by Di Morrissey
April felt her eyes start to cross as she worked out the full value of the money and perks Ali was offering. It was above what she’d hoped. It meant Ali wanted her badly. April wasn’t fazed by the tough young editor’s stance. She knew now how her barbs at Ali must have penetrated the steely exterior. She was vulnerable – somewhere she had an Achilles heel and a secret. Ali looked like a whippet, but April had noticed she only played with her food and there was a high-strung tension beneath the slick laid-back facade. Ali no doubt terrified her staff, but April knew she would need ammunition against Ali that would give her security and protection if she went to work for her. It would only take a little time to uncover what that might be. She put down the paper. ‘I assume there is room to move here.’
‘I didn’t come to haggle or negotiate. That’s the deal. And, as we agreed, this meeting and offer is to remain confidential. I’m not into game playing. I think I have been more than generous in order to prevent a ping-pong match.’
‘I won’t say yes or no on the spot. I’m interested or I wouldn’t be here. Give me twenty-four hours and then I’ll respond.’ April tucked the papers into her bag and Ali hoped the details wouldn’t be the lead item in April’s column.
April resumed eating. ‘So tell me about New York. How well do you know it? You’ve been with Triton for a long time, right?’
‘I love New York. Grew up there. Do you go there much?’ Ali quickly deflected questions about herself and instead lured April into talking about her travels and various dabbles in show business. Quite a number of her stories were outrageously defamatory and Ali found herself laughing frequently.
‘See, you like scurrilous gossip the same as the rest of us,’ said April.
‘But I’m not publishing such trashy material, or repeating it,’ added Ali. She quoted Nina’s cautionary saying, ‘Believe half of what you see and none of what you hear.’
Back in Paris, Miche and Donald watched the finale of the collections with Sally as the star of the show. The young model had made no reference to the night Miche had found her in the winery. Sally had appeared late for make-up the next morning. And when they’d gathered for a lunch break during the day’s photo shoot, she’d made a light-hearted remark about ‘losing it last night’ – at which point the Count quickly leapt in and swept her off for a horse ride.
Sophie, the stylist, had panicked. ‘If she falls and breaks a leg and can’t work, Piste will sue me. She’s not insured yet.’
However Donald’s assistant had seen them along the road when he returned from the village looking for newspapers and tobacco. ‘They’re in a carriage contraption, like an old sleigh and horses with bells.’
‘Sally had better watch out,’ said Sophie. ‘She could be another of the old Count’s conquests. Lures them here then, when he and his circus pals are finished with them, they’re sent by train back to Paris. I’ve seen it before. By then she could be heavily hooked. Last model I knew who went through that scenario ended up a prostitute. She could have worked for any of the top fashion houses, but she died of a drug overdose. Her body was fished out of the Seine. Tragic.’
As Miche watched Sally on the catwalk, the photographer caught her downcast expression and read her thoughts. ‘London, Paris, Milan, New York – it’s the same scene, Miche. Girls too young, too much, too soon. When all they have to sell are their looks . . . it’s a dangerous gift,’ added Donald.
Miche took the details of the model-prostitute who’d died and, with Claudia’s help, checked out the story with the Paris police department’s anti-drug unit. Donald gave her the names and numbers of several top models – some whose fame had been in the seventies and eighties – as well as a few current cover girls who were prepared to talk about their own experiences and what one described as ‘the black hole in the underbelly of modelling’.
The rumour Claudia’s husband had heard in the diplomatic fraternity came to light when Miche learned how poor, pretty, very young girls were lured to Paris from Eastern Europe, Russia, South America, with promises of money and glory on the catwalks of the fashion world. Instead, they were taken advantage of by older men, who soon turned them over for fresh, young meat and they generally ended up in brothels, hooked on drugs.
While it was not a new story, it gave Miche a different slant on what had started out as a ‘sweetheart story’. How Sally, the girl from small town Australia, was a potential victim of the big bad world of money, muscle and marketing.
Miche’d been knocked out by Donald’s photographs. ‘They look like stills from a Fellini or Ridley Scott movie. Wow! High fashion marries the forces of good and evil. The child bride of Frankenstein meets Dior couture. I love them, Donald!’
‘Any time, kid. I think you have it in you to discover the meat of a story. You’re not just a pretty face.’ He tweaked her nose. ‘Look me up in New York if you wanna good time. If not, keep in touch. I reckon we’ll work together again.’
Claudia read Miche’s finished article. ‘This is not a pretty picture you paint behind the scenes of the catwalk and the covers. But it is fascinating. I hope you weren’t planning on a modelling career after all this,’ she laughed. ‘You will not be a favourite person with the agencies when this comes out.’
‘You think it’s good enough?’ worried Miche. ‘It’s become a bigger, heavier story than I ever imagined at the beginning. It’s not what Nina was thinking of, I’m sure.’
‘Send it to Australia. I think it will make quite an impact,’ said Claudia reassuringly.
Miche sent the package off to Larissa with a note . . .
Hi, Larissa!
Here it is. It’s taken ages to trawl through a lot of interviews, research and just ‘hanging out’ in the fashion scene. What a crazy world! Could you read this and see if it’s okay before you show it to Ali. I’m so nervous about it. Claudia and Bernard are taking me with them to their holiday place in Nice for a week. Then I’ll head Down Under. I plan to sightsee in Asia on the way. I’d like to take the break before hitting Sydney and starting work at Blaze. Thanks for the offer to stay with you. I accept. Can’t wait to see you.
Lots of love, Miche.
Larissa opened the package that had been sent in the diplomatic bag from Paris to Canberra and forwarded to her home. She was thrilled with the photographs. As she read Miche’s story, her heart started to flutter and she felt a growing sense of excitement. She went into the small courtyard where Gerard was working on a huge canvas propped against the jasmine-laden fence. Gerry had been captivated by the clear Australian light and was furiously painting bright, bold water scenes, sketched as he rambled around the harbour foreshores. ‘Gerry, Miche has sent in her story from Paris. It’s fantastic!’
‘The one she did with Nina . . . the fashions or something?’ He was squinting at his work, half listening.
‘Nina made the introduction, but Miche was on her own. It was to be a simple story about local girl makes good in the top fashion echelon. Miche has turned in a shocking exposé of the other side of the lights. Oh, I’m so proud of her. Ali is going to be staggered.’
‘The bitchiness behind the glamour smiles as they strut their stuff? Nothing so new in that angle.’
‘Wait till you read this. She describes the wildest dinner party in a French chateau . . . Oh boy! I can’t wait to see her. She’ll be here in a week or two.’
‘Ah, too bad. I might miss her.’ Gerard took a step back to study his painting, not looking at Larissa who stood still, feeling suddenly cold in the late morning sunshine.
‘You’re leaving?’ she managed after a pause.
‘Riss . . . I have a job to go back to . . . I came for your birthday because I missed you.’ He turned to face her, his arm holding the paintbrush limp at his side. ‘Come home with me, Riss. Let’s get married.’
Riss closed her eyes. ‘Oh Gerry. I don’t know . . . I can’t . . . I want to . . .’ She burst into tears.
Gerard put down the paintbrush, ran his fingers throu
gh his hair, smearing yellow paint in it, and opened his arms. Larissa threw herself against him, crying like a young girl.
Gerard buried his face in her hair. ‘Riss, why? This isn’t your home. You say you’re not happy working with Ali. Or is there another reason . . . someone else? I haven’t probed, but I can’t help feeling, wondering about Kevin for example . . .’
‘Oh, Gerry, he’s just a friend. One of a fun group. I was lonely, it’s nothing.’
‘You could have a nice life here – boats, big houses on the harbour, be a big fish in a small pond. But it’s still a small pond. God, Riss, America is where you belong. With me.’
Larissa’s voice was muffled. ‘Why can’t you stay here and work . . . just for six months . . . ?’
‘And be a kept, bored man? Darling girl, we have to come to terms with our careers. I love my art, but I can’t support us on it. My savings wouldn’t keep us for more than two years.’
Larissa jerked away. ‘But I earn enough to keep us. Why can’t we trade off for a year? You could see where your art takes you, maybe sell a few paintings, make a name for yourself. You won’t know if you don’t try it. This is a perfect opportunity for both of us to take time out.’
‘A year. It was six months a moment ago,’ he said wryly. ‘Larissa, I don’t understand why you can’t just come home. The party’s over. Nina isn’t here – she’s taken off – Ali is a dragon, you do half the work, she takes all the credit, our lives are on hold. I’m forty, you’re thirty-six. What about babies and holidays in the Hamptons, lunch with our folks on Sundays, all the stuff we laughed at and said we’d put off for another day? Now, for me, it’s important. I want it. You choose . . . because that’s what I’m going back to.’ There was a catch in his voice, no anger, just a worried sadness.
‘With or without me, that’s what you want?’
‘Yes. And it’s what you want, Larissa. Why do you hang onto this damn magazine world? Why does it have such a hold on you? It’s not your life. I am. And if you can’t see that . . . then . . . I give up.’ This time frustration and anger surfaced and he picked up the brush and flung it at his canvas leaving a dribbling splotch of paint. Gerard turned on his heel and walked around the tiny cottage and marched blindly down the suburban street.
Larissa fled inside, fell on the sofa and sobbed. Tumbling thoughts and emotions flooded through her. Anger at Gerard for creating the problem, bitterness that the whole situation was so unfair, confusion over where her priorities were and what she really wanted. Yes, she wanted to be successful, to achieve, to have that substantial salary package and bonus goodies. That was tangible evidence of where and who she was in the world. And then, sweeping through her body, came the urgent desire to have a baby, to share her life with Gerard. But where? How? And at what cost?
It was after 5 p.m. Ali walked into John O’Donnell’s office as his two assistants were leaving for the day. They gave her a knowing smile and told her he was waiting to see her.
He greeted her warmly. ‘Ali, my sweet. How did it go?’ he gave her an embrace and kissed her cheek.
‘I don’t know. She’s thinking it over for twenty-four hours.’
‘That’s not unreasonable. She didn’t say no. Did you offer what I suggested?’
‘Yes, after a hassle with the board. I told her it was pretty well set in cement. No haggling.’
He gestured to her to sit down and went to the drinks bar to make them each a Scotch. ‘April will still feel it necessary to make a stand, ask for something extra. I assume you left a little negotiating leeway.’
‘Yes. I hope she’s not going to be unreasonable.’
He handed her the drink and sat beside her, dropping his arm over her shoulders. The intimacy in their relationship had developed considerably each time they saw each other. Both had taken an interest in the other’s work and he trusted her enough to share company machinations before they became public. It gave Ali a sense of power to read about deals in the business pages that she had known about long before they came to fruition. He had kissed her gently several times and both were aware they were moving towards going to bed together. He was hesitant. Ali had learned that sex with the late wife had not been much of an event. They’d married as virgins, made infrequent love – always in the dark – and when she’d become ill, it was with relief his wife had announced their sexual life had come to a close. Ali didn’t know whether to believe him when he said he’d never slept with anyone other than his wife. No wonder he was cautious.
‘I have to confess the damn girl unnerved me. April is very assured, very self-confident. She knows the power of bitchy gossip and exposing foibles, true or not. She had no qualms in hinting I was offering her the job to stop her writing about Blaze. Me in particular.’
‘Well, that’s precisely what you’re doing. If she knows the score, then that’s the deal. Leave yourself an out if she breaks the understanding.’
Ali drained her drink. ‘We’ll see what happens. I could do with another one of those.’ She handed him the glass and he wrapped his hand around hers.
‘I thought we might have a quiet dinner. I want to run something past you.’ He looked at her and Ali read the signs and smiled to herself. The lovemaking time had arrived. He was attractive, gentle-natured, and had been treading carefully with Ali. The arrangements for the establishment of a centre in his wife’s name, with funds going to ovarian cancer research and education, were under way. By now they were seeing each other socially on a regular basis and chatting on the phone several evenings a week. He was walking into deeper and deeper waters and Ali knew sex would clinch the relationship. He was rich, influential and committed to her. He had become her mentor, though their managerial styles were at different ends of the spectrum.
‘Why not run it past me now?’ She snuggled into his shoulder.
He put the glass on the coffee table and spoke softly. ‘I don’t want to offend you, but it seems we’ve been travelling in a certain direction and . . .’ he drew a small breath, ‘I thought it might be nice if we had a weekend away together. Somewhere relaxing like the Hunter Valley, the Blue Mountains, further if you like. I have the plane . . . but of course, it’s on your terms.’
Ali gazed at him, her toffee eyes slanted into a catlike smile. ‘Ever the gentleman, eh, O’Donnell? It sounds lovely. But why wait? If you want to take me to bed, let’s do it. Then we can go off and enjoy ourselves and not be waiting for The Big Moment in a strange bedroom.’
He laughed. ‘God, you’re a bold girl. You’re not serious?’
‘Why not? I bet you’ve never done this.’ Ali leapt up, clicked the lock on his office door, pulled off her top, kicked off her shoes and stood in front of him continuing to peel off her clothes. ‘Come on, O’Donnell, race you. Take that tie off.’ She bent down and yanked off his Bally slip-on shoes and silk socks, kissing a toe in the process.
His face went from amusement, to disbelief, to shock and then a mental, ‘What the hell,’ as it registered with Ali that this elegant and cultured man had never indulged in the business executives’ fantasy of sex on his office couch, or floor, or desk.
As he pulled off his shirt and tie and reached for his belt he mumbled, ‘The windows. I’ll pull the blinds.’
Ali, naked, pushed him back and helped strip off his pants. ‘Leave it, O’Donnell. No more sex in dark corners. I can see I have to teach you a thing or two.’ She pushed him onto his back and he surrendered as she showed him how to experience and enjoy sex as he’d never known it before.
*
The following morning, Tony Cox wandered down the hallway with a sheaf of papers to present to Ali. They were the plans for a series of travel stories supported by a huge advertising spread from a major travel company. It was a deal pulled together by Reg Craven and it had such massive advertising support, Ali wouldn’t be able to knock it back.
But as he passed an office that was not permanently occupied, and was only used for occasional interviews or private me
etings, he smelled paint and noticed it was newly decorated. He glanced in and was surprised to see, perched by the desk, a large papier-mâché parrot. The colourful bird looked familiar. Then, as he turned, a figure rounded the corridor and came towards him, a large grin breaking out at his dropping jaw.
‘Tallulah! What are you doing here?’
She held out a hand. ‘Sorry I haven’t returned your friend Jacques’ messages. I figured we’d meet eventually. I’m the latest Blaze recruit.’
‘As what!’
‘The name is April Showers. I’m the new columnist.’
‘Well, bugger me. I’m gob-smacked, to use my mum’s favourite expression. Boy, you really had me going. What was with the Tallulah cover?’
‘My girlfriend Patti’s dad, who you met in the bar, is a fan of the old movie legend Tallulah Bankhead. He likes to call me that. He knows I prefer not to be introduced to strangers as April Showers. No one will tell me anything.’
‘My God, what did I say?’ He clapped his hand to his head. ‘You’d better not tell Ali I told you she was the Yank Tank. Did I say anything else?’
‘Nothing I didn’t already know. Don’t worry about it. It’s our little secret. Besides, now I’m one of the team I can’t write about you guys any more.’
Tony followed April into her office thinking, ‘Shrewd move, Ali.’
April pointed at Jacques’ gift. ‘See – I brought the bird. I thought his crooning might soothe me. You free for lunch? Fill me in on everyone – off the record.’
Tony quickly dumped his lunch plans with Reg. ‘Yeah. I have a meeting with Ali in a minute, I’ll probably need a decent lunch afterwards.’
Ali was tight-lipped as Tony outlined plans for a revamped travel section.
‘Reg has sold a lot of pages, he has a few ideas for a competition – all very up-market.’
