by Roxy Jacenko
I spied Diane leaving her gingerbread post.
‘. . . offering us some bitter lessons in business etiquette,’ I continued through clenched teeth.
The mass in front of me tittered nervously and Samantha Priest heckled from the back row, ‘Play nice, Jazzy Lou!’ but I was too distracted by Diane’s skeletal frame gliding through the crowd like a wraith.
‘So the Bees and I want to thank you all . . .’
Diane paused by Belle Single near the ice luge, leaning in to whisper something in her ear.
‘. . . very, very much,’ I went on.
Em’s finger slid down the running order to the next point of business: gift bags.
I nodded to show this was where I was headed. ‘We want to thank you,’ I repeated, ‘for your friendship.’
Having spoken to Belle, Diane continued slicing through the crowd.
‘And for your support.’
Belle trailed in Diane’s wake.
‘And for sticking by us!’ I practically shouted this last point into the microphone as I was forced to stand and watch Diane and Belle Single, by now arm in arm, separate from the pack of revellers on the rooftop and disappear into the bathroom together. No doubt to snort coke through the rolled-up contract they’d just signed.
I could feel all my confidence, all my excitement, all my jubilation from earlier in the evening trickling through my fingers like sand.
In front of me, the crowd of partygoers stood expectantly.
‘And so,’ I pushed on desperately, ‘as a gesture of our appreciation and as a celebration of Queen Bee’s success so far,’ my Bees appeared at various points around the room bearing gift bags, ‘we’d like to leave you each with a very special gift.’
The crowd hummed excitedly. The Bees began dishing out gift bags. And Diane and Belle emerged triumphantly from the ladies room, a rolled-up bundle of papers tucked neatly under Diane’s arm: her contract with Belle Single.
I plunged the knife into the Queen Bee anniversary cake and the fondant icing cracked under the pressure of the blade; soon the words Queen Bee 1st Anniversary, The taste of sweet success had been cut up into a hundred edible squares. As I wiped bright pink icing from the blade, I contemplated Queen Bee’s own situation on the razor-sharp knife edge between success and failure. That was what this industry was like, I thought bitterly: everyone wanted a piece of you. And if you weren’t careful, they’d simply eat you alive.
Traipsing up and down the stairs from the terrace that night, the Bees and I lugged the candy-hued remnants of the evening’s revelry back to the reality of the office below as the last of our guests dispersed. Blissfully unaware of our near-won but then crushingly lost account with Belle Single, the Bees were as high as the helium balloons they ferried downstairs. I, on the other hand, felt nothing but deflated.
As I emerged at the top of the narrow stairwell to fetch yet another armful of oversized, sugar-inspired statues, I bumped into a stunning blonde coming the other way.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I excused myself. Attractive blondes might be a dime a dozen in Sydney, but you never knew who you might be bumping into. ‘I hope you’ve had a fab evening at Queen Bee?’ I flashed her a winning smile.
The blonde grinned back. ‘Sure have, thanks. Always happy to raise a glass to anyone who’s making it in PR in this town. Especially if their name’s not Diane Wilderstein.’
I stopped in my tracks.
Especially if their name’s not Diane Wilderstein? This was a girl after my own heart.
‘Mazel tov to that, my friend,’ I replied enthusiastically. ‘Have we met?’
The blonde thrust out her hand. ‘Holly. Nice to meet you.’
‘Likewise. Anyone not on Team Wilderstein is a friend of mine.’
Holly laughed. ‘I was though. On Team Wilderstein. In fact I sat at your desk after you . . . departed.’ She chose this last word carefully.
‘Oh, so you’re one of Diane’s protégées?’ I asked, my eyes narrowing.
‘Was,’ she corrected. ‘I was a junior publicist for Diane until she sacked me last week.’
I tried to keep the smirk off my face. ‘And what was your offence? Getting in Diane’s way before her first coffee of the day?’
Holly laughed again. ‘Something like that.’
When she laughed Holly looked strangely familiar, as though her face had appeared on more than a Wilderstein mugshot.
‘But you didn’t start at Wilderstein till after I’d left?’ I checked. Holly nodded. ‘Are you sure we’ve never met before?’
Holly smiled bashfully. ‘No, no, we’ve never met. But you might have seen my face before because my boyfriend is Craig Patricks . . .’ She trailed off, embarrassed.
‘Oh, of course!’ I slapped my forehead. ‘You’re Holly Oliver.’ No wonder I recognised her face. Holly Oliver was the fiancée of one of Australia’s most celebrated track athletes and was forever being photographed on the red carpet at Olympic fundraising events, her long blonde hair as glossy as the mags that lapped up her picture-perfect relationship. Holly smiled again sheepishly and I made a split-second decision. A split-second decision I would later come to regret. ‘Say, where are you working now, Holly Oliver? Given you and Diane Wilderstein have parted ways, that is?’
Holly raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. ‘Um, nowhere actually. I’ve only been looking for a few days, though.’
I didn’t need to see a CV. Being sacked by Diane was qualification enough for me. ‘Perfect,’ I announced. ‘How would you like to come and work for me as a publicist at Queen Bee?’
Holly looked shocked. Then thrilled. ‘I’d love to!’ she agreed immediately and I stuck out my hand to shake on it. Holly promised exactly the sort of WAG glamour we needed to raise the profile of our hive. And if hiring her would piss off Diane then that didn’t hurt either. In fact, after the stunt Diane had pulled tonight, this was just the beginning of what she could expect from Queen Bee. My quest for PR success now had an added motive: it would be all the more satisfying if it stung Diane.
‘OMFG. I’ve just had an Anna Wintour moment,’ I exploded, bursting into Allpress Café and turning heads for all the wrong reasons.
‘So does the devil really wear Prada?’ Luke asked drolly, barely looking up from his Perez Hilton app.
Perez was Luke’s lifeblood so he’d failed to witness my illegal U-turn and rock-star park out the front. Luke that is, not Perez. If Perez were hanging out in Rosebery he would surely have spotted my advanced driving manoeuvre, not to mention the fact I performed it while simultaneously shouting down the phone at the Wintour of my discontent.
‘Yes,’ I fumed to Luke. ‘She wears faux fur-covered devil horns. So last season for Prada. And she keeps them concealed under all that wild-woman hair.’
At this, Luke deserted Perez. ‘Wild-woman hair? Jazz, no! Not Lillian Richard?’ Then, even more incredulously: ‘Tell me you haven’t fucked off Lillian Richard?’
I’d just fucked off Lillian Richard.
I slid into my seat and launched into a monologue of how, exactly, I’d come to piss off the editor of Eve Pascal magazine (and third in line to the Richard dynasty) just weeks after we’d been sipping pink champagne together and exchanging pleasantries on the rooftop at Queen Bee’s anniversary party. Pleasantries, admittedly, that included Diane Wilderstein (which tends to contradict the very meaning of the word). But pleasantries nonetheless. And now I’d gone and aggravated Lillian, one of my greatest allies.
‘You know how it was the Eve Pascal Awards for fashion and beauty last night?’ I said to Luke. ‘Well, Lisse Cosmetics – one of our clients – is spending quite the dollar with Eve Pascal at the moment. They’re dropping serious coin on magazine advertising plus, so they want blood from Eve Pascal. Blood in the form of beauty accolades. But when the winners
of the makeup categories were read out at last night’s awards, Lisse didn’t walk away with a single gong. In fact, L’Oréal, their main competitor, won everything.’ I barely stopped to draw breath. ‘So I received an irate phone call from Lisse at some ungodly hour this morning, ranting and raving about Eve Pascal and where their gong belongs.’
‘Ouch,’ put in Luke.
‘Ouch,’ I agreed. ‘Obviously, I told Lisse it was disappointing they didn’t win an award. And, as their PR adviser, I asked them to consider mixing things up a little. Currently, they have all their eggs in one advertising basket with Commonwealth Combined Print.’ CCP is owned by the Richard dynasty. ‘That’s a lot of faith in one media group. Why not consider using some of CCP’s competitors as well? Have themselves a little advertising omelette for brekkie, I suggested. I was only trying to be diplomatic. End of conversation. Next thing I know I’ve got Lillian Richard – who’s transformed into the Anna Wintour of Sydney – on the phone going berserk!’
‘No!’
‘True story. And do you know what she said? She told me she was angry and disappointed with my advice about omelettes. Is this woman for real? “Angry”? “Disappointed”? I felt like I was in the principal’s office being reprimanded! Shit, I’m lucky she didn’t send me for detention. Is this seriously how she talks to people? No wonder she and Diane dine together.’
‘Defs.’ Luke nodded sagely.
‘I’m not here to ruffle feathers,’ I said.
‘Just to scramble eggs,’ Luke added.
‘I can’t help it if my clients get a taste for soufflé,’ I shot back. ‘At Queen Bee PR, we serve nothing less.’
‘And what did Lillian think of your menu suggestions?’ he asked.
Clunk. I slammed my hand down onto the table, bouncing Extra sachets everywhere. ‘It seems she doesn’t have the stomach for omelette. So now we can say au revoir to any press in Eve Pascal.’
‘Unbelievable,’ Luke mused. ‘Now, what are we going to eat?’
Rolling my eyes at his dedication to his stomach despite my run-in with Richard III, I turned my attention to the menu. ‘Wagyu beef burger? Club sandwich? You know I would never normally eat like this,’ I said.
‘Live a little,’ was the response as he flagged down a waitress and ordered two Wagyu burgers with the lot. ‘You can have a skinny mocha for lunch another day. Besides, it’s not any old day you get to dine with the Sun’s gossip columnist. I’m your bread and butter. You should be keeping me sweet, sweets.’
I popped four Nurofen with a swig of Santa Vittoria. ‘Fine,’ I said, offering my most saccharine smile. ‘What if I get you an invite to the afterparty afterparty for the Coco Man of the Year Awards?’
Luke didn’t need to be asked twice. A roomful of Australia’s hottest men? And all of them bachelors? Better dust off his Dictaphone. ‘Really?’ he squealed, causing heads to swivel again. ‘Fuck off! Jazz, you’re the best!’
‘And a plus-one for Reuben?’ I asked, anticipating another squeal.
Luke frowned.
‘No, Jefferson!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t tell me it’s over between you and Reuben?’
‘Not over,’ Luke replied, choosing his words carefully.
‘But going under?’ I suggested.
Luke nodded but offered no more.
‘You okay?’ I asked gently.
He nodded again. Clearly he was not ready to talk about it just yet.
‘Good, because we’ve got work to do.’ I changed the subject as our burgers arrived. ‘I need to pick your brain about the seating arrangements for the awards. It’s a sit-down dinner for four hundred. Think glitz, glam, OTT. Très Sydney. We don’t need to worry about catering or anything that crass. Just where guests will sit to eat said catering.’
‘Black tie?’ asked Luke, perking up.
‘Naturally, babe,’ I replied.
‘Well,’ he launched in, ‘you can’t invite a certain music reporter or their celeb companion. Did you see them steal two seats from the gossip journos at last week’s do at the Wentworth? Really, if you’re going to steal a seat don’t steal it from someone who’ll write nasty things about you.’
I pulled up the early stages of a spreadsheet on my iPad.
‘And make sure you keep a particular style editor away from the action. And from any potential clients. Word on the street is she received a mystery package of Harmony PMS pills yesterday. Source unknown. And you don’t get presents like that for playing nice.’ Luke looked smug with this skerrick of goss.
‘I heard.’ I nodded, drumming my nails on the table. ‘I’m spreading the word I’d like a delivery of Xanax, please.’
‘Awesome,’ retorted Luke. ‘Save you yet another trip to your local chemist.’ This was below the belt, as Luke knew perfectly well that I was under surveillance at my local pharmacy for my enthusiastic purchasing of Nurofen Plus. Honestly, what did they think I was going to do with five multipacks? Manufacture party drugs for anorexics? Twenty-five thousand milligrams wasn’t going to get anyone over thirty-five kilograms excited. And as much as we’d all like to think otherwise, there wasn’t anyone in my office fitting that description.
‘Bitch,’ I laughed. ‘But have you heard about the other delivery going around this week? Paparazzi shots are being pumped out of a certain top-level model pashing a fashion designer. They’re so staged you expect to see the model’s management logo at the bottom of the attachment. No self-respecting journo is going to touch those images with a ten-foot pole.’
‘Touché,’ Luke said. ‘That trumps a Samantha Priest paparazzi tip-off anyday.’ I laughed again as I remembered how Samantha Priest, desperate to prop up her ailing profile, had visited Queen Bee HQ recently to raid our clothing samples. While leading Samantha through the showroom, I asked one of the Bees if the paps were outside, which everyone in the biz knows is code for: ‘Call the paps and make sure they’re outside.’ The girls duly called Luke and he sent a photographer over to make Samantha feel loved as she left the building. I still owed him for that one.
‘Beautiful – done,’ I said, slipping my iPad into my Céline handbag, my head already back at the office. ‘I’ll get this,’ I offered, making my way to the front counter.
‘Next one’s on me, babe,’ Luke shouted after me.
‘Perfect, let’s eat at Otto,’ I replied on my way out the door before jumping into my oh-so-handily-parked Range Rover. On the way back to the office I resisted the urge to check my voicemails, my emails and the latest tweets and blogs from the Bees, giving myself five minutes of uncontactable bliss. These precious few moments in the car are the only moments of silence in my day. Which is why I chose a teeny-tiny Aston Martin as my second car: there’s no room for passengers.
Back at the office, I could hear the buzz of Bees even before I was through the front door. A buzz that would die suddenly, no doubt, when my YSLs were heard clicking up the stairs. It’s not that I’m a ruthless boss. I worked for Diane long enough to know homicidal is not my style, and I’d be horrified to think any of the Bees was as miserable working for me as I was working for Diane. But I do think the cult of Cutrone has a point. Kelly Cutrone, that is, self-styled PR guru from the hit US TV show Kell on Earth, and author of If You Have to Cry, Go Outside. With her no-bullshit approach to work, I swear that woman is an inspiration. Still, I’d never send any of the Bees outside to cry. We don’t have time to cry. And just think of the paps that could be out there . . .
Sure enough, as the sound of my red-soled stilettos pierced the air, the noise inside – a noise only a posse of Gen Y girls could make – suddenly muted. I buzzed myself in and stalked through the reception area. On my way to my desk, I paused by one of the clothing rails to inspect the media call-out sheet taped to the end of the rail. For Beautiful Bride mag, it read. Dresses under $1500. The rail was only half full ye
t the press call was marked urgent.
‘Why hasn’t this drop gone to Beautiful Bride magazine yet?’ I boomed, my voice bouncing off the exposed cement walls. ‘Alice, draft up an email to the editor explaining and I’ll check it now. And someone get on to a courier, pronto,’ I screeched. Honestly, we did two courier runs per day each in this office. You’d have thought they’d have the hang of it by now.
‘Also, Lulu, can you get Leila Graham from Coco mag on the phone? We’ve made real progress with the seating for the Man of the Year Awards,’ I continued, ricocheting round the office as I dished out directives.
‘Alice, can you pick up all of Troy’s accounts from now on?’ I called, referring to our first (and probably last) male Bee, who I’d hired shortly after Holly.
‘Yes,’ Alice replied immediately. ‘Only, where’s Troy?’
‘I fired him this morning,’ I replied, flicking on my two computer screens.
‘But you haven’t been in the office yet today!’ she gasped incredulously.
‘Keep up, Alice. Haven’t you heard of SMS? And let that be a warning to any of you who thinks two lunch breaks and then a spray tan is a good way to spend the afternoon when I’m out of the office.
‘Anya, your blog about the new Elle Macpherson Intimates range is totally lustworthy,’ I called, having read it on my way in from the car. ‘And Emma, what time am I due at Schwarzkopf?’
Telltale white iPod ear buds disappeared into desk drawers and Facebook slid off screens around the office. The boss was back.
Seated at my desk, in front of my two computer screens, I made mental lists of what we needed to achieve with the rest of the afternoon. And then I made lists of my lists. We still hadn’t heard back from HOTMilk Maternity Lingerie after our pitch, so drastic action was needed. Cupcakes. Surely someone over at HOTMilk was pregnant and had given up all hope of fitting into this season’s Hervé Léger? Cupcakes would go down a treat and it was touches like these that won accounts.
