Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  Ali had argued, cajoled and finally convinced Manny to expand the budget for the launch party, persuading him that the attendant publicity would give them the equivalent of a major outlay on advertising by gaining free exposure in the media.

  She had hired Tracey Ford as Blaze’s public relations manager. Tracey was to be responsible for the magazine’s public image, its social functions and media events and she was to act as Ali’s personal publicist.

  The theme for the launch party was A Thousand Nights in One, an exotic blend of oriental romance and Arabian ambience.

  As guests arrived through the main gates to where the front lawn of the house was encircled by the driveway, a fountain with a goddess statue glowed under a spotlight that also highlighted foaming iridescent bubbles and floating flowers holding small, lighted candles. This was the centrepiece to a changing parade of entertainment – fire-eaters, jugglers, magicians, contortionists dressed as lions and leopards, masked dancers and singers.

  Between the house and the gardens, braziers burned with musk and verbena. Fake, jewelled fruit hung from tree branches and the shrubbery bloomed with fat silk flowers that glittered from the twinkling lights in their centres.

  Standing calmly on either side of the portico were two elephants, each magnificently decorated with a studded silk headband, a plume pinned by a large ruby-coloured stone in the centre. Ornate fabric cloaks hung across their broad backs.

  From this greeting at the entrance, guests began to realise they were in for something never before seen in Australia in the way of magazine launches. The spectacle of the setting as a background to the lavishly costumed men and women stepping from their limousines was dazzling.

  Valets dressed as young princes spirited away the cars as guests were greeted in the main foyer by Baron Oscar Von Triton and his thirty-year-old son, Jacques – one of the world’s most eligible bachelors – elegantly dressed as sultan and heir. Between them stood Alisson Gruber, making her own entrance into Sydney’s social and business community.

  Ali’s harem pants were gathered at the hips below a gold satin jacket, open just enough to glimpse the red jewel in her navel and the embroidered bra top. Her hair was buried beneath a tight-fitting gold scarf caught in the centre by another rhinestone in an antique clasp, with matching long earrings.

  As she’d planned to, the editor of Blaze perfectly complemented the older man and his dashing son. Oscar carried off his exotic outfit with easy comfort, his silk turban held by a small plume and jewelled pin, his bisque silk pants and shirt covered by a green silk coat, delicately trimmed with what looked like black mink. Jacques’ ruby brocade tunic and tight pants with the emerald silk turban more than matched his handsome face.

  Ali, having memorised every name on the invitation list, introduced each guest to the Baron and his son, who congratulated her on the spectacular setting.

  ‘There’s more to come,’ she promised.

  The mansion’s grounds, which had once housed the privately owned, but open-to-the-public, zoo, swept down to an old seawall beyond large marquees lit by candlelight and oil torches. The marquees’ interiors were lined in silken swathes. Flamingos and peacocks strolled on the lawns. Swans drifted sleepily on the dark waterlily-strewn pond. Spider monkeys dressed in silk ruffs chattered in the old trees, thin silver chains keeping them a safe distance from guests.

  Throughout the house and gardens, music and song were provided by strolling flautists, zither players and carolling singers. Dancers wrapped in gauzy gold and silver fabrics – the men wearing feathered turbans, the women swaying behind large elaborate feathered fans – interpreted the exotic themes. At a row of small intimate tents, mysteriously shrouded in red velvet with glowing crystal balls at the entrance, early guests began lining up to hear their fortunes.

  Inside each marquee, and through the main rooms of the exotically decorated mansion, massive sheathed cages were suspended from the ornate ceilings, hinting that they held secrets yet to be revealed.

  After an hour of cocktails, the official ceremony was held in the decorated main ballroom, which continued the theme of the evening. A small orchestra played. Low tables were set with heavy silver cutlery and goblets, plump velvet and brocade cushions replacing chairs. The richness of scattered Persian carpets was reflected in the subtly lit Triton art collection imported from galleries around the globe. In turn, tall gilt-framed mirrors enlarged the ballroom and multiplied its guests as they gathered to hear the speeches.

  With a trumpet fanfare, the party buzz settled and the master of ceremonies stepped to the discreet microphone on the flower-smothered podium. Throwing aside his Lawrence of Arabia scarf, which had hidden his face below the eyes, he began to speak in husky tones, a voice known around the world. ‘Good evening, I am Charles Vaughan, welcome to the world of Blaze.’

  There was a gasp as the most famous and loved of America’s long parade of movie stars flashed his trademark smile.

  ‘How on earth did she manage that?’ whispered Maxwell, one of the top fashion designers in Australia, who was seated next to Fiona.

  ‘The Baron is the major financier for his new production company which has just signed up to work with Fox Studios here at Moore Park. It didn’t hurt either that Larissa, Ali’s American deputy, has a cousin, Julie, who is casting agent for the first production, which, naturally, is starring our MC.’

  ‘What’s this cost?’ The designer was quickly plotting how he could talk to the star. Perhaps offer to make him an outfit, though there was nothing in their current line macho enough. Vaughan would probably want R.M. Williams gear anyway. But if he could at least be photographed with him, Maxwell thought, he could do a deal.

  ‘We’re doing an interview with him and a big spread on the new film, which will be one of the biggest to be made at Fox here,’ Fiona said with a wry grin, reading Maxwell’s mind.

  ‘That’s a great look on him,’ said Maxwell, studying the rugged, fifty-something movie star in his white jodhpurs and soft leather knee-high boots with a small sabre on his belt. The silk shirt fell carelessly open to reveal his chest. The celebrity MC flung the white parachute silk cape back over his shoulder.

  ‘I am an actor,’ Charles Vaughan began in his beautiful voice, his poised manner lightly acknowledging the tittered response to his supposed humility – he had just out-polled Rudolf Valentino and Clark Gable as the World’s Sexiest Star of the Century. He continued, ‘and even for me, this extraordinary set . . .’ he waved his arms about the room, ‘deserves a special mention. All credit . . . to the writers, photographers and designers at Blaze . . . and their editor, Alisson Gruber.’

  ‘Was this Ali’s idea?’ asked Steve Vickers, the Trends ad man sitting next to Larissa.

  ‘Ali was given free rein, and she bolted,’ said Larissa. ‘Not just the theme and cover of the first issue, but this party as well. They make an interesting contrast.’

  ‘Whose place is this?’ asked Steve, who had seen more than a few lavish homes in his years in advertising.

  ‘The family who’ve just bought this are overseas, surviving Internet e-commerce zillionaires apparently,’ said Larissa. ‘This is going to be their little weekender. Ali rang them and talked them into letting her use the house. They’d die if they could see what she’s done.’

  ‘Who’d she find to put this together?’

  Larissa smiled. ‘As always, Ali went to the top, to Opera Australia and hired their people, props, costumes. I don’t know the figure, but I gather they couldn’t afford to say no. The opera company features in the first issue as well.’

  ‘I’ve seen the ad for the new membership drive. And the design for the ticket offer for Blaze readers next season.’

  ‘Ali is rather good at networking exercises,’ commented Larissa.

  ‘You scratch my back . . .’ smiled Steve. ‘Well, this will have everyone talking and buying the magazine. The ad campaign is a big one.’ He shook his head in admiration. ‘Ali was always going to be a name in
this town because of her position, but after this bash, she’s going to be a power figure in her own right.’

  ‘She’s certainly making the most of it while Nina is out of town,’ agreed Larissa mildly.

  ‘But I suspect, for Ali, our little backwater is just a stepping-stone to a New York editorship. Look out Tina Brown, eh?’ added Steve, turning his attention back to where the Baron was thanking Charles Vaughan, then began speaking about Blaze.

  The Baron radiated dignity, charm and warmth. His accent had softened after so many years in America. Always courteous in public, he could be a fierce business opponent, used to having his way in boardrooms and behind the scenes. Though, legend had it, never by bullying or temper. It was not becoming or necessary for him to descend from the commanding peak where he ran his affairs. His lieutenants charged middle management with firing the bullets when necessary.

  In reflective mood he began, ‘Once entering the milieu of publishing, I embraced it as a business. And Lord knows, a firm business hand was needed. I was not about to join the ranks of the so-called “press barons” and continue the ruthless folly of their ways. Along the way I stumbled occasionally, but it is a foolish man who does not learn from his mistakes. One of my wisest decisions was to convince an energetic and independent young woman in Sydney back in the seventies to join our organisation. She wouldn’t sell me her magazine so we joined forces.

  ‘That partnership with Nina Jansous has grown into the most successful family of magazines in the world. So it is exceedingly pleasing for me to be here tonight to see the newest star in the Blaze stable rise again from where Blaze was born. Over the years, Nina has persuaded me that newspapers and magazines are as much arbiters of public opinion, taste and knowledge as they are a business. Marrying experience with explanation and possibly influence, is the challenge that daily absorbs us.

  ‘Nina suggested I do what the renowned British newspaperman, Cecil Harmsworth King did, and send our editors and senior writers to the emerging, as well as established, corners of the globe so that they might more fully understand what motivates and concerns people and governments. And she taught me that within the big picture there is also the pulse of daily events that involve each of us.’ He paused, glancing at Ali. ‘One of the strengths of Blaze has been the people who make it happen. And none shines more brilliantly in our firmament than the orchestrator of not only this evening’s grand entertainment but also our new Blaze Australia. A star in her own right, and I salute her . . . dear guests, our reigning editor of the new Blaze Australia, Alisson Gruber.’ He held out his hand to bring Ali to the podium.

  She paused, smiling at him. The Baron gallantly kissed her hand and stepped back, leaving Ali alone at the microphone. There was a flurry of flashlights and she waited while the cameras snapped and whirred before speaking. ‘I am delighted to be founding editor of the best magazine in Australia, playing our part in an international arena where Blaze is the leader – technologically as well as creatively. I hope you will share in, and be part of, the grand vision of Blaze. Thank you for coming, I hope to know each of you better in the near future. And now, if Monsieur Jacques Triton would like to step forward and do the honours, I will introduce you to Blaze. Then, please enjoy the rest of the evening.’

  Obligingly Jacques leapt forward and Ali led him to where a gold-tasselled rope held midnight-blue velvet drapes closed. At Ali’s direction, Jacques gave the rope a tug and the drapes swept upwards revealing three huge video screens. The lights dimmed, the music swelled and the vision began.

  In a six-minute presentation, guests were surrounded with Blaze. It began as an introduction to Triton Communications and expanded its focus to Nina Jansous and her string of Blaze magazines in the leading cities of the world. Then Ali became the star . . . summing up the Blaze ethos, finally presenting what everyone had been waiting to see – the cover and page after page of the first issue of Blaze Australia.

  The lights went on and fifty child models, dressed as space-age, cyber-chic cherubs, danced into the ballroom handing out copies of the first issue of Blaze to every guest.

  Ali had talked through the concept of the first issue with Nina and the editorial board in Sydney, and Larissa had sat in on a conference call. After tossing around the idea of major celebrities to grace the inaugural cover, Nina had suggested they go ‘classic’ and there was none better than the deco artwork of Erté that had launched the first Blaze magazine in New York all those years ago.

  Ali had disagreed. ‘Fabulous as it is, that’s looking backwards. We have to be ahead of the new millennium changes. Let’s be innovative and set a new standard and concept that’s right out there.’

  Nina and Larissa were taken aback at Ali’s enthusiasm, quickly admitting that ‘out there’ was no doubt more her area.

  ‘Let’s see what you come up with,’ said Nina.

  Ali had tracked down a young Sydney company specialising in experimental media effects. They had latched onto Ali’s ideas with alacrity and had negotiated a deal where part of the cost of the inaugural cover could be absorbed as a promotional product for their company.

  The first issue of Blaze Australia looked like a metallic silver semi-disc. Instead of the rectangular shape of magazines, it was shaped like a capital ‘D’, the gatefold being the straight line. The semicircle cover shone with an iridescent glow, the letters of Blaze embossed in deep violet against the silver. It took a moment to see that the shimmering illustration was a version of a naked Venus arising from the sea like a Botticelli nymph. But, as the magazine moved, the image changed, and a 3-D hologram revealed a surreal fashion shot of a space-age woman. Sleek in a body fabric of rubberised metal under a glittering hand-stitched lace overcoat, she’d had the front of her hairline shaved, the rest of her long hair multihued and threaded with jewelled lights that seemed to spark with their own power. On her head, a pure gold skullcap held golden halos suspended above by thin gold wires. Her make-up was extreme – lips and lids sparkling fantasy colours, giving her huge eyes and high cheeks an alien look.

  There was no cover copy, just a delicate outline of Blaze’s logo – a shimmering dragonfly. On the bottom right corner was a thumbprint. When pressed, a voice from a micro-chip embedded in the cover spoke, listing the contents of this issue.

  Articles raised questions of eroticism, gender, generation and style – and inspired the theme of the launch. There was also a commissioned article by Britain’s latest Booker Prize author looking at Celtic characteristics in Australian heritage. An Australian Nobel Prize science laureate contributed an article hypothesising that there could be evidence to support the weird but famous ‘bloodline conspiracy theory’ that extra terrestrial-human hybrids had ruled Sumer, Babylon, Greece and Troy, and were today putting in place world leaders to continue the line. There was an in-depth article called ‘Secrets of the Soil’, showing the link between soil health and human health.

  Guests eagerly spun through the limited edition preview copies. ‘Do you put it into a CD-ROM, an integrated system or serve hot food on it?’ wondered Charles Vaughan.

  Jacques fingered the slick magazine, still reeling from the cost factor. ‘You’re not doing this with every issue are you? We’ll be paupers in two issues.’

  Ali had known she’d face this kind of comment. But criticism coming from the proprietor’s son, who would step into his father’s shoes one day, was unnerving. ‘It’s just for the preview edition, a limited edition we’re selling as a collector’s item. Other copies are going to target advertisers, media, and the boys and gals at the big end of town.’

  ‘You think this will attract the advertisers? It’s a gamble. They could think an ad in Blaze is going to be very expensive. I assume your ad manager has already done deals with the big clients – as insurance. And what about your competitors, they are likely to unite to defend their advertising turf when they see a threat like this?’

  Ali’s eyes narrowed slightly but she continued to smile. ‘Is there anything you
like about the magazine?’ Not waiting for an answer, she continued. ‘We did hefty research,’ she said, omitting the word expensive. ‘We will have everyone wanting to be in this magazine as well as read it. I know Reg Craven is extremely happy with the advertising support so far.’ She glanced across the room where she’d last glimpsed the advertising manager, mentally planning a discussion with him. They had already clashed over the style and type of ads he wanted for Blaze, which Ali knew did not fit comfortably with ads the other Blaze magazines carried.

  ‘It’s building on and maintaining that advertising support that makes a magazine work,’ said Jacques. ‘Believe me, I’ve seen my share of publications birthed, then murdered. I hope you don’t become swayed too much by the Nina mystique that seems to mesmerise my father. She has done a brilliant job over the years, but this . . .’ he lifted the magazine by a corner, ‘could be construed as a very indulgent last fling.’

  Ali suddenly saw a chink of light. ‘Jacques, I won’t pull punches. While Nina is away, with the board and management behind me, I will make this magazine work. Tonight is only the . . .’

  ‘Of course, it has to work,’ interjected Jacques. ‘We are financially committed. There is more than one magazine at stake. This could unravel a sizeable skein of the corporation.’ Seeing his father about to rejoin them, he changed tack. ‘I’d like to visit the offices as soon as I can.’

  ‘Let me know when would suit you.’ Ali gave a big smile as the Baron held out his arm.

  ‘My dear girl, may I escort you to the terrace, the buffet is ready. Joining us, Jacques?’

  ‘In a moment. I will just circulate a little more. Au revoir, à bientôt.’

  Ali nodded at him and turned her attention to the Baron. ‘Dare I ask for your opinion?