by Di Morrissey
Jacques Triton was different from his father. He and Ali had sparred over the business agenda, especially where money was to be spent and budgets cut back. He hadn’t liked the fact that she refused to be impressed by him. He was handsome, wealthy, scion of a famous family and, so, was usually forgiven for also being something of a classy European playboy. To Ali, he held little interest, outside her wish to impress on him how efficient she was with his family’s money. Men were stepping-stones for Ali. And like her, Jacques was still treading carefully with his father. Whenever Ali could, she would arrange to see Baron Triton again. He had expressed a genuine interest in how she was running Blaze. In the meantime, she and the Baron had exchanged friendly emails and he’d kept her briefed on news of the company’s movements internationally, now seeing himself as something of a mentor to the bright young Australian editor.
John O’Donnell was a different matter. In his fifties, he was slim and fit, attractively greying and at this vulnerable point in his life, very fragile. Ali realised this second invitation to dinner was a big step for him. She turned her attention back to what he was saying about the business world.
‘We have always taken something of an altruistic approach – we give away a percentage of profits to charities decided on by the staff. We try to involve the various sectors of the company to be part of our decision-making process when it concerns their work.’
‘Doesn’t that create a too-many-cooks situation?’
‘I take your point, and I know the company has been criticised for not acting swiftly on several occasions. But we are an industrial manufacturing company and the decisions we make affect many organisations, companies and industries. We can’t afford to make a mistake.’
‘Hare and the tortoise, eh?’ Ali was relieved as the maître d returned to make suggestions for their meal.
Never a passionate gourmet, Ali selected swiftly and listened with feigned interest as John talked of food he loved and places he visited for their food. He chose the wine with care and knowledge and settled back to await their meal with anticipation.
Ali suddenly asked, ‘What do you do about dinner each evening? I know your children are away at school. It must be hard for you now.’ At the mention of his wife’s recent death, he flinched and Ali regretted taking the plunge. ‘Oh, I am sorry. Forgive me for bringing up such a painful subject.’
He quickly dismissed her apology. ‘I’m still raw. Carol was the perfect corporate wife, loved entertaining, always had a nice dinner prepared for the family and later for the two of us. I was out such a lot, I really treasured our evenings at home. Now that I’m back in the office, I tend to eat out for lunches, and my secretary accepts the invitations to those dreaded black-tie dinners. I have to confess it’s hard . . . and lonely.’ He lifted his glass to taste the wine, nodded at the sommelier, and continued, ‘I’m enjoying this. Talking business with interested and charming company. Carol was never that concerned with my business . . . we had the family . . . well, that’s how it was.’
‘I’m enjoying this too . . . there aren’t many people I can share my work with, and I can learn from experiences such as yours. I very much value your opinions.’
He gave an embarrassed but pleased shrug. ‘Any time you need advice or think that I might be able to help, please call me.’ He gave the food being put before them an appraising look. ‘Let’s enjoy our meal. We’ll talk more about Carol’s Foundation over coffee, eh?’
Ali had used the leverage of O’Donnell’s name as a leading Australian corporate executive and the plan to set up a special fundraising program for cancer in his late wife’s name as a means of reaching other influential heads of corporations. O’Donnell was well liked and respected and other CEOs had listened and agreed to support her plan – based on a similar foundation in the US. It had given the magazine a link to a national cause that showed Blaze as being philanthropic as well as giving Ali the reason she needed to maintain contact with a powerful man who was totally unaware of her ulterior motives.
After dinner they never did move on to discussing planning and organisational matters for the foundation. Instead, she talked him into reminiscing about his childhood and early days in business. He needed to talk and, with several glasses of wine, he chatted on about people and events he had never shared with a woman. Ali listened, stifling a yawn, thinking of other subjects that might interest him.
They finished the wine and he suddenly glanced at his watch. ‘I had no idea. I’m sorry . . . I seem to have been doing all the talking . . . I can’t remember going on so much about the business . . .’
She laid her hands on his, her eyes warm. ‘It was lovely, really lovely. I feel I know you better now that I’ve caught up on the years I’d never have known about.’
His voice was husky. ‘I’d like to hear your life story . . . next time, eh?’
Ali leaned back in her chair. ‘Not as interesting as yours, I’m afraid.’
He gave a rueful smile. ‘That’s because I’m twice as old as you.’
Ali gave him a playful poke in the chest. ‘Bullshit, O’Donnell. You are younger than you think. You’ve been too wrapped up in your job. Always doing the right thing. Live a little. Come on over to where we play, you might find it interesting.’
He was amused and surprised at not feeling the least bit offended. ‘We?’
‘It’s a different ball game in my business. Maybe we both have something to learn from each other.’ She picked up her Kelly handbag and pushed back her chair as he gave a hearty chuckle. He’d never had a young woman give him cheerful, intelligent cheek. He liked it.
‘You’re different all right. I look forward to our next meeting.’ He steered her outside and opened the door of a waiting hire car. ‘Leo will take you home. Thanks for a stimulating evening.’
Ali gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a cheery wink. ‘It’s been a delightful evening. Thank you.’
As the car drew away she leaned back and closed her eyes. God, it had been a long and boring evening. But she’d made headway in breaking through the barrier John O’Donnell had built around himself.
And it was reaffirmed the next day when Belinda carried in a bunch of tulips with a note, ‘I enjoyed our dinner. Hope you weren’t bored with my reminiscences. We never did talk about Carol’s Foundation – how about a “business” lunch. I’ll call you. Best, John.’
TAKE NINE . . .
The splendid medieval and renaissance buildings of Dijon complemented the indulgences of the fourteenth and fifteenth century Dukes of Burgundy, who had helped to make it one of the most famous centres of Western art. As she passed the classical Palais des Ducs, Nina drove around the public square in front of the palace, where dozens of students gave the old city a modern and invigorating air.
She consulted her city map to find Rue Michelet and the Hostellerie du Chapeau Rouge, an establishment that, she was pleased to note, had been operating since 1847. She gave the keys of the car to the concierge and, after being shown to her elegant room, drew a bath.
She then went downstairs and sat over a leisurely café au lait, debating whether to visit one of the museums. Instead, she decided to wander through the Jardin de l’Arquebuse and its hundreds of plants. As she paused to read the botanical names, the letters appeared to melt, forming Lucien’s name.
Leaving the formal garden washed in twilight, she realised the fading, beautiful day matched her sense of melancholy. She felt haunted by the passage of time, lost opportunities, the passing of youth and beauty. All that she stood for in the public domain – glamour, brilliance, style, intelligence – seemed empty and meaningless at this moment. She kept noticing plump women toting children as they did the shopping, others holding firmly to the hand or arm of a man in a manner that signalled ownership.
What did she have to show for the years of her life thus far? Certainly she was recognised as a woman of achievement in many fields, she was financially very secure, and respected and loved by many. Yet she h
adn’t envisioned this would be her life at age sixty. She had imagined children and grandchildren, and a deep and loving relationship with a lifetime mate to share experiences and laughter . . . What choices had she made to find herself so alone? She was not one for regrets, but as she walked, she cast her mind back over the years to those decisions that had changed her life. Could she have done things differently? Was putting her career ahead of Lucien wrong? So swiftly and easily she recalled those heady days. How in love they’d been – with each other, with their work, with life. There hadn’t been a decisive moment where she made a deliberate choice between Lucien and her career. They’d just drifted in separate currents of a fast-moving stream. Then, suddenly, they were on different faraway shores.
So she had agreed to marry Paul Jansous. He’d come along at the right moment in her life. She loved him in a steady, caring way, pushing the giddy, consuming passion for Lucien into the realm of wild young experience. The first love you never forgot, that would never come again.
Her body had refused to create a child. It had taken a long time to accept that she could not conceive. Paul was a dedicated and influential physician. He had been caring, supportive and, despite his own sadness, his professional knowledge and advice had helped her deal with their situation. They discussed adoption, but somehow the right time and circumstance didn’t eventuate. She put aside the notion of a family and became increasingly absorbed and involved with her work. Paul’s dedication inspired her to be as good at her career as she possibly could be.
Then, suddenly one sunny morning, she was alone. A widow. With the responsibility of a mother to whom she owed everything. Nina buried herself in work. She was determined, creative and took risks. Eventually with Blaze she soared to heights even she hadn’t imagined.
So why was she feeling so restless? She told herself it was turning sixty, the recent death of her mother and facing the fact she was virtually alone in the world.
Her relationship with her goddaughter, Miche, had been light-hearted, not taken as a binding commitment. It was lavish gifts and an occasional celebration that her mother, Lorraine, could not afford. It had been helping her in her school and career choices, in polishing her sense of style, her self-confidence and her sense of values.
Now Miche was alone and her future loomed as a seriously important factor in Nina’s life. She would look out for Miche, but who was there to watch out for Nina?
These thoughts had been swirling in her head for several weeks. She hoped the stimulation of restarting Blaze Australia would douse the smouldering feelings, but it had not. Instead, as she’d tucked away her mother’s mementoes, she’d begun to question and to wonder about Clara’s life. And her grandparents’ life in Croatia. Nina was seeking ties and links with the family she’d never had and the family she’d never known. She’d decided it was time to revisit her heritage.
And now, the neat package of her past had burst open, spilling memories. And the overriding ones were those of Lucien.
She dressed slowly, discarding three outfits before settling on tailored charcoal slacks and a white linen blouse with a soft cashmere shawl. She swept her hair up and took care in applying her make-up. Why did she feel so nervous? Lucien was an old friend. Their paths had crossed and their lives had taken very different directions. Everyone catches up in some way, sooner or later, with their first true love; whether by word or meeting or memory. And the further behind you creeps the past, strangely, the more important it looms. With this thought and a sense of a need to confront her ghosts, Nina headed for the Dijon Cinema.
In Paris, days blurred together for Miche. She barely noticed if it was sunny or cloudy, day or night. It felt as if she were in a whirlpool, generated by Sally, that was swirling everyone along in its whorls. Miche had been embraced as part of the entourage of hangers-on surging in the wake of the hot young Australian model.
Sally had taken to Miche as a friend – someone close to her in age, who spoke English and wasn’t a threat, despite her attractiveness. Everyone seemed to have forgotten Miche was writing an article for a magazine.
Donald Heavney, the brightest of the hot photographers challenging the crowns of Annie Leibovitz, Patrick Demarchelier, Peter Lindbergh and Steve Meisel, had flown in from New York via a quick shoot in London. He was negotiating with Piste, Sally’s Paris model agency over how and where to photograph Sally. Her image was still being developed and they wanted to be sure she was presented only ‘in character’. Wasted punk waifs were gone, the voluptuousness of the Cindys and Elles were now considered less haute couture, ethnic diversity was no longer new and, while cyber-chic was still au courant, smart designers were straddling two generations – the youth market and the baby boomers who could afford lavish, one-off creations.
As soon as Sally had arrived in Paris, Piste had sent her to a top stylist to be photographed by Bandeau. They had come up with her look and how to market her. Each top model had to define her individual image. And so Sally’s frail, exquisite looks were married to a fantasy, futuristic version of a renaissance heroine – Camille in cyberspace.
‘Piste even wanted to change my name to Camille,’ giggled Sally to Miche, as they sipped coffee in the soft Parisian sunshine. ‘Not on your nelly, as my mum says. Then they wanted Vivien, but it just didn’t feel like me. I’m a fun person.’
‘Vivien?’ wondered Miche, not making the connection. Sometimes Sally’s conversation tripped like a bee from flower to flower making it hard to follow her train of thought.
‘Mistress of Merlin. I was deep into Arthurian legends for a bit. Knights of the Round Table and damsels in distress. She lived in the centre of a lake.’
‘Ah, the lady of the lake,’ said Miche, surprised at Sally’s reading interests. ‘Do you study the Arthurian legends at school in Australia?’
Sally nodded and spooned potato salad into her mouth from a plastic tub she’d taken out of her carry bag.
‘Do you read much?’ Miche asked. ‘I suppose you have to keep up with the fashion magazines.’
‘No time. And I don’t want to copy what other people do. I just go with the flow at the moment. Bandeau told me photographers like to work with fresh blood. I’m not trotting out pose number seven like a lot of the supermodels used to do. They tell me to do my own thing, or try this or try that or what feels right for the outfit. Something sort of comes. I don’t know how.’ She stuck her finger in the tub, licking the last of the mayonnaise and gave a grin. ‘Seems too easy. But I must be doing something right – they keep paying me.’
‘What about living here? You haven’t been here long. How’s your French?’
‘Not a word. So they think!’ She winked. ‘I did well in French at school, but I’m not telling them that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Dunno. Self-preservation. Just some kinda instinct.’ She reached in her voluminous black backpack and pulled out a colourful comic book. ‘Asterix . . . I’m keeping up my French with this. Don’t tell anyone.’
Miche was amused. The girl was a mix of contradictions. On one hand, a down-to-earth Aussie kid from a Queensland country town, on the other, a vulnerable young girl thrust into ‘a pool of piranhas’ as Bandeau had described the modelling world. While she looked like a little lost kid out of her depth, Sally had remarkable sangfroid, an easygoing attitude to the extraordinary world she’d been thrust into.
Sally tucked up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, dropping her chin onto her knees. ‘So. What’s your story? Are you a real New Yorker?’
‘Born and bred. But I’m half Australian. Which is one reason I’m off to Sydney. Bit nervous about it,’ she confessed.
‘Sydney is fantastic. You’ll love it. Are you going to work there?’
‘Yes. For Blaze. It’s my first big job.’ It suddenly hit Miche how ironic it was that she was starting her career under the hand of the woman who had so tormented her mother. She doubted Ali was aware how much Miche knew and understood of the tensions that had ra
cked Lorraine as Ali clawed her way through the ranks at Blaze USA. Most nights at dinner her mother had spewed forth the minutiae of the day-to-day traumas of working with Ali.
While Miche was excited and nervous at beginning work as a first-time professional journalist in a strange country, she was also apprehensive about working with Ali. In her heart, she still felt that the thought of Ali being promoted in her mother’s place had sent Lorraine literally over the edge. And while she felt enormous pity for her late mother, deep down she resented her for leaving her alone. It had intensified the need to find her father, to even up the seesaw of emotion that had weighed so heavily on her mother’s side.
Sally was looking at Miche expectantly.
Miche felt a need to unburden herself to a young woman out in the world and as vulnerable as Miche was feeling. ‘My mom died recently. I don’t know my father. I thought . . . well, maybe it was time to find out about the other side of my heritage. My identity.’
‘Oh, wow. That’s so sad. Gee, I’m sorry. It sounds like something on TV. Are you going to write about it?’
‘Gosh no. Besides, I don’t even know where he is. If he’s alive. He might be an axe murderer or something.’ Miche now wanted to change the subject.
