by Roxy Jacenko
One morning she caught me in the middle of my new daily duty – unpacking Fifi’s freebies. Ever since my daughter was born two years ago, baby stores had sent Fifi products to road test, from clothes to baby foods and car seats. They obviously hoped that I’d get them free publicity if I liked them. There really isn’t a lot of opportunity for baby products to promote themselves, unless it’s in the pages of My Baby magazine (and, let’s be honest, their readership isn’t exactly rolling in money).
You can’t even imagine Fifi’s daily haul of gifts and goodies. Every morning there was a steady stream of couriers delivering boxes and bags full of tiny outfits and the latest must-have baby gadget. I felt bad asking any of my employees to unpack and sort through the stash, as it wasn’t technically Queen Bee business. So I asked Lulu to stack them in the corner of my office and I sorted them into three piles: ‘Keep’, ‘Donate’ and ‘What the fuck is this?’ Seriously, some baby products on the market are downright weird. Fake fringes for babies? A onesie that has a duster attached to the belly so your bub can clean the floor as she crawls? I couldn’t even give these away . . .
As Tara leaned back in my reclining desk chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her with her Chloé boots resting on my desk, I confided in her that all these gifts didn’t sit well with me. ‘I just think it’s a bad example to set Fifi,’ I complained. ‘I want to teach her that nothing in life comes for free – even freebies. All these brands aren’t sending this stuff out of the kindness of their hearts, they want publicity.’
Tara picked at the rip in her distressed jeans, looking thoughtful. ‘I get what you’re saying, Jazz, but you’re not begging them to send you freebies. They’re doing it because you’re semi-famous. Well, you have a profile. And they want you to Insta the shit out of it.’
The problem was I couldn’t even post an Instagram photo of most of the products, because some of the brands were competitors of my actual clients. Think about it: I couldn’t plug Burberry booties from David Jones on Queen Bee social media when I represented Myer. If this was the olden days I’d just write them a thank-you note and that would be the end of it. But this was 2014, and a pretty card just wouldn’t cut it.
‘Come on, Tara,’ I implored. ‘You’re always one step ahead of the trend. What’s the new-gen etiquette for accepting freebies?’
The blogging maverick, who was now scrolling through Twitter on my computer, looked at me despairingly. ‘Well, it’s social media, obvs, Jazzy Lou,’ she said. ‘All these brands want is publicity. They want to know that if they send you one kids’ dress they’ll make their money back because ten mothers will see it and buy it for their own daughter.’
It was true. When the Duchess of Cambridge had recently visited Sydney with her husband, her one-year-old son had been pictured wearing a kangaroo backpack. Within an hour of the photo going viral, it had sold out. It’s a proven fact that shoppers – and mothers in particular – have a lemming mentality. You hook one in and they move en masse.
‘It’s just a shame Fifi can’t write yet,’ continued Tara, as she scanned through her Twitterfeed. ‘She could have her own Twitter account. How long until she can string together 140-letter sentences, do you think? Any chance you could be raising a child genius?’
She was joking (I think), but actually she’d sparked an idea. My daughter might be too young to write but a picture told a thousand words. That was my light-bulb moment! I could start an Instagram account in Fifi’s name, where I posted pictures of the products she genuinely enjoyed. I could pretend it was my two-year-old writing the reviews. Oh, of course people would know it was me, but it would just be a bit of fun.
One of my favourite blogs of recent times was Suri’s Burn Book. If you haven’t ever read it, then I urge you to do so pronto. It’s a sartorial take on the life of Suri Cruise, where the little girl (well, her ghostwriter) critiques the fashion sense of other Hollywood tots. She crushes on Cruz Beckham, hates on Shiloh Jolie-Pitt and is jealous of Beyoncé’s child: ‘Blue Ivy’s vacations are more glamorous than yours. Not more glamorous than mine, because I don’t deal with sand or wet grass, but more glamorous than yours.’ It’s a stroke of genius and has cheered me up on many bad days. If it was written in an adult’s voice it wouldn’t be nearly as funny, but from the mouths of babes . . . It’s so popular the ghostwriter behind the blog now has a book deal.
I was quickly warming to the idea of an Instagram feed for Fifi as a fun side project. My life can be so serious sometimes – all spreadsheets and bottom lines – that this could provide some light relief. And I knew just the person to help me launch my toddler’s social media platform. ‘ROSA!’ I yelled out of my office door. ‘Can somebody find me Rosa!’
Within a matter of seconds, my technological whizzkid hot-footed it into my office, carrying an iPhone, an iPad and an Apple Mac laptop and wearing a pair of wireless headphones that looked like they belonged in a sci-fi movie. I’d recently hired the twenty-six-year-old as Queen Bee’s social media editor. I needed someone to look after our new blog (after all, I’d be a hypocrite claiming that blogs are the new black if we didn’t have one of our own). Rosa was also tasked with looking after our social media channels, digitally courting our Facebook, Instagram, Twitter and Pinterest followers, which was a full-time job in itself.
‘Morning, Jasmine!’ said Rosa. ‘I was actually about to DM you to see if you needed me for anything.’ It’s a sign of the times when an employee direct messages her boss on Facebook to discuss important work business.
Yet Rosa did things a little differently, which was a trait I admired in her. She had impressed me with her CV, which she’d had screen-printed onto a t-shirt for her application; for our interview she had created a YouTube video which showcased her previous work. The petite redhead had worked in the fashion department of Dizzy magazine until it was shut down, along with three other magazines in the portfolio. I felt she needed a lucky break so I hired her.
To welcome my new recruit to the Queen Bee family, I’d flown Rosa to London for a weekend (time is money in the PR world and holidays are speedy). I’d booked her in to attend a one-day web-design seminar called ‘How to code in a day’. It was run by an ex-employee of Mark Zuckerberg’s. Rosa returned from her trip with an iPhone app she’d designed herself and a long-distance boyfriend (it seemed she’d been the teacher’s pet in more ways than one).
‘Bud, what are you working on?’ I asked as Rosa hovered in my office doorway. ‘Actually, whatever it is, forget it and come and sit down.’ I turned to Tara, who was looking puzzled, and winked. ‘I need you girls to help me on a special project.’
Move over, Suri, because Fifi Lewis, the best-dressed baby and sassiest selfie-poster in Sydney, is about to make her social media debut.
5
Here’s a tip: if you’re going to bitch about someone over email, make sure the person in question isn’t copied in and able to read every word – especially if said person is a valued customer about to spend a quarter of a million dollars with your company.
It all started when I decided to buy myself a new set of wheels to celebrate the ten-year anniversary of Queen Bee launching. Yep, it’s already been a decade! Time flies when you’re slogging your guts out. Anyway, I know the traditional ten-year anniversary gift is diamonds but, to be frank, I had enough of those already in my collection. Plus, since Fifi had started to walk, the jewellery I wore had got cheaper, as a safety strategy. I was fearful enough wearing my $300,000 engagement ring around my daughter after she toddled off with it one day at the Queen Bee showroom. It took thirty Bees three and a half hours before we found it stuffed in the toe of a Jimmy Choo. That was one risky treasure hunt.
Anyhow, everybody knows that cars are my weakness. When Queen Bee made its first profit, I splashed out $320,000 on a black Aston Martin V8, which was my baby (until my real baby came along and I realised how hard it is to get toddler sick out of cream suede upholstery). Ah well, it was a good excuse to upgrade (an
d duplicate). Between Michael and me, we have a Mercedes G 63, a Rolls-Royce Phantom and a Bentley. (If any thieves are reading this, our underground car park is extremely secure.)
I also have an Alfa Romeo Giulietta, although it was on loan from a client. All of the Bees were given one, with the Queen Bee logo printed on the doors. I encouraged them to drive around town as much as possible (sorry, planet Earth), and always take a photo of where they parked the car for social media. Here was the Alfa at the shopping centre, outside the gym, on the street near the Park Hyatt. It was like a ‘Where’s Wally?’ but more along the lines of ‘Where’s the Alfa today?’ (You should have seen Rosa’s face when I handed her the car keys. When she started working for me, her only mode of transport was a battered second-hand bicycle. That wouldn’t do at all!)
I’ve even started grooming Fifi to follow in my footsteps. When her daddy bought his latest Mercedes G-Class, I ordered an identical miniature version from the United States. It’s electronic and comes with every mod con, from heated seats to a DVD player. It even has a personalised number plate, ‘F1 F1’. When she parks it in the driveway beside her dad’s full-sized version it is utterly adore!
This image was actually one of the first photos I posted to Fifi’s Instagram feed when she’d taken her friend Mickey for a spin during a play date:
Cruising with Mickey in my #Mercedes #gclass. Time to put the top down and get some rays in my #Gucci sunnies.
This post got five hundred likes in twenty minutes. It was a winning formula – cars and cute kids! I should actually speak to Mercedes and pitch it to them as an advertising concept.
Anyhow, the car I had in my sights for my anniversary gift-to-self was the new Range Rover Vogue, Supercharged. If I got a sparkly silver paint job it would almost fit into the ‘diamond’ category, right? I don’t believe in bad luck anyway. I make my own luck and strut under ladders just to prove a point. Living on the edge, babe, living on the edge!
‘Umm, Jazz, do you really think you need a car designed for off-road driving?’ asked Michael when I emailed him a link to my dream vehicle. ‘You’re not exactly a fan of outdoor pursuits.’
I knew I shouldn’t have asked his opinion. And it’s not like he was paying for it. I make it a rule never, ever to shop with a man – whether it’s for shoes, handbags or motors. Just as Michael didn’t understand how I could think harem pants were flattering (‘What are you smuggling down there?’), I knew he wouldn’t understand my reasons for needing the Range Rover.
Two words – boot space. After struggling to fit my suitcases in my car when I moved into the Four Seasons, I realised I needed more fashion room. A good publicist always keeps at least three changes of ensemble in her car (you never know when your social diary might chuck you a curve ball). I always carried an emergency supply kit in my boot (a YSL little black dress, a Burberry trench and a range of baseball caps for bad hair moments).
I also needed a change of clothes for Fifi, who’d had a little accident when we were driving between appointments with clients last week. That had been another popular Instagram post:
@Fifilewis When you have to go you have to go! I did warn my mum but she wouldn’t listen. So I was all soggy – just as well I was organised with a good assortment of ensembles in my bag. Nothing like a highway wardrobe change. #roadtrip #ralphlaurenjeans
I knew all about the Range Rover’s four-wheel-drive capabilities (I devour car manuals with the same passion as other women read Vogue). And how did Michael know I hadn’t suddenly decided to go on an outdoors adventure? I’d actually been thinking about going camping (yes, really, me!). Well, I would obviously glamp more than camp. Did you see Gwyneth Paltrow’s recent blog about the ‘indoor campsite’ in California? They basically pitch a tent in a hotel room, but it’s just like being outside because it has forest wallpaper, a fake campfire and these mega-cute metal bunk beds. The tent also has wi-fi and Xboxes to amuse the kids. Note to self – book Michael and me a stay just to prove a point.
I’d gone to my usual car showroom to test drive the Range Rover (the owner of the showroom had just bought a $8.7 million mansion in Watsons Bay, which I swear I mostly financed with my repeat business over the years). When I put down my order I paid the deposit in cash. This is my tradition when buying a car. In a weird way it adds to the buzz, handing over an envelope as thick as a brick, stuffed with notes. I earned it, why not get a power kick from spending it? Oh, but wait – was that the newest-model Bentley in the corner? I didn’t even know the Flying Spur was available in Australia yet . . . Come on, Jazzy Lou, control yourself – a $280,000 purchase is enough for one morning.
It took all my self-discipline to drag myself out of the showroom without a second set of car keys. Afterwards I just couldn’t stop thinking about those leopard-like curves and leather interior. I felt lovesick as I sat in my office, and had no appetite to eat the superfood salad that Lulu had gone all the way to Bondi to fetch from the new Paleo Cafe.
Could I buy two cars in one day? Would Michael kill me? In my opinion it was no different to buying two bras in one shopping trip. You can go years without finding one that is the perfect fit for you, so when you do, buy in bulk! It’s an investment.
The deciding moment came when I clicked onto the Daily Mail website. The first photograph that flashed onto my computer screen was of Kim Kardashian stepping out of the Flying Spur. The reality television star was stepping out of MY car. It was a sign from the universe that I had to have one.
Feeling slightly giddy with adrenaline, I fired off an email to the showroom’s manager Richard Smeedon:
Hi Richard. Long time no see (LOLZ). I’d love to test drive the new Bentley you have in the showroom please. Can you organise for one to be brought to my offices as soon as possible?
Within a matter of minutes I’d received a reply. I was such a valued customer, this guy probably had a special alert for my emails, which played ‘Big Spender’ every time I sent a message.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hi Jasmine,
Of course! More than happy to arrange. I’ve cc’ed in my colleague Adam Peterson who will organise this pronto.
Warm regards,
Richard
All sorted, all very easy, all very amicable – until Adam entered the email conversation:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
Seriously, is this a publicity stunt? She’s just bought a Range
Rover and now she wants a Bentley too? Come on!!!!! (Sent from my iPhone)
I bet Adam was typing on the move, probably while driving. Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice that I was still copied into the conversation and could read every word of his slur. Dumb arse.
I nearly choked on my sparkling water when I read it. I imagine Richard had the same reaction, as my mobile immediately began to ring, flashing up his office number. Oh no, Richie; I knew better than to speak to him on the phone when I wanted every word of our exchange down in writing.
To: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hi all,
In light of the below email exchange I will take up my right of the cooling-off period in regards to the Range Rover order, and would appreciate it if you could refund my deposit immediately. I will be taking my order to another dealer who exercises some professionalism. Richard, I’ll await your confirmation of cancellation and refund of the deposit.
If publicity is what you want then publicity is what I’ll get you . . . but it won’t necessarily be the kind you’re after. The newspapers will love the email below, I have no doubt.
To quote your employee, ‘Come on!’
I then forwarded the email exchange to Michael. It’s not that I need a man to fight my battles, but I did secretly hope it would awake his inner white knight and make him jump to my defence �
� which it did.
To: [email protected]
CC: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Interesting way to treat potential clients . . . Oh and by the way, so, so, so many of my friends and family are clients of yours. Can’t wait to ruin your day . . .
Regards,
Your former customer
I did a little air punch when I read Michael’s email. Way to hit them where it hurt – right in their annual profit! From here there was a flurry of emails from Richard and Adam. How I’d love to be a fly on the wall in their showroom. This from Adam:
My previous email was genuinely not meant in the way that it reads. As I hope you would agree, emails and text messages are written so quickly and can easily be taken out of context.
This was followed by several ‘I’m sorry, Jasmine’ emails. Yawn, yawn! I would have been far more forgiving if he’d stood by his insult, but trying to backtrack and say that I’d taken it out of context only enraged me more.
But here’s where it really gets interesting. A week later (by which time I’d taken my order for both cars to a rival dealer), I received an email from Luke. Subject line: ‘What have you got yourself into this time? LOLZ’. Luke had forwarded me an email he’d been sent by a woman called Hattie Peterson. Hang on, I recognised that surname. It turned out to be the wife of my new enemy Adam ‘Is this a publicity stunt?’ Peterson.
Dear Luke,
I am writing with a story that I think will interest you, involving publicist Jasmine Lewis and an employer called Adam Peterson at Wheel Spin motors. I have included below an email exchange between them. It should be self-explanatory.
How did I get these emails? Well, I happen to be the estranged wife of the dumb-arse car dealer who is now trying to run me out of town. I have a restraining order out against him and I am currently in hiding with our two-year-old son (but I still know the password to his email account). He is threatening to report me to the police for robbery, if I don’t give him back the car he bought me for my last birthday. He also refuses to pay maintenance, despite the fact that he earns more than $400k a year and drives a bright yellow GTC.
