Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  Tony didn’t say anything at the obvious recent turnaround in Ali’s attitude. He’d heard how she’d originally pushed to cover the movie star wedding on Heron Island before Larissa had convinced her of the danger of contravening Triton policy . . . though Ali liked to give the impression it had been her idea to stick to ethics.

  But as she hadn’t dismissed it out of hand, he ploughed on. ‘Guyana is exotic, different, has spectacular scenery, a ton of natural assets – waterfalls, big rivers, fishing, hunting, Amerindian culture, diamond and gold prospectors . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes. Would someone like me enjoy it?’ asked Ali, and Tony realised she was serious.

  ‘I’m not sure. You seem, um, very New York . . . Guyana’s charm is, well, somewhat primitive.’

  ‘Perhaps I should check it out.’ She cocked her head.

  Tony hesitated, the impact of the memo sinking in. ‘Do you want to go out there?’

  ‘I can’t spare the time. Rio sounds more to my liking. When that kind of trip comes up, I’ll take it.’ She was brisk. ‘I’m yet to be convinced we can afford to send you to Guyana. I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Ali, I edit a travel section. I know we commission most of our stories from freelancers, but sometimes I actually go places. It’s in my contract. And someone has to pay!’ he said in exasperation.

  ‘I’ll talk to Reg shortly.’

  Tony left her office and went straight to the advertising manager before Ali called Reg.

  Ali watched him go, knowing he’d be trotting straight down the hall to Reg. These boys stuck together. There were definite divisions in the office – the older women of experience, the young female challengers, the male management hierarchy, the editorial men who tended to side with the older women . . . and Ali. Ali was a force unto herself. It was not just the way she worked, it was the pattern of her life. Ali was a loner. And she had long ago trained herself not to analyse the reasons why.

  After talking with Tony, Reg went to Ali’s office armed with figures and a strong argument. He was pleased he had ammunition to fire. It annoyed him how she was able to see through his arguments and refused to be intimidated by him. Though he saw it as respect. Reg considered his power and role at Blaze superior to that of Ali. He kowtowed to senior male management. Women were expected to know they were below him on the executive ladder.

  He spoke through stretched lips, but to Ali his tone was condescending. ‘We have to attract advertisers with content that’s different, special, a deal no one else has. We could pull in advertising to support a South American feature. If we have to, an advertorial. Fran in promotions can whip up a few deals.’

  Ali cut in curtly. ‘I’ve already knocked that idea sideways, Reg.’

  ‘It’s not up to you where we spend or do not spend our advertising budget. You stick to content and editorial, I’ll find the money to pay for the bloody magazine.’

  His face was turning red with annoyance, his bow tie seeming to tighten round his neck where veins stood out. She knew he was itching to make one of his usual comments such as, ‘Let us men run the show, you make the pretty pictures.’

  Ali remained unruffled. ‘I haven’t said no. I’ve asked Tony to come back with story ideas, a list of what arrangements are being made and what it will cost us. We need to drum up something of note other than stay at such and such a lodge.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Guyana, isn’t that where the Reverend Jim Jones and the Jonestown suicide mess happened back in the late seventies?’

  Reg shrugged. ‘Maybe. Doesn’t sound like a reason to go on holiday there.’

  ‘No, but there must be a damned interesting follow-up story after all these years. Leave it with me.’

  Reg Craven felt he was being dismissed and, while he left the office without a word, he grudgingly had to admit Ali’s idea of a meatier story had merit. She was just so damned arrogant. When would she realise he held a parallel position in the hierarchy, but had the advantage of being closer to the money men and that they controlled the power?

  Back in his office, Reg Craven called Jacques Triton.

  ‘I have a potential problem, can we lunch?’

  Jacques had little desire to lunch with the blustering Reg Craven, a man in his forties who gave off waves of constantly protecting his job and his butt. He listened as Reg explained the situation.

  ‘I think I should talk to Tony. I’ll call you back.’ Jacques had his temp assistant – blonde, buxom and available – contact the travel editor on the phone.

  The two men chatted briefly and Tony picked up the undercurrent in what the Baron’s son was really saying. ‘Lunch sounds terrific. Do I know any clubs in this town?’ Tony laughed. ‘Name your scene. What say we make it dinner instead?’ Tony hung up the phone looking pleased. He’d get rid of Reg as soon as they’d eaten. Then . . . two rich young men on the town! That would give him a closer contact with the Triton empire heir than Ali would ever have.

  Larissa was starting to get emissaries from the staff complaining about Ali.

  Trudi Fanelli, the new beauty editor who’d been Australian PR for one of the top international cosmetic companies and appointed over Barbara, was first to make a stand.

  ‘Larissa, on every magazine, the beauty editor is always buried under free products. The PRs send in everything from a full colour range of lipsticks to perfumes, night creams. If we want anything, we ring up and it’s sent. Ali says we can’t do this. We have to buy anything we write about. It seems crazy when the companies are dumping heaps of products on my desk.’

  ‘Trudi, it’s just not Triton policy. We can’t accept anything for free – it compromises us editorially. There have been too many abuses of the system over the years and it’s getting out of hand. It’s not coming out of your pay,’ she added with a slight smile. ‘Those other magazines can be accused of taking “cash for comment” – accepting freebies and writing promotional editorial to back them up.’

  ‘Okay. Understood. But, Larissa, the staff have pointed out that, in the good old days when the magazines received so much stuff, they used to get a share of the products. Now we buy the products, photograph them, and Ali walks in and says to send them to her office when we’re finished. Even Guy, the photographer, is pissed off. He told me he’s always been able to take stuff home to his wife.’

  ‘Trudi, I’ll have a word to Ali. But remember, Blaze is not a women’s magazine like its predecessor. Gender is not an issue in magazines now. We’re a news magazine too. And our credibility is paramount. Yes, we’re glossy and we’re Australian, but we’re part of an international company that treats this matter differently.’

  ‘Don’t tell me to think globally,’ moaned Trudi.

  ‘Think smart. Clever. Different. Ali wants you to find news angles on beauty products. The cosmetics industry, like everything else, has to be able to stand up to scrutiny. Glamour still counts, but being into beauty is morally suss these days.’

  ‘Listen, you can’t tell me that any woman is ambivalent about how she looks,’ said Trudi firmly.

  Larissa beamed. ‘Great. There’s an angle. Go deconstruct Naomi Wolf and Germaine Greer. Vanity versus Sanity.’

  Trudi relaxed. ‘Okay, I take the point. But when you have that word with Ali, drop in one from me – selfish.’

  Now Trisha Forbes, the entertainment writer, was in Larissa’s office.

  ‘It’s out of control! Ali takes the best invitations. How can I do my job? I can understand Ali insisting on film and theatre critics buying tickets so they can review the shows fairly. But the PRs send me tickets for launch parties, first nights, et cetera, and Ali demands they’re handed to her. I can’t do my job if I don’t go to these functions. And I’m embarrassed telling them my editor has taken them for herself.’

  ‘She’s trying to raise her profile, and that of the magazine, by being seen everywhere,’ said Larissa. ‘I’ll talk to Tracey to make sure Ali receives invitations to everything important.’

  ‘Most editors leav
e the schmoozing and networking to their staff. It’s really getting up my nose,’ sighed Trisha.

  ‘I’ll speak to Belinda and ask her to contact the consultancies and PR firms and make sure invitations are sent directly to Ali as well as relevant staff and contributors,’ said Larissa soothingly. Privately she agreed with the frustrated young woman trudging from her office. Ali was working overtime at making her presence seen and heard. She was being photographed at social functions and had become a fixture in radio and TV interviews that had anything to do with the media, current social issues or gender matters. She issued press releases about Blaze exclusives or innovations and Tracey, her publicist, was working on a promotional campaign with Steve Vickers at the ad agency that was going to star Ali.

  Larissa poured out her current grumbles to the ever-sympathetic Belinda. ‘I feel like I’m here slaving away, holding the braying staff at bay, trying to smooth over arguments hour after hour. Not to mention making sure the nitty-gritty is done in actually seeing the magazine come together. Ali isn’t into production meetings. She’s more into sending everyone back to the drawing board. Honestly, Belinda, sometimes I think they present the same stories again in another way because they think Ali rejects them the first time just to exercise her power.’

  ‘In other words, you’re feeling like an ashtray on a motorbike,’ laughed Belinda. ‘Listen, you’re spending too much time moping without your fella. What do you do on weekends?’

  ‘When I’m not doing something for Blaze, or at work, you mean? I’ve been exploring Sydney, the northern beaches.’ Larissa hurried on before Belinda could probe further. ‘I went up to the Blue Mountains, I browse around Double Bay and Darling Harbour, and I love the Art Gallery and Mitchell Library. I’ve been quietly reading up on Captain Cook’s voyages . . . fascinating.’

  Belinda gave her a shrewd look. ‘In other words, you’re lonely.’

  Larissa bit her lip. ‘Yes, I miss Gerry. A lot.’ She was tempted to pour her heart out to the warm and sympathetic Belinda. The separation from Gerard was proving harder than she’d anticipated. The creative fulfilment and job satisfaction hadn’t worked out quite the way she’d hoped. Everything was very similar to how they’d worked in New York, but different enough to be slightly irritating. The difference in the casual Australian attitude of ‘she’ll be right, no worries’, compared to the energised dynamism in the US office, made her feel she was being too much of a taskmaster. She worked long hours because she had little social and no family life, but she didn’t want to become another Ali, who was always in early and the last to leave the office. Larissa saw her role as that of a mediator between Ali and the staff. Even the most ambitious of the young women made it clear they’d never make the apparent sacrifice Ali had made for her career. She had no life outside Blaze. Larissa longed to share Sydney with Gerard and his long-distance disinterest made her feel even more depressed.

  Belinda assessed her mood very quickly. ‘I’m having a lunch for Tiki. I like to keep our Blaze girls in touch.’

  Larissa had become friends with Tiki even though they hadn’t worked together. She was sympathetic to Tiki because of her walkout over the treatment Ali had dished to her. Tiki had made it easy for Ali by walking. Larissa could imagine how tormented life would remain for Barbara, who felt she had no other option but to stay on, at Ali’s discretion and beck and call.

  Belinda pointed out that leaving Blaze had spurred Tiki into submitting the manuscript of her novel to a leading publisher who promptly accepted it. Soon Tiki would see her real ambition come to fruition – with the books carrying her name displayed at the front of her favourite bookshops.

  ‘It’s fabulous. Every journalist swears they will write a book, few ever do it,’ laughed Belinda.

  ‘You mean finish it. We’ve all started a book at one stage or another. Look in any journo’s top drawer,’ agreed Larissa.

  ‘Tiki told me her book starts in the outback and ends up in the midst of Sydney’s magazine wars that started when all those editors were sacked. What else would she write about?’ commented Belinda.

  ‘Ali pushing her out the door no doubt gave her the impetus she needed. I have to confess I’ve harboured the desire to write a big fat book too,’ smiled Larissa.

  ‘This weekend, come to Sunday lunch. I’ll invite Tiki too. No reason you shouldn’t socialise a bit. I have several nice men up my sleeve.’

  ‘Belinda, I’d love to come to lunch, but please. I’m attached, I don’t want to . . . lead anyone on. Put myself into a position where it’s . . . awkward.’

  Belinda chuckled. ‘Grow up, girl. And I thought you were a slick, glib, smooth-talking Yankee son-of-a-gun! You’re as insecure as the rest of us!’

  ‘And why not? Ali makes me feel that way. For the first time in my life, I’m questioning why I’m doing this job. And I’ve always loved my work. Well, Gerry used to challenge that when I came home full of complaints so often. But that goes with the territory.’

  ‘So what’s changed?’

  Larissa spoke more to herself than Belinda. ‘Maybe me, maybe I’m changing.’

  *

  Ali was wearing Armani pants and jacket – black, silk, cut to fit her lean body. A dramatic antique pin of a lion sat on her lapel, the effect oddly modern. Ali hoped everything about her was modern. Dane and his boys had shaped and coloured Ali’s dark hair with a deep magenta that highlighted her brown eyes with their golden flecks. He’d personally sprinkled a dusting of gold powder on her eyelids. Her nails were polished with bronze gold, her lipstick a moist plum. The severity of the suit was lightened with the tip of a black lace hanky showing in the breast pocket, the neckline plunging to a single button at the waist. A black satin camisole top under the suit was a concession to modesty.

  Her skin was still pale, she avoided the sun – even daylight, a few of the staff surmised with giggles – and kept her dark Chanel glasses on top of her head, hooked on her décolletage or wore them rain or shine. It seemed to be a defence mechanism rather than an affectation. Whenever she left her office, she immediately reached for her sunglasses. As she was meeting John O’Donnell for dinner, she slipped her glasses into her bag and abandoned her daywear, low-heeled black Ferragamo pumps for a pair of stiletto sandals in black snakeskin from Dato shoemakers in Sydney. Her long, narrow feet were bare of stockings, her nails bronze.

  As she followed the maître d through the elegant restaurant, her sharp features and dramatic make-up made her a striking figure.

  John O’Donnell smiled. He gave her an appreciative look and rose from his chair as she was seated. They’d had dinner and two telephone conversations. Now he’d asked her to dinner again, ‘To put their discussions on a more friendly basis.’ He noted the feminine touches to her outfit and was relieved. He’d initially found Ali rather intimidating.

  They settled themselves with a glass of champagne each and caught up on general news.

  ‘Congratulations again on the launch of the magazine. I’m sorry I was out of town. It sounds like it was a splendid effort. I hear sales are booming. I’ll have to give our annual executive party a rethink.’

  Ali had read in the business news about the impressive top-level gathering of his company execs and invited high-flyers prior to their AGM. ‘I gather your functions are known to be technically very advanced. I’d like to tap more deeply into the information technology world. There must be new telecommunication resources that we can apply to magazine publishing. Even the book publishers are waking up.’

  ‘You’re so right. There aren’t a lot of women embracing this new field. A shame. We have made a special effort to attract corporate women with these skills. There seems to be the perception that it requires at least a Masters Degree and that it’s a field men resent women entering.’

  ‘Women often think they’re going to be ridiculed or sidelined by men if they go into a company as a computer specialist. We’re supposed to opt for the nurturing, caring jobs rather than interacting with com
puters – let alone comprehending advanced science and information technology,’ said Ali.

  ‘Not so. It doesn’t matter what your schooling. If you have an interest, you can be trained. Perhaps there’s a story there for Blaze – to encourage women to take control and educate themselves in IT. Companies need more women managers. But first we have to create a more female-friendly environment.’

  Ali nodded. ‘Not a bad idea for a story. And what advice do you have for a woman wanting to succeed in a man’s world?’ she asked lightly, but her attention focused on the powerful CEO like a searchlight.

  ‘Do your homework, don’t be afraid to ask questions, and be a woman. So many women think they have to act like a man in a man’s world.’ He finished his champagne. ‘Tell me how you find working with the women on your staff.’

  Ali had read up on O’Donnell’s company. It had a corporate culture of equality and sharing where management and staff considered themselves a team, where decisions were made by cooperative committees. It had slowed the company, made it less aggressive, sometimes to its detriment when they lost contracts because no one person could make a snap decision.

  She spoke carefully. ‘I respect how you approach your business. The women and the men at Blaze have a lot of input at editorial meetings and in the production of the magazine, but while I’m sitting in the editor’s chair, I call the shots. Women are just as competitive as men, but the old boys’ network doesn’t have a strong counterpart amongst younger women. We pretend, but frankly it’s every woman for herself.’ She gave a wry grin. ‘Nina, as you know, is on extended leave and the proprietor, Baron Triton, is tied up with their other publications abroad. So I’m running the ship.’

  ‘And young Monsieur Jacques Triton?’ asked John O’Donnell with a slight smile.

  ‘He’s visiting for a month or so, but he has assured me he thinks the company is being well looked after,’ said Ali. ‘As does his father.’

  Ali had accepted the Baron’s invitation to lunch following the Blaze launch party. But it had been a small, short-lived triumph. He had been amusing and charming company, his knowledge of the magazine and media business fascinating. Ali had flirted outrageously with him and both had enjoyed the ritual, though he had not taken her seriously. He was, after all, nearly forty years her senior. Ali, however, had been deadly serious, but realised it would take more than one lunch to lure the Baron into her web. She could tell from the way he’d spoken of Nina that he was in love with her. What a coup it would be to steal the Baron away from under Nina’s nose. It was obvious he was lonely and liked the company of women. But Ali had set in place a connection with the Baron that she would now be able to renew with reasons linked to Blaze. She’d bide her time.