Strictly Confidential

by Roxy Jacenko

  ‘Thanks, love. It’s amaze,’ I said genuinely to Anya. ‘But how on earth do you even know it’s the same Speedy I lost?’

  Anya laughed. ‘Recognise these?’ She tipped the bag upside down and pointed to smeary blood-red marks staining the leather on the bottom of the bag.

  ‘OMG! It is my Speedy! Do you remember that day Diane threw an open bottle of OPI nail polish at my head?’ I shuddered as the memory came flooding back.

  ‘Monsooner or Later,’ Anya grimaced, recalling the exact shade. ‘Thank God you had your Speedy handy or you might still be removing Monsooner from your pores.’

  ‘I wonder if the bag’s still got Raven’s red knickers stashed inside,’ I joked and went to peer into the Speedy when two skinny, pale models wandered by, looking like albino giraffes. Wait a minute. Pale models? Not at my show.

  ‘Are you two walking for Allison Palmer?’ I snapped.

  The giraffes nodded.

  ‘Then where’s your spray tan?’ I exploded. ‘Get backstage and get tanned now!’

  The giraffes scampered.

  ‘I’ve got to run and sort this,’ I apologised to Anya. ‘This is diabolical.’ Thanking her again for finding my handbag, I slipped it onto my arm and headed out to the hair and makeup marquee.

  The scene that greeted me resembled a zoo.

  Even though it was not yet 8 am, the small synthetic hothouse of the makeup marquee was pumping. Condensation trickled down the clear plastic walls, and when I prised open the door to the tent, a wave of hairspray hit me. This was followed by a wall of noise. Inside was a barrage of stylists, hairdressers, makeup artists and models, all talking over the top of one another, while music blared in the background and mounted TV screens screamed to be heard. There were feathers, fur, leather and sequins. And, of course, mirrors on every available surface.

  Poking my head into the madness, I breathed deeply and then let rip: ‘If you’re on my catwalk today,’ I bellowed, ‘then you’d better be looking orange. And if you’re not, get backstage and get yourself a spray tan now!’ I slammed the door for added emphasis. The plastic reverberated in my hand.

  Turning on my heels, I stalked towards backstage to start the first of my media calls for the day; this was when the real animal taming would begin.

  If the makeup room was a zoo then backstage was a circus.

  Rows of clothing rails stood at the entry, welcoming guests to the three rings inside. I pulled back the theatrical red velvet curtain to reveal the madness within. Waiflike models lounged around in their lingerie, bones protruding and eyes staring vacantly, their IQs apparently only slightly higher than their BMIs. A waiter wafted past bearing a tray of miniature food. Mini yoghurts, mini muffins, mini croissants, mini Danishes. Never mind supersize, no one in fashion even eats normal-sized. In the corner, one vollie stood steaming garments – a post she never left all day. Alice lay sprawled on the floor, her iPad in one hand, her BlackBerry in the other, uploading images onto the Queen Bee blog. Next to her, like a scene from a hundred years earlier, two women sat sewing sequins by hand onto a spectacular Allison Palmer frock.

  It was now only a few short hours till showtime and, like any good ringmaster, I cracked a mean whip.

  ‘Right, there should be three garments on each clothing rail outside,’ I yelled. ‘Can someone tell me why some rails only have two?’

  Someone, somewhere, started to answer.

  ‘Wait – don’t tell me,’ I interrupted. ‘Just fix it.’

  ‘And you vollies.’ I pointed. ‘I need you to start checking all the garments. Work from left to right along each rail and make sure everything is in order. There’ll be no time once the show has started to search for accessories between each look. Unzip all zips now. Check all cuffs. You need to be ready before the first girl hits the runway.’

  Eyeliner-wearing tweens scattered in all directions.

  ‘And don’t forget there’s over one million dollars worth of Jan Logan jewellery back here. Don’t. Lose. Anything!’ I screamed, before turning my attention to Alice. ‘Alice, where’s Allison? Have we seen her yet this morning?’ Alice shook her head. ‘Find out where she is and get her whatever she wants,’ I replied before turning my attention to my BlackBerry. It was time to muster some media.

  Scrolling through my inbox was diabolically dull. It should have been overflowing with media enquiries but instead I’d had no new emails in nearly half an hour. This was unheard of. It was such a bad day to be chasing press.

  I hit Luke’s number on speed dial.

  ‘Babe?’ he answered groggily.

  ‘I need your help,’ I said without preamble. There was no time for niceties, it was nearly 9 am. ‘Actually, I need your column inches. I can’t get traction anywhere today. There are Seals on the front page of every paper in the country and I’ve got a circus here with everything but.’

  ‘Huh? Seals? At Fashion Week?’ Luke was confused. Clearly, he hadn’t heard about Obama’s crack team. ‘But isn’t fur in this season, Jazzy Lou? Surely you can work with that?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I said bluntly. ‘I’m here in sequin central for Allison Palmer’s show and it’s a media moratorium. You’ve got to come cover the show for me.’

  Luke sighed. And made a noise that sounded suspiciously like someone rolling over in bed. ‘What time do you need me?’ he said finally.

  Thank God. ‘Be here by 10 am. I owe you big time,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes, you do, Jazzy Lou,’ Luke signed off. ‘Yes you do.’

  I knew I could rely on him.

  Next I tried the Chronicle, the Courier, the Spectator and the Star. I called the Advertiser, the Observer, the Leader and the Times. I argued with the Argus and I bullied the Bulletin. And all without result. I was beginning to wonder whether Diane had personally arranged for bin Laden to get the bullet, such was the catastrophe it had caused me. God knows, nothing would surprise me about that woman’s power to maim or kill.

  Leaving no stone unturned, I scrolled to Pamela’s name in my contacts list.

  ‘Pamela Stone! My fave gossip queen,’ I started.

  ‘Sorry, doll, unless you’re ringing me about bin Laden, I’m afraid there’s no space available today,’ said Pamela, preparing to hang up.

  ‘Wait! I am!’ I said desperately.

  ‘You are?’ Pamela didn’t even try to disguise her surprise.

  ‘Er, yeah, I am,’ I repeated. I thought if I said it enough times it might just be true.

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘So, you know how Osama has died,’ I stalled.

  ‘I had heard,’ Pamela said dryly.

  ‘Well, er –’ I scanned the room for inspiration.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, you see –’ I started again when a volunteer appeared out of nowhere, brandishing my old Speedy handbag.

  ‘Jasmine Lewis! You left your bag in the makeup room!’ the vollie yelled.

  I took the bag and slipped it over my arm for the second time that morning. This bag was like a bloody boomerang. I was destined never to be permanently parted from it. Or Raven’s red knickers, which were probably still floating around inside somewhere.

  And then it hit me.

  Raven’s knickers! Actually, any celebrity’s knickers. This was just what we needed. Knickers. Famous knickers. And hats and shoes and frocks and toenail clippings, for all I cared. Anything, as long as its owner was famous. This idea was inspired. Raven’s red g-string might save my arse yet.

  ‘Well, Pamela, we’re hosting a celebrity auction at Allison Palmer’s catwalk show here at Fashion Week today. All proceeds are going to the families of the New York Fire Department. Because we don’t want those poor people to be forgotten now that the hunt for bin Laden is over.’

  ‘So you’re auctioning c
elebrity memorabilia?’ Pamela asked. ‘Like what?’

  That was a good question. It was 9.23 am. The first model was due to walk at 11 am. And I had no celebrity memorabilia to speak of. Clearly, I would not be auctioning celebrity memorabilia that morning. Better think fast.

  ‘No, no, Pamela. We’re not auctioning celebrity stuff,’ I said. ‘No, nothing as crass as that. God, the last thing I want to do is make our celeb clientele feel like exhibits in a zoo. No, we’re hosting an auction for celebrities to participate in. Wave some paddles around. You know, bid, darling. All of the gorgeous gowns in Allison Palmer’s show will be going under the hammer immediately following the event. And all of our special front-row guests are invited to bid. Because nothing feels as good as owning a haute couture piece, does it?’

  There was silence on the line. Then: ‘Doll, that is a simply gorge idea. I love it. What time do you kick off? I’ll have the car brought around now. And you must save me a seat in the front row! Ta ta.’

  Boom! What a result! Sydney’s social pages sovereign was going to cover our event.

  I just hoped like hell Allison would be okay with my plan. But I couldn’t see why not. The gowns she was showing were only samples, after all. And the publicity of having a celeb bid for your designs would be worth so much more than any frock itself. Plus, at least this way I was auctioning something I actually had. (Even if it wasn’t mine to sell.) A slightly better scenario than selling celebrity memorabilia I didn’t have, non?

  So now all I had to do was organise and promote a charity auction. In a little less than two hours. I instinctively reached for my Nurofen, then I remembered. Of course. I’d been blacklisted. Ever since my local pharmacy had got wind of my Nurofen-induced stomach ulcer they’d chalked me up as a crack-whore-ice-addict, the kind of lowlife who probably tested her cosmetics on innocent bunnies each morning and who willing gives E-numbers to children. The result? Now my overzealous chemist would sell me nothing stronger than a herbal remedy. I grabbed the small floral-scented spritzer from my bag and poured its contents down my throat, swallowing a bouquet of bush herbs whole.

  ‘Not liposuction. Celeb auction!’ I had to shout to be heard over the din of hairdryers. ‘Like, fundraising for the less fortunate and stuff!’

  Only Shelley could think 10 am on a weekday morning – and a weekday morning during Fashion Week, no less – was a good time for a nip and tuck.

  ‘But I’m flattered you thought I was calling from your surgeon’s rooms,’ I added sarcastically, without pausing to ask what exactly she thought I was having done. That was one can of weight-loss leeches that didn’t need opening. Instead I said, ‘I need you to source some auction paddles for me, Shell.’

  The clock was ticking and it was all hands on deck if we were ever going to get to smashing champagne over the bow of this auction. I already had Allison pricing her stock and the Bees designing a buyers’ guide to be handed to all A-list guests at the show. Myself, I was just shooting off a press release to every outlet and contact I knew when the camera crew from Network Six appeared backstage for their prearranged interview with Allison. This was one interview I’d managed to hang on to and simply by not being too proud to beg. The fact that I’d nearly come to blows with Channel Twelve – their main rival – at the Coco Awards hadn’t hurt my standing at Six either.

  ‘Welcome!’ I bellowed, stepping over sequin-sewing minions and extending a frantic arm. ‘Come on in, let me clear some room for you.’ I kicked the seamstresses out of the way.

  The crew trudged on in.

  ‘And Kate McClelland!’ I cried, spotting the petite TV journalist behind them. ‘So great to see you!’

  Kate offered a warm smile. I could have offered my firstborn in return. At last, some fucking media coverage.

  ‘Please meet our very talented designer, Allison Palmer.’ I thrust Allison forward.

  Polite introductions all round.

  ‘Now, shall we jump straight in and run through the script?’ I suggested. If we could provide enough tasty sound bites, this interview might just eat into both the 4 pm and 6 pm bulletins.

  Kate nodded compliantly.

  Allison looked petrified.

  As the crew set up their cameras, Kate and Allison rehearsed their script while I hovered over them. ‘If it’s all right with you, I’d like to start by asking: “Why BMW Australian Fashion Week?”’ Kate said.

  Allison turned to me questioningly.

  ‘Great!’ I replied. ‘And Allison’s answer is: “As a born and bred Sydneysider, there’s no runway I’d prefer a run at!”’

  Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘We’re only broadcasting in the Sydney major metro area so there’s no requirement to pacify Melbourne viewers. Shall we film that?’

  Allison looked like she might faint.

  ‘Let’s,’ I replied as the crew bunged on a spotlight behind us.

  Kate switched on her on-air persona to match. ‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies, because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer. Now Allison, why have you chosen Australian Fashion Week for your very first catwalk show?’

  The camera swung around to Allison, who looked impeccable in one of her own flawless creations.

  ‘Well . . .’ she started. And then she froze. ‘Um, what’s the answer again, Jazzy?’ she said nervously, still looking down the barrel of the camera. The cameraman sighed and swung the camera off his shoulder. Kate smiled graciously and we began over again from the top.

  Lining up for a second take, Kate posed the question thoughtfully, as if it had only just popped into her mind: ‘Now Allison, why have you chosen Australian Fashion Week for your very first catwalk show?’

  But just as Allison prepared to answer, a courier bumped into the room, wheeling a squeaky clothing rail behind him and shouting for a signatory for his delivery.

  ‘Gah!’ I screamed. ‘We’re filming here, people! Channel Six News! Very important!’

  The cameraman puffed out his chest. The racket behind me carried on. This would never do.

  ‘Everybody shut up! Shut up!’ I exploded. ‘I don’t care who you are and I don’t care what you’re doing! We’re filming a TV interview here that will pay your fashionista wages. No one makes any further noise until I say.’

  Silence fell across the room.

  The cameraman whistled through his teeth. ‘Can we take you with us on all our shoots?’ he asked in hushed tones.

  I grinned.

  Kate started over, unperturbed. ‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies, because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer –’

  ‘No!’ I interrupted. ‘That won’t do. Allison, you were moving your arms.’

  Kate looked bemused. ‘That’s fine. Arms are fine. They make her look human.’

  ‘She’s not allowed to be human,’ I explained. ‘She’s got me next to her.’

  Allison swallowed nervously.

  Behind me, at that very second, our seamstresses finished work on the showstopper of today’s event: a stunning silver ballgown, figure-hugging with a fishtail finish and covered with thousands of sparkling sequins.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ exclaimed Kate, spying the dress.

  Allison smiled shyly. ‘Do you want to take a look? It weighs over eleven kilograms with all those sequins.’

  I held the dress up for Kate to admire.

  ‘Wow!’ she said again. ‘Eleven kilograms? That must be half your weight, Jazzy,’ she joked.

  I didn’t disagree. Stress, it turns out, is not a four-square meal.

  Then, turning back to the camera, Kate began her spiel again as I ho
vered nearby, supervising. After all, if I wasn’t there to make sure Allison Palmer was ‘on brand’ for the Allison Palmer brand, who would? Thankfully Allison looked a little more comfortable now she’d had a chance to show off her work.

  ‘Dust off your Dior and dig out your Dolce & Gabbana, ladies because today we’re broadcasting from backstage at BMW Australian Fashion Week, where I’m speaking with debut designer Allison Palmer . . .’

  Out in the foyer, meawhile, where the Moët bubbled and the Gucci glittered, A-listers began to amass. They flittered about ethereally, their faces at once recognisable yet at the same time representing something tantalisingly out of reach. The paparazzi snapped at their well-shod heels. The glitterati were out in full force.

  There was Samantha Priest, her long hair extensions glistening in the morning sunshine bouncing off the harbour. There was Pamela Stone, her regal presence filling the packed room while her eyes scanned for tomorrow’s headline. There was the blonde bombshell Belle Single, batting her lashes for the panting paps. And oh! beside her was the handsome Michael Lloyd, I couldn’t help but notice. There was racing royalty Sara Goldbridge, her long legs looking more elongated than ever, as if designed to mock her mother’s prized jockeys. There were ubiquitous reality TV stars. There were celebrated television chefs. There were famous radio hosts and there were infamous football stars. There were shoe doyennes and there were millinery masters. There were fashion muses and there were fashion slaves. Plus, there were fashion editors aplenty.

  And there, in the thick of things, was Luke.

  ‘OMG, sweetie,’ he cried to the Botoxed beauty beside him who was embalmed in new-season Versace. ‘Did you hear Cate Blanchett will be here at Allison’s show? Word on the street is she’s going to bid on the final gown, so I’d put in an advance bid if I were you. But that’s strictly confidential, babe,’ he added, winking then swanning off to the next cluster of celebs.