Strictly Confidential

by Roxy Jacenko

  I staggered up the front steps of Queen Bee that afternoon, straight out of a cab from the hospital, and struggled through the heavy glass door. The chandelier in reception reflected my own bedraggled image, my not-quite-faded black eye winking back at me a thousand depressing times. But I’d survived several nights in hospital and just as many days away from the office (the two things on a par in my mind), and now, contrary to doctor’s orders, I’d signed myself out of hospital and was back at the Queen Beehive.

  Which was where I found myself face to face with a new-season Rebecca Thompson creation hanging blithely in a courier bag at reception, ready to be whisked away to a fashion editor. Wrinkled.

  ‘Why has this garment not been steamed?’ I bellowed, stalking into the showroom, the offending dress dragging behind me. Laughter died where it fell and it was mourned by stunned silence. ‘What?’ I demanded. ‘You didn’t seriously think I was going to stay in hospital all week? Have you seen what a hospital gown does for your figure?’

  I switched on both my computers. ‘Oh, and Alice?’ I added, not looking up from my screens. ‘Those look-books need to stay up the back of the showroom. You know how I like things to match.’ Honestly, a few days away from the place and everything turned to shit.

  Bang on cue, Amanda chose this moment to phone me from Coast Underwear. ‘Jasmine!’ she gushed. ‘How are you? It’s been far too long.’

  Had it? I couldn’t tell you. I hadn’t exactly been counting down the days in my Bottega Veneta diary until we spoke again.

  While she jabbered away I tidied the Queen Bee garment bags that hung on a giant roll near my desk, like supermarket bags on steroids. Not that I did my own grocery shopping, but I’d seen how it worked in an episode of Australia’s Next Top Model when the models took an excursion to Coles.

  ‘Jasmine, I need to talk to you about the seating arrangements for next week’s Coco Man of the Year Awards,’ Amanda said. ‘I’ve been thinking –’ I braced myself. ‘Why don’t we abandon the current seating plan and have everyone sit at one long table together? Like a Heston Blumenthal banquet but bigger! Wouldn’t that be fun?’

  My head throbbed and my stomach ached. I should have got some morphine to take away in a hospital doggy bag. That would have been fun. Pumping the stuff through my veins till I could no longer hear the words coming from Amanda’s mouth would have been fun. But redoing the seating arrangements for four hundred special guests, celebrities and media personalities a few days before an event? That would not be fun. That was not even close to fun and I told Amanda so.

  ‘Sorry, A, no can do. I’d rather hang myself with my new Hermès belt than make changes now. The current arrangements are final.’

  Or so I thought.

  It’s funny, that word final. Look up the Macquarie Concise and there, listed with a neat little adj. next to it, is this: 1. relating to or coming at the end; last in place order or time. Not: Last in place order or time until someone else messes with it. Or: Last in place order or time until someone comes in and fucks it up by switching all the place cards thereby screwing the seating arrangements. My guess was that certain someone had straggly blonde hair extensions and a name starting with ‘A’ and ending with ‘manda’. Because when I made my entrance into the Grand Ballroom at the Ivy several days later – bespangled from blonde roots to ankle boots in silver, sparkly, sequinned Ellery and ready to witness the crowning of Coco’s Man of the Year – what I thought was the final seating plan proved not to be. Around me, the rest of the room whirled on. Beautiful girls with deep golden tans and long, long synthetic blonde hair stalked past pretending they couldn’t tell you were watching. Snappers hustled through the crowd and waitresses tottered past carrying trays of cocktails decorated with kitsch umbrellas. And there, among the pineapples and palm trees of this evening’s Hawaiian theme, the seating arrangements had been changed. Gah! My plan to score Kurt Simmons some headlines – and a date – would be sunk if I didn’t rearrange the rearranged place cards. And fast. Stalking over to where our winner was supposed to be sat, I began hunting around for his name tag when I stumbled upon my own. Gah again!

  Now, rather than sitting surreptitiously by the door so I could spend all night slipping out and monitoring events backstage, I was slap-bang in the middle of the room. Much worse, though, were my dining companions. You know when unimaginative journalists ask the question: ‘Who, dead or alive, would you most like to invite to a dinner party?’ That night it was as though someone had found my list, scrolled straight to the very bottom and then set the table accordingly. I swear I’d rather have plated up for Galliano than broken bread with those on my table that night. There was not a single person in my immediate vicinity that I wouldn’t have preferred dead than alive.

  For starters, to my right was sat the PR ambassador for Coast Underwear Australia, one Amanda Worthington. This arrangement promised an evening of banal conversation, possibly peppered with a PR disaster or two, and all caused solely by Amanda’s ineptitude. And to my left? Why, there was that other ambassador of men’s underpants (by reputation at least) – Belle Single.

  ‘Belle Single!’ I hissed down the phone to Luke, who was on the far side of the room interviewing celebs for the social pages. ‘Belle Single!’ I repeated for effect. ‘What the hell is Belle Single doing here?’ Had Amanda forgotten Ms Single singlehandedly sabotaged our press conference for this very event by staging a love-in with her best friend’s ex-fiancé?

  Luke laughed. ‘Babe, Belle Single is like the mascot for man-hunters. You can’t host a male meat market in metropolitan Sydney and not expect Single to show. Trust me, she can sniff it out!’

  I sighed and took a swig of my mai tai cocktail.

  ‘Anyway, who else is sitting with you?’

  I turned to inspect the remaining place cards on the table. ‘Uh, Michael Lloyd, whoever that is. And – ’

  Suddenly, a lone figure appeared before me. A lone figure with a new-season Birkin. A lone figure that struck fear into the very core of my heart and made me forget, temporarily, about my plan for Kurt.

  ‘Diane!’ I gasped, my phone still glued to my ear.

  ‘Diane?!’ Luke shrieked down the line.

  ‘Jasmine,’ she said flatly, her hands too occupied with her enormous Birkin for anything as civil as a handshake.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I blurted, dropping my BlackBerry (and poor Luke) to the floor. ‘And at my table?’ I added, narrowing my eyes. Suddenly I doubted it was Amanda who had switched the table arrangements.

  Oh, why did Diane keep doing this to me? I wondered, thinking ruefully back to her unwelcome appearance at Queen Bee’s first-anniversary party. Of all the fucking gin joints . . . Why on earth was Diane seated at my table? Alongside Amanda Worthington and Belle Single! It was like the ghosts of Christmas past in here. Happy fucking Chanukah, I thought grimly.

  Diane sniffed and pushed her Hermès black leather bracelet back up her bony arm. I adjusted my Givenchy leopard-print cuff in reply. Our rearmament complete, we headed into battle.

  ‘What am I doing here? Oh, Jasmine, there are publicists other than you with clients here tonight. Or potential clients, anyway,’ she said cryptically. ‘In fact, there are still entire PR firms eking out a living in this city alongside Queen Bee PR,’ she sneered.

  I nearly choked on my mai tai in delight. Eking out a living? Diane was eking out a living? Don’t tell me Wilderstein PR was feeling the sting of Queen Bee’s blossoming PR presence? Don’t tell me she was hurting because of little ole me? Each and every morning that I’d hauled my arse out of bed and into the office since QB PR began suddenly shone golden in my memory. It was like those TV ads where they wipe over the kitchen in one easy motion and the whole thing glistens and sparkles. If Diane was hurting, then my every effort had been worth it. I didn’t even try to suppress my smile.

  ‘Of course
there are,’ I gloated unashamedly. ‘It’s just we’re getting so busy at Queen Bee these days that we forget all about the competition. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to check on a few things backstage. You understand.’

  Diane scowled and I hotfooted it before she had the chance to wrap her Hermès leather bracelet neatly around my neck.

  Backstage, however, things had gone awry.

  The five hundred gift bags we’d couriered over early that day had been unceremoniously dumped on the floor of the green room, like the Mount Fuji of freebies. Beside them sat an unopened box containing one thousand individually wrapped gourmet macaroons. All of which were supposed to be inside the offending gift bags. Gah!

  It was time to do what I do best.

  ‘Um, can someone tell me what is going on here?’ I shouted. ‘Someone? Anyone? You!’ I screeched at a hapless cable runner who had made the mistake of being in my firing line. ‘I want you, you and you to tidy this up now,’ I continued, pointing at two other randoms who were hanging out backstage. ‘And Lulu and Alice,’ I said, spying some Bees nearby, ‘help me sort out these biscuits. Now!’ Kurt’s place card would have to wait a bit longer.

  I took a deep breath, kicked off my shoes and bent down and got to work. I was in the middle of running an Isabel Marant-clad knuckle down the seam of the macaroon box to slice it open when I heard the swish of sequins behind me.

  ‘Doll!’ came a plummy voice from inside the sequins. A voice I’d recognise anywhere.

  ‘Pamela Stone! My favourite gossip queen! What brings you backstage?’ I kicked a gift bag out of the way with my foot.

  ‘Oh, I live for backstage. Everybody’s a nobody until you get backstage,’ she said, laughing.

  I stood, barefoot, and brushed cookie crumbs from my gown.

  Pamela had enough class to pretend not to notice. ‘Now, doll, I’ve heard talk that you had some kind of epiphany while holed up in hospital. You know, detoxing and soul-searching and generally turning all zen and Miranda Kerr on us. So is it true Queen Bee PR is up for sale now?’

  My mouth fell open.

  ‘And that you’ll settle for ten million because you’re downsizing and sea-changing to somewhere more coastal? Like Tamarama? What’s the story there, doll?’

  Now I had to laugh. Even by Pamela’s standards this was impressive. The tabloid talent was always first with the goss but this rumour was so fresh even I didn’t know I was selling. In fact, I wasn’t sure what surprised me most – the idea that I was selling Queen Bee or the fact that the social pages knew about it before I did. Not to mention the thought of ten million dollars.

  ‘Ah, sorry to disappoint you, Pamela, but nothing could be further from the truth. Queen Bee is not on the market. And I’m not in the market for a life overhaul.’

  That last part was probably not strictly true, but Pamela, bless her, looked relieved anyway. ‘You’re sure, dear?’

  I nodded emphatically.

  ‘And what about the ten million? Is that bit true?’

  I was tempted to nod again. While there was no way in hell my business was worth anywhere near ten big ones, there was also no way Diane Wilderstein would ever miss one of Pamela’s columns. And I’d love to give Diane something to stew on over breakfast.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comment,’ I replied sweetly. ‘It’s so crass to talk about your millions once you pass double figures, don’t you think?’ Oops.

  Leaving Pamela to spread that salacious story, I was on my way back into the Ivy Ballroom when Shelley texted: Dah-ling, in the bath with a vino and the Man of the Year edition of Coco magazine. Now, here’s a fun reconnaissance mission. If I select my fave hot bod, will you find him in the flesh for me tonight? Mwah.

  LOL. This was too good. Was Shelley seriously going to lie in the bath and text me her wish list from the finalists so I could then seek him out for her at tonight’s event? This was like Where’s Wally does RSVP. And what would I do when I found him? Tell the lucky guy my friend fancied him? And that she was already at home naked, in case he was interested?

  Sure, babe. Just send me a pic, I replied, although I could already imagine her selection.

  Turned out I didn’t need to wait long. Within seconds Shell had sent me through an image. Of herself. Lounging luxuriously in her bathtub and artfully clad in a bikini of bubbles.

  Not of you! I shot back. A pic of the guy you want me to find! What the hell am I supposed to do with pornographic images of my best friend? I hit delete fast.

  Back in the ballroom I accosted a waitress and grabbed myself a glass of champagne. And not just to recover from the picture I’d just seen. If I had to go back to my table – and down a few rungs in Dante’s Inferno – I was damned if I wasn’t doing it well lubricated. I was about to resume my quest for Kurt’s place card when across the room I spied something to make me choke on my Chandon. There, in the corner, was Diane talking earnestly to Allison Palmer. My designer, Allison Palmer. My soon-to-be-rising-star-of-Fashion-Week, Allison Palmer. My favourite client and Queen Bee’s sartorial saviour of last resort, Allison Palmer. Allison Palmer, who was going to save us from sinking into small business oblivion. Allison Palmer, who was going to guarantee us the success necessary to sail into the next twelve months still financially afloat. Kurt would have to fend for himself because this was more important than finding his place card.

  Now, I’m a glass-half-full kinda girl. I like to always look on the bright side; I say ‘can’ when others say ‘can’t’; and I can find a silver lining in any cloud. But as I stood watching that she-devil charm Allison that night I knew it could mean only one thing: Diane was trying to poach my client. This was like Belle Single all over again. Only this time I was determined not to lose. Allison, to her credit, looked decidedly uncomfortable about the whole conversation, shifting awkwardly from one Manolo-clad foot to the other and glancing hopefully over Diane’s shoulder as if looking for an escape. And for a moment I toyed with the idea of offering one. I thought about waltzing over, barging into the conversation and shaming Diane for her duplicity. Only, you have to have a conscience in order for it to be shamed and there was the vital flaw in my plan. Diane was sadly lacking in that department. Instead, I stood and watched and vowed that the publicity campaign we delivered for Allison at BMW Australian Fashion Week would blow her sequinned socks off so she’d simply have no reason to switch publicists.

  That and I grabbed another glass of champagne even though my first glass was still far from empty.

  ‘Thirsty?’ asked the suit standing beside me.

  I smiled half-heartedly. I didn’t recognise this guy as press and I certainly wasn’t going to waste my energy being polite to anyone else. A swagger of Coco finalists wandered past, escaped from the green room and easily identified by their magazine rosettes.

  The suit leaned in. ‘Those guys only have one look, for Christ’s sake! Blue Steel? Ferrari? Le Tigre? They’re all the same face.’

  I laughed despite myself. ‘And who might you be? Not a finalist this evening, I take it?’

  The suit stuck out his hand. ‘Michael Lloyd. Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Michael Lloyd!’ I exclaimed excitedly. ‘We’re sitting at the same table!’ This was my knight in shining Armani. My saviour in Paul Smith. Michael Lloyd was the only person at my table I wouldn’t pay a hit man to take out.

  ‘Great,’ he enthused. ‘You must know my girlfriend, then?’

  Warning lights flashed before my eyes.

  ‘Belle Single,’ he added, by way of explanation.

  Belle. Bloody. Single.

  ‘Belle Single?’ I said weakly. He was Belle Single’s latest squeeze? That made him the reason my media conference fell flat, I thought, resolving to hate Michael Lloyd forevermore with immediate effect. I took a long swig of champagne.

  Thank God Lulu c
hose this moment to interrupt us. Skittering across the ballroom floor, she skidded to a stop in front of me. ‘Er, Jasmine, can we borrow you for a minute backstage?’

  I didn’t need to be asked twice. ‘Sorry, Michael. Duty calls and all that. I’ve got to run and – er, what do I need to run and do?’ I asked Lulu.

  ‘Our stylist won’t style and I don’t know what to do!’ she wailed.

  I grimaced, embarrassed in front of Michael. ‘Uh, I’ll catch you at dinner,’ I said, grabbing Lulu by the arm and walking her away at speed. ‘What do you mean, the stylist won’t style?’ I hissed. ‘What’s he here for? The ambiance?’

  Lulu just shrugged.

  Backstage, I saw exactly what she meant. The stylist wouldn’t style.

  In fact, not only would he not style tonight. Turned out our Vidal Sassoon didn’t style, full stop. Not ever. Didn’t get his manicured hands dirty with anything more demanding than ‘supervising’, apparently.

  ‘Bud, I don’t know who the hell you think you are,’ I screeched, ‘but I’ve got forty bachelors with flat hair here. So either you attach yourself to a blowdryer or I’ll do that for you!’

  Heads everywhere snapped to look in our direction. None of them bloody styled, of course.

  Our rebellious barber didn’t budge.

  ‘Look, big shot, let me explain how it works around here. You’re a stylist? You style. Do you think I’m too good to do PR? Do you think I just supervise my publicists? Hell, no. I put my issues in my pocket and get on with it. I call the press. I write the press releases. Heck, in my workplace, I even change the toilet paper rolls. Now, style!’

  Just then Samantha Priest sauntered past, all Botox and boobs and blonde hair (and no sign of Doctor Fun), and interrupted my tirade. ‘Jesus, Jazzy, keep your shirt on or you’ll end up back in Emergency. The blokes are the only ones we want to see topless tonight, yeah?’