by Roxy Jacenko
Luke grinned. ‘Ah-maze!’ he said, stealing his glass back and raising it in a toast. ‘If anyone can make it in this town, it’s you, Jazzy Lou!’
Now it was my turn to grin.
‘So talk me through it.’ Luke retrieved the cheque that was lying between us on the table. He squinted. ‘I may have failed HSC Business Studies but isn’t this a little light for starting a company?’
This was true. ‘Agreed. But I don’t plan to go out on my own just yet. I’ll invest it for a couple of years while I keep schvitzing away for Diane and learning her tricks of the trade. This is just step one in my grand master plan.’
Luke looked impressed.
‘Besides,’ I added, ‘you’re talking to the girl who currently earns less than six hundred bucks a week then dumps more than half of that into rent. I know how to make moola stretch, babe.’ I took another sip of Luke’s drink.
‘So I see,’ he said wryly. ‘And you think Sydney can handle another boutique fashion PR firm? This town is looking more Absolutely Fabulous than a BBC remake.’
I laughed, snorting Sugar Daddy. ‘Are you serious?’ I said. ‘Babe, over three hundred and fifty thousand Sydneysiders read the Daily Telegraph’s “Sydney Confidential” gossip column each day but only two hundred thousand-odd ever glance at the Australian Financial Review. Here, Australia’s Next Top Model outrates the world news. Hell, there can never be enough fashion PRs to satiate this city.’
‘Game on, then, Jazzy Lou,’ said Luke.
‘Game on,’ I agreed. ‘All I need to do is invest this baby safely for a few years while I plot my escape from Diane.’
‘Speaking of, how is Cruella De Vil?’ Luke asked.
I groaned and told him about poor Anya’s sacking. In the weeks that had passed since she had copped the bullet, I’d done my best Florence Nightingale impersonation to nurse her back to vocational health. We’d spent several nights in retreat in her flat, updating her CV and downloading job ads. We’d cold-called and hotmailed until our little black books of industry contacts ran dry. And, while nothing had come of it yet, I knew it wouldn’t be long before Anya rejoined the ranks of the PR army of Sydney. She was a gun publicist, after all. It was only when it came to celebs that her brain was shot.
Diane, meanwhile, soldiered on unscathed. It was as though the fall in employee numbers only served to boost her morale – she was never so happy as in the weeks after she’d sacked someone. Another notch in her belt, another badge on her chest. And so I avoided her like the plague. When she arrived at work each day I made sure I wasn’t riding in her elevator. When she left the sanctity of her office you wouldn’t see me for dust. It wasn’t brave but I was no hero. My tactic of avoidance, well, it allowed me to battle on another day. I didn’t plan on joining the walking wounded of Wilderstein just yet.
‘Diane’s a dictator!’ said Luke, as if I didn’t know.
‘Defs,’ I replied, before changing the topic. ‘Now, babe, what’s new with you?’
Luke grinned sheepishly. This could only mean one thing.
‘No!’ I cried. ‘Who is he? What’s his name? Where did you meet him? I can’t believe you’ve been holding out on me the whole time I’ve been going on about work!’
Luke rolled his eyes. ‘It would take more than a new boyfriend to distract you from work talk, Jazzy Lou.’
He had a point. ‘So?’ I prompted.
There was that sheepish grin again. ‘So,’ started Luke. ‘His name’s Reuben –’
‘Cute,’ I interrupted.
‘And he lives in Double Bay and we met buying piccolo lattes at Bar Indigo and he’s got the most incred collection of Italian silk bow ties, Jazzy Lou. His uncle imports them.’
I laughed at the dossier Luke presented: name, real estate, coffee preference, fashion. That’s Sydney in a sentence right there.
‘So when do I get to meet him?’ I asked, just as my (replacement) phone vibrated on the table, announcing a text. It was Shelley: My love, why does Marc Jacobs make everything so fucking small? Even his damn shoes don’t fit! Have a pair of new season linen brogues for you. 2 die for. Swing by sometime for a pinot gris and a fitting. Mwah, Shell xxx
I laughed and held up the screen for Luke to read.
‘I see Shelley’s still singlehandedly propping up the Australian economy, one size zero at a time,’ Luke said, when my phone buzzed again.
This text was from Will. Sitting at Lucios in Paddington, an open bottle of $95 chianti in front of me. On. My. Own.
Fuck.
‘Fuck!’ I said, slamming my palm against my forehead. ‘I’m supposed to be having dinner with Will tonight at Lucio’s! I totally forgot! He’s going to kill me!’
‘Uh-oh,’ Luke said. ‘Tell him to try the black handkerchief pasta with cuttlefish and mussels. Love, love, love it.’
‘Thanks for your culinary advice, Bill Granger, but I think you’re missing the point here. This was supposed to be my I-know-I’ve-spent-more-time-getting-my-hair-extensions-changed-than-I’ve-spent-in-your-company-lately-but-let’s-go-out-and-I-promise-I’ll-make-it-up-to-you dinner. And I forgot!’
‘Ah, take the chianti home in a doggy bag and give him a blow job,’ Luke advised. ‘Works for me all the time.’
I didn’t have the time (or inclination) to ask whether he meant as the blower or blowee. I’d not even met Reuben yet, after all. Instead, I rolled my eyes, pocketed my insurance cheque and headed for the door, blowing air kisses back at Luke as I went. ‘Sorry to love you and leave you, babe,’ I shouted over my shoulder.
‘Good luck, Jazzy Lou,’ he called after me. I was gunna need it.
Flagging down a taxi on Victoria Street, I launched myself into the front seat and breathlessly directed the driver: ‘To Windsor Street, Paddington, please. And step on it!’ I’d always wanted to say that. Next I scrolled to Will’s number, crossing myself as I hit dial. It was hardly Jewish but, hell, neither was Christmas and that had never stopped me. Holding my breath as the dial tone kicked in, I got . . . nothing. And not just by way of divine intervention. There was no response from Will either. Not a thing. He must have been ignoring me. You don’t sit in a restaurant drinking chianti by yourself and not hear your phone ring. I shot him a text: I am so, so sorry babe. B there in 5. Max. Save some vino for me xxx.
As we sped up Victoria Street my mobile vibrated in reply. It was Will. Don’t bother, was all he said.
Ouch.
I turned apologetically to the driver. ‘Um, sorry. Change of plans. Can we head for Cascade Street instead, please?’ It was time to go home. Ignoring Luke’s sage advice about BJs, the only licking I planned to do tonight was of my own wounds. If by the expression ‘licking wounds’ you mean soaking in a bubble bath, drinking a cleanskin and watching reruns of Gossip Girl. Because that’s where I was headed.
My phone buzzed again. Will: Unless u want 2 skip dinner n just meet at my place? I scrolled down to check there wasn’t more. Something witty and loveable and vaguely boyfriend-like. Nothing. Unbelievable. What did he think I was, a St Kilda football club groupie? I hit delete and fumed quietly as we careered up Oxford Street. After spending my day in the office dodging the fire-breathing Diane, I did not have the energy for a showdown with Will tonight.
My phone went again. Don’t worry bout coming over. Ul only get here in time 2 have 2 turn round n leave in the middle of the nite on sum crazy mission for ur boss. Well, that was just charming. Even if it was probably true. Taking a deep breath, I punched in my reply: Look, I’m sorry I missed dinner. And I’d still like to see you tonight. But how bout we grab a drink at the London or somewhere near Lucios? Am in a taxi now and can b there super soon x
‘Sorry!’ I turned back to the poor taxi driver. ‘Scrap that! Better make it Windsor Street again.’ By now we were careering down the back of Paddington, well
past Lucio’s and the London. Slamming on the brakes, the driver swung the car across the neat white lines down the middle of the road and headed back towards Windsor Street. He was wearing an expression I hoped was faint amusement, although I couldn’t quite tell in the dark.
My mobile sprang to life again. It was Will: Think I’ll pass.
Now, this was beyond. If I hadn’t been secretly relieved to be off the hook, I’d be seriously pissed off by now. Fact is, I had a red-carpet event with sporting superstar Matthew Ashley tomorrow night and more than a sneaking suspicion Matt would test my mettle. He might have been a cricketer but this guy was better known for the speed with which he moved through bases. From first to fourth faster than an in-swinging googly, if you believed the tabloids. I’d need to be on the ball.
But back in the taxi my driver was going to kill me. ‘Uh, you won’t believe this,’ I said, ‘but I think we’re heading for Cascade Street again. Sorry!’ The tyres screeched once more as the cabbie swung the car around. This time no amount of darkness could shield me from his expression. ‘Sorry,’ I repeated sheepishly.
Then my phone buzzed again. It was Shelley: Just opened that bottle of pinot gris if you’re around. M-J is waiting for you . . . S x. Oh, Marc Jacobs! Patron saint of disenfranchised women the world over! Who else could bring me back from the precipice of romantic doom but Marc Jacobs? I hit reply: Hold that thought. And that corkscrew. Am on my way!
Saint Marc, here I come.
‘Actually, you’d better make that Woollahra,’ I said to the driver. ‘I can feel a conversion coming on.’
‘Matt Ashley wants to be the male Paris Hilton of Sydney.’
This was according to Luke, who’d never met the guy. And while I couldn’t claim to be a fan – of Matt Ashley or of cricket (hell, I couldn’t pick a silly mid-off from a middle stump in a line-up) – I did think that was a bit unfair.
After all, just because you’re blond and successful and in the public eye doesn’t mean you’re courting controversy. Or that you’re vacuous. Or narcissistic. Or any of the other adjectives levelled at the Hilton heiress. So I was busy sticking up for Matt Ashley in a text war with Luke when I arrived at the Sydney Cricket Ground for tonight’s event.
And then I met Matt.
‘Hey, babe!’ Matt Ashley lumbered over to introduce himself, all toothpaste-ad smile and boyish charm. This was the stuff to make any WAG melt.
‘Hi, Matt, I’m Jasmine Lewis from Wilderstein PR. Great to meet you.’ I stuck out my hand.
He swept me up in a bear hug, the sheer force of which briefly stopped the passage of air to my lungs. Asphyxiation by fast bowler. Awesome. You don’t read that in a coroner’s report every day.
‘Great to meet you, babe,’ Matt enthused. ‘Geez, why is it all you PR chicks are hot? Is it in your job description or something?’
This was hardly a Shakespearean sonnet.
‘Yeah, it’s all part of our client care,’ I said dryly, safe in the knowledge my sarcasm would miss its target. ‘Now, I’ve got your publicity schedule here, Matt. The only timetabled interview tonight is with Sports Daily in half an hour. But TVNN Sports have a crew here so I’ll try and get you some face time with them before the night’s out. You’ve got your watch on, yeah?’ Matt was the ambassador of Lacoste watches and Lacoste was the reason I was standing in the heritage-listed members’ pavilion at the SCG. Lacoste was hardly our most lucrative client, but the fact they flew Diane to their team conference in Hong Kong twice a year, all expenses paid, seemed to cement their position eternally on our client list. Duty-free is Diane’s favourite term, after bottom line.
‘Oh, shit! My watch!’ Matt swore, grabbing at his naked left wrist.
‘No drama, I bought a spare,’ I said chirpily, reaching into my handbag. I’d worked with sportsmen before.
Slapping the watch onto his arm, its warranty tag swinging on its band, Matt turned towards the Victorian red-cedar bar which was already heaving with bleached-blond pierced guys wearing the iconic green and gold.
‘Getcha a drink, J?’ Matt asked.
I shook my head. ‘Not yet, thanks. I want to check in with Sports Daily in the media room. But I’ll be back soon.’ I added, ‘Don’t get into any trouble before then, okay?’
Matt winked and my stomach sank. ‘Sure, babe,’ he said, disappearing into the throng at the bar.
As I bumped my way towards the packed media room the eyes of cricketing greats stared down at me from every wall. This place screamed ‘boys club’ louder than a Cranbrook reunion. Turning the corner to step across the threshold and into the den of media, I was accosted by a guy wearing fashionable three-day growth and a pair of Tod’s loafers. Hmm, this weren’t no sports jock.
‘PR flunkey?’ he asked.
I spied a Canon camera in his hand, hidden casually behind the doorframe. ‘Paparazzi,’ I identified, smiling. ‘What can I do for you, my photo-journalist friend?’
‘You’re Matt Ashley’s minder, right?’
I hesitated. ‘You mean his Public Relations and Media Strategist?’ I corrected.
The pap grinned. ‘Sure, whatevs. But you’re here with Ashley, yeah?’
I hesitated again. ‘How do you know that? I only met Matt five seconds ago.’
The pap laughed. ‘You’ve never been worked over by a paparazzo before, have you, Flunkey? I’ve walked past you and the target five times already tonight and you still haven’t got face recognition.’
The pap looked smug but the only word I heard in all that was ‘target’. Matt was his target. ‘You’re after Matt Ashley tonight?’ I asked excitedly. ‘Fab!’
The pap looked mildly amused. ‘Don’t you even want to know why, Flunkey?’
I thought for a split second. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just make sure you get his left arm and his watch in all your shots.’
He shook his head. ‘Shameless.’
I paused to ponder for a minute what it meant to be called shameless by a paparazzo. There is no tick-box for this on the ‘What I want to be when I grow up’ questionnaire they give you in careers guidance classes at high school. Nor can you enrol in ‘Selling your soul 101’ in your communications degree at Sydney Uni. An oversight, surely. Because it was at moments like these that I wanted to whip out a camera of my own, take a quick Polaroid, inscribe the back with Career-defining moment #66 and add it to a montage on a cork board in my office at work. If only I had an office, that is.
Remembering I was meant to be tracking down Sports Daily, I swapped business cards with the pap and pushed inside. But not before I offered him some nice ‘natural’ shots with Matt during the evening. This, we both knew, was a promise to tip off this guy and his Canon just as soon as Matt was away from the crowds and in a position to be snapped unwittingly. After all, what self-respecting magazine runs a posed celebrity shot when there are paparazzi-style snaps on the table? As a PR, if you jump into bed with the paparazzi your product is guaranteed to be in print the next day.
‘I’ll be ready and waiting to get those shots. You just say the word, Flunkey,’ he said as I left.
‘Done, my paparazzi pal, done.’ And I headed into the scrum of the media room.
Later, back at the bar, two media interviews and three champagnes down, I was beginning to think the evening might actually be a success. Matt had provided the press with several column-inches’ worth of sound bites. ‘It was a team effort, we all gave a hundred and ten per cent and cricket was the winner on the day. By the way, have you got the time? Oh wait, let me check my new Lacoste watch.’ Yada yada. But it was enough to keep me on the payroll for another day.
Plus, Matt and his teammates had waited till the end of the speeches before getting totally rollicking drunk. Some sort of record, I’m sure. In fact, the night was already winding to a close and their chants of ‘Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, oi,
oi, oi’ had only been going relentlessly for, oh, about an hour or so now, much to the delight of the suits all around us.
Matt was just introducing me to yet another green-and-gold-clad bloke, this one roughly the height of a Harbour Bridge pylon, when I decided it was time to make a break for it.
‘J, this is Brad, the other fast bowler,’ Matt said.
‘Nice to meet you, Brad, but I –’
‘Hi there, Jay is it? Why are you PR chicks all so hot? Is it in your job description or something?’ Brad asked.
Spare me. ‘Actually, Brad, I’m afraid I was just leaving,’ I said. I turned to Matt. ‘Want a lift back to your hotel room, Matty?’
I hadn’t meant for this to sound suggestive but Matt’s face lit up like a tween at a Blue Light Disco. And I’m ashamed to say I didn’t disabuse him of his delusion. Whatever gets you out of here and in front of the lens of the paparazzi, bud.
Grabbing Matt’s hand for a speedy exit, I dragged him through the crowd of greying private-school boys and down the long flight of stairs towards the gates out the front. In my spare hand I clutched the paparazzo’s business card and dexterously punched his number into my phone.
‘Yeah?’ he answered.
‘It’s your PR flunkey here,’ I said quietly. ‘Elvis is leaving the building.’
‘Roger that,’ he said, his tone immediately businesslike. ‘Main entrance, Driver Avenue?’
‘You got it,’ I said, checking over my shoulder to ensure Matt couldn’t hear me from where he trailed behind. ‘Taxi,’ I mouthed to Matt and indicated to my phone.
To my photographer friend I said, ‘Oh, and left hand, remember? I need you to get that watch in the shot.’
