by Di Morrissey
Her bugbear, her nemesis, her sparring partner at every turn, was Reg Craven. He wielded the power of the advertising dollar, which he used as a big stick to threaten Ali at every editorial turn. He was like the school bully, knowing he had the backing of the senior management who’d been to the same school of executive training and shared a disdain for women executives. Especially young women with opinions, talent and arrogance like Ali.
At this moment, Reg felt he held the aces. After many lunches, he had a big new client in his pocket. The client – a French importer of leather, fashion accessories and crystal – wanted a big spread in the current issue to tie in with their upcoming promotional campaign.
‘Reg, the mag has gone to bed. The ad pages are done,’ said Ali firmly.
‘So dump a story,’ he said authoritatively.
‘There’s nothing I can drop. The balance is right, the timing and value of the stories are what I want. To change it now will upset the whole scale of the magazine. Do you want it to look like a catalogue?’
‘I don’t give a shit. These clients pay the bills – without their money there ain’t no magazine.’
‘Without the look and style of Blaze no one would want to advertise in it. You’re jeopardising that.’
‘Bullshit.’
Ali gritted her teeth, longing to grab his bow tie and twist it around his short, bulbous neck, so short it seemed to Ali his earlobes rested near his shoulders. She wondered if this asshole would use such standover tactics on Nina. She gave a nonchalant shrug. ‘If you want to take it up with Baron Triton, go ahead.’
‘I don’t need to go that far. Jacques will do, and he’s just down the hall.’ Reg stomped from her office leaving Ali fuming.
Jacques was becoming a problem Ali didn’t need. He had divided the staff and was eroding her power and authority. Most of the male executives were in the Reg and Jacques camp while most of the editorial staff knew their existence rested in Ali’s good graces. Tony Cox, the travel editor, was the exception, having become a permanent fixture in the circle that swirled in Jacques’ wake. Ali knew a showdown was coming.
She began to think of strategies to put Reg on the back foot. An effective advertising manager was a main artery in the magazine, pumping through the advertising dollars to keep it alive. But there must be someone else out there who could deliver the goods, yet be prepared to accept Ali’s rule that she was top dog. She buzzed Belinda. ‘Come in and shut the door.’
Belinda was always nervous when summoned like a servant. She stood before Ali’s desk, notebook at the ready.
‘This is confidential.’
Belinda nodded emphatically.
‘Who is the best headhunter in town?’
Belinda’s knees quivered. Oh dear, who was being replaced or brought in now? ‘I’ll check, but I believe Critchlow Burns is the one I’ve heard mentioned.’
Ali nodded. It was a company that was often in the business news when CEO’s appointments were announced.
‘Find out how good they are. I’ll give Mr O’Donnell a call to see what he knows about any others.’
‘Can I ask what kind of person you’re looking for?’ asked Belinda, trying not to appear too curious.
‘No,’ said Ali shortly.
John O’Donnell had no compunction about delving into her motives. Now they were sexual partners and a whole new world had opened up to him, he regarded Ali as the love of his life. He had invited her to join him at several business dinners and agreed to accompany her to high-profile receptions, parties and shows, revelling in having the famed Ali Gruber on his arm. He gently advised her, ‘Darling, is it wise to start hunting for a new ad manager before you talk to Nina? Live with him a little longer – it’s a pretty drastic move. Think it through.’
‘I feel I have to strike some kind of blow. And I think I know how. If I make a stand and rattle him, that might be all that’s needed.’
‘Ali, wild Ali, I’m glad I don’t work for you,’ chuckled John O’Donnell. ‘Now, to more interesting matters. Us. I wanted to ask if you’d help me host a dinner at my home. A gold watch event, low key and discreet. My general manager is retiring. What do you say?’
Ali’s heart sank. While she enjoyed being seen with the high-profile CEO in public, playing hostess to a retiring old fart from his company didn’t appeal at all. She knew she had won John O’Donnell over by being fun, energetic, youthful and professional, but she didn’t kid herself that introducing him to exciting sex had been the key. He confessed he’d been a virgin when he’d married, that his wife thought sex was for making babies and it had to be done in the dark with the blinds drawn. He’d never experienced lovemaking in a variety of positions and places. Not to mention the mind-blowing experience, for him, of making love in the open air. He often replayed the event in his mind as he dawdled over budget projections.
Ali had persuaded him to take an afternoon off work – a major undertaking for he was always in the office at 7.30 a.m. and rarely left before 7 p.m.
She told him to dismiss the driver – she was taking him for a surprise. She’d driven him up to the northern beaches, parked on a small headland and they caught a water taxi across to a tiny beach below West Head.
‘We’re having a picnic. Take the shoes and tie off, O’Donnell.’
He’d refused to leave his bulky briefcase even in a locked car at Palm Beach because it contained important company papers. So Ali carried it, while he took the picnic basket as they clambered ashore.
On a midweek afternoon, the little-known beach was deserted. Ali produced chilled wine, poured it into two iced silver goblets, then unwound her sarong to sit naked on the sand. Gradually she’d peeled O’Donnell out of the grey business suit and persuaded him to go skinny-dipping in the surf. It was the first time he’d swum naked in the sea and he revelled in the sense of utter freedom. Bobbing in the water with Ali like a wet naked seal entwined around him, he sighed wistfully, ‘I suppose other people do this lots of times.’
They had made love on a beach towel between the rocks when the tide was out, and on the way home he couldn’t stop exclaiming about how wonderful it had been, how wonderful she was. She was giving him a life he thought he’d never experience. ‘You make me feel young and spunky,’ he whispered shyly.
Once the barriers were down, he became putty and she knew it. He liked her being independent, self-sufficient, and yet always prepared to meet him, even on short notice. His trust in her grew and he confided business details and quietly opened doors by an introduction or a phone call. He had taken her to casual and formal parties hosted by his friends, delighting in showing off his young, attractive and successful new girlfriend to his men friends. The wives loathed Ali, though they were interested in knowing more about Blaze.
The biggest move he made in showing Ali how much he cared for her was introducing her to his children at a sailing club luncheon. It had been a stilted and uncomfortable occasion for all concerned and was not repeated.
‘So, what do you say to being hostess for the night?’ he prompted her.
‘Oh, I was thinking,’ Ali came back to the moment. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to work late, that’s the night the magazine goes to bed. I especially have to oversee the final pages. Just in case there are any last-minute changes.’
He sounded disappointed. ‘You have to delegate sometimes, Ali. You can keep in touch by phone.’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure! There I am playing charming hostess to the retiring gentleman on my right when my mobile goes off and I have to argue with the printers! We’ll do it another time.’
His voice sounded strangely choked up. ‘Yes, we will. Lots. I hope. Are you coming over tonight?’
‘Can’t, a meeting or three. Lunch tomorrow? A long lunch?’ She made it a sexy-sounding invitation.
‘Board meeting at the bank. I’m on too many boards, I’m going to start easing out. No time to play, eh?’
‘You said it was an excellent way to keep in touch with
what was happening round town.’
‘True. But I’m losing interest. Spending time with you – travelling round Europe, skiing in Aspen, maybe shopping in New York – sounds a lot more appealing.’
Ali changed the subject. ‘Darling, I have someone waiting, Belinda is waving at me. Talk to you later.’
She leaned back in her chair. The novelty of having won over the very private head of a massive company was wearing thin. While he presided in his chair of influence, he was highly desirable. Talk of him easing back and letting go of the reins to toddle around the five-star hotels of the world with her in tow was not what she wanted in the least. Ali, while ambitious and manipulative, had bigger plans than a retired CEO, even if he was the head of a powerful corporation in Australia. This country Down Under was, to her mind, still a small pond.
Ali decided it was time she checked into the New York scene again. The Baron had been urging her to visit. His emails were always warm and encouraging.
She hit the intercom between her desk and Belinda’s. ‘Call Baron Triton and put him through, then bring me my diary and a coffee.’
Sally Shaw, Australia’s new modelling sensation, flew into Sydney Airport. Without make-up and her hair in plaits, she slipped through the new international terminal dressed like just another tired, teenage backpacker coming home. At the taxi rank, she caught a cab to a boutique hotel at Elizabeth Bay. There she rang Larissa’s number, which Miche had given her in Paris.
‘No one knows I’m here, Miche. I’m supposed to go home for a short holiday, but the country is the last place I want to go. Come over and we’ll have a blast.’
Miche was shocked when she saw how sickly Sally looked. She tried to persuade her to venture outside into the sun, to go to the beach for a walk or to meet her for a snack by the sea.
‘I’m too scared a news photographer will spot me. I feel like I’m made of glass . . . everyone looks at me, sees right inside me and out the other side. And if I trip, I’ll fall over and break into a zillion pieces. I’ll just hang out here. Don’t you know a few fun people you can bring over to party a bit? I’m trying to talk Donald into coming back for a visit. And I rang Jeremy – remember him from the chateau vineyards? He’s back this week too.’
‘Sal, I’ve only been here a short time myself. I’d like to catch up with Donald and Jeremy. In the meantime, you need to get out. I wouldn’t worry too much about being photographed in the street . . .’ Miche didn’t know how to say to Sally that if they went out together no one would give her a second look, other than perhaps to notice her thinness. She looked gaunt, pubescent, almost plain. There was no colour or vibrancy to her and she would never be picked as a top model. Compared to the healthy, cheerful Australian girls Miche saw around her, Sally was a pale, scrawny, lank-haired compatriot.
Miche stopped by Larissa’s office. ‘Hi, just passing. Guess who is holed up in a hotel at Elizabeth Bay? Sally Shaw. I think she needs help. Her family lives in Queensland, her agent is in Paris and I would say she was on the edge of slipping badly off the rails. She needs friends.’
Larissa saw the pain in Miche’s eyes and realised she was thinking of her mother. No one had seen how she had needed help.
‘I’ll speak to Ali. See if Blaze can help find her some kind of a health farm,’ said Larissa. ‘Now, what are you up to?’
‘I had a meeting with Bob and he’s told me how I might be able to track down my father through the electoral rolls. Or contact the Salvation Army, who will do a search for a fee. I have copies of my father’s birth certificate and his and Mom’s marriage certificate and that’s about it. Mom had a bunch of photos of people, but I’ve no idea who they are, could be her parents or something.’
‘How do you feel about this whole thing? About your dad?’ asked Larissa carefully.
Miche shrugged. ‘Ambivalent, I guess. He’s a total stranger. If I find him, I’m not going to throw myself in his arms crying “Daddy”. In fact, I’m trying not to hate him. Mom was pretty bitter about him leaving us.’
‘Did she never tell you why?’
‘No. Only what a struggle it was. Thank God she had a well-paid job. And, anyway, we were better off in the long run.’
‘Do you think so?’ asked Larissa curiously, thinking of her own loving father.
Miche’s casual stance fell away. ‘Not really, I guess. Every girl wants a doting dad and even though my best friend’s father was really sweet to me, it wasn’t the same,’ she sighed.
‘Listen, Miche, be careful. What if you find him and he’s a bum, or worse? I don’t think you should become involved. Or write about it. Because you’ll be trapped. If you turn your back on him, he can talk to the media and they’ll both accuse you of being heartless.’
‘Calm down, Larissa. I don’t even know if he’s in Australia, dead or alive!’
‘Okay. But I just don’t want you to get hurt,’ said Larissa. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’
Miche was walking back down the hallway and stopped in to say hello to Belinda. While she was there, Jacques came out of Ali’s office, stopped and gave Miche an appraising look.
‘Hey! Are you a new recruit?’
Belinda quickly stepped in to make the introductions.
‘Miche’s mother, Lorraine Bannister, was editor of Blaze in New York. Miche is Nina Jansous’ goddaughter.’
‘And I know who you are. How are you enjoying Sydney?’ Miche shook his hand.
There was a flicker on Jacques’ face as he considered whether he should offer Miche the appropriate words of sympathy. He decided the subject was better avoided.
‘This is an exciting place. How long have you been here? I haven’t seen you around. You working for us?’
‘Just arrived really.’
Belinda saw an opportunity for Miche. ‘She did the story on Sally Shaw, the model. Miche is looking for work.’
‘Have you seen Ali?’ Jacques assumed, with the connection to Nina, Miche would be on the staff. ‘I’d like to hear more about the model scene. I bet there was a lot you didn’t write about, eh?’
‘You read my story?’ Miche was flattered.
‘Of course. It was sensational. Are you working on anything else? I hope not for anyone else. Would you like to go for a latte?’
Miche hesitated. She knew Jacques’ New York reputation as a playboy who only dabbled in publishing, but maybe here in Australia he had a more serious influence. ‘Sure, I’m still discovering the city.’
Belinda watched them go with a satisfied smile.
Lucien waved away the elderly porter, dropped an old leather bag at his feet and pressed the bell on the reception desk.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ The manager looked as though he’d just woken from a nap in his office behind reception.
‘I’m here to join Mrs Jansous. Please let her know Monsieur Artiem is here.’
The manager twitched slightly, as if coming awake. He shook his head. ‘There is no Mrs Jansous here.’
‘You didn’t look,’ said Lucien with a slight smile, indicating the large registration file beside the dark computer.
‘She checked out, Monsieur.’
‘That can’t be right. She is waiting here for me. Is there another hotel with the same name as this, a sister hotel or something?’
The manager’s head moved from side to side. ‘No sir.’
‘But Mrs Jansous was registered here?’
The manager appeared to be thinking and didn’t reply.
Lucien was becoming angry, an anger that sprang from a sense of dread. ‘When did she check out?’
The manager pointed to his computer. ‘It’s down. I’m afraid I cannot give you that information.’
‘What about that?’ Lucien pointed at the old-fashioned registration book. ‘See if Mrs Jansous has checked out.’
The manager continued to shake his head. ‘That is not up to date, I’m afraid.’
Exasperated, Lucien snapped, ‘She rang me from this hotel soon after sh
e arrived in Zagreb. She was expecting me. She can’t have left.’ He began to wonder whether Nina was still at the flat she’d told him she’d rented. Perhaps she was there and would return to the hotel tomorrow. He hadn’t heard from Nina since they’d spoken on the phone. She’d told him her plans about going to the apartment at her grandfather’s old house. He wondered what had happened and if she were all right. He’d just have to wait until she came back to the hotel. ‘Check me into a room then, please.’
Again the manager hesitated as if debating whether to oblige.
‘No wonder Nina might have left here,’ thought Lucien as he impatiently watched the manager finally pull a registration card out of the file and push it towards him. The service was abysmal. He quickly filled in the details, writing his passport number from memory, pushed the card back to the manager. He pulled his passport from his jacket pocket, opening it and showing it to the manager.
The manager reached for the passport, but Lucien held it firmly. ‘You can read the details. I never let go of my passport. Sorry, but I’ve had a few unfortunate incidents.’
‘It is our custom to hold guests’ passports until departure, sir.’
Lucien shoved his hand in his pants pocket and pulled out a roll of money. He peeled off one hundred US dollars and put them on the counter, returning his passport to his pocket. ‘Will that secure me a room?’
The manager’s hand swept up the bills as he turned around and lifted a key from the boxes behind him. ‘Twenty-one, sir.’
Lucien paced about the room. He didn’t unpack, but ordered coffee and a light meal. He’d avoided eating on the flight, hoping to share a celebratory meal with Nina. While waiting for room service, he picked up the phone and rang his Paris office to check his messages on his private number.
