by Di Morrissey
‘How long since you’ve seen him?’
‘I don’t remember him at all. I just feel I need some kind of closure before I can go on with my life. After losing my mom and all . . .’ she shrugged, unwilling to elaborate as the emotion built up inside her.
Bob nodded. ‘It would certainly give the story an additional angle. But what if you find your old man and he’s a shit? You ready to reveal that too?’
Miche raised her hands in a gesture of acceptance. ‘No point in hiding it. I can walk away from him if I so decide and if I can’t be honest, there’s not much point in asking others to do the same.’
‘I’ll talk to Ali. Sounds compelling. Where are you going to begin your search?’
‘Not sure. But I’ll make a start . . . now I’ve made up my mind.’
At the next editorial meeting, Bob ran through the list of story suggestions including the details of Miche’s idea. As he outlined Miche’s theme, there was a murmuring of interest.
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘She started digging with the Sally Shaw piece.’
‘Seems like a sensitive writer.’
Ali looked down at her agenda pad, fiddling with her pen, her face immobile. No one knew what she was thinking until Larissa asked, ‘What’s your opinion, Ali? It’s a touchy area for Miche, but I think she could come up with something.’
‘It sounds like something one of those TV current affair shows would do . . .’ butted in Reg Craven.
Bob Monroe glared at the advertising director. ‘Give us a break. She’s not that kind of tabloid journalist . . . that’s not our kind of story. What do you think, Ali?’
Attention at the table focused on Ali. She had been silent abnormally long.
‘I think it stinks.’
‘What?’ There was an intake of breath.
Bob spoke up defensively. ‘What’s your objection, Ali?’
The table fell silent, everyone looking at Ali.
Ali was struggling. For the first time the staff could recall, a glib, swift, sharp answer didn’t spring from her lips. But her body language, her expression, made it clear she didn’t like the idea. Finally Ali gave a brusque shrug. ‘What is this? Old home week? Nina looking for her old rellies and now her goddaughter churning through her family blankety-blanks. Everyone has a broken branch or two in their family tree, why should we inflict it on Blaze readers?’
A row of bland faces struggling to hide their feelings stared at Ali, alone on the other side of the table.
Larissa broke the silence. ‘I don’t know if that’s the case, Ali. I think everyone can identify with family and personal insecurities in one way or another. Okay, not all of us are dealing with the same specific issues, but if we follow one person’s journey to wherever it takes them, it shows us all the value of the exercise.’
‘Whether it has a so-called happy ending or not,’ added Bob. ‘I think the girl has potential as a serious journalist.’
Ali refocused on the discussion. ‘Oh, for chrissake. Let’s not make this a new-age, inner-search deal. I’ve told Nina to see what develops from her trip. Tell Miche the same, Bob.’
‘If it passes that litmus test, it’s in?’ grinned Bob.
‘Not if I don’t like it,’ snapped Ali. ‘I’ll wait and read what they deliver first.’
‘Can we move on?’ interjected Larissa. She sensed the mood of discomfort in the room. She knew the decision was a touchy issue with the staff writers and contributors, who did a lot of work only to have it tossed away by Ali. Larissa knew Ali was good at making some judgements, especially when the finished article was put before her. But she seemed less sure about hypothetical, philosophical and speculative thoughts on story ideas. Ali was not a polished writer, yet she picked over articles making the writer redo whole chunks for obscure or pedantic reasons.
For the first time, Ali was unwittingly sharing a sense of disquiet with the rest of the staff. They too were thinking of family hiccups, family secrets, family upheavals. It was universal. Just never shared. Miche and Nina were tapping into a nerve that jangled in all their systems.
Ali moved on, turning her attention to Reg Craven. ‘What the hell is this?’ She waved a mock-up of an ad showing an older woman rocking with laughter. The headline read, ‘Have you pissed yourself lately?’
There was an intake of breath around the table.
‘It’s an ad for a new health company. For incontinence pads,’ he said as matter-of-factly as he could.
Several people burst into laughter. A few were appalled.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Larissa.
‘It’s an Aussie expression . . . when you laugh so much you wet your pants,’ explained Reg.
‘Reg, that’s so tacky,’ interjected Fran Hirshcombe.
‘It’s not exactly the kind of classy ad that appears in Blaze,’ added Larissa.
‘What’s with this old people stuff?’ raged Ali. ‘Dump it, Reg.’
‘Listen, I know it ain’t a glamorous product, but at least it’s different and funny . . .’
‘That’s debatable,’ muttered Bob.
‘There’s another reason. The mob behind it is a huge health care company. They’re ready to advertise all their products and services with us. That’s a motza moola.’
‘Reg, the advertising dollar isn’t everything. There’s such a thing as quality control and image,’ broke in Fran. ‘The media will make hay about us over an ad like that.’
‘Any publicity . . .’ began Reg, but Ali cut him off.
‘Ask them to start out advertising other products with us first. And I don’t mean a retirement village.’
‘Even if it costs close to a million bucks to move in?’ persisted Reg.
‘Leave it, Reg,’ advised Larissa, seeing Ali’s anger mounting. It wasn’t the issue of the product itself, but Reg’s manner that irritated Ali. Larissa would step in and find a compromise later. Striving for a positive note, she commented, ‘Great reaction to Miche’s story on Sally Shaw. Talkback radio shows have already picked it up.’
‘That reminds me,’ said Ali casually. ‘You might like to know an American studio is interested in making a film, inspired by Sally Shaw, about the modelling world. Based on the story we ran.’
‘Miche’s story! That’s fantastic,’ said Larissa.
‘It’s Blaze’s story, you mean,’ Ali corrected her. ‘We own the film rights.’
‘We do? Since when?’ said Bob Monroe. ‘First I’ve heard of us buying film rights as well for a feature article. And I’m the features editor,’ he added half-jokingly, seeing Ali’s displeasure at being queried.
‘It’s now in all the contributors’ contracts. Remember that’s how Saturday Night Fever started. It grew out of an article in, I think, Vanity Fair or the LA Magazine. I don’t want Blaze to lose a potential small fortune from a cut of the profits if the film is a hit.’
‘I can just see Sally’s story as a film. Hot young stars, the latest music, fashion, drugs, rock and roll – way to go!’ exclaimed Fiona.
‘Did we pay Miche an extra amount for the film rights?’ persisted Bob.
‘She signed away all the rights to Blaze,’ said Ali.
‘Did she know she was doing that? I had no idea,’ said Larissa, alarmed.
‘That doesn’t seem fair to Miche, she’s a nice kid,’ muttered Bob. ‘I wonder what the MEAA would say about this.’
‘If you’re worried about the union, it’s too late now. No one cares what they think, anyway. The contract is signed and sealed,’ said Fiona. ‘I think it’s a fabulous idea. Make sure Blaze has a screen credit, Ali.’
Fran, Barbara and Bob, who trained as journalists at a time when joining the union was mandatory, and who believed the journalists’ union had done its best to push up salaries to where they were today, exchanged glances at the comment by the new young fashion editor.
‘How did an American studio find the article?’ wondered Fran. ‘They’d been reading Blaze USA
.’
‘I sent it to them,’ said Ali quickly.
Larissa bit her tongue at Ali’s takeover of Miche’s story, knowing it wouldn’t do Miche any good if she tried to defend her rights. Ali would dance on their graves if she was making something out of it. Belinda had told Larissa about the gifts arriving from expensive perfume and jewellery stores for Ali. April had also been receiving lavish flower arrangements, expensive bottles of wine. Belinda said April had contacted the mailroom and asked for her mail to be forwarded to her home. Ali hadn’t thought of that one. Larissa was sick of the payola, the scheming, the bitchiness and rivalry. Her work was ceasing to be fun.
As they left the editorial meeting, Bob walked beside Larissa. ‘What do you make of the film deal?’ she asked.
‘Shocking rip-off. You’d better alert Miche, see if she can have a credit. I bet Ali received some sort of kickback, excuse me, “commission”, for setting it up.’ Bob was angry. ‘That Ali is a predator. And dangerous. I wish I didn’t like Nina and this magazine so much or I’d be walking.’
Larissa was still depressed. ‘I’m too soft. I should stand up to Ali more. The trouble is she goes behind your back and does stuff and it’s a fait accompli when you find out.’
‘You won’t make it very far trying to second-guess Ali. I like Miche’s story idea. I’m surprised Ali didn’t go for it.’
‘Maybe it’s not movie material,’ said Larissa with a trace of bitterness.
‘Can I raise something else?’ asked Bob. ‘Jonathan Gibb is becoming fidgety. He is our senior writer. He feels a bit sidelined.’
‘Does he have a story he’s itching to do by any chance?’ asked Larissa.
‘He certainly does. It’s a bit sensitive, which is why I didn’t bring it up in the meeting. He wants to do a story on Heather Race, the bitch tabloid TV journo.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s not telling all, but says it’s the right timing. Whatever that means.’
‘What do you think of Jonathan?’
‘A top journo, an excellent writer and a good bloke. He’s still young, but he’s going to go places.’
‘Do you trust his judgement?’
‘When it’s his judgement. There was an incident where he came back from a long interview with an attractive lady novelist. Told me she was different from the blonde romance writer image and was an intelligent and deeply thoughtful woman. I assumed it was going to be a flattering article after his rave.’
‘And?’ asked Larissa, though she sensed what was coming.
‘He turned in a rather cutting piece. More than a few snide comments which didn’t sit well with what he’d told me after the interview.’
‘Why the change? What happened?’
‘His wife was in his ear. Passed on comments supposedly from her woman friends and told him he’d been schmoozed and hoodwinked by a blonde witch. He’d look a fool if he wrote a drooling article. So he sharpened his pen.’
‘With the jealous wife looking over his shoulder? What did you say?’
‘I expressed surprise, but he was defensive. I didn’t discover till later that his wife is known to be somewhat poisonous. And a frustrated author.’
Larissa shook her head in resignation. ‘I hope you’ve made the point to him that in future he should stick with his instincts and be objective.’
‘And not to take his work home.’ Bob changed the subject, feeling that the incident showed his judgement was also flawed. ‘Speaking of taking work home, is there any news on the leaker?’
‘No. Ali says she has a plan that will catch whoever it is leaking our stuff to rival magazines. I’m not privy to what that plan is,’ said Larissa.
‘You’re her deputy!’ burst out Bob. ‘But then, Ali does keep things close to her chest, doesn’t she? Not exactly a team player.’
Larissa lowered her voice as they passed an open work area where employees were concentrating at their computers. ‘When you’re trying to catch a member of the team, you have to hold your own counsel.’
Bob glanced around at their colleagues. ‘Not a nice feeling to know there’s a viper in the nest. Ali does seem to take it personally, though.’ He was tempted to add, ‘And who can blame her,’ but held his tongue. He figured Larissa was well enough aware that Ali was not exactly adored by her staff.
‘The buck stops at the editor’s desk,’ said Larissa.
‘While the editor-in-chief is away, anyway. See you, Larissa. Let me know what crumbs I can toss to Jonathan.’
In the offices of Reality, the tabloid current affairs show of the top-rating commercial television network, the producers and story editors were kicking around ideas.
‘We still need a juicy brawl or someone spilling their guts. Too much poison in our foods causing two-headed babies and medical stuff,’ sighed the executive producer.
‘A cream that will supposedly freeze osteoarthritis and a drug to cure kleptomania isn’t really medical,’ suggested one of the segment producers.
‘Who’s hot, who’s not, who wants t’be?’ asked another of the four producers.
‘Did you see the piece a couple of months ago by April Showers about the Baron’s son, Jacques Triton? He’s shunning the company of our own media mogul sons to hobnob with the staff. Very poor form on his part.’
‘Tony Cox may be staff, but his mummy and daddy build rather large shopping malls and even whole suburbs.’
‘Rumour has it Tony and Jacques frequent a few less than salubrious bars, call up their dealers for backdoor deliveries of coke – and I don’t mean the fizzy stuff – while wannabe models strut in the front door.’
‘Now how do you know that for sure?’ The executive producer had an interrogator’s edge to her voice.
The young segment producer gave a grin. ‘Because I went lap dancing – in the course of research – and became very friendly with one of the bar girls.’
‘Would she talk on camera?’
‘For a price.’
‘So what’s the story here? Rich European playboy, whose daddy owns newspapers and magazines, can play up out here knowing that nothing will appear about him in print. Even rival mags won’t badmouth him. People in glass houses . . .’
The executive producer raised a hand to still the chatter. ‘Hold on. We’re missing the real story angle . . . listen to what April Showers says.’ She rifled through a stack of papers in front of her, pulling out the clipping.
Scene . . . a certain bar that moved from the film milieu to the bizoid’s fave, which put a whole new meaning on aiming for bums on seats and, seen at the scene, none other than Jacques Triton, leader of the European my-daddy’s-richer-than-your-daddy-set, spurning minor royal chums and local media sons, to hang out with one of the local staff and get down and dirty without having to travel far. Did they swap goss on the next move of the Yank Tank? She’d better watch her rear – the son-of is talking about making a permanent move here. And there’s only room for one in the blazing editor’s chair. Or she could turn her hand to novel writing. It seems to be the trend for former Blaze staff. Will the mag’s former fashion hackette kiss and tell about conflict with the Yank Tank in her new novel? If she does, it could make a move by Jacques to stay on these shores a sure bet.
The editor looked around expectantly until one of the producers slapped his head. ‘Of course. The Yank Tank. Ali Gruber. She wields a big broom. Swept out an old biddy who’d been there for yonks and the biddy turns around and writes a book about the magazine world, warts and all. I mean, how’d you feel?’
‘The ole biddy better have a top lawyer if she’s going to spill the beans on Gruber. Besides, nothing new in that, loads of ex-journos reaching their use-by date try to reinvent themselves as novelists.’
One of the segment producers spoke up. ‘If Jacques Triton is hanging out with a hip young travel guy on Gruber’s staff, then that guy might be worth talking to.’
The exec producer turned over a page in her notebook. ‘Okay, so how do we st
ick it to Gruber? What’s the drum on her?’
‘New York. Aussie background, but unknown. She’s around thirty. Must have a connection with Nina Jan-sous for her to give Ali the plum job,’ said one of the researchers off the top of her head.
‘Did she train here? How come we don’t know anything about her? Did she go to the Big Apple as a kid, a journo, a what?’
The question was met with blank stares.
‘So who do we go after? Ali, the Yank Tank? Set up Tony the travel ed, or go for the charming Jacques?’
There was unanimous agreement. ‘Ali. Let’s storm the Yank Tank.’
‘And who wins the guernsey?’
Again it was unanimous. ‘Heather Race.’ She was their star reporter and she was the biggest bitch in television. She always nailed her man . . . or woman. And brought home the story.
Heather was an anonymous-looking young woman who passed for pretty, until you noticed the gimlet-eyed stare and pointed teeth that gave her smile the look of a sly weasel. Her body had the lean lines of a girl who sweated hard at the gym and those at Reality knew her skin had been tanned to an impervious hide. An irate producer or a target of her brash interrogation could scream, yell, abuse or threaten her, and she merely paused and continued as if nothing had happened. Most attacks on her fizzled out in the face of Heather’s obstinate implacability.
Heather listened as the segment producer assigned to the Ali story outlined the concept.
‘Hmmm. That story needs a lot of digging and time,’ she said unenthusiastically. Heather wasn’t known for her patience – or thoroughness – in doing research. ‘I’ll make a few inquiries. See if it’s worth pursuing.’ She moved away. The subject was closed. The young producer knew better than to challenge her if she decided a story wasn’t worth her talents. It irked the researchers, who did the grunt work, to have Heather tell the executive producer she didn’t feel a story was up her alley. While none of the staff knew the details, Heather had let it be known she had signed a lucrative new contract and was one of the ‘gems of the network’. She hinted her next move would be fronting her own show. While Heather was acknowledged as tops at what she did, even if often by devious means, most of the Reality staff didn’t give a damn where she moved on to from here. Filling tonight’s show was their immediate concern. And tomorrow? There was another empty timeslot. Television was a hungry monster.
