The Spotlight

by Roxy Jacenko

  The downstairs bar was having a themed night to celebrate the wedding of the hotel’s owner. According to the menu card left propped on my pillow, they were serving two special cocktails: a Soulmate Mohito and a Bitter Single Sour. I chose the latter, which said a lot about my frame of mind. I think the porter assumed I had company, because he brought it up in a cocktail mixer which contained the equivalent of four glasses of liquid.

  And it tasted far too nice for its own good. I suspect the concoction was ninety-nine percent watermelon liqueur, because my tongue was now green and my head felt like it was the size of a bowling ball. I hate feeling out of control so I only get drunk maybe once or twice a year, and my body just isn’t used to it. I felt like I’d flown long-haul . . . in economy. Eugh! If only I hadn’t sworn off the Nurofen after my stomach-pumping incident some years ago (I had had just a little bit of a dependency once and my therapist said that even a taste of the sugary pill coating could spark a relapse).

  Thank goodness, Alice, my salvation, had arrived at 5 am on the dot to take care of Fifi. Apparently I’d texted her the night before asking if she could come early because it was an ‘emiargenceee’ (she’d worked out that my drunken slurring meant ‘emergency’). According to my iPhone I had also taken approximately 5600 selfies (okay, I may be exaggerating) of myself wrapped in a fur coat Shelley left behind when she visited last week. I vaguely remember pretending that I was Liza Minnelli. Thank fuck I didn’t post any pics.

  ‘Umm, are you okay, Jasmine?’ asked Alice when she let herself into my hotel room. ‘Are you sick? No offence, but you look just a little bit . . . peaky.’

  From Alice’s expression I could tell it was bad. Should I paint a black cross on my door and be done with it? I’d tried my best to gloss over my pasty complexion, but I felt too clammy to put on foundation and my hands shook too much to commandeer a mascara wand.

  Usually, my go-to pep-me-up dress is a black number by Givenchy, but while impressive, it’s also skin tight and unforgiving. Just thinking about squeezing the contents of my stomach into that dress made me want to vomit. Instead, I’d opted for my version of comfort dressing. No, not trackie pants. Come on, people, I’m a fashion publicist with a hangover, not some university student. I was wearing a navy stretchy shift dress by Bassike which covered a multitude of sins (it had actually been part of my maternity wardrobe) and flat Charlotte Olympia sandals with straps that tied up my calves. I didn’t even have the energy to pick out accessories, so my only jewellery pieces were my engagement and wedding rings. I briefly thought about taking those off too, after my spat with Michael the afternoon before; but no, that was childish. Plus, I live in a hotel room – it was probably best not to leave $600k worth of jewellery lying around.

  ‘I’m fine, Ally,’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘Don’t worry about me. Just burning the candle at both ends as usual.’

  She didn’t look convinced but was too professional to push it. I gave Fifi a squeeze, as she lay on my bed watching Dora the Explorer, and then prepared to face the outside world. Luckily, there were few people about because it was only 5.20 am. As I drove down Oxford Street, there was really just me and the ravers falling out of the nightclubs. They looked how I felt . . .

  I was in my office by 5.30 am, after parking haphazardly in the underground car park. It’s unusual these days that I’m ever in Queen Bee headquarters alone, because I’ve groomed my staff to work the same crazy hours as I do. But I love the rare occasions when I have the giant open-plan office to myself, especially before the sun comes up. Sometimes I still can’t believe that I built this empire by myself.

  I left the lights off and crisscrossed through the racks of clothing to my office, running my hand across Alex Perry, Oscar de la Renta and Jil Sander. Ah, my old fashion friends, you never let me down.

  When I booted up my computer, I saw that my husband hadn’t remembered to email me, even though he’d landed in New York when I was only halfway through my first cocktail, according to his flight status on the Qantas website. As my screensaver I had a photograph of Michael, Fifi and me taken last Christmas (all three of us were making #thelipsthelips at the camera), but that morning it was proving distracting, so I switched it to Belle Single’s police mug shot. The reality TV star had just been caught drink driving (for the seventh time). This made me feel slightly better. I may be a lush, but at least I’m law-abiding. I settled down to write my press release.

  As the Bees began to filter into the office at around 7 am, they also assumed from my dowdy appearance that I must be ill. ‘Jazz, you look terrible. Is it Fashion Week flu? Have you been overdoing it?’

  I was offered everything from Berocca to echinacea, and a mystery red pill that Anya claimed would either kill or cure me. Tempting! I told my staff I just had a migraine, which everyone seemed to buy – except Lulu. My personal assistant knows me better than my own mother, and at 7.30 am she popped her head around my office door and handed me a cup of nuclear-strong coffee.

  She gave me a stern look. ‘Jazz, I’ve made you an appointment in half an hour at the Alkaline spa in Potts Point,’ she declared. ‘Ten minutes in their detox sauna and you’ll sweat out that . . . migraine. It’s a miracle cure, I promise you.’

  It’s not often I leave the office to have a beauty treatment in the middle of the day, but this was an emergency. I had a meeting with a health blogger that afternoon and needed to not look like shit (or smell like melon liqueur).

  ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ I whispered to Lulu as I grabbed my bag and she accompanied me to the exit. ‘If anyone asks, I’m at the gynaecologist. Actually, don’t say that. They’ll think I’m up the duff. Just say I’m in a meeting.’

  I blinked as the glare of the morning sun hit me, thankful for my new Céline sunnies with the extra-dark tint. And that’s when I heard the rustling in the bushes and nearly jumped out of my skin. Oh fuck, what was that? Could my Birkin work as a shield against a python?

  But, hang on a minute, this wasn’t a snake. It was an even slimier lurker . . . fucking paparazzi. I almost had a heart attack when he leaped out of the lavender bushes and pointed his camera lens in my direction. What was he doing skulking outside our office? Had he confused me for a celebrity? But no, this time I was the story.

  By mid-afternoon, photos of me were splashed across the Daily Mail website. I’d made the infamous ‘sidebar of shame’ – you know, the section where they show stars without makeup or exercising in unflattering sports gear.

  After more than a decade working as a publicist, this wasn’t the first time I’d been stalked by paparazzi, but they were usually after the celebrity I was chaperoning, not me. However, the Daily Mail had a new love affair with all things Australian. It had been announced a fortnight before that the newspaper was launching an Aussie version of their website. Suddenly our isolated island and our small-fry celebrities were on their radar: Delta Goodrem, Ricki-Lee and even Jesinta Campbell were starring in Daily Mail articles. And now even my personal life was newsworthy:

  Australian PR queen Jasmine Lewis looked tired but chic as she left her office in inner-city Sydney this morning, wearing her hair tied up and minimal makeup.

  In case you didn’t know, this is tabloid talk for ‘looking like shit’. It’s just like when you tell a girlfriend who has put on weight that she looks ‘healthy’ or ‘voluptuous’.

  I still didn’t think that me exiting my own office was a headline-grabbing story, but the real gossip was still to come. The article continued:

  The afternoon before, Jasmine was spotted having lunch with her husband Michael Lloyd, with eyewitnesses saying the conversation looked ‘tense’ and ‘heated’. The socialite and her investment banker husband embarked on a whirlwind romance in 2010 and married in Sydney’s wedding of the year in 2012.

  Great, this was just what I needed. Michael was going to kill me. One of the reasons his relationship with Belle Single fell apart (aside from her neediness, greediness and sneakiness) was the tha
t fact he hated being part of the media circus. He overlooked the odd article written about us in the Australian newspapers, because he knew I needed a local profile, but he wouldn’t be impressed if our family made international headlines – especially when the story was so close to the bone.

  And who were these ‘witnesses’? Was I being followed? Come on, Jazzy Lou, I thought, don’t let your ego get away with you – there are far more important people to spy on. It must just be bad luck. Maybe a journalist happened to have a craving for a Big Mac and overheard our ruckus. Stranger things have happened.

  I forwarded a link to the article to Michael, with the subject line: ‘Better you see this from me . . .’ I didn’t want to give him an excuse to think I was hiding anything. His reply was short and to the point: ‘Next time kick the pap in the nuts.’ Well, at least his anger wasn’t being directed at me . . .

  However, the media intrusion didn’t end there. I wasn’t the only member of my family to make headlines that week. On Sunday morning, as I flicked through the latest issue of gossip mag Now, circling in red biro any mention of my clients, I came face to face with a photograph of my father strolling out of a restaurant in Los Angeles . . . and he wasn’t alone. The headline read: ‘Does struggling socialite Tessa Blow have a new sugar daddy?’

  My father is just an average Joe – a successful businessman but a nobody in the media world. However, his holiday companion lives her entire life shamelessly in the spotlight. Thanks for telling me that you have a new girlfriend, Dad. A postcard might have been a better way to break it to me. But no, I had to read about it in the paper like the rest of the country:

  Is this the new Brynne and Geoffrey Edelsten? Now has acquired exclusive photographs of Sydney socialite Tessa Blow—the former wife of billionaire hotelier Maximus Blow—on a romantic holiday with businessman Ned Lewis. He is the father of Sydney PR powerhouse Jasmine Lewis, and is over two decades older than his 28-year-old girlfriend. The buxom blonde is currently in the midst of a messy divorce from her husband, who owns six hotels and three casinos, in Australia, Dubai and Singapore. In a high-profile court case, she is fighting the terms of her pre-nup, which states she has no entitlement to her ex’s fortune.

  Before marrying up, Blow worked as a personal trainer but quit to pursue a career in music, releasing her first single, ‘La-La-Love’, in the early noughties, which sold just 1200 copies, according to a spy I have in her record label.

  Questions will be asked about who paid for the lavish holiday as the couple were caught leaving The Bazaar restaurant, famous for its smoking cocktails and jaw-dropping price tag. They were also seen booking into the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  Who needs money when you have new love?

  When I got to the end of the article, I took my red biro and drew a moustache on Tessa Blow’s photo. Then I drew a speech bubble coming out of her mouth which read, ‘I am a gold-digger.’ I added another speech bubble coming from my father: ‘I am a gullible idiot.’

  He couldn’t have picked a more inappropriate love match. It was well known on the circuit that Tessa had only married Max for his money and was devastated when he’d ordered her out of their mansion after discovering her in a clinch with her personal trainer (okay, this was all rumour, but there’s no smoke without fire). Suddenly many pieces of the puzzle fell into place – why five months ago my father had suddenly upped and left my mother with no explanation.

  They must have met at the party I threw at The Marquee to celebrate the launch of The Talent Hive. I don’t even know how Tessa had slipped onto the guest list, but she certainly made an entrance, arriving in a nearly nude dress that made Rihanna look like a nun. I’d noticed Dad talking to Tessa by the DJ booth but hadn’t thought anything of it. If only I’d intervened, I could have played reverse wingman and stopped their union. I suddenly knew how Dad must have felt when, aged sixteen, I’d brought home a twenty-eight-year-old ‘slam poet’ called Phoenix.

  At least there was little chance of my mum spotting the article. She was currently in San Tropez. I’d bought her a one-way ticket after my dad’s ‘I’m leaving’ revelation so she could recover at a health spa in luxury. It didn’t have wi-fi (bad for your chakras apparently) so she would be none the wiser about my dad’s dalliance.

  Lucky her! I couldn’t get the picture out of my head. And I’m sorry to be selfish, but didn’t Dad realise that this could seriously damage my reputation? I really didn’t want to be associated with a D-lister like Tessa and give the press any more reason to delve into our family affairs.

  I grabbed my iPhone and punched in a message: ‘Dad, when were you going to tell me about Tessa? Really? *disapproving face*’

  Then I felt bad and sent him another: ‘P.S. What happened to your beer belly? You’re looking great.’ Credit where credit was due. I just hoped he hadn’t lost weight through sexercise. Eugh, vomit.

  What was wrong with the men in my life at the moment? What was wrong with all the people around me in general? My two-year-old daughter actually seemed to be the only one with a sensible head on her shoulders.

  10

  After the stress of the past few weeks (new business venture, relationship speed bumps, Dad’s floozy), I decided I needed an emotional outlet outside of the office – a way to release some tension and take my mind off my problems. I haven’t had a real hobby for years – who does when they’re an adult? My career is my leisure activity, and attending VIP parties is my pastime. When I do have a rare night to myself, I really don’t have any way to fill it. The highlight of last week was eating a Cornetto in bed while watching Game of Thrones.

  However, I was starting to think an extracurricular activity could be good for me – especially if it was something involving exercise. Since the night I’d binged on Bitter Single Sours, I had been on a bit of a downward spiral when it came to my health and wellness. Again, I blamed room service. It was far too easy to access any drink you chose at any hour. And it wasn’t just booze; I’d also been mainlining coffee. So much for my vow to cut back on caffeine – I’d lasted less than twenty-four hours on green tea before I fell off the wagon and ordered a double espresso.

  All these extra toxins, combined with the stress of launching a new venture and worrying about my relationship, were wreaking havoc on my nerves and my skin, which had broken out in zits. Although another side-effect was that the stress was supercharging my metabolism so my skinny jeans were feeling looser – there’s always a silver lining. Yet I knew I couldn’t continue firing on all cylinders as I’d soon hit burnout. The last time that happened I’d ended up in hospital, which was inconvenient enough when I was single, but now I had Fifi to think about.

  It was time for a body reboot, and I knew just the girl to advise me. The Talent Hive had just signed its latest client – a health blogger called Florence Lilac, who writes under the pseudonym Flossie Love (if I ever have another daughter I’m so stealing that name).

  If you want to feel like a fat, vice-ridden lush just stand within ten feet of Flossie, who is a glowing vision of vitality, dressed in floaty white cotton, fuelled by cacao smoothies and kale chips. The health guru even carries a miniature esky everywhere she goes so she is never tempted to ‘indulge’ in food she hasn’t prepared herself. During our first meeting, we shared a picnic on my boardroom table, consisting of gluten-free sprouted loaf with activated almond butter and chia seeds (which I spent the entire meeting picking out of my teeth – how very professional).

  ‘You have to tell me, Flossie,’ I begged during our next meeting, ‘how do you stay so cool, calm and collected? I can’t imagine you ever being frazzled.’

  Unlike many bloggers, who think posting a photo a day is a full-time job, Flossie works like a demon. As well as her website, she also designs her own active-wear range, and was about to launch an all-natural fake tan (the secret ingredients was spirulina, which stopped you turning orange).

  ‘Shall I tell you my secret?’ Flossie beckoned me to lean in closer. Oooh, yes please
. Was she about to tell me about some magic pill that would boost my energy and my concentration, while also calming my nerves and boosting my libido? Wouldn’t that be the answer to every woman’s prayers?

  I’d once ordered a supposed ‘superwoman pill’ from the internet, after watching a news report about it on A Current Affair. It was a drug usually prescribed for kids with ADHD, but stressed-out career women were abusing it to make themselves more focused. I think the news report was meant to be a warning, but I saw it as an advertisement. Unfortunately, Michael opened my mail and banned me from taking it (probably a good move, considering my history with over-the-counter medication).

  I should have known that Flossie’s secret strategy would be a whole lot more . . . wholesome. As I leaned forward, she whispered in my ear the one word I’d been dreading. It began with ‘Y’ and rhymed with ‘toga’. Groan! She was one of them. I should have guessed: when she arrived for our meeting, she was dressed in purple Lululemon tights and a vest top that read ‘Spiritual Gangster’. Also, she greeted me with ‘Namaste’.

  It turned out that not only was she a dedicated yogi, but she was the type who wanted to recruit everyone else to join the revolution. ‘I really think you should try a yoga class, Jasmine,’ she enthused. ‘I spent six months at an ashram in India, studying under Guru Gama Yama Yala, and it changed my life.’ As if to prove a point, she jumped out of her seat and demonstrated a ‘warrior two’ pose in the centre of my office (to me it looked like a lunge with some added angry arms thrown in).

  ‘I used to be just like you, Jasmine,’ she went on. ‘Tired, stressed out, overworked, grumpy. I thought it was normal to feel anxious all the time. But now I practise yoga every day and I’m a different person. Really, you don’t know how good your body and mind can feel until you’ve tried it. It’s cosmic!’