The Rumour Mill

by Roxy Jacenko

  If a nurse had not suddenly materialised by my side to give me some gas, I swear I would have got poor Lulu to push my bed into the nearest operating theatre. Hell, I was ready for a do-it-yourself caesarean just to relieve the pain.

  Thankfully, the gas soon made me feel so blissed out that not even the clearly shady Ivan Von Shonkmeister was getting to me anymore, although I knew all too well what the news spelt out for me. After the birth, it was going to be back to the frenetic Queen Bee business as usual. My dream of having someone else make all the tough decisions, while I flitted in and out with marketing briefs, was not about to happen any time soon – unless Marshall had been massively wrong about the Russians.

  It turned out to be one of the longest nights I had ever experienced, punctuated by increasingly hideous contractions but without making much progress in actually giving birth. It was as if the kid had changed its mind about coming out for a meet and greet. Who knows, maybe he or she was in search of another exit and exhibiting an early streak of creativity.

  Michael couldn’t have timed his arrival better, although at first I thought I was hallucinating when he put his head around the door, all deep blue eyes and wavy brown hair which now framed his face instead of being slicked back in his regular businessman style. He looked adorable, although I would never dream of telling him that. We don’t need to feed anyone’s ego here.

  ‘How are you both doing, Jazzy?’ he asked softly, beaming at me, and I suddenly remembered that the reason I was feeling so trippy right now was because I was in the act of giving birth.

  ‘She’s only five centimetres dilated,’ Nurse Ratched informed Michael as if I was not also present in the room. ‘She’s doing very well – she’s being a very, very good girl.’

  But Michael wasn’t listening. He was fumbling with something that seemed to be stuck in his pocket.

  ‘Jazzy Lou, will you marry me?’ he said, finally pulling out a small red Cartier box and dropping down on one knee on Nurse Ratched’s freshly swabbed floor. At least he wasn’t going to catch anything: judging by the smell of it, the world’s supply of antiseptic was contained between these walls.

  I peered into the Cartier box, while Lulu worked hard at making herself invisible. Sitting on the cream silk was a huge diamond ring – when it came to picking the right stone, for the first time in his life, Michael had ordered that it be supersized. This bauble was glinting so much in the harsh hospital lights that Project B better be born with a pair of sunnies on.

  Funny, in the past I had been a bit anti-marriage. It was all a little bit suburban to me. I just didn’t see myself in trackies pushing a trolley around a supermarket, filled with ‘kitchen staples’. I mean, seriously, the thought of it almost gave me hives. So, despite the closeness of my relationship with Michael and the impending birth of our child, I hadn’t allowed myself to dwell on this outcome. But now Michael had asked, I suddenly realised that this is what I had wanted all along. Or maybe I was simply delirious!

  ‘Of course I will,’ I said as I struggled to get the ring onto my lefthand finger which was already swollen with the extra baby fluid. Just then, another wrenching pain coursed through me and I flailed out, wildly reaching for the gas mask. ‘Keep it for me,’ I said in a muffled way through the mask, but I think he got the general idea.

  The problem with having a society obstetrician is that they’re always so busy socialising they don’t have time for much else. The midwives’ call to Dr CK Coach’s phone was put through to his paging service, with the operator full of assurances the message would be passed on.

  ‘Don’t worry dear,’ Nurse Ratched said reassuringly. ‘I’m sure doctor will be along sooner or later. He hardly ever misses a birth.’

  Michael’s brows started to furrow dangerously. I sensed an explosion was imminent.

  Only then did I remember that Dr CK Coach and his wife, Suzy, a former lifestyle writer for Bizarre magazine, had wanted to be invited to the Teak collection breakfast launch, which was being held at the back of the Opera House.

  The Teak fashion show was run by one of my favourite Bees, Lauren, who was almost as offbeat as Teak’s designers Bo and Lila, who were currently in their New Romantic revival period. But as well as looking the part, Lauren could handle any situation.

  ‘Quick, Lulu, ring Lauren and tell her to get a message to Dr CK Coach that he needs to get his arse in a car right now and come to deliver this baby. I seem to recall that we seated the doctor and his guest at the very end of the front row just above the photographers’ pit. This was where we put all the clients who insisted on being sat in the front row; it gave them a taste of all the hysteria of Fashion Week without interfering with the natural order of the magazine editors and different publishing companies, facing off across the runway. Everyone knew that if there was a Never Never Land section of the front row, above the photo pit was definitely where it was at.

  The problem with dispensing instructions while giving birth was that everything seemed ten times more dramatic than it really was thanks to the bloodcurdling screams that kept involuntarily escaping from the side of the gas mask. In fact, Project B was now so determined to make his or her way into the world that I was starting to think my obstetrician might not even get here in time. He probably couldn’t tear himself away from the Teak after-party at Bennelong.

  Suddenly a clammy hand wiped the sweat off my forehead. Michael was trying to make himself useful but I had almost forgotten about him and our recent engagement. Even the dodgy Russians failed to get me going at the moment because it was already excitement central here, in a really bad way. So kill me now, I thought, as my body was racked by pain that not even a roomful of gas could help control. I needed an epidural – hell, I needed two epidurals, but the midwives were reluctant to administer one without my obstetrician, whom Lulu assured me was now on his way back from Fashion Week. Pity we didn’t know any friendly cops who could give him a police escort.

  Finally he burst into the room, brandishing Teak’s program, with meticulous notes on it of the clothes that Suzy just had to have. (Personally, I thought she was a bit long in the tooth for rocking the Teak look, but this certainly wasn’t the time or the place to bring that up now.)

  ‘Absolutely fantastic show,’ he said. ‘Congratulations, Jasmine! Now, I’ll just give this list to Lulu here for Suzy and then let’s get on and have our baby, shall we?’

  I moaned deeply in response – a sound that felt like it had escaped from somewhere deep inside me, which was currently having the workout from hell.

  Michael, who had been threatening to do all sorts of things to Dr CK Coach for his slack attitude towards us during the past couple of hours, could hardly contain himself. ‘You have to do something about this pain,’ he insisted. Poor Michael – jetlag, a proposal and now he was trapped in the house of horrors where he was about to become a dad. (Lulu told me later that Michael looked so pale, she considered ordering him a blood transfusion – not that she wasn’t a whiter shade of pale herself.)

  ‘Quite right, and that’s what we’re going to do right now. Why don’t you get a cup of tea while we assess the situation? Lulu, perhaps the two of you might care to visit the cafe together?’ Dr CK Coach had explained to me that he was all for letting partners and significant others be there for the birth but felt that they just got in the way in the early stages.

  A grateful Lulu almost ran out the door. She was ready to be there for me, but preferably from another suburb. I nodded for Michael to go and couldn’t help noticing that he also seemed to be relieved to be heading for the door after Lulu, taking all the constantly flickering mobile phones with them. Well, almost all – I had the bat phone secreted under the covers because, even in this extreme pain, I still wanted to find out what was going on with the Russians and whether this meant that the deal was definitely off. In fact, I was starting to wonder whether it had really happened. I was high as a model at an after-show party on all that gas – had I just imagined Marshall’s pho
ne call?

  The doc was having a hard time examining me because I was in so much pain I couldn’t stay long in one position. But the slight twitch in his brow told me that despite his impeccable bedside manner he was concerned about something to do with my baby. I kept hearing the word caesarean being mentioned, and before I knew it I was being prepped for an operation, and Michael was in the room again, even more ashen-faced. A screen was put up around me at the business end of proceedings. As the pain blocks started to kick in and Michael took my hand, the last thing I was aware of was the mobile phone blinking rapidly. The messages were already coming in thick and fast.

  3

  A strange but oddly familiar tune punctuated my dreams and for several moments I had no idea where I was or what had just taken place, seemingly another lifetime ago. A quick glance at the beautiful baby asleep in the crib beside the bed confirmed that we had both survived the eleventh-hour caesarean, although Michael, now slumped in the chair, had not fared as well, briefly passing out before Fifi was born.

  Yes, a baby daughter, born right in the middle of Fashion Week, and she already had pretty pink rosebud lips. We had both decided that if it was a girl, she would be called Frances after Michael’s much loved grandmother, who had recently passed away. But I had already made him promise that if it was a girl she would be called Fifi for short. Frances was just her formal name if she wanted to be prime minister or run a major corporation. Of course, she could do that I thought, looking at her again proudly. I now felt full of the wonder of the world. Who would have thought that I had just given birth and yet all the pain seemed to have faded away. I certainly didn’t want whatever they had given me to wear off any time soon. But what was that sound? Ah yes, the bat phone. I picked it up just as I heard the flurry of footsteps outside in the hallway.

  ‘Yes?’ I said groggily.

  ‘Jazzy? How ARE you?’

  Only one person sounded so Aussiewood: Ciara, Queen Bee’s first and probably last management contract, judging by how full-on she was about making us earn our percentage of the earnings we signed her up to.

  ‘Um, I’ve just given birth,’ I responded, listening to my own voice and wondering whether I sounded more maternal all of a sudden – or was it just those painkillers kicking in which added another layer of huskiness?

  ‘Congrats, go you. What did you have?’ she cooed insincerely, not waiting for an answer before plunging on. ‘Jazzy, remember I’m doing that Fashion Week bronzer launch today? Can I Skype you my outfit? I’m not really sure it’s working.’

  Ciara sounded petulant, and I almost didn’t have the heart to tell her that the last thing I planned to do in these precious hours (had it only been an hour?) after giving birth was act as her stylist. Not for the first time did I curse myself for giving Ciara access to my most private of numbers. But who would have thought that such a sex goddess as her could be so needy?

  I went on, ‘You know, I thought we’d decided that you would wear the hot-pink Trelise Cooper sequined shift, sweets. My Skype has been playing up all morning here,’ I lied, ‘but I’m going to send Anya straight over to help you get dressed, okay?’

  ‘No, Jazzy, you’re IT when it comes to choosing my wardrobe.’

  ‘Sorry, what?’ I said weakly. ‘I can’t hear you. I think there must be something wrong with this line.’ And with that I hung up. Ciara could find someone else to torture.

  For the next ten minutes, I stared at Fifi, who was definitely the most beautiful baby I had ever seen and who appeared to be sleeping soundly, I was pleased to see.

  From the corner of my eye I noticed that Michael had started to stir, and I tried to remember whether I had told him that the Russian deal had fallen through so it would be back to work as usual. He wasn’t going to like that. I had better get that stunning ring onto my finger quick smart before he changed his mind about the whole engagement thing.

  Thank goodness for jet lag, because Michael had just gone straight back to sleep again. I wanted to do that too, because those painkillers they had given me had def done the job, but now they were knocking me sideways. I should have been organising Anya to look after Ciara, but each time I tried to rouse myself to call her I found that I had drifted off again. Celebrity management really was a bigger headache than working in public relations as it involved huge egos and major insecurity. Nowhere in Ciara’s management contract was there a clause stating that her management arm had become her newly minted slaves overnight, but it would now be up to Anya to dress Ciara, update her tweets, organise her hair and makeup appointments, and blow her nose if she needed that done as well.

  ‘Are we awake yet, dear?’

  Yet another of the nurses had arrived in my room and seemed intent on getting me up, which made no sense to me at all. Apparently it was important for me to try to use the toilet. Great, my bottom half felt so tender that I would have been quite happy if someone had given me diapers – if they were good enough for astronauts, they were fine by me. It was only once I was settled back in bed again, gazing down adoringly at Fifi in her crib with a happy but bleary-eyed Michael by my side, that I remembered I had to give permission for Marshall Coutts to phone Ivan the Terrible to call off the deal. But how to break it to him without causing shocking repercussions? I could be on the receiving end of a poisoned umbrella tip in the leg, or perhaps a toxic Russian Mule? And now that the deal was off, how would I manage going back to work straight away with a baby at home? In fact, how would I manage anything? Just the thought of standing up again seemed like an impossible feat right now, up there with running a marathon.

  In spite of my worries, I smiled again to see Fifi sleeping so peacefully in her crib. The kid didn’t seem to be the type to wake up and demand a feed every half hour. This would bode well for her in the future, if she ever wanted to attempt a diet.

  I was just about to slip back to sleep, thanks again to the painkillers – how sweet they were, just the thing to help me deal with several of Queen Bee’s more demanding clients. As I drifted off, I thought about François Gitame, the celebrity chef we’d foolishly taken on believing that he could cook for our very important clients and we could cross-promote at major events. But it hadn’t worked out that way. François was so full on that he required a Bee in the kitchen with him when he was cooking at high-profile events. The minder’s job was to photograph each one of his special dishes and then send the shots directly to the media for inclusion in the following day’s paper. Like yeah, ‘Hold the front page – a picture of François’s prawn taco coming down the line.’ He also thought we should do a news story about the witty way he had deconstructed the humble hamburger. What, did he think the mighty Sun newspaper had become the Hamburger News?

  The insistent buzzing of a phone within my dream slowly brought me back to the hospital room. The phone, lying on the bed just out of my grasp, was going off. I reached for it with an effort.

  Maude, ringing from the office, sounded jumpy, even for her. ‘Jazzy – so fabulous to hear about Fifi’s birth,’ she said hastily, ‘but a van has arrived at the office filled with furniture and they want everything out, even your desk, and I don’t know what to tell them.’ Her voice trailed off with a little whimper and I heard Anya take control of the situation. She had evidently taken the receiver right out of Maude’s shaky paws.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Jazzy Lou,’ she declared. ‘You need to rest. I’ll just tell them to come back tomorrow once we have proper instructions. It’s just Ivan Shavalik trying to get ahead of himself by moving his stuff in, but it’s a little too early for that, isn’t it?’

  It sure was. It looked like Ivan and Svetlana were not going to take the news that they were in deep shit with the Department of Immigration on the chin. Of course, they were going to appeal and in the meantime were clearly trying to set themselves up in ‘Bee-land’. Thank goodness for Anya.

  Sure enough, the next moment I could hear her laying down the law to whoever had turned up. ‘No, I don’t know what
you’re supposed to do with the van,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘And I can’t see how it’s really my problem. Don’t come back until someone rings your boss, okay?’

  With not a moment to spare and Fifi starting to stir in her crib, I quickly hung up and rang Marshall Coutts’ mobile, giving him the rundown on what was going on.

  ‘Are you sure they won’t be able to do business here?’ I asked, sounding as groggy as my BFF Luke, after one of his monumental benders.

  ‘Absolutely Jasmine,’ he responded. ‘Believe me, you do not want to be around when this all goes wrong. It’s the sort of association that will lose all credibility for you.’

  I’d certainly spent too many long hours working on my brand to lose it like that. We should really have investigated the Russians before we started negotiations, but the thought of that major payout and then working as a highly paid consultant had made me lose track of basic businesses procedures. I had just been too greedy.

  ‘Okay,’ I agreed. ‘Tear up those contracts now. Do whatever you have to do and offer them money for their moving bills – they’ve already had someone bringing furniture to the office.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Marshall exploded over the phone. ‘You’re not responsible for anything – the contract hasn’t been signed and legalled.’

  ‘Look, I understand that,’ I told him, ‘but the last thing I need is some pissed-off Russians on my doorstep. It’s bad enough that we’re not going ahead with the deal.’

  Later, once I had finished feeding Fifi and an exhausted Michael had gone home to sleep in our own bed, I started to formulate a plan that would get rid of the Russians for good and allow me to keep Queen Bee in safe hands. I would try to get them to buy into Diane Wilderstein’s agency while they tussled with the Australian authorities. She was desperate enough to sacrifice her reputation in order to be flush with Russian funds. I would find a way to make this work. It was genius.