaxation centre with a meditation room. On call were a masseuse, reflexologist, chiropractic healer and reiki practitioner. Meals were served bistro style in an open room filled with bright, funky furniture. In one corner were lounges with a large-screen TV, magazines and newspapers. Off this were rooms with beds and showers for those who worked extra long hours or into the night.

  The staff also had access to a children’s creche nearby and there were plans to establish more facilities. Nina had called in a specialist in workplace environments to make Blaze a friendly, non-toxic, efficient, fun place to be. It encouraged people to be productive, to enjoy their work and not to feel they were choosing between a life and a career.

  Under Ali, people who had taken advantage of these facilities in office hours were soon unearthed. Ali had made it clear they either changed their attitude to fit this leisure space into their own time, or they could go their own way.

  Ali was rarely seen in any of the communal areas. She ate in her office or attended business lunches. No one was aware of her ever meeting friends. Indeed, she had dropped a comment, at Belinda’s constant attempts to intrude into her privacy, that she wouldn’t be allowing time for friendships during her twelve-month stay.

  Ali slipped into her chair at the Yellow Brick Road and Dane took over, shooing Tottie away. ‘I’ll do Miss Ali. Head massage darling?’

  Ali leaned back and felt the warm water slide through her hair. Dane’s fingers worked from her temples across her head. Ali closed her eyes and slowly the tension eased in her neck and shoulder muscles.

  There was no one near them and Dane leaned close to her as he worked, the running water muffling his voice from the rest of the salon. ‘Been big changes at Chic magazine. Their style editor has been poached by Glory mag. She whipped in here in a brand-new baby Merc convert . . . a little inducement to leave, I believe.’

  ‘Umm. Is she any good?’ asked Ali drowsily.

  ‘In bed or at work, dearie? Though it’s now the one and same I hear. She’s in bed with the owner of Boysies, that new homewares that’s growing bigger than Conran ever imagined. Heard about the inside running on their new home collection. Lots of money being spent on big swishy ads. We’re doing the rugs and slap.’

  Ali opened an eye and looked at Dane.

  ‘Hair and make-up sweetie,’ he translated.

  ‘What else? What about cover stories?’

  ‘Wouldn’t know about storieeees . . . but they’re after our serious footy star hunk to pose in leathers on a Harley. Saying he’s been offered a guest appearance in a TV police series. Seems he was caught misbehaving in an S&M bar and so his people are doing a cover-up job in the legit press in case it’s leaked. Making hard core look like high fashion or something.’

  ‘He was researching his role, right?’

  Dane laughed. ‘Something like that. The football fans might buy it, but nobody round the Oxford Street end of town will!’

  ‘Wasn’t he just paid zillions to front a bunch of health food products? One of those wholesome family companies?’

  Dane sniggered as he wrapped a towel around Ali’s head, beginning the lengthy highlights process. ‘Puts a whole new meaning on lunch boxes and snack foods if you ask me.’

  Larissa tapped at Ali’s door, marvelling at the editor’s sleekly groomed appearance. Larissa had not slept well. Gerry still couldn’t work out the time difference, or didn’t want to, and had rung her at 3 a.m. They’d talked for an hour and he’d listened patiently to her stories about Ali, the staff, Miche’s impending arrival, the hassles of living in a new city.

  Finally he’d asked: ‘Riss, what about me? Do you miss me?’

  ‘Of course I do. I hate this lonely bed. I have a lovely house and no you to share it with.’

  ‘No one to cook you dinner, eh? Rub your back, give you a cuddle . . .’

  ‘All of that. Do you miss me?’

  ‘Hell, no!’ He gave a low chuckle that made her tingle. ‘Riss, I’m not going to tell you how much I miss you. It’s not fair to lay that on you with all you have on your plate. You chose to do this.’

  ‘Gerry . . . we agreed, this is a step up for me. I know it’s hard but . . . it’s the middle of the night . . . I’m really tired.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Sorry I woke you. Just remember, Riss, you chose to do this . . .’

  ‘You could be here! You’d love it! It’d be so good for you . . . This is a perfect place to explore your potential as an artist. The pressure wouldn’t be on here like it is in New York. Gerry, come over, please.’

  ‘Riss, calm down. We agreed you needed two months to settle in. I’m working on it. Listen, go back to sleep. Email me the shit and then we can just talk about the happy things. I miss you, cupcake.’

  She smiled in the darkness. ‘Be good. I miss you too.’

  ‘I love you, Riss.’

  ‘Love you.’ The phone went dead. Larissa punched her pillow and settled under the covers. But she didn’t go back to sleep. At 6 a.m. she rose and made coffee.

  Now it was 10 a.m. and Larissa felt exhausted. Ali was looking at her expectantly. ‘Ali, the LA bureau has called to say that Dixon Landers is engaged to be married. They could go for an exclusive.’

  ‘Landers . . . What do you think?’

  ‘Well, he was Australia’s biggest soapy star, and he’s made two major movies since he’s been in LA. And he’s tipped for an Oscar nomination. He’s celeb news.’ Larissa stressed the derisory word ‘celeb’.

  ‘He works for me.’

  ‘There’s a hitch – so to speak.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘No. I hear he’s gay.’

  ‘That is news. So who’s he marrying? His boyfriend or his manager?’

  ‘He’s marrying a lady. A female. A make-up artist.’

  ‘You saying he wants to change?’ asked Ali.

  ‘No, he wants a green card. To stay in the US. It’s a business deal.’

  ‘And we can break this story?’

  ‘I was thinking of the Hollywood Wedding for Aussie Star angle, not the Gay Star in Sham Marriage deal. Though it will be obvious to anyone with a few smarts. He’s never been publicly outed.’

  ‘Makes it less of a story. How would we play it?’ />
  ‘Do the honeymoon. Exotic location, exclusive, intimate photos.’ Larissa was making her distaste clear. ‘If we want it.’

  ‘What’s it going to cost us?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s too showbizzy, too tabloid? We’d be competing with the paparazzi and the supermarket sleazoids if the word leaks.’

  Ali ignored Larissa’s last comment. ‘Where are they going for the honeymoon?’

  ‘The Great Barrier Reef. An island. I didn’t pay that much attention to the details. I’m really just letting you know about it. I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

  ‘He’s big news. We can make a deal with London to share the costs on this. That Aussie TV soap of his was the top rater in the UK. Can’t we set up something else at the same time to defray the costs? A fashion shoot? Travel piece? Competition to join the happy couple?’

  Larissa winced. ‘Ali, I thought we’d discussed freebies and promotional tie-ins. It’s just not us.’

  Ali flicked a hand dismissively. ‘It’s time to drop that stuffy thinking. We’re in business like everyone else. We have a product to sell and competition is the name of the game. We just have to do it better, right?’

  Larissa’s head was thumping. ‘Fine. Tell me how we deal with trailing after an airhead actor on his phony honeymoon with two competition winners in tow – who could be from the other side of the country, a farm outside Perth, who have never left the state before, and have probably never read Blaze?’

  Ali grinned. ‘You’re saying some hick couple who love Dixon Landers’ movies only bought Blaze for the competition, and therefore are not our usual readership.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘So if we do it and they win, then we ask our farmer friends why they bought Blaze and we use them as a promotion to show them this magazine is for all Aussies. That’s how wide our market needs to be in this country. It’s something for nothing, Larissa. We should be making sure a couple like these people win the chance to holiday on a tropical island with their own Hollywood heart-throb. If they win, how many of their friends and neighbours will start buying Blaze to see what’s in it for them?’

  ‘Ali, such competitions aren’t new to magazines.’

  ‘To us they are. We’ll do it with our usual style, first class all the way. We can do a contra with the resort for a free ad in Blaze. Make the island Blaze’s “Place in the South Pacific”.’ Ali was warming to her idea. While it wasn’t Triton policy elsewhere in the world, it seemed to her it could work in the commercial free-for-all of Australia. Piracy and entrepreneurs disguising themselves as Robin Hood, while feathering their own nests were alive and well below the equator. The rules that applied back in New York seemed unnecessary here. ‘Every couple of months we could do a “Favourite Place of Blaze”, like Fiona was suggesting for north Canada. Is this island like Mustique, or is it touristy?’

  ‘Ali, I have no idea. I’ll look into it.’ Larissa hurried from the office before Ali could take off again. At her desk, she rested her head on her hands and wished she’d never passed on the message for Ali about Dixon Landers’ wedding. She’d assumed it would be dismissed out of hand. This was supermarket tabloid stuff.

  Oh, God, what was she doing here?

  *

  Ali buzzed Belinda. ‘I want to talk to the head of advertising at the Happi Food company. The one that just signed up that football star . . . it was announced last week.’

  When the advertising director of Happi Foods came on the line, Ali kept the niceties brief before plunging in. ‘I’m wondering if I could send my advertising manager around to persuade you to take out a contract to advertise your products in Blaze. Our demographics are very suited to your market.’ She listened as he waffled at the other end of the line. ‘I am very aware you’re planning an expensive TV campaign with your star spokesperson. That’s why I thought you might be changing tack and would be open to new avenues for your advertising. Given the circumstances.’

  There was a pause at the end of the line and Ali went on pleasantly. ‘I understand one of those nasty TV shows is planning to do the whole sordid story about him . . . yes, it could be very unfortunate.’ She visualised the man at the other end of the phone with his head in his hand. ‘Of course, there are ways to stop the story . . . if one has influence. And if it’s worth one’s while . . .’ She waited, smiling slightly. ‘I thought you would see it that way. No promises, but I’m sure the network would see fit to drop the story. Shame to disillusion all those sports fans. Though it would have been a nice way for them to stick it to their competition, which has the football TV rights. Now, could Reg Craven see you in the next day or so?’

  Ali called Reg. ‘Happi Foods are going to take out a nice fat advertising contract with us. They’re dumping or downplaying their football person’s budget to go in Blaze instead . . . Why? Well, I did him a small favour.’

  Ali hung up, pleased at Reg’s stunned reaction – glad for the revenue but annoyed he hadn’t landed the account. So much of this was mere wheeling and dealing in perceptions. As far as Ali knew, unless Dane had talked to someone else – and for what she was paying him privately for any information he gleaned, he’d better not be – no TV show knew about the incident in the bar. She had bluffed the food company. She needed Reg to sign them up quickly before anything did leak out.

  The concierge at Georges Cinq opened the door of the limousine waiting for Miche, Nina and Claudia Harrison, the elegant Belgian-born wife of the Australian Ambassador to Paris. ‘Mesdames, amusez-vous bien aux collections! Lesquels voyez-vous aujourd’hui?’

  ‘Christian Lacroix. Merci, Pierre.’

  Miche glanced out the window of the limousine at the Parisian scenes, so familiar from movies and postcards. ‘I can’t believe I’m here doing this!’

  Claudia leaned over and tapped her knee, ‘Me too, petite. After eighteen months here, I pinch myself every day. Despite being Belgian, I adore this city.’

  Nina and Miche laughed at Claudia’s rich guttural and rolling ‘Rs’. Even after spending many years of her life in Australia, her Belgian accent hadn’t softened.

  ‘Nina, this must be so humdrum to you,’ sighed Miche. ‘You go everywhere, know everyone – or rather they know you. In New York I hadn’t realised how famous you were over here.’

  ‘Only in small circles, Miche. I’ve been lucky with friends. And don’t forget my work opens doors. Though when I started, that wasn’t a consideration.’

  Miche gave her an affectionate smile. ‘Well, when you turn out something as spectacular as Blaze, it’s no wonder. I so want a successful career in journalism. I love writing about life, what’s happening around me. One day I would like to publish my journals.’

  ‘Miche is a serious chronicler. And really that’s what magazines are about, reflecting what’s going on around us,’ said Nina.

  ‘Well, chérie,’ said Claudia to Miche, ‘are you going to write something about the collections? It’s madness, wonderful, but crazy. We are having a reception at the embassy for a few Australian designers soon – two beautiful people, Collette Dinnigan and Len Osborne – and also the new little model everyone is mad about. She’s Australian and she is already going to be sooo famous. And still such a baby. You must meet her.’

  Nina was quietly delighted with Claudia’s idea. It was a fabulous opportunity for Miche and the concept came free of any suggestion of pressure from Nina. ‘It certainly does sound like a first-class story,’ she added. ‘What do you think, Miche?’

  ‘A peer perspective?’ mused Miche.

  ‘Why not? You aren’t qualified to comment on the fashions, but a story on how the Australian designers have made it this far sounds like interesting copy. The model angle adds a touch of spice. I’m sure you’ll produce a story that’s different from the fashion coverage,’ suggested Nina. ‘As far as I know, this new model has done a few covers and spreads and this is her first time on the catwalk. There hasn’t been any personal stuff.’

&nbs
p; ‘It’s not Sally Shaw, is it?’ said Miche, crinkling her forehead as she vaguely recalled reading about the new Australian find in the model world.

  ‘That’s her. But you know, Miche, you too are so pretty, you could be a model. You can make such money . . .’ Claudia shook her wrists making her bracelets jangle. ‘Though maybe you are too attractive. Some of these models, they look like creatures from space.’

  ‘Not me! I’d hate it. I’m too shy. And I couldn’t pose, do that stuff.’ Miche dismissed the suggestion.

  But the two older women appraised the lovely younger one sitting opposite them in the stretch limousine thinking she could very well be a model – if classic good looks and a wholesome body were back in vogue. Miche had high cheekbones, wonderful green cat’s eyes and silky blonde hair that today was swept up – normally it fell in smooth waves to her shoulders. Her complexion tended to be light olive and tanned easily. Miche detested the way everyone in New York seemed to favour dark clothes and pale skin tones. Just like the artificial light and grimy, sunless streets so many lived in. She had always loved Nina’s more Mediterranean look and choice of brilliant colours.

  With Miche in Paris, Nina became her goddaughter’s guide to the city of chic, leading Miche into the grand salons of the design houses, where the couture price tags made Miche gasp.

  ‘We’ll buy you one good outfit, a classic that you’ll wear for years. But you must love it first,’ said Nina.

  Miche had been unable to fall in love with suits or dresses that could pay for her first six months in Australia. So they had compromised. Nina bought her a pair of Ferragamo shoes and a Chanel handbag, labels she loved. Both were in quality black leather that was elegant yet could be worn and carried with jeans. Then they’d gone shopping along the Right Bank. As they passed the Louvre, Miche clutched Nina, ‘I must spend a day in there!’

  ‘You must. But today – and tomorrow – is for shopping.’

  ‘Where are we going tomorrow? I see why you said wear comfortable shoes,’ laughed Miche.