by Roxy Jacenko
So I can’t blame Fifi for having expensive tastes. I’d created the two-year-old fashion lover. Anyway, I was happy in a way that I was raising a child with high standards and strong opinions. Although I had recently cut back on my junior-designer shopping habit and was trying not to overindulge as much on Fifi’s wardrobe. I’m not made of money – although I am good at making it – and needed to rein in my spending to balance our long-term hotel stay.
I shouldn’t have let Fifi be present in the room when I packed her (five) suitcases, because she was soon micro-managing me. Even though she’s only just beginning to put together sentences, my little girl has a knack of getting her own way without even speaking. She has her mother’s ‘poison-dart’ look down to a tee, and shoots it at anything or anyone she disapproves of. Including me.
As I packed Fifi’s ensembles into her suitcases, she picked over my selection, crying, ‘No, Mummy, no. Silly Mummy.’ I put an outfit in, and she pulled it out again, throwing dresses, pants and socks into a reject pile. She then toddled around pulling alternative outfits from the shelves of her walk-in wardrobe. Imagine Carrie’s dream closet from Sex in the City, if it was hit by a shrink ray.
Fifi’s wardrobe is arranged in alphabetical order by designer (Burberry, Dior, Fendi, and so on). I swear it’s helping Fifi learn her alphabet, as I test her by naming a designer and asking her to point out that section. And that’s not all – within each alphabetised category her outfits are also divided into season: no sleeves, short sleeve, long sleeve, et cetera.
According to Michael I have OCD, but I think I’m setting a good example for Fifi. These days, too many people look down on perfectionism like it’s a bad trait. What’s the problem in wanting things to be faultless? I happily admit that I’m very, very obsessive. I mean very. But I think that’s what makes me a good businesswoman, and probably a good mother as well.
Finally, all the bags were crammed into the back of my Jeep, with the overflow filling every spare space in Lulu’s leopard-print Alfa Romeo. The car had been wrapped for a publicity stunt which Queen Bee had organised and my young assistant had taken a liking to it.
When it was time to leave, Lulu discreetly waited in her tiger-mobile to give Michael and me some privacy to say goodbye. As I kissed Michael at the front door, I noticed he kept his eyes on his iPad screen, where he was reading an article called ‘The rise of personal robots’. This was obviously far more important than farewelling his wife.
To my annoyance, I felt a flash of neediness. Why wasn’t he more upset that his significant other was leaving? Even though I was only upping sticks to the other side of the city, and he had promised to come for sleepovers, shouldn’t he at least feel . . . something?
‘See you then,’ I tried to sound breezy, while wishing that he’d put down the damn iPad. Was I going to become another statistic, one of those women whose marriage is broken up by technology?
My husband gave me a pat on the bum, which felt more like a shove than an affectionate gesture. ‘Cool, cool, I’ll drop by over the weekend,’ he said distractedly. ‘We can go out for dinner. Can you send an invitation request to my iPhone calendar to remind me? If it’s not in my diary I might double-book you.’
Umm, was he kidding me? He expected me to send a calendar request for our date night? This was the modern-day equivalent of a 1930s housewife having to call her husband’s secretary to see him. I really didn’t want to leave on a sour note, but I couldn’t let this comment slide.
‘Well, who said romance is dead,’ I retorted, with an edge to my voice. ‘In case you haven’t realised, I am not one of your freaking clients, I am your wife. If you can’t remember me without an alarm popping up on your phone, then we’re in serious trouble.’
Michael looked at me doubtfully. ‘Oh, don’t exaggerate, Jazzy Lou,’ he groaned. ‘You’re the one with the uber-busy life. I just meant that you should tell me when you’re free and I’ll work around you . . . Isn’t that how our life normally plays out?’
I had a sense that there was more to this argument than a dinner reservation, but I also didn’t have the energy to push the issue at that moment. I glanced at my Rolex. I was already running late and didn’t have a free window in my schedule for a battle. So I plastered on my best smile and faked contrition.
‘I’m sorry, Michael. I’m just agro with the move,’ I soothed. ‘Let’s meet up over the weekend like you suggested. Cocktails in the hotel’s bar? I’ve heard they do a mean martini and red cocktail and their Wagyu beef is to die for.’ How depressing that I felt I needed to bribe my husband to meet me, with his favourite alcohol and hand-massaged meat.
As Lulu and I drove out of the driveway in convoy (I’d arranged for the nanny to drop Fifi at the hotel later, after I’d had time to settle in), I watched my husband in the rear-view mirror. Polishing the bumper of his Mercedes with his sunglasses cleaner, he didn’t even look up as I beeped a goodbye and put my foot down on the pedal. The luggage in my car suddenly felt twice as heavy with the extra weight of my emotional baggage.
I was grateful when I pulled into the Four Seasons’ car park and a team of porters appeared like magic to help me unload my life from the boot. Unlike my husband, they didn’t look at all perturbed by the number of my suitcases. I heard one porter mutter to another, ‘Long-termer,’ and they looked impressed rather than judgemental.
As I went to pick up the smallest of my bags, a porter ushered me away. ‘No, no, madam. We’ll take that to your room for you.’ I don’t actually enjoy being fussed over too much, but I was paying a premium for the privilege so I figured I might as well make the most of it.
Even Lulu looked slightly taken aback, as – for the first time ever in my presence – she had nothing to do. ‘Lulu, my love, you can clock off for the day,’ I told her. She looked stunned, as it was ‘only’ 6 pm. In our line of work a nine-hour day feels like slacking off.
I followed the ants’ trail of porters as they hauled my luggage to my suite, and deposited it neatly in the walk-in wardrobe after I insisted that, yes, I could unpack for myself. I must check the etiquette on long-term tip-giving. Surely if I stayed here for three months I wouldn’t be expected to continue to tip every time my bed sheets were turned down or my fruit bowl was replenished? I’d have to ask Shelley – she always seems to know these things.
As the porters bowed graciously and exited into the corridor, I sat on the edge of my king-sized bed and breathed in deeply. The room smelled of Lumira candles – Persian Rose scent – which were burning in every corner. Either this was a coincidence or a hotel staff member had done their research and seen me post on my Instagram that these were my favourite candles. Now that was customer service! Let Michael stay in a house full of paint fumes; I work too hard to live in discomfort.
As the door closed behind the final porter and I was left alone with my thoughts, I did feel guilty about our lovers’ tiff. I am no stranger to confrontation, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I’m also not one to bury my head in the sand; instead I take an active approach to solving problems (that’s why Queen Bee PR is so successful).
I retrieved my iPhone from my handbag, opened up my to-do list and under the ‘urgent tasks’ column added a reminder: Rescue relationship. Just typing it made me feel better, as at least I had good intentions, even if it was written on a to-do list with forty-seven other ‘urgent’ items.
I’d get around to it eventually. Probably. Hopefully. Michael wasn’t going anywhere. Oh, how naive I was . . .
4
I admire any woman who has an entire hanging rail in her walk-in wardrobe dedicated to shorts, especially when they’re grouped by fabric – denim, leather, silk, crochet. That’s why the moment I saw the closet of Ebony Frith – one half of the fashion blogging duo Doncha Wanna Be Us – I just knew they had to be the first clients I signed up to The Talent Hive. Not to mention the fact that they get 700,000 hits on their fashion blog a month and have 480,000 Instagram fans. These girls weren’t just p
retty faces; they were business savvy and sitting on a potential gold mine.
If I’m honest, despite being an avid fan of their blog and having an almighty crush on their wardrobes, I fully expected to hate the girls when I met them in the flesh. My first impression of Ebony was from an interview I read in Bizarre magazine where she spoke about how she’d first discovered fashion when her mum bought her a Gucci saddle for her pony. She was five years old. Was I jealous? Maybe. Did I instantly google Gucci saddles and buy one for Fifi despite the fact she doesn’t even have a pony? (It was now a very stylish clotheshorse in her bedroom, draped with her scarves and sweaters.)
Ebony and her blogging partner Tara Rain had been best friends since they met at boarding school in London (both sets of parents shared the opinion that an Australian education wasn’t ‘polished’ enough for them). At the end of their $40,000-a-year education, they’d graduated with top marks in art and an intimate knowledge of the best vintage stalls at Notting Hill market (the rumour goes that Ebony pioneered the boho chic trend when Sienna Miller spotted her wearing a denim cut-offs and cowboy boot combo while standing in line for her espresso at Coffee Planet and asked to take her photograph).
Anyway, London hadn’t managed to capture the girls’ attention long term. They both craved the sunshine (we also share a tanning addiction); plus, when you have legs the length of Tara’s it’s a travesty not to live in a country where you can wear cut-off shorts all year round. So they’d both returned to their hometown of Bondi and nabbed jobs as visual merchandisers at competing fashion stores. Despite being professional rivals, their bond had never broken. In fact, every morning they’d email each other photographs of their outfits (subject line: ‘Fash of the day’). What began as a bit of fun was now an online mood board with a cultish following, which they continually updated with their amazing ensembles.
I had big plans for DWBU and could easily think of a dozen fashion labels who would love to collaborate with them. I could already imagine an exclusive range of Doncha Wanna Be Us jeans designed with Paige. And possibly a range of smoothies with Tara’s face printed on the label. Fact of life, it’s far easier to market a person when that person looks like Elle Macpherson’s younger, hotter sister.
I invited the duo to the Queen Bee offices and sent Lulu out for macadamia-milk lattes, which I knew from Facebook was their go-to drinks order.
‘Girls!’ I squealed as they walked through reception. ‘Don’t you both look gorgeous. Oh my gawd, I look like shit. I haven’t washed my hair in a week. Look at me!’ The hair comment was sadly true. My hair stylist had the flu and had cancelled my weekly wash-and-blow appointment. Do it myself – are you kidding me? I’m a dedicated blow-ho and learned a long time ago that a weekly visit to the salon is worth the investment.
I was exaggerating when I said I looked like turd, however. I’ve also learned over the years that the fastest way to a fashionista’s heart is self-deprecation. Everyone is insecure in this business, no matter how confident they appear on the outside. Bigging them up and putting yourself down is an instant leveller, and my favourite ice-breaker.
‘What are you talking about, Jasmine?’ protested Tara. ‘You’re a hottie! Actually, can I take a photo of you for our blog? Will your assistant take it? We can all be in the picture together.’
Yes, I wanted to scream, home run! This was exactly the reaction I’d been hoping for when I’d carefully selected my outfit that morning (well, I was meeting blogging royalty). I’d gone for denim shorts, in Ebony’s honour, along with a black tee from The Row, Balmain ‘shoots’ (shoe boots), and my favourite rose-gold Rolex watch, which always set off any outfit. And it seemed my selection had passed the litmus test. A blogger asking to take a photograph is the ultimate compliment.
I usually don’t agree to spontaneous fashion shoots unless I know I’ll get photo approval. Even if it’s just going on social media, I want to be able to choose my best angle, crop out my problem areas, and select the most flattering filter. But I trusted that the DWBU girls wouldn’t allow on their blog any photograph that wasn’t aesthetically pleasing. And so I struck the pose I’ve learned makes my legs look slimmest (one foot crossed in front of the other, toes slightly pointed in). Within ten minutes of the picture appearing on their Instagram feed, along with my name and the hashtag #newfriendsexcitingplansahead, I had over 2000 new followers. It was further proof that DWBU had harnessed people power.
And to my surprise, I found I LOVED the girls. Sure, they lived in a fashion bubble, but don’t we all. They couldn’t help being born gorgeous, rich and stylish (humph!). And they seemed to be genuinely amazed and incredibly grateful that they got to do this for a living.
‘Let’s not pretend it’s rocket science, Jazz,’ laughed Tara once we were shut in my office with the door closed so the other Bees couldn’t overhear us. ‘All we do is post pretty pictures. I wouldn’t exactly call us entrepreneurs.’
‘We just want to create,’ added Ebony. ‘All this talk of profits gets in the way of my process. I don’t want to spend my time playing hard ball and making deals when I could be having fun styling.’
The best thing about bohemian creative types is they really don’t like talking about money, as they prefer to think of themselves as ‘artists’. This meant that even though the DWBU girls had the business savvy to manage themselves, they really didn’t want to.
So they signed on the dotted line (in purple sparkly gel pen), and the three of us celebrated that night with lychee caprioskas at the Four Seasons bar, getting far drunker than I’d planned to. In fact, they both ended up sleeping in my hotel suite, and I heard Tara throwing up the next morning, which made me like her even more.
‘Jaysus, I feel rough,’ she croaked as she exited the bathroom. ‘I’m never drinking again . . . Shall we order bacon sarnies . . . and Bloody Marys?’
There’s nothing like shared hangovers to bond strangers together. We’d now become friends as well as business acquaintances.
It was time to press ‘go’ on The Talent Hive. A week after signing the girls, I made my business plans public knowledge. I gave the exclusive story to my old friend Luke Jefferson, who’d recently been promoted to entertainment editor at The Sun after many years writing their celeb gossip column. I’d known Luke when he was a twenty-two-year-old junior reporter writing lowly stories on school fetes for a local paper. Over the course of our careers we’d scratched each other’s backs (and drowned our sorrows together) on many occasions, so I couldn’t have been prouder of his recent promotion, even though it meant I saw him less because he was a man-in-demand. I still knew every detail of his life and of his frequent trips to Hollywood, thanks to his Instagram feed, which was a montage of selfies of Luke with the stream of bigwig celebrities he interviewed. And despite his new media stature, he was still interested in snippets of gossip from the Sydney scene and never, ever misquoted me.
‘I’d LOVE to share your news with the masses,’ Luke crowed when I called him. ‘Can I mention you’re living in the Four Seasons? They might give you a dissie for the publicity!’
I guessed he was on his way to LA (again) because I could hear a flight attendant in the background telling him to please turn off his phone as the plane was about to depart.
‘That’d be great, sweetie.’ I tried not to feel jealous of his jet-setting lifestyle. I could really do with a holiday. ‘Shall I email you some quotes? If you run a photo, can you make it flattering, please!’
Luke laughed. ‘Always, always, my beauty. Look, I’ve got to fly – literally – but can I tweet you next week? Hashtag air kiss.’ This is how Luke speaks, like the ultimate Gen-Y stereotype, but he tones down the millennial slang when he writes. And he was true to his word, giving me a half-page spread in the weekend’s newspaper and on The Sun’s website.
OUT WITH THE OLD, IN WITH THE NEW AGE!
Australian publicity powerhouse Jasmine Lewis has revealed plans to ditch half of the clients from her firm Queen Bee PR to focus
on launching a creative agency called The Talent Hive.
According to Lewis, the forty clients she plans to drop will be replaced by bloggers and social media personalities. ‘I am certainly not quitting the publicity business,’ insists Lewis. ‘I’m just bringing it into the 21st century.’
As soon as the story broke, every phone in Queen Bee headquarters started ringing off the hook, with calls from our current clients who were paranoid that they might get the boot (we were holding our cards close to our chest for now) and also from the waifs and strays of the Sydney celebrity scene who needed representation. Even though I’d made it clear in the press release that we were a creative agency, focusing on bloggers, photographers, stylists and makeup artists, that didn’t stop every wannabe actress and singer from applying to be on our books. They didn’t realise I had my wish list of clients written, and if you weren’t already on my radar you clearly weren’t worth chasing. Don’t call me, I’ll call you!
The girls from Doncha Wanna Be Us were proving to be a joy, especially Tara, who had become a regular visitor to the office. I suspected that she was lonely. Her right-hand woman Ebony had recently started dating an electrician called Jasper, who lived in a bedsit in Redfern, and was spending all of her free time in his (less than privileged) neighbourhood. Remember how I told you that it’s ‘cool to be normal’? This trend applied to boyfriends too. It was proving hard for Tara, who was single and used to having Ebony as her wing woman. At least two mornings a week she’d arrive unannounced at the Queen Bee offices with two takeaway cups of coffee and a box of brunch goodies from Thr1ve cafe (their coconut and almond meal pancakes . . . you will DIE!).
