by Di Morrissey
‘You’re a wicked, bad boy,’ said Max, shaking his finger at the unabashed Eddie. ‘Doesn’t she suspect you leaked it?’
‘No, she loves me. Okay, girls, what other gossip do you have that you haven’t given to that April bitch?’
‘April comes in here for the goss on the social set, we don’t mind passing on titty bits. We just have to be so careful our clients don’t discover how she finds out. I mean, why do you hate April Showers?’ asked Dane.
‘Let’s just say we had a run-in one time. We go back a long way,’ said Eddie somewhat ominously. ‘I’m an elephant, I never forget.’
‘So you’re nice to everyone’s face and knife them in the back at the first opportunity,’ laughed Rex.
‘It’s called survival, sweetie, keeping your options open,’ sniffed Eddie. ‘You’ll never know who you’ll need to call on in the future.’
April’s society page, written under the pseudonym of Beau Monde, was proving a big hit. Not-so-gentle digs at the cognoscente had only increased its appeal. She wrote about top names, whether they liked it or not, in the worlds of big business, politics, arts, diplomacy and old money with a sprinkling of academia and genuine philanthropists. Wannabe do-gooders trying to big note themselves by promoting A Cause, celebrities from movies, TV and sports, the normal fodder for tabloid press, rarely rated a mention. Beau Monde annoyed socialites when their parties and inside moves were written about in not-so-flattering detail. When the old money set entertained, extra precautions were taken with staff and outsiders to make sure no whisper of the details were leaked to Beau Monde.
Ali had grudgingly complimented April on her work, adding, ‘If you get us sued, you’re out of here. It’s in your contract if you recall.’
Larissa was sitting at her desk, staring morosely at Sydney Harbour, which today gave her no joy. Like Miche, she was still in shock over the death of Sally Shaw. She felt so guilty about it and had confessed her role in the Reality segment to Miche.
‘Don’t blame yourself, Riss. Reality would have found her one way or another. And there’s no way we could have stopped them doing what they did. I blame myself too, for not realising how depressed, how flaky, she was. I just didn’t want to involve myself in that world. I should have warned her about the Jacques and Tony scene.’ Miche bit her lip and Larissa knew she was thinking of her mother again. No one had realised how depressed and lost Lorraine had been feeling.
‘Let’s not beat ourselves up,’ sighed Larissa. ‘We can look out for one another as best we can, but we still have our private lives to lead. Even you and me and Nina, close as we are.’
‘But I think of you as family,’ cried Miche. ‘I don’t have any family any more.’ Tears had washed down her face. Larissa quickly wrapped her arms around her. ‘Of course we’re family. You know that. You’re the closest family Nina has too.’
Miche had shaken her head. ‘No, she has Lucien now.’
‘You’ll find a lovely guy soon enough Miche,’ murmured Larissa, searching for the right words to say. ‘Who knows, it might even be Dan or Jeremy.’ She decided it would be prudent not to mention Miche’s mystery father.
‘Will I, Riss? It seems so hard for so many women to find the right man. Belinda is the only woman I know at Blaze who’s happily married.’ Miche raised her tear-stained face to give Larissa a penetrating look. Larissa had turned away, changing the subject. Miche had hit a nerve.
Larissa caught herself thinking more and more of Gerard, who was probably sorting out his belongings in their loft, getting ready for the move to New Hampshire. He’d emailed to see if she wanted to keep up the apartment for her return, or should he pack her things and put them in storage? She didn’t know the answer. She thought back to their shared bed with the night view of the Hudson, the noises of New York, his familiar shape beside her, his deep regular breathing, the faint smell of oil paint wafting from his studio. The ringing phone jarred her to the present and she grabbed at it, wanting it to be Gerry.
‘Riss . . . it’s me, Kevin. I have Dan over here for a working boardroom lunch. We want you and Miche to see what Dan and his IT team have come up with. Can you make it?’
Larissa tried to clear her head. ‘I’m sorry, what’s this about?’
‘You know . . . Dan and Miche cooked up an idea for Blaze using the new technology they’re messing about with.’
Larissa was tired. ‘I’m not the right person to look at this stuff. I’m not up with basic new technology.’
‘If you and I can grasp it, then it’s a step forward. Let Dan talk to the boffins and Ali. Come on, Larissa, it’s been ages since we’ve seen each other.’
Miche and Larissa stared at the rolled silver cylinder in front of them on Kevin’s boardroom table.
‘It doesn’t look like anything I’ve ever seen,’ said Miche, giving it a tentative poke.
‘Feels like fabric. What is it?’ asked Larissa.
‘Where Blaze could go,’ answered Dan unrolling the cloth-like material. It was the same size as the magazine with the word Blaze and a shimmering dragonfly on it. Dan pressed a corner and the picture rippled making the dragonfly flutter its wings, then like a movie, images and words unrolled on the flexible cloth.
‘It’s a movie, a living magazine. Good grief!’ exclaimed Larissa. ‘How’s it do that?’
‘A tiny transistor is embedded in it which can receive information from a satellite broadcaster.’
‘The idea is that this new type of reusable fabric is the screen, which can be rolled up and shoved in your pocket and, depending on who you subscribe to, you can download what you want. Blaze, the New York Times, sharemarket updates . . .’
‘I can’t believe you’ve developed this just from that conversation we had. How far off is this?’ asked Miche excitedly.
‘Who knows? This prototype came from one of the hot IT companies. Here, what about these . . .’ he handed Miche and Larissa a pair of clunky glasses.
‘I love these,’ said Kevin.
He helped Larissa on with the virtual reality glasses and explained how it worked. ‘Dan had it programmed for Blaze.’
Suddenly Larissa was looking at the last issue of Blaze in colour on a screen before her eyes.
‘Just give a verbal command if you want to turn the page, go in closer, or blow a picture up,’ said Dan. ‘These have the latest high resolution, so the quality is excellent. This is why books on computer screens haven’t been so popular, the quality hasn’t been as good as the printed page. This will change all that.’
‘Do you see what this could mean for Blaze?’ said Miche excitedly. ‘You subscribe to Blaze and you receive the magazine in this format, or the traditional print version or both. This way you can look and listen to it like a movie.’
‘Speaking of which, you can watch a movie with these. Leaves 3D days for dead,’ said Kevin. ‘But you know it’s a bit frightening. I went down the coast, beautiful drive, three hours, with a client. Took his kids. They wanted to go in the company limousine with tinted windows so they could watch a movie on the video in the back. Didn’t want to look out the window at the scenery. I can’t help wondering if this generation is going to view the world through a screen and even live half their lives on the Internet?’
Larissa lifted the glasses off her head. ‘Is this the new advance you guys wanted to show Ali?’
‘It could be adapted for the market quite soon,’ said Dan. ‘Blaze readers could be the first to use it.’
‘Cool idea, huh? Everyone would buy this Blaze, don’t you think?’ said Miche.
‘I think it should be approached with a cool head,’ said Larissa slowly. ‘Frankly, I’d wait till Nina is back. Ali could blow a heap of money on this if she took the bit between her teeth. Board or no board.’
‘Yeah, I take your point. She could make Jacques or the Baron enthused and jump the gun. You’re right. Nina is creative and innovative, but pragmatic too. What do you think, Kevin?’ Miche turned to him.
&
nbsp; ‘I can see why you and Dan are excited. It is a buzz to be jumping into this kind of stuff, but I think you’re wise to let things advance a little further. Technology is changing day by day.’
‘This company has a lot more toys. When you want to leapfrog over the competition, I’m your man,’ said Dan, not at all put out that Larissa had been so cautious. From what he’d heard, Ali Gruber was a bit of a loose cannon.
Kevin glanced at Larissa and felt a rush of sympathy. She looked drawn and depressed. She needed to take that break at his holiday cottage as he’d suggested weeks back. But this time, he wished they could go away together. He gave her arm an affectionate squeeze. ‘Let’s eat. Only sandwiches. But gourmet ones!’
Heather Race took the hairbrush from the hairdresser’s hand and stroked it firmly through her hair. ‘I prefer it to go that way.’
The make-up and hairdresser assigned to the Reality team bit her tongue. She had learned to let Heather do things her way. If Heather wanted that shade of lipstick instead of the softer, more flattering tone the make-up girl suggested, let her look like she’d been sucking a mulberry. If Heather wanted her hair that way, fine. ‘What are you shooting? I haven’t seen any of the crew around,’ she commented conversationally.
‘I’m doing a big interview for Blaze. They’re doing a profile on me. Could be a cover story, so that’s why I want to try to look halfway decent. You know how critical those bitches can be,’ she said, peering at her reflection in the mirror surrounded by soft lights in the studio’s makeup room. ‘All those magazine girls want to be in TV.’
The make-up girl refrained from smirking. Hell, if anyone knew how to be a critical bitch, it was Heather. ‘That’s super. Fabulous magazine.’ She couldn’t help wondering why such a classy magazine would want to write about the biggest bitch in television. ‘Who’s the journalist?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, but April Showers is doing it.’
‘I thought she wrote gossip?’
‘She’s branching out, upgrading to feature profiles. And she’s written a novel, you know,’ said Heather, suddenly defensive.
‘Has it been published?’ asked the make-up girl innocently. How many people had sat in this make-up chair and talked about ‘their novel’. One big-time, American ‘trash and glitz’ writer, who’d sold millions, had told her about how so many people thought they could write novels. The glamorous author confided she would smile sweetly at those who made such remarks and simply say, ‘Go right ahead babe – write.’ Then she’d added with a dismissive flick of the wrist, ‘They find out soon enough it ain’t as easy as it looks.’
‘April is talking to publishers,’ said Heather as she stood up from the make-up chair. She didn’t add that rumour had it that April Showers’ book had been knocked back by Tiki Henderson’s publisher and that’s why she’d taken pot shots at Tiki in her old newspaper column. Heather also didn’t mention that she had struck a deal with April – in return for the feature in Blaze on her – that she would do a TV story on April and her manuscript for Reality in the hope the publicity might generate keener interest from publishers. Both women were relaxed about this scratching of each other’s backs.
April was pacing in the green room where guests waited before their TV appearances until a young girl guided her to Heather’s dressing room.
It was a cosy refuge with a sofa, easychair and coffee table with flowers arranged on one side, a lighted mirror and bench with a stool along the opposite wall. There was a walk-in wardrobe and en suite with a shower. April glanced around, there was nothing personal in the room except for the framed official glamour photo with Heather’s signature printed under the channel logo.
‘Welcome to my home away from home,’ said Heather brightly.
‘Does anyone else use this room?’
‘Hell no,’ declared Heather with some emphasis. ‘They’re only my clothes in the closet.’ She gave a short laugh, ‘Well, whatever the wardrobe mistress has collected for me this week.’
‘Your on-camera clothes are on loan? Do you pick the designers?’
‘Sure, you know how it works. Same as in magazines. If you look at the show’s credits, the freebies flash by at the speed of light. I think the fashion people are mad actually. I mean, who sees my shoes?’ Heather kicked out a foot. ‘And the clothes are always so mucked up with make-up and sweat, there’s not much they can do with them . . . except sell ’em to the wardrobe department for a bargain price. And guess where they end up?’ she chortled.
April grinned. ‘In your closet.’ She wouldn’t want to buy an outfit worn by Heather Race, even immaculately dry-cleaned. She reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out a clipboard of notes.
‘Ah ha, the ubiquitous clipboard. The accessory of every self-respecting journo,’ said Heather inaccurately, but she liked the line.
‘Shall we make a start? The photographer will be along later.’ April uncapped her pen, suddenly businesslike. She was more accustomed to uncovering information under the guise of social banter over a glass of wine where unsuspecting companions fed her information about people that seemed innocuous, until coloured and enhanced by April’s dipped-in-bile designer ballpoint. But now her journalism was on a new course and this interview was an important opportunity for April, who desperately wanted to move away from lightweight columns.
Bob, sanctioned by Ali, was giving her a shot at this as a trial run so she wanted to make it a winner. A big winner. She felt very confident. In doing her research, snooping, as she privately called it, April had discovered Heather was keen to lift her image and standing at the network. An insider had told her how Heather had stormed out of a recent production meeting when it was hinted some other young chick was being groomed in the wings. That information gave April the power. While they both needed each other, April figured Heather needed this publicity more than April needed her as a subject, despite the book deal.
April sat in the armchair facing Heather, who was curled up on the sofa, legs tucked beneath her, posing prettily in black pants and a loose tailored blue shirt with embroidered cuffs. Her jewellery, borrowed from a boutique in the city, was heavy gold trying to appear low key. She wasn’t a stunning beauty, but she had been groomed by the station to look credible and attractive, toning down her taste for too much gold and bright colours.
April looked down at her notes. ‘Have you ever been sexually abused? Any history of incest or bulimia in the family?’
‘What! Why ask that?’ Heather exploded as the blockbuster question hit like a punch in the solar plexus. ‘I’m not going to answer that.’
‘Because it’s true? Does that account for your aggressive interviewing of helpless subjects?’
‘Aggressive? That’s rich. You’re doing pretty well.’ She uncurled and sat up. ‘Just where the hell are you coming from?’
‘Was your father domineering?’
‘Jesus,’ exclaimed Heather in desperation and defeat. ‘No, the opposite . . .’
‘So he was a weak man,’ cut in April. ‘Does that mean you are only attracted to young men you can dominate?’
This hit home. Heather had been photographed at a party with a young pop singer and there had been snide comments about her out-of-tune toy boy.
‘I don’t dominate anyone . . .’
‘So it was your mother who was domineering?’
‘Listen, April, don’t try your amateur therapy experiences out on me,’ snapped Heather, who had also done her homework on April and been told she had tried various therapists and counsellors, psychics and healers.
But the verbal war continued until suddenly April changed course. ‘Now, how vulnerable is your position at the network, Heather? You’ve had a few legal problems with some of your stories and they’re grooming some young bird as a hot reporter, I hear.’ It was the beginning of another extended duel.
April was relentless, cutting in on Heather’s answers when they didn’t match the answer she wanted. It was a technique
Heather employed as a matter of course, but she didn’t handle it well when she was on the receiving end. Professional pride stopped Heather from walking out of the room in anger, but a deal was a deal and several days earlier she and April had been friendly enough.
Heather had agreed to April’s suggestion that she follow her around for several days, ‘observing’ her at work, including attending a film premiere as a commentator for a small segment on Reality. They’d both gone to the after-premiere party and become more than a little tipsy. April was in her own milieu and seemed to know everyone, so once Heather had done her piece to camera she had relaxed, drunk and gossiped more than she should have and kept turning to April slurring, ‘This is off the record, right?’
April had sat in on a Reality production meeting with her little tape recorder on the table for all to see. Heather and the network publicity chief had met beforehand with the producer and key staff to make sure that this meeting would ‘favour’ Heather – showing how workmates respected and liked her, how Heather’s ideas for stories would be pounced upon. Heather was given advance details of several stories to put up at the meeting. She felt she’d made a good impression. By the time they’d settled in for the interview in the dressing room, Heather had been lulled by April into what was obviously a false sense of security.
Now she couldn’t believe this ‘chat’ session in the dressing room. It was like being cross-examined.
She tried to be disarming. ‘April, this is not the friendly chat I imagined. I feel like I’m on trial.’
‘A lot of your interview subjects might say the same. What do you say when they ring up to complain about how they’ve been treated by you and your show?’
‘I don’t receive such calls,’ said Heather stiffly.
‘You mean they’re vetted by some poor producer?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I’m just doing my job.’ Heather frowned and fussed with the flowers in the vase on the dressing table. ‘I don’t think this line of questioning is taking us very far. If you just want to be confrontational and not listen to me . . .’
