by Roxy Jacenko
‘They want to test whether I’m committed,’ he explained. ‘Apparently, the last guy who had the job quit after a year, at a crucial time for the company. I can leave whenever I want, in theory, it’s not like they’re locking me up, but my contract states that if I leave before the five-year mark I have to reimburse them financially. But I’m not going to want to, Jazz. Why would I want to leave my dream job?’
In his enthusiasm, there seemed to be one factor that Michael was forgetting. ‘Umm, how about your daughter?’ I asked, my voice going up an octave. ‘You’re talking about living in another country from us for the next FIVE FREAKING YEARS. Fifi will be seven years old before she can wake up in the same home as her daddy. Or are you asking us to move to New York with you?’
He looked embarrassed, and I realised he hadn’t even thought about that option. Not that I would have said yes, but it would have been nice to be asked along on his emigration adventure. Seriously.
‘Oh, come on, Jazz. You would never leave Sydney. This is your world. These are your people,’ he replied, sounding just a little disparaging. ‘I was going to ask you to come. You could run Queen Bee remotely, but I know you’re such a control freak. Could you really leave your business, your baby, in someone else’s hands?’
Annoyingly, he was right. The Talent Hive was at a crucial point, just starting to get some momentum. I’m not just the boss, I’m the brand. How could I walk away? At the end of the day, it’s my bottom line and my reputation. That’s why I still dictate every fucking email that goes out of Queen Bee. Okay, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but I do proofread them all. If you speak to any journalist, they will tell you I am the girl who answers their calls, whether it’s midnight or 6 am, Monday to Sunday. How could I micro-manage my company from another country twelve hours behind us?
Plus, while I love New York for Christmas shopping, I didn’t think I wanted to live there. I had once thought about it, at the very start of my career (too many Friends box sets), but the PR scene in NYC wasn’t really in keeping with my style. Too much pale skin, too many Cosmopolitans . . .
I rounded on Michael. ‘I can’t believe you’re talking as if this is no big deal. This is a HUGE deal. I know things haven’t exactly been smooth between us recently, but it’s going to be a hell of a lot harder if you’re not even here for us to kiss and make up.’
I don’t know why I was bothering to argue, because he seemed to have already made up his mind. This wasn’t a conversation for us to weigh up the options; it was a declaration. He’d probably already booked his flight and organised his freaking going-away party.
As if he’d read my mind, Michael said, ‘Of course, Jasmine, if you ask me to stay I will. You and Fifi are my priority. They’ve given me five weeks to make my decision. Chad is going to climb Everest and then Mount Kilimanjaro, and I don’t need to tell him until he gets back. We can talk some more about whether it’s the right decision.’
I knew it wasn’t the right decision – how could it be? But he was certainly determined to convince me. Forget this new role: the way he was spinning this job offer, my husband should think about a career as a politician.
‘Jazzy Lou, I really think this could be good for us,’ he argued. ‘We both have such busy lives and so many commitments that we barely see each other anyway. We can make the most of the time we do have together. The apartment they’ve offered me overlooks Barneys. You’ll love it. It’ll be like a mini honeymoon every time you visit.’
I noticed he kept talking about me visiting him but not about him visiting me. Our ‘mini honeymoons’ were clearly going to be carved out of my schedule, rather than cutting into his time. And what about the carbon-footprint-thingy of jetting back and forth to the US? I’m not usually environmentally minded (after all, my recent publicity stunts have revolved around cars and disposable coffee cups), but I was searching for any reason why this move shouldn’t happen.
I don’t think Michael even heard me. ‘It’s only a nineteen-hour flight, even less if you go by private jet,’ he said. ‘I’m happy to pay. I want to make this as painless for Fifi and you as possible. This doesn’t need to be a bad thing, Jazz. Lots of couples live apart. They call them the “live a-partners”. I read an article about it in the New York Times. I’ll dig it out for you. I know how you love being part of a new trend . . .’
Who was he kidding? We both knew that if he took the job it would probably spell the end for us. I never dreamed I’d be the type of wife to say this – god, I was turning into such a cliché – but it really was the job or me. The unspoken ultimatum hung in the air between us.
So this was my new reality. My husband might be leaving me. Fuck, I was going to be a single mother. Oh sure, I’d still be married, but only in theory. If a husband says ‘I love you’ in New York, and no one is around to hear, does it still count?
I had five weeks to convince him not to go. But did I really want to beg?
13
A good friend of mine, a fashion publicist who works in Los Angeles, once said that PRs are the best matchmakers. If you want to find a man, place your love life in a publicist’s hands. Oh, don’t get me wrong, we’re utterly useless when it comes to maintaining a relationship ourselves. The traits that make a girl a good PR make us terrible girlfriends. We talk too much, we judge too harshly, and we just can’t help checking our iPhones during dinner (and even during sex). It’s all part of the job requirements. Yet when it comes to other people’s love lives, we’re modern-day cupids (if Cupid swapped his arrow for an iPhone with the private number of every eligible bachelor in the city programmed in).
The thing about publicists is we know everybody – and I mean everybody. We also work in an industry where the woman-to-man ratio is five to one. It might sound like a disadvantage when you’re man-hunting to exist in an environment where females vastly outnumber the opposite sex. However, there’s one thing you should remember: most of the women who work in fashion are a guy’s idea of hell – high-maintenance and fussy, self-involved and insecure.
Most of the rare straight guys who work in fashion are desperately seeking a normal girl. Oh, they may want a model as a conquest, but not as a long-term companion. This is where the fashion publicist can play cupid, and set the guy up with her friends who don’t work in the business. We’ll also vet (translation: stalk) every man via social media before setting him up with any of our friends. Our credibility is at stake!
Plus, as an added bonus, we can provide the perfect venue for your first date. Forget meeting at a restaurant. How about soccer tickets, a party on a floating island or an overnight stay in a luxury tent at Taronga Zoo? We have the contacts and the sway to make it possible. Impressed? He will be too.
We also know exactly how to sell a product (or, in this case, person) in one short, snappy slogan. This comes in handy when you’re communicating in text-talk. If you ever want to win over a guy (or win an argument) via text, first send any message to a publicist friend. We are ruthless editors and will make sure the message cuts to the chase and is neither too needy nor too nonchalant.
By second nature, publicists are game-players. Some people see this as a negative trait, but it’s all part of a publicist’s tool kit. (Note to self: I should really start up an online dating site.) We can spot a fake a mile off, and fake it ourselves when we need to. It’s a set of skills that comes in handy in our profession, as well as in the romantic arena.
That’s why when a certain Australian cricketer started ‘liking’ all of Queen Bee’s photos on Instagram – even the boring ones I had to post to please clients – I knew straight away he had an ulterior motive. This wasn’t just politeness, he was flirting. Gen-Y style.
Hayden Smith had recently split up from his actress girlfriend after a five-year long-distance relationship that captivated the media’s attention. His ex was an actress who lived in Hollywood and had left her husband to be with him. Now there were rumours of affairs on both their parts, and mud was being slung by e
ach camp.
If Smithy’s history was anything to go by, the serial dater wouldn’t be single for long. He had hooked up with his former girlfriend after they started flirting on Twitter, so he was no stranger to finding love (or at least lust) on social media.
Maybe I was reading too much into it. Smithy might just have a genuine interest in the photos he ‘liked’. Maybe he was a secret connoisseur of Crème de la Mer, coconut water and scented candles (three of the clients I’d chosen to keep in the cull).
But then it started to get ridiculous, and the ‘likes’ turned into comments. What did he do, spend all day checking Instagram just waiting for me to update our page? Or was he Insta-stalking a bunch of women?
Although Smithy, like myself, was a long-running fixture of the Sydney social scene, we’d only met once, at a charity gala held at the Sydney Football Stadium. His then girlfriend had been wearing a dress covered in tassels, and as I brushed past her the metal studs of my clutch bag got caught on one of them. I’d quickly untangled myself and we hadn’t even stopped to make small talk. The extent of our interaction was: ‘Oops, so sorry. Haha. Have a good evening.’
But now it seemed we were best friends, bosom buddies. He posted two-word comments at first. ‘Nice wheels’ underneath a photo of me posing next to my Range Rover, and ‘Yum yum’ next to a picture of me sitting at my desk at 9 pm tucking into a tub of frozen yoghurt (another client, and I only had a spoonful). But then his emoticons amped up a notch: a love heart, a little yellow face blowing kisses. This was definitely Insta-flirting. I was glad his comments were buried among hundreds of others so nobody else would notice, especially when he started commenting on my outfits.
Recently, Rosa had come up with the bright idea of posting a photo of my outfits to Instagram every day. We knew from our bloggers that style diaries got a lot of attention. It had been a savvy suggestion, as Bizarre magazine instantly picked up on it and asked if they could print the photos in their September issue – with the heading ‘A day in the wardrobe of a fashion publicist’. I didn’t let it go to my head – it was cheap and easy content for them as we weren’t making them pay for the photos. And yet it was all good publicity, and gave me a reason to get even more creative with my ensembles.
In fact, I was secretly using the daily posts as a way to stick one finger up at Michael. I know, very mature of me. Since my husband had made his announcement about the job offer, all I’d wanted to do was throw a tantrum. The problem was I was meant to be convincing him to stay (there were now only four weeks left until he needed to make his decision). If I ranted and raved too much he would be on the next plane to the Big Apple.
So on the rare occasions we were in the same vicinity, I played nice. Michael still insisted on sleeping at the house to oversee the reno, but he did come to visit the Four Seasons every weekend. Instead of causing an argument, I rebelled in the only other way I knew how – through the medium of fashion.
I started choosing every outfit that I knew Michael really hated. Just call me the new Man Repeller. My arsenal of fuck-you clothing included harem pants, boyfriend jeans, jumpsuits and anything with shoulder pads. These were all items of clothing Michael didn’t understand and wished I didn’t own (he’d told me this once when he was drunk).
The ultimate ‘up yours’ was a spotted Céline shift dress that I adored but which Michael said made me look the size of a house. I think he was being sarcastic because I had asked him for the tenth time if my bum looked big in it. Either way, we’d had an almighty row and I’d never worn the dress since (would you after that comment?). However, in the aftermath of the New York conversation, I dug it out of my wardrobe and gave it an outing. I was going to wear what I wanted, and if he didn’t like it he could find a freaking New York girl who lived and died in skinny jeans and an oversized sweater.
I made sure the photograph of the Céline was taken at the most flattering angle, and added a black and white filter (always a good option to up the class factor). I was pretty pleased with the result, if I do say so myself. I even texted it to Michael to remind him what he’d be missing. His response wasn’t exactly emphatic: ‘Very nice.’ Not even a kiss. Don’t go overboard, bud.
Luckily I had the Insta-sphere for validation. Before long, there were thirty-six comments under the photograph (not quite in Fifi’s league but still a good result), complimenting the frock and asking where I’d got it. I hashtagged a reply: ‘#celine #lastseason #soldout #sorrypeeps’.
Then I noticed a familiar face in my list of commentators. Apparently Smithy was a fashion expert as well as a fast bowler. ‘What an outfit!’ he wrote. ‘Dressed to kill. That should be illegal.’
I have to admit that after my husband’s lack of enthusiasm, I was happy to accept the compliment, but I wasn’t going to reply. Although whatever I said would be very innocent, Instagram is far too public a platform to be exchanging comments with a known womaniser. It seems Smithy had the same thought, as he decided to swap mediums and sent me a direct message on Twitter:
Jasmine, I need you. Well, I need your services. I’m looking for a fashion stylist. I’ve just dumped mine. Can you do me over?
Ah, how very interesting. Everyone knew that Smithy’s ex-girlfriend used to dress him. And he knew that I knew. This man spoke in euphemisms and was also, I suspected, looking for an excuse to see me. Or maybe I was imagining it. Lack of attention from a significant other can do odd things to a woman. Last week I’d overheard Anya and Lulu complaining about their foundering love lives. ‘Is it a bad sign that I spend so much time with my iPhone that I’ve changed my screensaver to a picture of a hot guy, just to feel less lonely?’ said Anya. ‘I’ve even given him a name, and I talk to him sometimes.’ I really must tell my employees not to make admissions like this in public.
Now I summoned Anya into my office. No, I wasn’t about to bring up the ‘man phone’, I was going to use her as my gatekeeper. ‘Anya, I just got a message from Hayden Smith,’ I explained. ‘He’s looking for a fashion stylist and wants a recommendation. I thought Stella Scarborough would be a good match,’ I said, naming the hottest Aussie stylist of the moment. ‘As long as he doesn’t hit on her . . .’ I was only half joking. It wouldn’t be the first time a male celebrity had tried to seduce a fashion stylist in a changing room. You would think they could come up with a more modern pick-up line than the old inside-leg-measurement trick. Seems not.
‘It’s probably worth going through Smithy’s agent rather than directly to him,’ I went on. ‘Send him Stella’s rate card, but tell him the first appointment is complimentary. A gift from Queen Bee.’
This was the kind of passive-aggressive flirting I’d mastered when I was a single twenty-something. In my younger days of dating, Smithy was exactly the type of inappropriate suitor I’d have gone for. Like most young PR girls, I just wanted to be part of a power couple, and my wish list, in order of importance, was ‘wealth, looks and social standing’. Nowadays I wasn’t that easily impressed, or that naive. I would soon be able to tell if Smithy genuinely needed a stylist, or if it was all part of an elaborate courtship ritual.
I didn’t have to wait long. Anya soon poked her head around my office door. ‘I’ve just spoken to Hayden,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Jazz, I know you told me not to go to him directly, but I left a message on his manager’s voicemail and Hayden was the one who called me back.’ She continued, reading a message that she’d scribbled on a notepad: ‘He says that while it’s very generous of Queen Bee to offer a free styling appointment, he wondered if someone more senior and experienced could help him.’ She looked up from her notepad and laughed. ‘He wants to know if you’ll take him shopping, Jazz. Shall I tell him he’s dreaming . . . politely, of course? I mean, really, what is he thinking?’
I bet I could guess exactly what Smithy was thinking. Oh, he’d know I was married, but this cricketer had the morals of a Big Brother contestant. ‘Do you have his number there?’ I asked Anya. ‘I’ll take it from here, don’t worry
. These bloody sports stars, huh! They think they can click their fingers and the world will come running.’
I should have sent Smithy an email and set him straight. From both a professional and a personal standpoint it would have been the right thing to do. So why did I fold up the note with his phone number on it and slot the piece of paper into the coin holder of my Hermès wallet, in between a photograph of Fifi and a bundle of cab charges? (I don’t keep small change in my purse. I’ve been known to pay for a forty-cent chocolate bar with plastic.)
Maybe I could take Smithy shopping just once. He was an iconic Australian celebrity and had serious media power (even if it was often for the wrong reasons). I don’t like to miss out on a networking opportunity. Also, it wasn’t that absurd a suggestion. I do know my fashion. And I could see it as an act of charity. I had to get him out of those terrible V-neck t-shirts his ex-girlfriend had insisted on dressing him in.
I did once harbour a dream of being a fashion stylist, or even a designer (until I realised that I can’t replace a button on a shirt, let alone design and sew an entire collection). Even now I can’t help feeling a glimmer of envy when I’m backstage at Fashion Week watching the creative process unfold. There’s something so romantic about seeing a dress go from sketchpad to reality, like a cartoon character coming to life. Well, now it looked like I might be able to live out my fantasy . . . through my daughter. Oh my gawd! I never thought I’d become one of those mothers.
My two-year-old was about to add fashion designer to her repertoire. Not only was she the best-dressed baby and sassiest selfie-taker, she was also going to be the ‘miniature milliner’. As part of my daughter’s brand evolution, I had decided she would bring out a range of headwear. It was official – I had just registered the company name, ‘Fifi’s Fascinators’. Snappy, huh? You can’t go wrong with a bit of alliteration in a marketing slogan.
