by Di Morrissey
‘Of you? Exotic, dazzling. Of this party? Superb, brilliant and clever.’ He led her towards the terrace.
‘I meant the magazine, the reason we’re here.’ Ali tried to make her voice light but her stomach was in a knot.
Baron Triton gave her arm a fatherly pat. ‘Dear Miss Ali, I think I know what my son might have been discussing with you. I think this issue is sensational, revolutionary. Expensive, yes. But you have achieved what I’m sure you intended – that everyone will be talking about Blaze. And you. You have done brilliantly. And I know you will subsequently rein in the horses and find creative ways to maintain the standard with, shall we say, less extravagance. The second edition is always the big test. I am not worried.’ He was handed a plate by a waiter and turned his attention to the food. ‘This Sydney seafood, incredible.’
Ali was grateful for the expression of faith in her, but she knew it also carried an undercurrent of warning. Watching the bottom line, no matter how dazzling the magazine, was what Triton was about.
Later in the evening, the shrouded cages that hung in each marquee were unveiled. A tug on a cord and each coloured cloth dropped away along with the bottom of the cage, showering the guests with silver balls, confetti and tiny fun gifts tied with silver ribbon.
Later the guests were summoned by the costumed staff tinging on small silver triangles to gather on the terrace that faced the waterfront for a special fireworks display.
The oohs and ahhs of delight came to a crescendo as, from the final blazing display, emerged a giant dragonfly hovering beneath the letters B l a z e.
*
Nina rang to speak to Ali for a report on the party. Belinda was still agog at being included in such a happening and told Nina that Tracey Ford was being swamped with requests to interview Ali and the Baron.
‘He won’t talk to the press, but Ali is all over the radio and TV and the biggest-selling Sunday paper is doing a piece,’ Belinda gushed. ‘Tracey says she’s lined up more media for Ali than a football star on Grand Final eve. Er, no Nina, Ali’s not here. She’s lunching with Baron Triton. Jacques is in the building, though. Would you like . . . ?’
‘No, don’t bother him, Belinda. I just wanted to know how it went. The ship is launched, good luck to all who sail in her, eh?’
‘Could be stormy seas ahead,’ said Belinda quietly. ‘But don’t you worry, you just enjoy your holiday and stop thinking about us back here. Blaze can carry on for a bit while you have a break.’
‘You’re right, Belinda. Please pass on my thanks for a brilliant job to everybody . . . absolutely everybody. I’ll email you a note to that effect. Personalise it and send it to everyone please. I will periodically check email messages where and when I can.’
‘I hope you don’t have a computer or a mobile in your handbag. Toss it in a bin! This is a break, remember,’ advised Belinda.
Nina gave a small chuckle. ‘Not even a lipstick. A map and a credit card, that’s all I’m carrying. I’ll send you back a little gift with Miche. Take care and thanks, Belinda.’
Sally Shaw was like a rocket with a fire beneath, waiting for maximum lift-off. Without Nina’s intervention with Sally’s Paris agency, Piste, Miche wouldn’t have been granted an exclusive interview, even with the Blaze connection. It was the power of Nina that had clinched it.
‘You understand the ground rules for the interview, Miche,’ Nina had said gently before Miche left.
‘Anything I do or say reflects on you, I know.’ Miche didn’t add that also put constraints on her story. But Nina knew what the neophyte reporter was thinking.
‘That shouldn’t stop you writing the story as you see it. I merely ask that you don’t abuse any privileges.’
Miche nodded and Nina read her reaction swiftly. ‘Young Sally is likely to be as nervous as you. She’s made a few important covers and is now the new discovery. Remember, she hasn’t ever been profiled. I’m not saying that she is hiding a dark, dreadful secret, but this is a pretty heady world to sling an innocent lamb into.’
‘Why would she do it?’
‘Ask her. What pretty young girl wouldn’t consider fame, money, glamour? Maybe, because of your background, you know more about the pitfalls of the fame game.’
‘Okay. I shall do as I was taught by my mom . . . never write the story before you have it.’
Now Miche sat on a stool in the corner of Bandeau’s photographic studio. She was somewhat amused at the bedlam happening around the large room, on the roof above the small penthouse Bandeau used while in Paris. It was a higgledy-piggledy building, as if disjointed shapes had been snapped together from giant toy building blocks.
A glass skylight gave the room a luminous quality. Dark drapes could be pulled across the French doors that led onto the roof where Bandeau had bright geraniums in giant urns and a small wrought-iron table with chairs. From here you were part of a rooftop community of attics, terrace gardens and sloping tiles that had seen a hundred or more years of sun, snow and rain, above the crowded narrow street that ran into a tree-framed square.
Inside the studio it was another world. Miche scribbled notes trying to pin down the atmosphere . . . energy . . . frenetic . . . abandoned . . . sexual . . . chaotic . . . so many people spinning around Sally as if she were in the eye of the hurricane . . . hairdresser, make-up artist, stylist, dresser, two photographer’s assistants and Bandeau giving orders . . . constantly peering through the camera, directing lights into position, fiddling with a gauzy curtain draped behind a small dais. A deep-blue velvet cloth unfurled behind the drifting gauze. A fan whirring to one side . . .
During a lull, Bandeau strode towards Miche, a smaller camera and light meter hanging round his neck. He lifted the camera and snapped off several photos in quick succession as Miche stiffened, then flung her hands before her face. ‘Oh no, please . . .’
‘Gotcha,’ he grinned, lowering the camera. ‘You’re the girl from Blaze, right?’ He perched on an upturned box. ‘Is this an interview or an audition?’
‘I harbour no desire to be a model, thanks,’ said Miche firmly. ‘But tell me, what does make a model? How can you pick a “star” from those famed auditions?’
‘Ah, you’ve heard stories of casting couches and the affaires between models and their photographers.’ He caught Miche’s quizzical expression and laughed. ‘All true.’
He tapped his camera. ‘No one can make a model. This does. You can’t tell about a girl until you print the evidence. She works on film or she doesn’t.’
‘But surely there are aspects of the job that a top photographer can teach someone like Sally. She is still quite new at this,’ suggested Miche.
‘You can teach a few of the skills . . . but a top model has an innate sense . . . they just know how to connect with the camera. They find the light, they use their body. There is this chemical reaction that happens between the girl, the camera and the photographer. Sometimes even I don’t know, until I see the shots, how magical a girl can be.’
‘What is beauty? Lots of the top models aren’t actually beautiful in real life,’ said Miche, recalling the few models she had met in New York who appeared to be plain, yet in photographs looked ravishing.
Bandeau glanced around. ‘Sally is having her hair and face done.’ He lit a cigarette, fitting it into a long ivory holder, the affectation looking very natural. This was a man comfortable with being the provocateur, thought Miche. The stories about this supermodel-making photographer had been cited in the fashion bibles and been backstage fashion-show gossip for years. His reputation for finding, creating and making a girl famous then dropping her to find a new challenge, had even become the basis of a B-grade movie.
‘Being a top model is a bit like being a movie star – they have that indefinable charisma and the camera loves them. This is more intimate because they have a direct way of connecting with the beholder on the other side of my lens,’ said Bandeau slowly, as if thinking this through, aloud for the first time. ‘They have to h
ave a sense of fun and abandonment. After all, they aren’t following a script. They have to interpret the clothes in their own way. Actors tend to take their roles more seriously. They are playing a specific part, where models fantasise. And they’re a lot more physical. They have to be aware of how their bodies move and look and express a feeling in a frozen moment. I love girls who have trained as dancers.’
‘So what’s more important, the look of the picture, the clothes, or the model?’ asked Miche. ‘I always thought models were manipulated by the photographer, what she wears, by those kind of people.’ Miche pointed her pen at the fluttering, fussing women and men around Sally in the change room.
‘Models are manipulated to a degree – especially when young and starting out like Sally. Behind the lens, as well as when they’re in front of a camera. Agents, editors, stylists, designers – each one has a say in the interpretation of the clothes and the girl. With girls like Sally, they will want to keep her childlike for as long as possible. Each model has her own “Look”, even though they may change their hair colour, make-up and so on. They are still slotted in as a certain type and designers tend to want to use the models whose look marries with their collection.’
‘Do the girls wear the clothes, or the clothes wear the girl?’ asked Miche.
‘Designers might think clothes create the persona, that they are the director – the dictator – but I believe the model makes the clothes look good or not. And that is the art of a top model – to make even ugly clothes look appealing.’ He leaned back, satisfied that he had summed up the complex world of modelling in a few words.
Miche looked up from her notes. ‘So if Sally is successful because she has that childlike quality . . . does that mean her career is over when she changes . . . matures?’
‘Fashion is ephemeral and greedy. Everyone is always looking for something new, new, new. The latest, the hottest. The next big trend. If she lasts more than three years at the top she will be one of the few. And remember – for every one like her who makes it to the top, there are thousands and thousands who don’t even make it onto the ladder.’
Miche shook her head. ‘You’d have to want it an awful lot.’
‘Yes, this modelling world can be cruel, heartless, shallow, bitchy. More than it ever was. And there are the girls who are so hungry to succeed they will do anything – and I mean anything. Others, though not many, have such beauty and knack for the camera they don’t have to do anything. And don’t seem to care whether they succeed or not. They are relaxed and nonchalant in front of a camera. Interestingly, they are the girls that tend to go on to success in a big way, or move into other fields like acting.’ He studied Miche for a moment. ‘I think you’d photograph well, but you wouldn’t succeed as a model.’
‘Oh?’ she looked faintly amused. ‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t want it enough. You don’t want it because it doesn’t interest you. That would come through in a picture. You couldn’t sell a dress in that way.’
He stood up as Sally entered, holding up the hem of a long red evening gown, her eyes and mouth dramatically outlined in red, her hair pulled under a tall wimple-styled head-dress set with gems, a glistening gold snake wound up her thin pale arm. She carried heavy black sandals with carved, shiny black heels and walked into the pool of light where a giant throne armchair was placed in front of the gauze drape. A smoke machine began chugging and a low mist rolled across the studio floor. An assistant stood ready by the fan.
Bandeau lifted his camera as a conductor before an orchestra. ‘Your ladyship, this way, face into the light, chin down . . . oh, yes, little baby lady . . .’ He began moving as he snapped the shutter, the camera held to his face as if swaying in a private trance. Without moving his eye from the camera, he gestured and the fan clicked on and began blowing the smoke and billowing curtain around Sally.
She moved slowly, arcing an arm, allowing the folds of the long single sleeve of the dress to cascade. A tiny hand weighed with large rings touched the wimple. She turned, she looked over her shoulder straight into the lens, a shy but challenging look, before folding herself into the foetal position in the chair where she seemed lost in its massive wooden embrace. A small impish smile replaced the child seductress and suddenly, to Miche, she looked like a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes.
Bandeau finished the roll and handed the camera to his assistant who handed him a Hasselblad, which he held in front of his abdomen, framing the picture that would eventually be seen worldwide.
Miche was mesmerised. It was like watching a ballet. And she was suddenly aware there was music playing – a contemporary, wild harp piece. Everybody involved in this shoot stood in the shadowy corners of the studio watching the dance between the photographer and model.
Then it was over and Sally slipped from the chair to change clothes.
Bandeau took the glass of Scotch from his assistant. ‘This is part of a series. The other outfits were shot at a house in the country, sleeping hounds and dead heads on the wall, blazing fire, fur rugs. And at dawn on the wild moors leading the giant hounds. You get the scenario.’
‘Yes. Sounds . . . expensive,’ said Miche.
‘Who’s counting when a dress costs thousands of dollars?’ He shrugged, lighting another cigarette.
Miche poked her head behind the screen where bottles of champagne stood open. Sally was standing in flimsy lingerie – bloomers and a lacy corselet. Miche was shocked at the frailness of her body, her translucent skin and shadowy bones. Sally sipped champagne as her hair was raked by metal brushes, hair dryer and curling rod. The dresser handed her several pills.
‘Here you go, chérie, they’ll keep your eyes bright.’
Sally obediently swallowed and waved her glass at Miche. ‘Help yourself. French champagne by the bucket!’ She emptied her glass. ‘Where are we going for dinner, Bandeau?’ she shouted, adding in an aside to Miche, ‘It’s wild, we go to these crazy places for dinner, then clubs, end up at someone’s place . . . it’s wild,’ she repeated.
‘Surely you have a few hours of sleep before you go to work?’
Sally gave a giggle as a dresser poured more champagne into her glass. ‘Work, you call this work!’
Larissa and Ali sat opposite each other doing the final rundown for the next issue.
‘Ali, I can’t agree about this Dixon Landers story . . . it’s tacky, his last movie has bombed and, frankly, my biggest problem is the contra deal on the island. When we take something for free, we’re under an enormous obligation.’
‘Don’t be so po-faced, Larissa. Reg Craven is going all out for it. ’
Larissa drank some mineral water to gather her thoughts. The advertising manager was fast becoming Ali’s enemy. She didn’t particularly warm to Reg, a blustering salesman who favoured bow ties and a hearty but arrogant manner – especially towards women. He had bulldozed his way through the ranks from sales, to circulation to advertising. Now as head of advertising – the revenue-making side of the magazine – he held equal power to the editor, in theory. ‘And how many pages is all that contra going to take away from editorial?’ Larissa finally asked.
Ali frowned. ‘I’ve told him he can’t go over our forty-five per cent advertising–editorial balance.’
‘Ali, you know how it is. I bet they’re no different over here. That guy will come in at the last moment having done a deal and sold off another couple of pages. Management isn’t going to knock back revenue – especially when the magazine is becoming established in the media-buying world.’
‘I’ll speak to him,’ said Ali shortly. ‘So are you with me, or not? I want to do it.’ Ali waited for Larissa’s response out of courtesy, but as editor, if she wanted Blaze to cover the wedding story, it would happen.
Larissa spoke slowly, phrasing her words carefully so as not to offend Ali, who tended to take any criticism personally. ‘The advertising space aside, there is the ethical dilemma of accepting paid-for expenses in return f
or pretty-picture coverage in the magazine. You know what a sensitive issue this is . . . look at how the “cash for comment” blew up in the faces of those radio guys. Print at least has always made it clear when something has been paid for – “advertorials” always have Advertisement or Advertising Supplement at the top of them. The papers here have had to adjust their policies, so why should we charge in and abuse the ethics?’
‘So? We put a disclaimer at the bottom – Blaze staff working on this story were the guests of Heron Island.’
‘Ali, Triton editorial policy has always been no contra deals. You know how it was in New York. You can’t change the rules out here and expect them not to know. And if you declare it, that looks worse . . . Blaze paying for the wedding, Blaze going along with a sham event so this guy can have a US green card, Blaze doing a travel feature in return for accommodation, Blaze doing a fashion spread to disguise the reason we’re on Heron and dressing the bridal party.’
‘Listen, this has enormous potential for Blaze. We are doing a side deal with the record company. We allow them in on our exclusive and they can use the footage in their next video clip.’
‘They won’t wait till our issue comes out, and you run the risk they’ll leak pictures. It’s too dangerous, Ali. Besides, it’s unethical for Blaze to be involved.’ Larissa sat back, folding her arms.
‘That’s your final opinion?’
‘Yes.’
Ali paused and leaned back in her chair. She could insist on it going ahead, but there was the niggling worry that Larissa was correct in what she said. Ali believed there was still a way to do the story, sliding past the Triton policy, and come out with the scoop she wanted. It was risky because of the time frame, and guests had been known to sneak quickie pictures and sell them to a tabloid overnight. Perhaps it wasn’t worth fighting Larissa over a point of honour and losing in the end. If she gave in now, Larissa would feel vindicated and be less vigilant or aggressive in the near future. Ali didn’t like anyone scoring points over her, but she had to admit, the Dixon Landers story wasn’t the one she’d want to stick her neck out for, if any problems arose. Maybe Ali should cast around for a truly big fish before making a stand on the issue of contra deals. The less she paid and the bigger the name, the more credit she’d accrue. Okay, she decided. She’d let this one go and plan for bigger fish to fry. Let Larissa think she was being amenable. Then Larissa wouldn’t complain about her to Nina. Or watch Ali too closely.
