Blaze

by Di Morrissey

  ‘Fine. Thanks anyway.’ Ali hung up, satisfied but concerned about that second person.

  ‘I don’t give a shit if the Pope is in there, I’m going in.’ Reg stormed through the door, past the protesting Belinda and marched up to Ali, shaking his fist across her desk. ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, but you mess with me and you’ll be in deep shit. If you think that little poofter is going to take over my territory, you’d better think again.’

  Ali smiled. ‘C’mon Reg, you’re not scared of a little competition? The more the merrier. The bigger accounts we land, the bigger impact we make, the more money we build up for the magazine.’ Ali knew very well that Reg received a bonus pegged to the amount of advertising he sold each year. By Eddie eating into the market, he was hitting Reg in the hip pocket.

  ‘You might think you can call the shots while Nina is away, but the boys upstairs aren’t going to stand for this. You don’t hold the purse strings, baby doll, they do,’ snarled Reg. He was a member of the informal club of senior male management and they all loathed Ali. She was tolerated because circulation was rising. The minute she put a foot wrong, she’d be gone. He made no attempt to disguise his feelings. The gloves were off.

  Ali didn’t blink. ‘I’m not worried about the sixth-floor boys, Reg. If I have a problem, I’ll talk to Oscar about it. Was there anything else?’

  Reg reeled from her desk, but turned at the doorway. ‘Don’t expect me to play along with your stupid games any more. I have as much power here as you do. You want to see me, come to my office.’ He slammed the door so hard a picture fell off the wall.

  Belinda tapped at Ali’s door and was relieved when she answered as if nothing had happened. ‘I just wondered if . . . you needed me.’

  ‘Thank you, Belinda. If you can fix Reg’s temper it would be nice.’

  ‘I guess he’s not happy with all the . . . er, changes.’

  ‘Life moves on, Belinda. Keep up or ship out,’ said Ali blithely.

  By the time the Reality story was ready to air, Sally had disappeared from the Haven Clinic and moved back into her favourite hotel, the Vanguard in Elizabeth Bay, under her usual pseudonym. She telephoned Tony. He was interstate, but back that evening. Then she called Jacques. He was away too. Miche was uncontactable at Blaze and Sally couldn’t find where she’d put Miche’s home number. Sally hunkered down and ordered room service. Then she rang Heather Race at Reality. Heather was out and when she came back she found Sally’s strung-out message on her voice mail. She didn’t bother returning the call.

  Miche was thinking hard about looking for her father. She had the number of the Salvation Army but couldn’t bring herself to make the call. She hadn’t slept properly for several nights, and was haunted by nightmares. Shadowy figures pulled at her body, out-of-focus faces swam before her, and then she was in her mother’s arms as Lorraine jumped from the terrace of Blaze into the New York night. Miche woke with a start each time, just before they hit the ground.

  Miche confided in Larissa over breakfast. Larissa looked pale and drawn. She wasn’t sleeping either.

  Miche sighed. ‘I’m having nightmares. I feel like a jilted lover one minute, a lost little girl the next. I can’t go off on a trip to see Jeremy feeling like this.’

  ‘It’s just what you need to do,’ advised Larissa, adding, ‘Jilted is the right word. While your father didn’t exactly leave your mother at the altar, he ditched you both and hasn’t gone out of his way to make amends. No wonder you feel like that. But Miche, to be fair, there are always two sides to every story. You need to hear his side of it before you can pass judgement. I’m not making excuses for what he did, but you need to know why. Until you sort this out – find out whether he’s good, bad or indifferent – and let it go, you can’t settle down and move on with your life.’

  Miche nodded, but didn’t answer for a minute. Then she looked at the sad-faced Larissa, ‘And what are you doing about your life?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ She headed for the shower.

  Three nights later, a Reality promo went to air screaming of ‘the folly of beauty and the beasts’. It showed Sally waving a glass of champagne saying, ‘Up their arses.’

  Jeremy rang Miche. ‘Jesus, what have they done with Sally? That Heather killer-bitch Race has done her over. Where is she?’

  ‘It hasn’t gone to air yet, maybe it’s not as bad as the promo makes out.’

  ‘Sally struck me as being pretty easy to manipulate. Surely she’d be putty in the hands of a pro like Heather Race?’

  ‘That’s why I’m afraid,’ confessed Miche. ‘This sort of thing makes me ashamed to be part of the media.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a bit tough. Surely they’re not all like Heather Race? Wait and see what it’s like. Anyway, what else would you do for a career?’ Jeremy suddenly asked.

  ‘You know, Jem, I’ve been thinking about that. Listen, let’s talk after the show goes to air. I’d better speak with Larissa.’

  ‘Riss, how on earth did they find her?’ Miche said, furious at Heather Race’s sensationalist story on Sally and at the same time fearful for the vulnerable young girl. ‘I thought she’d gone to a clinic. What happened? I feel somehow responsible for her.’

  Larissa felt sick and mumbled that she’d check it out.

  The nauseating feeling was caused by the knowledge she’d been instrumental in setting up the story by trading off the whereabouts of Sally to make Heather agree to an interview with April. And, more worryingly, no one knew where Sally was. There’d already been a call from one of the papers asking if Blaze had a contact. Apparently Sally had stormed out of the clinic with her overnight bag, jumped in a cab and dropped out of sight. Her parents hadn’t heard from her, nor her agency, nor Reality.

  ‘Where she shacks up is nothing to do with us. She agreed to be interviewed, we’re not her keeper,’ the Reality producer commented when Miche rang.

  When the Reality program had gone to air, the publicity in that day’s papers ensured a big audience. Heather Race’s story opened with Sally sitting on her bed, waving the glass of champagne. ‘I haven’t done anything really bad . . . it’s hard to say no.’

  Next came a close-up of Heather wearing a concerned face and asking gently, ‘What did you do, Sally, while you were living the wild life in Europe?’

  ‘God, what didn’t I do. Those photographers and agency people rape you. Those old guys in the modelling business in Europe feed on new young blood . . .’

  They cut back to Heather looking slightly shocked. ‘How wild is the feeding frenzy? What kind of situations did you fall into?’

  There followed an edited version of Sally laughingly describing the chateau party with the horses, dwarf clown and naked black sax player. It was edited to leave out the subtle, funny comments, leaving in all the ribald and raunchy bits from the anecdotes Sally had told Heather, believing it was an off-the-record chat before the actual interview started.

  The reporter’s voice-over managed to mention that particular shoot had been for the recent Blaze story on Sally. Then followed more interview with a cutaway showing Heather looking suitably horrified. ‘What do your parents think?’

  Sally sounded flippant as she was shown saying, ‘Not my scene any more. They think I’m having a holiday at a health farm.’ Then, lifting her glass she’d added, ‘Good health.’

  The next sequence had Heather talking over pictures of the clinic gates, the grounds, inside the clinic, showing cold, bare rooms with hospital beds, a pharmaceutical dispensing room, doors labelled ‘Private. Therapy Session in Progress’ and ‘Detox Unit’.

  Her commentary was delivered in a hushed voice-over. ‘In this place, down these quiet halls, behind closed doors, a number of the rich and famous we know so well, are being treated. They’re here because they have dangerous and severe disorders, from bulimia and depression to drug addiction and anorexia, to name a few. Patients – they call them clients – are often rebellious, their behaviour unpredictable, and on
e only can hope that the treatment they receive here, at this resort retreat, will help vulnerable and tragic cases like young Sally Shaw. Sally is a girl still in her teens who has lived so hard, achieved so much. She had a meteoric rise, now she could crash and burn out. I’m Heather Race and this is Reality.’

  In her hotel room, Sally threw her glass at the TV set screaming, ‘You tricked me! I didn’t say that like that . . . you’ve cut bits out!’ Sobbing, she flung herself around the room feeling violated and devastated. What would her mum and dad say? Oh God, she looked so awful. To see herself so harshly filmed without the benefit of careful make-up and flattering lighting, she looked haggard, gaunt and sick. It was frightening. ‘Please, I’m not like that,’ she sobbed. Grimly she picked up the phone and made a brief urgent call.

  Miche was alone in the house and, as the Reality segment on Sally ended and they went to a commercial break, she felt like rushing to the bathroom and throwing up.

  Her phone rang and a horrified Belinda was on the line. ‘That dreadful woman . . . poor Sally . . . they made her out to be such a bimbo!’

  ‘Well, she has been led astray and been in that flighty world,’ said Miche, also close to tears. ‘It’s so frustrating. She was so keen to tell her story in a sober way to help other girls.’

  ‘This’ll stop a lot of parents sending their kids out to be models,’ said Belinda firmly.

  ‘Sally and I talked it through. She trusted me. Someone should have warned her not to trust that TV reporter.’

  ‘Ha! Remember this is Reality. They don’t know the meaning of the word trust,’ snapped Belinda. ‘Anyone is at the mercy of super-bitch Heather Race.’

  ‘Sally is very impressionable, very easy to manipulate. I’ve heard about how unscrupulous and unethical TV people can be, but these people have gone even further. I just know how they work – they brought in the booze to give her and they cut up all her words like a jigsaw and pieced them together the way they wanted.’ Miche sighed. ‘The worrying part is, I don’t know where Sally is. If she saw that show she’ll be . . . I don’t know what she’ll do.’ Miche could hear other calls coming in. ‘I’d better go, Belinda, in case it’s Sally.’

  But the other calls were from staff at Blaze, expressing their dismay. Several were working late and they’d watched it on the office monitor.

  Miche decided to again try the hotel in Elizabeth Bay where Sally had stayed. She’d rung already and they had no one registered under Sally Shaw. Wildly, Miche tried to think of the fake name Sally had used in Paris. Donald the photographer might remember, but he could be anywhere in the world. Miche closed her eyes and tried to think . . . world, planet, moon . . . an image sprang into her mind. A pink moon. That was it, that singer from the seventies – Nick Drake. Sally had played his music when they drove from Paris to the chateau, Pink Moon. She’d called herself Miss P. Moon.

  She dialled the hotel and asked for Miss P. Moon. There was a silence as the receptionist clicked on the computer keys. Miche held her breath.

  ‘Ah, yes, Miss Moon . . . I’ll try her room. Oh, I’m sorry she has put a stop on calls.’

  ‘Is she there, in the hotel?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to give you that information.’

  ‘Look, this is important. I think she could be really upset . . . can you send someone up to her room? Just to check on her, please, she had a bit of a shock this evening . . .’

  There was an awkward pause and then, ‘I’ll do what I can, Miss. Do you want to leave a message?’

  ‘Yes. Tell her Miche rang and . . . loves her. And I’ll give you my mobile number. Could you please ask her to ring me and let me know she’s all right.’

  Miche hung up the phone feeling hollow and fearful. She called Belinda back to get the number of Jacques Triton.

  He sounded surprised, yet pleased to hear from her. Miche cut off his small talk. ‘I was wondering if you’ve heard from Sally Shaw, there was a piece on her tonight on . . .’

  ‘I saw it. Very cutting and spiteful. Unfortunately that’s how she is, eh?’ His rolling French ‘Rs’ sounded bored.

  ‘No, that’s not how she is,’ said Miche firmly, stopping herself from adding, ‘With decent people who don’t offer her drugs.’

  ‘Come on, Michelle. Don’t be stuffy. She’s a good-time girl. She knows what she’s doing. We saw her a week ago. She was pretty wild and wired.’

  ‘With your help, I suppose. She’s only just seventeen and is very vulnerable. I feel a bit responsible for that nightmare on TV tonight. She’s gone to ground and I’m worried about her. Do you know where she might have gone?’

  The friendly tone evaporated. ‘I ’ave no idea, and why should I care? I have no association with this girl any more. Ask Tony Cox what he knows. Goodnight.’ Jacques hung up the phone, leaving Miche seething. Bastards, while the girls are around to party and rave and sleep with, they count for something. Out the door and they mean nothing. She hunted down Tony Cox, who at least sounded slightly concerned.

  ‘Well, hell yes, Jacques and I did spring her from that clinic one night for a bit of a buzzy outing with a couple of other models.’

  ‘Have you heard from her since?’

  There was a pause and Miche pressed her point. ‘Tony, this is important. I really think she’s going over the edge.’

  ‘Christ. Maybe I’ve done the wrong thing here . . .’

  ‘What, please tell me, Tony. I’ll keep you out of this.’

  ‘You’d better. Promise me. This conversation hasn’t taken place,’ said Tony with an edge to his voice. ‘Okay, okay. Now what do you know? Time is important.’

  ‘She rang me a little while ago. An hour maybe. Babbling about a TV story. She wanted some stuff. I wasn’t going to go near her. But I gave her a dealer’s number.’

  ‘Oh, God. Who, where?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  Miche’s voice was rising. ‘Would she go to him or he to her?’

  ‘I would think he’d go to her. She didn’t sound like she was up to going anywhere. She was pissed as well as stoned.’

  ‘Oh, my God. Okay, thanks Tony.’ Miche dropped the phone in its cradle, grabbed her wallet, rushed to her car and drove as fast as she dared to Elizabeth Bay.

  She left her car at the front and raced into the lobby to the reception desk. ‘Please, can you help me? I think a friend of mine is in the hotel and could be in trouble.’

  It was just after ten-thirty. The hotel restaurant and bar were full, people were chatting in the lobby, everyone looked so prosperous, fashionably dressed and comfortably carefree. Miche felt like shouting at them as they insisted she wait downstairs while the hotel security and the duty manager went to check on Miss P. Moon.

  Karen Charles was the resident manager on duty at the Vanguard Hotel that night. It was a classy hotel that dealt discreetly with its share of guest dramas. This was Karen’s first potential crisis. She was only twenty-seven and since doing a hospitality course at college, had worked hard to climb the management ladder.

  ‘So who’s the guest?’ asked the security man as they stepped out of the elevator on the eleventh floor.

  ‘A model. Young girl who made it big overseas.’

  ‘What, she eat a piece of meat and fall over in shock?’

  Karen didn’t answer as she followed the striding security man to Suite 1101. He rang the buzzer then rapped on the door. There was no answer, so he used his pass key and opened the door calling out, ‘Miss Moon? You in here? It’s security.’

  Karen followed him into the suite, flinching at the mess in the living room. Clothes and magazines were scattered about, glasses and empty champagne bottles were everywhere and a couple of unfinished bottles had tipped over and spilled red wine on tabletops and the carpet. Chocolate and peanut wrappers from the mini-bar were tossed on the floor. ‘Heavens, did one person make all this mess?’ wondered Karen aloud.

  The security man headed for the bedroom, which was even more o
f a shambles – the sheets hanging off the bed, a pillow on the floor, empty bottles and several barely touched room-service trays of hamburgers, chips and cake.

  ‘She’s not here,’ remarked Karen, relieved she didn’t have to confront the occupant about the mess.

  But the security manager pushed open the bathroom door and gave a short exclamation, ‘Oh, shit.’ He turned back to Karen. ‘Call Triple 0. We need help up here.’

  Karen glimpsed the figure of a young girl, or was it a child, lying on the floor. She didn’t need to see the pills, the needle or the coke spoon to know something was badly wrong. She grabbed the phone by the bed and punched reception. ‘Quick, call an ambulance. Tell them the back door. Suite 1101. Hurry, oh God, tell them to hurry.’

  The security man stepped back into the bedroom. ‘Tell ’em not to hurry. She’s checked out.’

  ‘What? You mean she’s . . . dead?’

  ‘Very.’

  Karen’s hands flew to her face. She’d only been appointed a duty manager three months ago and this was a first for her. ‘What will I do?’

  ‘I’ll call the cops. We have to keep this quiet. Phone the girl on reception and tell her to keep her mouth shut. No publicity. Who is this bird again?’

  ‘Her real name is Sally Shaw, a model. She was using a pseudonym. Didn’t want any publicity.’

  ‘Yeah, well, neither do we. The police will move her to the morgue and go through her stuff. They’ll want to talk to that girl downstairs. We’ll move all this, and them, out as fast as possible.’

  Karen nodded, glad the older security man knew what to do. She glanced back towards the bathroom. ‘Drugs, I suppose. Did she have too much?’

  ‘Of everything I’d say,’ sighed the security man as they went back into the living room. ‘Too much, too soon and too young to handle it.’

  He sat down and flicked on the TV as he waited for the police to arrive from the Kings Cross station up the road.