by Gemma Crisp
Glancing at the emails clogging up her inbox, Nina ignored the press releases plugging the nail polish strips featured in that morning’s catwalk show, the brand of the spray tan worn by a local celeb at Fashion Week and the arrival of yet another eyelash extension salon. In between all the beauty-related noise, she spied an email that had been sent an hour ago, from Kat. The subject line didn’t mince words: ‘Call me on my mobile as soon as you get this.’
Nina guessed Kat wanted to tell her the news of her departure herself, forgetting how fast news travels in a building full of mostly female journalists. She grabbed her phone and headed outside, not wanting the rest of the office to overhear their conversation – while she and the editor were tight, she was sure a couple of the Nineteen staff would be quietly happy to see the back of Kat, not least the deputy editor who had made no secret of her desire to have her name at the top of the masthead, despite everyone else knowing she wasn’t really editor material. That was the funny thing about being an editor – you either had it in you, or you didn’t. It wasn’t enough just to look the part, you also had to be an ideas machine, have a flair for producing snappy headlines and coverlines, know immediately why a layout wasn’t working, be able to find your way around a financial report and profit-and-loss statement, come up with creative concepts for advertising clients and, lastly, be a gun at managing numerous staff members who all had their own personalities and agendas. Despite what some people assumed, being an editor wasn’t all French bubbles and blow-dries. Nina had started to realise that it was a title she wanted to add to her CV one day in the future. Her ambition had taken a while to uncurl itself, but it was starting to beat its wings. While she could thank luck for a good portion of her magazine career success to date, luck would only get her so far. She knew she still had a lot to learn before claiming the editor prize, but there was no harm in having goals.
Nina perched on one of the benches in the park overlooking the harbour and dialled Kat’s number. During Sydney’s sun-drenched summers, the park was packed with PSRP employees soaking up some rays every lunchtime, but seeing it was yet to hit eleven am, it was deserted.
‘Hi, Kat, it’s Nina. Congratulations! You’re going to make such a great editor of Lulu!’
‘Dammit, so you’ve heard already? I really wanted to tell you myself but I couldn’t wait till you got back from Fashion Week, because it was the only time I could get a meeting with the publisher. I tried to take my time packing up all my stuff to see if I could catch you, but the security guys were having none of it – I think I was escorted out of the building in less than ten minutes!’
‘Are you pissed at the publisher for walking you, or were you expecting it?’
‘Nah, he’s just protecting his own arse. And it means I’m on gardening leave for the next four weeks – gotta be happy with that!’ Kat laughed. ‘But listen, I didn’t ask you to call me just to talk about my new job at Lulu. You don’t have to answer this if you don’t want to, but how happy are you at Nineteen? Remember, I’m not your boss anymore, so you can be completely honest.’
‘Uh, well . . .’ Nina stammered, wondering where this was going. It was as if Kat had been reading her mind earlier that morning. ‘I’ve had a great time, the mag is definitely more me than Modern Woman and I really loved working with you, but I’m kind of getting over the whole beauty thing. It’s a great job, but not for me. It sounds ridiculous, because everyone knows that beauty editors are spoilt rotten, but I’m getting to the stage where I’d rather eat my own vomit than go to another fragrance launch.’
Kat snorted down the phone. ‘So if you’re sick of beauty, what do you want to do instead?’
‘In an ideal world? I’d really like to use my brain more and I think I’m pretty good at stringing a sentence together, so moving into the features department would be next on my wishlist.’
‘Features, huh? I thought as much – your copy is always great and you definitely have a natural tone that’s perfect for women’s magazines. A few times your story ideas were better than the ideas from the actual features team! And whenever you stepped in for the features girls when they were on holidays and wrote some stories, they’ve been bang on the money. So I think you’ve definitely got what it takes,’ Kat said firmly. ‘I think you’d be perfect for the brand and will help me shake things up a bit.’
Nina was confused – as nice as it was to be complimented by someone she looked up to, Kat seemed to be having a different conversation.
‘Sorry, Kat – what are you talking about? Perfect for what brand?’
‘For Lulu,’ Kat replied impatiently. ‘Nina, I want you to come work with me, heading up the features department. What do you think?’
fourteen
‘So did you end up interviewing Nicolette Rivera the other week? If I remember correctly, you were terribly excited about it the last time we spoke.’
Nina tried to ignore the tinge of condescension in Johan’s voice on the other end of the phone. Yes, she had been excited about the phone interview for Lulu’s cover story, and who could blame her? Nicolette Rivera was the Hollywood celebrity who put the A in A-list, thanks to her famous musician father, her posse of headline-grabbing friends, and a clever stylist who guaranteed she was papped in the hottest designer pieces every time she left her palatial Hollywood Hills mansion. Throw in a wild child past, a former drug problem and a string of famous boyfriends and Nicolette had the public eating out of her Balenciaga-toting hand.
‘God, don’t ask. It was a nightmare,’ she admitted, as she walked home from the office. Immediately, Johan’s attitude morphed from bored to enthralled – he loved nothing more than hearing inside dirt on celebs.
‘Oooh, go on, tell Daddy what happened,’ he begged.
‘So our phoner was scheduled for six on a Monday morning, after I’d hounded her publicist for three weeks to lock in a time. I schlepped into the office before the sun had even come up then waited by the phone for half an hour, watching the seconds tick past, praying that her assistant hadn’t forgotten to tell her about it. Finally, my phone rang . . . but it wasn’t Nicolette.’
‘Was it her publicist?’
‘Nope. It was the assistant, calling to say that Nicolette was too busy to do the interview and asking me to email through the questions. When I told her the issue was going to print at the end of the week, she said she’d make sure Nicolette sent her replies back to me by then.’
‘Oh. So you didn’t interview her?’ Nina could sense Johan’s interest dissipating as he realised she hadn’t swapped style tips with Nicolette.
‘Well I did – kind of. I basically begged her to reschedule the phone interview because it’s always better to talk to the celeb on the phone; you can prompt them to elaborate and ask spin-off questions rather than sticking to the list of questions that’s been previously vetted by the publicist. Anyway, her assistant insisted she was too busy, even though it had been confirmed just the day before, and that the only way Nicolette would do the interview was over email. So I sent the questions off and started praying to the Celebrity Gods that she’d get back to me in time for our print deadline.’
‘And did she?’
‘Just. I’m surprised her assistant didn’t slap me with a restraining order, the amount of times I stalked her. The publicist finally sent through her answers on the morning the cover story was due at the printer.’
‘Phewf – all’s well that ends well, then?’ Johan said.
‘Sort of – out of the thirty questions I sent, guess how many Nicolette bothered to answer?’
‘Um, seventeen?’
‘I wish. Try nine. And none of her answers were what you’d call scintillating – they were no more than five words long. I had a fifteen-hundred-word cover story to write in less than three hours, with exactly forty-five words to play with.’
‘Ouch. Did the publicist explain why Nicolette didn’t bother to answer all of the questions?’
‘Sure did – apparently it was al
l my fault because they were “too gossipy”, quote unquote. Obviously she was expecting questions about the economic future of the euro and her take on the political situation in Libya. Because, you know, Nicolette is renowned for her intellectual prowess, not just for her impressive collection of Alexander McQueen skull-print scarves,’ Nina said.
‘Oh doll, how annoying,’ Johan sighed. ‘So did you fill the rest of the interview with the usual background fluff and some nice big pictures?’
Nina smirked down the phone. ‘Not exactly. Her publicist had already given us approval to run the cover shot without seeing the copy for the cover story, so I decided it was time that our readers were told the truth about what dealing with celebrities can be like. So I wrote about exactly what happened – how long it had taken to set up the interview, how I came into work early only for it to be pulled half an hour after the scheduled interview time, the number of emails I had to send to Nicolette’s assistant in the lead-up to our print deadline to remind her about the answers, and then after all that, ending up with only forty-five words to work with and how her publicist said it was my fault because the questions weren’t suitable. I even included a sample of the questions she refused to answer, so our readers could see that it was a complete overreaction and it wasn’t like they were up there with WikiLeaks.’
‘Oooh, someone had a big bowl of bitchflakes for breakfast that day!’ Johan said admiringly. ‘Think of it as payback for all the crap we had to put up with at the Bickford every time a celebrity came to stay. What did your editor say when you filed the story?’
‘She loved it,’ Nina replied, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in her voice. ‘I think she may have toned it down a bit in the editing process because I was quite scathing about a few things but she’s already planning to send it to one of the Sunday papers the day before the issue goes on sale, which should score us some PR coverage – something along the lines of ‘Lulu tells the truth about celebrity journalism’. Anyway, that’s enough about me and my new frenemy Nicolette – what have you been up to?’
‘Moi? Oh, the usual – pumping iron at the gym, topping up my tan on Ed’s rooftop deck, flitting around the bars of Darlinghurst almost every night . . .’
‘How are things with you and Ed?’ Nina forced herself to ask – after meeting Ed a few times since he’d hooked up with Johan, she wouldn’t be voted in as president of the Edward Butler Fan Club any time soon. Older than them by at least a decade, he only seemed interested in showing off how wealthy and connected he was in Sydney’s gay community. The one double date they’d organised had been a disaster, with Ed not bothering to make any effort once he realised she and Jeremy had no important social connections he could leverage, and making disparaging comments about ‘breeders’, his derogatory term for straight couples, throughout the night. Nina found him arrogant, condescending and obsessed with status symbols – he lived in a penthouse overlooking Darling Point, drove a Lotus during the week and a Range Rover on the weekends, and had replaced Johan’s faux Louis Vuitton with the real thing as soon as Johan had moved in with him – which had taken all of two weeks. Of course, Johan wasn’t complaining, but Nina hated how Ed treated her friend like he was his plaything.
‘Things are great, doll – we’re planning a little trip to some plush resort on Hamilton Island in a couple of weeks. I think the name starts with Q?’
‘You mean Qualia? Verrrry nice,’ Nina said.
‘Yep, that’s the one. Ed’s booked out the whole place and we’re going with the guys – Ben, Alister, Matt, Jeff, Christian, Gareth and all that crew. It’s going to be amazeballs.’
‘Ugh, can you please not use that word? It’s my number-one pet hate,’ Nina snarked. ‘So if Ed’s Qualia extravaganza isn’t for another couple of weeks, when are we going to catch up properly? We haven’t seen each other in ages.’ Nina crossed her fingers and silently hoped it would be better than the last time she’d met up with her best friend, when Johan had spent the whole time talking about how ‘fucked up’ he’d got at a famous film director’s party, then showed off photos of the latest designer presents Ed had given him and hadn’t asked her one single question about Jeremy, Tess or what was happening in her life.
‘I know, I know – Daddy’s too busy loving life as a kept woman! Let me check what Ed has on and I’ll let you know when I’m free, okay? I’m meeting him for dinner now at Rockpool, so I’ve gotta go. Mwah, schweedie, later!’
‘Later . . .’ Nina muttered at the dead phone line. She had the distinct feeling that she wouldn’t hear from Johan again until he was back from Qualia and then all he would want to do was rave about what a great time he’d had with his favourite new circle of scene queens. Ever since Ed had sponsored Johan through his own business so he could stay in Sydney after his twelve-month visa had expired, Johan had bowed to Ed’s every wish. Although when that wish was a trip to a thousand-dollar-a-night resort, she couldn’t really blame him. She knew she was probably being irrational, but she was tired of being the one who made all the effort.
Walking into her apartment, the bitter taste from the puddle of frustration sitting in the bottom of her stomach crawled its way up her throat. Jeremy had flown in from a work trip to Melbourne a few hours beforehand and had obviously made himself at home while she and Tess were at work. His bag was half unpacked in the hallway, its contents dribbling their way over the living room floor, including a delightful pair of dirty boxer shorts and a few crusty socks. Her lovely boyfriend was crashed out on the couch, snoring his head off, with an extended family of empty beer bottles beside him. He’d obviously fixed himself a snack because the kitchen was littered with crumbs, condiment bottles and several smears of God-knew-what while a frying pan covered in congealed bacon fat sat on the stove top.
‘Welcome home, honey,’ Nina said sarcastically, hoping it would be loud enough to wake Sleeping Beauty on the couch. No such luck. As she tidied everything up, she tried to talk herself down off the ledge of irritation that she’d found herself perched on after her conversation with Johan. Yes, it was Jeremy’s mess, so he should clean it up – especially seeing it wasn’t his house, and she’d been at work till late. But they had agreed he’d stay at hers tonight seeing he’d been in Melbourne for most of the week, and she knew he’d had an early start that morning, so he was probably shattered. ‘Still,’ the frustrated voice in her head rebutted, ‘he doesn’t have to treat my place like a hotel. I’m not his fricking mother. I haven’t seen him all week and this is what I come home to.’
Stomping around, she accidentally-on-purpose clanked the empty beer bottles together right next to his ear as she picked them up, prompting a bleary eye to creak open before he attempted to pull her in for a cuddle. Nina was having none of it.
‘Can you not? I’m trying to clean up all the mess you so nicely left for me,’ she said in her narkiest tone, shooting him a filthy look. She knew she was spoiling for a fight, but she was too far past the point of no return to care.
‘Sorry, babe, I meant to fix it up after I finished eating, but I guess I fell asleep,’ Jeremy said apologetically.
‘Yeah, I guess you did.’ Nina glared at him. ‘I’m presuming you also fell asleep before you had a chance to pick up your dirty socks and jocks from my living room floor. How about I do that for you, too? Oh, that’s right, I already have.’
Jeremy struggled off the couch and belatedly attempted to clear up the mess in the kitchen, which just infuriated Nina even more.
‘Just leave it,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve already done most of it, I may as well finish. You never wipe the benches down properly anyway. You might have been happy living in filth at your old house, but I am not,’ she said.
‘Jeez, settle down, Nina. What’s wrong with you? I’m sorry, okay? You can’t bitch about my mess and then not let me help you clean it up.’
‘I just have,’ she retorted, stacking his plates in the dishwasher and slamming it shut. As quickly as it had arrived, the angry red mi
st dissipated, leaving an empty shell of regret huddling in its place. Remembering all the sweet, thoughtful things Jeremy regularly did for her – giving her flowers for no reason, sharing a bottle of bubbles over dinner even though he’d prefer to have a beer, delivering a skim flat white to her bedside every Saturday morning – she felt bad for being such a bitch. She sniffled, then forced herself to turn around to face him.
‘Okay, I overreacted. I’m sorry. I just . . . I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve had a big week at work and I spoke to Johan on the way home which put me in a bad mood, and I guess I took it out on you.’
‘You don’t say,’ Jeremy joked lamely as he wrapped his arms around her. ‘So what did Johan say that pissed you off?’
Nina wavered; she normally tried to steer clear of involving Jeremy in her problems with Johan, but maybe he’d have some good advice on how she should handle it.
‘It’s not what he said, really; it’s just his attitude. It’s all about Ed, Ed, Ed and all the presents he gives him, and the fabulous restaurants they go to, and which celebrity party they were at. He’s turned into a total scene queen and it makes me feel like I’m not good enough to be his friend anymore. Do you know what he told me today? Ed has hired out all of Qualia and is flying their whole group of friends there in a couple of weeks’ time – I mean, how can I compete with that?’
‘Nina, I have no idea what Qualia is, but I do know that you don’t have to compete with it. Stop reading so much into it – I’m sure Johan still values your friendship just as much as he always has. He is allowed to have other friends besides you, you know,’ he said dismissively. ‘Did you really think he’d move to Sydney and not hang out with anyone besides you and Tess?’
